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joshujin · 28 days ago

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adore u

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after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.

♫ i did something bad taylor swift

pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader wc: 23k 🤨 tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌ a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)

warnings READ ALL OF THEM!

content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

IN AN APARTMENT

a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.

he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.

JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.

his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.

PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.

jake freezes, too flustered to speak.

PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.

JAKE who is this?

PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.

jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.

JAKE leave me alone!

PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.

jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.

camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.

jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.

PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.

jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.

PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.

JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?

stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.

PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?

camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.

JAKE who are you?

PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.

JAKE why?

HOSHI why what?

JAKE why are you telling me your name?

HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.

jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.

HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.

JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.

HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?

jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.

HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.

camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.

DISPATCH what is your emergency?

hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.

camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.

hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.

HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.

he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.

hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.

JAKE god, why?! WHY?!

HOSHI question of the night, huh?

JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!

hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.

HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.

jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.

HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.

JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?

HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.

JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!

hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.

HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?

JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?

HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.

he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.

several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.

JAKE why are you doing this?

hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.

hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.

HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.

jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.

HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?

JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?

HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.

JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?

HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?

JAKE i don’t get it.

HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her.

he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.

HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?

jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.

HOSHI my adoration is killer.

without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.

your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.

your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.

as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.

what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.

what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.

your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.

both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.

both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.

both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.

the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.

this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?

the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.

in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.

as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.

“baby?”

soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.

“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”

you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.

“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.

“i…”

soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.

“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.

soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”

“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”

he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”

“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.

“hey.” he pouts.

“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”

you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.

“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.

he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.

“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”

you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”

“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”

“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.

“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”

you huff and relax against him once more.

“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.

“i… i think jay was murdered.”

you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.

soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.

“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”

you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.

a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.

but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.

“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”

“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.

to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.

“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”

“i don’t think you’re a monster.”

he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.

“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”

you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.

“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.

“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”

soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.

jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.

he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.

and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.

being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.

even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.

soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.

he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.

“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”

his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.

“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”

“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”

it’s the push you need.

“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”

once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.

“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”

he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.

and honestly, you love him even more for it.

“i love you, soonie.”

“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”

it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.

and it makes you wish they were all dead too.

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.

FLASHBACK

a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly.

YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!

DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!

YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!

hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.

memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.

there is something eerily blank about his face.

MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.

YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too?

camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.

hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.

MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—

she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.

MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?

YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?

MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?

YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?

MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.

YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?

despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.

MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.

YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?

MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.

hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.

YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.

memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before.

hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom.

hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.

sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.

the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).

the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.

MOM i’m sorry! i’m—

his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.

hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.

flashes back to his conversation with his mom.

MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?

young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.

YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?

back to 17-year-old hoshi.

HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.

audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.

camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.

flashes back.

MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.

flashes back to memory from beginning of film.

MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!

YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?

MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.

flashes to conversation after brain injury.

YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?

MOM i… i love him, hoshi.

we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.

he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter.

MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too.

he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.

he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.

MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again.

he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.

scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.

MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.

the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.

whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.

MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.

camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time.

MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.

as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.

MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?

HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me.

complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.

the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.

camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.

something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.

his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.

when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.

MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!

HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.

his mother freezes.

HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.

MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart.

his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.

HOSHI mom… what… i…

his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.

MOM you be safe, okay?

HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?

MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.

HOSHI mom—

MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.

HOSHI but—

MOM go!

she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.

PRESENT

we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.

he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love.

HOSHI (whispers) adoration.

you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.

for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.

though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.

soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.

you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.

there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.

if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.

and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.

“what are you smiling at?”

he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.

soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”

he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.

“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”

“soonyoung?”

his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.

he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.

“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”

“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can.

“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter.

the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief.

“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.

soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.

but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.

he forces himself to turn the engine off.

“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel.

“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”

“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word.

soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you.

love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.

“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”

and you do.

soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.

the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O.

he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.

he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.

soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.

it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.

hi, allen.

who i am isn’t important.

i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right?

well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women?

don’t lie to me. i see everything.

one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.

oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.

why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.

it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.

the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.

soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.

then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again.

and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.

so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him.

but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him.

and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.

it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.

by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.

“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—”

“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”

there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”

he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”

your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!”

you gasp and correct yourself.

“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”

soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.

“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”

soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.

“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”

“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”

his heart soars.

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.

they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.

HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?

howard glares at him but chris is already crying.

HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.

howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.

HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.

chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.

HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?

howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.

HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?

chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen.

HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?

he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two.

camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.

HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame.

chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.

HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?

hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.

HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine.

he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.

HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy.

camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.

HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him.

even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.

HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.

chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be

HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want?

he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.

HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?

chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.

HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.

both howard and chris beg through their gags.

HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things?

howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word.

HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.

IN THEIR HOME

TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment.

she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.

TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.

the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.

you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.

from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.

you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.

soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.

these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.

you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before.

the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.

it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.

soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.

“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”

“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly.

you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.

“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”

“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.

his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”

you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”

“okay,” he acquiesces easily.

soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.

“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.

you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”

“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan.

“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.

“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now.

“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”

he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.

you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”

he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.

“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter.

soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.

“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”

“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”

the sentence undoes you.

“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again.

soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.

you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.

“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”

soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck.

“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”

your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.

you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.

“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”

every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.

“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”

“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”

“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”

“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen.

you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung.

“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.

before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter.

his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.

“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”

it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.

“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”

your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.

you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.

“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”

“soonie.”

“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”

he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.

“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you.

you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.

“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”

you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world.

he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.

“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.

he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.

“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”

“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”

soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.

“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”

“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably.

“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax.

“soonyoung!”

“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”

you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.

“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.

you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is.

“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.

“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.

he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.

your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.

soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.

you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether.

you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”

you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.

“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.”

you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.

“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”

soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.

“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him.

you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.

“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.

without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you.

the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.

because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.

the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.

you’re happy those three are dead.

and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?

YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?

HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?

she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.

YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.

HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.

YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?

HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”

YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.

hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.

HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.

she nods, smiling back.

YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.

HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?

YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—

scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.

YOUR ALIAS —and strength—

the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.

YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way.

hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:

YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.

hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.

HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.

her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.

YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.

HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.

she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.

YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.

HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength.

YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.

the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.

the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.

once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.

inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.

sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.

he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth.

two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.

and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you.

it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.

so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down.

you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.

but then, you ask for something terrifying.

you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his.

and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.

you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled.

until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone.

soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.

whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss.

daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day.

then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him.

soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again.

he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk.

he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.

when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups.

“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask.

“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”

“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”

he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?”

soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions.

“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”

his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat.

soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side.

“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.”

your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months.

“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”

“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”

soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”

“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”

park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair.

“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”

“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”

your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.

“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks.

“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling.

“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”

park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears.

“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”

“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”

“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle.

he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest.

“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!”

“do you? know that?”

“yes, yes! i swear!”

“name them.”

“what?”

“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”

“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”

soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”

he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying.

“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”

“they, uh, they bullied her!”

soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask.

“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”

“tick tock.”

“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”

“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”

“what?”

“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”

“i… i didn’t…”

“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.”

it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding.

“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”

“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”

soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”

“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”

soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask.

“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face.

soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes.

“you what?” he asks calmly.

“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”

“what are you sorry for, daniel?”

“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”

soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.

“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.

“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”

“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding.

he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.

“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”

he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife.

“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”

he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling.

“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”

park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag.

“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”

“no. he didn’t.”

soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever.

he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days.

you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options.

he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option.

you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives.

when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss.

“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”

soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his.

“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”

he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently.

your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum.

“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”

soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.

“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”

soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head.

“i want to do it,” you whisper.

he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand.

sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”

without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it.

he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning.

you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time.

soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face.

the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on.

“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”

soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love.

it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it.

you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died.

you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.

after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body.

soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.

for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing.

so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss.

between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him.

when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode.

you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you?

but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question.

“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”

“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”

as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.

you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.

and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.

if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative.

once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited.

not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend.

you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him.

you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that.

what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again.

you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden.

and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled.

“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”

you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you.

does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?

you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done.

you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard.

FINAL

not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.

while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same.

when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be.

to: [email protected] from: [email protected] subject: ! emergency situation, action needed body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.

once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.

soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught.

he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours.

he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.

soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do.

he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him.

when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours.

without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth.

it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does.

you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.

you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste.

“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes.

“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started.

“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”

soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room.

“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”

you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes.

“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”

you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.

“don’t hold back, okay?”

he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.

“fuck.”

you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.

and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more.

your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name.

“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”

“why not?” you ask dumbly.

he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit.

“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.

the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.

“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”

you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants.

you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.

“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.

he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole.

“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.

he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”

you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”

“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”

“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers.

he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you.

all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time.

“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”

you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”

he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”

you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”

the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too.

you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths.

when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown.

“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.

“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily.

you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”

he glares right back.

“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”

he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”

you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur.

soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”

“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”

“right.”

you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you.

when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face.

“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”

you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.

TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ

Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder

By Gale Weathers

Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.

Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.

Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.

"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."

Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.

Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.

When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:

"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."

As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.

Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.

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🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.

YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?

HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.

fades into black. credits roll.

...

POST-CREDITS SCENE

a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.

YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?

DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!

hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.

YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?

DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!

YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.

DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)

YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?

DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.

hoshi exhales slowly.

HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?

it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.

HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?

YOUR ALIAS nobody.

DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.

HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.

YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.

DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.

YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.

their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.

YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?

HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.

YOUR ALIAS their parents.

HOSHI mhm.

YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?

HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.

cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.

a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.

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chahnniesroom · 2 months ago

Text

the way home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: a peaceful walk home takes a turn for the worst when you notice you're being followed.

word count: 0.8k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, sasaeng/creepy fan

a/n: i am currently working on a longer fic for this collection, but i wrote this super quickly over the weekend inspired by this clip that i randomly saw on ig.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You notice the person about halfway between the company and home. You'd decided to walk back since the weather was nice, but now regret your decision.

In general, you try not to be too paranoid when you’re out in public, after all, Seoul is a big city and there are a lot of people going to a lot of places. It's a humbling experience to worry about being spotted by a fan and then realise they just happened to be heading to the same area as you.

You walk past the man first, then notice he's behind you a couple streets later when you happen to turn around. You make a few strategic turns, bringing you back into the direction of the company, alternating between more popular streets and quieter ones. Each time you look back, he's still training behind you and you know it's no coincidence.

His pace isn't particularly fast, he's stayed about half a block behind you this whole time, and his gait is casual. Large but even steps, you would think that he's just taking an evening stroll if he didn't match you every time that you deliberately sped up or slowed down.

You feel hunted.

You call the guys immediately, blindly hitting the call button for your group chat.

“I think I'm being followed,” you say, the second the call connects. You don't even know which of the members picked up.

“Where are you?” Chan replies back, his tone urgent.

“I was walking home, but now I'm heading back to the company. I'll send my location now.”

“Do you have any details?”

“I think he's a fan. He looks young, early 20s and it seemed like he recognised me. I didn't realise until later that he had turned around and was still behind me.”

“Try to stick to a busy street,” Chan urges you. “Y/n-ah, do you think he's dangerous?”

“He doesn't seem dangerous, per se,” you say slowly. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper. “But I’m scared, oppa. I don't feel safe.”

“We're on our way,” Minho replies. You have no idea when he joined the call or who else is listening in, but you already feel a bit better knowing that they're there. “We'll be there soon and security is sending a team too.”

“Can you stay on the call until then?” you ask with a tremulous voice. “I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It's Chan again. “I promise, we won't hang up until you're in our arms.”

“I'm close to the cafe we went to last week,” you tell them. “The one with the green grape ade and the sweet potato cake that I liked. I think they're still open. I'm going to go in."

“Got it,” Han confirms. “I know the place, we'll send everyone that way.”

You don't want to run or do anything that might set off the person following you. It feels like forever until you finally reach the cafe's entrance and make it in. The jingle of the bell has never seemed so welcoming.

You nod to the worker at the counter and head to a table further into the cafe. You’ve visited enough times that they don't question you since you sometimes meet up with the boys and wait until they arrive before ordering.

“I'm inside,” you update the boys. “Sitting at a table. He’s out there just- he's just standing there. Why won't he leave me alone?!”

Even though you feel significantly safer now that you're inside with other people, your heart is still racing and adrenaline has filled your body. The hand that's not holding your phone is shaking.

“It's okay if you feel scared,” Seungmin soothes you. “We're almost there. He won't bother you again.”

“Okay,” you say shakily, trying to compose yourself.

“Security is close,” Chan says. “What does this person look like? What are they wearing?”

“He's average height, slim. Wearing a baseball cap, big black jacket, baggy jeans. He's right at the window beside the door.”

“Got it,” Chan replies.

You watch, moments later as a couple of men approach the guy. They talk to him for a second before they lead him away with a firm grip on each shoulder.

The second after he disappears from your view, the members burst into the cafe, frantically scanning the room.

You stand up and meet them in the middle.

“Thank you.” Is all you can say, before you burst into tears of relief. The boys waste no time surrounding you and wrapping you in their arms murmuring reassurances, uncaring of how it must look to the cafe patrons.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

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demie90s · 5 days ago

Note

juju x reader where it’s the trend where reader acts like a random girl to see how juju reacts https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTjpvABS4/

like this video

Playing Games

JuJu Watkins x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You decide to prank JuJu with the “random girl” TikTok trend to see how she’d react.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.3k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Fluff, comedy, couple chaos

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Light language, intense flirting, fake jealousy

You’re feeling bold. Got your camera set up, low angle from the sidewalk, facing JuJu’s parked car. She’s inside, window halfway down, scrolling her phone and minding her business.

