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kathaelipwse · 11 days ago

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Only the Dead Get Standing Ovations | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Detective!Choi Seungcheol x Detective!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 23,459 words (crazy, I know-) Reading Time: 1 hr 30-ish mins

Genre: Crime Thriller | Romance | Psychological Mystery

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Forced Partners | Protective Male Lead | Mutual Pining | Slow Burn

Warnings: Graphic violence, serial murders, blood/gore, psychological manipulation, PTSD themes, language, obsessive behavior, death mentions. MINORS STAY AWAY.

Synopsis: When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Note : For the girlies who love slow-burn tension, protective men who don’t know how to express feelings unless death is involved, and a female lead who isn’t afraid to pull the trigger—this is for you. She’s his match in every way. His enemy, his partner… and maybe his only weakness.

The very air of Seoul, a city typically a symphony of kinetic energy and relentless ambition, had begun to thicken with something far more sinister than its usual summer humidity. For a month now, an insidious dread had been slowly suffocating its vibrant pulse. Two murders, eerily precise in their execution and chillingly similar in their macabre presentation, had been reported. Each victim, found in a disturbingly artful pose, was accompanied by a cryptic, handwritten note and an unsettling, crudely carved wooden mask, a blank stare frozen on its expressionless face. The pattern was undeniable, yet baffling. The police force, usually a bastion of unwavering efficiency, found itself stalled, its usual methodical pace disrupted by the sheer, unsettling artistry of the crimes. The killer, or perhaps a team, operated with a chilling precision, a tactical brilliance that mocked conventional investigative methods. This unnerving sophistication, this calculated, almost theatrical signature, had pushed the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency to its limits.

It was this very deadlock that led Captain Kim, a man whose face was usually etched with the weariness of decades in law enforcement, but now showed a hint of genuine desperation, to make a decision he knew would be met with an explosive clash of personalities. He stood before the two most brilliant, yet utterly incompatible, minds in his precinct. On one side, Detective Choi Seungcheol, a man whose reputation for solitary, almost reclusive brilliance preceded him. His sharp intellect was undeniable, his methods meticulous, but his demeanor was perpetually guarded, his eyes often carrying a distant, analytical gleam. On the other, Detective Y/N, equally gifted, equally incisive, but with a fiery streak of independence and an uncanny intuition that sometimes bordered on the prophetic. You and he did not merely "not get along"; you actively, spectacularly, and consistently disliked each other. Your antagonism was legendary, a simmering rivalry forged not out of personal animosity, but out of an infuriating, almost mirror-image equality. You had both attended the prestigious Seoul University of Criminology, each a prodigious talent in your own right. Your academic careers had been a relentless, neck-and-neck race, culminating in an unprecedented tie for "Best Student of the Year"—a shared triumph that, far from fostering camaraderie, had only solidified your mutual, competitive disdain. He couldn't bear your presence, a fact he rarely bothered to conceal, and you, in turn, found his stoic confidence, his occasional cutting remarks, and his general air of superiority utterly insufferable. You never trusted him, a feeling that had only intensified with every forced interaction since your university days.

Now, Captain Kim’s booming voice, laced with a weariness that cut through the tension, delivered the unwelcome news. "You two," he stated, his gaze sweeping from Seungcheol’s rigid posture to your own defiant stance, "are on this case. Together. These tactics, these plans, these methods… they’re too complex, too nuanced. I believe only the two of you possess the unique, albeit clashing, minds required to crack this." The words hung in the air, a mutual sentence of professional purgatory, a shared nightmare that neither of you had signed up for. The implications settled like a heavy cloak: the serial killer was operating with a level of psychological depth and strategic planning that demanded the combined, albeit begrudging, brilliance of the city’s two top, and most adversarial, detectives.

Just hours after that fraught meeting, the city unveiled its latest, most gruesome horror, a macabre performance staged for an unwitting audience. The call had come in just as the first hesitant rays of dawn touched the city’s skyline, painting the grey concrete in hues of bruised purple and pale gold. You arrived on scene to find the flickering blue and red lights of emergency vehicles already painting the grimy facade of the abandoned Grand Theatre. The building itself, once a beacon of entertainment, now loomed like a forgotten mausoleum, its ornate entrance marred by graffiti, its windows like vacant, staring eyes. Inside, the scene was a grotesque tableau. A body, meticulously arranged, its limbs unnaturally wired like a grotesque puppet on strings, hung suspended in the cavernous, dust-mote-filled silence of the main stage.

The stage lights, usually dormant, seemed to have been rigged to cast a single, haunting spotlight on the victim, highlighting the horrific spectacle. A cracked, wooden mask, identical to those found at the previous crime scenes, obscured its face, a chilling void where a human expression should have been. The scene was meticulous, almost theatrical in its gruesome artistry, a silent, damning indictment of a killer with a flair for the dramatic. A profound shiver, cold and unwelcome, ran down your spine as your eyes landed on the quote carved deeply and deliberately into the victim's forehead: “She didn’t know her role.”

The silence of the theatre, usually filled with the echoes of past performances and forgotten applause, was amplified by the sheer horror of the discovery. Every creak of the old floorboards, every gust of wind through the broken windows, seemed to carry a whispered accusation, a chilling sense of being watched. The entire city was shaken; the media ran rampant with wild theories, speculating endlessly, and the cop/detective parliament found itself in an unprecedented state of panic, demanding answers the force simply didn't have. All the police had to go on, the only tangible proof the killer seemed to leave, was that unsettling wooden mask. Everything else was meticulously, frustratingly, absent.

Seungcheol was already there, a rigid silhouette against the faint light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, his back to you as he surveyed the grotesque tableau. You could practically feel his distaste for your presence radiating from him, a tangible force in the cold, dusty air, even before he turned slightly, his eyes narrowing, catching your gaze with an almost imperceptible flick of his head. "Well, Y/N," he drawled, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, "looks like we're stuck. Again. In a damn theatre, of all places." His tone implied that your presence somehow made the situation even more absurd.

"Don't worry, Seungcheol," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion, professional stress, and your innate irritation at his very existence. "I can handle being stuck with a brick wall. Just try not to get in my way, or stand there looking… stoic and superior. Some of us actually work on cases, you know."

He ignored your jab, his attention already back on the body, his gloved hands beginning their meticulous examination, his mind undoubtedly cataloging every minute detail. "No signs of forced entry. No visible struggle. The scene is disturbingly clean, almost sterile. This wasn’t a spontaneous act of violence. This was… planned. Every single aspect. Every wire, every angle of suspension. It’s almost surgical in its precision." His voice was analytical, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the horrifying display before them. "The previous victims, the same calculated approach. No haphazardness, no frenzy."

You circled the suspended body slowly, your mind already racing, your instincts screaming, connecting the nascent dots, ignoring the tremor that ran through you as you noted the intricate wiring around the victim's limbs. "The previous victims… similar staging, similar masks, similar cryptic notes. This isn't just about a murder, Seungcheol. This is a performance. A grotesque, meticulously directed show for an unseen audience." You took in the empty seats, the silent stage, the single spotlight. "He's not just killing them; he's presenting them."

"A performance for who?" he scoffed, his gloved fingers meticulously tracing the lines of tension on the wires, examining the ligature marks. "A deranged artist with a flair for the dramatic? A frustrated playwright finally getting his audience?" He clearly found your dramatic interpretation a little too… theatrical, a little too close to the speculative side of things for his logical, fact-driven mind. "We're dealing with a killer, Y/N, not a theatre critic."

"No," you countered, your voice gaining conviction as a wild yet strangely fitting theory began to coalesce in your mind, a sudden flash of insight amidst the horror, like a spotlight illuminating a hidden corner. "This isn't an artist; it's a director. Someone utterly obsessed with control, with guiding the narrative of his own twisted play. He’s not just killing people; he’s ‘casting’ them. And these victims? They’re his reluctant cast members, forced into roles they never auditioned for, roles they clearly ‘didn’t know.’" You gestured around the vast, empty theatre, encompassing the silent rows of seats and the vast, dark wings. "He’s using this space as his stage, his backdrop. He sees life as a play, and he’s the one holding the script, orchestrating every scene, every 'act.' And these notes? They’re his personal, scathing reviews of their ‘performances,’ his ‘stage directions’ to the audience, telling us how they failed their ‘roles.’ And the masks? They’re more than just props; they’re deeply symbolic. Perhaps to hide the true identity of his victims from the audience, or more chillingly, to symbolize how he sees them – as interchangeable players, faceless and devoid of individual identity in his twisted, grand production. He’s not killing people; he’s taking them off the stage. The chances might be less, yes, far from the most probable, but what if he's not just killing people, but 'casting' them? What if these are all 'failed' actors, or people who didn't 'play their part' in some earlier, unknown ‘production’? Perhaps an actual play that flopped, or a group of people who betrayed someone. He’s correcting their ‘bad acting,’ as he perceives it, forcing them into a final, fatal role." You looked at the wired limbs. "He's making them puppets in his grand, horrifying finale."

He just stared at you, his silence more unnerving than his usual arguments. His gaze, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. You braced yourself for the inevitable rebuttal, the logical dismantling of your theory, the scathing critique that usually followed your more unconventional insights. But it never came. He simply turned back to the body, a new intensity in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment that your theory, however outlandish, held a disturbing resonance. The only proof they had was this unsettling wooden mask, and your theory, however unlikely, offered a lens through which to examine everything else.

Later that afternoon, back at the precinct, the air in Captain Kim’s cramped office was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the palpable frustration of a case spiraling out of control. Other detectives, their faces grim and defeated, sat around the worn conference table. You presented your theory, detailing the chilling parallels you saw between the current string of crimes and a twisted theatrical production, painting the killer as a malevolent "Director." You felt the skepticism in the room, the hushed whispers of your colleagues, their eyes darting to Seungcheol, expecting him to deliver the final, logical blow to your "imaginative" idea. Instead, to your profound shock, he supported it. He didn't just passively agree; he actively defended your reasoning, lending it the weight of his own calculated intellect, adding layers of logical deduction that bolstered your more intuitive leaps.

“While it’s undeniably unconventional, Captain,” Seungcheol stated, his voice steady and authoritative, effectively silencing the murmurs of doubt from other detectives gathered around the table, “Detective Y/N’s theory of a ‘director’ rather than a mere serial killer, while speculative, aligns remarkably well with the pervasive theatrical elements of these crime scenes. The meticulous staging of the bodies, the ‘roles’ carved into the victims’ flesh, the specific wording of the notes, the distinct wooden masks… it all strongly suggests a mind preoccupied with a narrative, with a perverse sense of dramatic structure. It gives us a new framework to consider, a potential motive beyond simple random violence or a personal vendetta. It’s a leap, but one worth taking, given the complete lack of other viable leads. The pattern suggests a level of premeditation and an underlying message that a simple 'artist' or random killer wouldn't typically possess.” He even went so far as to elaborate, "The 'she didn't know her role' could imply a deep-seated grievance, an adherence to a specific script the killer believes these victims deviated from. It connects the victim directly to the killer's narrative, elevating them from mere casualties to characters in his 'play.'"

You felt a reluctant, almost forced "thank you" escape your lips as you left the captain's office, the word barely audible, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of your gaze towards him. The tension between you was still a palpable, prickly third presence, a static charge in the air, a silent hum of competitive energy. Yet, for a fleeting, unsettling moment, a sliver of grudging, professional respect had edged its way in, a tentative acknowledgment of shared intellect and a surprisingly complementary approach. You had anticipated his scorn, but instead, you received his unexpected, almost clinical, defense. It was a bizarre development, adding another confusing layer to your already strained relationship.

Back at the theatre, now that you had Captain Kim's begrudging blessing to pursue your joint theory, you and Seungcheol returned to the scene, each moving with a focused intensity that bordered on obsessive. The puzzle deepened, growing more twisted with every passing moment. You meticulously re-examined every inch of the stage, the wings, the backstage corridors, the dusty dressing rooms, and even the exterior, including the back gate and alleyways. Despite the elaborate staging and the gruesome nature of the murder, there wasn't a single trace of blood anywhere – not on the stage, not in the wings, not in the dusty dressing rooms, not even at the back gate where a body of this size would undoubtedly have been moved into the building. The victim’s body, suspended above you, was visibly leaking, a slow, steady seep of crimson staining the fabric beneath, yet the entire theatre was pristine, unnervingly clean, as if no violence had ever marred its aged grandeur.

How could a human possibly carry a bleeding body without dropping any blood at all? It defied logic, defied physics, creating another chilling layer to the enigma. You exchanged a look with Seungcheol, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the impossible. This wasn't just clean; it was surgically, impossibly clean. It implied a level of control, of planning, that was almost supernatural. And the note… “She didn’t know her role.” The initial reports had confirmed the girl wasn’t an actor at this particular theatre, or any theatre for that matter. Or was she?

Had she been involved in some amateur production? Had she been cast in some personal drama the killer had concocted? The questions hung heavy in the air, echoing the unsettling silence of the abandoned stage, a silent, chilling challenge from a killer who seemed to mock your every step, daring you to understand his twisted play. The wooden mask, the only tangible evidence, seemed to stare back at you, holding its secrets close. The hunt, you knew, had just begun.

The first horrifying act of the "Director" had concluded, leaving the city in a state of suspended terror and two mismatched detectives at a reluctant stalemate. The immediate aftermath of the theatre discovery had been a flurry of activity, forensic teams swarming the scene, every potential shred of evidence meticulously cataloged, however scarce. But the core of the puzzle remained maddeningly elusive. The victim, the girl found suspended like a grotesque puppet, was quickly identified.

Initial reports poured in, painting a picture of a young woman named Ji-eun, who had only recently moved to Seoul, barely a week prior. She had arrived with aspirations, her dreams tied to the vibrant theatrical scene, preparing to begin an acting course at a small, independent theatre not far from where her body was found. The timeline was grim: she had gone missing since Sunday, her disappearance initially dismissed as the typical fading act of a new arrival getting lost in the city's labyrinthine anonymity. Her body was discovered on Wednesday, a horrifying three-day window of unknown terror.

Seungcheol, ever the pragmatist, had immediately gravitated towards a more conventional line of inquiry. While he had begrudgingly acknowledged your "director" theory in front of Captain Kim, his analytical mind still sought a simpler, more personal motive. He believed that the theatrical staging might be a distraction, a smokescreen for a murder rooted in a personal vendetta, a jealous rival, a jilted lover, or a debt gone wrong. He spent hours, days, buried under a mountain of Ji-eun's personal history: her phone records, social media accounts, financial transactions, a sparse list of contacts in Seoul, her family history back in her hometown.

His office, usually a beacon of sterile order, became a chaotic landscape of printouts and notepads. He was looking for any crack in her life that could explain the violence, any personal grievance that might have escalated into such a theatrical and brutal end. He meticulously cross-referenced names, addresses, and any fleeting connections, convinced that if he just dug deep enough, the true, human motive would surface, proving his initial instincts correct and disproving your more outlandish, 'performance'-centric theory. He was utterly convinced this was a one-off, a deeply personal murder, not the work of a serial killer on a city-wide spree.

He was about to be proven devastatingly, horribly wrong.

The fluorescent hum of the precinct office felt particularly oppressive that afternoon, heavy with the stale scent of coffee and unspoken tension. You had been sifting through similar data, but with a different lens, trying to find commonalities between Ji-eun and the previous two victims, no matter how disparate their backgrounds seemed. Your own leads were equally cold, equally frustrating. The phone rang, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet. You answered, your voice crisp, and listened, your expression slowly draining of color. Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk, a silent understanding passing between you. He paused mid-sentence, a pen hovering over a file, sensing the shift in the air, the sudden, cold dread that radiated from you. You hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence. Your face was grim, a mask of cold certainty.

"The church," you stated, your voice low, cutting through the silence of the office, "another body. We need to go. Now."

The scene at the historic Gwanghwamun Church was even more disturbing than the theatre. If the first victim was a puppet, this one was a twisted, blasphemous marionette of faith. The second victim, a man in his late fifties, was strung up like a praying marionette, suspended from the towering rafters of the nave, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in eternal supplication. But the grotesque details told a different story.

His knees had been meticulously shattered, not cleanly broken, but mangled, as if deliberately destroyed to prevent him from ever truly kneeling. His mouth, distended and unnatural, was grotesquely filled with hardened wax, sealing his final prayers or screams within him. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old wood, a cloying sweetness that made your stomach clench. Outside, the usual throngs of tourists and worshippers were held back by a hastily erected police tape, their horrified murmurs a low hum against the distant city sounds.

Seungcheol, despite his initial professional detachment, was visibly disturbed. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his gloved hands as he pulled on a mask, his movements precise but uncharacteristically quick. He was the first to step inside the crime scene, past the uniformed officers, his trained eyes immediately scanning, dissecting, absorbing every horrifying detail. The subtle disturbance in his usual composure didn’t go unnoticed by you.

He moved around the suspended body, a silent, grim silhouette against the stained-glass windows, inspecting the ropes, the mangled knees, the wax-filled mouth, his mind already racing to connect this new nightmare to the last. The sheer depravity of it, the intimate violation of a sacred space, seemed to shake even his formidable composure. He didn’t utter a word, but his silence was louder than any scream.

Your gaze, meanwhile, swept the periphery, your instincts guiding you away from the immediate horror of the body itself. You knew the killer was theatrical, that he left messages. Your eyes scanned the shadowed corners, the dimly lit alcoves, the high ledges. And then, a glint. Small, almost imperceptible, tucked away in a shadowed recess near a confessional booth, barely visible against the dark wood. A tiny, almost insignificant flicker of light. You moved towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Hidden, cleverly disguised against the ornate carvings, was a miniature camera, its lens still pointed directly at the scene. He had filmed the entire thing. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you. This wasn't just about killing; it was about documentation, about forcing an audience to bear witness.

Back in your shared office, the silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft whir of the computer tower. The camera, carefully extracted and tagged as evidence, was now connected, its internal memory being downloaded. The raw footage began to play, filling the screen with grainy, horrific clarity. Ji-eun, the first victim, had been alone on the stage. This new victim, a man, was struggling, praying, his desperate movements growing weaker. The screams, muffled by the wax in his mouth, were still agonizingly clear. The sickening sounds of struggle, the glint of blood, the methodical, chilling precision of the killer as he worked – it was all there, laid bare.

You watched it once. And again. And again. Each time, your eyes scanned for the slightest detail, a flicker of something missed, a hidden reflection, a tell-tale shadow. The killer remained frustratingly out of frame for the most part, a disembodied force, a presence rather than a person. The angle of the camera was deliberate, chosen to maximize the terror of the victim's plight while preserving the killer's anonymity. The tension in the small office was suffocating. Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation, closing his eyes briefly as a specific moment replayed on the screen, his mind struggling to process the sheer depravity. The killer, in the grainy footage, moved closer to the victim, his arm extending into the frame for a brief moment as he meticulously pinned a note to the victim’s chest.

It was a fleeting glimpse, perhaps only a second, but your trained eyes caught it. Your breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that made Seungcheol open his eyes, startled. "Seungcheol!" you exclaimed, pointing frantically at the screen, your finger practically jabbing the monitor. "There! His arm! On the outer area, just as he pins the note to the victim's chest. A distinct burnt patch… it looks like a birthmark. On his left arm!"

He snapped his eyes open, his gaze immediately darting to where your finger pointed. He rewound the footage, frame by excruciating frame, pausing at the exact second you indicated. A sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment of your keen observation. The detail was minute, easily missed in the chaos of the scene, but undeniable once pointed out. It wasn’t a scar; it was too irregular, too organic. A birthmark. A unique identifier. Hope, cold and fragile, sparked in the room.

His gaze hardened, a new determination setting in. Without a word, he immediately pulled out the history papers of both victims, spreading them across the desk. Ji-eun's sparse background, the second victim's equally unremarkable life. This had to be the joint link, the connection that had eluded them, the invisible thread that tied these disparate souls together into the killer's twisted narrative.

He started cross-referencing their personal histories, their professional lives, their social circles, not just for a personal motive now, but for any possible overlap, any shared experience, any common thread that could lead them to a single individual with a distinct birthmark. The chilling realization settled over both of you: this killer was far more messed up, far more dangerous, more strategically deranged than they had initially imagined. He was not just killing; he was carefully selecting, choreographing, documenting.

The hours blurred into an overnight paper trail, fueled by stale coffee and the mounting pressure from Captain Kim. Sleep was a distant, unreachable luxury. The small office became your claustrophobic world, filled with the flickering glow of computer screens, the rustle of paper, and the oppressive weight of your shared burden. The argument, when it finally erupted, was inevitable, a predictable explosion born from exhaustion, stress, and the inherent friction between your personalities.

"We're going in circles, Seungcheol!" you snapped, slamming a file shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet room. Your voice was strained, your temper fraying. "We have the footage, the victims, the masks, the methods, now even a distinguishing mark, but nothing concrete on him! We have a birthmark, but no name, no face!"

"And what do you propose, Y/N?" he retorted, his voice dangerously low, edged with his own deep exhaustion and a growing frustration that mirrored your own. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "A magic trick? A psychic vision? This isn't a show, this isn't a performance for us! It’s a murder investigation, and we're dealing with a ghost who leaves behind meticulously curated scenes but no tangible footprint!"

"It's clearly a show for him!" you shot back, rising from your chair to pace the small office, your movements agitated. "The 'acts,' the 'performances' he references in those notes, the way he orchestrates these scenes! It's all part of his twisted narrative, his obsession, and we're stuck here, desperately trying to understand the script when we don't even know the prologue! And you, with your focus on 'personal motives,' wasted valuable time!"

"And what about your 'director' theory, Y/N?" he countered, his voice dangerously quiet now, filled with a biting sarcasm. "How’s that working out for us now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance'? You said the chances were low, but you stood by it. Well, it's not giving us a name now, is it?"

The words stung, igniting a familiar spark of anger, resentment, and a strange, vulnerable hurt within you. You stopped pacing, turning to face him, your chest heaving with barely suppressed fury. "And your 'personal vendetta' theory? How's that working out for you now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance' that you now grudgingly admit to? We're no closer to finding him!"

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and the raw tension of shared stress. You stood, chests heaving, eyes locked in a furious battle of wills, a silent war waged in the heart of the police station. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion that was almost palpable. The argument had drained the last vestiges of your energy, leaving only a heavy silence, punctuated by your ragged breaths.

Your gazes, once sharp with defiance, softened, then lingered. A moment stretched, held too long in the quiet hum of the office, the unspoken tension of shared stress, overwhelming pressure, and an unwilling, yet undeniably potent, partnership hanging heavy between you. It was more than just professional frustration; it was the raw, human toll of staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder, with the one person you were least prepared to acknowledge as an equal, or even as something more. The night, thick and starless outside, seemed to press in on the small room, holding its breath.

-----

Two weeks bled into nothing. Two weeks of relentless, soul-crushing work since the horror at the Gwanghwamun Church, and yet, the case remained as elusive as smoke. The precinct hummed with a desperate, unproductive energy, every lead dissolving into a dead end, every forensic analysis yielding no new revelation. The burnt patch, the birthmark on the killer’s arm, was a frustrating phantom, a distinct detail that remained maddeningly unattached to any known individual.

You and Seungcheol had chased down every remote possibility, sifted through databases of reported burn victims, scanned security footage from the vicinity of the church, but the Director remained a ghost, his chilling performance echoing in your minds with no clear identity. The tension from your argument in the office still lingered between you, a palpable, unspoken barrier. It hadn’t exploded again, but it hadn’t dissipated either; it was a tight, invisible wire you both navigated, working with it rather than through it, a constant hum beneath the surface of your strained collaboration. The exhaustion was a living entity, heavy in your bones, blurring the edges of your vision, making every thought feel like pushing through thick mud.

You had been hunched over the cold steel of your desk, eyes glazing over a cascade of digital files, for what felt like an eternity. The fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous lullaby of despair. Your head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against your temples. The figures on the screen began to swim, blurring into an indistinguishable mass of data.

Your stomach, hollow and protesting, let out a pathetic growl. You finally pushed away from your chair, the screech of metal on linoleum a jarring sound in the quiet office. You stretched, your muscles screaming in protest, feeling the stiffness that had set in after countless hours of immobility. The windows showed the first faint blush of dawn, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of soft grey and pale pink. Six in the morning. You had been here all night, again.

"Cheol," you mumbled, your voice raspy, a mere whisper in the vast, empty office. He was still at his desk, his formidable concentration unbroken, a profile etched in grim determination. You could see the subtle slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rubbed his temple, betraying his own profound exhaustion. "I need food. My brain's turning to mush. We've been here all night. Do you want to grab something to eat? The CVS is probably open."

He grunted, a noncommittal sound, not looking up from the documents scattered across his desk. "I'm not hungry. You go."

Right on cue, as if betraying his stoic facade, his stomach let out a loud, indignant rumble, echoing through the silent office like a clap of thunder. He froze, his hand still hovering over a file, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You couldn't help it. A small, tired giggle escaped your lips, a fragile bubble of humor in the oppressive atmosphere. It was a genuine sound, unexpected from you in his presence, and it seemed to crack the rigid shell around him. He slowly pushed back his chair, the wheels grating softly, avoiding your amused gaze. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare moment of vulnerability. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the last two weeks, he rose and strode out of the office, feigning indifference, and you followed, the lingering giggle still threatening to escape.

The CVS store was only a few blocks away, nestled in the main, bustling artery of Seoul. Even at this early hour, a few vendors were beginning to set up, their low voices a distant murmur. The walk was silent, the hum of the city a low backdrop to your shared fatigue, the morning air crisp and cool against your faces. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not yet. It was still heavy with the remnants of past arguments, with the unspoken burden of the case, and the strange, unwilling proximity that had been forced upon you. You kept a cautious distance, aware of his presence beside you, acutely aware of the space that still existed, a testament to your long-standing rivalry.

As you approached the convenience store, the bright neon glow of its sign a beacon in the pre-dawn light, a chilling sight stopped you both dead in your tracks. On the other side of the road, on a deserted sidewalk, lay another body. A stark, horrifying tableau presented itself on the cold pavement.

This was the third victim since y'll took the case. A young woman, later identified as a politician’s daughter, was found posed disturbingly in a public square at sunrise, her lifeless form arranged with a grotesque, almost artistic precision. The details were stomach-churning: her lungs, meticulously removed post-mortem, were not just placed, but arranged like macabre roses on her lap, a final, horrifying flourish from the killer. The scene was devoid of chaos, an eerie stillness that spoke of deliberate, unhurried action.

But it was the note, carefully pinned to her clothing, that sent a cold, agonizing shiver down your spine, colder than the morning air. Your name, stark and undeniable, stared back at you: “Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?” The words were a direct address, a personal challenge, pulling you from the role of investigator into the terrifying spotlight of the victim. This wasn't a warning; it was an invitation to his next performance, and you were the unwilling star.

The wooden mask was there again, sitting eerily beside the body, its blank eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul. But this time, unlike the church scene, there was no camera, no evidence of filming, no obvious trace of his presence beyond the note and the mask. He was adapting, changing his stage directions.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his face hardening into a mask of grim resolve. He hadn't needed to read the note aloud; your gasp, your sudden rigidity, had told him everything. His gaze flickered from the note to you, then back to the mask, then to the vast, indifferent city around you. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Y/N was a risk. A profound, protective instinct, raw and unbidden, surged through him, eclipsing every past animosity. The killer might go for you next. The Director was no longer an abstract entity; he was a direct threat, specifically targeting you.

That entire day unfolded under the shadow of this chilling realization. Seungcheol’s protective instincts, usually buried beneath layers of professional detachment, were on full display. He refused to let you out of his sight. When it was time for you to go home and freshen up, he insisted on driving you, the car ride permeated by a tense silence. He waited in the living room while you quickly showered and changed, his presence a heavy, unwavering anchor in your apartment. He then drove you straight back to the office, ensuring you weren't alone for a single moment, not even for the short commute. Only after you were safely back at your desk did he finally return to his own place to freshen up, returning within the hour, his eyes constantly tracking your movements.

You worked together, side-by-side, a silent, almost desperate efficiency guiding your actions. You tried to stay strong, to project the image of the unshakeable detective, but the words on that note echoed in your mind, a chilling mantra. You found yourself spacing out, your gaze unfocused, your thoughts drifting to the terrifying implication of being the killer's next target. Every time your concentration wavered, Seungcheol, with an almost uncanny awareness, would subtly shift, his presence a quiet anchor, his gaze a silent vigil, making sure you didn't leave his sight, making sure you didn't slip too far into the terrifying abyss of fear. He’d push a file closer, offer a quiet observation, anything to pull you back to the task, to keep you grounded.

The night deepened, wrapping the city in a cold, anxious blanket. The office was quiet again, most of the other detectives having retreated, leaving only you and Seungcheol amidst the dim glow of computer screens. The exhaustion was absolute, but the fear was sharper, more immediate. You still felt the tremor in your hands, the faint vibration that ran through your core. Seungcheol, having packed up his own things, gestured for you to do the same.

"This guy’s getting too close, Y/N," he said, his voice low, a rough rumble that seemed to vibrate with suppressed tension. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were shadowed with a concern that was almost palpable. "Let me drive you home. Let me stay." It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet, firm declaration.

You hesitated. Every fiber of your being, every ingrained instinct for self-reliance and the desperate need to maintain your professional distance, screamed to refuse. To push him away. To insist you were fine. But the cold dread in your stomach, the image of your name on that note, the raw, visceral terror of being watched, overridden your stubborn pride. You knew. You knew, with a certainty that was both humiliating and profoundly unsettling, that it wasn't safe for you. Not tonight. Not after this. The words died on your tongue, replaced by a barely perceptible nod. "Fine," you murmured, the word a reluctant admission of vulnerability, "just… fine."

He parked in front of your apartment building, the familiar facade offering little comfort. Inside, he moved with a quiet, methodical efficiency. He locked every door, every window, testing them twice. Then, to your surprise, he began to subtly "set stuff around" – a chair angled just so against the door, a stack of books on the windowsill, mundane objects strategically placed to make noise if anyone tried to enter. It was a simple, old-school detective trick, a primal way to create an alarm system, and it spoke volumes about his deep-seated unease, his primal need to protect. You watched him, your fear a tangible weight in the air. You were visibly shaken, your body trembling with a fine tremor that you couldn't quite control. You knew you had signed up for this life, for the risks, for the nightmares. You knew you had to stay strong, and you were trying. Every ounce of your being was dedicated to holding yourself together, to not break down.

He finished his silent work, the apartment now a fortress, however flimsy against a determined killer. He turned to you, his gaze soft, surprisingly tender, devoid of judgment. He didn’t say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes, didn't try to reason with your fear. He simply reached out, pulling you gently into his arms. For the first time, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no pushing away. His embrace was firm, comforting, a silent, solid anchor in the terrifying storm that raged within you. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart, a stark contrast to your own frantic rhythm. In that quiet, terrifying night, surrounded by the unspoken threat outside, Seungcheol just held you. And for the very first time, the two of you didn't push each other away. You just leaned into the warmth, into the unexpected, raw comfort of his presence, seeking solace in the one person who understood the terrifying reality you now faced.

-----

The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into a month, an indistinguishable stretch of relentless work and a strange, forced intimacy. The chilling note, "Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?" had fundamentally altered the dynamics between you and Seungcheol. The grudging professional respect, born from shared peril, had deepened into an unspoken agreement of constant vigilance. He was always there. Sometimes, exhausted beyond measure, you found yourself waking in his bed, the morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds. Other times, he would crash at your apartment, his presence a silent, reassuring anchor in the suffocating dread. Always together. The city breathed a collective sigh of relief as a full month, and then another week, passed without a new murder report. But for you and Seungcheol, this silence was not peace; it was fishy, a deceptive calm before an inevitable, more terrifying storm. The Director was merely orchestrating a long intermission, a strategic pause before his next, grander act.

You stirred from a deep, dreamless sleep, the unfamiliar weight of an arm locked around you. Seungcheol. He was still deep in slumber beside you, his breathing soft and even, his face, usually so taut with concentration, softened by sleep. Despite your lingering, deeply ingrained aversion to him, a flicker of warmth, an unsettling sense of comfort, spread through you. You still told yourself you hated him, despised him, that your rivalry was as fierce as ever. But in the quiet intimacy of his apartment, after weeks of shared terror and sleepless nights, you were undeniably, profoundly glad for his unwavering presence. He was a shield, an unexpected bulwark against the rising tide of fear.

Carefully, meticulously, you began to slip out from under his arm, your movements as silent and practiced as a shadow. You shifted your weight, easing your leg from beneath his, then slowly, painstakingly, lifted his arm from your waist. He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, a soft sound, and you froze, your heart seizing. But he didn't stir further. Once free, you replaced your body with a pillow, tucking it gently against him, a silent, almost tender gesture that surprised even yourself. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, its screen glowing dimly in the pre-dawn light.

Your fingers instinctively navigated to the video file. The footage from the Gwanghwamun Church. The second victim, the praying marionette. You replayed it, your eyes scanning, your mind still searching for the invisible thread, the missed detail. The grainy images flickered across the screen: the suspended body, the killer's fleeting appearance, the chilling moment he pinned the note. You watched the killer's arm, the distinctive burnt patch, hoping for a clearer glimpse, a new angle. And then, as the killer moved slightly, just before he pinned the note, your gaze drifted past his arm, past the victim, to the background. The background. It looked… terrifyingly similar. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool morning air snaked down your spine. Your breath hitched. You’d been there before. Once. Years ago, with a colleague during a mundane, forgotten investigation. It was the underground base of the Premium Theater. A forgotten, derelict space back then, filled with dust and cobwebs, devoid of any hint of life. But now, it was imprinted on the killer's video.

You looked over at Seungcheol again. He was still asleep, a deep, exhausted sleep he hadn't known in weeks, dark smudges under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights. He looked vulnerable, peaceful. You didn't want to disturb him, didn't want to break that rare moment of reprieve. You had to go. Alone.

You dressed quickly, pulling on the first practical clothes you could find, your movements swift and decisive. The urgency propelled you forward, an insistent whisper in your mind. Before you left, another strange, almost involuntary impulse guided your hand. You leaned down, hovering over him, then softly, tentatively, pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was fleeting, barely a touch, but the gesture itself was profound. Why did you care about HIM? You hated him… you despised him. The thoughts swirled, a chaotic storm in your mind, battling against the undeniable, quiet warmth that had settled in your chest. You pushed those confusing, contradictory thoughts away, shoved them deep down, and walked out the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silent apartment.

The underground space beneath the Premium Theater was exactly as you remembered it – dark, damp, and smelling of decay and forgotten dreams. But it was also horrifyingly transformed. The dust had been disturbed, the silence replaced by an unsettling aura. The walls, once bare concrete, were now lined with photos of the victims, each one meticulously arranged, posed like macabre rehearsals. Ji-eun, the first victim, a ghostly ballerina. The man from the church, a silent, suffering saint. The politician's daughter, a broken, beautiful sculpture. Each tableau a chilling re-enactment, captured in unsettling detail. And then, your breath hitched, a gasp caught in your throat. Among the gruesome collection, a photo of you. Posed in a way that mimicked the other victims, starkly stood out, a terrifying prophecy. He had been watching you. Watching your every move, planning your "role" in his twisted play.

Your gaze fell upon a stack of leather-bound journals. The killer’s journal. You pulled on your gloves, making sure to be meticulously careful, aware that every surface could hold a clue, a fingerprint, a strand of hair. You opened one. His handwriting was precise, almost elegant, but the words were a descent into madness. He called himself “The Director.” His entries detailed his "castings," his "rehearsals," his "performances." And then, a line that made your blood run cold, confirming your worst fears about your inclusion: “Detective Y/N, you remind me of Act I.” You were not merely a witness; you were part of his narrative, a recurring character from his past. You quickly snapped photos of the journal entries, of the photos on the walls, making sure to capture every detail.

As you moved around, your detective's eye scanning for any physical evidence, you noticed something else, something equally unsettling: no blood. Just like the first scene at the theatre, just like the church, there wasn't a single drop anywhere on the floor, on the walls, no staining, no residue. It was impossibly clean, defying the gruesome nature of the crimes. How was he doing this? Was he moving the bodies after they bled out? Or was there a ritual, a method, that prevented any spillage at the final staging? The question gnawed at you, amplifying the sense of unreality.

You were crouched, examining a collection of carefully labeled props, when a sudden, jarring sound echoed through the underground space. The heavy metallic clang of the access door being violently shoved open. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Seungcheol. His face was a mask of unadulterated fury, his eyes blazing, a dangerous storm brewing behind them. He took one look at you, alone in the killer’s lair, and surged forward. Before you could even utter a sound, he grabbed your arm, his grip like a vice, and practically dragged you out of the theatre’s underground base, his movements swift and brutal. He didn't slow, didn't release his grip until he had you in the backseat of his car, shoving you in with a force that left you momentarily breathless. He slammed the door shut, rounded the car, and got into the driver’s seat, slamming that door too. The engine roared to life, and he drove straight to the office, the tires squealing as he pulled away from the curb.

