#but with coding it's never really wasted

[meimeimeirin]

man, i really do like coding.

[scientia-rex]

When I was in ninth grade I wanted to challenge what I saw as a very stupid dress code policy (not being allowed to wear spikes regardless of the size or sharpness of the spikes). My dad said to me, “What is your objective?”

He said it over and over. I contemplated that. I wanted to change an unfair dress code. What did I stand to gain? What did I stand to lose? If what I really wanted was to change the dress code, what would be my most effective potential approach? (He also gave me Discourses on the Fall of Rome by Titus Livius, Machiavelli’s magnum opus. Of course he’d already given me The Prince, Five Rings, and The Art of War.)

I ultimately printed out that phrase, coated it in Mod Podge, and clipped it to my bathroom mirror so I would look at it and think about it every day.

What is your objective?

Forget about how you feel. Ask yourself, what do you want to see happen? And then ask, how can you make it happen? Who needs to agree with you? Who has the power to implement this change? What are the points where you have leverage over them? If you use that leverage now, will you impair your ability to use it in the future? Getting what you want is about effectiveness. It is not about being an alpha or a sigma or whatever other bullshit the men’s right whiners are on about now. You won’t find any MRA talking points in Musashi, because they are not relevant.

I had no clear leverage on the dress code issue. My parents were not on the PTA; neither were any of my friend’s parents who liked me. The teachers did not care about this. Ultimately I just wore what I wanted, my patent leather collar from Hot Topic with large but flattened spikes, and I had guessed correctly—the teachers also did not care enough to discipline me.

I often see people on tumblr, mostly the very young, flail around in discourse. They don’t have an objective. They don’t know what they want to achieve, and they have never thought about strategizing and interpersonal effectiveness. No one can get everything they want by being an asshole. You must be able to work with other people, and that includes smiling when you hate them.

Read Machiavelli. Start with The Prince, but then move on to Discourses. Read Musashi’s Five Rings. Read The Art of War. They’re classics for a reason. They can’t cover all situations, but they can do more for how you think about strategizing than anything you’re getting in middle school and high school curricula.

Don’t vote third party unless you can tell me not only what your objective is but also why this action stands a meaningful chance of accomplishing it. Otherwise, back up and approach your strategy from a new angle. I don’t care how angry you are with Biden right now. He knows about it, and he is both trying to do something and not doing enough. I care about what will happen to millions of people if we have another Trump presidency. Look up Ross Perot, and learn from our past. Find your objective. If it is to stop the genocide in Palestine now, call your elected representatives now. They don’t care about emails; they care about phone calls, because they live in the past. I know this because I shadowed a lobbyist, because knowing how power works is critical to using it.

How do you think I have gotten two clinics to start including gender care in their planning?

Start small. Chip away. Keep working. Find your leverage; figure out how and when to effectively use it. Choose your battles, so that you can concentrate on the battle at hand instead of wasting your resources in many directions. Learn from the accumulated wisdom of people who spent their lives learning by doing, by making mistakes, by watching the mistakes of their enemies.

Don’t be a dickhead. Be smarter than I was at 14. Ask yourself: what is your objective?

[bemusedlybespectacled]

proposing what I'm going to call Gaylor's Razor, which is: never explain normal shit as being part of a secret message that can only be decoded by over-analysis.

"These Taylor Swift lyrics are actually coded messages saying that she's a lesbian and is forced to stay in the closet! Any lyrics that are clearly about being attracted to a man are just to throw us off the scent!" Sometimes people, like Taylor Swift, are straight and write about being straight, because they are straight.

"The fourth series of Sherlock was deliberately bad because it was actually a coded message to us fans that there is a secret fourth episode that will make Johnlock canon and will actually be good!" Sometimes writers (even experienced writers who are normally good at their jobs) will write something that's not good, because no one is perfect. They're not going to waste everyone's time and money and energy creating something terrible on purpose as part of a grand master plan.

"Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir, the Canadian Olympic ice dancers, are secretly married (with kids)! Their public relationships with people who are not each other and them repeatedly saying 'we dated as kids and now we're just friends' are just to hide the truth! Which they need to hide for some reason! Their relationship is obvious just from their physical chemistry when competing! JUST LOOK AT THIS TWO SECOND CLIP OF HIM BLINKING AT HER!" It seems counterproductive to put all that thought into hiding a relationship that doesn't need to be hidden but then also telegraph that same relationship in front of millions of people through planned choreography.

"But BB, what about times that people really are speaking in code or hiding something due to outside influences?"

If it requires huge leaps in logic, like adding all the letters in a sentence together and dividing by seventeen and that number matches the binary sequence for the color yellow so YELLOW MUST BE SIGNIFICANT, it's not a secret code.

If it requires focusing on teeny tiny details but discards huge ones, like analyzing someone's micro-expressions but handwaving away what the person is actually saying out loud with their mouth, or focusing on one specific line instead of the entire scene or song or whatever, it's not a secret code.

If both supporting and contradictory evidence are used to come to the same conclusion (ex: when Taylor says something that I interpret as gay, that means she's gay, and when she says something that I interpret as straight, that still means she's gay and just hiding it), it's not a secret code.

Trying to apply fandom meta analysis techniques to real life is a really good way of fall into conspiratorial thinking that can be easily exploited. You can totally try to predict what's going to happen in a story or choose to interpret a scene in a specific way; you can't do that in real life with real people. That way lies the kind of nonsense that leads to shit like "this image of pizza on a children's toy is actually subliminal messaging by The Cabal™ that proves that Pizzagate is real."

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[grimmsbride]

﹡ ֗ ۪ please, baby please

LOVE FOR YOU 𝜗𝜚ྀི GRIMMS BRIDE

₊　 ✉️ | DATE NIGHT, pretty dresses and an even prettier you. Mark cant help but end the night with a little dessert..

﹡ | tags ◞　 ₊　 pre-established relationship | excessive use of pet names & dirty talk | reader is a bit of a tease | oral sex (f. receiving) | reader is chubby coded | mark lifts you | he likes you in heels.. | he’s a little pathetic | begging & yearning mark | ooc mark probably.. | he’s on his knees for you… literally | etc

﹡ | author’s note ◞　 ₊　 love writing mark like a slut, cause that’s what he is /j.. i also may do a drafts reveal but i hope you enjoy this little blurb!

Very little brought Invincible to surrender, on his knees begging for mercy or any sort of reprise for that matter. Except you. Beautiful, perfect you.

Tonight was date night, the day clear, Cecil ignoring you two— the whole nine yards. For once Mark made an effort; booking a table at the most beautiful restaurant, requesting you to wear a nice dress. Never one to disappoint, you dressed in a strapless bodycon gown, the blue highlighting your skin so beautifully— pairing the fabric with white heels.

The night was wonderful, coupled withlooks full of adoration and gentle hand grabs across the table. Mark made a promise to bring you here once again, even if it meant getting on Cecil’s bad side— a thought that caused you to giggle in the moment. Far too quickly it ended, the two of you heading home, ready to call it a night with some cuddling.

Only, that wasn’t on Mark’s mind at all. You were, every part of you. He asked you to dress pretty but he didn’t expect for you to look like this. He couldn’t count on a single hand how many times he restrained himself at the table— growing far too jealous of that spoon you kept wrapping your lips around.

So with the two of you being home, you asking so sweetly to help with your shoes; Mark saw his opportunity. He started at your shoes, gently undoing the straps and buckles, chuckling a little at your complaining.. only for his hands to rise, drifting up your thighs, pushing fabric to find more skin.

Soon enough his fingers were finding the thin strap of your thong, curling a digit around to push the underwear to the side. With zero restraint and way too much enthusiasm, the man dug his knees fully into the bedroom floor, pushing forward to press his lips against your center.

Gentle kisses, ones to hear you gasp as the feeling slowly enveloped your body. His hands smoothed up and down your legs, murmuring soft words right into your wetting sex, a mix of babbled i love yous and praises.

His tongue glided from his mouth, tickling your folds before parting them to find the bud nestled between. Darting the thick muscle up and down, round and round; fingers gripping at your plush flesh the moment you twitched. You stepped back, finding the wall for to lean against— Mark wasting no time in following you. Knees sliding across the floor, groans being muttered right into your pussy; his obsession, his yearning for you as clear as day— not a sense of shame in his body.

“Mark..” You whispered softly, hand falling to collect his hair, the wispy tresses passing through the gaps of your fingers. You trembled, eyelids falling over as his gentle yet expert tongue ran you completely wild. Of course Mark Grayson would use such an opportunity for his own selfish — was it really his? — gain. You wanted to mock him, state in full detail how much of a little pervert he was. But that would have to wait. For later, not when he had you wrapped around his little finger.

A swear dropped from your lips, gripping his hair tightly, eyebrows furrowing the moment the man drew even closer. His desperation was clear, feeling his fingers claw at your plush body, the muffled moans vibrating you each time they crawled from his throat. You couldn’t help the way you trembled as that familiar feeling drew closer, how your pussy clenched, and little button throbbed as the pleasure dragged on.

That simple thought had you moving, tugging the man away from you in one swift motion. Mark tried to fight it, attempting to push closer but you were so resilient and the man wasn’t one to stop you anyway.

Your eyes fell over his features, devouring the sight before you. His hair a mess, face slick with you and saliva, cheeks a flushed red, tie partially undone— you could come off this image alone, burning it deep into your memory.

“Why’d y—“

“I thought I… taught you patience.” You struggled to get the words out, fingers falling to press against his forehead the moment you noticed his eyes switch back between your legs. You couldn’t help but shiver at the little annoyed expression he wore, or how those once gentle hands were clenching just a bit more. “Couldn’t even let me fully undress, huh?”

“Not with how you looked the entire evening.” Mark spoke without missing a beat, glossed lips curling into the littlest simper. Coaxing hands soon treaded up and down your legs, looking up at you far too lovingly. “C’mon baby, don’t stop me.. I wanna taste you.”

“Was that not enough?”

Mark began to grumble, bordering on whining. His knees ached, his neck wasn’t at the best angle but there was no way in hell he was stopping now. Not a chance. “Fuck.. baby, please— let me finish, please..” He’s begging, lips pushing into the cutest little pout that has you keening internally. You felt that playful resistance waning the moment his lips peppered your heated skin, mumbling more soft sentences;

Please baby, please.

Need it so bad, you don’t know how much I struggled at dinner.

I know you want it just as much, [Name].. fuck.

Mark was saying all the right words, hitting every little spot in your mind. You slowly lifted your hand away from him, gasping the moment you felt Mark practically rush back to his previous position; lips wrapping around your pretty clit, sucking and licking it raw.

You whimpered softly, hips moving as the pleasure trailed back up your spine. You felt your body starting up again, shaking and shivering, clenching his hair so tightly you worried you would tear a few pieces out. Your free hand twitched against the cool wall behind you, pressing against it to hold yourself up.

The man wasn’t lying when he said he needed it, needed you; shown in his relentless actions. His tongue sliding across your sticky folds once in a while, poking at your withering hole, only to travel right back to your button to suck and lap at. His moans were even worse then before, wet declarations of pure enjoyment; unable to help himself entirely.

Soon enough you were building up again, your arousal trickling down your thighs, surely making a mess of your previously discarded panties and his pretty face. With a sudden rather powerful suck your knees were buckling, a moan thrumming through your throat quickly.

Mark wasted no time, hands sliding underneath your legs to lift you up easily, rising to his own as if you weighed nothing. His lips never stopped its rhythm, maybe even intensifying as his excitement shined through. His fingers caressed, pressing you up against the wall so you wouldn’t even think of escaping.

As his name fell from your lips the man couldn’t help but groan back, eyes flickering open to land onto your face. Your eyebrows were creased, lips quivering, and hands holding onto him for dear life. He couldn’t help the downright pussy drunk chuckle that vibrated right into you, his hold tightening.

“So fucking perfect… how’d I get so lucky..?” Mark mumbled to himself, a sweet little mantra that had stars invading your already blurry vision. Your stomach clenched, kneeling forward as your body shook against the wall, only able to cling to the man, letting him do what wanted completely.

All too quickly you were coming undone, arching as your legs wrapped around his neck tightly, Mark pressing against your thighs as if wanting you to squeeze him more. Moments of gentle licks passed, the man sucking up every drop of your arousal as if it was the sweetest nectar one could drink. His thumbs glided across your skin, soothing your withering body, helping you down your high slowly.

When fully satisfied Mark pulled away, gently sliding you down the wall to guide your legs around his waist. His arms snaked around your own, pushing close to stamp a wet kiss against your neck.

“When will you wear this dress again?” The man murmured into your skin, smiling a bit at the little giggle that escaped you. He shivered as your hands dragged up his arms, gliding to his hair to simply rake against his scalp.

“I don’t know.. will you let me actually take it off to wash?”

[wttcsms]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ now he's thinkin' 'bout me every night !!

ᝰ.ᐟ there’s nothing nagi values more than getting his rest, but thoughts of you have been keeping him wide awake at night. someone has to help him get rid of all this annoying restless energy — and it has to be you, the whole entire reason why his sleeping schedule is fucked. ( fem!reader )

pairing seishiro nagi x reader word count 2.4k content contains jealousy (nagi is being a baby abt how chigiri has your attention)/jealous sex, soft yandere!nagi, possessive sex, biting/marking kinktober masterlist

Evil. 

That’s what you are. Nagi is convinced that you are the fucking devil, someone sent from the abyss to ruin his life and destroy his ego. 

Maybe that’s a harsh judgment to make — he doesn’t mean it; not really, anyway. But there is something about you that chips away at his nonchalance. Seishiro Nagi doesn’t care about a lot of things. He can’t be bothered to. He thought that after soccer found its way into whatever void is inside of him, he’d be fulfilled. That that was it — he found his purpose, he found his driving force, and now he can enter society as a functioning human being with actual hopes and dreams. 