You smooth your hair, adjust your tank so your arm muscles pop a little more, and walk up slow with that fake “random girl” confidence.

Attempt 1

You tap the window with two fingers and she glances up.

“Hey,” you start in a sweet voice. “Are you single?”

She raises a brow, recognizes your voice immediately but plays along. “Yes,” she says too fast. “Yup. I am. No girlfriend. I’m so single. What’s up?”

You blink. “Oh, word?”

“Yeah, tryna be my girl or what?” She grins, hand already reaching to unlock the door like she don’t live with you.

You step closer, slow, and grip her hoodie through the window with one hand—bicep flexing just enough. Her smirk fades a little.

“Don’t play with me, JuJu.”

She sucks her teeth, laughing. “Aight, damn, let go of my hoodie, strong-ass.”

“Roll the window up.”

“I was tryna,” she mutters, hitting the button. “Here you go actin’ like a linebacker in public again.”

Attempt 2

You spin the block. Hoodie on this time. Lip gloss poppin’. Whole different vibe. You sneak back up and tap again.

She glances, confused, and rolls the window down slow.

You hit her with a smooth, “You’re so pretty… do you have a girlfriend?”

This time she squints like she wants to flirt but knows better. “Yes. Matter fact—watch this.”

She grabs her phone, dials you, and holds it up with a smug smirk.

Your phone starts ringing in your pocket. You try not to laugh. On speaker:

“Yeahhhh that’s my baby right there. Gimme a kiss.”

She lean in smiling.“No, th-this ain’t y/n.”

“What?” I says, still on the phone, still looking at her. “You lying.”

“This a random girl. You kissing strangers, Ju? Gimme a kiss girl.”

She sucks her teeth and leans out the window, pulls you down by the collar and kisses you, all soft and slow.

You pull back with a fake gasp. “Wow. Y’all see this? She just kissed me and I’m not even her girl.”

From inside the car: “Hang up my damn phone and get in before I embarrass you for real.”

You open the door, climb in, like you didn’t just do a whole improv scene on the sidewalk.

She deadpans to the camera. “Next time you try this trend, I’m rollin’ the window up on your fine ass.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264

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sceletaflores · 11 months ago

Text

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals.

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split.

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?”

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin.

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling.

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy.

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry.

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr.

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find.

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you.

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court.

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base.

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you.

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you.

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.”

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art.

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy.

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear.

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain.

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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sailorsoons · 5 months ago

Text

Hush (c.sc)

PAIRING: Incubus!Choi Seungcheol x afab reader

SUMMARY: You can’t seem to sleep, but the strange man in the bar that you can’t seem to stop visiting promises he can help.

WC: 6,239

AU: Supernatural

GENRE: Smut, PWP

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Mentions of insomnia including side effects like exhaustion, dysfunction, derealization, feeling out of it/in weird headspaces, time is not supposed to feel linear in this and it’s supposed to feel kind of liminal-space in places, reader is often confused/thoughts are a little scattered and feels out of it because of proximity to an entity, there are creepy vibes in this, Seungcheol doesn’t always appear the same/mentions of feeling like in danger or on edge around him instinctually, explicit language, sexually explicit content including unprotected vaginal sex, fingering, a lot of spit and cum, nipple play, reference to subspace or an adjacent, choking, oral (f. and m. receiving) multiple orgasms, biting and scratching, I wouldn’t categorize this as explicit dom/sub dynamics but there are power dynamics in some places, mean Seungcheol in spots, like very light humiliation if you squint in one section, overall just…. Weird ass vibes and recurring scenes/reader not remembering things.

A/N: This was originally requested for my Haliween writing event by @daechwitatamic on my old blog. Hopefully you all enjoy sleep demon Seungcheol just as much the second time!

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NOTHING FEELS REAL. Your eyes burn as you stare at the computer screen, the letters and the buttons on your email becoming blurry as they swim out of focus. The dull sounds of your office feel as though they’re several rooms over, faint hums heard through walls of plaster.

Pushing away from the desk, you head to the break room, in desperate need of coffee. You know drinking caffeine this late in the afternoon will only further exacerbate your insomnia, and yet you need it if you’re going to get through the next three hours at work.

You’ve hit the point in your endless nights of no sleep where everything feels off, like you’re experiencing things in the third person. You’re there but you don’t feel like it, navigating your day knowing that it’s you doing and saying things at work without really registering that you’re doing or saying those things.

Coffee hisses from the machine into your cup. You stare at it, vision going unfocused again as the smell wafts up to you. Time passes. You stand and stare.

Someone walks into the room, bringing you back to reality as you look over your shoulder and see your coworker come in to fill up their water bottle. They raise their brows at you as though to ask if you’re okay, and you grin, gesturing to the coffee like that’s some sort of answer.

Really, you’re not okay. You have ventured past the threshold of tired into something else entirely. Something that is lesser than, something base and nearly inhuman.

Derealization. It’s a word your doctor had used when you described what it was like for you after so many nights without sleep, the disconnected feeling to the world around you. Even as you walk to your desk, it doesn’t feel real. You logically know that it is, that you exist in a specific time and space.

And yet… you remain buoyed in that space, totally untethered from everything around you. Floating. Lost.

Back at your desk, the words on the computer screen blur again. Come into focus. You type and email. The keyboard makes sounds, but you don’t really register them.

At some point, the day ends.

A bright neon sign burns against the darkness of the alleyway. You blink rapidly, holding your hand in front of your eyes to block out some of the light. Looking around, you don’t see anyone else. The sound of the city is muted and far away, but you smell the burning of fuel and the smell of stagnant water under a dripping window air conditioning unit.

You don’t remember walking here. You lower your hand as your eyes adjust to the burning pink above the door. Looking down at your clothes, you’re at least relieved to discover you put on jeans and a t-shirt before going out on an adventure out on the town.

Police sirens wail in the distance. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, thankful you brought it.

“Fuck,” you swear, flashing the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning and you know immediately you’ve sleepwalked your way to this strange, unfamiliar alleyway.

It’s a vicious circle: go days without sleep feeling like you’re a step away from death, or take just enough sleep medication to knock you out but make you sleepwalk.

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you look back up at the neon sign, reading it for the first time. Hush. A shiver goes down your spine at the name, eyes flicking to the blue crescent moon attached to the pink cursive.

There’s a magnetism about the sign. Your eyes dropdown to the door under it, a nondescript metal entrance to what you think is a bar. There’s nothing to indicate that it is a bar, just a gut feeling. Your gut feeling is also whispering at you to go inside, to open the door and step into the cool space of Hush.

Licking your lips, you take one hesitant step forward. The tingling in your spine increases and you feel static in the air. Heart racing, you take another step. Then another. Before you realize it, you’re at the door with your hand on the knob, cool to the touch.

With a deep breath, you pull the door open and step inside.

It’s even darker inside than the alleyway. Gentle piano music plays somewhere in the room and you swivel left and right, trying to gain your bearings as your eyes adjust. When they do, you see a very small room with a single piano in the corner, two booths, a bar at the back, and three stools pulled up to its counter.

A single person sits at the bar. You hesitate in the entrance, drinking in the stranger. It appears to be a man in a dark purple suit, his broad shoulders hunched over where he leans against the wooden bar top. You can’t make out much else beyond the wide shape of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist, but you can see the crimson hair that glows like flame underneath the dull, flickering light above his head.

“You gonna stand there all night?” His voice is soft, a gentle pur. He turns his head to the side, his profile shadowed. “I don’t bite.” You hear the smirk in his voice when he tacks on, “Not often, anyway.”

Carefully, you approach the bar. There doesn’t appear to be a bartender of any sort or anyone else in the bar, for that matter. You realize that there’s piano music but no pianist, but decide not to focus on it as you enter the man’s line of focus.

When he looks at you, the world stops. It’s like stepping into a bubble, everything else ceasing to exist. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel your pulse hammer in your throat as you stare at him, unable to take your eyes off him.

He’s beautiful but it’s not that. His eyes are dark, but there is something more there. Something swimming in the depth of the darkness that you cannot place, something ancient and curious and awake. You feel pinned under his gaze, eyes darting to drink in the rest of his features: soft, pouty lips the color of berries, sharp jawline, thick, angular brows.

Stunning. Dangerous. Alluring.

“Hi,” he says, mouth stretching into a grin. His teeth aren’t sharp, but you have the distinct feeling that they should be. “You’re a pretty thing.”

“Um, hi.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“How can you tell?”

His grin spreads, wicked and cutting. “I have a feeling about those things.” His dark eyes drop to the seat next to him. “Have a seat. Maybe I can help.”

Tentatively, you sit down next to him. “You can help me sleep?”

“What if I said I can?”

Sitting next to him is oppressive. His presence weighs down on you, a physical entity that you can’t see. Static buzzes in your mind and your thoughts feel a little sticky, like just being close to him disrupts your frequency.

He smells like jasmine, immediately soothing. You feel your eyes grow heavy as you blink a few times, settling on the stool as you angle yourself toward him.

You’d misjudged his size when you walked in. He’d seemed broad when you first walked in, but you don’t think you fully understood the width of him. The weight of him. Or maybe it just feels that way when you look at him, your perception of him flickering like a bad TV signal.

“Tell me about your sleep problems.”

You shrug. “They’re like any other sleep problems.”

“Not all sleep problems are the same, Pretty.”

“I suppose that’s true. I don’t really know what causes them. I just… can’t fall asleep and then I start getting worried I won’t sleep, so it makes it worse. I want to sleep so bad but it’s like… wanting to sleep only makes it avoid me more.”

“Mmm. Sleep is a fickle thing, isn’t it?”

“My doctors give me meds but the normal dose doesn’t work and the stronger dose… makes me walk around.”

He pouts. “You poor, sweet thing.”

Something about his sympathy makes you flush. You sulk, looking down at the countertop as you pick absently at the peeling varnish on the wood. “I know,” you murmur. “I just want to be normal.”

“I can help. If you want it.”

You glance at him. His eyes are dancing dangerously. Half of you screams yes while the other screams run. You’re only vaguely aware that you’re in a bar alone with a strange man who knows you’re sleep deprived. No one would help you if you screamed. You don’t know where you would run.

His dark eyes seem to read your thoughts and he laughs, shaking his head as he turns to pick up his drink from the bar. “I’m not that sort of creature.”

“How would you help me sleep?”

“Are you accepting my help?”

His question hangs in the air between the two of you. The piano music has stopped, but you don’t remember when it did. Overhead, the light still flickers. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff-

“You’re under no obligation to accept.” His voice is kind. Warm. Soft like your blankets, cozy like your bed. “You’re always free to make your own decision.”

“I want help,” you agree slowly. “I really do.”

His red mouth curves into a smile and again, you’re struck by the thought that his teeth should be sharp. “Good. I’ll help you, Pretty.”

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me Seungcheol.” You give him your name and he tilts his head, drinking you in. “I know.”

“How are you going to help me sleep?”

Seungcheol finishes his drink. You watch him swallow thickly, suddenly fascinated with the way his throat bobs as he does. The smell of jasmine is overwhelming as he leans in, stopping an inch away from you.

The static increases. You feel your blood buzz pleasantly.

“Close your eyes for me,” Seungcheol murmurs, looking at you through silky lashes. “I promise everything will be okay.”

For a moment, you stare at him, the air charged. He doesn’t hurry you along, content to study your face with that same uncanny darkness swimming in his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, you do what Seungcheol says, and you close your eyes.

Sunlight wakes you up. You roll over in your bed, squinting up at the window. Your blackout curtains are open, letting the morning beam in on where you’re tangled in your comforter and sheets.

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes again, content to lay in the warm sun. Just as you start to drift to sleep again, you recall a pair of dark eyes and fiery hair. You jolt upright, heart hammering as you remember the exchange.

Snatching your phone from your nightstand, you open your walking app to look at where the hell you went last night, but there’s nothing there. Frowning, you pull the sheets off your body. You’re in pajamas and fuzzy socks that you don’t remember putting on.

Hauling yourself out of bed, you lean halfway into the laundry basket to claw through your clothing. None of the things you wore last night are there, so you go to your closet to wrench the doors open and search.

The shirt from last night and the exact pair of jeans are hanging, completely unworn. Your frown deepens as your confusion rises. Turning away from the closet, you open your phone again and try to get any sort of sense of where you went last night, but there’s no text threads. No signs you used public transportation. Nothing in any of your tracking apps that indicate you left at all.

“Was it a fucking dream?” you mutter to yourself, perplexed.

Sitting down on your bed, you try to look up Hush on the internet. You can find nothing in your city that indicates a bar or establishment like the one you discovered Seungcheol in. You even try social media to look him up - Reddit, neighborhood pages, anything to try and find the stranger from last night.

It seems Hush and Seungcheol don’t exist.

And yet… you don’t remember going to sleep last night after he agreed to help you. And you feel rested today.

Puzzled and a little freaked out, you give up your search. A dream is a dream, and you’re content that you finally feel a little less exhausted and a little more awake. You’ll take the win, getting up to start your day with a little bit of pep in your step.

By midday, you’ve mostly forgotten about the bar and the man in it, only remembering those dark eyes and that red hair.

Heat creeps up your spine. You nuzzle against the warmth behind you, the smell of jasmine coaxing you deeper into the embrace. You feel the vibration of laughter against your back, your nerves tingling as you feel feather-light fingers brush up your thighs.

“Tired?”

Immediately you know it’s Seungcheol’s deep voice, that same velvet purr whispered right in your ear. You shake your head no, suddenly not wanting to sleep at all. You press into him further, feeling the way his arms tighten around you as he chuckles, mouth pressing chastely against the spot under your ear.

“Liar,” he teases.

You pout. It might be true, but he could have the decency to pretend it’s not. You open your eyes and look up at him. His hair is like spilled blood in the dark of your room. The curtains are closed, blocking out all light from the moon and street, but your salt lamp still burns in the corner.