The car ride was silent, a suffocating silence more terrifying than any shouting. You tried to explain, to tell him what you'd found, the photos on the walls, the journal, your own picture. "Seungcheol, I found his journal! He calls himself–"

"Shut it, Y/N," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut you off mid-sentence. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You tried again, a desperate urgency in your voice. "But Seungcheol, my picture! He's been watching me, he called me 'Act I'–"

This time, he didn't bother with words. He merely flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, his eyes burning with an intensity you had never witnessed before. It was a single, furious glare, but it was enough. It sliced through your words, through your bravado, through your very will to speak. You had never seen him so angry, so utterly consumed by a cold, terrifying rage. The glare was enough to shut you up, your throat closing, your words dying, leaving only the frantic beat of your heart.

He parked the car haphazardly outside the precinct, not bothering to find a proper spot. He strode in, his movements stiff and purposeful, ignoring everyone who greeted him, the other detectives and uniformed officers quickly parting ways as they sensed the dark cloud hanging over him. You followed him, feeling the curious, slightly alarmed stares of your colleagues, mumbling apologies on his behalf as you walked into your shared office. He didn't even bother to turn around, his back to you, rigid with fury.

"Seungch–" you began again, desperate to explain, to make him understand that your solo venture had yielded crucial information.

He didn't even bother to let you finish. Before you could take another step, he spun around, his face a mask of incandescent rage, and you were suddenly, violently, pinned to the wall. His hands were on either side of your head, bracing against the cold plaster, effectively trapping you. His body was close, too close, vibrating with suppressed fury. He exploded, his voice a low, furious growl that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Y/N?! What the hell were you thinking?! You went in without backup! Without telling anyone! You could have walked into a damn trap! He’s looking for you, he's targeting you, and you just waltz in there like a sacrificial lamb?! Do you have a death wish?!" His grip on your chin was firm, almost bruising, forcing your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze burned into yours, a desperate, raw anger. "Don't you ever go without a fucking backup, Y/N!"

You nodded, wide-eyed, shocked by the sheer intensity of his anger, by the raw fear that laced his voice. The force of his words, the desperation in his eyes, rendered you speechless. He held your chin for another long moment, his chest heaving, his anger slowly, visibly deflating, replaced by a profound weariness he let go of your chin. His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath ragged, a desperate sigh escaping him. And then, the confession, raw and unbidden, slipped out, a broken whisper that seemed to echo in the sudden, heavy silence of the office. “I can’t do this case if you’re not breathing, Y/N….”

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. All the anger, the rivalry, the professional distance, seemed to melt away, leaving only a startling vulnerability. His admission, stark and painful, spoke of a fear far deeper than any professional concern. Your hand, almost instinctively, reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, your touch gentle, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion he had just laid bare. The moment hung there, thick with unspoken feelings, with the sudden, terrifying realization of what his words truly meant, what your connection had become.

BACK TO WORK.

The unspoken command hung in the air, a necessary return to the grim reality. You pulled away slightly, gently, your hand still lingering on his head for a moment before dropping. Your eyes met, a shared understanding passing between you that bypassed words. The moment of raw vulnerability had passed, but something fundamental had shifted.

You began to speak, your voice steadier now, recounting everything you saw in the underground theatre. "He calls himself 'The Director.' The walls are lined with pictures of the victims, posed like rehearsals. And my picture, Seungcheol. He has a picture of me, posed like them. And in his journal… he wrote that I 'remind him of Act I.'" You showed him the photos you’d taken on your phone, the eerie tableaux, the chilling journal entries. "And there was no blood, Seungcheol. Just like the theatre. No blood at all in the entire space."

You were back at work, the cases and evidence spread out before you, the computer screens casting their pale glow over your faces. The facts, grim and undeniable, were laid bare. But the feelings between you two were anything but orderly. They were a messy, tangled knot of fear, anger, grudging respect, and a newly acknowledged, terrifying tenderness. The boundaries had blurred, irrevocably. The Director's play had just taken an unexpected, deeply personal turn for both of you.

The weeks that followed the chilling encounter in the Premium Theater’s underground base, and Seungcheol’s raw, unexpected confession, had been a tense, volatile truce. The boundaries between you had irrevocably blurred, replaced by a complex tapestry of professional obligation, shared fear, and a nascent, terrifying tenderness that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. The Director’s chilling game, however, had gone quiet. A full month and a week had passed without a new murder, a lull that felt less like peace and more like the ominous silence before a storm. You and Seungcheol had worked relentlessly, poring over every detail of the killer’s journal, every photo, every piece of fragmented evidence, trying to decipher his twisted "Acts" and his personal connection to your past. The silence was unnerving, an agonizing wait for the curtain to rise on his next, unpredictable performance.

That night, the quiet was shattered. Not by a phone call to a distant crime scene, but by a frantic, breathless shout from just outside the precinct. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth, a cruel twist of the knife. The killer hadn't chosen a remote, theatrical stage this time; he had chosen the very doorstep of law enforcement.

A fourth victim was found, not dead, but left alive—barely. He lay crumpled in the narrow alleyway directly behind the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency building, a grim, defiant tableau just steps from the very heart of the investigation. The air was thick with the scent of fear and something metallic. You and Seungcheol were among the first officers to reach him, pushing through the stunned onlookers and uniformed police. He was a man in his late twenties, his body contorted in a way that suggested agonizing torture, yet his eyes, wide with terror, still held a flicker of life. He was bleeding, heavily, from multiple lacerations, but it was his posture, his hands reaching out as if grasping for a lifeline, that spoke of a deep, psychological torment. He was a survivor, a witness, and therefore, an immediate, invaluable, and terrifying lead.

You dropped to your knees beside him, Seungcheol mirroring your action, both of you keenly aware of the urgency, the fragile thread of life clinging to the man. Your medical training kicked in instinctively; you assessed his breathing, his pulse, the worst of the wounds. "Paramedics! Now!" Seungcheol's voice, usually so controlled, was sharp with urgency. As a medic worked to stabilize the man, your eyes locked onto his face, desperate for any information. His lips moved, barely, a faint rasp against the harsh whisper of the night air. You leaned closer, straining to hear, your ear almost touching his trembling mouth. He was trying to speak, desperate to convey a message before the darkness claimed him.

He whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified gasp, each syllable a monumental effort, “He… he said… I was off-script…”

The words were barely audible, but they hit you with the force of a physical blow. "Off-script." The Director. This was his language, his lexicon of terror. Seungcheol, leaning in from the other side, heard it too. His eyes, already grim, darkened further. The message was clear, chillingly so: this victim had failed the Director’s expectations, had deviated from his meticulously planned performance. He was a testament to the killer's escalating cruelty, a live message meant to terrorize not just the city, but you.

Back in a hastily secured interview room at the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. The paramedics had done their best, but the victim's condition was critical, his life hanging by a thread. He was delirious, his body wracked with pain and shock. He mumbled incoherently, fragments of terror, but his whispered message, "off-script," resonated with unnerving clarity in your minds.

You and Seungcheol stood, leaning against a cold metal table, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the lingering coppery tang of blood. The sheer audacity of the killer, leaving a victim barely alive right behind police headquarters, was a slap in the face, a direct challenge.

"He's escalating," you stated, your voice low, your gaze fixed on the closed door behind which the survivor lay. Your mind was racing, trying to process this new, terrifying development. "Leaving him alive… it's not a mistake. It's a statement. A deliberate choice."

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. "A message to us. To the entire department. To you." His eyes flickered to yours, the unspoken weight of the last note, your name, hanging between you. "He's getting bolder. More confident."

"Sloppier, maybe?" you countered, running a hand through your hair, a nervous habit. "Taking more risks? Leaving a live witness? That's a huge gamble, even for him. Or is it a calculated risk? A way to prove his superiority, to show he can do anything, even under our noses?" You paced a few steps, the arguments forming in your head. "If he leaves a live witness, it means he's either incredibly arrogant, or he thinks the message itself is more important than the risk of being caught."

"Arrogance, certainly," Seungcheol murmured, his gaze distant, processing. "But perhaps not sloppiness in the way we usually perceive it. This isn't a slip-up; it's an escalation of his 'performance.' He’s not just killing his ‘actors’ anymore; he’s now publicly humiliating them, making an example of them. He’s pushing the boundaries, testing us, taunting us. He wants us to see his work, to hear his message directly. It feeds his ego, his 'Director' complex."

You stopped pacing, nodding slowly. "So, the 'off-script' line isn't just about the victim's failure; it's about our failure too. He's telling us we're not following his script. He knows we're close, or he thinks we're close enough to understand his twisted meaning. He's turning up the heat."

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the interview room. A nurse's frantic cry. The door burst open, and a junior officer stumbled out, his face ashen, gagging. You and Seungcheol exchanged a look of pure dread.

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step towards the room, a horrifying, visceral sound erupted from within – a sudden, wet gurgle, followed by a sickening thud. Then, silence. A terrible silence.

You and Seungcheol reached the doorway simultaneously, pushing past the frozen officers. The scene inside was a nightmare. The survivor, in a desperate, final act, had seized a piece of broken equipment – a medical clamp, a discarded shard of something – and had plunged it into his own throat. He lay on the floor, convulsing for a brief, agonizing moment. And then, he stilled.

The worst part: the sudden, violent surge of blood. It erupted from his throat, a thick, dark geyser that sprayed outwards, a horrifying crimson arc against the sterile off-white walls. Both you and Seungcheol, standing closest, were caught directly in its path. The hot, sticky liquid splattered across your faces, your clothes, your hands. It dripped from your hair, ran down your cheeks, stinging your eyes. The metallic tang filled your nostrils, overwhelming everything else.

The shock was absolute, primal. The sight of a life, so recently clinging to a fragile thread, extinguished so brutally, so deliberately, and the sickening sensation of the victim’s own blood soaking into your skin, left you reeling. The air was thick with the silent screams of the traumatized junior officers, the hushed whispers of horror from the paramedics, and the profound, gut-wrenching despair that permeated the room.

That brutal, self-inflicted act, the blood still wet on your faces, left Seungcheol and you, and indeed the entire department, fully, utterly disturbed. It was a violation not just of the victim, but of every single person who witnessed it. The weight of it was suffocating. The killer had managed to reach inside their very sanctuary, their place of supposed safety, and orchestrate a final, devastating act of despair, turning their only live witness into another casualty, another ghost.

The Captain’s office was a cold, sterile box, the polished table reflecting your grim faces. Captain Kim sat opposite you, his expression a tight mask of disapproval and deep frustration. The news of the survivor's suicide, the bloodbath in the interview room, had spread like wildfire through the department, eroding morale and confidence. His gaze was sharp, accusatory, landing heavily on both you and Seungcheol.

"This is unacceptable," he stated, his voice low, but vibrating with barely suppressed fury. "A live witness, murdered inside our own building, under our own watch. This is a complete failure, Detectives. A catastrophic failure." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "I put my faith in you two. I chose you despite your… historical differences, because I believed you were the only ones who could crack this psychopath. But now…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, the full weight of his disappointment pressing down on you both. Then, he delivered the ultimatum, his voice steely, devoid of any leniency. "If you don't find this killer, if you don't bring him in, and soon, I will have no choice. I will be forced to give this case to someone else. Regardless of your past achievements, regardless of your so-called 'unique insights.' This cannot continue. The city is in a panic, the media is demanding answers, and we are losing control."

You and Seungcheol stood side by side, heads bowed, silent. There was nothing to say. No excuses, no deflections. The shame, the frustration, the deep, abiding failure to protect the victim, weighed heavily on both your shoulders. You simply nodded, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the immense pressure, the ticking clock. The case, your careers, perhaps even your lives, now hung in the balance.

The city felt colder that night, heavier, burdened by the day’s horrors. You were back at your apartment, the silence inside a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed the precinct. The first thing you did was strip off your blood-splattered clothes, the sticky, cold feel of it on your skin making your stomach lurch. You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you, scrubbing frantically, trying to wash away not just the blood, but the memory, the chill of it seeping into your very bones. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, but the phantom touch of that final, horrifying spray lingered.

You emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, feeling raw, exposed, and utterly, profoundly exhausted. The tremor you had felt earlier was now a full-blown shake, your hands trembling uncontrollably, your knees threatening to buckle. You walked into the living room, intending to find some clean clothes, but froze. Seungcheol was there. He had let himself in, probably with the spare key you’d given him weeks ago, an unspoken agreement in the face of the killer’s targeting of you. He was sitting on your sofa, still in his blood-stained clothes, staring blankly ahead, his face pale and drawn, his own shock palpable.

He must have heard you. He turned, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes immediately catching the uncontrolled trembling in your hands, the pallor of your skin, the vulnerability in your stance. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you, his expression softening from its earlier, grim mask. He slowly pushed himself up from the sofa, his movements stiff, and walked towards you.

Without a word, he reached out, gently taking your shaking hands in his. His grip was firm, warm, a stark contrast to your own icy fingers. Your hands were still visibly trembling, the tremor echoing throughout your body. He held them, not trying to stop the shaking, but simply offering a steady anchor. His eyes, dark with shared trauma, met yours.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, barely above a whisper. It was an unexpected kindness, a profound understanding that cut through all the layers of your professional rivalry, all the years of competition. He wasn’t asking you to be the unshakeable detective, the impenetrable mind. He was simply acknowledging your pain, your fear, your humanity. He was telling you it was okay to break, just for a moment, in his presence. The words were a balm, a quiet permission to simply feel the terror that had been building inside you.

You didn't answer, couldn't. You just looked at him, your eyes wide, unshed tears blurring your vision. He held your gaze, his own eyes mirroring the exhaustion, the horror, the deep weariness. The tremor in your hands slowly, imperceptibly, lessened, not because the fear was gone, but because you were no longer fighting to hide it.

That night, the cold reality of the case, the horrifying image of the survivor's last act, pressed down on you both. The argument with the Captain, the chilling ultimatum – it all converged into an unbearable weight. You lay together in your bed, not speaking, the silence a shared understanding of profound trauma. He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around you, and you instinctively curled into him, burying your face against his chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady rhythm, a comforting counterpoint to the racing pulse in your own ears. He smelled faintly of the hospital, of blood, and something uniquely Seungcheol even after the shower – his scent maybe his perfume or whatever it was, despite everything, had become strangely comforting. He had become comforting. And you knew you were falling.

You didn't fight it, didn't question it. You simply clung to the warmth, the solid presence beside you. His fingers gently stroked your hair, a soft, soothing gesture. Neither of you said anything about the shift, the collapse of your long-standing animosity. The exhaustion was too deep, the shared trauma too raw. For the first time, you didn't feel alone against the creeping dread of the Director. You didn't push each other away. Instead, you found a strange, desperate solace in the close proximity, the quiet comfort of shared fear and unspoken longing. Cradled in his arms, you both finally succumbed to sleep, finding a fragile peace in the darkness, side by side. The Director's game had indeed escalated, but so had the bond between the two detectives tasked with stopping him.

The fragile peace found in each other's arms, a desperate solace against the terror of the man who had killed himself, and was brutally short-lived. The shared warmth, the quiet comfort, evaporated with the first rays of the dawn, replaced by a cold dread that clung to your skin. You woke before Seungcheol, the weight of his arm still a familiar anchor around you, but your mind was already racing, the recent horror of the survivor’s suicide burning vividly behind your eyelids. The Captain’s ultimatum, his icy disapproval, echoed in your thoughts. You knew the clock was ticking, not just on the case, but on your very involvement.

You disentangled yourself from his embrace, carefully, so as not to disturb his heavy sleep. He had barely rested in weeks again, and even this brief reprieve felt stolen, precious. You moved silently through the apartment, the early morning quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city beginning to stir. The lingering metallic tang of blood seemed to cling to everything, a phantom scent that wouldn't wash away.

You were halfway through preparing a rushed, lukewarm coffee, trying to gather your thoughts before the onslaught of another grueling day, when the call came. It wasn’t a precinct alert, not a general broadcast. It was a direct call to your secured line, bypassing the usual channels, hinting at an urgency, a personal gravity that made your blood run cold even before you answered. You picked up, your voice tight, sensing the shift in the universe around you. The voice on the other end was clipped, strained, an officer you knew well, but whose tone was now laced with an almost disbelieving horror.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stripping the air from your lungs. Fifth murder. The victim's name, whispered grimly, resonated through the phone, vibrating in your bones. Retired Detective Lee Chang-min. Your mind reeled. Detective Lee. Not just any retired detective. He was a legend, a mentor to so many, a towering figure in the police academy. But more than that, he was Seungcheol’s old mentor. The man who had guided his first steps in the force, who had championed his quiet brilliance, who had been a surrogate father figure in his formative years. The one person Seungcheol spoke of with uncharacteristic warmth, a rare glimpse into the fiercely guarded corners of his heart.

A choked sound escaped your throat. You didn’t even think. You just ran. Ran to the bedroom, throwing open the door. Seungcheol was still asleep, a peaceful, unsuspecting silhouette against the pale light. You reached for him, shaking his shoulder roughly, the words tumbling out of you in a strangled gasp. "Seungcheol! Wake up! It's… it’s Detective Lee. He’s… he’s gone. Murdered."

His eyes snapped open, a sudden, disoriented clarity in their depths. For a moment, he didn't comprehend, his mind still clouded by sleep. But then, the raw, unvarnished horror on your face, the tremor in your voice, slowly registered. He bolted upright, his mind catching up to the devastating truth. "No. No, it can't be. Lee-sunbaenim?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief.

You nodded, tears already stinging your own eyes, a profound empathy overwhelming you. You had seen the worst of humanity in this job, but this was different. This was personal, a direct, cruel blow aimed squarely at him. The Director wasn't just killing actors; he was destroying the support system of those trying to stop him.

The crime scene was a muted horror, a stark contrast to the theatrical flamboyance of the previous ones. It was Lee’s small, unassuming apartment, quiet, almost reverent in its stillness, save for the hushed, grim movements of the forensic team. The body lay on the worn rug of his living room, no wires, no grand suspension, but a chilling intimacy in the setting. It felt less like a stage and more like a final, private execution.

Seungcheol broke down. He saw his mentor, lying there, lifeless, and a guttural cry tore from his throat. It was raw, unadulterated grief, a sound of pure agony that you rarely heard from anyone, least of all from the perpetually controlled Choi Seungcheol. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, oblivious to the other officers, oblivious to everything but the crushing weight of his loss. His face was contorted, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with a fury so profound it seemed to vibrate the very air. He buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with violent sobs, each one a testament to the depth of his bond with the man who lay before him.

You didn't hesitate. You dropped to your knees beside him, wrapping your arms around his shaking frame. He was rigid at first, resisting, his body taut with pain and disbelief. But you held him tighter, pulling him against you, letting him lean into your embrace. You felt his body shake, the tremors transferring to you, mixing with your own rising anguish. You held him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, meaningless reassurances, offering what little comfort you could against the overwhelming tide of his despair. His tears soaked your shoulder, hot and relentless. He clung to you, his grip desperate, as if you were the only anchor left in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis. For the first time, all walls between you crumbled, replaced by the raw, undeniable humanity of shared grief and desperate need. You were no longer just colleagues; you were two shattered souls clinging to each other in the face of unspeakable horror.

A detective, grim-faced, approached, holding a small, folded piece of paper. The killer’s signature. You gently disentangled yourself from Seungcheol, who remained slumped against the wall, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths. The officer handed you the note. It was personal, chillingly so. Addressed directly to Seungcheol, a cruel mockery of the mentor’s legacy: “He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.” It was a direct declaration of war, a promise to dismantle Seungcheol, piece by painful piece, starting with the very foundations of his training, his identity. The Director was not just avenging; he was indoctrinating, claiming Seungcheol as his next, most crucial, character.

The rest of the morning was a blur of interviews, forensics, and the numbing efficiency of police procedure. Seungcheol remained largely unresponsive, a hollow shell. He answered questions mechanically, his eyes distant, his grief a heavy shroud around him. You handled the rest, directing the teams, coordinating the search for new leads, all while keeping a constant, watchful eye on him. You felt the raw edge of your own emotions, but you pushed them down, focusing on the task, on being strong for him, even as your own heart ached with a profound sense of injustice.

As the afternoon wore on, a different kind of dread began to settle. You realized Seungcheol was gone. He had simply disappeared from the precinct, slipping away unnoticed in the controlled chaos. A cold knot formed in your stomach. You overheard a hushed conversation between two junior officers near the coffee machine. "…think he went to that place again. The one near Gangnam…"

A terrible certainty washed over you. That place. You knew exactly which one. The club. The same one he'd frequented since your university days, a dark, pulsing escape from the pressures of life, where he would drown his sorrows in anonymity and cheap whiskey. He hadn't been there in months, not since the case began, not since… since your forced proximity. But now, with the devastating loss of his mentor, you knew he would seek oblivion there. The memory of his vulnerability earlier, his shattered composure, filled you with a desperate urgency. This wasn't just about finding a missing detective; it was about saving a man on the brink.

The club was exactly as you remembered it – dark, loud, reeking of stale beer and desperation. The pulsing bass vibrated through the floor, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet despair you carried. You pushed through the throngs of dancing bodies, your eyes scanning the dim corners, the crowded bar. And there he was. Slumped at a secluded booth, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, his tie askew, his usually immaculate hair falling across his forehead. His eyes, when he finally looked up at you, were bloodshot, unfocused, clouded by alcohol and raw, incandescent pain.

You walked straight up to him, your expression grim. "Seungcheol. We're leaving. Now."

He squinted at you, a slow, drunken smile spreading across his face, devoid of mirth. "Y/N? My knight in shining… well, something. Came to rescue the damsel in distress, eh?" His voice was slurred, laced with a bitter sarcasm that cut deep.

"Don't be an idiot," you said, reaching for his arm. "You're coming home. You're drunk. You're not stable."

He pulled his arm away, his eyes suddenly flashing with a dangerous anger, fueled by grief and liquor. "Stable? Stable?! My mentor is dead, Y/N! Murdered! By that bastard! And you want me to be stable?! What kind of machine do you think I am?!"

You grabbed his arm again, firmer this time. "A detective. And a human being who needs to mourn, but not like this. Not here." You began to pull him up, but he resisted, a surprising strength in his drunken state.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, pushing you away with unexpected force. He stumbled, almost falling, but caught himself, bracing against the table. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a raw, profound despair. "He taught me everything, Y/N. Everything! And I couldn't protect him. The Director… he's just playing with us. He's right. He taught me wrong. I'm a failure." His voice broke on the last word, choked with self-loathing.

You stared at him, your heart aching with a pain that wasn't entirely your own. The grief, the self-recrimination, the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability in his eyes was overwhelming. He wasn't the impenetrable Seungcheol you knew. He was a broken man, exposed and raw.

"You are not a failure, Seungcheol," you said, your voice low, trying to reach through the drunken haze, through the wall of his despair. "This isn't on you. This is on him. And we will get him."

He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that held no humor. "Will we? He's rewriting me, Y/N. He said so. 'I'll rewrite you.' And he's starting with erasing everyone I care about." His gaze sharpened, locking onto yours, fueled by alcohol and a desperate, confused longing. "Maybe… maybe this is what he wants. To break me down. To make me… like him."

The tension in the booth was suffocating. He leaned in, his face close to yours, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath. His eyes, usually so clear and controlled, were wild, a desperate fire burning within their depths. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "what it's like… to lose everything. To feel so helpless. So… alone."

And then, fueled by grief, by alcohol, by the raw, unspoken longing that had been building between you for weeks, the tension exploded into a rough, breathless kiss. His lips crashed down on yours, desperate, uninhibited, tasting of whiskey and tears. It was a chaotic, almost violent embrace, born of despair and a desperate need for connection. He pulled you closer, his hands grasping your face, his fingers tangling in your hair, deepening the kiss, pouring all his anguish into it.

For a moment, you responded, lost in the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it, the desperate heat, the raw emotion. It was primal, visceral, a moment divorced from logic or consequence. But then, a cold clarity cut through the haze. This wasn't him. Not truly. This was his grief, his drunken emotions, his shattering pain seeking an outlet, a comfort, any comfort. This was not the confession of a clear mind, not the delicate blossoming of a conscious choice. This was regret, shame, and unspoken longing, warped by alcohol and overwhelming trauma. You knew. You knew this might be his drunk emotions, and acting on them now would only deepen the regret for both of you later.

With a sudden, decisive surge of strength, you pushed him off. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, confused, the daze of alcohol mixing with a dawning realization of what he had done. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began, leaving behind a profound silence, thick with shame and unspoken words. His face, still flushed from the alcohol, was now etched with a raw, mortified regret.

You stared at each other across the small booth, the pulsating music of the club a distant, meaningless thrum. The unspoken longing that had simmered between you for so long, now brutally exposed in that rough, breathless moment, hung in the air, heavy and painful.

You finally broke the silence, your voice tight, strained. "We're leaving." Your tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. You grabbed his arm again, this time he didn't resist. He allowed you to half-drag, half-support him out of the chaotic club, into the cool, biting night air.

The car ride back to your apartment was a suffocating silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, replaying the scene, the kiss, the raw exposure. You pulled into your building's parking lot, the familiar space offering no comfort. You helped him stumble into your apartment, guiding him towards the sofa. He mumbled something, a broken apology, but you didn't acknowledge it. You simply helped him lie down, throwing a blanket over him, and turned away.

That night, the bed felt cold, empty, a vast expanse of loneliness. You slept on the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort. The memory of his lips on yours, rough and desperate, was branded onto your mind, a bitter reminder of a boundary crossed, of emotions unleashed in a moment of utter vulnerability and despair. The shame was suffocating, the regret profound. You couldn't sleep, your mind replaying the scene, the stark realization that you were teetering on a precipice, not just with the case, but with the man sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, on your sofa. The Director's game was not only about victims; it was about unraveling the minds of those trying to stop him, twisting their emotions, and throwing them into chaos. And in that moment, he had succeeded, leaving behind not just a dead mentor, but a shattered, complicated dynamic between the only two people who could stop him.

-----

The first light of dawn, pale and hesitant, crept through the blinds of your living room, illuminating the quiet aftermath of a night steeped in raw grief and unsettling intimacy. You had spent the night on the couch, the worn fabric offering little comfort, but the distance felt necessary, a fragile barrier against the emotional wreckage of the previous evening. The memory of Seungcheol’s desperate kiss, fueled by despair and alcohol, still burned on your lips, a bitter brand. The shame, the regret, the sudden, brutal exposure of a longing you had both fiercely suppressed, hung heavy in the air.

You heard a stirring from the sofa. Seungcheol. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable awkwardness, the unspoken weight of what had transpired. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements stiff, almost hesitant. The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced, but the wild, desperate fire that had consumed them hours earlier had been extinguished, replaced by a dull ache, a profound weariness. He was sober now, or at least, significantly more so, and the clarity seemed to bring with it a wave of fresh mortification.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the room, finally landing on you. His eyes held a mixture of deep shame, lingering pain, and something akin to quiet desperation. He pushed himself off the sofa, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish animal. He stopped a few feet from you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture reflecting a hesitant vulnerability you rarely saw.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, rough, a testament to the tears and the alcohol of the night before. He swallowed, visibly struggling to find the right words, to navigate the immense chasm that had opened between you. “About last night… I… I’m so sorry. I was… I was out of line. I was drunk, I was grieving, and I… I lost control. It shouldn’t have happened. I deeply, deeply apologize.” The words were strained, heartfelt, laced with a raw regret that pierced through your own guarded defenses. He didn't offer excuses, didn't try to blame the alcohol entirely; he simply accepted responsibility, a rare and profound gesture from the usually unyielding Seungcheol. He looked directly at you, his gaze unwavering despite the shame, waiting for your response, for your condemnation.

You looked back at him, your own heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Anger, frustration, embarrassment… but also a strange, unexpected pang of empathy. You saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the self-loathing. It wasn't just remorse for the kiss; it was a profound apology for his entire collapse, for exposing his deepest vulnerability. You knew his words were sincere, that he was trying to mend something irrevocably broken.

“It’s… it’s fine, Seungcheol,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. But a part of you couldn't bear to add to his already crushing burden. “We both… we were both pushed to the edge. It was a moment of… weakness. For both of us.” You didn't acknowledge the shared longing, the raw attraction that had been momentarily unleashed. You focused on the trauma, the stress, the exhaustion, the only acceptable explanations for such a breach of your carefully constructed walls.

He nodded slowly, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him, as if a great weight had been lifted, however momentarily. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the lingering fatigue and despair. He was still reeling from his mentor’s death, from the Director’s chilling message, and from his own humiliating fall from control. But now, he was way more stable, the raw edges of his grief softened by a night of uneasy sleep, and perhaps, by your reluctant forgiveness.

He walked over to the armchair, slumping into it, his shoulders still hunched. You moved to the kitchen, resuming your task of making coffee, the mundane act a welcome distraction. The silence stretched, uncomfortable but less volatile than before. Then, he spoke, his voice low, almost contemplative, laced with a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within you.

He began to tell you about his mentor, Detective Lee Chang-min. He spoke about him not just as a superior officer, but as a genuine friend, a guiding light who had seen something in a young, introverted Seungcheol that others had missed. “Lee-sunbaenim,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, but clearer now, no longer slurred by alcohol, “he treated me like a son, Y/N. Not just a student. He… he saw me. He didn’t just teach me procedures; he taught me how to think, how to see the patterns others couldn’t. He taught me how to trust my instincts, even when they went against the grain.” His gaze drifted to a distant point, lost in memory. “He was the one who encouraged me to pursue the criminal psychology specialization, even when everyone else said it was ‘too theoretical’ for police work. He said it was about understanding the ‘why,’ not just the ‘what.’ He said true justice meant dissecting the mind of the perpetrator, not just catching them. He stood by me, defended me, when I made my first big mistakes. He never judged. He only guided.”

He continued, his voice wavering occasionally, painting a vivid picture of the man he had lost. “He used to take me fishing on his days off, even though I hated fishing. Just to talk. To listen. He helped me through my toughest times at the academy, through family struggles. He believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. He was a rock, Y/N. Unshakeable. And now… now he’s gone. Because of him. Because of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, the grief returning in a fresh, sharp wave. “And that note… ‘He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.’ It’s like he’s trying to erase everything Lee-sunbaenim gave me. To corrupt his memory. To break me down piece by piece. He’s taking everything, Y/N. Everything.” His fists clenched, a raw, silent fury battling with the profound sorrow.

You listened carefully, silently, letting him vent, letting the raw grief pour out of him. You didn't interrupt, didn't offer empty platitudes. You simply sat, your own mug of coffee cooling in your hands, offering the silent, unwavering presence he needed. You watched the pain etched on his face, the slow, agonizing process of him grappling with a loss so profound it threatened to shatter his very foundation. For the first time, you saw past the rivalry, past the stoicism, to the deeply human core of him. And in that quiet space, your understanding of Seungcheol deepened, evolving beyond the confines of competition and mutual dislike. You saw his humanity, his vulnerability, and a quiet, fierce empathy blossomed in your own heart.

The morning bled into afternoon, then evening, a relentless cycle of work. The grief remained, a heavy shroud, but it no longer paralyzed him. Driven by a grim determination, fueled by a desire for vengeance for Lee-sunbaenim, Seungcheol threw himself into the case with an almost frightening intensity. You worked alongside him, matching his furious pace, sifting through mountains of old papers, archived police reports, newspaper clippings, anything that might connect the victims. He pulled every dusty box from the precinct archives, every neglected cold case file, convinced that if the Director was so meticulously "rewriting" his past, then his past had to be hidden somewhere in the city's forgotten records. You ordered every digital archive of Seoul's cultural events from the last decade, every theater production, every concert, every play – successful or failed.

It was late, the precinct office almost deserted again, save for the two of you and the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were both slumped over separate desks, surrounded by mountains of paper, discarded coffee cups, and the stale smell of desperation. Seungcheol, with a frustrated groan, pushed aside a pile of unrelated files. His fingers, numb from hours of flipping through pages, brushed against a dusty, unassuming folder at the bottom of the stack. It was a thin, old file, labeled simply: "Seongsan Arts Center - Incident Report - 20XX." Something about the date, the name, nagged at him. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He opened it, and as his eyes scanned the faded print, his body stiffened. A sudden, sharp intake of breath. He was no longer slumped; he was ramrod straight, his eyes wide, fixed on the page. “Y/N,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a profound shock, a terrible realization. “Y/N, I found the one.”

You looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice. You watched as he pulled out a faded program, a stack of cast lists, and a series of police reports from within the folder. He laid them out on the desk, his hands trembling slightly.

A new clue emerged, chilling and undeniable. His finger traced names on the cast list, then moved to the victim profiles you had pinned to the wall. “Ji-eun… she was listed as an understudy, though the program says ‘chorus member.’ The church victim… he was the stage manager. The politician’s daughter… her father was a major investor, pushing for the production.” His voice gained a desperate urgency, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a horrifying inevitability. “Lee-sunbaenim… he was assigned to the initial complaints about the production, the financial irregularities, the on-set accidents.”

He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mix of horror and triumph. “Every victim,” he stated, his voice hushed, “every single one of them, had a connection to this. To a failed local play from four years ago—The Crimson Mask. All of them were either in it, or intimately involved in its spectacular shutdown.”

The realization hit you like a thunderclap, echoing your own earlier, wild theory, but now grounded in concrete evidence. The Director. This wasn't just about random "roles"; it was about specific, predefined roles in a long-forgotten tragedy. You realized with a sickening clarity: the killer is avenging something from that production’s cancellation. The play, The Crimson Mask, had been notoriously troubled: accusations of fraud, a leading actor injured on set, unexplained delays, spiraling budgets, and ultimately, a spectacular, very public cancellation just days before its grand opening. It had been a scandal that briefly dominated local headlines, then faded into obscurity. But for someone, it was still a live wound, festering, demanding retribution. The Director’s notes, his theatrical staging, his “acts” and “performances”—it all suddenly made horrifying sense. This wasn't a serial killer; it was a ghost, haunting the memories of a failed artistic endeavor, exacting a terrible price for a forgotten slight.

The exhaustion that had weighed you down for weeks suddenly evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The link. The motive. The path to the killer. You and Seungcheol, now a single, driven unit, began to sift through the newly discovered documents with furious intensity. Every name, every incident report, every piece of forgotten gossip, now held a terrifying new significance. You started cross-referencing names from the play’s production with any reported incidents, any disappearances, any disgruntled individuals from that time. You meticulously built a new timeline, charting the rise and spectacular fall of The Crimson Mask, hoping to identify anyone with a motive, anyone who might harbor such a deep, burning resentment for its cancellation. The blurred birthmark from the church video now felt like a desperate plea for identification, a singular mark on a vengeful phantom.

You were deep in the new rabbit hole, the office buzzing with your renewed energy, when your phone rang again. A private number, withheld. You hesitated, glancing at Seungcheol, who was now pulling up old police records related to the Seongsan Arts Center incident. He nodded, gesturing for you to answer. You picked up, your voice crisp despite the underlying tension.

“Detective Y/N,” a woman’s voice said, soft but firm, with a slight, almost imperceptible accent that wasn’t local. “My name is Lee Min-jun. I’m Detective Lee Chang-min’s daughter. I understand you’re handling his… case. I’d like to speak with you.”

A cold prickle of suspicion immediately ran down your spine. It was suspicious. Highly suspicious. You knew Lee Chang-min’s daughter. You had met her briefly years ago. She was an accomplished architect, based in Rome, Italy, according to his last update. She was definitely not in Seoul. The subtle accent, while perhaps a result of living abroad, was just enough to raise a flag. This wasn't a distraught daughter calling from a grief-stricken flight. This felt… off. Too calm. Too precise.

Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk. He had heard your end of the conversation, caught the subtle change in your expression. He was already reaching for his sidearm, his hand hovering over it, his body tensing, his gaze fixed on you. He picked up his own phone, dialing a silent, internal number, preparing for a trace.

“Ms. Lee,” you said, keeping your voice steady, injecting just enough formality to mask your growing alarm. “Thank you for calling. I’m so sorry for your loss. Where are you calling from?”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle on the other end, devoid of humor. “Oh, I’m… closer than you think, Detective Y/N. Much, much closer. I just need to speak with you. Urgently. Alone. There are things about my father, about this ‘Director’… things I can only tell you in person.” She named a specific, secluded café, tucked away in an old, quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, known for its antique charm and discreet corners. A perfect place for a private, deadly meeting.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. This could be the killer itself. A trap, meticulously laid, designed to lure you out, vulnerable and alone. The Director’s message to Seungcheol: “I’ll rewrite you.” What better way to rewrite him than to take the one person he was desperately trying to protect? This was personal bait, and you were the one being reeled in.

You spoke into the phone, keeping your voice even. “I understand, Ms. Lee. I can meet you there. But it might take me a little while to get away. Give me twenty minutes.” You were buying time, letting Seungcheol set up a perimeter, gather backup.