He never realized that he had the capacity to care about anything else, and then you arrive on the field one day, camera in one hand, a bright smile plastered on your face as you’re being introduced as the new social media manager for Manshine City. 

And suddenly, Nagi realizes that not only does he have the capacity, he’s actually emptier than he thought. 

You had been receptive to his awkward, fumbling advances. For as attractive and cool he appears on the outside, Nagi’s never bothered to actually approach any girls before. Never really felt the need to. You had taken all his accidental rude comments in stride, and you harbored the same interests as him, and he finally has you now. 

He has you, and no one else can call you theirs, and yet here he is, on a Friday night, sulking in bed instead of getting his precious rest time. 

He’s frowning, looking up at his ceiling as he thinks about what had happened earlier today. 

There’s really no need for a dress code. The coaches are all decked out in athleisure, the athletes themselves are wearing practice jerseys, and since you’re expected to be constantly on the move and chasing after these athletes, trying to get good footage and spend the whole day with ‘em, Nagi can’t necessarily fault you for wanting to be comfortable. You’re wearing a cropped version of the Define Jacket with leggings that hug you in just the right way, and Nagi swears that he isn’t a jealous person.

He thinks being envious is a crude waste of his energy, energy that he can’t bother to exert, and he’s never really experienced jealousy before. 

Maybe that’s why he’s awake at midnight despite the fact that he has an early morning practice scheduled. A practice that you’ll be attending, once again. He frowns as he tosses and turns in his bed, trying to shut his eyes, but every time they’re closed, he keeps seeing you. 

More accurately, you and Chigiri. 

Just the thought of his teammate is enough to make a scowl appear on his face. 

You’re filming content for a TikTok, and Nagi can’t help but childishly pout when he asks himself why does the TikTok need to star Chigiri and Chigiri alone? It’s not like he’s the only member on the team, you know! You spent the whole day laughing at whatever Chigiri had to say, and Nagi knows that it sounds terrible, but he doubts his teammate is that hilarious. And the way you kept following him around, barely paying any attention to the other players, including your own boyfriend, wasn’t even Nagi’s breaking point. No — what his breaking point happened to be was the way your figure-flattering outfit was just too tantalizing. 

You’re so focused on Chigiri, with your back turned to everyone else, that Nagi gets quite a view every time you’re bending down to get a different angle. Even just the memory alone is enough to get him hard. 

Fuck. Now he’s sporting a semi, he’s still seething with jealousy with the memory of you all over Chigiri still constantly playing on a loop in his mind, and worst of all: you’re not here with him. Your laptop is in your apartment, and you had kissed him goodbye after practice because you needed to edit the footage you captured today, and so you can’t spend the night with him like you usually do. 

When thirty minutes go by, and he’s still wide awake, jealous, and hard, Nagi rolls over and groans in his pillow. The minute he gets his hands on, he’s intent on making sure you can’t walk. You won’t be able to chase after Chigiri, that’s for damn sure. 

Things don’t necessarily go according to Nagi’s grand plan. Sure, you’re laying in bed with him, wearing just his shirt and a pair of panties, but you barely paid any attention to him. He’s been pretending to be occupied with his Switch, but he keeps glancing over at you. 

You’re on your phone, eyebrows furrowed as you meticulously go through the footage for a video you plan on uploading. Nagi scowls when he catches a familiar glimpse of red hair moving on the screen. You’re still editing videos of him? Seriously? 

“I thought you weren’t working today,” he mumbles, tossing aside the Switch. You don’t even look up from your phone.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby, but Hyoma asked if there’s anything he can improve on for the next promo vid we’re shooting, and I want to at least find something to comment on so he knows I’m taking him seriously.” Chigiri is surprisingly a perfectionist when it comes to videos of himself. He’s been constantly asking you if you’re sure he doesn’t look too nervous or too stiff on camera, and honestly, his worrying is a bit endearing. 

Hyoma — since when were you on a first name basis with his teammate?

This is what sets him off. This is his breaking point.

Sometimes, with how sloth-like Nagi acts, it’s easy to forget that he’s a bonafide professional athlete. A genius, even. He’s quick to pounce on you, tossing your phone somewhere on his massive bed while pinning your body down with his own. With no pesky phone in the way, the only person to give your undivided attention to is him. That’s exactly how it should be. 

“Sei— Ah!” You can’t help but let out a surprised gasp as you feel Nagi nip the soft skin of your neck, teeth grazing you. Not hard enough to leave a mark (he’ll save that for later, for when you’re too drunk on his cock to protest), but sharp enough for you to feel it, to feel the pressure and the intent and the promise behind a love bite. 

“You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.” Nagi grumbles, his head still buried in the crook of your neck. 

“I am, Seishiro.” You run a hand through the white strands of your boyfriend’s hair. It’s just as soft as it looks, and he leans into your touch, seemingly content. You didn’t realize just how neglected poor Nagi was feeling, and you wonder if it’s possible if he’s jealous. But that can’t be it — Nagi’s never been jealous a day in his life. He doesn’t even react when he catches guys flirting with you in public because he’s so confident in his relationship with you. 

You think he just wants to rest like this, but then you feel his lips dragging down the expanse of your neck. He sucks on your collarbone for a second, and returns back to your neck, sucking and biting, and all you can do is tangle your fingers into his hair, letting out little whimpers and gasps. 

“Sei, baby, you— you’re gonna leave marks.” 

He lifts his head up momentarily, staring up at you with a dark fog in his gray eyes that you normally don’t see. Underneath that haze of desire, though, lies something sharper in the gleam of his eyes. 

“That’s the point.” 

And then he does bite down on the fragile flesh of your neck. And you just lay there, allowing him to. 

Nagi wastes no time in using one hand to rub against your thigh, squeezing at the plushness of it before traveling further to slide your cotton panties to the side. When his thick fingers brush against your folds, he can’t hold back a smile as he finds you already wet. 

You’re embarrassed, heat rising to your cheeks when Nagi holds up his hand so you can see the way your essence is glistening on his middle and ring fingers. “You’re this wet, and I haven’t even kissed you yet.” His tone is half-teasing, half-in awe. He maintains eye contact with you, and you watch him stick his fingers in his mouth, obscenely sucking on his digits, groaning as the taste of you hits his tongue. 

And when he’s done, he finally does kiss you properly. 

You think you can taste a hint of yourself on him, and it only makes you feel even hotter. You’re subconsciously thrusting your hips upwards, trying to get any sort of friction from him. 

“Mm, ah, Sei—”

“Shh.” Nagi hushes you, pressing another kiss against your lips, swallowing up your would-be pleading and begging for something, anything — his fingers, his tongue, his cock, something to ease the heat building inside of you. “Gonna make my baby feel so good.” He rubs at your slit through the slickness of your panties, teasing you as he allows the thin fabric to act as the only barrier between his ring finger and your wet heat. You’re already soaking through the cotton.

He’s been fucking pent up since last night, finding no relief, and now that he has you pinned down on his bed, wet and whining for him, he figures you won’t mind if he rushes into things. He has plenty of stamina, anyway. He can go all night if you want him to.

You mewl out his name pathetically when he slides your panties to the side once more, only instead of his fingers toying with you, it’s the tip of his cock that you feel prodding the entrance of your cunt. 

“You feel that?” He gasps out, having to take a few breaths as he adjusts to the snugness and heat of your cunt. He’s slowly pressing forward, making himself at home inside of your pussy, slowly but surely. “That’s—” Just a few more inches ‘til he’s bottoming out. “—the only dick that’s ever gonna be inside of your pussy.” He’s pressed as deeply as possible, his entire length buried inside of you. 

He’s close, so close to you, and all you can do is whimper as you adjust to his size. Nagi’s cock isn’t just long, but thick. Even with your slick-soaked hole helping ease him in, it’s still a bit of a pain to take him all the way. 

“Say it.” His voice goes a bit deeper than his normal easy-going cadence. When you look into your boyfriend’s eyes, you see it once more: the pussydrunk, lustful haze clouding his vision, and the dark, sharp look that is the driving force behind why your boyfriend impatiently started burying his cock inside of you as soon as he could. “C’mon, tell me.” 

The thrusts he’s giving you right now are only shallow; an inch or two being pulled out, only to lightly be shoved back in. It’s almost as if he’s testing the waters, but you can hear the edge in his tone. He’s growing impatient once more, but he refuses to fuck you boneless unless you tell him what he wants to hear. 

Fortunately, it’s the truth. It’s the truth when you whine out, “This pussy is a-all yours, Seishiro.” 

“Yeah?” He’s pulling out slowly, licking his lips as he watches how submissive he can get you to be. He’ll start with a slower pace, he decides. Treat his girl to a couple of easy orgasms before he starts showcasing his true strength. 

At least, that was his plan. Then, your phone notifies you of a text message.

He stills, eyes glancing, squinting at your screen. 

It’s a text. 

From Chigiri. 

Nagi focuses his attention back on you, but inside his mind, all he sees is the notification with his teammate’s name on it. Your eyes are wide, as if you know what he just saw, but before you can explain yourself, Nagi abruptly slams back into you.

The pace he sets is brutal. He has one hand gripping the headboard to steady himself, his other is angrily tightened around your hip, sure to leave a bruise he’ll kiss all better later. 

“Fuck.” He practically snarls, never relenting. All you can do is let out a string of moans as his cock continues to pound your pussy. There’s another chime from your phone, another notification from Chigiri. He’s asking if the video looks okay. 

You don’t have work on the brain. The only thing your mind is capable of processing are the sensations that Nagi is serving up to you on a silver platter. Even with his brutal pace and hard thrusts, he finds enough kindness inside of him to move his hand from your hip and instead grind his palm against your clit. The callouses all over his hand only add to the pleasure, and you find yourself sobbing out his name as you feel the familiar, overwhelming need to cum. 

“You gonna cum?” Nagi grunts out, as if he doesn't already know. He can tell, y’know. He can tell, because your walls are clamping down on his dick so tightly, it’s a struggle to pull out because you’re clinging to him. He can tell, because you’ve got your adorable little fucked-out expression on your face. Drool on your lips, a string of incoherent pleading and broken mewls of his name. His name. Yeah, you better be moaning his name, and his only.

“Mm, Seishiro!” You squeal out, tightening even more against his cock. Your clit is so sensitive, so receptive to his touch, paired with the nonstop thrusting of his dick, you can’t help but cream all over him. 

“Fu-ck.” The swear comes out in broken syllables as Nagi feels you cumming on his cock. He looks away from your face to look at the messy scene between your legs. Your panties are still pushed to the side, the fabric wet from your juices, and when he pulls out a bit, he sees a nice, white ring around his girth. 

You’re still whimpering, eyes closed shut as you try to regain your breath, but Nagi isn’t done just yet. He still hasn’t cum.

When he hears another text message notification, certainly from Chigiri once again, Nagi knows that you’re in for a long night. He won’t stop even after he cums. 

No — for every text message you get from his teammate, that’s another orgasm he’ll just have to wring out of you.

[tiramissyoucake]

Can we get more Omni mark content. He isn’t as popular as the other ones 🙏. Him and a hyperfeminine bimbo mayhaps

YES! YES! YES! I LOVE BIMBO CODED CHARACTERS!!!

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Cw: semi-public sex, brat taming, hitting it from the back, hair pulling, name calling (slut, whore)

"With the hubbyyy~" Mark had to restrain an eyeroll as you lifted your phone to take a picture with him, he glanced away and a whine escaped you at that. "Babe! C'mon!"

"This is ridiculous, you ask me for a joy ride around town, and then you take pictures on this roof?" He glanced at you with a raised eyebrow, you pouted as you lowered your phone, your charms clacking. "But... this place has really good lighting.."

He let out long sigh bordering on a groan, turning to you, you let out a small excited squeal as you set your phone in his hand. "Take a few pics of me!!" You didn't explain further as you propped yourself up with a few cute poses. The little instructions meant that he was used to this, used to taking photos for you; a half-Viltrumite hero, belittled to a photographer for a girl who wore a concerning amount of pink.

A few snaps went off, you alternated between a few poses, toying with your hair, smiling at the camera, making kissy faces. He hated to admit you looked adorable, you swiped through the pictures with a hum. "Cute... but they'll look cuter when I add frames and decorate 'em~"

"Now can we go?" He impatiently responded with folded arms, you let out an annoyed groan. "Why're you being such a buzzkill?! We're having fun! Like a romantic couple!"

"Your idea of fun is wasting my time by standing around on some rooftop?" His eyes squinted behind the goggles, you rolled your eyes. "You never go out with me! You're always busy with this!" Your pretty nailed finger jabbed his chest, that stupid hero symbol.

He grabbed your wrist, scowling. "Sorry, is my work more important than entertaining you?"

"Whatever, take me home." You glanced away and took back your wrist, bringing out your compact mirror to reapply a layer of gloss, disregarding him and the conversation.

Your attitude ticked him off, his fist clenched and his eyebrows furrowed.

. . .

You knew what talking back would get you, you knew and yet you still had to yap your pretty shiny tinted lips. You shouldn't have antagonised your hero boyfriend when you fully knew he could turn you around, tug up your skirt and fuck you whenever he felt like it or felt like you needed it.

"What do we say?" He asked as he tugged your hair back, hips slapping against your ass harshly. "I-I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!!" You whined, hands closing and opening against your legs as you tried to stand straight, it was impossible with his cock hitting home just right, your knees buckling under the sheer force of his thrusting.

"What're you sorry for, whore?" Mark demanded an answer, his hips moved impossibly quickly to overwhelm you and bring out more choked moans. "For being a brat? For disrespecting me? For your backtalk?"