Seungcheol looks like the devil in the low, orange light. He’s in a black t-shirt, which is somehow more deadly than the fine cut suit. Your stomach flutters and you squeeze your thighs shut when you realize his hands are brushing up and down your thighs, touch slow.

“Thought you were a dream,” you mumble, words a little thick. “Thought you weren’t real.”

“Dreams can’t be real?” That makes you frown and he laughs, jostling you against his chest. His hands squeeze your thighs and you let out a breathy sound as he nudges you with his nose. “You don’t know anything about dreams, Pretty. Can I show you?”

More than anything you want him to show you. Suddenly your desire for him outweighs any sort of sleepiness, your nerves sparking and coming to life as you nod helplessly against his chest, trying to lean as close as possible.

“Needy,” he chides. He presses a wet kiss to your jawline and you preen, your head falling back against his shoulder. “I’ll go easy so you remember this time, alright?”

“Cheol.”

The nickname sounds familiar. Intimate. Like you’ve said it before - something tells you that you have said it before. You don’t remember where or when, but it’s with familiarity that you moan the nickname again as he nips at your neck, one hand drifting between your legs to pry them open.

He murmurs praise against your ear when your legs drift apart, spreading to accommodate his seeking touch. You’re wearing shorts but it feels entirely too hot under the blankets pooled around your waist. You kick at them and whine, managing to get them down to your knees before he huffs and presses forward, temporarily bending you in half to toss them.

When he settles back against your headboard, you follow him, turning your head to press your mouth to the corner of his. His lips twitch in a smirk, shifting to catch your mouth fully with his.

Seungcheol kisses you like he knows how you like to be kissed - devouring, consuming, hungry. His tongue brushes against yours as he drinks you in as his hand presses between your leagues, applying pressure to your clothed cunt.

You whine into the kiss and he grins against your mouth. A line of spit connects your lips when you pull away panting, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. His fingers circle your clit gently and your hips buck in his hold against the stimulation.

“Not enough,” you whisper. You grip his wrist with one hand, the other gripping the sheets to bunch them in your fist. “Cheol, please.”

“Hush,” he scolds, biting your jaw. His free hand comes up to your neck, gripping you under your jaw to angle your mouth back to his. “Kiss me.”

You melt in Seungcheol’s grip. His tongue tastes sweet, his grip on you making you dizzy. Your thighs squeeze around his wrist as he works you up, his touch teasing and not enough through layers of fabric.

He knows it’s not enough, content to string you along until you’re writhing against him, back shifting against his chest as you squirm. His kisses drift from your mouth to your jaw, open-mouthed and spit-slicked as his tongue darts out to taste your skin while he goes.

Seungheol’s grip on your chin slides down toward the base of your neck, his fingers pressed tight against your pulse. You can feel your heartbeat slamming in his grasp as he bends your head away from him, lips attaching to the softness of your throat.

His name escapes your lips in a whisper. He hums a pleased sound, tongue dragging up your neck to your ear where he nibbles. “So good for me,” he whispers. “I’ll reward you.”

You follow with an urgent nod, pleased when his hand slides down the waistband of your shorts and underwear. When his fingers brush against the flushed, sticky folds of your cunt, you keen loudly, unable to keep it together.

“So needy.” You can’t tell if it’s an insult or not the way he growls the word against your ear, grip on your throat tightening. “Need my help that bad, huh?”

“Yes, god.”

“I am not god,” he grinds out, voice dark. For a second, the illusion shatters and you glance up at him. His eyes are endless, an ancient thing looking back at you. You freeze in his hold, a prey caught in a trap. Then he softens, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Tell me what you need, Pretty.”

“Hands. Need your hands.”

A bolt of pleasure goes through you when Seungcheol’s middle finger circles your clit. Your nails dig into his wrist, leaving little crescent moons behind. His ministrations are leisurely, giving you what you want but not as fast as you want it.

That’s Seungcheol’s game. He’ll give you what you want, only when he feels like it. You feel a sense of deja vu, realizing that you’ve been here before. Snatches of memories flash through your mind. They pass through your grip like sand, none of them firm enough to grab onto.

“Missed you,” you mumble. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“Ah, there it is.”

Seungcheol is pleased with your recollection. You can tell when he relents his teasing touches, fingers drifting down to press a single digit into your heat. Your stomach flips when he does, relief sweeping through you as he shallowly fucks you with a single finger.

It’s not enough but it’s better. You shiver in his hold, going a little slack in his arms, hips twitching. He’s content to have you like this, working your cunt slowly, watching your reactions as your breathing catches and restarts.

“Feel good?”

“So good.” You can barely get the reply out, words faint. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Pretty.”

His kiss is soft against your cheekbone, at odds with the grip he still has on your throat. You feel his hand like a comforting weight, loving the feel of it resting against your pulse. He doesn’t squeeze or choke you, content just to hold you against him.

Seungcheol pulls his fingers out, the wet squelch obscene. “Take this shit off for me,” he tells you, pulling at your shorts.

His heavy hand rests on your collarbone as your hands shoot to your shorts. Hooking your thumbs in them, you shimmy down, lifting your hips with his help to kick them down your thighs and legs to the floor.

Cool air hits your heat as you settle against his chest again. He nestles against your neck, fingers resuming the task of peeling you apart as he sinks his pointer and ring finger into you. You clench around him, loving the stretch and the feeling of his fingers pressing against your g-spot as he slowly strokes you, breath hot against your ear.

Being unable to remember your previous encounter with him feels cruel. Seungcheol knows exactly how to work you toward your high. The slick sound of his fingers between your legs accompanied with his lips pressed against your neck drives you insane.

Unable to keep still, your hips come up off the bed to meet his hand. The hand not fucking you to insanity slides under your shirt. Heat trails his touch. He traces the curve of your breast and your breath stutters, catching in your throat. His nails scrape against sensitive skin, moving higher until he drags his touch over your nipple.

The heel of Seungcheol’s hand presses firmly into your clit. You mewl, thrashing against him, closer and closer to your peak. His strokes turn harsh, finger-fucking you at a brutal pace while his other hand tweaks your nipple, the pleasure-sting making you quake.

“Come on,” he urges, voice deep. Sharp teeth scrape against your throat. “Come for me, Pretty.”

Everything turns to static as you clench around his fingers. You squeeze so tight he can barely continue stroking you through your peak. There’s a high-pitched ring in your ears as you pant through it, vaguely aware that Seungcheol is muttering something against your ear that you don’t understand.

As your orgasm fades, so do you. The world becomes soft at the edges. You feel Seungcheol’s heartbeat against your back and smell jasmine, but you slowly drift away from him, barely able to catch his growl of remember me next time before you’re gone.

Cold granite countertop digs into your knees. You barely register the pain, one hand pressed flat to the counter, the other reaching behind you to tangle in Seungcheol’s hair. Your hot breath skates across the surface, the cool stone not enough to combat the heat of your skin.

Seungcheol’s face is pressed as far as he can go into your cunt, the flat of his tongue dragging from top to bottom. You’re nearly catatonic, eyes rolling behind your eyelids as he fucks you with his tongue.

He grunts when your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close as he sucks harshly at you. He’s loud as he eats you out, his hunger something more demonic and fiendish than you’re used to. You don’t care, pressing back into him as he mouths at you.

His hands firmly pry you open, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. You can feel the bruising way he holds you, uncaring as he works you toward another high, so desperate for it that you’re begging.

Begging for what, you don’t know. None of the words that fall from your mouth really make sense. You’re a rambling disaster under the mastery of his mouth, and as you tiptoe the line of your high, it feels like you’ll never unscramble your thoughts again.

You come again, feeling the way you flood his mouth. He doesn’t care, growling low in his throat as his mouth becomes more insistent, fingers pressing into you even harder. Something takes over him in that moment, his grip on you so fierce that you think you might break.

But you don’t. You never do.

“Pretty,” Seungcheol murmurs, cocking his head to the side. Your mouth aches where it’s stretched harshly around his cock, spit leaking from the side of your lips. His thumb brushes across the spilled fluid, grinning as he leisurely pops it into his mouth and sucks. “Such a pretty thing, mouth full of cock.”

You hum around him eagerly, shifting back and forth on your knees. He’s got you on the floor of your bedroom in front of your bed, hands linked obediently behind your back while he stands in front of you. His stomach ripples as he flexes his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

Your throat seizes around him again and you feel yourself gag. He pouts and pulls back, letting you gasp for breath. Your mouth is a mess of saliva and cum, wet and sore and battered. You don’t care, looking up at him with watery eyes and sticky lips.

“So important to me,” he whispers, nodding as though to assure you. Your stomach flips and you shuffle toward him eagerly, mouth open. “So perfect for me.”

Instead of using words, you stick your tongue out, eager. Seungcheol grins and the room darkens. There is a buzz in the back of your mind that you can’t place, ignoring the feeling in favor of watching him slowly slide back in, letting your tongue scrape the bottom of his shaft.

Seungcheol sighs, tilting his head back as he sets a slow pace, using your mouth as he pleases. He’s beautiful like this, all tan skin, heaving chest, sweat sliding down his neck, red hair damp. His eyes are closed but his mouth is open, cherry lips parted sweetly to show his sharp little fangs as he pants.

So pretty, you think. Even with teeth sharper than they should be.

You’re standing in front of a bar named Hush. The pink neon burns bright against the gritty night, hurting your eyes. Turning around in a circle, you notice there’s no one else in the alleyway. There’s a certain charge to the air, a hum that you can’t place, but grows stronger when you turn to face the bar again.

A single door sits under the sign, closed and waiting to be opened. Chewing your bottom lip, you stride toward the door, unsure what’s waiting for you on the other side.

With a hard yank, you pull the door open and step into the darkness of the room beyond. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the single, flickering light over the bar, but once they do, you see it’s a tiny room. A single piano sits in the corner near two booths, and there’s only one bar top in the back, a few stools in front of it.

A single man sits at the bar but he’s facing you, leaning back on his elbows as he drinks you in. He’s in a purple suit that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and his red hair is bright enough to light the night like a flame.

He cocks his head to the side, a wicked smirk on his lips. “Hi,” he greets. “Can’t sleep?”

“How can you tell?”

“I’m familiar with these things.”

He looks like a devil. You can’t place your finger on what exactly about his face makes you think so. His eyes are dark as the depths of the ocean and when he smiles, you swear his teeth are sharp. “Need some help?”

You do need help sleeping. The doctors can’t help you. Therapy doesn’t help you. Something tells you maybe this stranger can help you.

“Please.”

“It would be my pleasure, Pretty.”

“Seungcheol,” you gasp, hand flying to his wrist to grip him. “Fuck, holy shit.”

Fuck is absolutely right. His hand tightens around your throat, placed just right to make it harder for you to breathe. Your thoughts swim as he fucks into you, his sweaty chest sliding against your back as his strokes grow harsher.

Your knees slide on the bed under the strength of his thrusts. He growls at you to keep up and you whimper, flexing your thighs to remain upright as he drives his cock into you at a pace that sends you hurtling toward your peak.

“So fucking difficult,” he grunts in your ear. His teeth nip your ear lobe and you whine, intoxicated by the smell of jasmine and the tightening knot in your stomach. “You’re always so difficult.”

You don’t know what he means by that, but you don’t think it’s the first time you’ve heard something like that from him. Your thoughts turn to liquid you come around him though, feeling the way you grip his cock like a vice, seizing in his hold.

Everything turns to nothing. You can’t hear, see or feel anything but static. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

And then you're gasping for air, lungs burning as you gulp it down. Falling forward, you crash into the sheets and into complete darkness.

“Why do you come and go so often?”

Seungcheol lifts his head from the bed to turn and look at you. He’s still naked and covered in a sheen of sweat, crimson hair clinging to his forehead. He’s on his stomach laying opposite of you, his head by your feet.

Something sparks in his eyes at your question, his heavy brows pulling together, cherry lips downturning. “I only come as often as you let me.”

“What do you mean?”

His face twitches in what you think might be annoyance. “You have a complicated relationship with me.”

“We have a relationship?”

He snorts and turns away from you, resting his chin on his arms as he settles back down, closing his eyes. He reminds you of a cat - a particularly dangerous cat, you think. “I suppose. Most people couldn’t say they have a relationship with me, and yet I keep letting you invite me back.”

“Invite you?”

“Hush. Stop asking questions.”

“But I don’t… understand.”

“Good,” he quips. “Because every time you do, you send me away only to invite me back in.”

“Come on,” Seungcheol teases. “You wanted it, so do the work.”

Your thighs ache. A pitiful sound leaves you as you nod, putting your hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders as you lift your hips, legs shaking. You’re exhausted and burned out, but the ache you need filled as you slowly slide up his cock drives you to keep going.

Dropping back down in his lap, you feel sparks. Your movements are slow. Seungcheol’s hands are tucked behind his head where he leans back on your pillows, fathomless eyes watching you as you ride him, a little uncoordinated and weak from the exertion he’s put you through all evening.

“Cheol, my thighs,” you protest, instead trying to grind into him. He raises a brow and you pout. “Please.”

“No. Come on, Pretty, you can do it. You can fuck yourself on my cock and make yourself come. Come on.”

“Cheol.”

“No. Do it yourself.”

Gritting your teeth, you let your annoyance fuel you. Anger burns right alongside pleasure as you find the strength to do exactly as he tells you. Leveraging your hold on his shoulders, you continue to spear yourself on him at a steady pace and slowly, your anger is replaced with bliss.

Seungcheol feels incredible. He’s hard to take, stretching you to the max and at this position, he’s so deep that you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You keep going, nails biting into his skin and drawing blood but you don’t care.

Fire burns in his eyes as he watches you. You stare right back, seething at the way he’s making you do it yourself, a little bit of humiliation stinging the edges of your pride. You can tell he thrives on this, satisfied that what you want outweighs any sort of desire to be stubborn.

Somehow, he always wins like this. Always manages to get you to do what he wants. He’s sneaky like that, knowing just what button to press to get you where he wants you.