You ended the call, your hand trembling slightly as you placed the receiver back in its cradle. Seungcheol was already on the internal line, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, describing the location, giving orders, his eyes never leaving yours. He had heard enough. He was already reaching for his jacket, pulling his weapon. He didn't need to ask if you were going alone. He knew the risk, knew the potential for a trap. He was already planning how to shadow you, how to keep you safe. He stays in reach. Closer than anyone, the one person who would break every protocol to ensure you walked away from this. The Director’s stage was set, and you were about to step into his deadliest act yet.

The twenty minutes you had bought felt like an eternity, a slow-motion countdown to an unknown horror. The address provided by “Lee Min-jun” led to a cluster of deserted warehouses on the forgotten industrial outskirts of Seoul, a landscape of crumbling brick and rusting metal. It was the perfect stage for the Director, isolated and grim, far from the bustling heart of the city. You drove there, every nerve ending screaming, every instinct on high alert. You knew it was a trap. You felt it. But the lure of the information, the desperate hope that this might be the breakthrough, compelled you forward.

Seungcheol had been a phantom presence from the moment you left the precinct. You hadn't seen his car, but you knew he was there, a shadow in your rearview mirror, a guardian angel you begrudgingly relied upon. His instructions, relayed in terse, urgent whispers over your comms, were precise: "Maintain speed. No sudden stops. I'm three blocks back, heading your way. Backup is five minutes out. Don't go in alone, Y/N. I mean it." The last words were a low growl, a direct echo of his fury in the theatre's underground base. You knew he meant it. You just also knew you couldn't wait.

You parked your unmarked car a block away from the designated warehouse, pulling into the shadow of a crumbling, abandoned factory building. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and forgotten industry. A cold wind, carrying the ghosts of long-dead machinery, whipped around you. The warehouse itself loomed, a vast, decaying monument to neglect, its windows shattered like vacant eyes. It looked exactly like the kind of place where a director of death would stage his most personal act. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

You checked your sidearm, the familiar weight a small comfort in your trembling hand. You wore a covert comms earpiece, feeling Seungcheol’s distant, watchful presence, an invisible lifeline. He would be close. He had to be. You took a deep, shaky breath, pushing down the rising tide of fear. You were a detective. This was your job. But the thought of your name on that note, the chilling prophecy of your "role," made your skin crawl. You were the bait.

Stepping out of the car, you moved with practiced caution, your footsteps muffled on the cracked asphalt. The warehouse seemed to swallow the light, its vast interior a gaping maw of shadows. You crept towards a gaping hole where a loading bay door once stood, the rusted remnants like broken teeth. The silence inside was oppressive, heavy, broken only by the drip of water and the distant rattle of metal. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, morphing into imagined threats. You moved slowly, methodically, your eyes scanning, your senses heightened, straining for any sign of movement, any breath, any sound. The cold prickle of unease intensified, a growing certainty that you were not alone.

And then, he was there.

A blur of motion from your peripheral vision, a sudden, swift lunge from the darkest corner. You had barely a split second to react, your detective instincts screaming. A figure, cloaked in black, emerging from the deep shadows of the warehouse. Not Lee Min-jun, the architect from Rome. This was the Director. His movements were swift, calculated, terrifyingly efficient. Before you could even raise your weapon, before you could articulate a single syllable, he was on you. His arm, strong and unyielding, clamped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, unyielding chest. A thick, coarse hand, gloved, clamped over your mouth, stifling your cry. The scent of dust and something metallic, something vaguely like old stage grease, filled your nostrils. He was disturbingly close, his breath warm against your ear. You felt the cold, hard press of something against your side – a knife.

Your heart exploded in your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over you, paralyzing you for a split second. This was it. This was the "role" he had promised. Your body reacted instinctively, violently. You thrashed, kicked, elbowed backwards with all your might, trying to dislodge his grip, to break free. His hold was iron, unyielding. He pulled you back, further into the deepening gloom of the warehouse, away from the distant opening, away from any potential light, away from…

A guttural growl, low and dangerous, ripped through the silence of the warehouse. Not your own. Not the Director's. It was Seungcheol.

He arrived. Not a second later, not a breath out of sync. Just as the Director began to drag you deeper into the shadows, just as the cold edge of the knife pressed a little harder against your side, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the entrance of the warehouse, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Seungcheol. He had seen the struggle, timed his intervention with a precision that bordered on miraculous. He hadn't bothered with formalities, hadn't waited for backup. He had burst through the entrance, gun drawn, firing a warning shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. And then, with a desperate, almost feral roar, he acted. He killed the lights.

The warehouse plunged into immediate, absolute darkness. The sudden transition was disorienting, a violent assault on your senses. The Director’s grip faltered for a mere instant, a moment of confusion in the chaos. That was all you needed. You twisted, elbowed him hard in the stomach, and pulled frantically against his weakening hold. He grunted, a sound of frustrated surprise, and you felt his grip finally break. You stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty floor, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear filling your mouth.

The next few seconds were a terrifying symphony of sounds: Seungcheol’s rapid footsteps, the click-clack of his gun being reloaded, his urgent, shouted commands – "Y/N! Are you okay?! Stay down!" – and the frantic, retreating scuffle of the Director. You heard the sounds of shattering glass, the scraping of metal, as the killer scrambled to escape into the pre-dawn night, vanishing as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. The brief, chaotic battle was over. The killer escaped, but you were safe.

You lay on the cold concrete, trembling, your lungs burning, struggling to regain control of your breathing. The phantom sensation of the knife at your side, the rough hand over your mouth, lingered like a physical wound. The adrenaline surged through your veins, leaving you nauseous and dizzy. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, trying to orient yourself in the oppressive darkness.

Then, Seungcheol was there. His footsteps were heavy, urgent, closing in on you. You heard the click of his tactical flashlight, and a narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, momentarily blinding you before it settled on your face. His eyes, in the harsh glare, were wide, filled with a raw, desperate fear that eclipsed everything else. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately sweeping over your body, checking for injuries, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. "Y/N? Are you hurt? Are you hit?" His voice was hoarse, thick with barely suppressed panic.

You shook your head, still gasping for air, your throat raw. "No. No, I'm okay. He… he just had a knife. He didn't use it." You pointed vaguely into the darkness where the killer had vanished. "He went that way. Towards the back alley."

He didn't pursue. Not yet. His priority was you. He pulled you up, his arm steady around your waist, helping you to your feet. You leaned into him, suddenly weak in the knees, the terrifying reality of how close you had come hitting you with full force. Backup sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, closer. They had made it. Just a little too late.

That night, after the chaos of the crime scene had been processed, the statements taken, and the lingering dread had settled like a heavy fog, Seungcheol drove you both back to his place. The car ride was steeped in a profound, unsettling silence. The usual witty retorts, the simmering arguments, the barbed comments that usually filled the space between you were absent. There was only the quiet hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard lights, and the crushing weight of the near-abduction. Your body thrummed with residual adrenaline, and the image of the Director’s cloaked figure lunging from the shadows replayed endlessly in your mind. Seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw clenched, his profile grim. He glanced at you occasionally, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, filled with an unreadable mix of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher. The air between you crackled with unspoken words, with raw, unacknowledged emotions that had nowhere to go, no safe space to land.

You arrived at his apartment, the building feeling like a fortress against the unseen terrors of the city. He unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden quiet, and you stepped inside, the oppressive silence following you. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the familiar, minimalist living space. Neither of you spoke. You moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance, shedding your jacket, leaving it slumped on a chair. The scent of him, faint but familiar, was surprisingly grounding.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click final. He didn't move immediately towards you. He remained by the door, his back to you, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into fists. He was processing, reliving the moment he burst through that door, the sight of you in the killer’s grasp. The agony of that near-miss, the terror of almost losing you, was etched into every rigid line of his body.

Finally, he turned. His face was pale, drawn, his eyes shadowed, but clear. There was no anger now, only a profound, almost desperate vulnerability that stripped him bare. He walked towards you slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze locked onto yours, raw and unblinking.

Seungcheol confessed. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, thick with unshed tears and a pain so deep it resonated in your very soul. It was a broken whisper, a stark admission that tore through the last vestiges of his carefully constructed composure. “Y/N,” he began, his voice barely audible, “when I saw him… when I saw him grab you… when I thought he was going to take you, just like the others…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, struggling to control the tremor in his voice. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide, haunted by the image. “My blood went cold. My entire world… it just narrowed to that moment. To getting you out.”

He took a shaky breath, his confession pouring out of him, raw and unvarnished, stripped of all pretense. “I swear to God, Y/N, in that moment, all I could think was… I would rather. I would rather take his place. I would rather die. I would rather take the killer’s place than see you hurt again.” The words were a desperate plea, a confession of fear so profound it was almost a physical ache in the air between you. He wasn't just saying he'd protect you; he was saying he'd sacrifice himself, willingly, without a second thought. It was the most selfless, terrifyingly vulnerable admission he had ever made, revealing a depth of feeling that stunned you into silence. The implications were staggering, monumental. He feared for your safety more than his own life, more than any case, more than anything.

His admission hit you with the force of a tidal wave. All your carefully constructed walls, the years of competitive rivalry, the lingering distrust, the recent awkwardness – they shattered. His words were raw, primal, stripping away everything but the terrifying truth of his feelings, and by extension, your own. You saw the agonizing fear, the desperate, protective love, blazing in his eyes.

You didn’t think. You didn't intellectualize. You didn't pull away. Instead, driven by an equally desperate, raw instinct, you surged forward. Your hands, trembling slightly, clamped onto the lapels of his shirt, pulling him towards you with a force born of overwhelming emotion. His face, still etched with raw confession, was suddenly inches from yours. Your eyes, wide and blazing, locked with his.

“Then push me away,” you whispered, your voice fierce, trembling with a mixture of terror and defiance, a desperate plea and a challenge. “Push me away if you don’t like this. Push me away if you don’t feel it too. Because I can’t… I can’t do this alone anymore.” The words were a dare, an invitation to a precipice you both stood on, terrified but unable to retreat. You were laying your own vulnerability bare, mirroring his, demanding a response, an acknowledgment of the terrifying, undeniable connection that had forged itself in the fires of shared trauma.

He didn't push you away. He didn't hesitate. His eyes, wide and filled with a sudden, answering fire, dropped to your lips. In that moment, all the unspoken longing, all the suppressed attraction, all the shared terror and desperate need, exploded.

The kiss was raw. It was desperate. It was utterly consuming. His mouth descended on yours with a fierce hunger, a primal urgency that left you breathless. His hands, no longer clenched, found your waist, pulling you against him, crushing your bodies together, eliminating every last inch of space between you. It was a torrent of pent-up emotion, a release of weeks of tension, of fear, of silent longing. It was the kiss of two people who had stared death in the face and, in doing so, had finally seen each other, truly seen each other, for the first time.

It was also soft, a tender counterpoint to the wild hunger. His lips moved against yours with a surprising gentleness amidst the ferocity, a quiet acknowledgment of the vulnerability, the profound connection that was forming. His fingers tightened at your waist, holding you impossibly close, as if afraid that if he let go, you would simply vanish.

You responded with equal intensity, your hands rising, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still. Your lips moved in sync with his, a desperate dance of fear and burgeoning love. You were both terrified of what you felt, of the monumental shift, of the implications this would have on your already complicated lives, on the very fabric of your professional existence. This wasn't just a physical act; it was a devastating emotional confession, a complete surrender to the terrifying truth that had been building between you.

But neither of you stopped it this time. There was no alcohol to blame, no exhaustion to excuse the lapse. This was real. This was a choice. And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of his apartment, illuminated only by the faint city lights filtering through the blinds, you both chose to fall. He didn't push you away. He held you closer, his body molding against yours, a silent promise, a desperate comfort, a terrifying, beautiful beginning. The world outside, with its Director and his chilling plays, faded into insignificance. For now, there was only the two of you, lost in the overwhelming, undeniable current of your shared vulnerability, and the sudden, breathtaking reality of what you felt for each other.

The first light of dawn, tinged with a fragile, almost hopeful pink, barely touched the windows of Seungcheol’s apartment. You were already awake, the events of the previous night — the near-abduction, his desperate confession, and the raw, uninhibited kiss that had followed — replaying in your mind like a fever dream. The tenderness of his embrace still lingered, a phantom warmth that both comforted and terrified you. You were no longer just colleagues, not even just rivals. The boundaries had dissolved, replaced by a profound, undeniable connection forged in the crucible of shared trauma and raw, burgeoning emotion. But the case remained, a dark shadow hanging over this fragile new intimacy. The Director was still out there, and he was getting bolder, more personal.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Seungcheol, who was still deeply asleep beside you. He had finally found a true, exhausted respite, and you couldn't bring yourself to break it. Your mind, however, was already racing, furiously assembling the fragments of what you knew, what you had learned from the Director's journal, what he desired. Control. Performance. A final, grand spectacle. A plan, dangerous and audacious, began to form in your mind. A trap. The only way to catch a madman obsessed with orchestration was to give him a stage, and then, to flip the script.

You moved silently into the living room, grabbing a notepad and pen. The faint glow of the city lights outside provided just enough illumination. You began to sketch, to write, to diagram, your thoughts flowing freely, unchecked by the usual caution. The Director considered you "Act I" – a character from his past, essential to his narrative. He wanted to "rewrite" Seungcheol. He played on theatrical themes. He craved control, but perhaps, in his arrogance, he could be controlled.

An hour later, Seungcheol stirred. You heard the creak of the bed, then the soft padding of his bare feet on the floor. He walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair endearingly disheveled. He stopped short when he saw you, hunched over the notepad, the determined set of your shoulders, the frantic energy emanating from you. He looked from your intense face to the scribbled notes, then back to you, a question in his eyes, a dawning realization of your focus.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a faint awkwardness lingering from the night’s overwhelming events, yet beneath it, a new, almost tender possessiveness in his gaze.

You looked up, a manic gleam in your eyes. The plan was crystallizing, demanding to be voiced. “Morning. I have an idea. A… dangerous one.” You pushed the notepad towards him, tapping a finger on your intricate diagram. “He’s obsessed with control, right? With his ‘performance.’ He sees us as characters. He wants to rewrite you. He wants a grand finale.”

Seungcheol leaned over, his brow furrowed as he read your notes, the lines of exhaustion still etched around his eyes, but now tinged with sharp intelligence. Your plan was bold, terrifyingly so. It involved luring the Director out into the open, using his own obsessions against him. It was a high-stakes gamble, risking everything.

As he absorbed the details, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up at you, a silent question passing between you. He knew what you were suggesting, implicitly. He knew the risk. And then, slowly, a grim resolve settled over his features.

“I’ll be the bait,” he said, his voice quiet, firm, utterly resolved. The words hung in the air, a devastating pronouncement. You had considered it, of course, but pushed it away as too dangerous, too personal. Yet, his logic, even in this terrifying proposal, was impeccable. “It makes sense,” he continued, almost dispassionately, as if discussing another detective’s fate. “He sees me as the ‘flawed hero’ from that original play. I was the male lead, after all. He wants to ‘rewrite’ me, to correct my role, to make me part of his ultimate production. I’m the logical choice for his grand finale. He’ll come for me.”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t want him to do it. The thought of him, alone, exposed, walking into the killer’s trap, sent a spear of pure terror through you. The idea, once an abstract possibility in your planning, now materialized into a horrifying reality. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. All the raw emotion from the night before, the desperate fear of losing him, surged to the surface.

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat, your voice thin with desperate fear. You reached out, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into his bicep. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, cheol. He’s unpredictable. He’s obsessed. He’ll hurt you. He’ll kill you. In the most fucked up way possible-” Your voice rose, bordering on a plea. “We can find another way. We can use a decoy, someone else. This isn’t… this isn’t necessary!” You clung to his arm, your eyes wide with desperate entreaty. “Please, cheol. Don’t do this. I can’t… I can’t lose you.” The words, raw and unbidden, tumbled out, laying bare the depth of your fear, the terrifying realization of how much he had come to mean to you. The very thought of him in the Director’s hands, of him becoming another victim in this twisted play, was unbearable.

He looked down at your hands, then back into your eyes, his gaze steady, unwavering, despite the obvious pain and apprehension flickering within their depths. He gently covered your hand with his own, his thumb stroking your knuckles, a comforting gesture that belied the terrifying decision he had just made. His voice was soft, laced with a quiet, heartbreaking resolve. “If it means protecting you, Y/N,” he said, his gaze holding yours, unflinching, “I’ll take the stage.” It was a silent vow, a terrifying declaration of love and sacrifice, echoing his confession from the previous night, solidifying it into an undeniable truth. He would offer himself, willingly, if it meant keeping you safe. His own life, his own pain, was secondary to your survival.

You choked back a sob, tears stinging your eyes. There was no arguing with that kind of resolve, that level of selflessness. He had made his decision, and his stubbornness, usually a source of irritation, was now a heartbreaking testament to his devotion. He was willing to become the Director's final act, if it meant ending the play.

The meeting with Captain Kim was tense, the air thick with unspoken anxieties. You and Seungcheol stood side-by-side, a united front, but the strain was visible on both your faces. You had laid out the entire plan: the lure, the staging, the precise timing of the backup. You explained how the Director's obsession with Seungcheol as the "flawed hero" from The Crimson Mask could be manipulated, how his need for a final, grand performance would draw him out. The Captain listened, his face grim, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his desk.

“This is… an extreme risk, Detectives,” Captain Kim stated, his voice tight. “Putting a detective in harm’s way, intentionally using him as bait… this could cost someone their life. Let alone, Detective Choi’s.” His gaze was fixed on Seungcheol, a mixture of paternal concern and professional apprehension in his eyes. He knew Seungcheol was invaluable, a rising star. The thought of losing him, especially in such a calculated maneuver, was clearly agonizing. He had trusted you both with the case, but this… this pushed the boundaries of every protocol, every acceptable risk.

The Captain questioned Seungcheol directly. “Detective Choi,” he said, his voice firm, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. “Do you truly want to do this? Are you absolutely certain about this plan? Are you willing to walk into a trap that could be your last?”

Seungcheol met the Captain’s gaze, his own eyes clear, resolute. He didn't look at you, didn't seek your approval or your protest. This decision was his alone. He squared his shoulders, his voice calm, unwavering, filled with a quiet conviction that echoed through the room. “I trust her, sir. I trust her more than myself.” The words were simple, profound, a testament to the absolute faith he now placed in you, in your plan, in your ability to bring him back. It was a startling declaration, publicly acknowledging the depth of his reliance, his dependence on you, the woman he had once despised.

The Captain’s gaze shifted to you, a new intensity in his eyes, searching your face for any sign of uncertainty, any hint of recklessness. He saw only grim determination, a fierce resolve that mirrored Seungcheol’s own. He saw the same unwavering trust, the silent promise.

You stepped forward slightly, your voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument. “I won’t let him die, sir.” Your declaration was fierce, a vow forged in the fire of fear and a desperate, burgeoning love. It was a promise to the Captain, to the department, but most profoundly, to Seungcheol himself. You would bring him back. You would not allow the Director to claim him.

The Captain sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of his entire career. He looked from you to Seungcheol, then back again, seeing the unbreakable bond, the unspoken commitment that radiated from you both. He saw not just two detectives, but two people utterly, irrevocably intertwined, bound by a shared purpose and a terrifying, personal stake. He knew, intuitively, that there was no dissuading either of you. He finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, a reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, “alright. I’ll approve it. But every single unit, every man, every resource, will be at your disposal. Set up the backup exactly the way you need it, Detective Y/N. Every contingency. Don’t leave anything to chance.”

Relief washed over you, cold and sharp, immediately replaced by a surge of renewed focus. The plan was in motion. The trap was set. The stage was being prepared for the Director’s final performance. You worked tirelessly for the next few days, meticulously planning every detail. The location, chosen to evoke a sense of theatrical grandeur and isolation, was an abandoned opera house on the city's outskirts, its decaying beauty a fitting backdrop for the Director's macabre art. You studied the blueprints, coordinated with SWAT teams, arranged for surveillance, drone coverage, every escape route sealed, every entry point monitored. Seungcheol, his resolve unwavering, trained with the precision of a soldier, preparing for his role as the bait. He practiced signals, evasive maneuvers, every possible scenario. The weight of his impending sacrifice, his terrifying gamble, hung heavy in the air, a silent, constant presence between you. But beneath the fear, beneath the professional intensity, lay a deeper, more profound connection, a shared destiny that would either lead to triumph, or to an unimaginable tragedy. The final act was upon you.

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with anticipation, a ghostly silence preceding the final act of a twisted play. Days of meticulous planning had culminated in this moment. The grandeur of the decaying theater, with its velvet-draped boxes and peeling gold leaf, was an ideal stage for the Director's twisted obsession with performance. Every detail had been considered, every contingency mapped out, every escape route covered. The city’s best tactical units were positioned, invisible in the surrounding darkness, waiting for your signal. The Captain, despite his lingering apprehension, had given his full support, his trust in you and Seungcheol absolute.

Your plan hinged on the Director’s insatiable ego, his desperate need for control and recognition. You had carefully orchestrated a lure designed to be irresistible to him. Anonymous, cryptic invitations, crafted with phrases lifted directly from his journal – “A final performance,” “The grand unveiling,” “A rewritten destiny” – were disseminated through the dark web channels he was known to frequent. You created a buzz, a digital whisper campaign hinting at a secret, exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime show featuring the very detective who had dared to defy him. The bait was Seungcheol himself, framed as the “flawed hero” finally stepping into his true role under the Director's guidance. The trap was meticulously set, an intricate web of digital and physical cues designed to appeal directly to his grandiose delusions.

And he walked right in. Just like you wanted.

The first sign was a flicker on the surveillance monitors. A solitary figure, cloaked in black, moving with an eerie familiarity, slipped through a pre-identified access point at the back of the opera house. No alarms triggered, no sensors tripped – a testament to his uncanny stealth. He moved like a phantom, utterly confident in his dominion over this stage. The comms crackled in your ear, low and urgent. "Director confirmed. Entering perimeter."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. You were positioned in a makeshift command center, set up in a dusty box seat high above the stage, overlooking the vast, empty auditorium. Seungcheol was already in position, a solitary figure illuminated by a single, carefully placed spotlight at center stage. He stood there, a beacon in the cavernous space, a bait for a monster. The comms between you and him were open, a fragile, direct lifeline.

“He’s here, Seungcheol,” you whispered into your mic, your voice tight with apprehension. “He just entered the main hall.”

“Understood,” his voice was calm, steady, devoid of the fear that was twisting your gut. A professional, playing his part. “Curtain’s up.”

The next few minutes were agonizing. You watched on the thermal imaging, seeing the Director’s heat signature move slowly, deliberately, towards the stage. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring the moment, preparing for his grand entrance. You saw him emerge from the shadows backstage, his black cloak billowing slightly as he stepped onto the stage, facing Seungcheol. He held something in his hand, something long and glinting.

Seungcheol was taken mid-operation. It was a crucial part of the plan. You watched as the Director moved, with surprising speed, to overpower Seungcheol. A brief struggle, perfectly choreographed, designed to appear convincing without putting Seungcheol in actual immediate danger – though the line was terrifyingly thin. The Director struck, and Seungcheol went down, seemingly unconscious, just as planned. The Director then dragged his seemingly lifeless form deeper onto the stage, towards a pre-set pulley system, an old, rusty mechanism designed for theatrical backdrops.

The Director straightened, his masked face turning to Seungcheol, who lay seemingly inert. "A true hero's fall, Detective Choi," the Director's voice echoed, cold and clear in the vast space, carrying an almost theatrical cadence. "A fitting end for the flawed protagonist." He then stepped over Seungcheol's body, moving towards the ropes.

But Seungcheol, despite his feigned unconsciousness, was listening, his mind already working, dissecting the Director’s words. He had to know. "Why?" Seungcheol's voice, though weak, cut through the silence, surprising the Director. "Why all of this? The murders, the 'roles,' the suffering… Why, Director? What twisted motive could drive this madness?" His voice was laced with an anger that was slowly rising, battling against the pain of his mentor's death.

The Director paused, turning slowly back to Seungcheol, a chilling smile evident even behind the mask. "Why? Because they failed. They destroyed my vision. They didn't understand their roles, Detective. They butchered the script! They cancelled my play! They deserved to be rewritten, to play their final, true parts under my direction. And you, Detective, you allowed it. You failed to see the truth. You failed to save them. You failed your mentor, just as he failed me." His voice rose, filled with a manic, self-righteous fury. "Now, you will understand. You will feel what it means to be truly directed. To have your destiny dictated." He reached for the rope again, his hands moving with renewed purpose.

“He’s got him,” a voice crackled in your ear from the tactical team. “Moving to secure.”

“Negative!” you snapped, your voice sharp with command, overriding their impulse. This wasn’t just a capture; it was the final act of his play. “Hold your positions. This is part of the plan. He’s going to move him.”

Your gaze was fixed on the screen, your heart leaping into your throat. You knew what was coming. The Director’s next move. His “final performance.”

“Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a mere whisper, came through your earpiece, strained but audible. “He’s… he’s going for the ropes. The old fly system. He’s going to hang me.”

The words sent a cold spear of pure terror through you. You had anticipated it, of course. Planned for it. But hearing it, the grim reality of it, was sickening. This was the moment.

The Director was indeed at the old pulley system, beginning to meticulously prepare the ropes. He looked up, his masked face turning towards the empty audience, as if addressing his unseen patrons. You could almost feel his perverse satisfaction, his triumph. He was savoring this, his grandest, most personal act.

“He’s setting up the noose, Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a little weaker now, came through. “He’s talking… about the ‘flawed hero’s final curtain.’ His voice is right… I can almost see the birthmark.”

Your hand automatically went to your own ear, pressing against the comms earpiece. It wasn’t just for listening; it was for tracking. Weeks ago, knowing the Director’s obsession with control and his desire to disappear without a trace, you had insisted on a radical, almost crazy contingency. After the Director started targeting you directly, after Seungcheol had volunteered for this, you had taken a drastic, unauthorized step. One night, while he slept, exhausted from training, you had gently, painstakingly, inserted a minuscule location chip into a molar on his back tooth, securing it with a dental adhesive you had acquired through… unconventional means. It was barely the size of a grain of rice, undetectable by conventional means, and broadcasting a silent, constant signal only you could track on your encrypted device. It was a secret you had kept from him, from everyone, knowing he would never agree to such an invasive measure. But you couldn't risk him disappearing, couldn’t risk not finding him in the chaos of the trap. It was your desperate, silent promise that you would find him. And now, that chip was your only guide.

Your eyes darted to the small, specialized tracker nestled in your palm, its single red dot blinking steadily, its signal unwavering. It led directly to Seungcheol, now a helpless figure on the stage. The Director was wrapping the final loops of rope, pulling it taut, preparing to suspend him. There was no more time.

“He’s almost ready,” Seungcheol’s voice, tight with strain, resonated in your ear. “Y/N… now.”

“Team 2, team 1, team 3, on my mark!” you barked into the comms, your voice clear, sharp, cutting through the fear. “Engage on my signal! Do not fire unless absolutely necessary!”

You didn’t wait for backup to flood the stage. You moved. Your training, your instincts, every raw emotion you had suppressed, exploded into action. You burst from the box seat, not through the controlled entry points the tactical teams were using, but directly, impulsively, launching yourself from the balcony, a desperate, almost reckless leap that would make any commanding officer furious. You landed hard on the stage floor, rolling, coming up in a crouch, your sidearm already drawn, pointed directly at the black-cloaked figure of the Director.

You broke in.

The Director spun, startled by your sudden, impossible appearance. His masked face snapped towards you, a moment of genuine surprise in his calculated performance. He dropped the rope, pulling out a gleaming, wickedly sharp knife from within his cloak, its blade catching the single spotlight.

You didn't hesitate. You squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed, loud and precise. It struck the Director in the leg, just above the knee. He gasped, a guttural cry of pain, stumbling backward, his body spasming from the impact. A dark stain bloomed on his black trousers.

But despite the searing pain, despite the blood immediately blooming on his leg, he didn't fall. His eyes, even through the mask, seemed to burn with an insane fury. He snarled, a bestial sound, and with a terrifying, impossible surge of adrenaline, he lunged at you, his knife a silver blur, aiming for your chest.

The final fight was brutal, chaotic, a desperate ballet of life and death on the dusty stage. Gun. Knife. Blood. He moved with a frightening, almost supernatural speed, his knowledge of the stage, of its hidden passages and shadows, giving him an advantage even with his injury. You dodged, his knife missing your ribs by mere inches, the air hissing where it passed. You fired another shot, aiming for his shoulder, but he twisted, the bullet embedding itself in the wooden floorboards with a splintering thud. The knife flashed again, cutting across your arm, a sharp, searing pain as your sleeve tore and warm blood welled up. You hissed, pressing against the wound, but you didn't break focus.

He came at you again, swinging the knife in a wide, desperate arc. You parried with your gun, the metallic clang echoing, the impact jarring your arm. You saw a flash of his left arm, the distinctive burnt patch clear even in the dim light, confirming his identity, confirming the nightmare, confirming the monster was finally within your reach. You fought with a ferocity born of pure vengeance and desperate self-preservation. He was bleeding from his leg, his movements hampered, but his madness made him relentless, unpredictable.

You found an opening. As he lunged again, you anticipated his move, twisting sharply, bringing your gun up. You fired, not to kill, but to incapacitate. A shot to his knife-wielding hand, a sickening crack of bone. He screamed, dropping the weapon, clutching his mangled hand. Another shot, tearing through his other arm, rendering it useless. Then, a shot to his remaining good leg, and another, and another, aiming precisely, not for the kill, but to shatter his ability to move. You emptied your magazine into his limbs, each shot a deliberate act of dismantling his control, his movement, his ability to ever stand or direct again.

He collapsed, a broken heap on the stage, screaming, whimpering, his body a twisted mess of shattered bone and bleeding wounds. He couldn't move. He was alive, barely, but utterly, completely incapacitated.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol, recovering from the initial blow, had been stirring, groaning, his eyes fluttering open. He was now fully awake, watching the brutal, one-sided fight, witnessing your terrifying efficiency, your unwavering resolve.

You stumbled towards him, dropping your now-empty gun. You tore at the rope that was still around his throat, frantically loosening it, pulling it away. You freed him. He gasped, clutching his throat, his face pale, but his eyes were open, clear, filled with a profound shock and an overwhelming relief. He coughed, drawing ragged breaths into his burning lungs.

The Director, a broken figure bleeding on the stage, slowly lifted his head, his voice a ragged, desperate rasp. He was blabbering nonsense, his voice filled with a mad, defeated fury. “You… you can’t end me! This isn’t over! I’ll find you! I’ll end you, Y/N! In hell! I’ll end you there! This… this is just the beginning of your real torment!” He coughed, a gurgling sound, blood bubbling at the corner of his masked mouth, but his eyes, blazing with an insane light, were fixed on you. “I’ll torture you there! Every single day! I’ll make you beg for the final curtain!”

You looked at him, a cold, dark satisfaction settling in your chest. You walked slowly towards him, your footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent theater. You stood over his broken form, your gaze unwavering, devoid of pity. “In hell?” you scoffed, your voice low, laced with a chilling, defiant sarcasm. You knelt, leaning close, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, filled with a promise that was more terrifying than any threat he could conjure. “You can’t even get up, you pathetic excuse for a Director. And even in hell,” you snarled, your voice gaining a terrifying intensity, “I will track you down. And I will kill you again. And again. And again.”

The tactical teams burst onto the stage then, their weapons raised, their comms barking, their flashlights sweeping the scene. They froze, witnessing the raw, visceral intensity of the moment.

You looked at Seungcheol, who was now pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide, fixed on you, a profound understanding and a dawning, terrifying realization in their depths. You reached out, your hand, still slightly trembling from the adrenaline, cupping his face. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, leaving a faint smear of the Director's blood. You looked straight into his eyes, a silent conversation passing between you, a shared vow, a love forged in the deepest darkness. He understood. He saw the cold fury in your eyes, the unwavering resolve, the desperate need for absolute finality.

His gaze searched yours, a question, an acceptance. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement, giving you his silent permission, his complete trust.

With a profound, devastating certainty, you retrieved your gun, its weight familiar and deadly in your hand. The magazine was empty from incapacitating the Director. But you had another. Without breaking eye contact with Seungcheol, you smoothly ejected the empty clip, inserting a fresh one. The click was loud, decisive, in the sudden, utter silence of the opera house.

Your gaze drifted from Seungcheol’s face, to the broken, blabbering figure of the Director, now muttering incoherent threats. You raised the gun. With a chilling, unwavering intensity, you emptied your bullets, one after another, into the killer’s head and chest. A series of brutal, definitive shots. Each one a final judgment. Each one a liberation. His body convulsed one last time, then fell completely, finally still. His mad play was irrevocably, utterly ended.

The last shot echoed, long and drawn out, then silence. Heavy, thick, blood-soaked silence. The only sound was your ragged breathing, and the shocked gasps of the tactical team.

Seungcheol, now sitting up, still weak, watched you, his eyes filled with a complex mix of understanding, awe, and a fierce, possessive pride. He coughed, then a faint, tired smile touched his lips, a ghost of his usual smirk. His voice was hoarse, but clear, filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Still just as good at it. They called you tigress back then in uni. Still are, just my tigress now.”

You lowered the empty gun, the adrenaline slowly draining from your body, leaving you feeling profoundly weary, but strangely, utterly free. You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, a profound love shining through the trauma, through the blood, through the echoes of the nightmare. “Glad to know,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your own tears finally falling, hot and free. “I love you more.”

With that, you leaned in, and kissed him. A real kiss. No longer desperate, no longer confused, no longer tainted by fear or alcohol. It was a kiss of triumph, of survival, of a fierce, enduring love that had found its way through the darkest of times. The sirens wailed louder, the flashlights of the tactical teams swept across the stage, but in that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, standing amidst the wreckage of a nightmare, finally, truly, together.

The end.

Author’s Note: If you made it to the end, thank you. I know this wasn’t an easy ride — the murders were gruesome, the emotions sharp, and the romance? Messy in all the right ways. Writing this story was like performing a dissection: peeling back layers of rivalry, grief, obsession, and love. Seungcheol and Y/N didn’t fall for each other easily — and they weren’t supposed to. But in all the blood and chaos, they still found something human. Because sometimes, the sharpest minds carry the softest hearts. And sometimes, the one who’d kill for you…is also the one who’d die for you.

— Katha <33

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unconventional-lawnchair · 7 months ago

Note

Hi I love your fics and was hoping you’d like this request:)) I was thinking a fic with James x fem!reader where she’s a slytherin but not in the stereotypical way that James and the marauders typically see them as. She’s not cold hearted or prejudice, rather quite friendly and very artsy. I was thinking an enemies to lovers where James just generalizes her with the slytherin she doesn’t like so he’s not the kindest to her, but maybe she gets paired up for an assignment with Remus so James ends up having to be around her a bit and realizes she doesn’t suck lol. Think he would definitely have to work for her affection after fumbling the ball so hard but im a sucker for a happy ending!

I hope this sounds like something you’d enjoy writing, if not that’s totally ok too❤️

Masterpiece

James Potter x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: (see above) James Potter goes a little too far with a girl everyone happens to like.

AN: I am so sorry this took so long! I hope you enjoy it <3

CW: not proof read, use of {Y/N}, Jealous and Stupid James, sexual implied ending, Protective salty Remus, self indulgent, cursing, very slight angst, fem reader, not cannon complacent, sexual innuendo,

WC: ~9k

The sky was overcast and the wind was blowing rapidly, causing your sleeves to billow as the very stool you perched on teetered from side to side. You grabbed the seat and tried to steady your perch, holding up your paint brush away from your portrait as the creamy white shade dripped down on your bare legs.

Dressed in casual clothes, your paint stained denim short overalls and a striped shirt that hid evidence of handprint smears from your absentminded messes. Sleeves rolled up to show your speckled skin already decorated with splotches of white and browns, fresh hazy grays that resembled the foggy ground of Hogwarts and its students.

“{Y/N} {L/N}?” A voice so calm and careful called out from behind you. You turned and smiled on instinct, your eyes landing on the tall figure. He was also in more casual clothes, a brown cable knit sweater vest over a simple white button down shirt. He was holding up a piece of paper to his eyes before he put it in his pocket. Smiling so kindly, where the corners of his eyes crinkled and his scarred lip curled up to reveal perfectly uneven teeth.

Ballet white.

“Remus Lupin?” You called out to him and he chuckled, taking a few long steps to stand beside you.

“You were meant to wait for me, you know.” He teased and slipped his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, I know, I know. But this was the perfect time for it.” You lifted your hands to gesture to the sky and he looked around to try and find what exactly made this 'perfect.’

“How’d you even manage to get in here?” He quizzed and took a seat on the railing. Looking around at the castle grounds from the top of RavenClaw’s tower, you got the perfect view of the astronomy tower, what you were currently painting.