"A-aaall of it..! 'm sorry! 'm so sorryyy!!" You looked adorable, shaking under every delicious push of his cock into your wet cunt, always ready to receive him; especially when he would shove your skirt up and rip your panties off to remind you who was the stronger one between you two.

His hand suddenly spanked you, more for his own pleasure than to punish you. "This is what you get for talking back to me, slut." He gritted the word out, your pussy practically sucking his dick in, greedy as always. "That's all you are, a disobedient. Naughty. Bratty. Little. Slut." He punctuated every insult with a harsh buck of his hips against you.

You took everything he gave you, how could you say no? When his cock was hitting every spot perfectly, if anything this was incentive to talk back more. "Y-yes..! I'm sorryyy~" you whined, and he hummed as he tugged your head back to kiss you deeply, his tongue licking into your mouth— unusually sloppy for him.

"You better be." He panted as he pulled away, saliva connecting your lips. "I'll have to teach you a follow-up lesson at home, I'll even get the collar."

The memory of the pink collar he got for your 'special sessions' excited you more than the rapid pistoning from his cock. "Yes sir!~"

You didn't know who was more excited to go home, you or him.

[bbyg4rl]

snoop

cw: bf!jj x reader, slight smut, use of toys (vibrator), squirt !

summary: jj watches you touch yourself with a vibrator. MDNI

< edging, squirt, overstimulation, all he does is watch, slight exhibitionism i think (?) >

a/n: ik all im writing is smut but i promise i will write fluff soon !!!

Your boyfriend was a snoop. You knew that. Just blame it on his kleptomaniac tendencies, It wasnt ever in an attempt to pry on you. No, no, he just liked looking around. Your bedroom was like his own treasure hunt.

One drawer led to your panties, another one to your bras, so on and so forth. But what he never expected to find in one of those drawers was a vibrator. He assumed it was from before you guys were together. You had no use for a vibrator now that you had a JJ at your beck and call. But he'd have to admit, thinking of you pleasuring yourself with a vibrator.. it excited him.

Your boyfriend and his silver tongue always won, He could persuade someone into commiting a federal crime if he really put his mind to it. You had no idea why you'd even agreed to this.. oh but how can you say no to JJ's bright blue puppy dog eyes?

He'd beed trying to convince you to use a vibrator on yourself while hovering over his face for a week now.

Now that you agreed to try it- he wasted no time. He'd spent the whole day giddy, waiting for you to come back from work. He even charged up the vibrator himself.

Thats how you ended up in this position- JJ had you face down ass up as he laid between your thighs. His hot breath hitting the expanse of your heat every time he let out a breath. One of his hands held your folds open as your right hand held the toy to your clit, Your left clenched against the sheets beside you in an attempt to balance yourself.

You would've collapsed onto his face long ago if it wasn't for his other hand holding you up by your waist. He watched your pussy clench around nothing like it was his favourite trashy tv show. This was his peak entertainment. Having a close up view to your heat while you played with yourself was a literal wet dream come true. It made him feel like he was the chief guest to the best event in the world.

You'd think he'd want to watch you cum the way he gawked at you, but no- when has this pogue ever done the easy thing? No, no, He wanted you to squirt.

Squirt straight onto his face.

He wanted to watch as your cum shot out of your pussy and onto his face, he wanted the full experience.

Which was basically code for edging you.

Even from under you, he was dominant. Telling you to speed up or slow down whenever he felt like it. This wasn't for your pleasure. No, This was his choice of reality tv.

"You can go faster princess" He taunted from his place under you.

"P-Please I can't-" was all you could muster out.

You'd been going for almost an hour by now. JJ led you so close to your climax only to drag you back. This would be the 7th time he'd drag you away from the finish line. Oh, how badly you wanted to reach it.

"Faster and ill let you cum baby" He cooed, rubbing soft circles on your waist.

You should've known better than to listen to him. Just as you felt yourself nearing the edge again, he pulled your hand away.

"Fuck JJ- Please-" You begged him, tears staining the pillows.

All he did in response was chuckle. You felt so desperate in that moment, He'd been torturing you for an hour. You wanted to finish so badly you were ready to fight him just to cum.

"Last time baby, I promise" he said from under you as if to solace your desperate cries for release.

A sane person wouldn't have believed him. But you weren't sane. You were far from sane, You wanted to cum. and you wanted to cum bad.

Fortunately for you, He'd started feeling pity for you. You were his girl after all. He loved making you feel good. And thats exactly what he was going to do.

JJ took the still vibrating toy from your hand, leaving you to balance yourself alone. He held the toy to your clit with one hand while the other spread your puffy folds open so he could watch.

He moved it up-down, left-right, eventually he pressed it into your swollen bundle of nerves, a smirk covering his features as you whimpered and shook above him. He blew cold air to your cunt, watching as it clenched around his breath. So empty, he couldnt wait to fill it up.

"You wanna cum darling? " He asked softly, giving your hole featherlight kisses.

"Yes, P- Please" You sniffled, overstimulated out of your mind.

As an act of mercy, he changed the vibrator to its highest setting.

"Cum for me then" he hummed, His soft southern drawl making your pussy flutter.

And that's all it took. Like clockwork you were gushing all over him, His wish fulfilled as you squirted all over his face and open mouth. He moaned as you bathed his face in your climax.

You collapsed on top of him as you finished, your drenched pussy squished against his forehead as he let out a soft chuckle. He turned off the vibrator, putting it away as his hands reached your waist and pulled you down over him so you were now resting on his chest.

"Thank you sweetness" he gave you a kiss on your forehead. Holding you close as you passed out in his arms.

check out my other works ! masterlist

[lovebugism]

miss bug I have something to ask 🙋‍♀️

i don’t know if you do sickfics but! mayhaps steve and shy!reader where she doesn’t show up for school, steve goes to her house, and she’s utterly mortified because she feels like she’s nowhere near presentable

thank u for requesting!! — king steve pays his lab partner a visit when he hears you're sick, but definitely not because he has a crush on you (shy!reader, friends to lovers | 1.6k)

bug's two year celebration ♡

Steve waits for you that morning with half a bagel and his heart in his throat.

The desks in Ms. Click’s class grow slowly full with bustling bodies — some sluggish like zombies, others too chipper for an early morning. Steve cranes his head in search of your face in the crowd. Yours never shows, which is strange for Hawkins High’s future Valedictorian.

“Where is your partner, Mr. Harrington?” Ms. Click wonders beneath the grating morning bell. She ducks her head to peer across the classroom over her sparkly, cat-eye glasses.

Steve pauses, mid-bite of his sausage-egg-and-cheese. He shrugs wordlessly, with a wad of food jutting his cheek and crumbs sticking to his mouth.

The older woman sighs, too used to King Steve’s antics. She looks past him and asks, “What about you, Miss Buckley? Where’s Carol?”

“Probably under the bleachers with Tommy Hagan,” Robin mutters under her breath, though loud enough for everyone around her to hear, causing them to bite back their subsequent laughter. Steve, himself, nearly chokes on his bagel.

“Well, you’ll just have to pair up with Steven for the day,” Ms. Click tells her.

“Oh, god…” Robin groans in a whisper.

“Get to work.”

Steve spins his chair around to face the girl behind him, who he only really knew because of how highly you spoke of her. Despite your frequent praises, Robin doesn’t even look at him, nor does she bother to make mindless small talk. She just keeps her head down and scribbles notes on a worksheet. 

Steve, in spite of their differing statuses, struggles to find the courage to talk to her.

He slouches and tilts back his chair. “Hey, do you, um—”

“We don’t have to make conversation, alright?” Robin interjects before he can even start. She keeps her head bowed but glares daggers from beneath her lashes. “Let’s just get this hour over with so we never speak to each other again.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Well, I was— I was just gonna ask where your friend was. ‘Cause I don’t think she’s missed a day since, like, kindergarten.”

Robin’s freckled face flushes. She’d feel worse about being so short with him if he wasn’t such a douchebag. “Oh. Uh, she’s— She’s sick, I think.”

“Sick?”

His chest pinches with an immediate worry. Robin bites back a smirk at King Steve’s palpable concern for arguably the biggest nerd on this side of Hawkins. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “I figured she was just allergic to your hairspray.”

Steve laughs under his breath and turns away. Robin smiles only until he looks back at her, now with a brown paper bag in hand. It was meant to be for you — an even piece of his bagel, ‘cause he knows you don’t get breakfast yourself. He figures you’d rather not want it to go to waste.

“Want my other half?” he offers to the girl across from him, like some kinda olive branch.

Robin’s eyes dart from Steve to the paper sack and back again. It goes against every code in her personal handbook to take anything from Hawkins Royalty, but she shrugs in response anyway. “What the hell. Sure.”

—————

Finding your trailer isn’t hard. He visited there, once, for a project at the beginning of the school year. It’s the house directly across from the Freak’s. Eddie made it a point to play his guitar as loud as he possibly could, knowing The Hair was around to hear it. (Munson would never miss an opportunity to annoy King Steve, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him).

Steve decides to make his entrance through your bedroom window. Dead, unmanicured grass crunches under his sneakers as he rounds your trailer. He rises to the tips of his toes and knocks four times on the high-up window. The old glass feels strangely delicate under his fist.

He waits for an answer for several long moments. When he doesn’t get one, he lifts his hand to knock again. The window squeaks open before he can — and there he finds you, standing above him, holding a half-empty box of tissues in your hand like you plan to hit him with it.

“Whoa—” Steve flinches.

You look equally shocked to see him, fear swimming in your glassy eyes. “Oh, my god—”

“Sorry,” he grimaces with his palms splayed in surrender. “It’s just me.”

“I thought you were a burglar or something…”

“And what? You were gonna take me out with a box of tissues?” His laughter feels like warm honey compared to your splitting, icy migraine.

You take in a heaving breath and swallow hard through a stinging throat. “Sorry,” you sniffle. “Come— Come in.”

As Steve climbs through your window, trying hard not to get caught in the curtains, you become very hyperaware of your living space. It is your childhood bedroom, after all — every phase of your life is stored within these tiny four walls. Posters, trinkets, slightly dated decor. And on top of all that, you’ve been living like a total slob since you got sick over the weekend.

Your bed’s a mess, you’ve got bottled water and tissues piling in the bin, and you haven’t changed out of your pajamas in two days. It’s certainly no way to greet the king of Hawkins High, though he doesn’t quite seem to mind.

“You coulda just knocked on the door, you know?” you mumble, slightly nasally, as you swipe a balled-up tissue under your nose. “I would’ve let you in.”

Steve pants and stands to full height again, finally in your room with little to no struggle (though he’s pretty sure he’s stamped his footprint on your wall). 

“Well, what can I say? I like to make an entrance,” he jokes with a lopsided smile. The rosy expression fades when your glassy eyes glaze over with a faraway look. “…You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just…” you shake your head, which only makes the dizziness worse. “I’m just a little lightheaded. That’s all.”

Steve rushes to your swaying form without thinking. He grasps your arms in two wide, gentle hands. His honey eyes are wide and wild as they dart over your features, sufficiently bleary with whatever bug you’ve caught. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” you insist despite the obvious. “Just can’t break this stupid fever.”

“Here. Lay back down.”

He guides you the short distance to your bed, foreignly patient with your sluggish movements. He keeps a hold of you with one hand and reaches for the mussed blankets with the other, pulling them back to ease you beneath them.

“Sorry for bailing on you today,” you apologize in nearly inaudible slurs as the boy props you against the pillows. 

Steve shakes his head with a quiet smile. “You’re sick. It’s okay. Stop apologizing,” he insists and tucks the covers on top of you again. You can smell his aftershave when he leans over you, a striking minty scent that melts nicely with his deeper cologne.

“Sorry,” you repeat before you can help it.

Steve rises again and fights the urge to brush the hair sticking to your clammy cheek. “Have you had any medicine?”

“I had some… cough syrup earlier…” you slur, face half-buried in the pillows.

“What about food?” he asks with his hand on his cocked hip. “Had any of that?”

“‘M too sick for food.”

Steve laughs and fills the gloomy room with sunshine. “You have to eat, babe. So you can get your energy back. That’s, like, science or whatever—”

His eyes widen, only then realizing his use of the nickname. His heart drops to his ass. He hopes he said it so quickly that you missed it. You seem to have, as sick as you are, basically half-asleep before him.

You’d heard it, though. The word alone has your delicate heart beating with a newfound fervor. You can’t tell if it’s killing you or bringing you back to life.

Steve starts rambling before he realizes it. “I can whip you something up, if you want. I make a mean macaroni and cheese— In the microwave, obviously, ‘cause I’m less likely to burn it that way. Did you know that you can actually burn pasta in the microwave? Yeah, I had to learn that one the hard way—”

“Steve?” 

“Yeah?”

“Can you just sit with me?” you sniffle, eyes still shut. “Please?”

He nods rapidly until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Yeah, of— Of course, yeah.”

The boy climbs into your bed with a lot less confidence than he’s used to. This is by no means the first time he’s been in another girl’s bed, but something about this one feels different. This time, he has to keep reminding himself to breathe. This time, his hands are all clammy and tingling with an anxiety he isn’t used to. This time, he feels so utterly unsure in his body that he doesn’t know how he became King Steve in the first place — let alone how he got here, next to you.

What’d an asshole like me do to deserve all this? his mind reels.

Your breath catches when the mattress dips under his weight. He sits over the covers, but still a lot closer than you thought he might, all things considered. You turn slowly onto your back to look at him without going dizzy again.

“You’re not scared you’ll get sick?” you croak, blinking up at him with sleep-swollen eyes.

Steve shrugs with his back propped against the headboard. “Not really. I mean, what’s the worst-case scenario— I get sick and have to be quarantined here with you? That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

His lips curl into a lopsided smile that makes your chest feel sparkly. You turn away and hide your own grin in the pillow. “You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington,” you quip, half-muffled in the cushion.