Sometimes you feel like you’re a puppet whose strings are connected to his fingertips.

Either way, you manage to drive yourself to an orgasm, shuddering around him as you seat yourself fully in his lap, throbbing around him. He lets out a long groan, eyes fluttering shut as he struggles to keep his composure.

Leaning back against his knees, you catch your breath. He’s still painfully hard inside of you, and when his eyes open, you see his hunger isn’t sated. Your heart lips when he surges forward, fast as an adder. His mouth crashes into yours hungrily and you let him have you, eager at the flutter in your stomach as he shifts, altering the angle.

“I’m not done,” he mutters, kisses turning into sharp bites. “So hush while I take what’s mine.”

Something wakes you up from sleep. It’s too dark in your room to see, but your heart is hammering and your hands are quivering. Leaning toward your nightstand, you search for your phone. All you feel is cool wood, no device anywhere.

The dark is oppressive. You don’t remember your room being this dark, the blackout curtains serving as a good device to keep out the city and streetlights, but never so much that you feel swallowed whole. Lost. Devoured.

A tingle buzzes at the back of your neck. You freeze in bed, looking into the never ending darkness. Silence roars in your ears, the outside world completely removed. You can’t even hear your own pulse or breath, the quiet so heavy that panic starts to rise in your throat.

You can’t see but you know you’re not alone - can feel the solid press of something else in the room.

Too afraid to make noise, you resume the search for your phone, fingers moving slowly across the top of your night stand. You can’t find it.

Something presses into the mattress at the end of your bed. You feel the dip under its weight but can’t hear the creek of springs. You give up the search for your phone, snatching your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

It’s a dream, you tell yourself. It’s a dream it’s a dream it’s a dream it’s-

The thing in your room moves closer. A scream works its way up your throat where it gets stuck, lodged and unmoving. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, fireworks of color exploding behind your eyelids as you do.

“I know you’re awake, Pretty.” The voice is so low you can barely make out the words. They scrape against you like claws. “You can’t keep doing this,” it says, almost a sigh in its voice. “You know what this is. What I am.”

“Go away,” you whisper, voice weak. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do this again.”

“Go away, Seungcheol.”

There’s a low growl that you can feel as it vibrates the air. “As you wish.”

The neon sign above the door says Hush. It burns bright and pink against the night sky. You look around, unsure how you got here. Sighing, you pull out your phone to check the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning, which means you’re probably a victim of your sleep walking again.

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you look up at the sign again. There’s a little blue moon to accompany the pink cursive neon, and though you don’t think you’ve ever seen this bar before, there's a magnetism about it that draws you in.

Curious, you walk up to the door and go in. The lights are dim and you have trouble seeing at first, but you can make out that there’s a piano in the corner, two booths and a small bar with some stools. A man sits at the bar, his back turned to you.

“We’re closed,” he grumbles without turning to look at you. You frown, cocking your head as you drink him in.

The purple suit he wears is an odd choice. His hair is the color of blood, slicked back and a surprisingly nice contrast to the bright color of his suit. A single light flickers above him, painting him in a gold hue.

“What is this place?” you ask, ignoring the fact that it’s closed.

He doesn’t answer for a second. You think he’s going to ignore you, but finally he says, “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

You’re surprised by the question. “Yes, actually.”

“I can help.”

“Really?” You step further into the bar, watching as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. He is painfully pretty, the kind of beauty that reminds you of old paintings of Lucifer. “How?”

“Are you accepting my help?”

Without hesitation you answer, “Yes.”

His cherry red lips twitch and he shakes his head. Picking up his drink, he polishes it off before standing to turn you fully. The weight of his presence presses down on you like an invisible blanket, weighing you down.

“Of course you do.” He strides toward you and though your instincts tell you to run, something else tells you to stay. He looks down at you with a pair of eyes that threaten to swallow you whole if you let them. His lashes are silky and long, a delicate balance to his heavy gaze. “You always need me, right, Pretty?”

You nod, a word - a name - buzzing on your tongue as he looms over you. “Please,” you whisper, thoughts a little cottony, a little dizzy. “Seungcheol.”

He grins, revealing sharp teeth. “Hush,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.”

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girlinterupptedsblog · 3 months ago

Text

Ex rafe after months of no contact sends you video of jerking off with your name leaving his lips

Pairing: Ex!Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), heavy smut, masturbation, sexting, video sharing, obsession, possessive behavior, toxic dynamics, Rafe is taken (cheating), angst, past relationship tension, longing, language.

You were nearly asleep—right on the edge, that sweet, heavy place where your limbs don’t quite work and your eyes stay half-lidded. The hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand barely registered, but instinct had your hand reaching for it blindly, thumb unlocking the screen with muscle memory before you even processed it.

You didn’t look at the name. Didn’t care. Probably some group chat blowing up with something you could ignore until morning. Your fingers swiped through your notifications lazily, barely aware of what you were doing. But then, your thumb hovered.

Rafe Cameron.

The breath caught in your throat, eyes snapping wide as if someone dumped ice water on you. That name was like a slap—one you hadn’t felt in months. Not since you ended things, cut him off, blocked him on everything that mattered. Apparently, not everything.

Your heart raced. You should’ve exited. Closed your phone. Turned it off and thrown it across the room. But your thumb betrayed you, tapping the chat before your brain could catch up. And there it was—no message. Just a video.

Out of the blue. Out of nowhere. Rafe.

You swallowed hard, thumb hesitating over the play button. Part of you screamed don’t do it. The other part—the weaker one, the one he knew too well—clicked play.

The screen lit up, and your body stiffened immediately. The angle was tight, up close, the image shaky. You could see the veins in his hand, the familiar curve of his cock as he stroked it slow and hard, his breath heavy in the background.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice groaned low, and your stomach clenched instantly, breath hitching as you watched, helpless.

His hand sped up, slick, movements desperate. “You miss me, huh? Bet you do. Bet you miss this fuckin’ dick inside you.” His voice was raspier now, strained, and you felt the heat flush between your thighs, a heartbeat pulsing there that you hadn’t felt in months.

Your name spilled from his lips, strained and messy, like a prayer or a curse as he came—thick ropes spilling across his knuckles, his breathing ragged. The video ended abruptly after that, the screen fading to black, leaving you stunned, phone clutched in your shaking hand.

Then the message came.

My dick misses you. So do I. She doesn’t make me feel the way you do.

Your stomach flipped. The air in the room felt suffocating. You were wide awake now, eyes locked on the screen, mind racing, heart pounding.

He was taken. You knew that. Heard the rumors, saw the pictures—but this. This was him reaching out in the most Rafe way possible. Toxic. Filthy. Desperate.

And you hated how your body responded. Hated the way your legs pressed together, the ache blooming deep in your core, slick pooling despite the chaos in your chest.

Rafe fucking Cameron. Months of silence and he still knew how to undo you with a single message.

You didn’t stop watching. You hit replay.

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ineedpaigebuckets · 15 days ago

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i feel like u need to give us a fic in order for us to survive the news.

if you're not okay i'm not okay

“if you’re not okay, i’m not okay.”

it started with the concussion.

nothing dramatic. no bloody nose, no stretcher, no crowd going silent the way they do in movies. just a bad fall during a game, head hitting hardwood, the familiar thud that sent a jolt up every teammate’s spine. paige laughed it off at first. of course she did. waved off the trainer, stood up a little wobbly but smiling. said she was fine. said she was always fine.

but by the time she got back to her apartment that night, her head was spinning, and the light from her phone made her squint. she texted azzi something stupid like “u ever feel like your brain is soup?” and then followed it up with “jk. i’m okay.”

azzi had called her immediately. the second she saw the message. her voice was calm, soft, but her eyes were already scanning every inch of paige’s face through the screen, trying to read between the lines. paige had dark circles. her voice was thinner than usual. she kept forgetting what she was saying mid-sentence. she blinked too slowly.

“baby,” azzi had whispered, “you don’t look okay.”

but there wasn’t much she could do. not from the other side of the country. not with uconn basketball holding her hostage in a summer training program that had her up at 5am every morning. she told paige to go back to the team doctor. made her promise to rest, to hydrate, to text someone if things got worse.

they facetimed every night.

and it was fine. it was. paige made jokes. azzi laughed because she wanted to believe them. they fell asleep on the phone more nights than not, azzi whispering lullabies and empty threats if paige dared to get up without telling her. and every night, paige swore she was getting better. every night, she said, “you’re doing enough. i promise. you don’t have to worry about me.”

but then came the fever.

a dull ache in her bones. sweat on her sheets. a cough that wouldn’t quit and a headache that made her cry when she moved. paige tried to wait it out. she tried so hard. but that morning—sick and aching and dizzy—she hit the facetime button and waited, her whole body trembling under the blanket she’d pulled over her head to block out the light.

it rang twice before azzi picked up.

and the second her face appeared, paige lost it.

not a dramatic sob, not some loud collapse. just a quiet kind of breaking. red cheeks. tired eyes. lips pressed together in a desperate attempt to hold everything in. her voice was nearly gone.

“azz,” she whispered, and that was all it took.

azzi’s heart split open on the spot.

she sat up in her dorm bed, blinking fast, already reaching for a hoodie. “what’s wrong? paige. what’s wrong.”

“fever’s up,” paige choked out. “can’t eat. it’s hard to— it’s hard to think. and i— i just… i don’t know what to do.”

and azzi was already moving.

she didn’t ask questions. didn’t pause. didn’t wait for her coaches to give her clearance. she booked the flight with trembling hands and packed with tears streaming down her face. texted her mom, her trainer, her roommate, anyone who needed to know. and then she was gone.

on the plane. in the air. praying, begging, bargaining with whatever would listen. let her be okay. please. please just let me get there in time.

⸻

the apartment was dark when she finally got there.

quiet, too. no tv, no music, not even the usual hum of something left on in the background. azzi let herself in with the key paige had given her months ago — “just in case,” paige had said, smiling, like the idea of azzi not being near her was a joke.

but now azzi was here, and paige wasn’t smiling.

she was curled on the couch, curled so small it made azzi’s stomach twist. cheeks flushed, body too still. and when she opened her eyes at the sound of azzi’s voice — “paigey? baby, i’m here” — she didn’t even try to sit up.

“you came,” she breathed, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“of course i came.” azzi dropped to her knees, unzipping her bag with one hand, pressing her palm to paige’s forehead with the other. “jesus. you’re burning up.”

paige didn’t answer. just closed her eyes again. let azzi lift her head and pull her into her lap. and for a second, neither of them said anything. the silence wasn’t empty — it was full. full of love. full of fear. full of the weight azzi had been carrying since the first i’m okay that didn’t sound okay at all.

“i’m so sorry,” paige whispered. “i didn’t want you to worry.”

“you’re insane,” azzi whispered back, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead. “if you’re not okay, i’m not okay.”

she meant it with her whole chest.

⸻

the next few days blurred.

azzi was everywhere, all at once. pressing cold cloths to paige’s skin. coaxing her to drink water. holding her hair back when she got sick. whispering nonsense stories when the fever made her cry. curling behind her on the couch and holding her through every shaky breath.

when paige couldn’t sleep, azzi read out loud. when paige could barely talk, azzi filled the silence with love. and when paige had a panic attack because the room started spinning again, azzi didn’t flinch — she just held her tighter.

“i’ve got you,” she said, again and again. “i’ve got you, baby. you’re okay. i’m here.”

she didn’t leave the apartment for four days.

she wore the same hoodie and sweatpants, her hair in a bun, her phone barely charged. she ignored every text that wasn’t from the pharmacy or paige’s doctor. and even when paige started to feel better — fever breaking, color returning — azzi didn’t stop watching her like she might disappear again.

“you can sleep, azz,” paige whispered on the fifth night, her voice steadier. “i promise i’m okay now.”

“i’ll sleep when you’re back to being annoying.”

“rude.”

“you love it.”

paige smiled, and it was soft. real. her fingers reached up to cup azzi’s cheek. “you saved me.”

“you scared me,” azzi admitted, blinking back tears. “like. really scared me.”

paige leaned in, nose brushing azzi’s. “i don’t ever want to do that again.”

“good,” azzi whispered. “because next time? i’m moving in.”

“next time?”

“just in case.”

and then she kissed her. slow and gentle. feverless now, and warm for all the right reasons. and when they fell asleep that night — limbs tangled, hearts finally quiet — paige’s last thought before slipping under was i never want to be taken care of by anyone else ever again.

and azzi’s last thought was i never want to stop taking care of you.

not even for a second.

it’s morning, finally. like, real morning. not that grey hazy early kind where nothing feels right. it’s golden now — the sun’s low and warm and spilling through the windows, catching on the corners of the couch, the mug on the coffee table, azzi’s curls against the pillow.

paige blinks slow. her head doesn’t hurt.

and that alone almost makes her cry.

she stretches, gently, cautiously, like her body’s something she doesn’t quite trust yet. her muscles ache — the kind of ache that says you’ve been still too long instead of you’re about to collapse. and when she turns over, azzi’s still there, curled into the edge of the couch like she’s been standing guard.

blanket kicked off. hoodie riding up. mouth parted. hand still curled in a loose fist like she fell asleep mid-word.

paige smiles. it’s weak, but it’s real.

and it lasts all of four seconds before azzi stirs, eyes fluttering open with that weird sixth sense she always has — like her body just knows the second paige’s changes.

“hi,” azzi mumbles, sleep-heavy and raspy.

“hi,” paige whispers back.

they look at each other.

paige lifts one hand and places it over azzi’s. “i’m okay,” she says, just to see it. just to say it.

and the way azzi exhales — long and relieved and just a little watery — it’s like she’s been holding her breath for days.

“you better be,” she says, voice thick. “because you scared the absolute hell out of me.”

paige grins. “you said i couldn’t be annoying again until i felt better, so.”

azzi narrows her eyes. “i meant like. one sarcastic comment. not going back to flirting like you didn’t just have a fever of 103 and cry in my arms.”

“i did not cry.”