“There wasn't much convincing involved. Barty Crouch walked me up here.” You smirked and he looked bewildered.

“You know Crouch?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Remus furrowed his brow as he tried to piece together how he hadn't heard of you before. Seeing as he was meant to be escorting you two and from each Hogwarts house for your own personal study, it seemed unlikely he wouldn't of known of you, getting this particular form of special treatment from the headmaster himself.

Remus walked around you and took a peak at what you were painting. The air so familiar, and comforting, both of you had forgotten you had just met.

“What are you painting?”

“Magical paintings.” You hummed and he furrowed his brow further.

“Don't you usually need a subject?”

“Traditionally.” You muttered and gestured for him to sit down. He listened almost instantly, sitting down on the floor next to you, laying his crutch across his lap. After a moment of pause you shrugged and set your paint aside, shifting to sit beside him on the floor, making him chuckle.

“Do you know how they work?”

“Not a clue.” He shifted to sit and face you fully. Both of you crossed your legs, like tots ready to swap unearthing secrets in the school yard.

“Well. What you're thinking of is magical portraits. The art of bringing the life of the subject to the painting.” You declared almost breathless. “But that's amature work.”

He gave a delighted and startled laugh at your bold declaration, but it didn't impede you.

“The true magic is being able to bring life that isn't visible to the naked eye, to visual art forms.” You declared and gestured to your painting. Remus’s eyes flickered up and widened a bit. You gave an excitable bright smile as you both watched the misty fog in your painting shift, the faint stars in the background twinkle against the backdrop, and even the few faint sketches of students within the distant tower moving about.

“Woah.” He whispered and you nodded eagerly.

“Isn't it inspiring?”

“It is.” He agreed instantly before he looked back at you. “But, doesn't it typically take magic from the subject for it to work effectively? How does this work?”

“Well, don't you think Hogwarts is possibly the most magical place in the world?” You argued and he chuckled at how easily you brushed off the question.

Of course, no one truly knew how it worked. Not that the creator of the art method ever documented his findings. The only clear part of it was not everyone had the knack for it. You were lucky, since you were young, to be able to produce the art even before you got your magic.

You turned to Remus, who was watching with rapt attention.

“Do you want to try?” You offered, a mischievous smile taking over your features that looked startlingly familiar to Remus.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Me? Paint?”

“Why not? You might find you have a hidden talent!” You encouraged, handing him a brush and a palette.

Reluctantly, he took the brush, glancing at the canvas as if it were a daunting task. Exaggerative hesitation to defile such a beautiful painting. You grinned, ready to guide him through it. Little did you know that in that moment, you had endeared yourself to Remus in a way not many people were able to.

For the next few hours, well after curfew, you and Remus stayed perched on the RavenClaw tower, as you instructed him on what colors and paints to use. He was doing his best not to ‘ruin it’, which quickly went out the window when, in a moment of playful determination, you covered your hands in black paint and began to stamp your canvas. Convincing him that you truly didn't care what he did to the painting as long as it was fun.

Finally, you both snuck out of the RavenClaw tower as quietly as possible, trying not to wake anyone. Leading to you two in the halls, laughing and joking as he carried your canvas for you.

“So, you're self taught?” He prodded and you nodded.

“Yup! Have been doing this since I was.. four? Likely. My mother showed me.” You hummed and he gave a delighted laugh.

“Really? So you're studying in your free time?”

“Mhm! It's not something that can really be.. taught. So Hogwarts doesn't have classes on it quite yet.” You waved your hand vaguely and he nodded.

“You're telling me this now, after all that time trying? You got my hopes up, {L/N}.”

You giggled and he put his hand over his heart in fake anguish.

“I was this close to changing career paths, you know.”

“Oh, I'm sure you were. I could see the headline now: 'Remus Lupin, Future Auror, Turns Painter After One Magical Evening.'” You laughed, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to Defense Against the Dark Arts, thank you very much. But this-” He gestured to the covered painting with a soft look. “You turned this mess into something amazing. You're truly talented.”

“I know.” You sang and he laughed, nudging you.

“I'm serious, you know.”

“Sirius? I thought you were his boyfriend?”

“Oh Merlin, you're as bad as they are.”

You gave a laugh of your own and shoved him back. “Oh, you Marauders? Please tell me you're joking.”

“No, no, truly. I think you'd get along. Gryffindor tower is next, right?” He prodded as you both entered the hall and stopped just before the dungeons’ entrance.

“Mhm.”

“I'll see you tomorrow then?” He offered and held out his hand. You took it with a firm shake and you both said your goodbyes, hurrying over to the Slytherin common room.

~~~

“She's quite fun, showed me how to match pallets colors.” Remus rambled on to Lily who gave a delighted laugh at how excited he was to show her his new found artistic ability. They were sitting on the couch together, and he was exposing to her why his newest sweater vest was absolutely ruined

“She sounds lovely.” Lily hummed, Sirius smirking from his spot between Remus’s knees, looking up at him. Eyes closed as one of the werewolf’s hands tangled in his loches of hair.

“So lovely you should just marry her.” Sirius teased and Remus glared at him, giving a particularly rough tug at his boyfriend's hair. Sirius giving a chuckle and biting his lip. “I see no punishment here.”

“You-”

“Whose getting hitched?” James piped up from the stairs, jogging over and hopping onto the couch. Making the cushions bounce a bit as he got comfortable. “Evans, how can you let this happen? A Hogwarts marriage that's not our own?”

Lily gave a sigh and rolled her eyes, gathering her things and saying her goodbyes to Remus and Sirius, giving James the cold shoulder with a simple ‘Potter’ as he put his hand over his chest and sunk further into the cushions.

“She says that name like it won't be hers someday.” He sighed fondly before he turned to look at the other two. “Where's Wormy?”

“He's on a date with a Hufflepuff.” Sirius snickered. “Some seventh year dude.”

“Huh.” James muttered and looked at the ceiling. “Didn't think he'd be the type to date older.”

“Yeah well-” Before Sirius could continue, Remus’s head peaked up from the couch when there was a knock on the portrait door.

“That her?” Sirius asked as Remus slugged out of his seat to get around his clingy boyfriend.

“Likely!” He shouted back and James tilted his head like a confused puppy.

“Who?” He quizzed Sirius and he smirked up at James.

“{Y/N} {L/N}, the artist extraordinaire.” Sirius replied with mock seriousness, adjusting his position to climb onto the couch. “Remus has been raving about her all evening.”

“{Y/N} {L/N}? Where have I heard of her before?” James leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “Oh! That paint girl? One who has been doing those weird paint studies around school?”

“Yeah, that’s her.” Sirius replied, grinning. “Apparently, she's doing some self study. Remus was practically glowing when he talked about her.”

James’s eyes widened with intrigue. “That’s brilliant! I’ve heard whispers about her- it’s supposed to be absolutely mesmerizing.”

“I wouldn't go that far.” You interjected, stepping through the portrait hole just in time to catch the end of the conversation. You were slightly out of breath, having hurried from the Slytherin dungeons to the Gryffindor tower, your paint-stained overalls still evidence of your artistic endeavors from yesterday. Looking around at the beautiful common room. A very faded almost gray-green scarf around your neck.

Burnt Scarlet and Butterscotch

The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward you. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” You teased with a playful grin, glancing around at the familiar faces of the infamous boys. Sirius was looking you over curiously, with his typical sleazy grin, but James seemed absolutely slack jawed. After a moment of a wait you gave a small laugh, snapping James out of whatever trance he was in. Turning to look at Remus who had his eyes locked on your paints, making you smile.

His eyes flicked up to yours and he grinned back cheekily. “Where should I set up?”

“Over here, near the window.” He gestured over to a small nook. You hurried over and set your things down. Starting of course with a small tarp to set up your painting area without having to worry about ruining the flooring.

You set up two canvas this time and Remus helped you, confused at first before you set another pallet and paint brush down. “Alright, my student. Do you remember what I taught you?” You teased and he laughed, walking over to pick up the paint.

“You didn't have the bring this just for me.”

“Oh I know, how great am I, right?” You teased and sat down. Remus was still getting used to your deflective personality. Shrugging as he sat down and watched as you worked. Doing his best to copy your movements.

Meanwhile, Sirius and James were watching the scene curiously. Sirius couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy at the attention his boyfriend was giving this new girl, and James was unable to get over the fading color of your scarf. His jaw clenched a bit as he watched Lily walk over to introduce herself, also somehow roped in by your charm and even sitting down with you two to watch you paint.

James leaned back on the couch, arms crossed as he watched the interaction unfold before him. The sight of you, animated and joyful as you explained your artistic process to Remus and Lily, stirred something in him. It wasn't just the way you wielded your paintbrush with such confidence; it was the warmth that radiated from you. You were a Slytherin, so obviously, but you held the room like a Gryffindor. You worked with the precision of a RavenClaw. You were patient and thoughtful with Remus and his questions, like a HufflePuff.

He didn't get it.

“Oi, Prongs, you look like you’ve just swallowed a lemon.” Sirius whispered, nudging James with his elbow. “What’s got you all broody?”

“Nothin.” James replied, too quickly, his eyes still fixed on you. “Just… watching.”

Sirius followed his eyes and slowly smirked to himself. “She's getting under your skin too, huh?”

James glanced at Sirius before his glare locked back on you as you instructed Lily to take your paintbrush and gestured to the canvas he couldn't see. “What's her deal? Why's she so.. smiley?”

The ‘as a Slytherin’ part came unspoken to both of the boys.

“You know, Remus says she knows Crouch.”

“Of course she does.” He muttered, eyes locked on the way you rolled up your sleeve and cuffed them. How you loosened your collar, and leaned down, showing the upper valley to your-

And suddenly the floor was a bit more interesting. He turned to look at Sirius who’s lip twitched as he watched Remus rub his thumb across his cheek and smudge some black paint on himself.

“... Merlin, he's bloody fit, ain't he?” Sirius muttered and James gave a loud exaggerated groan.

“I'm shocked Remus is entertaining her at all.” James finally muttered and sunk deeper into his sheet like a pouty child. Sirius nodded.

James watched with narrowed eyes as you laughed along with Remus and Lily, his annoyance bubbling up to the surface. Without really thinking it through, he pushed himself up from the couch, making his way over to where you were sitting with the paintbrushes and palettes laid out neatly.

He made it look casual, like he was just getting a better view, but as he stepped closer, his foot "accidentally" caught the jar of paint water perched near the edge of the table. It tipped, and time seemed to slow as the murky water splashed all over your leggings that just peaked form under your overalls, staining the fabric a dark, ugly color.

"Oh! Whoops, sorry 'bout that," James said, not quite managing to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. His tone was just on the edge of sincere, but the glint in his eyes gave him away.

You glanced down at the mess, then up at James, and for a moment it seemed like the whole room held its breath. James just waiting for the snake to snap its jaws at him. But instead of getting angry, instead of snapping at him like he expected, you just smiled- a bright, genuine smile that made James's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"No worries, Potter.” You mused, brushing it off as if nothing had happened. "A bit of extra color never hurt anyone."

James blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected that. He muttered something that might have been an apology, but the way you smiled at him; completely unbothered- only made his irritation flare up more. He turned sharply on his heel, stalking back to the couch where Sirius was watching with an amused expression.

"Smooth, mate," Sirius drawled, arching an eyebrow.

"Shut it," James muttered, sinking back into his seat, his eyes flicking back to you as you continued painting like nothing had happened.

---

Over the next few days, James found himself increasingly irked by you. No matter what he did, you never seemed fazed. He "accidentally" knocked over your brushes during lunch one day, scattering them across the floor. You just laughed, picking them up without complaint. He charmed your canvas to keep sliding down whenever you set it up, but you only adjusted it each time, humming to yourself as if it were all just part of the process. He even tried to charm the colors in your palette to mix into a murky brown- but you simply shrugged, saying something about it being a "happy little accident" and turned it into a whole new painting.

Each time, you just smiled at him, that infuriatingly calm smile that made James feel like he was the one being childish. It was driving him mad, and Sirius, for one, found the whole thing endlessly entertaining.

One morning, James was sitting in the Great Hall, absently poking at his breakfast, when he heard a determined set of footsteps approaching. He looked up just in time to see you standing over him, hands on your hips, your eyes sharp. If James was a smarter boy, he would of been able to see the faint red rims around your eye sockets and the twitch of your lip.

"Potter.” You huffed, your voice carrying just enough edge to catch the attention of the surrounding students. "Give it back."

James blinked, feigning innocence. "Give what back?"

"Don't play dumb.” You snapped, leaning over the table, your face inches from his. "My paintbrush. The one with the silver handle. I know you took it."

James opened his mouth to deny it, but the look in your eyes made him hesitate. There was something different today- a fire that hadn’t been there before. He was finally getting a reaction from you. He felt his resolve waver, and before he could stop himself, he found his hand reaching into his robes, to pull out the paintbrush in question. Only.. it wasn't there.

James blinked, his smirk faltering as he patted the pocket where he thought he’d stashed your paintbrush. It wasn’t there. A pang of unease settled in his chest as he searched through the other pockets of his robes, the smirk fading completely as he came up empty-handed.

“Are you kidding me?” You straightened, your eyes narrowing. “Potter, don’t play games right now. That brush… it’s important to me.”

There was a crack in your voice, something raw that caught James off guard. The confidence you always carried seemed to waver, your voice betraying a vulnerability that made James's stomach sink with guilt.

“I… I swear it was right here,” James muttered, now frantically checking every inch of his robes, his face growing paler with each empty pocket. The students around them had grown quiet, sensing the sudden seriousness of the situation.

Remus was glaring daggers into his very soul, even Sirius hid his face away in his hand.

You stood there, arms crossed tightly over your chest, your lips pressed together as you fought to maintain composure. You looked away from him, swallowing hard. “Potter, that was my mother’s. She gave it to me before…” You trailed off, your voice breaking slightly before you cleared your throat, trying to regain control.

James’s heart sank. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t thought. All he’d wanted was to rile you up, to see you react. He hadn’t meant for this.

“Alright,” He said quickly, standing up from the table. His voice was more earnest now, the usual cockiness gone. “I’ll help you find it. It must have fallen out somewhere. Let’s go check my dorm.”

You didn’t say anything, just nodded stiffly, blinking rapidly as you turned on your heel and started walking, James trailing after you. The Great Hall was eerily quiet as they left, whispers following in their wake.

“She's too damn nice.” Remus muttered and Sirius sighed. About to say something, before he earned a glare from Remus too.

Lily tutted. “As if you weren't involved in anything he's done to her so far.”

~~~

The walk to the Gryffindor common room felt like it took forever, the silence between the two of you heavy. James kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, the way your jaw was clenched, the way you kept your eyes straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.

When they reached the boys' dormitory, James immediately began tearing through his things, searching every nook and cranny. He pulled open drawers, checked under his bed, even rummaged through the pockets of his other robes. But the paintbrush was nowhere to be found.

He turned to you, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “I… I’m so sorry, {Y/N}, I can’t find it. Maybe it fell somewhere else, maybe-”

“Stop,” You cut him off, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes were glassy, tears welling up as you looked at him. The fight you’d been trying to keep inside seemed to crumble all at once, your shoulders sagging as you sank down onto the edge of his bed. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”

James stared at you, his heart aching at the sight of you like this. He’d never imagined he’d see you cry, and knowing he was the cause of it made him feel worse than he ever thought possible. Suddenly all those weeks of trying to get under your skin seemed more of a success, if this was the result of a truly damaging prank.

“I…” He didn’t know what to say, how to fix this. He knelt down in front of you, his voice gentle. “I’ll find it, I promise. I’ll look everywhere, I’ll…”

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It’s not just a paintbrush, Potter. It was hers. It was all I had left of her.”

James’s chest tightened, and he reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your knee. “I’m so sorry. I… I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I’ll find it. I swear I will.”

You looked down at his hand, then back at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of pain and exhaustion. “Just… don’t,” You whispered, your voice breaking. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Potter.”

And with that, you stood up, wiping at your eyes as you turned and left the dormitory, leaving James there, staring after you, feeling more helpless than he ever had before.

~~~

James had never felt guilt like this. It gnawed at him, making his usual swagger feel empty. Over the next few days, he found himself constantly scanning the corridors, the classrooms, even the common rooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of you but you were always just out of reach. Each time he spotted you, you either turned and walked the other way or simply looked right through him as if he didn't exist.

It wasn't long before the whole school knew what had happened. How James Potter had lost something precious of yours, something irreplaceable. And unlike other times, where his mischief had earned him admiration or laughter, this time he received disapproving glares and whispers behind his back. How he hurt the only Slytherin everyone seemed to adore. Even Remus had given him the cold shoulder for a while, and Lily refused to talk to him outright.

One day, after Transfiguration, James caught sight of you slipping out of the classroom. He hurried to catch up, weaving through the crowd of students, his heart pounding in his chest. When he finally reached you, he touched your arm gently.

“{Y/N}, please, just give me a second.”

You turned slowly, your eyes meeting his. There was a guardedness there that hadn’t been before, a wall that you had built between yourself and him. It hurt more than James could put into words.

Even then, you took time to notice; Cinnamon Brown in his eyes.

James Potter was used to rejection, Lily Evans ran him like it was a damned sport, but something about your usually positive beaming face turning to a frown at the sight of him wrecked him.

“What do you want, Potter?” You asked, your voice tired, as if dealing with him was just another chore.

He swallowed, struggling to find the right words. “I’m sorry. Really. I never meant for things to go this far. I’ve been looking for your brush, I swear it. I… I just want to make it up to you.”

You sighed, crossing your arms over your chest. “There’s nothing you can do, alright? Just leave it, Potter.”

“But-”

“No,” You said firmly. “I don’t want anything to do with you. You’ve done enough. I- I thought you were funny, that you could tell a good joke. Take one too. But this- no. No, just leave me be, Potter.”

James flinched at your words, the finality of them cutting deeper than he expected. He watched as you turned and walked away, the distance between you growing with every step.

~~~

James's heart sank deeper with each day that passed without a sign of the lost paintbrush. He had scoured the castle, enlisted the help of some of his housemates, and even tried asking around discreetly in other houses, but to no avail. It was as if the brush had vanished into thin air, leaving behind a growing rift between him and you.

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room, James slumped on a couch, staring blankly at the fire crackling in the hearth. Sirius and Remus were there too, the latter still showing signs of his displeasure over the whole ordeal.

"I messed up, didn't I?" James murmured, not really expecting an answer.

"You did.” Remus deadpanned, not looking up from his book. "And you know it's not just about the brush. It's about how you've been treating her from the start."

Sirius, lounging with his back against the armrest, watched James closely. "You've been a right prat, Prongs- even I gave in after the first prank.” He remarked and avoided Remus’s slight glare. “You didn't just step on her toes, you danced the bloody Tango on them."

James sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just wanted to get a rise out of her, see her react. But now... I can't stop thinking about how I made her feel. It's like I'm seeing myself for the first time and it's not a pretty picture."

"Sounds like you've got it bad," Sirius said with a smirk.

Remus closed his book, finally giving James his full attention, not exactly happy with what he was hearing. "It's not just guilt, James. It's empathy. You're finally understanding the impact of your actions on others."

James looked from Sirius to Remus, the realization slowly dawning on him. "It's not like I like her. She's just.. pretty. You know, I hate to see a pretty face so upset.” He scoffed and looked back to Sirius who arched his eyebrow and smirked wider as he realized his remark wasn't as playful as he intended.

“That right?” Sirius pushed and James huffed.

“That’s right.”

“When was the last time you bothered poor Evans?” Sirius challenged and Remus gave a low groan. Great, James just couldn't leave his friends alone.

He watched in a bit of sympathy as the dumb boys jaw slowly went limp and his eyes widened. “Merlin, I think I like her.” He mumbled in absolute dread. “Like really like her. And I've gone and ruined it before it could even start."

"Well, you can't undo what you've done, but you can start making amends," Remus advised, a softer tone replacing his earlier reprimand.

"How? She doesn’t even want to see me," James lamented.

"Give her time and show her you've changed.. And Merlin, don't do this just to win her over." Remus huffed.

James pondered, his gaze drifting toward the flickering fire. "What if she never forgives me?"

"Then you’ll learn a valuable lesson in respect, won't you?" Remus said sternly. "You can't force forgiveness, James. All you can do is prove that you're better than your worst mistake."

“Does Merlin speak straight through you?” James muttered to Remus who swatted him with the book across his lap, before standing.

“I need new friends.” He mumbled as he walked away.

Sirius laughed and James pouted, sinking back into the cushions of the couch. Pondering what would be the next best move when earning your forgiveness. He could live with never being with you, he always found the concept of lost love romantic.

What he couldn't do was live knowing he hurt you without even trying for your forgiveness.

~~~

For the next few weeks, Hogwarts transformed into an entirely different realm for James. Determined to right his wrongs, he threw himself into the role of a repentant suitor with the zeal of a true 70s romantic hero; one who was more often clumsy than charming.

One morning at breakfast, armed with an armful of apology notes penned in his best handwriting (which still looked suspiciously like chicken scratch), James tried to navigate the treacherous waters of your friends’ skepticism and Barty’s disdain. He handed out his notes, his voice tinged with hopeful earnestness that made a few of your friends stifle their giggles. “Could you- um, would you make sure {Y/N} gets these? They’re, well, important.” His cheeks flamed red as he stumbled over his words, but the sincerity in his eyes earned him a few nods. The stuttering and foolish boy even earning a smile from Pandora Rosier who assured him she'd ‘do her best.’

He was getting desperate, at every shred of attention you spared him. During potions class, James attempted to be your knight in shining armor, which, predictably, went about as well as a troll in a ballet shop. When he noticed you struggling to reach a vial of newt eyes on a high shelf, he leapt up, nearly knocking over his own cauldron in his eagerness to assist. “Allow me!”

But his overly enthusiastic grab sent the vial spinning into the air, only to crash down right next to Slughorn’s feet, splattering the hem of his robes with an unsightly goo.

“Sorry, Professor!” James winced, while you suppressed a snicker at the sheer absurdity of his gallantry. Graveling even as he was sentenced to detention.

Now, James knew that if he wanted to be truthful with you it started with his behaviors. Which, started with him being truly himself. So, much to Remus’s annoyance, James turned to grander gestures.

He managed to convince the house elves to let him borrow the kitchens for an evening to bake you a peace offering. Armed with sugar, flour, and an overabundance of misplaced confidence, he set about creating what he envisioned would be a culinary masterpiece. The result was a lopsided cake with icing that read, "Forgive me?" in wobbly letters. Only, half of the cake was callapsed, making it seem much more like a command of “give me”.

He presented it to you during dinner, his hands shaking slightly as he placed it on the table. The entire Great Hall watched in anticipation as you took a bite. The cake was oddly salty, but when your lips twitched into a reluctant smile, James felt a surge of pure elation. Maybe, just maybe, his efforts were thawing your icy regard.

He even tried serenading you one evening in the common room, guitar in hand- a skill he had hastily learned over the past week. His voice cracked more than once, and the guitar was slightly out of tune, but he sang with such heartfelt passion that even the portraits along the walls seemed to listen in. He crooned to you, mangling the melody as he went. You watched, half-amused and half-astonished, as this boy who’d never shown an interest in music before butchered the song with endearing enthusiasm. Everyone in your common room appalled.

Through it all, James's exploits became the talk of Hogwarts. Whispers followed him everywhere- some mocking, others admiring. Some even amused that his attention had switched from Lily Evans, to you after years of pining. But beneath the laughter and the rumors, a thread of respect grew among his peers. Here was James Potter, chasing redemption as doggedly as he’d once chased after mischief.

Late one night, as James sat by the fire reflecting on his recent life choices, Sirius plopped down next to him, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “Prongs, you’re a bleeding heart wrapped in a jester’s cloak,” Sirius shook his head with a grin.

James laughed, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I just need to know she forgives me, Padfoot. That I’ve made things right.”

“Well, mate, at the very least, you’ve given the whole school a good show,” Sirius chuckled. “And who knows? Maybe our little Slytherin is writing her own notes now; ‘How to Tame Your Marauder’ or something more poetic.”

James smiled, gazing into the flickering flames, hopeful and a bit wiser. In his quest to win your forgiveness, he’d stumbled across something unexpected. Something worth it. Not just you, but a desire- no, need- to better himself. Every time he saw you smile, made you laugh, roll your eyes, he wanted to be someone better. Someone who deserved to find themselves feeling the magic of being in love with a girl like {Y/N} {L/N}.

And maybe he'd even find himself worthy of her affection in return.

~~~

It all came to a head one day when he was scouring the school once again for your paintbrush. He had lost track of time in his mindless routine and forgotten about potions class. He was a half hour late, dashing into the classroom in a ruffled mess.

His breathless arrival didn’t go unnoticed, especially by you, who eyed him warily from your spot at the potions bench. Professor Slughorn eyed him with a mixture of irritation and curiosity.

“Mr. Potter, so kind of you to join us,” Slughorn boomed, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “Twenty points from Gryffindor for your tardiness, it's almost as if you left to miss my instruction specifically.”

James grimaced but still tried to flash his playful smile that usually meant a clap back or snark. Instead, it was his form of a hesitant apology. “Sorry Professor-”

“I am not going over the instructions for Amortentia a third time today, is anyone willing to assist Mr. Potter?” Slughorn announced form the front of the class. There was a long moment of silence. Even with everyone slowly growing fond of him, no one was willing to drag down such an important project for the foolish boy.

Then, from across the room, your voice cut through the tension. "I can help him, Professor," you said, your voice calm but with an edge that didn’t entirely mask your reluctance. Everyone's heads turned towards you, including a visibly surprised James.

"Very well, {Y/N}. Please ensure Mr. Potter catches up without disrupting the rest of the class," Slughorn replied with a nod, turning back to his notes.

James approached your bench, a mix of gratitude and nervousness evident on his face. As he took the seat next to you, he whispered, "Thank you, I really mean it."

As James settled beside you at the potions bench, his hands fumbled slightly with the equipment. Slughorn, having returned to the front of the class, continued with his lecture, oblivious to the dramatic love story unfolding at the back.

James cleared his throat softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Really, {Y/N}, thanks for helping me out here. I know I've been... well, less than admirable lately."

You didn't look at him immediately, focusing instead on measuring out rose thorns with precision. "Just start by adding these to the cauldron slowly.” You instructed, handing him the thorns. "And stir- don't let it settle."

As he followed your instructions, his movements were careful, mirroring the cautious tone he was taking with you. After a moment, you finally met his gaze. "You've been trying hard, haven't you?" You muttered, not unkindly. Your eyes drifting over his focused expression and having to fight a smile.

James paused, the stirring rod in his hand still. "I have. I want to make things right, not just with you but... well, I've been thinking a lot about things I've done. I'm sorry, truly."

You watched him, the sincerity in his eyes striking a chord that made your heart ache. What had you done to the famous James Potter? His efforts over the past few weeks hadn’t gone unnoticed- it was quite entertaining. From the awkwardly presented cake to his out-of-tune serenades, his actions spoke far more than his words ever did. "I've noticed.” You whispered. "It's been hard to miss, really. Hogwarts hasn't been this entertaining in years."

A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "I guess I've made a bit of a spectacle of myself."

"Just a bit.” You chuckled, the tension easing between you as the familiar rhythm of your banter found its footing again.

Encouraged by that sweet sound of your laugh and the pretty way your lips curled into a smile he just adored-, James continued, "If there’s any chance I could, you know, maybe start over? I’d understand if not but-"

"You're really laying it on thick with the humility, Potter. It’s a good look on you.” You teased gently, turning back to the potion, which was now bubbling contentedly. "Let's just take it one day at a time. But, yeah, we can start with being friends."

James let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, relief washing over him. "Friends, right. And if you ever want to throw more paint at me, just say when."

"Be careful, I might take you up on that.” You warned with a playful grin.

As the class progressed, you both fell into an easy rhythm, the earlier awkwardness replaced by a budding conversation. James was surprisingly adept once he focused, and you found yourself laughing more genuinely than you had in a while at his self-deprecating jokes and clumsy yet earnest attempts at potion-making.

By the end of the class, not only had you two successfully brewed a passable batch of Amortentia, which thankfully didn't smell like sweat and regret. James had shown you a different side of himself, one that was humbly trying to make amends and move forward. And as you packed up your supplies, sharing a light joke about the day's mishaps, it felt like a fresh start was truly possible.

James took the chance to smile back at Remus and Sirius. Sirius seemed delighted for him, and Remus seemed hesitant. But it was okay, because you hadn't just forgiven him. You were willing to be his friend.

~~~

James slowly realised that being your friend was likely one of the best feelings he's had in a while. He thought everyone you had met were your friends, considering how sweet and lovely you were with everyone.

But he was wrong.

There was a crazy side to you that only a small few saw. He learned it quickly, that you were sweet, kind, understanding- yes.

But you were an absolute gremlin when you wanted to be.

James discovered this one evening when you invited him to join you for a late-night painting session- a tradition you shared with a select few. Remus told him about them, but he never really understood just how amazing it felt to have your full attention like this. He had anticipated a serene evening, maybe learning a bit more about your magical painting techniques. Instead, he found himself in the middle of a chaotic spree of creativity that involved more prank-like antics than actual painting.

How in the bloody hell had he not known you properly?

As James entered the room, he was immediately hit by a flying glob of paint. It splattered across his face, dripping down his cheek. He stood, stunned for a moment, before hearing your laughter from behind an easel.

“Oh Potter, rule one. Never let your guard down.” You taunted and quickly hurried over to your canvas. Able to notice how the bright pink paint clung to his Jet Black hair.

Wiping the paint off with a sleeve, James couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a spark of challenge light up within him. "Oh, it’s on, {Y/N}." He responded, grabbing a palette loaded with vibrant colors.

What ensued was a wild mess of laughter, artistic ‘attacks,’ and impromptu paint duels that left both of you covered in every hue imaginable. Hindsight is 20/20- he shouldn't of worn his school robes. It was during these moments, dodging your playful ambushes and crafting hasty shields out of canvas boards, that James realized how comfortable he felt around you. Your laughter became a soundtrack he looked forward to, and your approving nods at his clumsy attempts at art warmed him more than he expected.

“It's humiliating how good you're getting at this.” You teased from your perch on a stool, James chuckled and playfully flipped you off.

“So much sass. And if I credited this to my teacher?”

“You should, I'm bloody good.” You laughed, wiping your nose before sneezing away some of the wet paint you forgot was on your hand.

That night became a normal accurance, it was like you two never fought. You two would find yourself laying on a tarp full of paint. You were laying on your back with your legs against the wall, and he was sitting with his back against said wall. Both of you looking off into dead space as you both talked about the most random and ridiculous things; from the controversial taste of pasties to the value and control one had over each other's fates.

“You know, everytime I come here, I remember why I've fallen for you.”

His words came out before he could stop himself. His jaw dropped at his own broken honesty, horrified that he had ruined the moment.

After a moment of silence, he looked down to see you smiling at the ceiling.

“Is that so?”

James swallowed thick and clenched his jaw a bit.

“Yeah.”

“That's awfully sweet of you.”

Your words were light, but they carried a weight that settled over James with an unexpected warmth. He watched you, admiring the serene expression on your face, highlighted by the ambient light that filtered through the scattered paint jars around you. He welcomed the twist of his gut like an old friend.

"I mean it, though," James continued, a hint of vulnerability in his voice as he leaned his head back against the wall, his gaze still fixed on you. "You make it easy to be myself, to be better. You've turned what started as a mess into something... pretty great."

“And isn't that just life?” You teased softly. “Sappy, messy, and yet an absolute masterpiece.”

“Is that what you truly believe?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I just say what makes sense to me in the moment.”

“You're a pain.” He chuckled and looked down, seeing your smile had grown tenfold. Your nose scrunching up and the corners of your eyes wrinkling.

James couldn't resist the infectious energy of your smile. It pulled a laugh from deep within him, a genuine, carefree sound that filled the room- he was screwed. "You're brilliant, you know that? Absolutely infuriating, but brilliant."

You shifted to sit up, leaning against the wall next to him, paint smears marking both your faces and clothes. "I'll take that as a compliment, Potter. Coming from you, it means quite a lot."

And that was all. James hadn't even registered your soft rejection, just relieved you seemed to accept him regardless. He leaned his head on your shoulder and you flicked off some stray pain from his nose. He smiled, all teeth, before he got up and forced you to your feet. Pulling you into a dance that made you cackle like a proper witch. And that was enough. To see you so bloody happy was enough.

~~~

James learned to share you quickly. With Barty always on your heel or Pandora hovering listlessly at your side.

He even grew accustomed to seeing you draped in the easy camaraderie of Ravenclaws and your fellow Slytherins, your infectious laugh filling the spaces you all occupied together. It was during these times that James learned to appreciate you in a new light- not just as a friend or a fleeting crush, but as a vibrant part of his Hogwarts experience.

It wasn’t always easy, of course. The sting of his previous actions lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts, a reminder of the consequences of his thoughtlessness. Yet, each shared smile and each shared conversation with you wove a new thread of respect and affection into the fabric of his daily life.

As winter deepened and the snow began to blanket Hogwarts, bringing with it the festive buzz of the upcoming holiday season, James found himself more reflective. The common room was often aglow with the warm light of the fire, students gathered around in cozy clusters, and it was here that James found a new sense of belonging. Not just as a Marauder, but as a friend among a wider circle that included you.

One chilly evening, as the wind howled outside and the frost painted delicate patterns on the castle windows, James approached you with a tentative peace offering- a sketchbook. Its cover was a simple, deep blue, but inside, he had taken the time to fill the first page with a clumsy yet earnest attempt at a magical painting. It wasn’t animated like yours, but the colors were vibrant, a silent testament to his efforts to understand your world.

You accepted the sketchbook with a surprised chuckle, flipping through the blank pages before pausing at his painting. “This is for me?” You asked, a softness in your voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah,” James nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, looking uncharacteristically shy. “I thought… well, I thought you could use it to capture the winter. I know it’s not magical like yours, but-”

“It’s perfect, James,” You interrupted, a sincere smile breaking across your face. “Really. Thank you.”

That smile, that simple moment, seemed to close a chapter on the earlier tensions between you two.

“Of course, it's not free.”

“Id expect nothing less.” You teased and he chuckled.

“Quiddich. You never go to the games. All I ask, next week, come and cheer me on?” He offered and you couldn't up but laugh. “Are you asking for a lucky charm, Potter?”