“Yeah, I know,” he hums, never once taking his eyes off you. 

He can’t wait to kiss you when you’re better.

[silkensago]

cloudy with a chance of you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ megumi fushiguro x fem reader. 1.8k words — mutual pining. post-rain tenderness. friends to lovers. ⭑ you show up at his door soaked, shivering, and clutching convenience store ramen like a life raft—because of course you forgot your umbrella. but maybe that’s just the kind of girl you are. and maybe he’s just the kind of boy who always keeps a towel ready anyway.

Megumi really thought you would’ve noticed by now.

Okay, maybe that’s on him.

Maybe it’s his fault for being subtle. But in his defense, he didn’t think it would fly completely over your head. You’re not that dense. At least, not normally.

He couldn't say the same for Itadori or Nobara, but you? Out of all his classmates and even including Gojo-sensei, unfortunately—it was your intelligence and quick wit he trusted the most.

You were the one who could identify the origins of a curse from fragments of folklore and figure out a strategy faster than anyone else. He always admired that about you. The way your mind worked. The way you were both fast and precise—like a blade drawn only halfway, never wasted.

But apparently when he lends you his scarf since you always forget to pack one, or when he orders your favorite drink during a late mission debrief, or when he instinctively shields you with his cursed energy even when you’re more than capable of defending yourself—

You give him that annoyingly cute, soft smile, pat his arm, and say, “You’re such a good friend, Gumi.”

He grits his teeth.

It was already a confusing enough process to even realize he had feelings for you. Months of awkward silences and overthinking on his end and giving himself tiny mental slaps in the face every time his heart fluttered when you said his name.

But this? This was worse.

Because now he knows you like him too.

The problem is—you don’t think he likes you.

Apparently, offering you his last piece of mochi after a 14-hour exorcism shift isn’t “obvious enough.” Neither is remembering that you hate raw fish and silently swapping meals with you during team dinners. He even brought you that ugly little pufferfish keychain last week—the one you joked about wanting from a claw machine back in March and said that it looked like him. 

You’d stared at it like he handed you a bomb. Then smiled. Said thanks. And once again that dreaded word: friend.

He snorts under his breath. 

It’s not that he doesn’t love being your friend. He does. But he wants to be that—and more. 

He wondered if he’d spent so long waiting that the chance had already slipped past without him noticing.

You’re sitting beside him now on the train, going over the mission briefing that was sent out this morning, finger trailing along the paper like you're trying to trace the arc of a cursed spirit’s movement. His eyes are on you, of course. 

He knows it’s dumb. Staring won’t help.

It finally tips over during a rainy walk back from the convenience store.

[18:02] You:

heading to the store!! do u want anything?

[18:02] Gumi Bear 🐟:

No check the weather

[18:03] You:

bruh ur so boring

[18:03] Gumi Bear 🐟:

“Bruh” it’s going to rain

Don’t come crying to me if your dumb self gets soaked

[18:03] You:

i’m not gonna get soaked :(

also rude. i’m not dumb.

[18:04] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Debatable

[18:04] You:

:////

[18:17] You:

ok i may be a little teeny bit soaked

BUT i got the good melon bread for us

[18:17] You:

also can you open the door

i forgot your code again LOL

[18:18] Gumi Bear 🐟:

Coming

Don’t drip on my floor

[18:18] You:

ok mom

The door swings open just as the sky really lets loose.

You’re half-soaked and giggling, wind whipping your hoodie strings across your face as you try to shield the ramen and melon bread in your arms from the rain like they’re priceless artifacts.

Megumi stares at you from the doorway, hair damp and sticking up a little at the ends, wearing a soft white tee that clings faintly to his collarbones. He smells warm—like he just stepped out of the shower—and good, like cedar soap and something clean and familiar you can’t place your finger on. He always smells like that. It’s distracting.

“You idiot,” he says, yanking at your sleeve and stepping aside so you can stumble in, your socks already squelching uncomfortably. “Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”

You huff, brushing water off your sleeves. “Because someone said it was going to rain, not it is raining!”

Megumi snorts, softly shutting the door behind you. “You could’ve just gone back to get one.”

“I was already soggy by then,” you mutter, clutching the food tighter. “So there’s no point.”

Then, like fate wants to rub it in, you trip a little on the entryway rug and nearly topple over, screeching like a wet cat as you flail to protect the instant noodles.

That’s what does it.

He actually laughs. Really laughs. It’s soft and breathy and sounds like it came out by accident.

And you, still dripping, still cold, can’t stop looking at him.

“What?” Megumi says, still half-smiling, as he flicks a raindrop off your nose like it personally offended him. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

You swallow. Shrug.

“You laughed.”

“So?”

“I like it.” I like you.

That’s all you say. No teasing this time. Just that, dropped quietly into the space between you like a penny into a wishing well.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches forward, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, and tugs you the rest of the way in.

And then, softer, almost under his breath, “Go change. You know where my clothes are, right?”

You nod, heart thumping, already headed to the drawer with the oversized black shirt that smells like him.

The ramen sits forgotten on the counter. The silence stretches long, warm, quiet. And this time, you don’t mind it at all.

When you reach his dorm, you’re still damp and flushed and a little breathless from running. Your socks squish in your shoes. His hair is sticking up funny, and yours is plastered to your cheeks. You don’t say anything else when he tosses you a towel and turns a blind eye when you steal the hoodie he sleeps in.

It’s only when you're both settled, when your ramen sits forgotten on the counter and the flickering warmth of his desk lamp paints everything soft amber, that it all feels too much and not enough at once.

The quiet between you feels different now. Lighter, like a breath finally exhaled after holding it for too long. The small dorm room, with its cramped shelves and posters peeling slightly at the edges, feels like the safest place in the world.

He pulls out a worn board game from his shelf, that one you always joked you could beat him at if you tried hard enough. Tonight, though, he lets you win every round without complaint, smirking with quiet amusement.

“You’re terrible at this,” he says, shaking his head. “But somehow, you always win.”

He pokes your cheek.

Not hard, just enough to make you blink. 

“Stop that,” he says, voice low and blunt—but the tiny flicker of amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You blink up at him, startled. “Stop what?”

“That.” He tilts his head, hand still midair like he might poke you again. “You always chew your cheek when you’re nervous.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says easily, and then adds, “You did it before the dorm ramen cook-off last month, remember? When you thought Kugisaki was going to dump hot sauce in your pot as a prank.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, then pause. “That doesn’t count!”

Megumi snorts. “Never before missions, though. You’re always weirdly calm before those.”

“I’m not calm,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “I just hide it better.”

His fingers brush yours for a second, quick, barely-there contact, like he’s checking you’re still grounded.

“You don’t have to hide it with me,” he says quietly.

And just like that, you’re chewing your cheek again.

He pokes it a second time.

“Quit it.”

The silence returns, but this time it’s comfortable. Drowsy, even. Your hands find each other, fingers curling together without thought. Megumi squeezes yours and clears his throat, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.

“You always fall asleep first.” There’s a teasing edge in his voice.

“'Cause I’m smarter,” you retort, and he chuckles softly.

As you settle under the blanket, the space between you narrows. His shoulder brushes yours, sending a quiet thrill through your spine. He’s so warm.

Your eyelids grow heavy, but just before sleep claims you, you feel his fingers tighten around yours.

When you wake, the room is darker, but he’s awake, watching you with those steady eyes that seem to see everything, know more than they let on. That know you.

“You’re really here,” he says, voice softer than you expected. There’s a delicious rasp to it that you’ve only heard in your dreams.

You squeeze his hand. “Always.”

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just brushes his thumb over your knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand. The silence stretches, but not in a bad way. It's soft. Full. Like the space between heartbeats.

His gaze lingers on you, like he’s still not sure you’re real.

You smile, barely. “Stop staring.”

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You let out a quiet breath. Shift a little closer. Feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours. His arm finds its way around you, steady and careful, and you let your head rest just under his chin.

The rain outside has slowed to a whisper.

And in the stillness, with the air smelling faintly of his shampoo and your matcha he must’ve woken up early to make—somehow escaping your vice-like bear hug to do it—the quiet between you finally settles. Whatever’s been hanging between the two of you for months, like morning dew on spring grass, it’s been there all along. You just hadn’t noticed it catching the light.

You used to go out of your way to look pretty whenever he was around—careful hair, subtle makeup, a little more effort in the way you dressed—before you really got to know each other. Like you were trying to impress someone you weren’t sure would even notice, which he definitely did, but not because of all that. You were a magnet for people because of who you were.

And not that he didn’t think you looked radiant then. But now, after all these months, watching you snuggled up close beside him with your hair tangled in a bedhead mess and a little drool at the corner of your mouth, his breath catches. 

You’ve never looked more beautiful.

This is the boy who’s held you crying with your makeup smudged, the one who knows the exact face you make when you get a little too adventurous ordering food at a new restaurant as he switches his plate for yours. The one who holds all those small, imperfect moments close, without judgment, because to him, they’re part of you.

This is real.

And you’re not going anywhere.

[glitzglamgunpowder-if]

"You were destined for a life better than this. A life free from violence, from bloodshed. But here you are once again, it's like you never left."

YOU were a child destined for greatness, for your name to be written into the pages of history. Whatever happened in your past didn't matter anymore. You were born with raw talent and charisma that couldn't be wasted, that people can only dream of. But your innate gift didn't mean your path would be easy. After the circus shut down, you stumbled through life delivering each performance like it was your last. You thought you've reached your peak, until a mysterious offer suddenly throws you into a life of crime.

Content Warnings [Will Be Updated]: Heavy Extremist Religious Themes, Depictions of Trauma, Poor Mental Health, and Violence/Criminal Activity

Play as a male, female, or nonbinary performer

Customize your MC’s physical appearance, façade personality, and choose a pseudonym for them

Befriend or Romance 4 ROs

Dedicate yourself to honing your natural talent

Choose your end goal and earn the fame you have craved your entire life

How do you want the public to perceive you? To be respected, or to be feared?

Learn more about the secrets of your dark past. Will you learn how the circus fell? How you ended up here of all places?

Will you acquire the fame you deserve, or will you fade into history?

Outline of Stats/Routes!!

Alistair/Alice Delacroix - THE RIVAL

AS you adjust to your new life, you hear rumors about your fated rival. One whose mind was poisoned to despise every fiber of your being. It's no surprise they're known for their ambition, their cunning, their ruthless nature. Their path led them to inevitable darkness, but will yours?

Trope: Forbidden Romance/Enemies to Lovers

Samuel/Samantha "Sam" Kaminski - THE BOSS

YOU are an acquired talent on behalf of the current wealthy owner of the elusive Spotlight Syndicate, one of the most popular bars of its time. They're one of the few people who don't question your mysterious past, who trust you as implicitly as the air they breathe. You know deep down they have a soft spot for you, one of their greatest assets, but they're motives are...difficult to discern. But is there a possibility your relationship could go beyond transactional business?

Trope: Boss x Employee/Age Gap

Hendrik/Helena Rietveld - THE BODYGUARD

YOU don't know much about them, nor do they seem willing to give you any more information than necessary for your safety. But one thing's for sure, they're loyal to the ones they serve. And given your new...circumstances, that may be exactly what you need: someone who would travel from heaven to hell and back if their duty called for it. Will you be the first to crack the unsolvable's code?

Trope: Bodyguard Romance/Potential Grumpy x Sunshine

Jesse Lê - THE FRIEND DETECTIVE

YOU never expected to see them again after...never mind that! They stand before you now, a completely reinvented version of themself. A stranger to everyone they encounter. Will you be able to slip off the carefully curated mask they've built and heal from your past together? Or will that smoking gun be laid to rest once and for all?

Trope: Childhood Friends to Lovers -> Detective x Potential Criminal

Physical Description of the ROs!!

Despite being a frequent IF player, this is my very first time trying to create an IF myself as someone with little coding experience (I'm more of a writer if anything). I'm definitely learning as I go, and I understand this may lead to mistakes or disappointment at times, so I preemptively apologize for them. I tend to become overly ambitious, and I want to make sure I always deliver on the promises I make. I say this because some of you may have ask about certain features being implemented and I will have to say "Sorry, I don't really know how to do that yet, but I'll try and learn how!" Hopefully, this will be a fun learning experience, and you all have a fun time on here! Sincerely, Mira <3

DEMO || BETA TESTER FORM || PLAYLIST || BLUESKY

[passionfruitchris]

EARN IT

PAIRING: NERD!MATT x ADHD!READER

IN WHICH: your adhd brain won’t stay on track during study night, so matt slides between your thighs with his glasses still on and tells you he’ll only keep going if you get the answers right WC: 1.2K

matt was seated beside you on the floor, cross-legged in his usual perfect posture, a stack of color-coded flashcards in one hand and your shared laptop open in front of him. the two of you had been reviewing exam content for nearly half an hour, though only five minutes of that time could actually be counted as productive. he was wearing a fitted gray t-shirt, glasses slightly low on the bridge of his nose as he scrolled through the quiz doc he’d made for you—organized, annotated, and completely wasted on the way your brain had started to short circuit the moment he pushed his sleeves up.

you were sitting on your knees beside him, trying to focus. trying, honestly, so hard. but it was a losing battle. his forearms looked too good. his voice was too steady. the way he spoke—confident, calm, patient—made it hard to focus on anything but the sound of it, the shape of it. you weren’t looking at the laptop anymore. you were looking at his mouth. and when he turned to ask you a question, you realized, too late, that you hadn’t been listening for at least the last few minutes.