“paige. you sobbed and told me you wanted to be reincarnated as my dog so i’d have to feed you forever.”

“…okay, yeah. that does sound like me.”

“you’re such a menace,” azzi mutters, pressing the back of her hand to paige’s forehead anyway. “still a little warm.”

“can i have juice?”

“you want juice?”

“i want juice and for you to lie next to me while i sip it and pretend we’re in a romcom recovery montage.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and cute?”

“don’t push it.”

but she’s already getting up.

azzi pads into the kitchen like she owns the place — which she kind of does now, let’s be real — rummages through the fridge and pulls out the apple juice she bought on night two. pours it into one of the fancy cups paige only ever uses when azzi’s over. adds a straw.

by the time she comes back, paige has shifted into the corner of the couch and opened her arms.

“you need to hydrate to heal,” azzi says solemnly, handing it over like a nurse in a drama.

“you need to marry me,” paige says back, sipping with wide eyes.

“you can’t just almost die and then be cute again like it’s nothing.”

“can and did.”

azzi groans but climbs into her arms anyway, burying her face in paige’s hoodie. “do you know how awful it was, watching you be that sick? do you know what it felt like not being able to come until it got that bad?”

“i do now,” paige whispers. “and i’m sorry. i shouldn’t’ve waited that long.”

“no,” azzi says quietly, “but i get it.”

“i didn’t want you to drop everything.”

“you’re everything, though.”

and it hangs there for a second.

soft. warm. serious.

paige feels her throat tighten, and this time it’s not from coughing. she presses her forehead to azzi’s. “i love you.”

“i know,” azzi says, smiling, eyes shining. “i love you too.”

they stay like that.

azzi in her lap. paige sipping slowly. the heat of the fever replaced by something gentler — something that wraps around them like a blanket and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

⸻

that night, paige brushes her teeth without getting dizzy.

azzi watches from the doorway like a proud mom. “look at you. vertical.”

“look at you, admiring me like i didn’t almost throw up on your shoes three days ago.”

“i would’ve caught it.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“i’m in love.”

they climb into bed together for the first time since the fever broke. no couch. no medicine timers. just soft sheets and paige in a fresh hoodie and azzi curled up beside her, one hand resting right over paige’s ribs.

paige is warm now. and pink-cheeked. and teasing. and alive. and azzi’s finally, finally able to breathe again.

and this time, when they fall asleep, it’s not out of exhaustion.

it’s just peace.

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buckyalpine · 2 years ago

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Request 👉🏼👈🏼 ? Black widow!reader and winter soldier!Bucky! He was her teacher in the red room, where they eventually fell in love and started a secret relationship, until Hydra and Dreykov found out and separated them. Fast forward several years, Bucky’s out of recovery, reunited with Steve, and living a better life when Tony brings in a new team member. And everyone’s excited but Bucky’s on edge and kinda wary until he learns who it is.

It’s his lil widow, the love of his life, his soulmate. the one Hydra and the red room stole from him, the girl he kept dreaming about no matter how many times his handlers tried to wipe his memories. Just complete fluffy, smutty, love sick shit with him being a massive simp for his deadly girl. maybe building a family, getting married, drabbles of him drooling over her skills or her in the widow suit, like oh yea, I taught her that. I can imagine him being so overly protective, constantly holding her close to his chest because she was stolen away from him once, he won’t survive if that happens again.

YESSSSS God this is so cute and smutty and angsty and FLUFFY it makes my chest itch in the best way. Pls ignore what google translate may have botched. Bucky is the cutest, horny, most deadly simp here, so proud of his girl, absolutely yes.

"ne proyavlyay miloserdiya, soldat" [Show no mercy, soldier], Dreykov hissed, letting the soldier enter the red room with a single widow standing before him, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. The soldier grunted, hitting the button that locked the door that kept her from escaping before lunging forward, testing her agility after personally training her himself.

She leapt over him with ease, bracing her hands on his wide shoulders and landing swiftly behind him and swiping her leg under him to knock him to the floor, straddling him immediately after. He grasped her hands in his, rolling over till she was pinned under his large mass with her wrists held together above her head in his metal hand.

"You've learned well kotenok" His voice was husky behind the mask, blue eyes sparkling while she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"Nespravedlivo, kogda ty takoy bol'shoy, soldat" [Not fair when you're so large, soldier]. She gasped feeling him harden on top of her, his rough uniform doing nothing to hide what he was feeling for her, slotted between her thighs.

"Nespravedlivo, kogda ty takoy krasivyy, kotonok" [Not fair when you're so pretty, kitten]. He climbed off her, allowing her to get into position before attacking again, relentlessly throwing punches and blocking them till she nearly collapsed. They retreated to stand at attention at the sound of the doors hissing open, indicating training was over. The soldier grunted a nod as Dreykov walked in, assessing the widow, a sinister smile plastered on his face seeing both of his assets worn but still at their strongest.

He sent them off to their cells, confident that the fear he'd instilled in his captives would be enough to ensure they stayed in line, not realizing his punishments would only go so far.

It wasn't enough to stop the charming young man from Brooklyn who still lived in his most feared asset.

"Did I hurt you baby" The soldier whispered, kissing her bruised knuckles softly after sneaking into her cell, pulling her into his arms.

"You could never" She smiled, melting into his embrace. She never intended on falling in love with the soldier but here she was, feeling his gentle hands wander, leaning up to kiss his soft, pink lips. They were playing a dangerous game but it was to stop now.

He loved her.

She loved him.

"Wipe him" The hydra agent ordered while the soldier gripped onto the chair, gritting his teeth while sharp burning spread through his body, frying his brain. The widow dug her nails into her palms, resolve slowly crumbling seeing the love of her life tortured, unable to hold back anymore.

"Stop!" She finally broke, unable to watch any longer, gasping at the sinister smile Dreykov gave her, ordering his men to grab her before increasing the voltage.

"My, my, does it hurt you when we hurt him" Dreykov sneered, turning up the dial, Bucky's screams tearing her apart on the inside.

"Don't-AH-JAMES" A hydra soldier gripped her hair, yanking her back before she could go to him, shackles binding her hands together, dragging her away.

"kotenok" [kitten] The soldier sadly whispered, unheard by her, her kicking and screaming form blurry from his unshed tears. He screamed in pain as another shock ripped through his veins before the world went black.

He never saw her again.

Bucky gasped, sucking in a deep breath of air, his chest heaving from the dream he'd just had, sweat covering his chest, dripping from his forehead.

It was the same thing almost every night.

His mind replaying the same thing over and over again; training with her in the red room, the way she felt under him, the way he'd cuddle and make love to her afterwards without a soul knowing. He didn't plan on falling for the woman he had to train to be a killer but he didn't stand a chance the day she'd knocked him down with a knife pressed to his neck seconds later. He could have married her then and there.

He slumped back against his pillow, running a hand over his face, groaning in frustration.

In the several years, he'd slowly managed to get his life back together. He was apart of the team and living at the compound with Steve and the others. He was no longer controlled by trigger words, he had been forgiven by the government, he was starting to recover from all the trauma he'd endured. His nightmares were less frequent, slowly learning to forgive himself for the things he'd been forced to do under Hydras control.

The only thing he never got over was her.

She still lived in his dreams. Still owned his heart. That was his girl and she was torn away by the very people that had taken everything else from him too. No amount of wiping or torture took her away. His handler tried his hardest, shocking him till his nose bled and his veins nearly burnt to bits but her name would fall from his lips as he lay nearly unconscious.

His sweet widow.

Bucky glanced at the faint light starting to stream through the curtains, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed to get up instead of attempting to sleep for 5 more minutes. He threw on a hoodie and some joggers, making his way to the gym to punch his feelings away as usual. He didn't stop till his knuckles split, ignoring the sting, instead thinking about how he'd kiss her soft hands after he'd train her, bandaging them up when no one was looking.

The hot water from the shower did little to ease the tension in his muscles as he made his way to the kitchen next, plopping onto a stool with a cup of coffee. He was just about to try and relax with his coffee until Steve popped his head in with a grin.

"There you are! Tony was looking for you, we're all heading up now!" Bucky frowned in confusion while Steve grabbed his own mug, filling his cup.

"Why are we having a meeting" Bucky questioned, not willing to get up from his seat, his mind still preoccupied.

"He told you he scouted someone to join the team"

"I remember Tony going on about some new member" Bucky mumbled, not in the mood to meet new people, his anxiety only growing further. "That's today?"

Steve nodded, finishing up the last of his coffee while the brunette stayed glued to the stool.

"Buck, you coming?" Steve turned back to see a frowning Bucky, reluctantly trudging behind the captain while the others excitedly also made their way upstairs to the conference area.

"I heard Tony saying the new agent is scary as shit. Apparently he got his ass handed to him when he tried to test her and he was wearing his suit" Sam snorted while Nat smiled with excitement.

"Finally someone worth sparring with" The redhead nudged him while he shook his head.

"I'm serious! She's deadly deadly. I looked over her file, she's killed more people than you and Clint combined and half of those were hand to hand combat"

"What was the other half"

"Sniper. Like Barnes" Sam nodded to Bucky who was still disconnected from the others, his knee bouncing impatiently.

"We're lucky she's on our side" Steve mused, taking a glance of the file that sat on the table. There was no name or picture to go with it but it had a skillset record nearly put his to shame. "Jesus"

"You good?" Sam whispered to Bucky, noticing he was more closed off than usual, getting a tightlipped grimace like smile in return. Steve sat near the front, straightening himself up while the rest quietened down, hearing the sound of Tony speaking to someone as they approached the room. The billionaire opened the door, letting in the new team member first before entering himself with a large smile on his face.

"Everyone, this is-

"Y/n?" Bucky gasped, shoot up from his seat before Tony could finish, the other sharing confused glances between each other, watching the new team member and Bucky freeze.

"Wait, Barnes, you know-

"Malyshka, eto pravda ty?" [Babygirl, is it really you?] Bucky gasped, his heart hammering against his chest, tears already threatening to spill out. "kotenok, skazhi mne, pozhaluysta, chto eto ty" [kitten, please tell me its you]

"Hold up, he can still speak Russian?" Sam hissed to Steve who hadn't moved, mouth gaping, eyes wide.

"James!" You darted across the room to meet Bucky half way, his strong arms catching and lifting you up with ease as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. "moy soldat. YA zdes', moy malysh" [my soldier. I'm here my babyboy]

"It's really you" He whispered against your hair, breathing in your soft scent, eyes squeezed shut with tears streaming down his face, "My baby" He cradled you tightly, refusing to set you down while you buried your face into the crook of his neck, drowning out the rest of the world. After you were torn apart from him, you had been locked up in an isolated cell, only let out for select missions Dreykov send you on. You wanted to find your soldier, your James, but you never did with Hydra keeping him under their control.

Now you finally had him again.

"Ahem, as I was saying- This is y/n" Tony addressed the rest of the team, just as surprised as the rest of them with all eyes on Bucky especially. "She'll be joining us once Barnes puts her down"

"Never" Bucky finally pulled away, still holding onto you, his nose nudging against yours, "M'never putting her down, never, you hear me babygirl?" He pressed his lips onto yours, shamelessly kissing you hard, ignoring the whistles that filled the room, only pulling away for air. You let out a shy giggle as he set you back on your feet, his hand wrapped around your waist.

"I'd continue to introduce her but I think tinman knows her better" Tony snorted, throwing his hands up before taking a seat, all eyes now watching two of you while Bucky blushed, unable to wipe the smile of his face, cupping your face to press another kiss to your lips.

"This is y/n" Bucky finally let you go, taking you to the front of the conference room, now proudly showing you off to the other, "She was a widow with Hyrda, handpicked by Dreykov" Bucky sucked in a breath before continuing, giving your hand a squeeze "I trained her in the red room myself when I was still the winter soldier. That's when I fell in love with her" The last part was a whisper, not missed by the team with how lovesick Bucky looked.

"I'm sorry, you trained her? Jesus, no wonder she's deadly" Sam shook his head, now understanding why your file was so impressive. You were already gifted when you were picked, coupled with the fact that you were trained and conditioned by the soldier himself.

"She's fuckin' deadly, alright" Bucky's voice was nearly breathless, his baby blues intently gazing into your eyes. "You should see her with a knife"

That's when I fell in love with you.

"So what happened with you two" Nat prodded, looking at you two with heart eyes which was a rare sight but her heart melted at how soft Bucky was, struggling to keep his hands to himself. He constantly nuzzled into your neck, his large form practically swallowing you whole as he clung onto you like a child.

"They found out we were together so they took me from him" You gave her a sad smile, feeling Bucky hug you tighter; you could have sworn you heard him whimper. "I tried to find him for years but I couldn't"

"Hydra tried to wipe my memories but it never worked. Couldn't forget her" Bucky kissed the top of your head, not realizing his bestfriend was trying to subtly wipe his eyes.

"I was going to have everyone introduce themselves but I think these two have some catching up to do so let's move this meeting over" Tony clapped his hands while everyone else nodded in agreement, leaving you and Bucky alone for some privacy.

"I missed you so much, you have no idea, I-I tried to find you but I just- I could barely function, I'm sorry doll-" Your lips cut off Bucky's rambling, cupping his scruffy face firmly in your hands.

"You have nothing to be sorry about baby, it's not your fault"

"I-I know you just got here and-sweets I don't want to rush anything but-" Bucky's hand gripped your waist while he tried to compose himself, he didn't want to pressure you into anything. "I need you closer baby"

"Take me, soldat" You whispered, not giving him any room to second guess as he hauled you up in his arms, taking you straight to his room. Clothes were off in an instant between frantic and desperate kisses. Bucky didn't rush a thing as soon as he had you naked in his bed, pulling the sheets over you both, rolling over to cuddle instead.

"This is all I wanted" He whispered against your shoulder, kissing your skin, "To have my girl with me again"

"I love you Jamie" You kissed his bare chest, hitching your leg over his waist, his hard length pressing against your soaked cunt. He could feel his tip weeping feeling your soft body pressed against his, still looking just as beautiful, if not more now, from when he'd first met you.