”Not any Lucky charm. Mine.”

~~~

The day of the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin arrived with the usual buzz of excitement and rivalry. The stands were packed, a sea of red and green as students cheered boisterously for their respective houses. James, his nerves on edge, had been secretly looking forward to seeing you in the crowd, especially after your promise to wear Gryffindor red. It was a small victory, but for him, it meant the world.

However, as he scanned the crowd from his broom high above, his heart sank a little. There you were, indeed wrapped in a bold, red scarf, but still cheering enthusiastically for Slytherin. The sight was confusing and, if he was honest with himself, a bit disappointing. Throughout the match, James tried to focus on the game, but his eyes inevitably kept drifting back to you. Each cheer for Slytherin felt like a playful taunt, and his competitive spirit took a hit each time.

Despite his best efforts, the game didn't go well for Gryffindor. Slytherin was sharp, coordinated, and relentless. When the Slytherin seeker caught the Snitch, sealing their victory, a wave of green cheers swept the stands. James landed his broom with a tight expression, his disappointment not just in the loss, but in the mixed signals you seemed to be sending.

The teams made their way back to the locker rooms amidst mixed reactions from the crowd. While his team consoled each other and talked about what went wrong, James couldn’t shake off his gloom. He avoided the usual post-game mingling, instead heading straight for the Gryffindor common room, his mood as dark as the clouds above.

As he slumped into an armchair by the fire, the common room mostly empty due to the ongoing celebrations outside, Remus and Sirius walked in. They took one look at him and exchanged a glance.

“Tough game, Prongs,” Sirius said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Yeah. And I guess the whole wearing-red thing didn’t mean what I thought it did,” James muttered, not meeting his friends' eyes.

Remus, ever the perceptive one, added softly, “Maybe there’s more to it, James. Did you ask her about it?”

Before James could respond, the portrait hole opened, and you stepped in, still wearing the red scarf, your expression a mix of concern and determination. Seeing you, Sirius and Remus excused themselves with knowing smiles, leaving the two of you alone.

James, as avoidant as ever and riddled with emotions he didn't want to confront, stood sharply and turned towards his dormitory. You gawked at him before furrowing your eyebrows in annoyance, a pout taking over your expression. You hurried after him.

“What's wrong, Jamie?”

Oh Merlin.

“I don't want to talk to you.” James hissed out and shoved his way into his room. You huffed and shoved the door open and walked in, closing the door behind yourself.

“You're not being very fair right now. I'm sorry I couldn't win the game for you but-”

“Do not make this about the win.”

“What is this about then, Jamie? I don't get it!”

“Stop calling me that.” He hissed and turned to face you, making you flinch.

“What's gotten into you?” You pushed cautiously and James scoffed.

“I can't do this! I don't get you!” He strained. “I tell you I've fallen for you and you brushed it off. I ask you to cheer for me and you show up in red, cheering for Slytherin!”

“James, it's my house.” You muttered softly and you saw his shoulders sag.

“Yeah but- I just figured-” He gave a long shaky sigh. Turning around and sitting on the bed, running his hands over his face.

You moved closer, taking a seat next to him on the bed, your own emotions swirling. Even then you were able to take notice. His teeth were strained by his jaw, yet they held the same Ballet White. His robes shimmering with Burnt Scarlet and Butterscotch. His eyes that locked onto yours so vulnerable, giving that perfect Cinnamon Brown. Then the way his hair shagged over his Jet Black lochs. You couldn't look away. Not from all your favorite colors.

“James, I wore red because you asked me to. I thought it was a way to show you that... that I care. But I'm still a Slytherin, and my friends were down there on that field too. I was cheering for them, not against you."

James looked at you, the frustration softening in his eyes as he processed your words. "I know, I know. It's just... everything got mixed up in my head. Seeing you there, in red, but not for Gryffindor. It felt like you were there, but not really with me."

You took his hand gently, squeezing it. "I was there for you, James. Maybe not in the way you expected, but I was there because you matter to me. I cheered for Slytherin, but I wore your favorite color. Can't I support both?"

James let out a small laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "When you put it like that, it sounds perfectly reasonable. I just... I guess I let the game get to me more than I should have."

"You're passionate, that's not a bad thing. But sometimes, you might see competition where there's just... affection." You offered him a small smile, hoping to lighten the mood further.

He returned your smile, this time with more warmth. "Affection, huh? So, you admit there’s something?" James teased, trying to shift back to his usual playful demeanor.

"Maybe I do.” You teased back, nudging him lightly. "But don't let it go to your head. We still have a lot to figure out, starting with how to handle house rivalries during Quidditch matches."

James chuckled, his spirits visibly lifted. "We'll figure it out. As long as it means I get to see you in Gryffindor red, maybe I can even cheer for Slytherin once in a while."

"That’s a deal.” You agreed, feeling the gap between you closing as the misunderstanding cleared up.

Just then, the door burst open, and Sirius poked his head in, a mischievous grin on his face. "Are we all forgiven and friendly now? Because there’s a victory party for Slytherin, and I was hoping to steal your girl for a dance, Prongs."

James rolled his eyes, but his smile was genuine. "Only if you promise to bring her back, Padfoot."

You laughed, standing up and offering James a hand up. "Let’s go then. And maybe we can start a new tradition- dancing together, no matter who wins the match."

James took your hand, standing and pulling you into a quick, grateful hug. "Sounds like a perfect plan."

Before he could pull away fully, you stole a quick kiss against his cheek. He gave a startled huff, staring at you with wide eyes. Before he could scamper out any response, or even kiss you back, you pulled away and sent him a wink. Hurrying after a laughing Sirius as he took your arm like a gentleman would.

It took James two to three business days for his system to turn back on. “H-hey, wait!” He shouted after you, stumbling over himself and hitting his foot against the bed. Giving a small curse before he stumbled back after you, not hearing the soft clank of something falling from between his head board and the dresser.

Later that night, you two would find your mother's paintbrush, nestled between his bed posts and pillows.

What were you doing in James Potter’s bed so late?

Experiencing a masterpiece.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #james potter #sirius black #Remus Lupin #james potter x you #james fleamont potter #james potter x y/n #james potter x reader #lily Evans

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stllmnstr · 11 months ago

Text

every fragile thing

pairing: park sunghoon x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, figure skating au, college/university au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, jealousy, non graphic descriptions/depictions of injuries, use of the american (usa) university system, a kiss or five

soundtrack: get him back! / brutal / jealousy, jealousy / good 4 u / the grudge / bad idea right? / drivers license - olivia rodrigo

After an ankle injury lands you in mandated physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for nationals, you're absolutely certain you must be the most frustrated, emotionally volatile figure skater on the planet. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.

or,

every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.

note: hi hello yes this is me on a new blog with the same name. I deleted my old one and wasn't sure if I planned on remaking/reposting but here we are! if you've read this before, then I hope you enjoy just as much this time around. and if you haven't, I hope you love figure skater sunghoon just as much as I do! happy reading ♡

Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition.

But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted moments, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill.

In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best.

There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath.

Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?

That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come.

The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin.

But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you.

“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”

It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track?

“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”

Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals.

Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this.

“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly.

“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question.

Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.”

The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”

And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”

“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance too.”

“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace.

But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”

You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”

“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully.

Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”

“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing.

…

You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue.

It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space.

The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left.

Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.

Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision.

With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door.

And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.

Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.

“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”

You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though.

Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next.

Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows.

“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”

“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”

“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”

You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.”

“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you.

“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new members.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”

“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes.

The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes.

Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs.

An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice.

“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”

“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it.

“Sunghoon?”

At that, he does finally look up.

Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either.

A beat passes.

Two.

Neither of you break eye contact.

The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second.

Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?”

Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink.

Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect.

Oh, you know him alright.

“___?”

And it would seem he remembers you as well.

It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough.

“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”

You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess.

You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—

You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again.

If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions.

And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane.

Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started.

“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours.

…

Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule.

Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes.

Including him.

Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be.

Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around.

“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”

You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”

“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.”

“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.”

“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.”

Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”

“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade.

“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”

“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.”

“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”

Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”

The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room.

Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.

It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible.

So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last.

Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.

With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back.

…

It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you.

Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.

Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance.

It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does.

Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.

“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”

“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth.

But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin.

Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you.

“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”

You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate.

Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.

Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.”

You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”

“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”

You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out.

“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”

Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”

Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends.

And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant.

It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong.

Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious.

Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”

Jake just gives you a look.

You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”

Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”

Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”

Or not.

“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”

Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”

“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?”

“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”

“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”

The guilt on your face says it all.

“No way.” Jake says.

Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”

“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”

“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”

The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission.

But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap.

No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them.

Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.

“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces.

“That’s rough,” Niki agrees.

And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at fifteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out your coach’s.

That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice.

That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time.

That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater.

That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip.

That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once.

Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks.

Not until it all shattered in a single moment.

It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart.

And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all.

Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn.

In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger.

And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner.

So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance.

And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.

But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself.

That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed.

That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him.

You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone.

“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses.

“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods.

“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”

…

When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.

As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage.

If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other.

It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”

Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side.

Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always.

It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead.

“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”

That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight.

Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.

You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile.

“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”

If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he.

Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”

“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.”

“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”

The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car.

“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”

You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely.

“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”

His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering.

Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home.

And he never says your name once.

…

The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness.

It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again.

Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays.

You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that.

Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first.

Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze.

The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat.

This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head.

“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests.

“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”

“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”

“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”

Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”

“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”

“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”

And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day.

“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern.

“Or something,” Jake agrees.

Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”

A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”

…

You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”

And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”

“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program.

It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts.

A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”

You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice.

You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”

…

The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.

Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake.

“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question.

“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”

“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off.

The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor.

“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”

“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again.

“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.

Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a pair of boys you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know.

Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine.

Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips.

“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod.

Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.

“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”

You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing.

“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”

You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant.

You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid.

Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife.

If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier.

“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”

“And you all go to school here?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”

“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”

Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later.

Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long.

Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low.

Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations.

“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”

Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off.

But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing.

You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”

The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”

“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”

“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”

“And a complete stranger to you.”

It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body.

When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”

“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you.

You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”

Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp.

Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation.

Last time, he let you fall.

You have no idea what he’ll do now.

In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target.

Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin.

When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.”

“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon.

Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room.

You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought.

You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung.

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.

It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt.

It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting.

He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”

Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier.

Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks.

Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer.

His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers.

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation.

“What?”

“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”

The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception.

“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”

“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”

He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape.

When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have.

In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe.

…

The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you.

With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie.

Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread.

In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd.

It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction.

But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared.

You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink.

Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible.

Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice.

The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year.

But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes.

For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.

In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit.

“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief.

It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past.

“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”

“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”

You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”

“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.”

“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”

It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?”

Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”

That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to.

And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes.

As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him.

And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear.

“I’m sorry.”

…

Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response.

But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame.

“You absolute idiot.”

“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry.

But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”

“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”

A beat of silence passes.

And then another.

Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to.

He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”

It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”

“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”

And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right.

Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same.

“What are you doing?”

There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong.

“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”

This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning.

And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace.

The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon pulls you into his apartment with his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time.

Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought.

And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet.

…

epilogue

“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”

You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”

“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”

Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most.

You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates.

Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”

It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough?

Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”

“Hey! I—”

“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”

Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”

This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels.

He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout.

After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return.

It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”

“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin.

“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”

“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”

Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs.

…

outtake—five years ago.

Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission.

Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down.

Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore.

It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse.

Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact.

The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through.

He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger.

So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run, every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck.

Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.

But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him.

He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either.

Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors.

He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own.

It seems to stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him.

So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five years later.

Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you.

On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts.

And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.

.....

note: thank you for reading! as always, comments, reblogs, and asks are very much appreciated :D

#sunghoon fanfiction #enhypen fanfiction #park sunghoon #sunghoon #enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #enhypen x you #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon fanfic #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios

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ay0nha · 1 month ago

Text

How Many Miles to Babylon? | Remmick (ii)

GIF by leftoversl1ce

SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on originally on this request and influenced by others in my inbox.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again... If your heels are nimble and your toes are light, You may get there by candlelight." Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801

PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)

WORD COUNT: 6.8K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, religious themes, blood/violence, inner turmoil, smut (18+), m!masturbation and the aftermath, angst, pervy landlord, protective!Remmick, angsty!Remmick, inspo from Robert Frost, other authors, web-weaving on Pinterest (credit goes where it is due always), etc.

A/N: I blacked out writing this fr. I incorporated some requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. An overwhelming thank YOU to @fuckoffbard for helping me SO much and listening to me and everything in between, you literally inspired this with this one shot! Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.

part i

Remmick didn’t run—couldn’t.

He tumbled over his own feet, hands barely able to catch him before he hit the dirt. The sun left nothing untouched, even his palms blistered.

The still air created a dance of light that wavered against the heat; a deceptive shimmer, a fleeting, false delight. Remmick followed it until he collapsed.

The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from the carnage.

The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Remmick had crawled to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl.

“Was always curious ’bout what happened to the fallen angel once he hit the ground…” Your shock was instantly buried so deeply that you doubted it would ever surface. “...here you are.”

The shade of the porch helped, but Remmick’s skin didn’t heal. It festered. His breath felt hot in his lungs as if he were burning from the inside out. It had nearly burned the wit out of him.

“Pretty, ain’t I?” Remmick squinted, afraid of more light entering his body.

“Act like you have some sense—” You gestured for him to get up. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have to. “—c’mon, before I change my mind.”

You couldn’t refuse him, and in any case had no choice of doing so; your body reacted long before your mind did, and the meat of your meat and the flesh of your flesh invited him in.

The door was left open, your words a lingering invitation that Remmick was slow to process. He wasn’t sure how many steps he gained from adrenaline alone, but he entered your home.

Regardless, relief was found behind the lace curtains that hid you well from the outside world.

Like lace, Remmick recognized you and your position in the very fabric of society, a tapestry of togetherness that consisted of holes, but also threats that tied you both together for what felt like until the end of time.

“I was fixin’ to do some washin’...” You called from another room. Remmick’s daze continued, his posture adjusting to something entirely unfamiliar; an intrusion. “Reckon you could use some too.”

Your voice was deep and warm. Remmick drank it in like sweet wine, its lure willing him to worship anything he could taste. He moved slowly, like every inch of him ached, and maybe it did.

The doorframe caught his weight as he leaned there, eyes on you. You were kneeling by the tub, fingers curled under the faucet, testing the water. The pipes groaned. The water was cloudy, untrustworthy. But you didn’t flinch.

“You hearin’ me?” You prompted again. “Clean up, quick. The pipes are rusty and the water runs cold.”

“Pity don’t suit you, darlin’.” He rasped, rough but quiet, like he didn’t really mean for it to sting.

You moved past him gently, your shoulder brushing his arm. Not a tease, not a challenge. Just contact. Real.

“Mercy neither.” You confirmed. “You’re barkin’ up the wrong house if that’s what you’re hopin’ for.”

“I ain’t askin’ for mercy,” he said, voice low, brittle. “Just… somethin’ that don’t hurt too much.”

You paused, but you didn’t pull away. And the silence you eventually left him with held more than anything else could.

—

Remmick hung his head low, his condition catching up to him.

It was rare, but he was tired. Exhausted. His body begged for reprieve, for comfort, for something that he no longer required. His skin puckered, sensitive and raw. His breathing hadn’t calmed. It refused to.

The day was quiet, giving time for Remmick’s skin to recover. Each layer he removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive in one piece.

The blood was so ingrained in his nails that it looked like birthmarks on each of his fingers, ten reminders, ten crucifixes. His fingers trailed the old wood of the bathroom, not quite ready to drown himself in your scents. He wondered its history.

Your home was smaller than quaint, fitting for someone alone. There was very little Remmick knew about you, but your home told him enough; everything was in the right place, even the towels were folded with awareness.

Remmick watched the oils separate in the tepid water of the bath, floating away in bubbled clusters. The impromptu serenity became too sacred to disturb. This was an indulgence you hadn’t realized you provided.

This place was too real. It didn’t belong in the world he knew. He kept staring at the frayed rug, the chipped tile, the bar of soap whittled to a sliver. The intimacy of your life. The places your feet had touched.

He couldn’t see you, but knew you soaked in the remaining sun as you took down your laundry. The domesticity made him ache. Normalcy mocked him, and it hurt. It made something depraved sit deep in his chest. It mimicked hunger—thirst. But Remmick didn’t want blood.

The water threatened to spill from his intrusion, making his breath tight. The porcelain was old, cracked in places, but it held him steady.

The water was cold like you promised. The sting felt righteous. The frigidness made him feel. Alive? Alert.

The grime was ready to leave his skin as he pressed his palms to his eyes. It reminded him of the fresh-water streams that mazed through the forests he once knew.

Then, he was able to find the minotaur at the center, but it had been long enough that he had taken its place; Remmick no longer trusted his own memories. There was a lingering thought in the back of his mind that his instincts were the next to go.

Remmick overlooked how that feeling in his chest weighed further, settling in his stomach.

No, further than—

Remmick stopped himself. He dampened his hair, brushing it tidily like it mattered.

Eyes closed, he tried to feel you. Hear you.

You hummed lightly. The tune didn’t belong to a hymnal or any blues he’d heard before. It was something light without a consistent beat. It kept your mind busy while your hands continued to work.

The sunset was warm and reflective. It wore you down quickly, but you didn’t give way. You hummed. It was something that had been stuck in your mind, lurking and prodding when you were both asleep and awake.

Just a few notes you chased. You’d never thought to run from them.

Remmick rested his arms on the lip of the tub. He repeated your weak notes, attempting to remedy the concoction. Only he could hear the harmonization that was created.

It took a few adjustments, but once it had clicked, the song revealed that you listened closely to Remmick.

It was a song he’d brought to you.

Heat had bloomed in Remmick’s stomach to cultivate lower and lower. That thirst grew wild, his hand now gripping the rim of the tub. His other hand was still slack in the water—adrift, shamed, unsure of what it had asked for.

The shame settled slowly, crawling up his spine like a rash. The kind that stays hidden until it's too late to treat. It laced with every flicker of memory, the way your laugh caught between your teeth, the scent of your skin after hours in the heat, the hollow in your throat where he’d once pressed his mouth and almost begged.

Something twitched deep in the water.

His skin pricked.

Remmick felt no longer bloody. Nor broken. But…breathing. The moment stretched, his breathing split between frenetic and flustered.

He refused to move; there was satisfaction in the self-torment, in the way the water suddenly turned warm, so warm…too warm.

The window was propped open, not with purpose but because the hinges were another thing rusted. A breeze came in carrying the humidity and your heartbeat. There was a little preemptive truth-telling to the way it beat; it trilled at the company you had.

Remmick had disappeared for months. The days blurred together, and at times, you felt enough time had passed for him to be nothing more than a fairytale. You had crossed a line that you both teetered from the start.

It wasn’t something fast and all-consuming. It was something always present and consistent. You didn’t realize you’d feel his absence. It was something different than missing him.

That shared feeling brought him back against his better judgment. A feeling that he’d hoped would never get old. Every time he’d admit that to himself, he felt like he’d just been handed a secret.

Needful. Cathartic. A moment of weakness—None of those sounded right. Remmick sat there, water up to his ribs, hands limp, breathing uneven, like some pathetic martyr bathing in guilt instead of blood.

The water lapped softly at the porcelain walls, whispering sins Remmick didn’t remember speaking. It sounded like your voice when you said his name—quiet, curious, uncertain if you should say it at all.

The echo of it licked his ears like flame.

A throb had finally won him over.

Remmick’s hand submerged, trailing down apprehensively.

The weight of his hand felt unfamiliar, as if it weren’t his own; a softness was in the touch, a gentleness that couldn’t belong to him. He ached to recognize it as yours.

His free hand clutched at the edge of the tub while the other continued to search for sensitivity. Remmick had to be delirious from the sun, it felt too good the way his thumb circled his tip, not quite touching its point.

Stuck in his own hold, Remmick rolled his hips. He was sure his cheeks were just as ruddy as his excitement. He moved his hand once, twice, and then stopped.

Shame bloomed red-hot across his neck. His stomach turned. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He was doing it because you had touched him without touching him.

Then, once more, twice more, he moved against himself. Up and down. Up. Down. Up down.

The pain he had slowly melted into syrupy sweet pleasure, and everything quickly became overwhelming. He leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to get more; it was impossible to pull away.

The water had rippled at his repetitive motions, at the confidence in his hold. At the faint memory of his hold around the soft skin of your neck.

Remmick’s lips still burned at the memory of the salty skin he found under your jaw. He remembered restraint and how much it had cost.

He was hungry; a man so starving he imagined the heady taste of more of you.

It was the gentle offer of trust he didn’t deserve. The steady hum of your presence on the other side of the wall. It was the mercy of clean towels and cold water, of folded linens and a house that smelled like rosemary and sun-warmed wood.

It was everything he had been denied—everything he had forfeited—and now, held like a sacrament in the small, careful ways you lived.

He moved without pattern, without pride—just pressure, just friction, chasing something nameless that built in the pit of him like floodwaters against rotted levees.

A picked up force. A raw need. Strokes of desire. Slick and hot. The ache deepened. His breath hitched. Solid. Warm. Present.

Muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. The next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy.

Remmick pressed deeper. Edged further. Harder. Thumb stroking exactly where it was needed.

A choked breath escaped him as his release overtook him—sharp, voiceless, spent. It was grief made physical. He let it come, whatever it was: sorrow, want, remorse, hunger.

You had undone him, and you hadn’t even touched him.

The tension shattered like old bone, leaving only the aftershocks to ripple through his limbs.

Remmick’s forehead fell to the edge of the tub, and he gasped like he’d drowned and come up begging.

The water shifted, swirling in soft spirals. It took him a long moment to look down—too long. When he did, his breath caught.

The water had changed.

Not violently, not obviously. But something delicate now drifted there, pale and suspended in motion like a prayer released into the wind. He watched it coil and dissolve in slow, ribboning threads, weaving into the bathwater like it belonged there. Like he belonged.

Remmick’s chest ached. It should have felt vile. Contaminated. A defilement of the clean you’d drawn for him.

Instead, it looked… joined. Blended. Something of him, something living, swirling with what could only be imagined as the essence of you. The oil from your soaps, the faint trace of your skin, the quiet peace that had settled into the room simply because you had touched it.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

You and he, your warmth, his ruin—should never have touched. But here it was, suspended in front of him, proof that even in his solitude, something had mixed. Become inseparable.

Shared.

Remmick leaned forward, his hair dripping into the water as his chest shuddered. He watched the ripples distort his reflection, the surface stained with a milky swirl that turned the bath into something shameful. Sacred.

A flutter of wind pushed through the broken window hinge. The scent of the outside world drifted in—laundry soap and cedar, wild grass and the faint salt of your skin—and with it, the cruel reminder that you were close. Just beyond the wall. Humming.

The water stilled.

Remmick stared down into it, unable to look away from what lingered there. It felt like evidence, like he’d left a part of himself behind, like he had shattered something so delicate. It unraveled him more than violence ever could.

Suddenly, to be made of flesh was humiliation.

—

“That new?”

The cross hung short, like the chain had belonged to you since you were a child. It was never long enough to reach true redemption. It was created to be plain, to ward off vanity, and to remind you that sin was innate.

“Old.” You shook your head. “Been collectin’ dust.”

“Silver?”

“Look like I can afford gold?” You narrowed your eyes, wary of the sudden prodding. “What, plannin’ on robbing me?”

You came into your home and were met with quiet. The sun was gone, and you assumed so was your guest. Until you saw how his face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.

Remmick’s skin was as fresh as your environment would allow. You read the effort he took to pull his hair back evenly, like a boy meeting his maker. Vulnerable and boyish. Must have been the sun, you told yourself.

He seemed drained to the point of melancholy, like his presence was wrong. Like he had a chestful of regret. It was easy to read when his suspenders hung at his waist, soiled shirt ridden and lost forever, only an undershirt to hide his sensitivity.

You stalked towards him now, always audacious.

“Or what? You don’t like that I’m displayin’ my sin?” You pushed, necklace looking forlorn.

“Prefer a locket.” His smile seemed…innocent. Unfitting for a mongrel dog like him. Unfit for someone addicted to the unholy. “At least that holds meanin’.”

Remmick met you with a few steps.

Your eyes flicked to his neck. The knotted gold chain was wound up together, left to right, top to bottom. You couldn’t see the end or the beginning because it had been tangled by the water into a ball that let no light through the crevices.

It was useless the way it was and not fulfilling its intended purpose. It begged to know who would take the time to gently rub it between their finger and thumb to loosen the sphere so that little by little a small portion could be freed; once that piece was free, the rest was sure to follow as long as patience was applied.

Then, the snarled mess could begin to add beauty to what it was placed upon.

“I prefer this one.” You said, brushing your fingers along the edge of the gold at Remmick’s collar.

The metal caught the low lamplight, warm and ancient. But it wasn’t the gold that held your gaze, it was the skin beneath it. Worn. Weathered. Touched by time that hadn’t been kind.

“Nothin’ gold can stay,” Remmick warned like he was reciting something older than scripture. Something fleeting, even for him. “Nature’s first green was gold, but it’s her hardest hue to hold.”

Your fingers ghosted over the chain again, teasing the space between closeness and invitation. You tugged, just a little. Not enough to break, but enough to tempt.

Remmick came closer, fingers twitching to invite you to finish what he had started. Instead, he stood there and offered only silence.

“You’re no fun tonight.” You admitted. “No fussin’, no fightin’. What’s gotten into you?”

You didn’t say the rest, but it lived there, thick between you: Isn’t this what you wanted?

He had finally crossed the line, left carnage behind for something like calm. You should’ve felt relieved, but you didn’t. You waited with bated breath for something lethal. You waited for a flicker of something cruel in his eye; the thing that made you feel alive.

Instead, he tilted his head, a mockery of reverence. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

A conditional request for forgiveness, tied to your willingness to forgive him for his state. Maybe forgiveness would mend his wounds more than his own touch.

“But deliver us from evil.” A smirk curled your lips before you could stop it. “Guessin’ that makes you the devil?”

Remmick’s eyes darkened. “Depends who’s prayin’.”

Your laugh was light, but it skimmed the edge of dangerous. It carried something unintentionally provocative straight to his core.

“I been nothin’ but good to you. Reckon a ‘thank you’ is in order.” Your voice was a little too close to a dare. “Or are you really no fun?”

Then—a knock.

Not gentle. Not polite.

A harsh, heavy-handed bang against the door, cutting clean through the air like a threat.

You froze like a sinner caught mid-confession.

Another knock. Not unlike a summons. Not unlike a warning. The rhythm of someone who didn’t care if they were welcome.

Another knock followed—slower, heavier. Like the hand behind it wasn’t just asking for entry. It was declaring its right to take it.

You muttered something under your breath and moved toward the door. Something sharp. Something that sounded like a plea, a prayer.

Behind you, Remmick didn’t stir. But you felt him shift. A presence too vast for his frame, like the weight of judgment itself, had stood up inside him.

You cracked the door open.

“Evenin’, sugar—” Your landlord slurred, breath ripe with bourbon and whatever cologne he thought masked it.

His eyes dragged over you like molasses spilled on hot pavement. Slow, sticky, unwanted.

“Sorry to come knockin’ so late, but the Lord don’t wait for the righteous, and neither does rent.” He continued, eyes flicking into the room behind you. “But seems rent’s still sittin’ in the red. A few months now, ain't it?”

You said nothing. You didn’t need the reminder.

“Now, I been patient…” His tone tightened. “Gave you time. Sympathy. Hell, I gave you grace, didn’t I? Let you wallow after whatever loss you was nursin’. But grief don’t pay the bills, sweetheart—”

He tsked and leaned in a touch too close.

“—that little mourning period of yours? Over and done with. Ain’t my job to carry it.”

Your jaw clenched. Pride and shame curled in your belly like twin serpents, both too stubborn to back down. Behind you, Remmick shifted just slightly, and the air grew colder.

“I don’t have it tonight.” You replied flatly.

“Well, then, maybe I come inside, see if there’s anything I can… take in trade.” His eyes dipped lower. “Collateral, y’know? Just ’til you catch up.”

Your spine stiffened, hand tightening on the doorknob.

Before you could speak, the door creaked wider, not by your doing. Remmick stepped into the light. Slow. Measured. The kind of movement that didn’t feel rushed because predators didn’t need to be.

He stood just behind your shoulder, posture relaxed. His body was a cross between temptation and wrath, framed like a prophet at the end of the world. His expression didn’t change, but the atmosphere around him did. Suddenly too still, too sharp. Like God holding His breath.

Your landlord blinked, taking a small, instinctive step back.

“Friend of yours?” He asked, voice faltering, his bravado slipping lamely.

You didn’t answer, nor did Remmick. Rather, he looked at the man as if measuring his worth and finding him painfully mortal.

Remmick’s voice, when it came, was low and smooth. “You’ll take what’s given.”

The landlord tried to puff himself up. “Now hold on—this is between me and her. You can’t just—”

Remmick reached into his pocket. What he pulled out didn’t belong in this century: three gold coins, not modern, not clean. They gleamed with old weight, marked with symbols that no nation claimed anymore. Coins you paid with when souls were the currency.

He didn’t hand them over. He dropped them into the landlord’s palm—

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Each coin fell with finality. Each one louder than the last.

“Paid,” Remmick said, voice soft and dark, like a secret meant only for the dead. “Don’t come round knockin’ like this again.”

The landlord looked down at the coins, confused, then up at Remmick. And for the first time, he saw him. Not the coins, not the charm, but something else; something ancient that had survived wars and winters and worse.

Red eyes gleaming, Remmick smiled. No teeth, all intimidation.

“If you’ve got horse sense, you’ll be forgettin’ tonight…” Remmick added, voice like smoke curling under a door. “If not, you’ll come back, and we’ll see what else I’ve got in my pockets.”

The landlord’s mouth opened, then closed again. He backed away, fast this time.

“Right. Well—appreciate’cha.” He muttered. And then he turned, nearly tripping over the bottom step of your porch in his hurry. “Didn’t mean no offense. Just business.”

You closed the door. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. Controlled. But your fingers were trembling at the latch.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said without turning.

“Didn’t do it for you,” Remmick said from behind you. “Did it so I wouldn’t have to bury another fool.”

When you did turn, when you saw the way he was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes still shadowed from whatever almost broke free, you knew he had done it for you. And that was somehow more terrifying than if he’d snapped the man’s neck.

Because whatever line Remmick hadn’t crossed…he would. For you.

“I don’t need protectin’. ” You turned on him, pride rising like fire on dry kindling. “I’m not helpless.”

“No—” There was something in his tone that almost hurt, like he knew you’d take it wrong. “Just broke and cornered by a man sniffin’ at your door after dark like a dog.”

“Ain’t that what you do? All those nights, showin’ up, askin’ for something…” You snapped harshly. “...just don’t like it when it’s someone else’s doin’, that’s rich comin’ from you…”

The silence between you hung thick, heavy with all the things neither of you had the guts to admit. Not yet.

Finally, Remmick glanced toward the window. The dark pressed up against the glass like a beast trying to sneak in. He should’ve left by now. The night didn’t bother him, but it whispered to him. Called him elsewhere. Still, he didn’t move.

He always lingered. You watched him, arms crossed, war still in your chest.

“You can go now.” Your fingers curled at your sides. Not from fear, not exactly. Frustration. Shame…Something too close to want.

It was arrogant, assuming he’d listen.

Remmick didn’t look at you. Just ran a slow hand through his hair, fingers catching on the drying knots near the nape of his neck. His movements were sluggish, heavier than usual, like something primordial was settling back into his bones.

“Reckon I’ll stay the night.” He said it almost offhandedly, like he was commenting on the weather.

You narrowed your eyes. “That right?”

“Feel like hell.” He shrugged. Non-committal for his benefit only. “Tired.”

Your brow rose. “You expectin’ me to believe that?”

“No…” Remmick started. “...but you’re gonna anyway.”

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to prove you didn’t buy a word of it. The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was heavy. Like the weariness he claimed wasn’t about sleep at all, but something deeper.

You hated the way his voice sounded in your home. Low and warm and wrong. Like a hymn sung backward. Like temptation, you’d already failed to resist.

“Plannin’ on killin’ me in my sleep?” Your gaze cut to him like a blade.

That finally earned something from him. It was a flicker of amusement, faint but real.

You stared at him. Waiting, wanting something—you weren’t even sure what. A fight, maybe, or an apology. But all he did was exhale through his nose and glance toward your couch, like the conversation was already over.

You both knew the answer to your question. It made something hot rise in your chest. Anger again, but not clean or simple. It rubbed against all the places in you you kept carefully buried.

“I don’t need your help, Remmick.” You said, voice flatter now, quieter but not softer. “Not with that fella. Not with money. Not with anything.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did.”

You blinked. Thrown by how simply he said it. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just the truth. It disarmed you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you looked away first.

The pride in you roared, still burning fiercely, but the rest of you, the tired part, the one that’d been clawing to survive the last few months like a sinner begging for a second chance, let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Remmick cemented his presence further in the house. Quiet as dust settling. He didn’t ask where to go, didn’t need to. Just drifted toward the couch like it was something he’d earned.

You hovered in the hallway, half-turned, pretending not to watch. It was a strange thing, watching a man come undone in your house. A stranger once, dangerous once. Now barefoot and standing in your domain, unsure where his edges ended.

He didn’t look at you, but maybe that’s because he felt you. Felt your eyes on him.

You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been holding your arms around yourself until they ached.

“There’s a—” You started, but stopped. Your throat felt dry. You tried again, trying not to show how rattled you were. “There’s a blanket over there, in that basket. Couch can be stingy with warmth.”

Remmick wasn’t looking at you, just toeing off his boots with an unceremonious practice. Not rushed. Not cautious. Comfortable, like he meant to stay.

That made it worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t making a show, just coming undone in your space with the quiet confidence of a man who knew you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.

Something inside you twisted—not fear, not want, but something sharp.

He looked smaller here. Not weak, but stripped. And you, quiet and still as the grave, just stood there and watched him ease himself down onto the edge of your couch.

The room stretched long between you.

You tilted your head, just slightly, studying him. The way his shoulders curved inward, hands resting heavy between his knees. A man shedding armor he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing.

You watched him become something less. Not weaker—no. But softer. In your house, that made him more exposed.

“…don’t haunt the place too bad.” You offered, leaning against the frame of your bedroom door. The words came out quieter than before, but they held a weight, a subtle kind of dare.

He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, like he was waiting for judgment or absolution.

Then, after a breath:“...I’ll try not to.”

Remmick drew on his southern twang, nodding politely with promise. Soft, almost reverent, like the house might spit him out if he lied.

And you, in turn, didn’t close the door behind you. You left it open. Wide as an invitation scrawled in blood and fire. A choice Remmick couldn’t unsee.

You disappeared into the bedroom, knowing he’d notice the absence of a latch clicking into place. That he’d sit there in your quiet little living room, in the dark hum of the house, wondering what it meant.

Wondering who, exactly, was safer with the door like that.

—

The hours slid by like oil over water, slow and thick with silence.

The house held its breath. Only the occasional groan of old wood marked the passing of time, the weary bones of the place shifting under the weight of night and memory.

Remmick sat still, shoulders hunched in the half-light, his fingers twitching like they itched for violence or prayer. His eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on a point no one else could see—seeing nothing, and seeing everything.

His thoughts were a fever dream: snarled things with teeth and thorns, looping endlessly through want and warning, desire and dread.

You haunted them. Not you exactly, but the shape of you. The myth of you. The altar you’d become.

He reached into his pocket. Not for the gold coin, not the one that bought him your landlord’s silence. This one was different. Older. It came out like a secret — dull with time, warm with the ghosts of worn edges and too many nights like this one.

A worry piece, polished by regret.

He turned it between his fingers, slow and methodical, the weight of it a tether. A small ritual to keep the dark inside from spilling out. From blooming sharp beneath his skin.

Your scent still clung to the air, low and stubborn. Not perfume, not false sweetness —no, it was you. Soap. Sheets. Skin. That stubborn, ordinary risk of the living.

It stirred something feral in him. Not hunger, not just hunger, but hollowness. Like he’d missed a thousand meals and forgotten what fullness was supposed to feel like.

Remmick stood after a long while, slow as a man trying to outrun his nature.

The movement was slow, like a man not rising, but unraveling. His shadow stretched long behind him, and his body moved with the silence of something that knew how to stalk without being heard.

Your door was still ajar, left open like an omen. You were there. Curled in sleep, soft and folded into yourself like something untouched by the rot of the world. Breathing steadily, chest rising and falling like the tide.

His hand clenched the coin until his knuckles gleamed pale in the dark. He hadn’t expected to still be here, standing in front of your door, watching you as though you were a rare treasure he’d found—and then just as easily destroyed.

Remmick had seen sleep before. He’d seen bodies stilled by time, by death, by the quick flick of a blade. But not like this. Not you.

Remmick could feel the heat of your blood, the soft hum of life just beneath your skin—God, he could feel it. That slow, molten throb beneath your skin, the rhythm of your life calling to the worst in him.

The hunger was raw, clawing at him. He could do it, he could cross the threshold and sink his teeth into that sweet warmth. It would be easy.

So easy.

The temptation burned behind his lips, pooling in his throat. His tongue brushed against his teeth, slow and deliberate, measuring the hunger that rose in him like a tide he couldn’t hold back.

But then—

He stopped. And the words scraped out of him like gravel: “But I won’t, will I? Not this time, not last time.”

Remmick’s gaze roamed over you again, slower now. Reverent. Like he was standing before a holy thing he had no right to touch.

That kiss—your skin against his lips—it could’ve been more. It should’ve been much more.

He could’ve taken your life that night, could’ve hollowed you out and made you part of him forever. Should’ve. But instead, he hadn’t. Not because of you, but because some crooked, crumbling thing inside him had whispered that to do so would damn him beyond saving.

And Remmick knew damnation. Lived close to it. A place he feared, even if he belonged there.

That had been months ago. And he hadn’t come back. Not since. You made it too hard.

“You made it too hard,” Remmick whispered, barely louder than the wind nudging the windows. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough, it’d bleed out of me. I thought it would rot and die.”

He had told himself it would be enough; the distance, the time away, the silence, but none of it had worked. The weight of you, of your breath against his, the pulse of your heart beneath his lips, it was still there.

He’d made it months. Months of wandering through the wilderness of his own thoughts, his soul a barren landscape where nothing could grow. But it didn’t matter how far he ran, how many nights he spent in the dark, trying to outpace his demons. They always caught up.

And now, now he was back, but it hadn’t.

He gripped the coin so tightly that the ridges biting into his palm, sharp enough to sting.

“Yet, here you are.” He muttered, eyes pinned to you like a confession. “Like a wish I never should’ve made.”

Remmick’s eyes fell to you again, softer now, the hunger turning in on itself, folding into something heavier. Lonelier. He lingered there, just long enough to memorize the shape of you against the dark.

There was reverence in him. A violent kind, the kind that hurts at the touch of anything else.

And so, he walked away.

—

The night stretched on, thick and suffocating. The moon hung low, thin as a grin carved into the dark. The air outside was cool, but inside Remmick’s mind, it burned.

The town was a quiet blur in his peripheral, the houses crammed together like teeth in the mouth of a corpse. Before him, the trees stood like sentinels, ancient and unmoved, their limbs clawing at the sky in supplication or threat.

He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his hands this time. Let it dry. Let it crust beneath his nails like penance. His boots sank into the mud where old rain hadn’t yet dried, and every step he took left a print that something might follow. Something hungry.

Remmick welcomed it.

His breath caught in his throat, ragged and wet, and the copper tang of violence lingered thick on his tongue. He leaned against a tree slick with moss and memory, its bark biting into his spine like it knew him. Like it had grown tall watching men like him rot from the inside out.

The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp and clean, but the heat beneath his skin throbbed with something else—something primal. Something wrong.

He’d carved his way through the night, through flesh and fear, looking for a place to set it all down. The hunger. The ache.

But nothing had sated it. Not the pleading. Not the blood. Not even the kill that had started it all.

The sound of the man’s voice still echoed in his mind as he stood over the limp body, the familiar wetness of blood staining his hands. The landlord’s death had been a spark, not a balm. A reminder that the line between control and chaos had always been thinner than he’d liked to admit.

And now it was gone.

The line was gone.

Remmick wasn’t a fool. He knew what he had done. The death of the landlord had been easy. Too easy. But it hadn’t cleared the mess in his mind. The mess of you. Of your laugh, of the way your body had shifted under his touch, of the way you had made him feel in ways he couldn’t explain.

Still, the rage gripped him just as you bloomed inside his chest like a stubborn weed in a field of bones.

His teeth ached.

He needed more.

Remmick had never truly wanted to kill you, not like the others. You were different, a reflection of everything he had lost. Everything he shouldn’t want. The hunger for your life was almost unbearable, but the act of taking it would mean something worse than death.

“I should’ve…” He rasped to the trees, to the night, to himself. “I should’ve ended it.”

You, he meant. But he couldn’t say your name. Not here. Not like this.

The wind sighed low through the pines, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and smoke. It reminded Remmick of you. Of your skin warmed by sleep, of your breath on his throat when he lingered too long outside your door.

You were in everything now. That was the cruelty of it.

He had broken the world trying to cut you out of it, and still, there you were—woven into the marrow of his ruin.

“I keep trying to bleed you out…” His voice cracked. Not from weakness. From truth.. “...but you just keep coming back.”

Because no matter how far he walked, how many lives he poured into the thirsty earth, your shadow stretched longer. You hadn’t tamed him. God no. But you’d marked him.

And now he was more beast than man, more hunger than heart.

Remmick looked up, through the latticework of limbs and stars, and his jaw clenched so hard it clicked. Somewhere behind him, the town would stir. The sun would rise. The bodies would be found, but none of that would matter.

Not if he went back. Not if he touched you again. Because the next time, he wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t know if that would ruin him—or set him free.

Remmick closed his eyes.

He could still feel your warmth in his bones, like the last fire he ever sat beside. And he made himself a promise—quiet, dark, and cold.

If he couldn’t burn the memory of you out, he would burn everything else down trying.

—

Morning came like a mercy.

Soft light seeped through the curtains, casting pale gold on the floorboards. The air held the hush of a chapel after mass, something sacred, something hollowed.

You blinked against it, slow to rise, limbs heavy from sleep—or whatever passed for it. The blankets clung to your skin. You felt too warm. Too watched.

You reached instinctively for the chain at your throat.

Your breath hitched. You sat up. You remembered taking it off last night, just before lying down, the clasp stiff from disuse. You’d laid it on the nightstand, right beside the lamp with the crooked shade and the half-drunk glass of water. The necklace, gone.

In its place, on the smooth wood surface, right where your necklace should’ve been, was a coin. Gold. Warming lightly from the weak light. Gleaming like a sun dropped from heaven.

You stared at it.

Not the same kind Remmick had pressed into the landlord’s palm, but not different either. It had weight. Presence. It knew it didn’t belong there.

You picked it up. Held it in your hand carefully as if it had a pulse of its own.

A tithe. A token. An intrusion.

You swallowed. Stood. Moved through the house barefoot and slow, like stepping through a dream you weren’t sure would hold. Remmick’s boots weren’t by the door. Not a trace left—except everything.

Your laundry, the pile you’d left forgotten, had been folded and stacked with the precision of something ritual. The front door was closed, but not locked.

You hadn’t dreamed of him. He had been here.

You should’ve felt safe. You should’ve felt honored. Instead, the stillness of the house pushed in on you like pressure behind the eyes, like a headache before it bloomed.

You looked again at the coin in your hand. You didn’t want to close your fist around it, but you did. It felt like it belonged to him, but it felt worse knowing he’d given it to you.

Your gaze drifted to the window, to the tree line in the distance, quiet and bristling in the breeze. You should go. You should move. But your legs didn’t listen.

Something had shifted in the night, and you couldn’t name it. Couldn’t touch it, but it was in the walls now. In the air. In you.

And yet... A part of you—deep and secret and wrong—wasn’t afraid. Because Remmick had been here. And whatever else that meant, it meant something.

You whispered his name into the silence, just to see if it answered back.

It didn’t.

But the coin was still in your hand. And the necklace was still gone. And the morning, pale and bloodless, kept rising all the same.

#remmick x reader #remmick x f!reader #remmick sinners #remmick sinners x reader #remmick smut #remmick x you #remmick angst #remmick fluff #remmick sinners x f!reader #jack o'connell #sinners movie #sinners movie 2025

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sexy-monster-fucker · 1 month ago

Text

But Why’s It Feel So Good?

John Walker x Thunderbolts*!Reader Sex Pollen

Summary: While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical. [Reader is a former H.Y.D.R.A. Agent with combat experience, along with an endurance boost. Codename: Felidae.]

CW: Thunderbolts* spoilers, kinda enemies to lovers (isn’t everything with John), mutual pining (it's my favorite), typical sex pollen, blood, fighting, sex fantasy, masturbation, biting, oral f!receiving, breeding kink, p in v, creampie,

a/n: if you told me 3 years ago I would be writing a John Walker fanfic I would’ve laughed in your face and called you a liar. But after Thunderbolts*?? I am eating my words

Help Me Move?

title track 🎶🥀