“did you catch that?” he asked, holding up a flashcard. his voice was gentle but clearly suspicious.

you blinked. “uhh... sort of?”

matt sighed softly through his nose, not in frustration, but in that familiar “you’re mine and I know exactly what you’re doing” way. he set the flashcard aside and turned his body toward you fully now, arm draped casually over his bent knee. “what part of the question did you ‘sort of’ catch?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smirk.

“I got the part where you said... 'what enzyme'... and then I got distracted because I was wondering if your reading glasses are real or just a kink accessory.” you smiled sweetly. “are they prescription, matthew?”

his jaw twitched like he was trying not to laugh, or break. “you are, without a doubt, the most infuriating 'student' I’ve ever had.”

“good thing I’m your girlfriend and not your student, huh?”

he shook his head slowly and shifted closer, his hand sliding over your bare thigh like a warning. his touch wasnt rough—jst firm enough to get your attention, to pull you back into your body. “you can’t go five minutes without zoning out.”

you shrugged. “to be fair, you're really hot. you make it hard to think.”

that was when matt’s eyes changed—still soft, still familiar, but darker now. more deliberate. he sat up on his knees and cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing just under your lip like he was deciding something. “you wanna come tonight?” he asked, voice casual—too casual.

your breath hitched. “um. yes?”

“then earn it,” he said simply.

you barely had time to react before he was guiding you backward, his palm warm against your chest as he pushed you gently down against the rug. he was methodical as he kissed your collarbone, then the line of your neck, then tugged your shorts down with steady hands, slow and deliberate like he had all the time in the world. his glasses stayed on. his eyes never left you.

you spread your legs for him instinctively, your thighs already slick with anticipation, but he didn’t go for your cunt right away. instead, he kissed down your sternum, then your belly, pausing to mouth at the soft skin just above your waistband before sliding your panties down, too. when he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh—warm, open-mouthed, wet—you exhaled hard, already arching toward him.

“matt,” you breathed. “please.”

he settled between your thighs, hands sliding underneath to grip the backs, pulling you closer with a quiet grunt. his lips hovered, not touching, just breathing heat against you. “answer the question I asked,” he murmured, eyes flicking up over the rim of his glasses.

your brain stalled. “I—what?”

“the one about the enzyme,” he said, and you felt his lips brush your skin when he spoke. “if you get it right, I’ll keep going.”

you were dizzy already. “matt. I can’t—”

he dipped his head and licked a single, slow stroke up your cunt, just once, his tongue dragging through your slick like he already knew how desperate you were for more. then he pulled away again. “you can,” he said softly. “you just have to try.”

and then he kissed you — just above your clit — lips warm and soft, tongue flicking gently before he went lower. you moaned, instantly arching toward him, already wet from the slow pressure of his voice and the threat of what he’d promised. his tongue flattened against you, slow and unhurried, dragging upward in one perfect, measured stroke. he kept going, lips locking over your clit now, tongue flicking in small, devastating circles. you tried to think — really, you did — but your mind was pure static.

his hands slid under your ass, holding you steady, thumbs pressing into your thighs to keep them open. the cold metal of his watch brushed your skin — a little chill against your fevered body. his glasses were still on, just barely slipping down his nose, and it was unfair how focused he looked even like this, like he was reading you the same way he read textbooks: deeply, without flinching.

“matt—” you gasped, legs already trembling. “holy shit—don’t stop—”

he pulled back slightly, mouth glistening, chin wet, breath warm against your slick heat. “answer the question.”

you forced your eyes open. “phosphofructokinase.”

matt smiled, slow and pleased, and this time when he lowered his head, he didn’t hold back.

hismouth locked over your clit with devastating intent, tongue flicking just enough to make your thighs tense, then circling, wet and firm and rhythmic. he groaned low in his throat, like he loved the way you tasted, and the sound made you shudder. his grip on your thighs tightened just slightly when you started to buck against his face, and the way he moaned into you only made it worse—made it better—made it impossible to stay quiet.

you were already close, already panting, your hands tangled in his hair as he worked you open, devouring you with slow precision. he alternated between gentle sucks and faster flicks, the wet sound of it filling the room, your own breath breaking in uneven gasps.

just as your legs began to shake, just as you arched up, teetering on the edge—matt stopped.

you nearly sobbed. “no—no, matt, please—”

he pressed his mouth against your inner thigh, lips soft and damp, breath hot. “what enzyme breaks glycogen into glucose-1 phosphate?”

you choked on a moan. “G-glycogen phosphorylase.”

he grinned against your skin. “good girl.”

and then his mouth was back on you, tongue firm and fast now, no teasing. his glasses pressed against your lower stomach as he held you steady, his tongue never faltering as your orgasm ripped through you—tight, hot, and overwhelming. you came with a gasp, legs trembling, fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself as he licked you through it, refusing to stop until your hips stuttered and your muscles gave out completely.

when he finally pulled back, his plush lips were swollen, his face glistening, and he looked up at you like he was studying a masterpiece. “now,” he said, adjusting his glasses with two fingers, “are we ready to focus?”

tags: @zenithsturniolo @sturnsblogs @sirensdollesque @adoremattsturns @espressqe

requested by: @sturnsblogs cee cee… so sorry this ended up being smutty. I swear I didn’t mean for it to go there but once I started… I genuinely couldn’t stop myself. it spiraled. please forgive me LMAO <3

a/n: thank you so much for reading, seriously. it means the world that you took the time to engage with this fic. I appreciate every like, reblog, comment, and message more than I can even explain.

[yourtypicalhuman09]

Beyond The Bat

(Neglected reader x Yandere batfam)

Chapter 1: In The Shadows

TW!!! Cursing !!Dark AU!!

Living in the Wayne manor isn't the sweet luxurious dream you'd think it'd be, reality is in fact much crueler. For as long as I could remember I had lived in this dreary mansion, but lived isn't the word I'd use. I was more trapped here if anything. My "family", if I could even call them that, are well respected people. They're highly skilled and talented people, someone like me could only dream to be like them. I tried so hard to get close to them, I really did try, but no matter what I did nothing worked. I did everything, gymnastics, martial arts, theater, art, music, coding, dance, volleyball, cheerleading, heck I was even in the honors society. Despite being an A+ student and a role model in high society they never once went to any of my recitals, games, or showcases. I went to galas all alone, I had to deal with the sneering faces and snide remarks of high class men and woman alone since I was 8. Not very safe for a child huh? I didn't think so either but my "father" doesn't seem to care.

Nevertheless, I have no choice in this matter and it's not like life here is unbearable. Sure I get beatings and tongue lashings every now and then, but for the most part everyone in the manor tends to forget me eventually and leave me alone. It's pretty isolating but I got used to it, after all I have duties to perform. I have my job as Student council president and I don't intend to slack off. I got that job with my own blood sweat and tears and I will not let all those sleepless nights go to waste. I don't have time to wallow in self pity I have countless of students looking up to me and counting on me to do my job.

"Young master, are you okay? You seem to be staring off into space."

I looked up to our old butler, his face jaded and littered with wrinkles that seemed to contort pathetically in worry. I knew better than to accept his pity. He seems to be a wise gentle man on the outside with his elegant wardrobe, worn old body, and soft spoken demeanor, but do not be fooled. In truth, Alfred Pennyworth was a foolish coward. This was the same man who abandoned his own daughter just like my idiot of a father. I gave him a chance, but nothing's been the same since the day he accidentally called me Julia. I was nothing but a stand in for him, someone to relieve his guilt with.

"I'm fine. Don't you have something better to do? I'm sure Bruce has some kind of task for you, no need to bother yourself with my problems"

"...Very well then...Take care of yourself young master."

He clearly had something more to say but he decided to do nothing and walk away. Like I said he's a coward. Still I'm not new to disappointment, whether it's the disappointment of missed birthdays or the way they all see me as the disappointment, it's nothing I haven't experienced before. I quickly packed up my things and headed to school. Sure riding to school on an old worn out bike isn't exactly ideal, but I have to deal with what I have. Although, I do have to take some back alleys to school since I don't want anyone seeing and starting a scandal. I can already see the blaring headlines, "Daughter of Gotham's richest man caught riding to school on a beat up bicycle!". What a bunch of nosy bastards.

"Good mornin' (Y/N)!"

I turned to face the sunny senior calling my name, his unadulterated joy making him stand out in the crowd of groggy gothamites.

"Good morning Cyrus."

My crisp responses never seems to deter the boy as he continues to walk beside me chattering endlessly.

"(Y/N) I got things you asked! It's super cool what you're doing for the school, I'm so happy I get to be apart of it! If you ever need help with anything please do ask me!"

I sighed, his joyful energy was contagious. I couldn't help but crack a smile. Though it quickly disappeared as I regained my composure, but obviously not fast enough since Cyrus' joy seems to only be growing.

"Ahhhhh (Y/N) just smiled! I made the student president smile! I'm so sigma"

Here he goes again with those weird words and that cocky grin. I sighed once again, I'm too tired for this.

"Yes thank you Cyrus get to class now, I'll pick up the things I asked for after school."

"Yes ma'am!"

I watched as he playfully saluted and ran to class almost bumping into several people along the way. I facepalmed, he was such a handful but strangely I don't really mind. It's probably the lack of sleep I'll make sure to go to bed early today, for now I have to get to class myself.

Author's note: Omg chapter one is finally out! This took me a lot longer than expected but I hope it's good I went through a tiny writer's block😅. I hope you guys like Cyrus I tried to make him a silly and sunny character but trust me he'll have lore and be a much deeper character. I also tried making (Y/N)'s backstory pretty vague since they're the narrator and I figured they wouldn't like talking about it, but their lore will be revealed more throughout future chapters. Anyways as always thank you all for reading and have a good day/night!

Credits to khaer for the dividers

@simpingpandas @rosalietodd013 @sirenetheblogger @cim0nnin @00hellohello00 @crazycaoticsimp @lovebug-apple @youdontknowshtaboutfk

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - implied non/con, mentions of physical/psychological abuse, obsessive behavior, delusional thoughts, and kidnapping.

Alhaitham is strict.

He's a man of science. He believes that obedience is something that has to be trained, not taught, and that the only way to properly train any thinking, breathing creature is through the continuous and uniform use of punishment to discourage undesired behavior and with-holding of reward until desired behavior is not only seen, but repeated. His rules are firm and unchanging, and when he catches you, say, hoarding mora underneath a lose floorboard or trying to mail a letter of poorly coded pleas for help to a former peer, he feels no guilt as he wrestles you over his knee and delivers a strike for each spare coin he found in your little collection, each word you wasted on someone other than your loving caretaker. He values your intelligence, and that's why he knows you can live up to his suffocating, but not particularly high expectations. He's strict, but really, it's for your own good.

Kaveh is soft.

As soft as crushed velvet and flower petals and down-stuffed pillows. As soft as crumpled silk and grass on a warm day and his heart, whenever you thread your fingers through his and ask so prettily for him to let you go. His greatest in the world is to make you happy, and it pains him to know that, so long as he continues to be so selfish with your affection, you won't be. He'd do anything for you - bring you gems and flowers from each distant corner of the world, dedicate himself entirely to your every whim and desire, carve his own heart from his chest and lay it at your feet - but he knows you truly want is out of his reach. Kaveh is soft - soft enough that, no matter how much it hurts him to see you suffering, he knows the pain of letting you go would destroy him entirely.

Cyno is sweet.

Even if he will admit to taking a certain amount of satisfaction bringing the cruel blade of justice down on those who've earned it most, he's not a sadist, and you've done little in your life to deserve anyone's cruelty. When he does have to hurt you, it's done with remorse, and when he has no reason to, he does not often pretend he has any desire to find one. His affection is silent, but sickeningly apparent. It's expressed through rose blossoms left on your bedside table, trinkets that made him think of you tucked into the pockets of your clothes, the phantom of his lips against your neck - never quite making contact but never drifting away, either. He holds you when you cry, despite being the reason for your distress, and when you beg him for space, he never seems to go very far. He's sweet, even if the tenderness of his love is lost on you.

Tighnari is subtle.

He knows who he is. He knows how he feels about you. He knows that, if he were to chain you up in his hut and do every terrible thing he's imagined, it'd be less than a full hour until you were liberated from his loving embrace and his head was liberated from his shoulders. He has to be more careful than that, more discrete, even if it means spending the better part of one of his few days off piecing together a mix of herbs and serums tasteless enough to be slipped into water and strong enough to ensure you won't wake up the first time he drives his fangs into your skin. Even his more daring moments are limited to a hand ghosted over the small of your back, a strange insistence that he should be the one to look after you when your strange, unnamable illness resurfaces and you inevitably need a professional's time and care. He's subtle - so much so that even you won't know just much he's willing to do to love you.

[thoughtfulfiction]

Shift in the Routine

Author’s Note: Vibes are up from episode one of Hard Knocks starring Batman but I really wanted to write something angsty.

Part II

The morning started off with an entire 16 oz cup full of coffee spilling all over the kitchen floor. The brown puddle continued to spread and you watched in horror as the caramel frappuccino you’d just spent the last 20 minutes carefully curating to perfection went to waste. Then, your apartment key got stuck in the door, snapping in half so you had to make a call to your lovely landlord who charged you $150 to replace the key, and get the maintenance guy to come in and get your old key out. There went the money that you wanted to use to splurge on lunch.

Just when you thought you’d turned a corner for the better when you got off work early, your best friend Rachel called in a panic, putting an immediate end to the relaxing afternoon you had planned.

“Hi babe! I need you to do me a huge favor.”

You sighed, mentally saying goodbye to the Netflix binge on the couch with a fluffy blanket you were desperately looking forward to. “What’s up?“

She chuckles softly, breathing out a sound of relief that you were willing to help. “You know you’re my favorite person in the world, right?”

“What do you need Rach?” You bite out, your patience mostly nonexistent after such an awful day. Even her best attempt at buttering you up wouldn’t fix it.