"Prettiest widow" He growled, his wandering hands becoming less wholesome as they moved to your hips, pulling you to press against his erection harder. You moaned feeling him starting to hump your pussy while innocently kisses down your neck, smirking at how he was both sweet and sinful at the same time, just as before. "kotenok, ty mne nuzhen" [Kitten, I need you]

You remembered all the times he'd snuck into your cell for a few cuddles, which always ended up with his hand slammed over your mouth while he railed you with his cock.

"You feel how hard I am for you baby? Mmph, this is all for you, doll" He bit his lip, eyes locked with yours, rolling on top of you, slotting his wide body between your legs, still rutting his hips. "Can I make love to you baby, please" He sounded desperate, dropping his forehead to press against yours, hands coming to pin you against the bed.

"M'yours Jamie" You nodded, spreading your legs wider, not bothering with having prep you, needing him inside you more than anything else. You gasped feeling his thick cockhead rub through your folds before he breeched your hole, stretching you.

"Soldat!" You moaned, your back arching off the bed, the name rolling of your tongue as it had so many times before, your nails digging into his shoulders as he buried himself to the hilt.

"Take your soldat's cock, kotenok" Bucky growled, only giving you a second to adjust before he started to move with slow, deep strokes. "Lemme make love to my babygirl, ya tak sil'no tebya lyublyu" [I love you so much]

After Bucky had been rescued, he had no reason to speak Russian, letting the others think it'd been wiped away just like the words that controlled him. Around you, it rolled off his tongue with ease, your pussy dripping each time he whispered in your ear. Your eyes rolled back feeling him hit that spongy spot deep in your pussy, crying out with the powerful, deliberate snaps of his hips.

"M'I making you feel good baby?" He asked, kissing you sweetly, alternating between the sweetheart and heartbreaker he was, looking at you with soft puppy eyes while his cock grew harder watching your face twist with pleasure. His jaw was slack, thrusting with purpose, moving his hips to roll and let you feel every inch of him filling you up, "You look gorgeous with my cock in you angel, wish you could see how pretty you are, so beautiful like this"

"Oh god James! P-please-m'so close-dont-don-t stop" Your moans grew more salacious, unable to say much else, eyes shutting out of pleasure feeling his hand coming down to rub your swollen clit.

"I know baby, I know, you need me to rub this pretty button, Remember the first time I touched you there pretty girl? How badly you wanted to scream, how much you squirted all over me? Remember when we first made love? First time I tasted you? Remember how shy you were when I spread your legs open and nursed off that little button. How you turned into a slutty kitten, riding and humping my face after? Know your needy little clit loves it, m'gonna rub you till you're screaming"

"Buckyyy" You whined, your face feeling hot at the memory, remembering his growls from under you, turning around to find him jerking his cock faster while he licked and sucked your pussy, cum already painting his abs from cumming once, working to a second orgasm. He'd sealed his lips around your clit, stuffing his mask in your mouth to keep you from alerting the guards.

"Baby, c'mon open your eyes, look at me" Bucky nipped your jaw, his cold hand coming to grasp your cheeks, blue eyes staring into your soul as you opened your eyes, "Don't you dare close them baby, keep em' open when I'm fuckin' you, shit, m'gonna cum for you doll"

"B-Bucky!" You cried, struggling to hold off any longer, your juices soaked him as you started to clench and squeeze his cock, tears nearly streaming down your face.

"Scream all you want baby, don't have to hide those pretty moans ever again" He fucked you through your orgasm, his own balls getting tighter with each thrust, precum mixing with your arousal, dripping onto the sheets, "Thats-that-s it baby, m'gonna cum so hard for you, fill you up, you're mine doll, you're fuckin' MINE"

Bucky's hand flew to the headboard, pounding you into the mattress, moaning loudly, letting the wood splinter under his grip as he came, pumping you full of his seed.

"FUCK y/n" He gasped, collapsing on you, panting, burying his face into your breasts as he always did, turning into a needy baby as if he didn't rail your soul. You giggled, tracing your hand down his spine making his shiver, whining when you clenched around his sensitive, soft cock.

"My soldat" You whispered, carding your fingers through his hair, letting him latch onto your nipple, needily sucking for comfort. No matter how big, bad and scary he was, he always melted into a puddle for you, closing his eyes at the feeling of your sweet peaked nipple against his tongue.

"Never letting you go again" He whispered before falling asleep on your chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. "ty moya rodstvennaya dusha, malyshka" [you're my soul mate, babygirl]

"YA by proshel cherez vse eto snova tol'ko radi tebya, malysh" [I'd go through it all again just for you baby boy] you whispered, closing your eyes in the safety of his hold, meaning each of your words. You'd go through everything a thousand times over if it meant you'd have your Bucky back in your arms. Bucky sniffled, curling up with you, spending the rest of the day alternating between speaking sweet words and making you moan and cry over his cock until you couldn't move any longer. For the first time, he slept peacefully, not stirring once.

Ever since you'd come back, Bucky had turned into the biggest simp, alternating between acting like a menace and a complete lovesick puppy with no in between. It was worse when you were on the field, almost leading to Tony refusing to let you both go on missions at the same time.

"Oh god" Bucky groaned, seeing you step out in your sleek suit, the dark material clinging to your body, weapons strapped along your hips. You threw him a wink before running off to kick ass, his focus solely on you.

"Jesus Christ" He nearly moaned seeing you land a kick to an attacker before throwing you knife across the room, the blade landing perfectly between your targets eyebrows. "Baby, you're sexy"

"For fucks Sake Barnes, did you forget we can all hear you" Tony's exasperated voice crackled through, this not being the first time the soldier was distracted watching you fight. Sam and Steve snickered through the coms while Bucky shameless shrugged, still biting his lip, watching you move with ease.

"Have you seen my girl, Stark" Bucky sassed back, walking over bodies to grab you by your ass, squeezing it and smashing his lips against yours.

"Are you two fucking kissing?!" Tony sighed, hearing the sound of soft moans and smacking, "I'm putting you on a fucking leash, I'm getting you fixed Barnes"

"My naughty soldat" You giggled, pulling away, nipping your boyfriends pouty lip while he shook his head.

"Gonna be the death of me, pretty girl"

"You're both gonna be the death of all of us" Tony deadpanned, unable to understand how there was a man out there that was more horny and flirty than him. "I'm having Barnes neutered, for fucks sake I can see you drooling from over here"

Bucky was even worse watching you display your skills, his workout long forgotten while you sparred with Steve.

"Where the fuck did you learn that" Steve groaned while you giggled, holding your hand out to help him up while Bucky watched from the side with a cocky smirk.

"I taught her that" He threw you a wink, not so subtly adjusting his sweats.

"Of course you did" Steve huffed, surprised to find bruises on his body from where you'd hit him. "Jesus punk" He blushed heavily seeing his bestfriends raging hard on, scrambling away from the gym, knowing exactly what would come next.

The loud moans he heard moments later made him shake his head, happy he got out of there unlike the last time he saw the warning signs of a feral Bucky.

Aside from being more in love with you than ever, Bucky was also equally protective over you. He'd hug you with such care, always holding your head to his chest, his large arms covering you from the rest of the world, constantly fearing that even if he had you now, someone would come and take you away.

When he finally asked you to marry him, he paused several times, blinking through tears while down on one knee, your hand wiping his cheek, saying yes before he could even finish. The compound was transformed with flowers, candles with a small intimate wedding in the garden.

Steve and Sam stood by Bucky's side while Nat walked with you, your sweet soon to be husband biting back tears seeing his dream girl in her dress, the life he'd always imagine finally becoming a reality. When Tony pronounced you husband and wife, Bucky didn't stop kissing you till he nearly passed out, not a single dry eye surrounding you as he whisked you up in his arms.

Bucky felt a strong wave of emotion watching you flit around the kitchen, making his way over and wrapping his arms from behind, tucking his face into your neck. You blinked, feeling tears wet your skin, pulling away to find your husband sniffling.

"Baby, what's gotten into you" You cooed with concern, wiping away the tears that collected along his lashes, kissing his reddened nose. "Is everything okay?"

"Just-m'scared to lose you again" Bucky whispered, his hand coming to protectively wrap around your growing belly; you weren't showing much yet but he could still feel the little baby bump. "I can't loose you again angel, I can't go through that again"

"It won't happen Jamie" You wrapped your arms around his shoulders while he picked you up, setting you onto the counter before hiding against your neck again, hugging you tightly. "What's wrong baby, what's gotten you so scared"

"Can't believe I got you back. I got to marry my dream girl. We're starting a family, you're giving me a baby, I-it feels unreal. M'scared I'm gonna wake up and you'll-" He bit his lip, shuddering at the very thought, "You'll be gone"

"Baby boy look at me" You held his face again, making him look at you, "Would you ever let anyone take me from you again?"

Bucky looked horrifying, francially shaking his head, he'd burn the world to ashes before he let that happen.

"Never. Never angel, no one is taking you or our baby from me" He stated firmly while you hummed.

"See? I'll be just fine. I have my soldat" You whispered, melting against his chest. "No one can hurt me when I have my soldat"

Bucky finally relaxed, carrying you off to bed, his metal arm protecting your belly as he pulled the covers over you both. No one would ever take his little widow away again.

3K notes · View notes

ilguna · 2 months ago

Text

☼ tender heart (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; you grew to be close friends with peeta during the quell, so when he comes to district thirteen, you want to see how he's doing. not realizing that finnick is watching every move and hating every moment.

warnings; swearing, torture mention, death mention, talks of strangulation.

wc; 6.7k

The hospital is in complete disarray. There’s so much shouting and movement that you can’t focus on just one thing around you. You watch a doctor, a volunteer, a loved one, a nurse run from one side of the room to the other, scrambling to gather their bearings.

An emaciated woman with shaved hair and scabs is pushed on a gurney, heading toward a private room. It’s Johanna, you recognize her immediately. She always has that scowl on her face, awake or sleeping. You warned her the expression would stick if she weren’t careful. You’d be gratified you’re right if she weren’t in such a bad condition.

Katniss starts to move away from the group of you, heading for a room with a young man sitting on a stool, stripped down to the waist. Gale Hawthorne, of course. He was the first person to volunteer when the rescue mission was finally approved. Katniss has been worrying herself sick over whether or not he would make it back.

Well, they did, thankfully.

She makes it to the doorway before she’s blocked by a nurse who is shaking her head, pointing for her to back up. When Katniss makes no move, the door is slammed in her face, wood rattling against the frame.

“(Y/n)!” A shrill voice shouts, causing you to turn quickly. You’re met with the sight of Annie, she’s barely gotten into District Thirteen’s jumpsuit. The doctor behind her is just finishing the top button when she pushes him out of the way. “Finnick!”

You go to her, a wide smile on her face, arms held out in her direction. “Annie!”

Finnick is right behind you, a hand on your lower back and he guides you to her. She jumps off the bed she’s sitting on, barreling down the open space until she slams into the both of you. You can almost feel the wind leave your lungs on impact, but you can’t help the laughter that escapes you.

You squeeze her tightly, rocking from side to side. The relief finally hits you, tears springing in your eyes. Annie’s your best friend, you knew her before she was reaped, and after you were brought closer together. There are moments when you’re not sure if she feels the same, but it’s times like now when you realize you’d be a fool to think otherwise.

“I’m so happy to see you!” You laugh, giving her a good squeeze before you back away. “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” She nods. “Good.”

“They can’t reach you here, Annie.” Finnick tells her. “You’re safe.”

She nods, looking behind her. Her doctor is standing nearby, a device in his hand. “We have just a few more tests to run, and then we’re done.”

“We’ll stay with her.” Finnick says, taking your hand to bring you with them.

You follow, watching as Annie scoots herself onto the bed. The doctor goes back to doing a series of tests on her. Your eyes wander the hospital, which seems to slowly be collecting itself. Haymitch and Katniss are no longer by the door, so you’re guessing they found their way to Peeta.

He’ll be the one you visit next. The two of you grew to be pretty good friends prior to the Quarter Quell. It turns out you two have a lot more in common than it seems. You might’ve grown up in two different districts, but if you put your backgrounds on paper and ask someone to put it to a face—they’d never be able to.

Everyone was devastated when you saw him on television for the first time. As the weeks grew on, you were sure you’d eventually watch him die. He was withering away, right before Panem’s eyes, and it made you sick knowing Snow was getting exactly what he wanted.

He was killing morale.

Right as you turn back to look at Finnick, offering him a smile, a scream pierces the air. Annie slaps her hands over her ears, burying her head into her knees. You turn, holding on to Finnick as you look behind you. Chaos has erupted, several doctors and nurses run down a hallway and don’t return right away.

“We need help!” A voice shouts.

You let go of Finnick, hand falling to your side as you go to see what it is. You’re blocked off by a nurse just before you’re about to see what it is. She pushes you back by your shoulder.

“I’m here to help.” You tell her, going to push again.

“We’re on strict orders to keep all victors away.” She says. “Please, take a step back.”

A bed driven by an assistant comes flying by, going straight to the commotion. You wait to see what’s happening for a moment, before you begin to back up, thinking they have it under control. That’s when Haymitch comes out from around the corner, eyes wide.

“What is it?” You ask.

He turns to you with raised eyebrows, mouth open as he shakes his head. Finnick appears by your side, hand reaching for yours. You let his fingers intertwine, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Peeta—he just. One second he was fine and the next he was strangling her.”

“What?” You ask, the nurse scurries down the hallway at the news. You step forward to get a look for yourself, finding a medical group gathered together in front of a door.

You watch as Plutarch steps out of the room, shaking his head. His eyes lock on the three of you, motioning for you to go over to him.

“Come on.” Haymitch says, you follow behind him.

“This is one of their techniques.” Plutarch says, looking back into the room.