~~~

Stealth.

It was like second nature to you.

Trained for years by H.Y.D.R.A. to go unnoticed. Catlike reflexes accompanied by your ability to take a hit made you a reliable asset. Blending in to any and all environments. Able to disappear on a moments notice. Light on your feet and agile.

Making sure to take all you learned with you when you finally escaped the wretched hooks of H.Y.D.R.A. Being taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. and finally regaining cognitive clarity. Disgusted by the actions you had committed under their leadership. Having to take time for personal growth and change. Learning alongside some operatives from the original Avengers.

Eventually parting ways once security had been breached. Not feeling safe and protected by those who you had grown fond of. Understanding why some heroes chose to go off grid. Even if it basically deemed you an Anti-Hero. It was worth it, if it meant you got control of your own life back.

Needing to take work from Valentina just to make sure you could keep the lights on. She begged for you to take some type of codename. Lynx. Or Oncilla. Or Jaguarundi. Or—

“You’re just naming types of cats,” you had said rolling your eyes on the end of the line.

“Well, you’re kinda like a cat… Oh! How about ‘Felidae’? Kinda sexy right?” Valentina had said, adding an accent to the word.

You scoffed. Accepting the scientific name over any specifics. You wondered if she thought you were stupid, or just unaware. Maybe she just thought she was smarter than anyone else.

After the chaos that Sentry had caused, you found yourself forced into a New Avengers Membership. Bonding deeply with your new teammates along the way. Albeit apprehensive at first. Especially now that you all shared a living quarter.

The Team was still trying to find its footing. What exactly it needed to be doing to make sure they were protecting the public to the best of their abilities. Although, the government was apprehensive to work alongside you all. Withholding important information about the crisis in space. Loosing contact with some of the remaining Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives.

This was not ideal. You knew the last thing needed was the government involved in the Avengers. Something Steve Rogers had fought for all those years ago. Leading to the original team breaking up. But what everyone did not understand was the power Valentina had over the public. Able to make or break you as a symbol without so much as lifting a finger.

You had to be here.

Even if here meant half a mile deep in some long forgotten about Headquarters. Intel suggested a former H.Y.D.R.A. Scientist was hiding at the lowest level. Leading to you and John Walker to be sent to investigate.

Valentina called it ‘team building.’ Separating you off into smaller groups so that you could learn to work together. Which sometimes worked out really well in your favor. When you got paired up with another teammate who matched your skillset perfectly. Bucky and Yelena could provide some strength that you lacked. Also being able to endure harder hits than you. Or Ava, who was able to completely scout out an area without being spotted. Secret missions were your favorite with her. Taking bets on which of you could be quieter.

And sometimes you would get paired up with someone like Alexei. Loud and quick to rush in without a plan. Which was not all bad, he made it a lot easier for you to hide when he was the loudest in any room he was in. Any time paired up with Bob consisted of mundane house chores. Nothing you could really complain about. Even if you did hate doing the dishes.

But then there was John. Cocky and sarcastic more often than not. Thinking he was the head of any and all missions you went on. Rude on top of it all. And the two of you seemed to butt heads more than any other team members. Maybe it was because you could not ignore his constant need to be right. Maybe it was how you saw right through his bullshit. He saw through yours too.

It was not that you hated him. Quite the opposite. You found his war stories endearing. Sometimes finding yourself laughing at an offhanded joke he would make. Having to hide your smile behind your hand because you could not show any sign of vulnerability to anyone. Even if you did find your walls crumbling around John when you spent personal time together. Seemingly always sitting together on movie nights. Or sometimes making him coffee first thing in the morning. Because, of course, he never rested.

Chalking it all up to a mutual understanding. Refusing to acknowledge the way your stomach would flutter when your hands would brush against one another. Or the times he would walk you to your corridor after a particularly scary movie.

"You're scared," you would tease.

"Am not. I was in Afghanistan, you think some cheap jumpscare could get to me?"

And you would laugh. Harder than you meant to. Nose scrunching up and hand glazing down his chest. John would smile while your eyes were closed. Going back to annoyed when you would look back at him.

Moments like this were nonexistent on missions together. It caused a certain level of tension to form between you. Pre-mediately angry and irritated with one another. Jaws tight and words not spoken. Fists balled up between your leather gloves. John's newly taco-shaped shield held up defensively as he led the path down metal stairs. Not even trying to hush his combat boots. Each step echoing against the steel walls.

It was causing your eye to twitch. How could he be so loud when you were practically mute? It was like he did not even care.

You finally reached the landing before delving into the final floor. John sighed. Halting his footsteps and turning to meet you. Your teeth were grinding together as you stared at his ocean eyes. He clicked his teeth together as he spoke, "Alright. The target should be on the next floor. You remember the plan, right?"

"Of course I do," you almost sounded offended, "Do you? I can't imagine he doesn't already know we're here with you stomping down the entire way."

John scoffed, rolling his eyes and waving you off, "Sorry. Not all of us can walk without making sound. Should've brought Ava if you wanted that."

"I would've," you hissed.

"Yeah, yeah," John tightened the strap around his helmet. Staring down into the oddly lit room. Understanding that it had to be a lab. The lab you had been warned about. A rouge H.Y.D.R.A. Scientist had been down here experimenting with different serums of all kinds. No telling what had been cooked up down here.

You followed a few steps behind John. Blue lights burned your eyes as you descended. John hid his gun behind his shield. You kept yours flat at your side. It was obscenely quiet. Almost ringing in your ears. It smelt weird and off-putting. Shelves with things stored in multi-colored liquids decorated every surface. It was like something from the mad scientist part of a haunted house. Your skin crawled.

Both sets of eyes scanned the entire room. Not a single sign of life. Hissing of a nearby pipe startled you internally. Not outwardly reacting other than you softly blowing out your breath.

John turned and pressed his finger to his lips. Silencing you.

Your blood boiled.

Fucking asshole.

You split, rounding the same glass container on opposite sides. Surprised to see the decaying body of the scientist slumped back in his chair. Hand grasping a vile, remnants of a bright blue substance stained his shirt.

"Must've been testing on himself," you whispered.

"See where that got you. Nazi scum," John stood tall. Tucking his gun back into its holster.

In the relief you felt from not having to fight, you both failed to see the infrared imager pinned to the wall. He knew someone would come looking for him. He was an evil genius after all. And he would be damned if anyone got to his research without consequences. The high pitched hum of the machine triggering clued you in.

"Walker, it's a trap!" you called out to your teammate. Hand absentmindedly reaching out to him as if you could protect him from whatever was going to happen. John backed up to you as fast as he could, but it all happened so fast.

Thick smog poured from every single vent. Hands flying up to cover your mouths, squinting and coughing. Smoke filling your lungs. Sticking to your tongue and throat. Tasting absolutely horrible. Something rancid, what you had to imagine a potent poison would taste.

John's hand gripped your shoulder to bring your attention to his face. He pointed towards the exit not wanting to inhale anymore fumes. His eyes watered as he guided you out of the room. Quickly climbing back up the stairs you had entered in on. Tripping at the last step and tumbling forward. Catching yourself on your hands, grunting at the way your knee skid against the floor. Not really painful. Just felt like the cherry on top of it all.

John extended his arm out to you, locking fingers around forearms as he hoisted you back up. The smoke beginning to follow slowly behind you.

"We've gotta go," John tugged you behind him. Running up the stairs as fast as your legs would allow it. He called in a report, letting the rest of the team know it was a trap. And that both of you had been exposed to some unknown gas. Both of you still coughing by the time you reached the top floor. Quick to exit the abandoned building.

You hunched over yourself. Huffing for air that could not fill yours lungs enough. Hands grasping your knees as you stared at the dirt. Body covered head to toe in sweat from, what had to be, the fastest you had ever gotten up half a mile of stairs. John stood with his hands on his hips across from you. His helmet discarded onto the ground. Head leaned back as he loudly groaned. Kicking the metal across the ground.

You looked up at him. His face was flushed, mostly from the run but also from his frustration. Finally looking over at you. Bloodshot morning skylike eyes stared at you. Lips parted and swollen from where he had been licking them.

Had he always looked this handsome?

"You alright?"

You nodded silently. Stomach churning from the heat and blocked airway. You wanted to lay down so badly. The dirt called to you like your bed after a long mission. But a nice shower sounded better. Especially with how hot your skin was right now. Limbs tingling like your nervous system was shot. Confused and a little worried about what would happen to you in the following hours.

"Feel any different?"

John patted his hands down his torso. Brows knitting together as he swallowed, "No. Just really hot."

"Yeah, me too."

There was no telling what that smoke was supposed to do to you. H.Y.D.R.A. had a myriad of freaks on their staff. All willing to experiment for anything that even slightly tickled their fancy. Unashamed. Brutal. Cruel.

"Guess the stuff wasn't meant to kill us or we wouldn't have made it up those stairs," you stretched your back. Hands meeting your hips as you strained.

"Right. Could have just been a really gross distraction. A way to make sure we could not stay to get any more information," John cupped his jaw as he stared out over the ridge, "No, that's too petty for H.Y.D.R.A."

"It really isn't," you halfway laughed, "I saw them gut a guy because he wore the wrong color uniform."

John's brows remained tight as he stared at you. Not sure what was so funny about that. Also not enjoying being corrected.

You sealed your lips shut, eyes jumping up as you looked away from him. Sometimes you forgot how touchy of a subject being a former H.Y.D.R.A. operative was. It was so far into your past that you coped by cracking little jokes. Usually ending with people looking at you the same way John was right now.

The buzzing of the helicarrier caught both your attention as it hovered above you. Shielding your eyes from the harsh sunset. The roped stairs unfolded in front of you. Looking to John with a nod.

“Ladies first,” he faked chivalry, putting his stupid helmet back on.

You smirked at him. Rolling your eyes as you started up. John followed closely behind you.

Something shifted inside him. His eyes found themselves unable to remove from your ass. Tight pants highlighting every curve and dip. His throat burned as he tried to catch his breath. Cock jumping for a moment when he imagined how it would look bare and imprinted with his hands. Trying to shake off the feeling.

You sighed as you reached your seat. Sluggishly buckling yourself in before anyone had the chanc to ask any question. John stood across from you, hand gripping one of the straps that hung down from the ceiling. Your head was leaned back trying to relax even for a moment. His hovering making it difficult. Something about his presence had your heart palpitating.

“You can sit down,” you sighed.

John took that as a challenge. Not liking the attitude you sported, “I’m fine.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. Too exhausted to even play this game with him. Eyes falling shut trying to steady your breathing. Unable to cool your body’s temperature. Clothes feeling tight and sticky. Causing you even more discomfort and aggravation.

“What happened, you two?” Alexei’s voice sounded over the intercoms. Scratchy from the old headset he wore. Microphone far older than the aircraft itself.

“He knew we would be coming. Set up some kind of distraction to make us to leave,” John shouted over the whirring of the blades.

“Should’ve wore those Avengers Gas Masks I ordered! I told you they would come in handy,” Alexei’s singsong voice chimed.

Always with the stupid merchandise.

John looked at you. Throwing a hand up to the side and shaking his head. Sharing in your annoyance for Alexei’s positivity. You shrugged in response. Neither of you caring to have a smart mouthed rebuttal, knowing it would more than likely go over Alexei’s head.

The aircraft began its descent onto the landing pad. Opting to unbuckle and stand, straps irritating your skin. Jaw locked as you huffed out of your nose. Pressing up on your tiptoes to stretch your calves.

A sudden bounce of turbulence caused you to fall forward. Pressing your entire body flush against John’s. Up against the wall behind him. His hand grasped your hip as you held onto his shoulder.

It burned.

Inflaming your skin at the contact. Air hitched up in your throat. Eyes wide as you looked up at him. His heart pounded under your touch. Pain coursing through his body from where you touched him. Both of your faces flushed entirely. Your core pulsed. The smell of his natural musk mixing in with stale cologne had you feeling weak in the knees.

Awkwardly standing back on your feet. Clearing your throat as you turned to hop out of the helicarrier. Making sure to rush inside the tower. Leaving John behind in your dust. Waving off everyone as you entered, eyes locked ahead of you. Your goal only a few more steps away.

Your door sealed shut behind you. Your back resting against it as you grasped at your chest. Confusion overwhelming you. The throbbing between your legs not allowing you to think straight.

What was happening to you?

You shedded your clothes off as you trekked to the bathroom. Hunching over your sink when the pain began absorbing into your gut. Growling as you looked up at yourself in the mirror. Sweat decorated your face.

Suddenly images of John behind you filled your mind. His strong hands holding tightly onto your waist. Broad chest and large shoulders on display. Hips nestled into your own. Nude bodies pressed together where it really mattered.

You gasped. Hands coming up to cover your face. Shaking your head in disbelief. Fingers tugging down your face. Groaning with a hint of unease.

Turning the knobs to a mild setting. Shower raining down into the shallow tub. Stepping inside to try and wash away the days mission. It felt like a thousand tiny razor blades against your skin. Gritting away the pain. Forcing your body under the water. You needed to get this off you somehow. Attempting to adjust the temperature, maybe you just had it too hot? Even the cold water burned down your body.

You imagined his hands reaching around you from behind. Large palms holding your breasts in them. Thumbs flicking over your nipples. His bearded chin gently resting upon your shoulder, breathing heavily into your ear. Lips kissing directly below it.

You moaned. Knees buckling as you fell forward, nails scratching against the tile to brace yourself. Your cunt begged. Even when you tried to relieve yourself, it was not enough. Humping against your own hand trying to satisfy the desire overtaking you.

John’s image flooded your mind. The way you imagined his jaw would lock while fucking into you. Or how his calloused hands would feel around your throat. How his cock would stretch you perfectly.

You hurried to clean yourself off. Needing to find John. Your body craved his presence. Knowing he was somewhere in the tower. Not caring where, just needing to be with him. Towel drying your body and hair, throwing on some loungewear without even bothering to put underwear on. It was too uncomfortable anyway.

You stood in the hallway with your eyes closed. Allowing your body to urge you in what direction you needed to go. Downstairs.

You casually and quietly headed for the stairs. The ding of the elevator would give you away. Trying to make sure no one else followed you. Your senses were heightened. Everything punched into overdrive as you followed your body’s natural instinct.

The workout room.

You stood in front of the sliding, frosted glass door. Taking a deep breath.

This was stupid, you thought. Second guessing this decision. It was so ridiculous to assume John could feel this too. Or that he would even want to see you.

But you had to know. Holding your breath as you pressed the button to unlock the door. The loud sound of fists hitting something filled the room. Drowning out the sound of the door.

John swung at the punching bag hanging from the low ceiling. Fists burring into the leather over and over. Powder flying off the with each hit. Tank top highlighting his muscular physique. Tape wrapped around his fists. Arms bulging and sweat dripping down his figure.

You swallowed hard. Unsure why you were here. Your body told you it’s where you needed to be. With him. Near him.

It was almost like you could smell him across the room. Musky with a hint of oak from his deodorant. Jaw tight. Blonde locks sticking to his forehead. Sporty shorts hanging around his hips.

You hid in the shadows. Nails digging into the steel wall. Your legs shook. Fighting yourself from walking over to him. Ready to pounce on him like an animal on the hunt.

It hurt. Every inch of his fucking body hurt. No matter what he tried to force in his mind, he could not get you off it. His cock was swollen despite his attempt to relieve himself earlier. Pulsing with need. Hand wrapped around his member while imagining fucking into you. But nothing worked. This was the only way he could even attempt to distract himself. Giving his hands something else to do.

What he really wanted was to have them all over your body. Holding you down by the throat while he shoved his cock as deep inside you as possible. Knowing you would sound so pretty whimpering his name over and over.

He could not understand what had gotten into him. Something filling his veins with arousal. Could it be the smoke the two of you inhaled?

Were you feeling the same way as him?

You hesitated internally. Body moving on its own. Revealing yourself from the shadows. Hands crossed together in front of you. Fawning innocence.

John immediately noticed. Quick to stop swinging and look at you. His throat tightened. Fists balled up at his sides. Chest heaving with each deep breath he took. Your smell was strong to him. Pure sex and flowery. Must have been your body wash. Maybe your shampoo. He could not place it, only that it was you. So unabashedly you.

And, Christ, did he look sexy. Beard glistening with sweat. Hair disheveled. Chest hair peaking out the top of his cutoff. Pretending to not notice the clear outline of his cock through his shorts.

“Hey,” you choked out meekly.

“Hey,” John returned with a huff.

Silently staring at each other, John’s hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat. You fidgeted with your fingers. Hiding your eyes from his stern gaze. You twisted your mouth around. Trying to think of what to say.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” he broke the silence.

“I… just wanted to make sure you were doing okay,” you said unsure.

His mind rattled with a response. No, I’m not okay. I’ve been so horny since we got back that I could kill someone. Oh, and you’re the only one I can think about right now. How do you explain that to your teammate?

“I’ve been better,” John stepped back on the mats repositioning to swing at them once more, “Would probably be better if our mission hadn’t gone up in smoke.”

“Literally,” you halfheartedly attempted a joke.

you idiot.

“And what about you?” he punctuated his question with a hit against the bag.

“Me? I’m— uh— okay? I guess?”

John’s eyes peered over at you. Lip arched to match his eyebrow. Wondering why you were suddenly being so awkward around him. He worried for a moment that you could see how stiff he was. Maybe read right through him. Knowing there was more you wanted to say but did not.

Your eyes doed at him across the room. His heart shocked throughout his body. Your loose fitting clothing driving him crazy. Wanting to see more of you. Nostrils flaring with each punch and grunt.

The noises he made had your entire body shaking. Slick pooling between your thighs when he would grunt especially loud. Reminding you of the fantasies you had in the shower moments prior. Filling in the gaps from before.

Your hand gripped the fabric of your shirt. Loving watching him beat the shit out of the leather bag.

“Are you just gonna stand there and watch?” John’s cocky tone echoed against the walls. Eyebrows jumping up your forehead at his sassy comment. His hand gesturing in your direction. Venom lacing his words.

Biting your lip as you rubbed your chin with your hand. Face flooding with heat. Embarrassment almost overtaking the burning in your core. Your eyes upturned in sadness.

John’s heart sank into his stomach. You looked pitiful. Like he had just kicked a puppy. Your favorite puppy. He blew his breath out. Hand flattening against his hair. Stamping his foot for a moment doing a semi-circle and facing you once more.

You were all he wanted. His body craved yours like a man lost in the desert craved water. He knew you were the thing to douse the fire burning inside him.

“John—“ was all you got out before it made his insides boil. The low and needy tone that left you.

John punched the bag hard enough to knock it off its chain. Heavy thud slamming onto the floor. Allowing his temper to get the best of him. Member throbbing between his legs not helping with his annoyance. His hands were now on his hips as he turned to face you. Lip twitching as a heavy brow pierced through you.

You folded your arms over your chest. Matching the irritation that decorated his face. Trying to regain your composure. Accidental slip of your facade showing your weakness. Brows arching as you played chicken. One of the two of you would have to crack first.

John knew how to make sure it was you.

His eyes raked down your body. Making it obvious he was checking you out. It caused your face to flush. Throbbing between your legs at the way his blue eyes undressed you.

You spun to have your back to him, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“What was that?” he challenged.

You looked over your shoulder at him, “You heard me.”

“Come say it to my face,” John growled.

You snorted, waving him off with a roll of your eyes.

“Awww. What is it… Felidae? Cat got your tongue?”

That made your muscles tighten. Use of the moronic code name Valentina had given you causing you to grind your teeth together. Eyes narrowing in on the Dime Store Captain America. A fire igniting within you. Different than the roaring flames of arousal.

You dashed toward him. Fist rared back to strike him. Knocking him directly in his jaw. Barely phasing the super soldier. It only made you angrier. Repetitively striking him. Swearing you would wipe that smug grin off his face if it was the last thing you did. His head turned with each punch. Just taking your hits. Blood stained the corner of his mouth. A wicked smile across his lips.

Deciding it was finally enough, he swept your foot out from under you. Your back slammed onto the mats lining the floor. Eyes flying open to look up at him. His head fell to the side as he grinned down at you.

Before you could get back up, he had you pinned down. Strong hands wrapped around your wrists, keeping them above your head. It sent lava throughout your veins. Pooling in your core. Not even mentioning the compromised position you found yourself in with him. The part of him you wanted most hovering directly above where you needed it.

His palms were on fire. Skin to skin contact causing his cock to jump in his shorts. Your smell so sweet to his senses. Wide eyes stared up into his as you panted. Pupils blown with lust. Your eyebrows arched trying to fake intimidation.

Sharing in your panting, you held tight eye contact. Blonde locks plastered to his sweat ridden forehead. He was gorgeous. That was the only thought that could enter you. How beautiful the soldier looked above you. Thick stubble teetering on the cusp of a beard. Lips calling to you. Piercing blue eyes darting between your own.

Your gaze softened. Allowing your eyes to focus on his mouth. Eyelids hooding your vision. And John noticed. Exhaling harder than before. Barely inching forward to close the gap between you.

John’s lips pressed a chaste kiss against the tip of your nose. Testing the waters. It spread along your skin. Igniting your face. His own lips tingling from the contact.

You shifted your head, allowing better access for your lips to interlock. Fireworks exploded. Faltering for a moment when you tried to tug away from his hold on you. Wanting to pull him as close as possible. Hands begging to dig into his scruffy cheeks. Ironlike taste filling your own.

The burn inside you cooled momentarily. This was exactly what you needed. The only thing capable of calming the storm inside you. John’s forehead rested against yours as he closed his eyes.

“What’s going on with us?” John exhaled, hint of a smile on his face.

“I have no idea. But I know I want you,” you said airy. Lips chasing after his when he pulled back a little.

John released his hold on you. Hands grasped against your face. Thumbs burning against your cheek bones. Lips messy and hungry with your own. Sharing saliva between open mouth kisses.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” John admitted.

“Me neither,” you breathed. Fingers threading through the sweaty locks upon his head. Tongues fighting for dominance. Exploring the other’s mouth.

One of his hands hooked under your leg, arching it around his waist. Grinding his erection against your clothed slit. Eliciting a loud moan from you, brows furrowing at the sensation. It made him quicken his pace, want bringing something primal out of him.

Your hands explored down his torso. Outlining the details of his muscles as you trekked down to his groin. Finger tips meeting his bulge causing him to buckle his hips. Grunting in discomfort.

“It’s not right,” he said with a tight jaw, “Need to be inside you.”

All the air left your lungs. Words like a song to your heart.

As much as it pained him, he rose to his feet. Your arms chasing after him immediately. Needing the weight of him against you. Your saving grace for the pain you were feeling. John extended a hand to you, pulling you up like it was nothing. Your torsos pressed perfectly together. Hearts beating in sync.

“Come on,” his voice was gravely. Forceful grip tugged you along behind him. Attempting to be as quiet as possible through the halls of the tower. Knowing the rest of your team was only a thin wall away. Making sure your footsteps were as light as possible, impressed with John’s sudden ability to be sneaky. Guess it was possible when he really wanted to.

John pressed the code into the keypad by his door. Looking back at you for a moment with a smile. Dark pupils enveloping the deep blue of his irises. Somehow, even now that his body begged for yours with his, he felt giddy. Excited like a teenager preparing to lose his virginity on prom night.

The airlocks released on the door. Quickly, you both entered the room. Dark. No lights at all. Settling in as the door closed behind you, shielding away the only source of light you had before.

John’s hands were on your waist. Forehead pressed into yours. Heat of his breath fanned down your face. Blinking to hope your eyes adjusted. His head ducked to your throat. Kissing gently down your jugular. Quickly turning hungry. Teeth grazing your pulse. Biting down and sucking a mark into you. Surely to be purple shortly. You moaned, one hand cupping the back of his head.

His hand interlocked fingers with yours, guiding you over to his mattress. Laying you onto your back, knees meeting the curve with your legs dangling off the edge. He clapped his hands and a yellow hued lamp clicked on the other side of the room. Accenting him in its soft glow.

“I want to see you,” he breathed out, kneeling at the edge of the bed. Fingers hooking around your waistband and pulling it down your legs. Exposing your unclothed core, John’s brows bouncing in response. Smirking up at you as he discarded your loungewear. The air was cold against your soaked core. Your legs pushed together to find some relief.

Strong hands pryed you open, displaying your folds to him. Eyes glowing as they stared at your center. His tongue coming out to wet his lip at the sight. One of his fingers grazed through your folds. Your hips bucking in response to his touch.

“Jesus,” John cooed, “You’re soaked.”

A gargled ‘mmhmp’ escaped you. Your head pressing back into the mattress, mouth gaping towards the ceiling as you fought for patience. Not sure how much longer you could take it. This was torture.

John pressed forward, kissing your inner thigh. Tongue trailing up to your pussy. Swiping it up your aching folds. You called out to him, hands digging into the mattress below you. It felt so good. Skillfully, he lapped into you. Eyes rolling back into his head with each pass through. “You’re so fucking sweet,” his words vibrated through you. Cock needing relief. Beginning to grind himself against the mattress.

You needed more. The burn in you spreading throughout you again. Nerve endings tingling causing pain to resurface. It was not enough.

“John,” you cried out, “I need you. Need your cock inside me. Please—“

His eyes lit up. Having been fighting his selfish nature to fuck you relentlessly. Wanting to make this a good experience for you. But when you were begging him, how could he resist?

Rising to his feet as shedding every item of clothing that stuck to him. Throwing them into a pile with your own. Both of you completely nude now. His beard shining with your juices. You gawked at his member. It curved towards his stomach. Swollen and leaking at the tip. A thick vein running along the side. Clearly craving release. Your mouth watered.

He joined you on the mattress. Dipping under his weight. Fabric burning against his knees. His arms caged you in, hands splayed next to your head. Sweat covered both your bodies. Pulses straining against your eardrums. Never had either of you felt this desperate. And neither of you would ever admit that you were.

His cock prodded at your entrance. Tip sliding up and down your folds. Your face contorted in pleasure. Pathetically whimpering at the feeling. Lip quivering as you tried to force him inside you.

And he could not deny you.

With a quick thrust, he bottomed out inside you. Both of you gasping for air that refused to enter your lungs. Your arms snaked around his torso, splaying along his spine. One of his arms hooked around your waist, folding you so that he could enter you deeper. Finding a quick pace. Loud sound of skin slapping together filled the tight space. His balls slammed against your ass as his cock stretched you with each thrust.

Finally. Some relief. He was good. His cock was perfect. The noises he made were straight out of a porno. Suddenly, you could understand why they had wanted him to be Captain America. He was the perfect man.

His free hand found its place on your clit, circling the aching nub tightly. Your back arched off the mattress. It tingled at first, but your body was finally getting what it so desperately needed. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, forehead pressed against his shoulder. Lips absentmindedly kissing and sucking his skin. Leaving little bruises in your wake.

His name fell from you like a prayer. Breathy huffs squeezed out of your chest. John grunted and groaned, completely lost in the way you wrapped around him. Tight walls gripped down on his girth.

John readjusted so that he could capture your lips between his. Messily kissing you, teeth grazing your bottom lip. His beard tickled your skin with each desperate kiss.

You were like two animals in heat. Unable to speak but knowing what the other needed. Dousing something primal within you. Something that you needed before the smoke filled your lungs today.

The knot in your gut wound itself tighter. If things continued, you would be cumming soon. Walls spasming as your body prepared for your orgasm.

“Pretty girl,” was the only thing he could choke out.

It made your face flush. He had not really complimented you, not past a sexual nature. But this was different. Not charged by the way you welcomed him inside you so easily. His words were genuine.

“Cum in me,” you whined, meeting his thrusts.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up? Make sure you remember this for the next week. Maybe even knock you up. Let the whole team know who fucked you this good,” John groaned.

Your nails dug into his bare back. Scratching against the tight, muscular ridges. Nodding aggressively with a pathetic ‘uh-huh’ bubbling in your throat. His words had you on the brink. A few more swirls of his fingers and you would be a mess below him.

“Need you to first,” John breathed, “Cum on my cock, sweetheart. I wanna feel it.”

You called out to him as your insides began to pulse. The knot inside you snapping as your orgasm washed over you. Squeezing his cock between tight walls. Pushing him over the edge himself. Fucking into you as aggressively as possible making sure to get his seed deep inside you. Hips brushing against your own.

It was the sweetest relief you had ever felt. His spend cooling down all the agony that had consumed you. This was what you were meant to do. Meant to help each other. To be together.

John remained deep inside you, his body slumping against yours. Both of you panting, your hand caressing his back. Eyes closed. Neither of you prepared to say a word. Too afraid of breaking this small reality you had created together.

His weight was a nice blanket. Even if he did make it a little difficult to breathe. The feeling of skin perfectly pressed together helped. Your legs still wrapped around his waist. His beard scratched your chest momentarily.

You refused to move.

Remaining here in silence.

Spark of a flame began igniting inside you once more. You were in for a long night.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you for reading! I really enjoy writing sex pollen stories :) as always my inbox is open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated //

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cerisereids · 3 months ago

Text

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurbs #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot

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nanamiskentos · 6 months ago

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you've reached norikuna's masterlist / minors dni! compiled jan. '25

𓂅⭒ ִ fics 𓏲 ִֶָ

GOJO SATORU.

she told you that she celibate, she told me i could nail her shit — college!au, friends to lovers, nsfw ᵎᵎ you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

just meet me at the apt! — hookup/strangers!au, sorcerer au! nsfw ᵎᵎ your ex, that sleazy and no-good scumbag won't stop posting tacky mirror selfies on instagram, arm around his fellow cheater-in-crime. so, christmas eve finds you morose in a dodgy dive bar. why not tumble back into bed with that random, gorgeous stranger you just met?

i love you so matcha — fluff, angst, sfw ᵎᵎ green was the color of life, and gojo satoru, in all his contradictions, carried life in the way he loved recklessly, laughed shamelessly, and held you like the universe began and ended with you.

cream soda — rivals to lovers! nsfw ᵎᵎ you've always known that gojo satoru is a real piece of work. arrogant, haughty. definitely has a praise kink for when people always call him 'the strongest.' but you're not even friends anymore, so this isn't any of your business...right? what you didn't know is just how nasty he is, caging you in front of a mirror to lick away blood that he spilled from the veins of another man, one who dared to touch you.

i love you, i'm sorry — ex!reader, angst, suggestive ᵎᵎ gojo was always charming, maddening and impossibly brilliant. a gift and a curse to the world. the love of your life, the loss of your life, the one that got away. you can only sit alone with his cold, lifeless form and wonder where it all went wrong. how do you mourn a star that burned itself out for the sake of the sky?

greedy — age gap, nsfw ᵎᵎ pretty, prodigal, and teasing. how far can you push your former teacher before he snaps? gojo's about this 🤏 close from releasing a hollow purple on the world

ditto — best friend!gojo, angst, fluff, sfw ᵎᵎ brave, lucky, courageous. these are the words that people bestow upon you when the dust has cleared, and the king of curses is no more. you disagree, for if you were lucky, gojo satoru would still be standing at your side. instead you've been left to stare at the ocean shoreline on your own, without your best friend (the love of your life) by your side.