“Okay, okay jeez. Who pissed in your cereal this morning? Anyways, I need you to run to my office and grab my other laptop. The one I have with me died and the tablet just isn’t cutting it right now,” you can hear her whispering to someone while you wait on the other end of the line for further instructions, “texting you the address as we speak.”

Your destination was 48 minutes away from her office, much closer to your job. Rachel owed you. Big time. “Fine. Be there in an hour.” You hung up a little in the midst of hearing her say “thank you” for the sixth time.

Rachel was an interior designer, working on some top secret project with a client for the last year, whose identity she refused to reveal, that was until today when she clearly had no choice. She’d apparently asked the client if it was ok for you to come to the house and they were clearly cool with it because the gate opened and the mansion you were faced with was unlike anything you’d ever seen. Every part of you wished you’d worn nicer clothes to work today.

Before you could even knock, your friend opened the door and ushered you in, plugging the laptop into one of the kitchen outlets and pulling up whatever she needed, thanking you again for saving her ass.

You looked around the room, exquisite marble covered the countertops, super cozy looking white swivel chairs and every square inch of the place just screamed luxury. “Who the hell lives here alone? Head of the mafia?”

Rachel snorts out a laugh, typing away without looking up at you.

“Not exactly,” a male voice is heard behind you, scaring you a little. And that makes Rachel laugh even more. “I assume you’re Rachel’s friend y/n.”

No fucking way.

You glance at Rachel before turning around to face him, nodding your head. “I’m so sorry your highness, you’re more…King of the Jungle, right? The mafia is more of a Bills thing.” All the secrecy made sense now and you turn towards her, your eyes full of disbelief.

“You signed an NDA didn’t you? Because I know you’re the world’s worst secret keeper and you’ve worked for the Bengals starting quarterback for a year and I haven’t heard a peep. Wait,” you look at him again, “does this mean I have to sign one?”

“Would you like to?” Joe deadpans, a hint of amusement pokes out behind his rigid exterior. He looks even better in person, you think to yourself.

“I have always wanted to sign one but I’ve never really been in the position to do that. But now…”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Rachel cuts in, “he’s not gonna make you sign anything, you don’t even know the gate code.”

Waving her off for ruining your fun, you grab your keys and get ready to head home when Joe’s voice stops you in your tracks for the second time in the last 20 minutes.

“You don’t want water or anything before you go? I have an entire fridge just for Voss water. The glass bottles.” His voice is so relaxed, a calming energy surrounds him and he delivers his words with such a casual tone like it’s not one of the most absurd things you’ve ever heard.

“Are you being serious?”

“No! I’m kidding,” he laughs, a genuine hearty sound that you hope to never forget. You need to leave this fortress as soon as humanly possible before you find yourself attracted to the way the man breathes.

Rachel has long forgotten the two of you are in the room, completely in the zone while deciding between white oak and alder so the gorgeous man walks you out. Has he always been this tall? “Rich and funny. It’s very nice to meet you Joe.”

He’s about to let you leave, but he doesn’t want to regret not going for it. “Would you—maybe want to um, see each other again? When you’re having less of a bad day? I promise there will be no coffee involved, just a little dinner?” This is a stark difference from his earlier nonchalance, you can tell he’s trying to keep the nerves at bay.

“You heard all of that?” You look at him wide-eyed. Of course Joe freaking Burrow heard you complaining about spilling coffee everywhere and damaging your keys, not your finest moments. And somehow, none of that deterred him from asking you out. “I’d love to. Rachel can give you my number and I’ll see you soon?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Dinner turned into dinner and a movie which turned into several nights of ordering in. That became FaceTime dates when he would travel across the country, helping him pick out clothes to wear for his foundation’s golf tournament or getting up at ungodly hours to answer his calls during Paris Fashion Week. Then he came home to lock in for the season but not before giving you a jump scare by randomly buzzing and bleaching his hair. Everything you thought you knew about him from the media or via word of mouth living the city, was nothing compared to actually getting to be with him. He was funny and kind and the most caring person in the world and you really owed Rachel your entire life for asking you to drop off that laptop.

Admittedly, you were nervous going into the season. You’d seen him go down last year in Baltimore, watching on tv like every other fan feeling helpless as his season ended. Now you’d seen first hand how much work had gone into not only getting him back to what he was before but transforming him into a better version of what he once was. And routine was everything. Workouts and meals were scheduled down to meticulous detail, meetings with his nutritionist and strength trainer happened frequently and the closer you got to week 1 the more dialed into the process he was. You just tried your best to navigate the controlled chaos.

Friday evening before you drove home after work, you made a pit-stop at Joe’s to drop something off. Having already decided that you were staying at your place for the rest of the weekend as to not be distraction, you placed your surprise in the fridge feeling proud of yourself before closing the door, meeting your boyfriend face to face.

“Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me!” You playfully smacked his chest as he grabs onto your hands, enveloping you in a warm embrace. “I didn’t think I’d see you. Thought you’d be up to your eyebrows in New England film right now.”

“Took a break to grab a snack,” he sidesteps you to get to the fridge, taking a look inside before he spots the item you just placed in there. “What are these?”

You nod toward the tupperware in his hand, “open it.”

Joe carefully takes off the lid, looking at the contents inside like a kid on christmas morning, recognizing the look of his favorite dessert, with a twist.

“They’re protein pumpkin pie cups. The bottom is peanut butter.”

“Two of my favorite things. Well, three now, including you. Thank you.” You want to pretend to have a toothache at how sweet he’s being but instead you stand on your toes, inching your way up to kiss him on the lips and when you pull away to stand at your normal height he sneaks another kiss, pressing one onto the side of your head. It’s getting late and you really don’t want to leave, but you can’t mess up his routine. The next time you see him is after the loss, he’s understandably disappointed but also a little relieved to shake some of the rust off and come back more relaxed the next game.

Slowly but surely the losses piled up and they added more weight to his often slumped shoulders. You tried to lighten the load by being a constant presence, reminding him of how well he was playing, but the once comfortable, homey atmosphere that Joe created for you became tense. Long conversations about how the team could be better turned into shrugs, “I don’t knows” and exhausted sighs.

And now? The team was 4-8.

You’d been staying at Joe’s since the bye week ended just to make sure he wasn’t isolating himself and completely consumed by football. When he came home after the Steelers game you could instantly tell it was going to be a long night. As soon as he set foot in the door he dropped his bag off and headed up to his office without giving you so much as a glance.

Dinner was cold by the time he emerged again two hours later. You didn’t want to say the wrong thing. And you also didn’t want to just sit there and say nothing. The elephant in the room was doubling in size by the minute. “Joe, you—”

“If you’re about to say I played well you can just…not. I fumbled the ball twice and threw a pick. Three turnovers isn’t exactly a recipe for success.”

You closed your eyes, trying to come up with something that would get him to see things the way you did. “I know that, but you still fought your way back and you guys were so close to completing the comeback.”

His adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably slow as he swallows some of his frustration. None of this was your fault and he knew that. He just, really didn’t want to talk about it anymore today. He’d discussed it with the team, with coaches, the media. The game had ended long ago and he was still having to explain himself. Glancing at the clock, he let you know he was heading to bed and he was just…gone. No hug, no kiss on the cheek or anything. Which usually wouldn’t have bothered you but then you found him fast asleep with his back facing you. You climbed in behind him, treating him like the little spoon as you wrapped your arms around him but he easily removed himself from your grasp, covering himself with the blanket, mumbling something about not feeling like cuddling tonight. You had this overwhelming urge to cry so you turned away from him, squeezing your eyes shut, begging sleep to overtake you.

Waking up the next morning, you decide to shake off whatever that was last night. You texted Joe’s chef and asked him what was on the menu for tonight, thinking that a good meal and some lighthearted conversation was just the thing he needed. The work day was long and frustrating, some random sponsors came in to do some long winded presentation about the new health guidelines which was about as entertaining as watch Geno Stone miss tackles. One thing was motivating you to get through it and that was Morgan, Joe’s chef texting you that he would have everything ready when you got home and all you had to do was put your finishing touches on the evening.

All of the food was prepped, the table was set, candles lit and all you needed was Joe. You wait 45 minutes for him to walk in the door, looking surprised. “What is all this?”

“Nothing special, I just figured we could eat together before watching Monday Night Football in bed.”

The look on his face isn’t promising. “I already ate at the facility,” Joe says regretfully. He’s met with silence and it’s uncomfortable, worrying. “How was work?”

“I texted you,” your voice hardens, “twice. No response.”

“Wasn’t near my phone all day. We had a team meeting, guys said things that were on their minds and we had an open and honest conversation. I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”

You close your eyes, really trying not to cry about something so small. “Right, ok. How did your meeting go?”

“It was fine,” he shrugs, not divulging any other details and it irks you even more. Joe catches you massaging your temples, a clear sign that you’re stressed. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” you echo his words, hoping he gets the hint, “had a long day.”

The quarterback places his hands on your shoulders, hoping to ease the tension in your posture. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“That’s rich,” you mumble.

“Hm?”

You grab his hands and pry them off of you. “I said that’s rich. You know, coming from you.”

He looks irritated but keeps his voice even, “what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you want me to open up and talk about my feelings when you’ve been an emotional brick wall the last couple weeks! I can barely get two words out of you. Joe, I’m trying babe. I respect your time and your space, I never stay the night on Saturdays or ask you do anything past 8pm and you still shut me out. Why is that?”

“You don’t think that doing all of this is a little much right now? Everyone wants something from me all the time. I just need a second to think, on my own. And I get it, you’re trying to help but you’re always here, pestering me about little things. I really don’t need you breathing down my neck and smothering me this week.”

You stare at him for a while, processing every word he just said.

You’re pestering him.

You’re smothering him.

Breathing down his neck.

That’s why he didn’t want you to hold him last night. He thinks you’re too needy, too clingy.

You’d done the one thing you’d been telling yourself you wouldn’t do. You had disturbed his peace, messed up his flow. In trying to be helpful and proactive, you had actually gotten more in the way. And he didn’t want you here right now. He’d just made that painfully clear.

“No you’re right,” you tell him, in your most normal tone, “I’ll stop with the questions. You probably have stuff to do so I’m gonna clean this stuff up.”

Joe nods simply, heading upstairs to crack open the Dallas film. A few stray tears escape your eyes as soon as he’s gone. You gave yourself 10 minutes to have a little cry and then the leftovers were placed in the fridge, dishes put away, candles blown out and everything back in its rightful place. Then you headed upstairs to Joe’s room to pack your stuff. He clearly needed space from you and you weren’t going to stay anywhere you weren’t wanted. Carefully placing all of your bags in the car, you took a shuddering breath before putting the keys in the ignition.

He woke up out of his sleep around 4am looking for you, feeling the cold space where your body was supposed to be. Chalking it up to you maybe having slept in one of the guest rooms after the tense conversation from earlier, he turned over and went back to sleep. You knew you had a problem, tossing and turning aimlessly, growing accustomed to being next to him, literally proving his point. The honeymoon phase was over and you desperately needed to pull it together.

“You don’t need to freak out, every couple goes through a rough patch,” Rachel tries to reassure you, digging into her bowl of popcorn as you lay face first, mumbling into your pillow. “Babe I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

It feels like there’s a ton of bricks weighing you down after one disagreement. “Rach you didn’t hear what he said. And the way he looked at me. He hasn’t even called or texted or anything. And I’m not texting him, that would be smothering or pestering or everything else he said. God I just, I don’t know.”

She hated to see you struggling like this. “Just give yourself some time and you’ll eventually know the right thing to do. You two are annoyingly into each other and those genuine feelings don’t go away because of a stress filled heated moment.”

She was right, all you needed to do was give him space. You dove face first into your job, attending every meeting five minutes early and staying later to get ahead on the next day’s to-do list. Joe did eventually text late in the afternoon, asking if you were coming over for dinner but you told him you had a work thing.

By day three of you having “work stuff,” Joe was calling bullshit. All of your responses were either dry, a simple “yes” or “no” or you kept it short and sweet. And he didn’t like it. Even though he prided himself in being able to compartmentalize, at home it felt empty and void of color and joy without you. He’d pushed you away and embarrassingly said some things that he didn’t even really mean, he just lashed out of exasperation and now he hadn’t heard the sound of your voice in almost 80 hours.

He needed to fix this.

“Can open the door? We need to talk.” He sounded out, in between semi frantic knocks on your door.

Slowly cracking it open, you let him in. “What do we need to talk about?”

His hair is messy and still slightly wet, like he ran here immediately after a shower. Seemed like this couldn’t possibly wait another second. “I’m sorry. I said things I shouldn’t have. I was upset because you’re right. The other night,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “you called me out and I didn’t want to admit you had a point so I dug myself a hole. And I’m so sorry for hurting you.”

You wanted to melt into his arms and forgive him. You wished it was that easy. But his words just kept playing over and over in your mind. “I appreciate the apology.”

“So…you’ll come home with me?”

“Joe I am home. And you have—a strict sleeping schedule. It’s getting late, I’m sure you’re tired.”

He wonders quietly how long you’ve been like this, giving robotic, monotone responses like you’re just saying things that you think he wants to hear. “It is getting late, but I’ve gotten so used to you being next to me that I don’t sleep as well when you’re gone.”

“Really? Cause I thought I was smothering you. Or what was the other one? Oh right, breathing down your neck.”

“Babe, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well you still said it! And now I’m wondering if I’m too much for you or how you had to drive over here instead of going home and getting your rest trying my best to be what you need,” you pause, looking at him through watery eyes, “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this.”

He seems visibly shaken, hesitantly steps toward you, reaching out to hold your hand to make your not going to disappear into thin air and leave him on his own. “Wh—what you mean?”