You’re finally able to get a glimpse, and it’s far from what you were picturing when Haymitch told you what happened. Peeta’s still on the ground, unconscious, while Boggs stands over him, giving orders to other soldiers beside him.

Katniss has been hoisted onto the bed that was being pushed. She’s got a collar around her neck to keep it in place from causing anymore damage. She seems to be awake, Primrose is right beside her, holding onto her hand tightly. Her lips are moving, so you’re guessing she’s telling her what’s happening.

“What did they do to him?” Haymitch asks.

“It’s called hijacking.” Plutarch tells you.

Katniss is wheeled out of the room, her eyes finding the four of you briefly before you’re taken from her line of sight. She’s being brought deeper into the hospital, where all the machines are.

“Hijacking?” Haymitch repeats.

“It’s when they use the tracker jacker venom to manipulate his memories.” Plutarch looks at the concrete floor. “This is what they must’ve been doing while he was in their captivity. The torture likely got worse after the warning he gave us.”

“So, what? Snow made Peeta hate us?”

“Likely just Katniss, but we won’t know for sure until the venom’s out of his system. It could take from hours to days, depending on how much had been pumped into him.” He says, shaking his head.

“What’s going to happen to Katniss?” You ask.

“She’s going to have her throat examined, to make sure that there wasn’t any real damage done.” Boggs says, coming out of the room. They have Peeta in handcuffs, dragging him by his arms down the same way Katniss was brought. “He had a tight grip on her.”

Haymitch shakes his head, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I wouldn’t either.” Boggs says. “They’re going to take him to one of our isolation rooms. They’ll have a few doctors monitor him.”

“How long do you think until they’ll know for sure about Katniss?” Finnick asks.

Boggs shrugs. “They’re going to start the tests on her.”

“We’ll let you two know when they’re done.” Plutarch says.

You nod, “We’ll go and stay with Annie for a bit then.”

Haymitch nods, you split away. Finnick has this slightly absent look on his face, he must be worried about Katniss. The three of you have grown to be pretty close while Annie and Peeta were in the Capitol. You were all terrified of what would happen to them.

While you’re grateful it seems Annie has come out unharmed, it doesn’t make you feel good about Johanna and Peeta’s torture. They knew rebel secrets, Snow was trying to get it out of them. They just took Annie because he knew it would drive you crazy since she’s innocent in all of this. How could she know about a rebel plan if she’s thousands of miles away?

You squeeze Finnick’s hand, reminding him you’re there. He gives you a half-smile, and then his attention turns to Annie. She seems to have dropped her knees, her hands no longer over her ears. The doctor must’ve coaxed her out of a spiral, although, they’re not nearly as bad as they used to be.

Annie seems to be pretty stable. They check her system, confirm she doesn’t have any of the tracker jacker venom in her. They go through her vitals, her respiratory. They bring her to a private room to do a body check to find any cuts, bruises or scabs. She comes out clean, and she’s immediately cleared to be brought to a regular hospital room.

You’re shut out of the room for a while in order to allow her to get some rest, so the two of you end up wandering. A familiar string of swear words brings you down the hall to where Johanna is. She’s livid, batting the doctors and nurses away with a pillow, screaming at them to leave her alone.

When she sees you stand in the doorway, she slams the pillow down on her lap. “Finally! Where the hell have you two been?”

“Annie.” You tell her, leaning against the doorway. “You know, if you let them do their job, they’re more likely to leave you alone.”

“This dumbass nurse has been poking me for the past ten minutes.” She glares at the girl in scrubs. “If you can’t find my veins, find someone who can!”

“If you’d stop moving—”

“Get out!” She shouts, throwing the pillow at her face.

The nurse, fed up with Johanna’s attitude, storms out of the room. She narrowly misses you and Finnick, mumbling something about gratitude. The doctor stands there, staring at Johanna, unsure of where to go next.

“Well?” She demands. “Do you know how to find a vein?”

He nods quietly, going over to her. He manages to find the vein in one go, sets up the machine to monitor her vitals, and then clears the room without a word. You enter after that, sitting in one of the chairs in the corner. You cross your arms over your chest.

“How’s Annie?” She asks, observing her inner elbow.

“She’s good, they wanted us to clear out to let her get some rest.” Finnick says.

“The poor thing’s tired.” She nods. “She was hysterical, you know. It was impossible not to hear her, she was almost as bad as Peeta and I.”

“I’m sorry, Johanna.” Finnick murmurs.

Johanna gives a shrug, putting on that brave face she normally does. On the outside, it seems like it doesn’t affect her, but you all know it’ll be haunting her for the rest of her life. The last thing she wants to be seen as is weak.

“He couldn’t kill me.” She says smoothly. “Even if he wanted to.”

You keep Johanna company for a while, bringing her up to speed on what’s been happening in Thirteen while she was gone. The people she can trust, the people she can’t. The food is mediocre at best, Katniss and Gale’s hunting has been the only reason why there’s been variety in the cafeteria.

It’s a couple hours later when Haymitch sticks his head in the room. “Katniss has a private room, if you’d like to see her.”

“I do.” You say, getting to your feet. “We’ll come back and see you, Johanna.”

“Wish her my best.” Johanna says in that tone of hers, a sarcastic smile follows.

“We will.” Finnick says just to push her buttons.

You leave to follow Haymitch down a series of hallways, bringing you in much deeper than you thought. Katniss’s room is already occupied with quite a few people, so when you join, it feels cramped.

“Hey, Katniss.” You smile, eyes sliding over to her sister next. “And Primrose, of course.”

“Prim is fine.” She gives you a small smile.

Katniss has her lips pressed together, eyes darting around the room to each face. The bruising around her neck has already begun to show, it looks gnarly. If she shows up on camera, it’ll be pretty obvious to the Capitol on what happened. Someone got their hands around her neck. For Snow, it’ll be a sign that his plan worked, but not as well as he was hoping.

“Alright, we’d like a private moment with Katniss, if possible.” Plutarch says, motioning for the doctors to leave. “We’ll press a button if her condition changes.” They nod, not arguing with him, ducking out of the room. He looks at Prim expectantly. “You, too.”

“No. If you force me to leave, I’ll go directly to surgery and tell my mother everything that’s happened. And I warn you, she doesn’t think much of a Gamemaker calling the shots on Katniss’s life. Especially when you’ve taken such poor care of her.” Prim threatens.

Plutarch’s face twists, you suppress a smile, while Haymitch chuckles. “I’d let it go, Plutarch.”

“So, Katniss, Peeta’s condition has come as a shock to all of us.” Plutarch says. “We couldn’t help but notice his deterioration in the last two interviews. Obviously, he’s been abused, and we put his psychological state down to that. Now we believe something more was going on. That the Capitol has been subjecting him to a rather uncommon technique known as hijacking. Beetee?”

Your attention turns to Beetee, his hands are in his lap. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you all the specifics of it, Katniss. The Capitol’s very secretive about this form of torture, and I believe the results are inconsistent. This we do know. It’s a type of fear conditioning. The term hijack comes from an old English word that means ‘to capture,’ or even better, ‘seize’. We believe it was chosen because the technique involves the use of tracker jacker venom, and the jack suggested hijack. You were stung in your first Hunger Games, so unlike most of us, you have firsthand knowledge of the effects of the venom.”

You squint at the ground, trying to catch up with what Beetee’s said. Sometimes you swear he could dumb down what he says, he just chooses not to. Why?—you’ll never know. He’s right though, Katniss did get stung when she dropped that nest on the group of Careers below the tree.

You watched your girl tribute die because she’d gotten stung too many times. She couldn’t flee in time, there was nothing she could do to stop her fate. And since she was your last tribute alive, you and Finnick were pulled out of the Betting Room, instructed to stay in the Tribute Center unless given instructions stating otherwise.

“I’m sure you remember how frightening it was. Did you also sugar mental confusion in the aftermath?” Beetee asks, Katniss closes her eyes and gives a very small nod, agreeing. “A sense of being unable to judge what was true and what was false? Most people who have been stung and lived to tell about it report something of the kind.”

He takes a breath. “Recall is made more difficult because memories can be changed.” Beetee taps his forehead. “Brought to the forefront of your mind, altered, and saved again in the revised form. Now imagine that I ask you to remember something—either with a verbal suggestion or by making you watch a tape of the event—and while that experience is refreshed, I give you a dose of tracker jacker venom. Not enough to induce a three-day blackout. Just enough to infuse the memory with fear and doubt. And that’s what your brain puts in long-term storage.”

Prim shakes her head. “Is that what they’ve done to Peeta? Taken his memories of Katniss and distorted them so they’re scary?”

Beetee nods. “So scary that he’d see her as life-threatening. That he might try to kill her. Yes, that’s our current theory.”

Katniss lifts her arms, burying her face in them. Prim rubs her shoulder, but doesn’t look away from Beetee. “But you can reverse it, right?”

“Um… very little data on that.” Plutarch admits. “None, really. If hijacking rehabilitation has been attempted before, we have no access to those records.”

“Well, you’re going to try, aren’t you?” Prim persists. “You’re not just going to lock him up in some padded room and leave him to suffer?”

“Of course, we’ll try, Prim.” Beetee says. “It’s just, we don’t know to what degree we’ll succeed. If any. My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They’re the ones we naturally remember best, after all.”

“And apart from his memories of Katniss, we don’t yet know what else has been tampered with.” Plutarch shakes his head. “We’re putting together a team of mental health and military professionals to come up with a counterattack. I, personally, feel optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery.”

“Do you?” Prim asks, tilting her head. “And what do you think, Haymitch?”

Katniss very cautiously moves her arms to allow a gap to see Haymitch. His shoulders have sunk. “I think Peeta might get somewhat better. But…I don’t think he’ll ever be the same.”

“At least he’s alive.” Plutarch is losing patience with pessimism. “Snow executed Peeta’s stylist and his prep team on live television tonight. We’ve no idea what happened to Effie Trinket. Peeta’s damaged, but he’s here. With us. And that’s a definite improvement over his situation twelve hours ago. Let’s keep that in mind, all right?”

Katniss chest begins to rise and fall drastically, until she’s gasping for air. Her arms have fallen from her face so she can grab onto the bed, beginning to panic. The news about Peeta’s team has caused this, there’s no question about it.

It’s a matter of seconds before a button is pressed, a team of doctors and nurses infiltrate the room, and Katniss is completely sedated. You’re all shut out of the room, with the exception of Prim, who grips onto the rails of the bed and watches the medical staff help Katniss.

You turn to Plutarch and Beetee. “Do you think your team will land on exposure therapy?”

Plutarch makes a face, weighing this. “Possibly. We can’t really take any risks right now, we don’t want to agitate him.”

“Are we able to see him?”

“(Y/n).” Finnick says, shaking his head.

You place a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to see him face to face, I just—I assume you have him in a room where you can monitor him. I want to see him with my own eyes.”

“You can, but not for long.” Plutarch nods, beginning to start down the hallway.

Beetee and Haymitch go first, you wait until they’ve passed before you go to follow. A tight grip on your upper arm keeps you from leaving. Finnick’s shaking his head.

“We should go see Annie, make sure she’ll be okay for the night.”

You shrug with one shoulder. “I’m sure she’s fine. It’s only been a few hours since we’d seen her last. She was sleeping, remember?”

“Yeah, but there’s not much to see right now with Peeta.”

“So? I want to help them come up with solutions when it comes to Peeta.”

“What solutions do you think you’ll be able to come up with that they haven’t thought of already?”

“Finnick, we’re taken care of Annie all these years, and we had to figure out how to do that. Who’s to say we can’t get a start on Peeta?”

“I’d really rather see Annie. Or go visit Johanna again.”

You pull your arm from him. “Then go see them, I’ll meet you there eventually.”

“Are you two coming?” Plutarch shouts down the hall, they’ve stopped at the turn to make sure you were behind him.

“I don’t want to split up.” Finnick says. “Not right now.”

“Well, I’m going this way.” You tell him, beginning to back away. “Make your choice.”

Finnick seems unhappy with your decision, but goes with you, anyway. Beetee and Plutarch make conversation about Peeta, theorizing if they’ve tried any of the tracker jacker venom on Johanna. It doesn’t seem like it, but they won’t know for sure until they come across something that triggers her.

When you get to see Peeta, it’s through a glass pane. He’s been strapped to a gurney by his wrists and ankles. They’ve changed him into a hospital gown. And if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just a body. The life has been completely sucked out of him.

He continues to look like this for the next couple of days, and as they start to go easier on the sedation, he begins to ask questions. He’s only allowed to be seen by strangers, so they can evaluate his behavior and keep any dangerous memories from resurfacing.

A team of specialists work constantly to plan out a recovery route for him. You go to see him from time to time when your schedule allows. Finnick keeps to Johanna, only going with you when it’s late at night. All he does is ask why you care so much about Peeta, you barely know each other.

You don’t know how to explain to him that it’s like you’d been copy and pasted in District Twelve and the universe changed his gender. You come a tough-love household, where you were left to fend for yourself. In your first Games, your family had no hope you’d win. You have similar values when it comes to caring and kindness and a general outlook on life.

You’d grew especially close since you both had your partners with you in the Quarter Quell arena. Finnick was going in, that wasn’t up for debate. So, you’d gone with him, much to his opposition. The same thing went on for Peeta. It was almost shocking just how in sync your lives were.

At one point, you said it was like he was destined to be your twin. Your best friend.

You can’t explain this all to Finnick without him accusing you of being weird, you’re sure of it. That’s why you don’t bother. You’ve told him you consider Peeta to be one of your friends, the same way you do with Johanna and Annie. And while you’re concerned over their wellbeing, they seem to be operating just fine.

You don’t understand why it’s such a big deal who you choose to visit.

You cross your arms over your chest, listening as Plutarch explains the experiment they’ve decided to go through with. They took your suggestion about exposure therapy into consideration, and they’ve started to start off with a girl named Delly from District Twelve.