GETO SUGURU.

bed chem — established relationship, nsfw ᵎᵎ ditching your friend's christmas condo party for your scrumptious, needy boyfriend? yes please!

born to die — ex!geto, lovers to enemies, nsfw ᵎᵎ it's been three years since suguru left all you had ever known, crumbling it into the fine dust of the earth. a suspiciously timed mission from gojo leads you right into the arms of the man you swore to kill. well, fuck him right?

RYOMEN SUKUNA.

achilles come down — true form!sukuna, wife!reader, sfw ᵎᵎ you had given the king of curses what he had wanted the most, an heir, borne of the wife that he loves. but for one typically vicious and unshakeable, you wonder why sukuna is left so shaken by how much your daughter takes after him. you wonder at how the vast ribcage of a demon and a cold killer, who can make the sun rise in the west if he so wished, was once the ribcage that held the beating heart of a young boy, with little space for him, or his mother, in this world.

so it goes — wife!reader, nsfw ᵎᵎ newly-wed life is hardly what you expected it to be, its hardly a surprise. after all, how many people find themselves bound to the notorious king of curses? but after a frosty few weeks, sukuna finds the easiest way to win you over is when he's on his knees, and between your thighs.

TOJI FUSHIGURO.

that's so true! — dilf!toji/neighbours!au, nsfw ᵎᵎ you vowed to yourself that you would rock toji fushiguro's world as a new year's resolution. but it's christmas eve already, and the year is almost over. by hook or by crook, you're gonna that gorgeous, buff older man in your bed tonight.

mama, a diva behind you — dilf!toji, sfw ᵎᵎ toji loves his son, he really does. unfortunately, young megumi is less than receptive when it comes to toji's efforts to impress the pretty neighbour who just moved into the apartment down the hall. or five times megumi actively made toji's love life worse. and the one time he actually helped.

CHOSO KAMO.

what? like it's hard? — college!au, sfw. ᵎᵎ you were the glittering prom queen, the crème de la crème of the school's social heirarchy. and yet, choso kamo, the quiet boy with no friends shattered your heart. you wish you could hate him forever but it's hard when he's your partner in med school three years later, and he's hot now.

last friday night — best friends to lovers! nsfw ᵎᵎ it's been seven days since you wobbled into your apartment and almost threw up on your best friend. seven days since you confessed your love to him. seven days of radio silence as you've done your best to shut him out, hoping that the earth swallows you whole. there's no way he's going to want anything to do with you now!

cheri cheri lady — bf!choso, nsfw ᵎᵎ its hard not to be endlessly fond of your sweet boyfriend. he's quiet, unassuming but sweet, oddly so for a half-curse. but god, you want to jump his bones so bad.

NANAMI KENTO.

youngblood — mythos!au, hades&persephone ᵎᵎ tba

note — this masterlist is for all 'proper' fics, and not drabbles or thirsty thoughts. all other works can be found under the tag /daphworks.

#im crying bc for all my talk about being a geto and sukuna girl i don't even write for them 😭#daphworks #— daphtalks !#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #choso kamo x reader #nanami kento x reader

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angelwonie · 1 year ago

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ME AND THE DEVIL || coriolanus snow

PAIRING: coriolanus x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 10.1k

GENRE(S): smut, fluff, slowburn, enemies to lovers, angst (if you squint)

SUMMARY: Coriolanus Snow is a difficult man to please. And yet you have overtaken his mind—you, the only person in the academy who seems to have no interest in him. But he is also a persuasive man, and he usually gets what he wants. There's only one problem: falling in love wasn't a part of the plan.

WARNINGS: SMUT [unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, degradation, praise, overstimulation, manhandling, edging, crying, breeding kink, brat taming?, coryo is mean but down bad], canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and guns, morally gray coriolanus

It started with a change of seats.

In the academy, students were assigned a study partner meant to last throughout the year. The partners were to sit together in the lecture rooms, write each assignment together and support the other in weakness. The goal of this premise was to keep all students attentive and growing—the academy hardly accepted laziness and not at all incompetence. In the top class which consisted of, as the name suggests, the academy’s finest students, the hunger for success stood stronger, and tolerance for failure—lower. Therefore study partners were as close to a lifeline as a student could come.

Coriolanus had no problem with that. Working with others, as vexing as it could be, brought on more pros than cons, especially when he was allowed to take the lead. And if anything went wrong, he was free to blame someone else for the outcome—though Highbottom never really believed him.

The Problem, which currently he referred to with a capital P in his mind, had begun when Dr. Gaul suddenly announced a change in the seating arrangement.

It came as a shock to everyone and frankly, turned the whole orderly system on its head. Livia was moved away to sit with Festus; Gaius with a clearly disdainful Arachne; and he—with you, a girl just recently having joined the top class and taken the spot of a guy who had moved down in ranks.

Originally, you had seated yourself next to Sejanus, in the only empty seat in the room. When Dr. Gaul walked into the room, they all stood. She told them not to bother sitting again and began reading the names of what was to become new partnerships.

Coriolanus could hear Clemensia letting out a groan of frustration upon her name being read out alongside Sejanus’. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop his smile from spreading at the misfortune he had evaded.

But it didn’t last long, this state of contentment, because soon his own name was read aloud—with yours.

Your face, as he noticed upon looking in your direction, had no distinctive emotion written across it. Your brows were ever so slightly raised, the corners of your mouth straight. You spared a single glance in his direction—glimmering eyes meeting his blue ones—then, without much reaction, strolled towards the seat which Clemensia had yet to vacate.

“I think you’re in my seat.”

It was the first time he heard your voice. It was far from gentle, but not exactly rough; clear, but not exactly loud. You were standing with your back straight, your bag at your side.

The sound brought Clemensia’s attention to your figure for a solid second before she turned to Coriolanus, brows furrowed.

“This is so stupid. Why would she separate us when she knows how well we work together?”

He didn’t have time to answer before you took a step closer, this time letting your lips spread in a smile. It revealed your teeth, but no cordiality. “You’re still in my seat. You can question the authority of our teachers another time, right?”

Clemensia, a little stunned, stood unmoving until Dr. Gaul shouted at her from the other side of the room. She took her things and with a last look of disbelief cast Coriolanus’ way, moved towards her own designated seat.

You placed your bag by the desk and sat down, legs crossed at the knees. Coriolanus did the same, although his eyes drifted to his right just a little. You looked a bit like a Greek statue, with your posture and expression so much like his own.

Dr. Gaul clapped her hands anew. “Well, what are you waiting for? Introduce yourselves!”

Coriolanus cleared his throat and you turned to him, a somewhat bored look in your eyes.

“Coriolanus Snow,” he said, extending a hand.

You didn’t take his hand. “I know who you are.”

You didn’t speak to him any more that day. Or the day after that. Or the next.

All he had was your name and the (maybe feigned) looks of boredom you seldom sent him. And a growing annoyance which came about each time he politely told you good morning and you replied in a dull tone.

Nobody knew much about you, which resulted in what students do best when met with lack of information—they make up their own. Livia Cardew claimed you were from district 1. Clemensia whispered to Coriolanus about how your place in the academy was most certainly bought by your parents. Festus Creed was utterly convinced your arrival was a test to see how long they would last alongside a girl who showed no interest in anyone and yet walked with her head high.

But the only rumor which held any truth to it at all was Arachne’s hesitant scoff about how she knew you before.

Livia immediately picked up on the statement and leaned forward in her chair. “You did? So she isn’t from district one?”

“No. But she might as well have been.” Arachne looked to the rest of them for a dramatic effect. “She’s a total bitch, anyway. That’s all there is to say.”

That ended the discussion.

One day, perhaps a week after you and Coriolanus had become study partners, you walked into the academy wearing the tiniest skirt he had ever seen. It was the academy’s uniform, only altered to be shorter and tighter, framing your hips perfectly and ending just about halfway of your thigh.

Coriolanus heard Clemensia scoff from where she stood by his side.

“Attention seeker.”

“Is that even allowed?” Festus asked, though it was unclear whether he meant vandalizing the academy uniform or how otherworldly your legs looked in the skirt.

Whichever it was, the answer was probably no.

On a daily basis, you were already pretty. He knew it and he was well aware the other boys also knew it from the way they eyed you like hawks when you weren’t looking. And, let’s be honest, you were never looking at any of them. So there was a whole lot of staring which Coriolanus caught every time, while you remained either oblivious or too stubborn to acknowledge the attention.

Now, he thought, you must be aware of it—at the very least.

He, personally, was painfully aware of it. Like an embarrassing Victorian man whose mouth waters at the sight of a woman’s ankles, he felt his pants were suddenly too tight. It was in a state of panic that he adjusted himself, clearing his throat. His hand squeezed the desk he was leaning against as he mumbled an incoherent reply that was just enough for Festus and Clemmie to continue their conversation without his input.

From over Clemensia’s shoulder, he could see Volumnia Gaul and Casca Highbottom strolling into the room.

“Dr. Gaul’s here,” he said, pointing with his jaw.

“Oh, right.”

The two of them walked away and Coriolanus closed his eyes, rubbing his nose bridge.

Once he opened them again, he was met with your frame approaching—and he almost jolted in surprise. Your hair was hanging loosely down your shoulders, pinned back on one side to reveal golden earrings. You took a step in his direction and he wondered what for—the distance between you was close to nothing.

“Move.”

Taken aback, he fought the urge to look around and see if anyone else had heard. But no, you were too far and class was almost starting; everyone was busy with themselves.

“Sorry?” he asked with a strained smile.

You sighed, looking vaguely annoyed. “You’re blocking my way.”

He grit his teeth, moving aside. You sauntered past him and into your seat, which he only now realized he had been standing in front of. Your skirt flowed behind you; when you bent down to place your bag on the ground he almost caught a glimpse of your panties. Almost. But what he saw was enough to fill him with rage that didn’t subside for the rest of the lesson—along with his boner.

“I personally think she’s nice,” Sejanus offered when Coriolanus mentioned your poor behavior towards him during lunch. Of course, he said nothing of his dick hardening—oversharing wasn’t his forte.

“Well, you don’t sit with her.”

“I did. And she was nice to me.”

He sent Sejanus a death glare which worked effectively to shut him up.

Coriolanus didn’t really care about your demeanor. It didn’t mess with his work—when you had to be cooperative, you were. And outside of class, Clemensia was more than happy to cling to his arm like a koala. The same went for Sejanus. What bothered him was that look—of disdain, boredom—the lazy way in which you displayed your distaste, like he wasn’t even worth an effort to hate. Because you didn’t hate him.

You just… didn’t care.

You terrified him. You made him see red. You made him react physically, for God’s sake. And he had spoken to you all of twice. How pathetic was that? Enough to stay forever in his thoughts, that much was certain. He was never going to say a word about this to anyone.

But worst of all was this: you liked Sejanus.

Whenever he saw you talking to anyone, it was either your friends from your old class or him. Sejanus Plinth, from district two, with nothing but irritating opinions and a fortune to offer. He saw you laugh at his half-developed jokes, look at him in total focus while he spoke.

One day, about a month after it all, when Highbottom showed no signs of letting them switch seats ever again, he decided to ask you about it. Dr. Gaul was currently strolling about the lecture room, monologuing, which gave him enough time to lean to the side, towards you.

“Seems like you and Sejanus have gotten quite close,” he said, loud enough for only you to hear.

If you registered his words, you made no signs of it. His eyes trailed lower, to your tiny, tiny skirt and the plushness of your thighs which he was free to look at but not allowed to touch. He clenched his jaw and tried again.

“What is it you want? His money?”

At this, your head whipped in his direction. His cool, blue eyes bore into yours and he could see anger, clear like black on a white piece of paper, in your gaze. Your shoulders were tense, lips barely parted. But this only lasted a brief moment—a glitch in your composure—before you straightened your back and grit your teeth into a feigned smile.

“And you? What do you want from him?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Dr. Gaul’s piercing voice.

“Miss L/N and Mr. Snow! Perhaps the two of you will answer my question since you’re so deep in discussion.” The woman looked at the two of you sternly. “What is the point of the hunger games?”

You looked at Coriolanus, who seemed perfectly content in his seat. He had no intention of answering. Bastard. You folded your hands into fists and stood up. Everyone was looking, but only Coriolanus’ gaze made your heart thump against your chest. It felt as if you had something to prove.

“To keep the districts at bay.” With a glance towards Sejanus, you bit the inside of your cheek. “In a highly unethical way, of course. It hardly takes killing twenty-three children to prove a point.”

“District children. Remember that,” said Dr. Gaul. “You may sit.”

You obeyed, suppressing a sigh of relief.

At least it was relief until you felt a hot breath on the side of your neck, paired with Coriolanus whispering, “Liar.”

You looked at him, seemingly unphased, and let out a soft scoff. “If you didn’t like my answer, you should have said something instead.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it was a lie. Don’t worry, though, I don’t think Sejanus can tell.”

Your jaw tightened indiscernibly. The boy whose curls were falling into his forehead gave a smirk, eyes trailing to where Sejanus was sitting and then back again. You just looked at him, unwavering.

“You know nothing about me.”

“And you know nothing about me,” he said, lips spreading to reveal his teeth. “Now we’re both liars.”

***

On the third of the month, the Plinths threw a party.

It was a large gathering, consisting mainly of the academy’s students and their immediate family. The occasion was unclear—unofficially, it was said the Plinths wanted to scout the students to see who was fit to win the Plinth prize. But it was just rumors. Officially, it was a celebration of the academy’s fiftieth anniversary.

After all it had endured—the rebellion, the war, Coriolanus Snow—a party seemed in order.

On the topic of Snow—you were terribly irritated by the way his words were swarming around your head like bees. Somehow, you had managed to remember his voice down to every shiver and for whatever reason, your brain wouldn’t let go of it. Even as your mother, with her eyes fixated on the mirror, smoothed out the length of your silky dress and asked if you liked it. Even as the two of you left the apartment. Even as you exited the car and walked up the steps to the academy’s ballroom.

“Nervous?” your mother asked.

“No.”

She pushed the doors open.

Coriolanus had showed up to the party in a fitted, dark suit along with his grandma’am right on time. Upon his arrival, he had scouted Sejanus somewhere in a corner with his overbearing parents, while Clemensia stood with Livia and her sister. You were nowhere to be seen as far as his eye could reach. His grandma’am dragged him around the room in search of conversation partners and somehow ended up deepening into a discussion with Mr. Plinth, leaving her grandson to fend for himself with Sejanus by his side. The farce lasted for about half an hour; he felt himself growing weary.

Then, you came in.

Fashionably late, as always, with your mother at your side, you strolled in like the entire party was thrown in your honor. And truly—he might’ve believed you if you said so, with the way your strapless dress sat around your curves.

In his peripheral vision, he could glimpse Sejanus swallowing hard. Coriolanus fought the urge to outright laugh at the ludicrous hope swimming in the eyes of his ‘friend’. He was reaching too high. Way too high.

“Y/N! What a relief, you’re here!”

It was the voice of Strabo Plinth that made you turn your head in the direction of their little clique. A smile spread over your face, but disappeared as soon as your gaze landed on Coriolanus. He watched carefully as you approached with your mother, the pearls on your neck glistening in the overhead light. Sejanus was still staring like a fool; Coriolanus felt his blood turn the slightest bit warmer, the tips of his fingers tingling.

“Mr. Plinth, Sejanus.” You sent the two of them a sweet smile, then cast a look at Coriolanus with your lips pulled tight. “Coriolanus.”

He nodded at you. “Sweetheart.”

You didn’t comment on his choice of word, but he could see your jaw tightening and your chest fluttering, pressing against the restraints of your dress.

Thankfully, it seemed nobody else had heard—Mr. Plinth was too busy gushing over yours and Sejanus’ friendship to notice anything else. Coriolanus’ shoulder bumped into yours and you shuddered. The conversation dragged on until Mr. Plinth was beckoned over by another group of people who looked like politicians, and wandered off with a cranky Sejanus in tow.

Left alone with Coriolanus and his grandmother, you began to plot your and your mother’s escape.

“Look, mom, there’s Livia. We should go say hi.”

You had taken less than five steps before Dr. Gaul’s voice reached your ears.

“Not so fast, miss L/N,” she said, a menacing smile on her face. She waved you and your mother over to where she was standing—right between Snow and his grandmother. “Surely your mother wants to meet the only gentleman whose grades are as good as her daughter’s.”

Your mother took the bait immediately, forcing you to follow her back to where you wanted so deeply to escape. “Oh, gosh, really? Coriolanus Snow, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed his head, sending your mother one of his disgustingly gorgeous smiles.

“Now, Coriolanus and Y/N are my best students.” Dr. Gaul, more enthusiastic than you had ever seen her, pulled you and Coriolanus to either side of her, squeezing your shoulders. “And study partners, too. They work so well together. How about the two of you go for a dance?”

“Oh, I don’t dance—”

“Yes, Y/N,” your mother obliviously interrupted, “don’t let those five-year dancing lessons go to waste.”

Your face formed into a half-smile, half-frown. “Right.”

Coriolanus sent you a triumphant smile as he stuck out an arm for you to take. You hesitantly snaked yours through it, heart hammering as he led you onto the dance floor.

The song playing was irritatingly slow, and Dr. Gaul’s smile too wide for all this to be a coincidence, but you decided to let it slide—it wasn’t like you really had a choice. Coriolanus positioned you in front of him. From over his shoulder, you could spot Sejanus, to whom you mouthed a silent plea for help, but the boy proved useless when all he did was send you a smile and a shrug.

Coriolanus placed his hands on your waist appropriately and you hesitantly placed your own atop his broad shoulders. Although you made sure not to touch him more than you had to, the hardness of his muscles was prominent against your fingertips.

The distance between you vexed Coriolanus to no end—especially when he had seen you in a skimpy, tiny black dress all pressed up against Sejanus at Arachne’s birthday party. His fingers harshly tugged at your waist and he smiled in satisfaction at the way your body pliantly molded into him. A gasp threatened to escape you, but you held it back, instead swallowing quietly.

It turned out both of you were excellent dancers. Coriolanus sensed exactly when you were to make an unexpected move and was always able to maneuver you however he wanted.

Finally, you decided to speak—a five-minute song danced in silence would last an eternity. “Clemensia’s staring daggers into my back. Am I in danger?”

The blonde smiled. “Not at all.”

“How come?”

“I’ll protect you.”

You smiled incredulously, shaking your head. “I hope you have a knife underneath your blazer, then, because she looks dangerous.”

“I could snap her neck in half with one hand.”

The way he said it—no hesitation and total seriousness—made you choke on the laughter that was supposed to come out, replacing it with a burning sensation somewhere in the depths of your stomach. His hand, on the small of your back, fiddled gently with the lacing of your dress, then lazily moved back to your waist.

You cleared your throat. “I heard your father was a great man.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve also heard he was a terrible person.” You tilted your head to the side, putting on a curious expression. “So, which one is it?”

“Are the two mutually exclusive?”

At that, you laughed. Real laughter, with your head tipped back—laughter he had never heard before, not even when you were around Sejanus. Something swelled proudly inside his chest.

“Only you could say something so bizarre. But no, I suppose they’re not.”

He swayed his hips along with yours, then brought your hand up, signaling he wanted for you to spin. Whilst he swirled you around, you felt the tips of his fingers against your cheekbone, tucking something behind your ear. Once you were in front of him again, you brought your hand to touch the soft surface that felt like a flower.

“What is that?”

He raised one corner of his mouth. “A rose.”

“And why, pray tell, are you giving me a rose?”

He swirled you again, this time his fingers grabbing at the flesh between your clavicle and throat, pulling you against him. You felt his very fingertips, cold and soft, against your muscle, his hot breath against your left ear.

“To mark my territory.”

With that, he swirled you back and resumed the ordinary dance, with a deadpan expression and shining eyes, emitting an unidentifiable emotion.

Your cheek trembled, although you tried to hide it by tightening your jaw. “It’s picked from your garden, then, I suppose.”

“Grandma’am’s.”

“Really?”

Before you could do anything, he leaned forwards so the tip of your nose grazed his pulse. You stood stunned, taking a breath and being met with the strong smell of roses. You caught a glimpse of his collarbones, peeking out from underneath the two buttons he had undone in his shirt. He drew back before you could think to push him away, lips spreading into a smile.

“Those are also from our garden,” he murmured.

“Coriolanus…”

He liked the way you said his name this time.

Not arrogantly or carelessly, but like it was the most important thing in the world; a bar of gold in your hands. And the shiver in your voice—the thought it must’ve been the most delightful thing he had ever heard. He wanted— no, he deserved to hear it again, but it would have to wait. You were looking up at him the way he yearned you would, like he was impossible to ignore.

“Hmm?”

You smiled a strained smile, chest heaving. “The song has ended. I believe I should go dance with somebody else.”

Without awaiting a response, you released yourself from his grip and turned your back on him. He stood in somewhat of a silent shock.

And he felt it again, this immense anger because how dare you wrap your arms around Sejanus and convince him to a dance, when he’s standing right here, ready to rip anyone’s throat open to feel your body against him again.

After your dance with Sejanus, you scurried off to the bathroom, silently inspecting the rose sitting neatly in your hair above your ear. It was a piercing red, matching perfectly with your dress. You sighed into the mirror, rolling your eyes.

The rest of the evening was spent drinking champagne—too much of it, definitely, but who was counting the glasses which you picked up and later discarded?

Coriolanus, of course, but he was much too embarrassed to say anything and much too agitated and proud to even consider asking Sejanus to look after you. No, he’d rather see you pass out drunk than have Plinth take care of you—he could do that himself. But he didn’t. Not that day, anyway. He left the party somewhat early, assisting his grandma’am down the stairs although she claimed she didn’t need his help.

“What has gotten into you today? You’re too eager to help and you’re looking around like a lost district child.”

“I’m not, grandma’am. Get into the car.”

But before he could follow in her footsteps, he heard laughter—the same laughter he had heard for the first time just an hour earlier.

He turned automatically, without much thought, and felt rage well up in him as he saw you and Sejanus leaving the hall shoulder-to-shoulder, your respective parents in tow. You were clearly drunk, your steps unsteady.

Sejanus said something to you, apparently something you found funny, because you slapped his shoulder and laughed again. Unfortunately for you, the heels you were wearing weren’t exactly wasted-proof and gave out from underneath you when you moved your ankle to the side.

It took the slip of a second for you to tumble down the remaining four steps of the stairs, and another two for Coriolanus to catch you, his arms knitting tightly around your waist.

“Coriolanus,” you mumbled, at a loss for anything better to say.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

You shook your head, but he went out of his way to sit you down on the stairs and inspect your ankle anyway.

“Stupid girl,” he said, landing a barely discernible slap to the side of your thigh as he stood, having concluded you were alright. “Why drink more than you can handle?”

“I have a habit of getting in over my head.”

He looked down at you, the disheveled hair and still present rose which you hadn’t taken out yet, and smiled. Slowly, Sejanus and the rest of them descended down the stairs and Coriolanus turned to get in the car. But first, he sent you a smirk over his shoulder.

***

Dr. Gaul’s experiments were always interesting.

In the best cases, they were innovative and in the worst—fatal. None of the academy’s top class knew which one this one would turn out to be when they followed Highbottom into the laboratory.

“What if she kills us?” Livia, who wasn’t particularly fond of you but neither did she feel a particular distaste for you, whispered.

“She won’t,” you whispered back. “We have the president’s son in our class.”

“Right.”

The lot of you walked inside, scattered randomly until Gaul reminded everyone to stick to their partners. You heard Clemensia let out a prolonged sigh upon Coriolanus escaping her grip and approaching you instead.

He smiled self-importantly. “Y/N.”

“Snow.”

The smile faded marginally.

Dr. Gaul ushered everyone closer. A servant dragged off the thick, two-meter long piece of fabric covering what at first sight looked like an aquarium, but later revealed to be a cylinder of rainbow-colored snakes. Someone gasped.

You furrowed your brows and took a glance at Coriolanus, who in turn looked back at you. You were quick to avoid his gaze, but not quick enough for him to miss it.

Dr. Gaul sent you a half-enthusiastic, half-manic smile. “Now, everyone give me something of yours. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

Coriolanus moved first, which you didn’t mind until he grabbed hold of you and pulled you along.

“What are you doing?”

“What, are you scared?”

His eyes twinkled and you tore away from his grip. But it was too late; the two of you were standing right in front of the open snake habitat. You swallowed hard.

He reached into his pocket and fished out a pencil—golden and engraved with his last name—before handing it to Dr. Gaul. You followed suit, albeit hesitantly, and handed her an embroidered handkerchief.

The rest of the class did the same. Dr. Gaul received all the items, stacked them and instructed everyone to sit. Then she gathered it all into one big pile and threw it into the cage. Immediately, the snakes swarmed around the items, licking and slithering.

“These snakes,” Dr. Gaul said, “are lethal only when met with a taste they don’t know. Meaning right now, when they’ve touched your things, they are harmless. Come say hi.”

Nobody, including you, moved a muscle.

Obviously, everyone was busy figuring out why this was even an experiment if they were harmless—from what Dr. Gaul said it sounded more like a visit to the zoo. Next to you, Coriolanus furrowed his brows and stared the cage down with his icy eyes, inspecting.

“No volunteers?” Dr. Gaul sighed. “How about Y/N and Coriolanus?”

You froze, looking at Coriolanus with wide eyes. “You first.”

He tilted his head. “Ask nicely.”

Forcing a smile, you swallowed your pride.

“Please.”

He stood from the seat and you forced yourself to disregard his grin and the way his uniform strained around his back muscles.

Just then, as your eyes followed his steps, you saw something by Dr. Gaul’s feet, something shimmering in gold. You squinted at the object. It was barely visible, currently hidden in Coriolanu’s shadow. Coriolanus walked up to the cage and the overhead light fell onto the object, revealing what looked like something engraved. The letter S. The letter N. The letter…

“Coryo, wait!” You shot up from your seat. Coriolanus looked at you in bewilderment as you grabbed his wrist roughly. “You can’t touch them. Your pen isn’t in there.”

“What?” His gaze dropped to the golden pen at your feet.

You looked at his face, as if to make certain he was whole, then at his wrist in between your shaky fingers. How embarrassing, the way your body had grown so hot and how tragic, the way you had made a scene. You wondered what Coriolanus was thinking, with his mouth parted and eyes on you.

Dr. Gaul clapping her hands together brought you back to reality. “Quite impressive, miss Y/N. I must admit, your reaction time was even faster than predicted.”

You turned to her in disbelief and maybe a bit of anger. “You did it on purpose? Why?”

“Why, to see if you were willing to save Mr. Snow here.”

“That’s absurd, I would have done it for anyone!” Your face grew hot as you ripped your hand away from Coryo’s wrist, as though burned by his skin. “And what if I hadn’t noticed?”

“Then I would have known I made a mistake letting you into the top class. Regard this as a little test, if you will.” She sauntered happily over to you, where she stopped to whisper in your ear: “And for your information, miss Y/N, yesterday these snakes got familiar with mr. Snow through an assignment. I would never put him in danger, so calm your heart.”

Dr. Gaul proclaimed the class dismissed and left—left you to stand in utter shock for at least ten seconds. Then, before any words could escape Coriolanus’ mouth, you followed in her footsteps, practically running out of the room.

After this incident, you avoided him.

He noticed immediately, the lack of you in the hallways when he walked through them and the tenseness of your expression in class. Every time you showed up in those tiny skirts and paid him no mind, he resisted the urge to throw you over his shoulder. You had to be put in your place, certainly so—with the way you were messing with his head. A threat, but he chose to look past that, just this once. What he couldn’t look past were your plush thighs, pretty lips and addicting aura.

Once, after school had finished, he cornered you in an empty classroom in which you were rummaging through your bag, clearly searching for something.

“Looking for this?”

You jolted back, looking at him over your shoulder and at the kays dangling from his fingers. As your face grew hot, you turned your back to him again, suddenly not so keen on finding the keys.

“They must have fallen out of my bag,” you mumbled.

He inched closer, until his chest was against your back and he could drop the keys into your bag. They rattled—the only sound in the room spare for your breathing.

He craned his neck to mumble against your earlobe, “How come you’re avoiding me, my sweet?”

You turned again.

“I’m not avoiding you.” You huffed at him, raising your head high. “Why would I avoid you? I simply don’t care for your presence.”

The side of his lips twitched. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I have class. I need to go,” you said, before realizing in terror that you’d both just had the last lesson of the day—of which he was fully aware. “I mean…”

He took a step and you went silent. His hand cupped your jaw harshly, pointer finger and thumb on each respective side of it. He pulled you closer by his grip.

“I thought I told you not to lie,” he said, squeezing your cheeks. “Did it not register in that pretty head of yours?”

Your lower lip trembled deliciously, eyes tinted with a hint of fear. “Coriolanus…”

“Call me Coryo. Like you did that day with the snakes.”

There was a change in your expression: widened eyes turning normal again, lips curving into a soft smile as you pried his hand off. He let you, god knows why. Maybe because everything turned uncalculated when he was around you or maybe because he wanted you to listen to what he said.

But you just said, “I’ll call you that when you earn it.”

His blood boiled.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”

“Sejanus is waiting for me outside, Coriolanus,” you said, putting your hand on his shoulder teasingly. “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

He grit his teeth. “Do you think this is a game?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Is it?”

He held his outburst enough for you to leave—then, he punched the nearest surface and let out a loud groan. A threat, definitely. A dangerous one. But he’d tear it out of you—these sensations similar to his that he knew you felt.

And how could you be of real danger to him when he was just as much of a threat to you?

***

When Dr. Gaul and Casca Highbottom announced an ‘educational school trip to district eight’, everyone thought they were joking.

They were, in fact, not. They took the train for almost ten hours—by the end of it, everyone was weary and irritable. Dr. Gaul told everyone to pay special attention and care to their partners and make sure they were safe, and despite the tiring trip, Coriolanus took on his task with the utmost importance.

“What are you doing?” you asked him as he, for the third time, slung his arm around you to pull you away from passing wagons.

“Protecting you, like Dr. Gaul told us to.”

You snorted a laugh. “I’m sure she didn’t mean from horses.”

“Horses can be dangerous.”

You just rolled your eyes. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders for the rest of the walk. When you arrived at the inn, Coriolanus leaned close to you abruptly and placed a kiss on your cheek. Before you got the chance to even think of protesting, he was gone.

The next day all of you were to join Highbottom in his speech in front of the district people.

It was a simple stage made of wood—the people stood spread out on a small square in front. There were almost too many to fit.

You, as students, were not supposed to do anything in particular other than stand there and look pretty. Coriolanus made the effort to assure you you were splendid at it already, his fingers fanning over your waist. It sent shivers down your spine, and he smiled in self-satisfaction. You cursed him for his perceptiveness as the two of you walked onto stage.

Coriolanus was far from relaxed as his eyes scanned the crowd. You just had to wear that godforsaken skirt in front of a bunch of starved men. If he could, he’d tear all their eyes out. Starting with that brown-haired asshole in the first row. As Higbottom began his speech, Coriolanus walked up to you and stood purposefully a bit in front, as though to cover you.

“Is it not impractical to wear a skirt today?” he asked, sending you a pointed look.

“It’s quite warm,” you replied, blinking up at him. “Do you not like it? I wore it for you.”

He clenched his jaw, heart swelling in pride. Of course he liked it—a little too much to be considered appropriate—but not for everyone to see. He leaned down almost indiscernibly, but you felt his hot breath fan your lips.

“When I’m president, nobody is going to see you in that skirt except for me.”

You grinned. “When you’re president? What exactly is the extent of your ambition, Mr. Snow?”

“You are.”

His pupils were expanded, fingers snaking to hold you by the waist. If anyone noticed, he didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter anyway. His fingers found their way under your uniform and he observed attentively as your eyes widened, teeth sinking into your lower lip when he caressed your bare side.

“Okay, everyone, let’s go,” Highbottom said, signaling his speech was finished.

Coriolanus let go of you. The lot of you moved, surrounded by peacekeepers until you reached the truck ramp. You walked first, carefully placing your steps.

But you only managed to take three of them before something—someone, to be precise—pulled your leg to the side and you fell.

Your brain barely registered the pain of your bare knee hitting the ramp before you were no longer on the ramp, but the ground. An ache spread along your side. Coriolanus shouted your name as he jumped down from the ramp, despite Highbottom’s screams at him to stay but.

The man who had pulled you down, who Coriolanus recognized as the hungry-eyed man from the first row, pulled out a knife from his pocket. He lounged just as you froze, unmoving spare for the trembling of your lips. Coriolanus grabbed him and pushed him down; but not before he had managed to sink the knife into your calf. He heard you scream.

“Help her!” he roared at the peacekeepers, who had their weapons raised at the man who was trying to get up from the ground, but weren’t firing.

Coriolanus, enraged, ripped out the gun from one of the peacekeepers’ hands. He heard some words of protest but ignored them entirely as he pulled the trigger. And again. And again. And again. Until the man was more holes than flesh.

“Help her, for fuck’s sake!” he roared again; this time they listened and gathered around you.

He spared only a glance at your bleeding figure, then turned to the rest of District eight’s crowd—the part of it that hadn’t thought to flee the scene—and fired again. He heard Sejanus shouting, he heard Highbottom shouting, he heard Dr. Gaul shouting, and the peacekeepers gathered around him like flies, but he listened to none of them. He fired and fired until the magazine was empty and someone tore the weapon out of his hands.

“Coriolanus,” you whispered.

Only now did he fully look at you, at the cut in your leg and at your frightened face. He ran over, relieved nobody tried to stop him, and kneeled next to you along with a clearly useless peacekeeper. There was blood on his white shirt, but not on his fingers when he ran them over your thigh gently. It didn’t look like a deep cut, but it was bleeding a lot.

“It’s okay, Y/N, you hear me? Listen to me!” He grabbed your tear-stained face with one hand and turned it so you were looking into his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay. Don’t close your eyes.”

When you didn’t reply, he shook you a little bit. “You’re alright, okay?”

“Okay, Coryo,” you said meekly.

He nodded and tore a piece off his shirt to wrap it below your knee. He was angry, unbelievably so, and felt if he didn’t look at your face now and then he might kill all of them: the peacekeepers, his fellow students, Highbottom. He bore a hatred for them all. But you were the priority; you needed saving.

He heard you whimper, using one hand to hold at his shoulder.

“Why did you…”

He cut you off. “Don’t talk. I’m gonna fix this. You’re okay. Keep your eyes open.”

You obeyed for as long as you could, for as long as it took for the medics to arrive and carry you away; then, you let yourself drift off.

***

When you first woke up, you were met with Coriolanus’ perceptive eyes staring back at you.

“Coryo?” you asked.

“How do you feel? Does it hurt?”

You wanted to answer, but your mouth felt as if it were made of lead. Coriolanus shouted for the nurses to bring you water, yet before he had even turned his head to you again, you were fast asleep. He sighed.

***

The cut wasn’t deep.

That’s what the doctors from district eight said, their heads hung low in shame. You were alone upon waking this time, spare for the nurse they had left to take care of you.

“Coriolanus,” you said. “Where is he?”

“He just left to get some rest, ma’am. We sent him away for an hour fifteen minutes ago. He’d been sitting here all night.”

“I want to see him.”

“It would be unwise to deny him his sl—”

You stood up and walked out, much to the nurses’ dismay.

After a ride to the inn in which all of you were staying, you walked into the hallway that you knew belonged to the boys.

You had no idea where Coriolanus’ room was, but thankfully you met Sejanus just as he was leaving his room.

His eyes lit up as he saw you. “Y/N! You’re okay, thank god. I was so wor—”

“Where is Coryo?”

He stopped, smile falling the littlest bit. “Last room to the left.”

You smiled and patted his shoulder. “Thanks.”

You knocked on the door three times and stood silent, waiting. After half a minute, you heard his voice—husky and deep—telling you to come in.

He was standing by the window, looking out at the desolate district eight. The back of his new shirt was just barely holding out the strain his muscles created as he crossed his arms.

You cleared your throat. “Coriolanus.”

Clearly not expecting it to be you, Coriolanus turned on his heel, sporting a smile as he saw your face. You had changed clothes—another tiny skirt and shirt adorned your body. You were walking without difficulty, just like the doctors had foreseen, perhaps even more confidently, with your head high.

He expected you throw yourself into his arms, or maybe pull his hair and kiss him, but he absolutely didn’t expect you to cross your arms over your chest and ask him:

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Sorry?” he asked, frowning.

You took a step back, biting the inside of your cheek. “What have you done? What have you done, Coriolanus?”

He looked into your eyes in search of disgust, terrified, but found only worry. You were worried for him. Not them, not that man, not your reputation and the rumors—you were worried for him.

His gaze flicked down to your bare legs, no scar left from the incident, and then up to where your stop was squeezing your tits together. Did you come in here to scold or seduce him? He really could not tell.

He took a step in your direction, reveling in the way your resolve was starting to fade, lower lip trembling. “I was protecting you.”

“You didn’t have to kill him! You didn’t have to kill them all like animals!”

At this, something switched. He snorted, almost mockingly. Against your will, you felt your panties getting sticky when he walked closer and closer, until he had you backed against the wall. One of his hands rested next to your head while the other he ran over your cheek, stopping to cup your jaw.