“I just, I really think I’m the one that needs some space. To figure out where the hell I even fit into all this. If I still want to fit into all this. I’m not saying I want to breakup I just think—you’re in a really pivotal time in the season and I don’t want to get in the way.”

Joe gives your hand a squeeze, “you’re never in the way. Actually it’s the opposite, I just wasn’t appreciative enough of everything you’ve done for me this year. But if you want space then, take all the time you need.” He swallows the lump in his throat and presses his lips to your forehead, uttering out that he’ll be waiting until you’re ready.

You take a step away from him as his soft lips linger on your skin whispering, “Joe…can you please go?”

He nods, slowly closing the door behind him. You imagine him walking away, climbing into his Porsche and heading home alone. Maybe this is how it should be, him over there, you here.

Tonight almost hurts more than the last time, so much so that the tears won’t even come. You’re just…numb. But you need this space to see if this life is something you’re ready to commit to. Because the last thing you want to be is another thing on his schedule.

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH | 01

“perfect match, death protocol”

"You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how. The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked."

next | index

˗ ✦ chapter details ✦ ˗

word count: 4.2k

rating: mature

content: 100% genetic matching, forced proximity, rebel capture, & that bone-deep certainty you're trapped with the architect of your nightmares

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

˗ ✦ author's note ✦ ˗

Ohhhhh boy. Ohhhhhh Kiki Nation. You thought I was done tormenting you? Foolish. Delusional. Have you met me? You really thought I’d let Jungkook carry all the emotionally constipated weight of fanfic war crimes on his impossibly broad back? No no no. It’s Namjoon’s turn, baby. That’s right. Brainy. Brutal. Built like the consequences of my own unresolved issues. The man is a walking philosophical contradiction in tactical gear and I said, “Yeah. I’m gonna ruin him.”

So welcome to whatever the hell this is.

First of all, let’s just get one thing out of the way: this story is NOT set on Earth. I made up a planet. A sexy, miserable, tragic one. Aurora cycles? Check. Weird tectonic atmospheric vents? Obviously. Heat cycles??? Look. Listen. It’s not ABO. I’m not an animal. But also… smut. And Namjoon. And a knife against your throat at a molecular compatibility clinic. You get it. This fic is rooted in completely unhinged planetary science that exists only because I had a horny idea and then overcommitted to the worldbuilding.

And that’s not even the most psychotic part.

Combat pheromones.

Yes. I said it.

Combat. Pheromones.

Did I take the concept of primal attraction and militarize it like an emotionally damaged sci-fi gremlin? Absolutely. Did I then pair it with a death countdown, political rebellion, algorithmic executions, and a traumatic proximity-monitoring setup? You bet your ass I did. Because nothing—and I mean nothing—gets me going like forced emotional vulnerability under survival pressure. I wanted a story where “I hate you” and “I want you” and “I might die because of you” are all part of the same sentence. I wanted two people so viscerally repelled by what the other represents they can’t even breathe in the same space without getting physically affected… and then I made them share tactical missions. :)

This fic is… well. It’s messy. It’s brutal. It’s horny in the way trauma sometimes is. Namjoon here is not the safe space. He’s the algorithm. The architect. The man who built a machine that decides who lives and who dies—and now he has to sit across from the one person who might break the whole system. And Y/N? She’s not soft. She’s not gentle. She’s angry and calculating and hanging on to her humanity by a thread that keeps fraying every time Namjoon opens his perfectly calibrated mouth.

So yeah. Sixty days until one of them dies. Or both of them fall apart trying not to.

This is not FMU. This isn’t “oops we’re roommates and now I hate how hot you are.” This is “I will gut you if I get the chance but god help me I want to kiss you in the fallout bunker.” This is my love letter to high-stakes intimacy, psychological warfare, and the terror of being seen by the one person who was never supposed to matter. If FMU is messy 20s trauma rom-com, this is “what if Romeo and Juliet had access to explosives and machine learning?”

I am not well. But I am writing.

So buckle in. Because it’s going to get real nasty real fast. And I love that for us. Let the mutual destruction begin.

Love,

Kiki (who clearly has a god complex and no intention of using it for peace)

˗ ✦ socials ✦ ˗

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how.

The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. Public, probably. They like the spectacle of rebels bleeding out under aurora light.

What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked.

The readout on the terminal blinks, sixty seconds of staring doing nothing to change the numbers: 100%. A perfect match. The first in recorded history.

You rip the connector from your wrist, the medical port leaving a perfect circle of blood welling up where the needle pulled free. The diagnostic bay smells like antiseptic and metal—the universal scent of bad news.

"Run it again," you tell Yoongi, who's hunched over the stolen medical interface like it might suddenly bite him.

"Wouldn't make a difference." His voice carries that particular Hollow Crest flatness—half sarcasm, half resignation. "System's triple-verified the sample against the database. It's real."

You pace the cramped confines of the abandoned medical outpost. Three steps. Wall. Three steps. Wall. The ceiling leaks something dark that's not quite water, hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the pounding in your skull.

Through the cracked viewport, the atmospheric glow shifts from deep blue to amber. Kindle's ending early today.

Fuck.

That means Wane in two hours, maybe less. The tunnels turn into hunting grounds when the light dies.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is who you’ve been paired to by the Epitaph System.

Perfect genetic match with Commander Kim Namjoon. The fucking architect himself.

The man who built the algorithm that decides which matched pair lives through Transference and which one dies. The machine that's slaughtered thousands while claiming to save the species from Veris. The coldest bastard in the Consortium's command structure.

And apparently, your genetic twin. Your perfect fucking match.

"This is a joke, right?" Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "The great rebel hacker and the Consortium's prize tactician? What, did they manipulate my profile in the database?"

Yoongi doesn't bother looking up, fingers skimming over the interface. His hands are scarred from years of working with explosives, chemical burns mapping a history of missions across his skin. 

“Database is clean. This is a primary pull, not from the central network. Direct sample comparison."

The reality sinks teeth into your gut. "He'll know."

"Already does." Yoongi's voice drops lower. "Alert went system-wide the moment the match registered. They'll be hunting you."

"They've been hunting me for years." 

You check your gear reflexively—blade at your hip, pistol in its holster, backup knife in your boot. The weight is familiar, comforting in its lethality. 

"This just changes the price on my head."

"This isn't a bounty adjustment." Yoongi finally looks up, and the rare direct eye contact makes your spine stiffen. "This is different. The Consortium needs you alive now. Intact. For Transference."

The word hangs between you like a death sentence, which it is. 

One match survives the procedure. One dies. 

The Epitaph Algorithm determines which—its selection criteria known only to Namjoon himself.

"I'm not surrendering to that death lottery," you say, checking the ammunition counter on your pistol. "Especially not with him on the other end."

"Not asking you to." 

Yoongi rises, tucking the portable interface into his pack. You catch the faint scent of explosives that always clings to him, metallic and sharp. 

"But Jimin's on his way with news. High-level Consortium chatter. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Your jaw tightens. "We're dealing with me on a countdown to either execution or unwanted immunity."

The door to the outpost slides open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a gust of cold air that tastes like steel and chemical runoff—the familiar breath of Hollow Crest's lower levels. 

Jimin steps through, silver-blonde hair stark against his stealth gear. Despite the urgency, he moves with no wasted energy.

One look at his face tells you everything.

"They've adjusted the standard protocols," he says, not bothering with greetings. "Consortium's deploying specialized units. They want you within the hour."

"They can keep wanting." You check your comm unit, scanning frequencies for Consortium chatter. "I'll be halfway to the Scorch Rift by then."

Jimin's hand closes around your wrist, his grip stronger than his frame suggests. "You don't understand. They've instituted a Protection Protocol. Anyone harboring you is marked for immediate execution. Anyone helping you escape—the same. They've already deployed squads to known Shroud safehouses."

The implications wash over you like acid. 

"They're forcing allies to become hunters."

"It gets worse." 

Jimin releases your wrist, pulling up a projection from his own comm unit. A holographic map of Hollow Crest shivers to life between you, red markers pulsing at key tunnel junctions. 

"They've sealed all primary exits. Secondary routes are being patrolled by drones. They're not just hunting you—they're burning the entire sector to flush you out."

"Because of a blood match?" Your voice sharpens. "They've never gone this far for a Transference capture."

"You've never seen a 100% match before." Yoongi's voice drops like a stone. "Nobody has. The implications for the Epitaph System itself..."

The words die as a distant boom shakes dust from the ceiling. Proximity charges. Consortium's getting closer.

"We need to move," Jimin says, already gathering his pack. "Safe route through maintenance shaft C4 is still clear. We've got maybe twenty minutes before they sweep this sector."

You grab your gear, muscle memory taking over while your mind races. "Where's Jungkook? And Taehyung?"

"Jungkook's creating diversions near the border checkpoints," Jimin answers, checking the seal on his mask. "Taehyung was on a supply run when the alert went out. Still no contact."

Something cold settles in your stomach. 

Taehyung going silent during a crisis never ends well.

The three of you move into the tunnel, the faint blue-green phosphorescent fungi that crawls along the walls providing just enough light to navigate by. The air grows thicker as you descend, way too dense woth mineral dust and the peculiar damp of Hollow Crest's recirculated atmosphere.

"Wait." 

You freeze, one hand raised. The tunnel ahead is silent—too silent. Even the distant hum of ventilation systems seems muffled. 

“Something's wrong."

Yoongi's hand goes to the explosive charges at his belt, a reflex born from years of narrow escapes. 

Jimin pulls a scanner from his jacket, checking for life signs.

"Clear readings," he whispers, "but something's interfering with—"

The wall to your right explodes inward, chunks of concrete and metal rebar ripping through the air. The concussive force throws you against the opposite wall, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. 

Through dust and debris, armored figures pour into the tunnel—Consortium Purifiers, their masks filtering the dust, weapons raised.

You draw your pistol in one fluid motion, muscle memory overriding the pain screaming through your shoulder. 

Two shots—the first catches a Purifier in the neck joint of their armor, the second misses as the tunnel fills with suppression gas. 

Yoongi hurls something toward the breach, a small device that clatters among the Purifiers' feet. 

“Down!" he shouts, and you have just enough time to cover your face before the flashbang detonates, momentarily blinding your attackers.

Your blade finds the gap in a Purifier's armor as they stumble. Jimin is now using his modified medical tools as weapons, striking pressure points. Yoongi creates chaos, small charges blasting debris to create cover.

But there are too many. 

For every Purifier that falls, two more push through the breach. 

Your lungs burn from the suppression gas, vision narrowing as your body fights the sedative compounds. 

Beside you, Jimin staggers, his reactions slowing.

A voice cuts through the haze—amplified, cold, and terrifyingly familiar even though you've only heard it through propaganda broadcasts.

"Stand down." 

Commander Kim Namjoon steps through the chaos, flanked by elite guards. 

The architect of the Epitaph System himself—a tall figure in black tactical gear that absorbs the meager light. 

His eyes are obsidian dark and assessing as they lock onto you. A streak of white cuts through his otherwise black hair—a genetic marker you've seen in Consortium propaganda. 

The mark of exceptional neural development.

"Rebel." 

The word sounds wrong in his mouth. 

"Resistance will only result in collateral damage to your associates. The Transference Protocol has been initiated."

You raise your pistol, aiming directly at his head. 

"Then why don't I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in your skull right now? No match, no protocol."

He doesn't even blink. "Because the Consortium has already deployed Purification squads to three rebel safehouses. Your cooperation ensures their survival. Your resistance guarantees their execution."

Your finger hovers on the trigger, hatred a physical pressure behind your eyes. 

You could do it. End the architect of so much suffering with a single shot. 

But the calculation is clear—he wouldn't be here without insurance policies in place.

"You're lying," you snarl, but doubt creeps in—because you know the Consortium would absolutely slaughter innocents to secure a prize like you.

"I don't lie when the truth is more effective." He responds monotonically. "Sixty days. The standard countdown for all matched pairs before Transference. Cooperate, and no one else dies today."

Beside you, Jimin struggles to stand, the suppression gas taking its toll. Yoongi has gone completely still.

"And if I refuse? If I put a bullet in your brain right now?" 

"Then you eliminate the only person with authority to call off the Purification squads." 

His lips curve in what might be a smile on anyone else. 

On him, it's just another weapon. 

"Your reputation suggests you're many things, but not someone who sacrifices innocents for personal vendettas."

The worst part is he's right. You've spent years ensuring your actions hurt the Consortium, not its victims. 

Still, your finger remains on the trigger, the temptation almost overwhelming.

Namjoon extends a hand, palm up. Empty. A gesture that should appear peaceful but somehow reads as the most threatening thing you've ever seen.

"Sixty days. Then the Epitaph Algorithm determines our fate. Until then, neither side benefits from pointless casualties."

You lower your weapon slowly, hate burning cold in your chest. 

“When this is over, only one of us walks away." 

"Indeed. Those are the terms of Transference."

As Purifiers move to secure you, you lock eyes with Yoongi. A slight nod passes between you—the signal established years ago. 

This isn't surrender. It's tactical repositioning. You'll find another angle, another weakness to exploit. 

You always do.

The Commander steps closer, and you catch his scent—cold stone and mineral water, like a mountain stream in winter. Nothing warm or human. It fits.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program, rebel."

You bare your teeth in what no one would mistake for a smile. 

"Looking forward to watching you die, Commander."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—the first genuine reaction you've seen. Good. You've found a nerve. You'll need every advantage for what's coming.

Because one thing is certain: in sixty days, either Commander Kim Namjoon dies, or you do.

And you've never been good at dying.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're seated across from the man who built the machine that's going to kill one of you in sixty days. 

Or part of it. Not that you care what his stupid fucking job really entails.