So far, she’s been really friendly. She struck up conversation with you as soon as you came in the room, curious on where you’re from and what it’s like in District Four. She’s had all good things to say about Peeta and Katniss and Gale. You’re sure that even if she tried, she wouldn’t be able to say a bad thing about Haymitch, either.

“Katniss!” She suddenly calls out.

You turn to see Katniss coming your way. She looks a lot better than she did that first day. The bruises on her neck have started the process of fading, but it’ll be a long week before they’re gone completely. You’ve visited her a few times while she was bedbound, Prim was almost always there. On one of the stops, you told Katniss that Johanna’s just as much of a firecracker as she was before she left, maybe more, so she’d better be careful talking to her, when she’s allowed.

“Hey, Delly.” Katniss says. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s been a lot of changes all at once.” Her eyes fill with tears immediately. “But everyone’s really nice here in Thirteen, don’t you think?”

“They’ve made an effort to make us feel welcome.” Katniss says, trying to be diplomatic on her opinion. “Are you the one they’ve picked to see Peeta?”

“I guess so. Poor Peeta. Poor you. I’ll never understand the Capitol.”

“Better not to, maybe.” Katniss suggests.

“Delly’s known Peeta for a long time.” Plutarch interjects.

“Oh, yes!” Delly’s face brightens. “We played together from when we were little. I used to tell people he was my brother.”

“What do you think?” Haymitch asks Katniss. “Anything that might trigger memories of you?”

“We were all in the same class. But we never overlapped much.” Katniss shrugs.

“Katniss was always so amazing. I never dreamed she would notice me.” Delly says. “The way she could hunt and go in the Hob and everything. Everyone admired her so.”

There’s a pause as Haymitch and Katniss stare at Delly, maybe it’s something she’s said. That’s when Katniss tears her eyes away to look between you and Plutarch.

“Delly always thinks the best of everyone. I don’t think Peeta could have bad memories associated with her.” She pauses. “Wait. In the Captiol. When I lied about recognizing the Avox girl. Peeta covered for me and said she looked like Delly.”

Haymitch nods. “I remember. But I don’t know. It wasn’t true. Delly wasn’t actually there. I don’t think it can compete with years of childhood memories.”

“Especially with such a pleasant companion as Delly.” Plutarch says. “Let’s give it a shot.”

You all move into the next room, which is called the observation room. There, a ten member team stands ready with clipboards and pens, ready to jot down Peeta’s reaction. There’s a one-way glass and an audio set up to allow you to see and hear everything that will go on.

On the other side of the wall is Peeta, still strapped down on the bed. He seems awake, staring off at something, but he’s got an edge to his expression. He’s not the person he used to be. His fingers constantly move, waving, bending, balling. You can’t imagine how bored he must be.

Delly gets sent through the door, which causes his eyes to widen, and then his face twists, unsure. Delly takes her time crossing the room, not trying to move too fast or step too loud. Once she’s close, she breaks into that smile of hers. “Peeta? It’s Delly. From home.”

“Delly?” He asks. “Delly. It’s you.”

“Yes!” She says. “How do you feel?”

“Awful. WHere are we? What’s happened?”

“Here we go.” Haymitch says, covering his mouth.

“I told her to steer clear of any mention of Katniss or the Capitol.” Plutarch says. “Just see how much of home she could conjure up.”

“Well… we’re in District Thirteen. We live here now.

“That’s what those people have been saying. But it makes no sense. Why aren’t we home?”

Delly bites her lip. “There was… an accident. I miss home badly, too. I was only just thinking about those chalk drawings we used to do on the paving stones. Yours were so wonderful. Remember when you made each one a different animal?”

“Yeah. Pigs and cats and things.” Peeta says dismissively. “You said… about an accident?”

Delly purses her lips, trying to think of a way to work around the question. “It was bad. No one… could stay.” She stops.

“Hang in there, girl.” Haymitch mutters.

“But I know you’re going to like it here, Peeta. The people have been really nice to us. There’s always food and clean clothes, and school’s much more interesting.” She picks up.

“Why hasn’t my family come to see me?” Peeta asks.

“They can’t.” Delly’s tearing up. “A lot of people didn’t get out of Twelve. So we’ll need to make a new life herer. I’m sure they could use a good baker. Do you remember when your father used to let us make dough girls and boys?”

“There was a fire.” Peeta suddenly says, as if he’s known all along.

“Yes.” She whispers.

“Twelve burned down, didn’t it? Because of her.” His face has begun to turn red. “Because of Katniss!” He yanks on his restraints.

“Oh, no, Peeta. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Did she tell you that?” He hisses.

“Get her out of there.” Plutarch orders.

The door to the room slides open, Delly begins to back away to it. “She didn’t have to. I was—”

“Because she’s lying! She’s a liar! You can’t believe anything she says! She’s some kind of mutt the Capitol created to use against the rest of us!” Peeta shouts at her.

“No, Peeta. She’s not a—” Delly tries again.

“Don’t trust her, Delly.” Peeta’s shaking his head, desperate. “I did, and she tried to kill me. She killed my friends. My family. Don’t even go near her! She’s a mutt!”

A hand reaches through, grabbing Delly, pulling her out. The door immediately swings shut, but Peeta’s still shouting. The recovery team is scribbling down notes, writing every word he’s said. You watch as Haymitch and Plutarch escort Katniss out of the room, you loosely follow.

They stop in the empty hallway, where Katniss covers her face with her hands, taking deep breaths to calm herself. When she feels better, her hands drop. “I can’t stay here anymore.” She says. “If you want me to be the Mockingjay, you’ll have to send me away.”

“Where do you want to go?” Haymitch asks.

“The Capitol.”

“Can’t do it.” Plutarch shakes his head. “Not until all the districts are secure. Good news is, the fighting’s almost over in all of them but Two. It’s a tough nut to crack, though.”

“Fine.” She says. “Send me to Two.”

They begin to walk away together, but Haymitch notices you keep your feet firmly planted where you are. He lets them go off, backtracking to come to you. “What are you thinking?”

You glance behind you, back to the room where Peeta is. Maybe they’re taking the wrong approach. You can’t avoid talking about Katniss and the Capitol forever. In fairness, he’s only been back for about a week now. But they haven’t allowed anyone else from Twelve to see him, much less any other victors that could help him.

“What do you think would happen if he saw me?”

Haymitch thinks this over for a moment, eyebrows slowly drawing in. You were sure he would outright reject the idea, but he shrugs. “You did have some things in common.”

“Do you think he’s too riled up?”

“They already administered a sedative. You’d probably have to wait before going in.”

“Then I’ll wait.” You tell him.

Haymitch keeps you company in the hallway, the two of you talk about Annie’s recovery and what that could mean for Peeta. If it’s even the same. Haymitch is afraid that Peeta will never be the same person as he was before, especially with the route the Capitol went with. They wanted to damage him, and they’ve pretty much succeeded.

However, the same was thought for Annie. After she won, there was a period of time where she wouldn’t even come out of her house. She didn’t want to see you or Finnick or Mags—only her family. Except, her family wasn’t ready to be taking care of her like that. You had to step in, even though it was far from what Annie wanted, but it turned out for the better.

It could be the same for Peeta.

About an hour after they administered the sedative, Peeta’s slowly coming back to reality. Plutarch has made his way back, as well. He’s got Katniss set up with a hovercraft to leave in a couple hours. She’ll say goodbye to her family and spend a nice couple weeks in Two, where they’re having a hard time cracking down on loyalists.

When you re-enter the observation room, you’re met with a lot of pushback from the recovery team. They think it’s too early to try again, and you might end up causing more damage than you intend to. Once Haymitch tells them that you grew to be pretty close during the Quarter Quell, they back off, but they’re still doubting your ability to do any real good.

“Try to keep conversation about Katniss to a minimum.” Plutarch tells you.

“Sure.” You tell him, but you know you’ll go wherever the conversation allows. If Peeta wants to talk about Katniss, you’ll let him.

You go in through the door, Peeta lifts his head to look in your direction. He’s not completely off of the drugs quite yet, they thought it would be easier if he was still drowsy. He squints at you, as if he’s trying to put a name to your face, but then he relaxes when you get closer.

“(Y/n).”

“Hey, Peeta.” You smile. “Long time, no see. I was sure we were going to have some big reunion when you got here.”

He scoffs, laying his head back. “You don’t have to lie to me, (Y/n).”

“Lie to you about what?” You ask him.

“I know you wanted me locked up after what I did to her.” He spits the word, but he’s not nearly as worked up as much.

“It’s a precaution for your safety.” You tell him, crossing your arms. “You know, I did try to see you as soon as you got here, but you weren’t ready for visitors.” You lift one hand to motion to his restraints. “You still aren’t.”

“I’m not crazy.” He accuses. “You’re just as brainwashed as they are.”

“I never said you were crazy.” You tell him. “And come on. Who just spent the last month and a half in the Capitol?” You tit your head down at him. “Have you seen yourself?”

“Yeah, right there.’ He justs his chin at the one-way glass. There are twelve eyes staring back at you that you can’t see. You wonder if he knows that. “Is she back there?”

“No, she left after you freaked poor Delly out.” You tell him. “You might want to try to apologize the next time you see her. She was really happy to see you.”

“How do you know Delly?” he asks.

“Who doesn’t know Delly?” You retort. “That girl has talked my ear off since I met her.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Right.”

“Listen, I hear you have a lot of trouble remembering the way things happened.”

The smile vanishes. “No, she just manipulated you all into thinking she’s the victim.”

“You’re both victims.” You correct him. “We’re all victims of the Capitol, of the war.”

Peeta takes time to think this over, letting it turn in his mind. This is what you want, for him to take his own feelings and compare it to what you’re saying. “How could she manipulate all of us when we watched every minute of what happened?” You challenge. “It doesn’t make sense. She hasn’t spoken to every single person in District Four, and we’re still right behind her.”

His voice is quiet when he speaks. “She tried to kill me in our Games. She—they are working together, against me.”

“Who?”

“Haymitch and the mutt.”

“How were they working against you, if you made it out alive?” You counter, leaning over the bed a little bit to get him to look at you. “Haymitch made a promise to you during the Quarter Quell. Don’t you remember what that was?”

“No.” He says bitterly. “I’m sure it was stupid of me.”

“You asked him to save Katniss over you. And he kept his word, didn’t he? Katniss is safe.”

“I never should have seen Haymitch that night.” Peeta’s shaking his head. “I never should’ve volunteered. They could’ve figured it out themselves.”

“Maybe so, but do you think you could’ve lived with it at the time?” You ask him.

There’s a pause. “No.”

“No.” You agree. “You loved Katniss so much before you went to the Capitol, that you were willing to risk your life for her. The Capitol has stolen that from you, and you’re just going to let it happen?”

“She doesn’t care.” His face twists.

“The night you were rescued, she went into the hospital looking for you.” You tell Peeta. “You, not anyone else. What does that say to you?”

Peeta’s eyes fall. “She wanted to kill me.”

“She wanted to see her fiance again. She wanted to hold him.” You shake your head. “I think while you’re here, you should take some time to think this through. Katniss loved you in her own cruel way. The two of you have been put into an impossible situation.”

“You don’t get it.”

You take a step back. “Maybe I don’t. I’ll see you later, Peeta.”

“Wait—you’re leaving?” He pulls on the restraints, trying to sit up.

“I can’t be here all day. I have other people to visit.”

“Like who?”

“Like Annie. Like Johanna.” You shrug. “Think, Peeta. You have plenty of time to do it. There must be something that doesn’t make sense in the memories the Capitol has given you.”

You leave the room, finding Finnick in the next when you enter. His mouth is twisted, like it usually is when he’s angry. Your eyebrows twitch, trying to remember if you’ve given him a reason to feel this way, when Plutarch and Haymitch come toward you.

“He responded well, (Y/n).” Haymitch nods.

“How did you do that?” Plutarch asks.

“I think the sedative helped.” You admit. “I think if you bring Delly in here again, you should let him control the way the conversation goes. And he needs to be told about what happened in District Twelve. I don’t think it’s a good idea to withhold that from him.”

“Maybe we’ll try that tomorrow.” Plutarch says, looking at the recovery team. “He’s had an exciting day today, he needs time to wind down and think.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” You start toward Finnick. “I’ll catch you later, I think it’s about lunch time.”

Haymitch waves. “We’ll see you.”

As you step back into the hallway, you reach for Finnick’s hand, wanting to be close to him. Your fingers barely graze his skin before he pulls away, opting to cross his arms instead.

You stare at him for a moment. “What’s the matter with you?”

“If you want to hold hands, maybe you should go see Peeta.”

“Are you serious?” You stop walking, hands on your hips. “Finnick, really?”

He turns, looking you over. “That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t even touch Peeta.” You motion back down the hallway. “I leaned over to get his attention.”

“That’s not what it looked like.” He waves you off, going back to walking.

“Quit it.” You snap, following behind him. You grab his sleeve, twisting him sharply to face you. “That’s not what happened.”

“You two seem pretty close.”

“We have the same background.”

“Uh huh.” Finnick tries to pull his arm away.

You yank him back, causing him to almost trip. He leans over just long enough to allow you to grab his face, planting a hard kiss to his lips. When you pull away, Finnick stares at you.

“How long have we been dating?” You ask him. “And you think I would just leave you for Peeta? What sense does that make, really?”

“(Y/n), you’ve been blowing me off to go see him, what else was I supposed to think?”

You pull him in close, wrapping your arms around him. “I love you and only you.” You tell him, he hugs you back. “I’m sorry I haven’t been with you.”

“No, I’m sorry.” He murmurs. “You’re just trying to help, it’s what you do best.”

You pull back. “You should come with me next time. We might be able to do some good.”

“Maybe.” Finnick says, taking your hand in his. “For now, I think we have a date aboveground.”

You stand up straight. “Really? You convinced them?”

Finnick gives you a cheeky smile. “Only the best for my lady.”

You laugh, pulling him in for another kiss. “I love you, Finnick.”

“I love you, honey.”

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