The transport vehicle reeks of fear and industrial disinfectant, and the restraints around your wrists are some kind of adaptive metal—tight enough to cut circulation if you struggle, loose enough to maintain the illusion that cooperation might earn you breathing room.

It won't.

Commander Kim Namjoon hasn't looked at you since the Purifiers loaded you into the back of this armored carrier. He's reviewing something on a tablet, stylus moving across the screen. 

That silver strand of hair stands out like a scar, and you imagine pulling it out. 

You inwardly promise yourself one day you’ll do it.

You then catalog details because that's what keeps you alive. Emergency release on the restraints—magnetic, probably voice-activated by his authorization. Door mechanism—sealed from the outside, no manual override. Two Purifiers flanking the exit, weapons drawn but not aimed. They're confident you're contained.

Fucking amateurs.

The vehicle hits a pothole, jarring your shoulder against the metal wall. The impact sends fire down your arm where you took that hit during the tunnel breach. You don't let the pain show on your face.

Never give them ammunition.

"Impressive response time," you say, breaking the silence because you need to understand his operational patterns. "From match notification to capture—what, forty-seven minutes? Someone's been planning for contingencies."

He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Standard protocol accounts for high-value targets attempting immediate extraction."

"High-value." You test the word, find it bitter. "That what I am now?"

"You are a 100% genetic match." His voice carries no inflection, like he's reading from a technical manual. "The first documented case in Epitaph Program history. Your research value exceeds your threat designation."

Research value. 

Like you're a fucking specimen.

You lean forward as much as the restraints allow, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. 

“Let me guess—you're going to poke and prod and analyze every cell in my body to figure out why the great Algorithm paired us up. See if you can replicate the conditions."

That gets a reaction. His stylus stops moving. His eyes lift from the screen to meet yours, and for a split second you see something flicker behind the cold assessment—irritation, maybe. Or calculation.

"The Algorithm doesn't make errors," he says. "If we're matched, there's a biological imperative the system recognized that we haven't yet identified."

We. Like you're partners in this.

"Sorry to break it to you, Commander, but the only biological imperative I have regarding you is figuring out which vital organ to perforate first."

He sets the tablet aside, giving you his full attention for the first time since the capture; and the weight of his focus is unsettling—like being examined by something predatory that's deciding whether you're worth the effort to kill.

"Your reputation suggests tactical intelligence despite emotional volatility," he says. "The Algorithm factors psychological compatibility alongside genetic markers. There must be structural similarities in our cognitive architecture."

The clinical way he dissects the situation makes your skin crawl. 

"Structural similarities. Right. Because we're both such charming personalities."

"Neither of us appears capable of forming conventional emotional attachments. We prioritize mission objectives over personal sentiment. We've both sacrificed individuals we were responsible for when strategic necessity demanded it."

The observation hits like a blade between ribs. 

Too accurate. Too specific.

"Sounds like you've done your homework."

"I researched your operational history after the match registered. Hollow Crest tunnels, Mournwell extraction, the data theft from Virex Shard. Your tactical approach is methodical. Ruthless when required." His head tilts slightly, studying you like a particularly interesting equation. "Not what I expected from rebel psychological profiles."

"Disappointed I don't fit your propaganda?"

"Intrigued that you understand the necessity of calculated sacrifice."

The words land where he wants them to, and you realize he's testing you. 

Probing for reaction points. 

Two can play that game.

"Calculated sacrifice," you repeat, letting mockery creep into your voice. "Is that what you call the thousands who've died in your Transference chambers? Calculations?"

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but you've spent years reading micro-expressions in combat situations. His jaw tightens by maybe half a millimeter.

"Every death serves species survival. Individual casualties are regrettable but necessary to prevent extinction-level population decline."

"How convenient that you get to decide who's expendable."

"The Algorithm decides."

"You built the Algorithm."

"I built a system that makes optimal choices without emotional compromise."

You lean back, studying him. "And what happens when the system decides you're expendable? When we're strapped into those chairs and your precious Algorithm picks me to survive?"

For several seconds, he doesn't respond. It’s just your breathing, his, and the vehicle’s engine.

"The Algorithm doesn't account for personal preference," he finally says. "If it selects you, the result serves optimal biological continuation."

"That's not what I asked."

His fingers drum once against his knee—such a small gesture you almost miss it. "I've prepared for all possible outcomes."

Bullshit. Nobody prepares to die, not really. 

And especially not someone who's spent years playing god with other people's lives.

You're about to press the point when the vehicle lurches to a halt. The Purifiers straighten, hands tightening on their weapons.

Through the small reinforced window, you catch a glimpse of Valis Core's outer ring—towering spires of black stone and steel that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. 

The architecture is designed to intimidate, and you hate that it's effective.

"Welcome to your new accommodations," Namjoon says, rising as the rear doors unlock. "I trust you'll find them... sufficient."

The way he says sufficient makes it sound like a threat.

One of the Purifiers moves to release your restraints, and you resist the urge to test their reflexes. 

Not yet. 

You need to understand the lay of the land first, map escape routes, identify weaknesses.

Patience. Even when everything in you screams to fight.

"After you," you say as the metal cuffs retract. "Wouldn't want to miss the grand tour."

He steps aside to let you exit first, a gesture that might seem polite if not for the armed guards surrounding the vehicle. 

The Epitaph Citadel looms ahead, its central spire disappearing into the aurora-streaked sky. 

Somewhere inside that building is the machine that will determine which of you dies.

Sixty days.

You step forward, boots ringing against polished stone, and don't look back to see if Commander Kim Namjoon is following.

He is, of course. 

You can feel his presence like static electricity—a constant, irritating awareness that prickles along your spine.

This is going to be a very long sixty days.

But you've survived worse odds before. And if the Algorithm thinks it can break you down into components and variables, it's about to learn something new about what happens when you back a Hollow Crest tunnel rat into a corner.

You don't go quietly. You bring the whole fucking place down with you.

Your boots hit the ground with excessive force once you make it to the Citadel.

It’s obscenely loud, in comparison to the city. 

But that’s good. They should know you're not going quietly.

The atmosphere is sterile, a half-hearted attempt at breathable. Your lungs reject it on instinct, tasting the air in all its hollow decadence—too clean, too wrong, stripped bare.

You take three steps toward the massive entrance before Commander Kim falls into step beside you. 

Then ahead of you.

The audacity.

He walks like he owns every molecule of air in this place, shoulders straight, pace measured. Like you're supposed to follow him like some obedient fucking pet.

You stop walking.

The sudden halt makes the Purifiers behind you tense, hands shifting on their weapons. But you're not looking at them. You're staring at the back of Namjoon's head, at that streak of silver cutting through black hair.

"Is there an issue?" He doesn't turn around. Doesn't even slow his stride.

"Yeah, actually." Your voice carries across the courtyard. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Now he stops. Turns. Those dark eyes scan you like you’re a broken system readout—something in need of diagnostics.

"To show you your living arrangements."

Living arrangements.

“Be deadass right now."

A slight head tilt. That’s all you get while he tries to decrypt whatever ‘deadass’ means.

And failing, because apparently fluency in rebel sarcasm isn’t part of the Citadel curriculum.

"The Transference Protocol requires proximity monitoring. You'll be housed in the Citadel for the duration of the countdown."

Housed. 

Like livestock.

Your feet plant themselves against the stone, rooted by pure stubborn fury. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Your preferences are irrelevant." He states it like a law of physics. "The sixty-day monitoring period begins immediately."

"Monitoring—" 

The word sticks in your throat like glass. 

Because now you understand. 

This isn't just imprisonment. They're going to watch you. Study you. Document every heartbeat and breath and moment of weakness while you wait to die.

"No." The word tears out of you, rough and raw. "Absolutely fucking not."

One of the Purifiers steps forward, clearly interpreting your refusal as a threat. Namjoon raises a hand—barely a gesture—and the guard freezes.

"Resistance will not alter the Protocol," he says. "Your genetic compatibility requires observation to understand the unprecedented synchronization patterns. This is not negotiable."

The clinical way he dissects your future makes your skin crawl—as if you're already dead, just a collection of data points waiting to be analyzed.

"I'd rather take my chances in the execution chamber."

"That option is no longer available."

The Purifier behind you moves—not threatening, but positioning. Ready to assist if you decide to bolt. 

Your muscles coil instinctively, mapping distances, calculating angles.

Could you take three armed guards? Probably not without significant injury. Could you reach a weapon? Maybe, if you were fast enough and lucky enough and willing to sacrifice—

"Walk," Namjoon says, and somehow that single word carries more menace than any threat. "Or be carried. Your dignity is the only variable you control."

Dignity.

The bastard knows exactly which nerve to hit.

You force your feet to move, each step feeling like capitulation. But you're not surrendering. You're adapting. Learning the terrain. 

Finding the cracks you'll eventually exploit.

Namjoon resumes walking, and you fall into step beside him—not behind, because fuck him and his superiority complex—matching his pace. 

If he notices the aggressive mirror of his movement, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"The monitoring period involves shared tactical exercises," he continues, voice neutral as he explains your nightmare. "Joint mission parameters across multiple sectors. Physiological compatibility assessments every forty-eight hours."

Shared tactical exercises. Joint missions.

The implications hit like hammer blows.

"You're saying we're going to be—" Your voice catches. Clears. Continues with forced steel. "Working together."

"The Protocol requires operational cooperation. Your survival skills complement my strategic analysis. The Consortium benefits from the collaboration while studying our genetic synchronization."

Our. Like you're a team. Like you've chosen this.

"And if I refuse to cooperate?"

He stops again, turning to face you fully. 

For the second time since the capture, you have his complete attention. It feels like standing in the path of an avalanche.

"Then you remain confined to observation chambers while your rebel associates face the consequences of harboring a Priority Target."

The threat lands exactly where he aimed it. 

Yoongi. Jimin. Even Jungkook, wherever he is. 

Your cooperation isn't just about your own survival—it's about keeping the Consortium from turning their very considerable attention toward hunting down everyone you've ever worked with.

Checkmate in three fucking moves.

You want to hit him. Want to drive your fist into that perfectly composed face and watch him bleed. Want to see if anything human exists behind those calculating eyes.

Instead, you smile. Sharp enough to cut.

"How thoughtful of you to give me such compelling motivation."

"I find practical incentives more effective than ideological appeals."

"Right. Because you're such a practical man." 

He turns and continues walking toward the Citadel's entrance—a massive archway that seems designed to swallow people whole. You follow because the alternative is being dragged, and you'll be damned if you give him that satisfaction.

But with every step, rage builds like pressure behind your ribs.

Sixty days of this. Sixty days of shared missions and proximity monitoring and having to look at his face while he calmly explains how one of you is going to die.

Sixty days of pretending cooperation while planning his destruction.

The entrance hall is honestly ugly—all polished black stone and cold light, very Citadel vibes. The sound of your booths get swallowed by the vast empty space.

"Your quarters are on Level Seven," Namjoon says as you walk. "Adjacent to the monitoring facilities. Meals are provided at scheduled intervals. Personal effects will be processed and returned based on security assessment."

Adjacent to monitoring facilities. Of course.

"And you?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Where are your quarters?"

He glances at you—a quick, measuring look. "Level Eight. Protocol requires close proximity without direct cohabitation during the initial assessment period."

One floor up. Close enough to respond to any emergency, far enough to maintain the illusion of separate accommodation.

Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "How considerate. Wouldn't want to make this too uncomfortable."

"Comfort is not a consideration. Operational efficiency is."

You turn back to face him, noting the way he’s positioned himself just outside striking distance. Like he’s calculated exactly how far your reach extends if you actually wanted to drag his stupid face through the ground.

Probably has.

“You think you’re clever.” Your voice comes out rougher than intended. “Backing me into corners, limiting my options. Playing chess while I’m stuck playing checkers.”

His head tilts again—that same assessment that makes your skin crawl.

“I think you’re more intelligent than your file suggests. And far more dangerous than standard containment protocols account for.” His eyes never leave yours. “Which is why we’re having this conversation instead of proceeding with unconscious transport to a restraint chair.”

The casual mention of restraints sends ice through your veins. “So kind of you.”

“Practical.” He gestures toward the door again. “As I said, entirely your choice. Cooperation with dignity, or compliance without it.”

Choice. Like either option doesn’t end with you trapped in his maze.

But he’s right about one thing—your dignity is all you have left. And you’d rather walk into hell on your own terms than be dragged.

You step toward the door, noting the way he doesn’t relax until you’re moving in the right direction.

Smart man. You are exactly as dangerous as he suspects.

Maybe more.

The biometric scanner reads your palm print, and the door slides open. 

The room beyond is… not what you expected. Clean. Comfortable. Almost pleasant, if you can ignore the complete absence of windows or any view of the outside world.

“Welcome to your new home,” Namjoon says from behind you. “I trust you’ll find it adequate.”

You step inside, already cataloging the space. Bed. Desk. Small attached bathroom. No obvious surveillance equipment, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

“When do these interaction periods start?” 

You don’t turn around, afraid you’ll throttle him if you see his expression once more.

“Tomorrow. After you’ve had time to… acclimate.”

The pause before acclimate tells you everything you need to know. They expect you to break down. To crack under the pressure of isolation and impending death.

They’re going to be utterly, vastly disappointed.

You turn to face him one last time before the door closes between you.

“See you tomorrow, Commander.”

His eyes meet yours, and for just a moment, something passes between you. 

Recognition, maybe. 

Or the acknowledgment that this is going to be a very long sixty days for both of you.

“Indeed.”

The door slides shut with finality that feels like a coffin lid closing.

You’re alone. Trapped. 

Sixty days from either death or unwanted salvation.

But you’re still breathing. Still thinking. Still planning.

And Commander Kim Namjoon has no idea what he’s just locked himself in close proximity with.

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