“You don’t think he would have aimed higher if he’d gotten the chance? You don’t think you’d be dead if it weren’t for me?” His hot breath landed on your lips and you swallowed. He dragged his finger along your lower lip and you opened your mouth obediently, making his lips curve into a smile. “Now be a good girl and say thank you.”

Your legs rubbed against one another subtly. “Thank you, Coryo.”

“For what?” He slapped the inside of your thigh, making you jolt.

“For protecting me.”

His fingers crawled up your thigh to soothe the place he had slapped, rubbing small circles against your sensitive skin. It was embarrassing, how damp your panties were and how you had to press your lips together in order to avoid letting a whimper slip. The poor lighting cast shadows on his face, blonde curls falling just above his eyes.

He was devouring you even though he’d barely touched you.

“You’re trembling,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“It’s the cut.”

He tsked, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “Liars don’t get rewards, sweetheart. I thought I’d made that clear.”

He saw your nipples straining against the thin fabric of your shirt and tightened his jaw. You were here to seduce him, definitely. His desperate little girl. Funny how you had such a dirty mouth until his hands were on you—then, you seemed to go entirely limp and thoughtless. One of his hands snaked to the back of your head, the other stayed touching your thigh—too far away from the place you wanted it to be.

“Kiss me,” you pleaded, standing on your tiptoes to reach him, but he just pulled you down by your hair.

“No. Not until you beg me for it.”

You scoffed shakily, reclaiming the very remnants of your dignity. “I won’t beg you for a kiss.”

He pressed his chest against your sensitive tits, pulling at your hair so your noses were touching.

“Don’t I deserve it after everything I’ve done for you?”

“I didn’t ask you to do it.”

“But you liked it,” he remarked, sliding his warm hand up your shirt, until he could fiddle with the hem of your panties. His fingers tapped against your clothed pussy only once, making you jolt, before returning to the spot between your hip and leg. “You liked having someone kill for you. Just as you like when I touch you and when I care for your attention.”

“I don’t—”

“I think you’ve had a little too much being a brat, though. Now it’s my turn.” He slapped your pussy through the fabric and this time, you didn’t manage to hold back a whimper. “Beg. Me.”

“Please,” you whispered, face hot.

“What was that?” He pretended not to hear, leaning down even more. You wanted to punch him for his self-importance, for his cruelty, but it was what you craved, too—you’d take everything he gave you, although you’d never say it out loud.

“Please kiss me.”

His hands left you entirely before they cupped either of your cheeks. Your heart hammered in excitement watching Coryo’s eyes feeding on the sight of you. He lowered his head slowly, connecting your lips so softly you almost didn’t feel it. You tried to grab his collar and bring him closer, but then he just pulled away and sent you a pointed look which made you retract your hands.

Then, he kissed you again—this time pressing harder against you, making your eyes flutter shut. His fingers held you softly, as though you could break any moment, but his lips enveloped yours like he had been waiting for the opportunity for years.

You opened your mouth immediately as he licked at your lower lip and he hummed in appreciation. His fingers tilted your head as he slipped his tongue inside. He was hot against your own tongue, swirling and exploring, not letting you breathe out anything except small, timid whimpers. He smelled like roses, tasted like them too.

Your hands wandered to his broad shoulders, then down his clothed chest, his solid muscles against your fingertips. They flexed underneath your touch, a throaty groan of Coryo’s disappearing in your conjoined mouths. Your mouth watered at merely the thought of seeing them bare, seeing him.

Coriolanus pulled away only when he had to take a breath—angry at this humane obstacle in his way but soothed upon seeing your swollen, parted lips.

“You’re nothing without me,” he rasped out, trapping your jaw between his thumb and pointer. “Say it back.”

You looked at him through hazy eyes. “I’m nothing without you.”

He pushed you against the wall, lips against your jawline. He sucked a mark into your neck and you mewled out his name, tangling your fingers in his hair. His tongue ran over your throat, then swirled around your collarbones as he pressed wet kisses to them and your stomach.

Once he reached the waistband of your skirt, he dropped to his knees, looking up. You felt something turn in your stomach; the heat between your legs intensified tenfold.

His fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs languidly. Once gone from your body, he picked them up and dangled them in front of your face. You tried snatching them from him, but he just stuffed them into the pocket of his pants.

“For later,” he said, smiling. “To remind me what a desperate little girl you are.”

“I’m not—”

He cut you off by bunching your skirt up around your hips. The cold air made you shiver lightly, but his eyes set on the most intimate part of you like he was about to eat you didn’t really help, either.

Before you could look away from embarrassment, he dragged his nose through your slick folds. You let out a choked gasp as he came in contact with your clit. His hands slid up to your upper thighs, squeezing and prying them apart so you weren’t in the way for him to take his time. And he did take his time—painfully so.

After almost five minutes of aimless fingers trailing over your cunt but never touching for too long and never on your clit, you let out a loud whine, legs fighting against his grip to close. To no avail, of course—Coryo was much stronger than you and very intent on keeping you in place.

“Be patient,” he murmured into your heat. His eyes flicked up as a warning and you instantly stilled.

His tongue finally touched you in the form of small kitten licks on your clit that made your breath ragged and fists tighten. He saw you tightening around nothing, heard you whining pathetically for more and mercifully let his tongue enter your warmth. You clenched around him immediately.

He pulled his mouth off of you momentarily to look up at your pretty face twisted in clear rapture.

“Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”

When you didn’t answer, he brought down his hand to swat at your clit disapprovingly. You squirmed at the contact, slick practically dripping out of your cunt. His eyes met yours and you quivered, suddenly afraid he’d stop.

“Yes,” you whimpered. “So much.”

As a reward, he pushed two fingers into your pussy, watching as you gasped for air, furrowing your brows. He scissored them a little bit, then dipped his thumb into the arousal coating your cunt and let it rub small circles into your already puffy clit.

Your legs felt weak already and he must have sensed this, because he grabbed your thigh and positioned it on his shoulder. This way, he could curl his fingers enough to hit the spot which made you whimper so loudly it was shameful.

Soon, his thumb was replaced with his mouth that sucked your tiny clit into his mouth.

He heard you moan his name and felt his pants tighten significantly. Part of him hoped everyone could hear the noises you were making, while another part of him felt the urge to murder anyone who dared even overhear these sounds that were innately his possession.

From his position, he could see your tits brushing against your thin shirt and cursed himself for not being in a spot that would allow him to play with them. He’d have to settle for playing with your cute little cunt.

Your legs started shaking when he added another finger to pump in and out of your dripping hole.

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, hips bucking into his face. “Feels so good, Coryo, thank you.”

A guttural moan of his vibrated through your body and you cried out his name. A warm coil began tightening in your lower stomach. It was clear you were close—from the way your whimpers had grown unabashed and squeaky, the way you clenched around his long fingers, the way your hips stuttered against his tongue.

“Oh my god, Coryo, I’m so close— Can I come?”

So polite, he thought. Shame you only acted like this when his tongue was flicking at your clit.

His eyes glimmered as he looked up at you. “Only if you ask nicely.”

“Please, please, let me come, please, Coryo.” You let out a broken moan as his teeth grazed your clit. “Please.”

Your legs spasmed around his head as you felt it close, so close, and your eyes fell shut in pleasure.

But then it was ripped from you, this bliss, as Coriolanus pulled out his fingers and retracted his tongue, leaving you empty and stunned. You stared at him, lips parted, and at the self-satisfied smile adorning his features.

“What, you really thought I’d let you come when you’ve been acting like a brat?” He licked his fingers and something throbbed between your legs. “Stupid girl.”

He stood up, turning his back on you. You couldn’t see it, of course, but he was silently counting the seconds it took for you to protest against the treatment. Finally, you retrieved your consciousness in full and pushed yourself off the wall.

“Wait, Coryo,” you pleaded, grabbing his arm. “Please. I’m sorry.”

He turned, raising his brows. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna be a good girl now, I promise.” Your lower lip quivered; he saw the promise of tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m gonna make it up to you, okay?”

At this, you sank to your knees—a sight which made his adam’s apple bob. But he was getting impatient; his cock was aching painfully and when you looked at him with eyes widened and teary like this, he was willing to give you anything in the world.

“Get up,” he demanded.

You did as told, thighs trembling slightly, and his hands cupped your cheeks. Coriolanus led you to the bed in the middle of the room, hovering above you with his forearms on either side of your face. His hardened cock rubbed uncomfortably against the fabric of his pants. He laid it against your plush thigh for relief, but all he got was a slutty mewl from you and more precum leaking from his tip.

“Sejanus is next door, you know. You don’t mind?”

“No.” You shook your head eagerly. “I don’t care. Just want your cock.”

The side of his mouth lifted as his hands slipped under your shirt. You gasped as his fingers found your nipples and pinched them, tantalizing your poor clit to start throbbing harder. He pulled the skimpy shirt over your head and threw it away somewhere, letting out an audible groan at the sight of you. Next to go was your skirt.

He stayed staring at you for some time before he suddenly landed a slap to your cunt, making you jolt with a whimper. Then, he leaned to press open mouthed kisses against your throat, sucking the skin that covered your pulse into his mouth.

His lips grazed your jaw. “You want him to hear, then? Is that it?”

“N-no,” you whispered shakily, feeling the tips of his fingers teasing your perky nipples. “No, Coryo, just want you.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you, Coryo, only you. I’m yours.”

Coriolanus let your fingers slip under his shirt, letting out a shaky breath as you traced his abdominal muscles. He helped you pull it over his head, then he pulled down his pants and briefs as well. You watched hazily at his cock free from its restraints, certain if he’d tease you anymore you would start drooling for real.

Thankfully, he wasn’t in the mood for teasing—he slapped his dick against your clit once, twice, watching you squirm, then positioned himself at your entrance.

Your foreheads touched as he pushed inside agonizingly slowly.

“I’m yours, too,” he whispered against your mouth.

He was decently thick and longer than average—even lying still in your cunt, he reached places your fingers couldn’t dream of. Your eyes had a hard time staying open in facing the fullness which came with having him inside, but he was having none of it.

“Look at me when I fuck you,” he said.

“But you’re not even fucking me.”

You felt his cock pulse inside you before his hands roughly grabbed your thighs and pushed them up against your chest. This newfound angle was overwhelming in itself—when he additionally began thrusting his cock in and out of your cunt, you saw stars. You let out small noises, but he paid them no mind, leaning forward to have a good look at your face.

“Who knew the academy’s best student was such a fucking slut?” he tilted his head, ignoring your nails clawing at his biceps. “Guess words aren’t enough, hmm? I need to fuck that arrogance out of my sweet girl?”

You didn’t reply; he didn’t expect you to. His cock found that spot that made your toes curl faster than you could have expected. When he hit it for the first time, you let out a whimper close to a shriek in volume. Instead of slowing down, he just went harder, his hips slapping against yours in the otherwise silent room. He thought Sejanus probably was able to hear it all.

It was easy for him to slip his thumb between your parted lips; even easier to coax you with a gentle slap to your slack jaw to suck on it. Your mouth wrapped around it and he groaned, pushing your thighs further against your tits. He saw your eyes glossing over, felt your poorly suppressed moans against his finger.

And god, you were so compliant to his touch, so perfect.

“Spread your legs,” Coryo said, moving his hands away.

You obeyed to your best ability, practically letting your thighs fall limply at your sides. He spread them further and sank deep into your dripping pussy. Your slick had made a mess of the sheets below, creating a small puddle in the white material.

His fingers grabbed both of your wrists and placed them on your lower stomach. One of his hands kept them in place while the other played with your sensitive nipples, twisting them until a couple tears escaped your eyes.

“Don’t move your hands.”

When you nodded weakly, both his hands grabbed your waist, guiding you back and forth to meet his relentless thrusts. He could see the vague outline of his cock in your stomach, your tits bouncing deliciously before him with each abusing rut into your cunt.

“Good girl,” he mumbled, lightly tapping at your clit.

Your walls sucked him in like it was all you were made for, fluttering around his cock and leaving a creamy ring at the base of it. He wanted to fill you up—not only with his cock, but with his cum, wanted to watch it leak out onto this bed, wanted to hear you beg him to stop. Him, only him. He wanted you forever.

Coryo leaned down to connect his lips to yours, teeth napping at your lower lip. You were whimpering, mewling his name, and he tightened his grip on your waist. He pushed you further down on his cock, again and again.

“How does being the first lady of Panem sound, huh?”

You just nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks in reaction to his cock bullying the gummy spot in your cunt.

“Yeah? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked, rubbing tight circles into your clit. “I’d give you everything you want. You hear me, sweetheart? Everything.”

His hips rutted into you so roughly your vision was hazy, but clear enough to grab at his sturdy shoulders. You had disobeyed what he said, but it seemed he was unaware, chasing his own high.

His cock was thrusting into the right spot repeatedly, fingers maneuvering your clit so that you almost screamed, slick practically gushing out of your hole.

“Fuck,” you whined out, feeling your pussy pulsating. “Coryo, I’m—”

“Yeah, I know. Come for me, sweetheart.”

You let go and so did he—seed spilling into your cunt as you clenched around him. You sobbed his name and in an attempt to soothe you, he planted kisses along your collarbones. He let you ride out your orgasm against his hand before he pulled out.

Vaguely, you could see his cum spilling out of you and onto the sheets.

Before you could even make an attempt at calming down your heart rate, he stuck two of his fingers into you again.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but he paid you no mind, stuffing his cum back into your swollen cunt. Too tired to move, you let him do it, only mewling his name softly from time to time.

Once he was done, he licked his fingers clean and smiled alluringly. You scooted closer to kiss him—he tasted of you and him combined. His hands cupped your face as you both lay down, facing one another.

“You’re nothing without me, either,” you said, running your finger down his exposed chest. “Mr. President.”

His grin widened. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

TAGLIST: @peterpan-neverfails @urfavevirgoo @sayyysss @hwajin @hoshiseon @atrwriting

also big thank you to kathy, kiza and lex for being my enablers! ilyy

#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #tom blyth smut #tom blyth x reader

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anamina0 · 7 months ago

Text

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V , Part VI, Part VII , Part VIII

Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but they’re easier to bury when Vi storms into your life—a whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.

warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, au

word count : 3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldn’t outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.

City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described them—a perfect echo of her tales.

Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the city’s dim, suspiciously isolated bars—barely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.

At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing them—piecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.

It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Ellie,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” The words spilled out in a shaky breath.

Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.

“You already know why,” you said, your gaze flickering over her face—her furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasn’t an option, not like this.

“That’s the problem,” she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. “I don’t know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didn’t even wait for my answer.” Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it together—for your sake. “That’s not fair.”

“I couldn’t take it anym—” you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.

Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. “I need you,” she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “More than you could ever need me.”

“Nothing’s going to change that,” she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.

* * * * * * * * *

Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in relief—it was almost time for another shift.

You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldn’t shake.

“Hey there,” you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.

He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.” Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Alright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guess—lost track of time again?” His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.

“Cut me some slack, you asshole,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like they’re paying me enough to show up on time.” You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. “I just… had a bad dream, alright?”

The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. “Not again,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, “You know, if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Now scooch—you’re scaring off my customers.”

Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. Just don’t forget—I’ve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.”

You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasn’t a battlefield.

The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busy—wiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glasses—anything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. You’d seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood out—nobody cared about anyone else here. That’s what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if they’d never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didn’t know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didn’t give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didn’t seem interested in wielding it—at least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.

"Can I have this?” she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didn’t seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like they’d been painted there.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in you—or anyone else, for that matter. She didn’t sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one you’d come across in a long time.

Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didn’t so much as glance your way.

“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.

It worked—but not the way you’d hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadn’t. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.

“Just do your job,” she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. “I didn’t come here for chitchat.”

She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasn’t interested.

“What an asshole,” you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mind—should you say something? Not because you couldn’t stand up for yourself, but because, you weren’t sure if she was even worth it.

She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.

“Again,” she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softened—just barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Vi,” the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.

She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.

“What are you playing over there?” she asked, dismissive, like she hadn’t even heard him.

He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didn’t want her involved, but too afraid to say no.

“Just some boring cards,” he replied with a strained grin. “You’re, uh, welcome to join.”

“I’ll be right there.” Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. “Another one.”

You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didn’t. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.

But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzle—a unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he muttered, settling onto a stool.

“Who even is she?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?”

You nodded.

“She was part of it. A big part.”

You squinted, piecing it together. “That explains why everyone knows her down here.” You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. “She’s an asshole.”

Revek chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes… worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.”

“Was she always like this?” you pressed, desperate to understand.

“That’s a long story,” Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.

Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.

“I’ll handle it,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You sure?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shocked—or maybe too entertained—to intervene.

“Hey!” you shouted, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Stop it! Now!” you tried again.

Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her off—but before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.

The room went silent.

When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.

Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.

She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.

“Now,” you commanded, stepping closer.

For once, she didn’t fight back. She just turned and walked.

Days passed, and thankfully, she didn’t come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mind—her cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasn’t exactly a healthy trade.

It was another calm day, the kind you’d come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos she’d brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didn’t last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.

Vi.

Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. “This gonna be trouble?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something… different.

Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.

“I think I made myself clear last time,” you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. “I’ll leave. But first, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just… awkwardness.

“I was drunk,” she continued, her voice low. “That guy said something—something that pissed me off. I lost control.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. “It’s not an excuse, but… I didn’t mean to hit you. I would never—”

“But you did,” you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.

“I know.” Her voice softened even more. “I didn’t see you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You weren’t ready to forgive her—not entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.

“Fine,” you said at last, pouring her the drink she’d ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, “I appreciate your honesty. I don’t appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.

She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a fluke—a one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.

Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. She’d order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. She’d read your message loud and clear. But what you couldn’t figure out was why. Zaun was filled with bars—plenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didn’t want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.

Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hooked—and you hated her for it.

Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind her—a new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Vi’s style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldn’t bring herself to let anyone in.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.

You didn’t like it.

Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of her—every glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didn’t. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smug—a slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blonde’s ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.

“Well, look at you,” you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. “Turns out you can talk.”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Both of those things are true,” you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.

“So let me get this straight,” she teased. “You don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed you acknowledging me,” you shot back, your tone dry. “Not with words, though.” Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.

Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. “Fair enough. Since you’re so insistent, let me drop the ‘asshole behavior’ for a minute.” She leaned in slightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. “It’s Y/N,” you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, “Now get back to your date. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.

Intimacy—it wasn’t something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days you’d figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!

#vi x reader #vi x you #vi arcane #violet x reader #violet arcane #ellie x you #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #arcane

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butterbabyflapjack · 6 months ago

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✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 1): 5k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

This is ridiculous, horny, bloody, silly and dark (in essence, a very dark romantic comedy), so please heed the tags!

Starts after season 1, but with Brian escaping. Sorry if there’s any rough spots, I kinda rushed editing this.

ch.1 is from Brian’s POV, and the rest of the story is from yours. And there aren't nearly enough problematic female characters in the world so I'm making you one 😃

✧˖° chapter 1

Hello again, Miami.

Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon.

What’s it been? Eight months? Since I was your most highly wanted criminal?

Guess I just couldn’t stay away.

Time flies when you’re laying low.

Guess I just missed you.

But really, my reason for coming back to dear old Miami–my home, both my real and spiritual birthplace–has a name, a life, and a face. Your name, if you’re really so curious. Your life. Your face. And I intend to leave what remains of all three of those things behind to the hungry bellies of gators before once more absconding stage left.

But why, you might ask? Why do I want to kill you? Horrified, scandalized, even. For what reason had you to die by my skillful hand? And the answer to that is simple: death doesn’t need a reason. Death simply is, and I simply enjoy it.

Though…

Regardless of that irrefutable fact…

I’ll admit.

This particular death–your death–has a slightly more personal reason. And that reason, or at least its causation, was currently chit-chatting with me on the phone.

“Your plane lands at eight?” Dexter asked, and I didn’t waste time with a nod when he wouldn’t see it. Simply staring out across the coast of Costa Rica, the sunset reflected within the dark shadow of my gaze.

Costa Rica… and I’d really wanted to retire somewhere cold.

Not that this was retirement.

It was more of an… unplanned, involuntary vacation. Just until the heat from the feds cooled down.

Then again, I wasn’t waiting for the temp to drop before planning this little excursion back to Miami. But you’d sorta forced my hand in that regard, now hadn’t you?

“Hope you don’t mind if I crash on the couch,” I said, good-natured, and I knew he wouldn’t object. My brother couldn’t feel much–much more than myself–but I sensed a sort of guilt in him for how he’d previously driven me off those eight months ago. Choosing a fake sibling over a real one, one who actually knew who he was… I’d say the guilt had good cause.

I could hear him at his quaint living room/office combo’s computer, typing away at something. Perpetually Distracted Dexter.

“Yeah–yeah, that’d be great,” he said.

I exhaled a little sigh whilst listening to the soft waves roll in beside me. “Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”

“No buts,” said Dexter. “I just, uh…” He seemed distracted, but not by whatever he typed. “I’ll just have a friend over tomorrow. She’ll probably be here when you arrive.”

Ah.

The friend.

The one I’d been silently wishing Dex would just kill himself. Grow suddenly bored of you.

Wishful thinking.

He seemed quite fond.

He wouldn’t shut up about you. Always and forever droning on.

It wasn’t romantic, this interest, or so I’d come to suspect over all these past droning months. I didn’t exactly ask about that, though, half because I really didn’t care and half because of how much the subject of you annoyed me, raised over and over again and ugh, just give it a rest already.

Dex shouldn’t have ‘friends’. The mere concept a fairytale, a mask to people like us. It should be just he and I, two hunters against the world, hunting whomever we like.

“Ah,” I voiced aloud, with the sugar-flaked pleasantry of someone who wasn’t at all picturing severing your aorta with an icepick. “Your little friend will be there to greet me. How nice.”

Dexter must have misread the edge of sarcasm as some sort of concern. “She already knows you’re coming. Don’t worry, she can be trusted.”

Just more proof that my do-good, misguided brother is far too trusting.

“Well,” I said, as though accepting this point as fact. You really can be trusted with my and my brother's secrets–such relief! “I look forward to finally meeting her.” And carving and slicing and dicing her.

I must have forgotten to include that last part out loud, and thus Dexter had no objection–even sounding strangely relieved by my show of good faith in at long last having this introduction.

“See you tomorrow night,” he said, and my lips formed a little smile–instinctual, without any warmth.

“See you then,” I said, then hung up.

And now; here I am. Back in the ever-enchanting sunshine state. My former playground of frozen, meticulously broken toys, and it feels much more like home to be back than I even expected, with just the small matter of ridding you from these sentimental, familial walls.

Walking the concrete pathway to Dex’s Palm Terrace place was nearly surreal, assaulting the walls of my person with waves of distant memories. I’d broken into his beachfront apartment so many times before. Snooping around, getting to know him. Leaving gifts tied up with little red bows. I was basically murderous Saint Claus.

I had only one bag, having traveled here light–a black leather crossbody, which I thumbed the broad strap of whilst knocking with mild knuckles against the door.

Silence. Then, footsteps. Then–

Dexter throws open the door, a smile formed ear to ear like a big, goofy animal.

“Brian,” he says, and somehow it melts me. Chips slightly away at all that frigid, cold frost round my cruel, vacant heart. And his eyes dip over the state of me. The longer hair, dark curls well past my ears, now; just long enough to tuck back but not long enough to stay there. The dark scruff which coats my angled jawline in the absence of shaving for so long.

“Dig the beard,” Dexter says. “Quite the disguise. Bet the ladies love it.”

I smile at the compliment, though if he'd hated the look I'd feel much the same. “One does what one has to to effectively blend,” I return. And it’s hard not to feel somewhat warm, somewhat seen, understood, by my brother before me. The only person in this world who accepts who I am.

Well, not wholly.

Thanks for nothing, Debra.

Still. Since the death of our mother, Dex is the only place I’ve ever belonged, and seeing him now I’m abruptly struck with just how long it’s been.

I don’t wait for him to welcome me in–he’s probably too cordially stunted to properly welcome me, anyway. I just step right up and throw both my arms around him, my baby brother, my other half; cuffing him firmly on the back as I breathe him in.

“It’s been too long,” I say, holding him there for a moment, before pulling back.

Dexter’s expression is torn into a million indecipherable things, but amongst them is his affection for me. The brother who’ll always see him for who he really is. Who truly fathoms that insatiable beast inside him.

The bliss of our reunion’s forced to end, however, because this house has a rat problem. And as I hear a small, feminine throat being cleared from the fluorescent-lit depths behind my brother, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Time to finally put a face to the name I’ve been loathing for weeks.

And there you are. Standing before a metal-limbed armchair nuzzled inside the living room, like you’d sat there then stiffly stood up; uprooted at the sound of my knocking. Frozen, now; lingering. Like you’re caught in a trap you don’t know your way out of. Hands fidgeting as they twist at the hem of your shirt.

It’s like you know you don’t belong here–that this moment is Dexter’s and mine–and for the cleverness of that, at least, I must inwardly applaud you. Though that’s decidedly where all my praise ends.

This is one of those social situations I’ve learned so well to navigate through life in the foster system, masking my aberrance. Awkwardness. Other people’s–not mine. And though I could so effortlessly put you at ease as you stand there fidgeting, I find it more entertaining to draw that part out. For a while, at least.

I must admit, I hadn’t pictured you at all in my head. What you’d look like. Not as anything more than an aggravating, compromising blip I’d soon snuff out the threat of. But if I had pictured you, I wouldn’t have imagined you looking, so…

…Well.

You’re not…

Unnatractive.

I feel one dark brow slowly raising.

And you’re only a friend…?

Whatever must poor Rita think? Seeing the two of you together?

Dexter. You dog.

My eyes trace your expression as you awkwardly hover there in the length of my speculative pause. Myself perfectly content to allow you to hang there in a noose of discomfort all night, and then some. Though eventually I know one of us will have to say something.

This is our fated and much anticipated formal introduction, after all.

So at what feels like long last, I throw you the lifeline that is my smarmiest smile. Knowing full well you won’t know it’s not real. No one but Dex ever does.

“And you must be the friend I’ve heard so much about,” I greet you pleasantly, my deep voice threaded with warmth. Though, peculiarly, that unsure tension in you remains stubbornly in place. Seems if anything only to grow, despite my intent to disarm it.

Huh.

Oh well–it doesn’t deter me. Killing you will be so much easier if you don’t see it coming, so I’m keen on you liking me, letting your guard down. Thus, I graciously continue:

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to finally having you right in front of me.”

Maybe a bit of truth will lube you up. And I watch as your lower lip’s sucked in between your teeth for just a moment whilst you eye me; the motion drawing my studious gaze like a shark’s to blood.

“And why is that?” you ask, which admittedly I wasn’t expecting. Such a nervous mouse, yet you’d put me on the spot.

I can’t place your nerves. I’m perfectly charming. And yes, you’re aware I’m the notorious Ice Truck Killer, but I’m not sure why that would be alarming. Not with the company you keep; namely, my murderous brother. So it must be something else.

And I so hate not knowing things.

“So I can be introduced to you in person, of course,” I say, like it’s obvious, and it should be. Striding in past Dexter as he steps aside to allow me in, shutting and latching the door behind us all; a roomful of killers, or so I’ve been told.

Our eyes never stray in my steady approach; not yours, not mine. My height soon towering over yours, which isn’t unusual for me when meeting new people, nor when standing near almost anyone. Offering my hand and a smile I’ve been told is quite dashing. “Dex has had such wonderful things to say about you.” And I’m sure he has, I just couldn’t be bothered to remember any of them.

My smile could melt steel as if it was butter.

“I’m Brian.”

I won’t lie, I expected you to crumble. Most women love this move. The confidence, the approachable self-assurance. But you eye my outstretched hand as though I might pull you into the fires of hell with me were you to take it, before craning your neck to meet my gaze once more.

“Charmed,” is all you say; unmoving.

Something about that irks a small ripple up my nape, but I just allow my hand to drop graciously back to my side. All practiced, svelte charm still in place.

“So,” I say, by all appearance unconcerned by the lack of civility in my brother’s ill choice of friends. “It almost feels like I already know you, what with the way Dexter’s gone on and on.”

Your gaze steals over to Dexter, hovering there in the distance behind us, before you smile up at me again in a way which feels forced. And I suppose you’re not the talkative sort, though why you keep glancing at Dexter as if waiting for something from him, as if he’ll swoop in and save you, I’m uncertain about.

In due time I’ll figure it out.

“But there’s still one thing I’m curious about,” I say, turning to make myself comfortable. It has been a long trip to get here, after all.

I plop down like a wolf amongst sheep atop Dexter’s hideous couch, legs spread like I own the damn food chain. One arm draped out along the length of its backrest as I eye you somewhat expectantly, still rigid in how you stand. Imagining what you might look like strung upside down by your ankles with a lengthy strap of duct tape kissing those soft lips, holding them shut for me.

The shadows beneath my eyes pinch.

It’s a lovely image.

Maybe you’ll see for yourself.

“And what’s that?” Dexter asks–bravo, Dexter–at least one of you’s courteous enough to ask. And I tilt my darkly curled head at him.

“How exactly did the two of you get to know one another?” I ask. Watching him. Eying you. Hoping my focus might rattle you–just a little. “I’m sure it’s an interesting tale.”

“I’ve already told you,” Dexter says, and he probably has, at least in his unabbreviated sense. “We work together at the precinct.” He dons his playful tone I often find so silly but right now I find I detest. “The lab geek and the cop~”

“Right. But that’s not what I mean,” I slice into his futile comedy routine, “What I mean, is: how did our friend here come to know you’re one of Miami’s most heinous, uncaught serial killers?”

The other, of course, being myself; excepting the whole uncaught thing.

Dex is lucky I’m so forgiving.

I put it forth bluntly, with little room for either one of you to wiggle out of answering. And though my radiance of charisma remains, my intensity’s keen. ‘Cause I must admit; now that I’m here, I’m curious about you. Especially when you seem like such a rabbit in a household of jackals. Weren’t you supposed to be some like-minded killer or something? Perhaps I should have paid closer attention whenever the unwanted topic of you had come up in mine and Dexter’s conversations, instead of bitterly tuning you out.

Strangely, Dexter doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither do you. Like the story’s too long, too elaborate. As though there's pieces the two of you’d rather omit.

Fascinating.

“She helped me out,” Dex says at last; monotonously shallow, like the words aren’t even his, like he's rehearsed this. “In a time of need.”

I quirk a subtly mocking brow at him from where I’m idly lounged on the couch.

“Why do you sound like a generic thankyou card?” Why, indeed. “C’mon, baby brother–I want specifics. You can tell me.” My dusky gaze passes from him to his lovely, curious friend, hovered opposite the ugly coffee table before me. “We’re all friends here, right?”

It would seem that my smile unnerves you. Which might be annoying if it wasn’t so entertaining a thing to see.

Dexter sighs before trying a more human answer, leaning one bulky shoulder against his white, open-backed bookcase that separates his living room from the office attached.

This whole effectively communicating thing is hard for him.

“It was sort of an accident,” he says, like that’s far more telling. The lacking details seeming to spur you to chime in.

“It was really just me being in the wrong place at the right time,” you elaborate, with the passive front of one pretending the ice they walk on won’t at any moment begin to splinter. Folding your arms against that pensive look I toss you, which I tilt my head in silent question of. Why so nervous? I’m far from daunting, aren’t I?

“I was called to check out an anonymous tip,” you continue, averting your gaze from me far more often than one normally does. “Some sort of suspicious activity at an abandoned storage shed near Palmetto. Myself and my parter.”

You glance at Dex, as if he might continue the tale for you, might rescue you from this, but when he merely quirks a little smile with a similar shrug, you’re forced into proceeding.

“It was supposedly related to a case–which it wasn’t, not that that matters, but…” You let out a breath. Seeming to steady yourself, the recollection, though for all your nervous fidgeting your tone is surprisingly calm. “I walked into the storage shed, it was unlocked, and… And I saw Dexter. Sawing someone’s arm off. Someone who was strapped down to a table in a plastic fucking tutu.”

You glance at Dex, as he detachedly watches you.

“Someone I knew from a previous case,” you continue. “Someone who deserved whatever it was Dexter was doing, and much more than that, too. Which is exactly when I shut that fucking door and assured my partner there was nothing to see here, and we left. Left Dexter to do what he does, undisturbed.”

That’s the end of your story, and I picture the scene, all while some predatorily protective part of me insists on clarifying, “So… That’s it? You saw my brother chopping a man into pieces, and were immediately okay with it? Go Team Dexter? Just like that?”

I try very little to hide my disbelief, ‘cause I don’t buy it. In my experience with cops, and I’ve had plenty, you all tend to be such sticklers when it comes to casual bloodshed and carnage. What’s more, your uptick in nerves isn’t exactly selling me.

My lashes lower in my deliberate examination of you. “Why’d you really not turn my dear brother in?”

In lieu of answering, you once more eye Dex, and that look between you says something.

“It’s complicated,” you say at last. Like you’re waiting for Dexter to speak, but he’d rather wait on you.

The pair of you. Really. You’re like a couple of tongue-tied, helpless kittens. Must I string this conversation on for you?

“Enlighten me,” I say, with something of an edge.

Perhaps I should’ve kept the disarmingly fake smile, because if anything you thrust your guard up.

“Look, I don’t owe you a full explanation of what Dexter and I have been through, okay?”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” I viperously put forth, my pretense of pleasantry slipping. “Seeing as how you know so much about myself. And all without my express knowledge or permission.”

An impermanent issue. One I won't leave Miami without personally seeing resolved. You know far too much–you’re an issue. For Dexter’s sake and for mine, we must unfortunately bid you bon voyage.

“I’d say it’s only fair I know a little more about you,” I continue, cordiality slipped back in place. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The delicate line of your jaw tautens, eyes wavered with wariness and doubt. Refusing to spit out any more, though the longer you’re subject to my critical appraisal, the more the twine of your stubbornness unwinds.

“I… I need someone dead,” you admit at last.

Ah.

There it is.

“And, after seeing Dexter doing… what he does…” You bite your lower lip, as though struggling to recollect straying thoughts. “I need his help. I need his help to kill someone.”

I take my time mulling about your words. Piecing together the part you still aren't saying.

“So… You won’t turn Dexter in, so long as he helps you kill someone. Did I get that right?”

You bite down harsher–immediately shake your head. “No, it’s–it’s more complicated than that!”

But by now I’m barely listening. Turning instead to lift a wry brow at my brother, who’s watching this whole fiasco with a can-I-please-leave-yet look plastered upon his face.

“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?” I wonder vaguely. “The cop who’s blackmailing you into helping her kill someone?”

“I’m a detective,” you cut in, like that matters, like I care, and I feel my eyes already rolling.

“Detective,” I sarcastically amend, with a scathing glance at you. “So sorry to offend, Detective Whoever-You-Are. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m talking to my brother.”

When you mutter back your name under your breath, I make a show of ignoring it.

“So, what?” I instead ask my foolish, good-hearted kin. “You’re actually going to help her kill someone?”

His lack of answer’s enough. And at his arms-folded silence, I ruminatively tut my tongue.

“Doesn’t seem like you, Dex… Not the edict-ruled brother I know.” I try not to let my tone grow too ingratiating whilst goading, “What about your beloved code?”

Dexter exhales a stiff breath. Putting forth, “It’s more than that.”

“More?”

“Like she said, it’s complicated.”

“Has the word ‘complicated’ been redefined as ‘indescribably moronic and impossible to explain’ sometime in the last fifteen seconds?” I return, incredulously flat. Eying their strange and stilted silence with dwindling patience. “What aren’t the two of you telling me…?”

You’re biting your lip like you’re biting back words, and I watch, waiting, biding my time for those bit-back words to get the better of you–though surprisingly, it’s Dexter who breaks first.

“It’s nothing about that, it’s…” He rubs the back of his sand-colored head, roughing his hair up with tense distraction. “Well, it is about that, in a sense. I didn’t know how to bring this up. I just… I have to leave town for the weekend,” he finally gets out. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m headed out.”

I’m too nonplussed to hide the creeping edge of my bemusement.

That’s what he’s been having trouble saying?

He drops this like it’ll land like a bombshell on our entire reunion, before rushing at whatever my bland expression, “It’s just for a few days. I’ll be back Monday bright and early.”

To be honest, I’m mostly confused about why this seemed so hard for either one of you bumbling idiots to tell me. Or why you’re bumbling about it at all. Why should I care if he’ll be gone for forty-eight more measly hours after we've been separated for almost a year? And for many, many years before that? Does he actually expect me to mourn him till Monday?

“Big plans with the family?” I venture coolly, and Dexter’s broad shoulders bunch into a shrug, as though he’s cornered and a shrug is all that might save him.

“It’s a whole thing,” he explains. “Cody has a scouting trip, then Rita wanted to make a whole weekend out of it with the grandparents–I’ll spare you the details.”

Yes, thank you for that.

Dexter the family man. It’s so sweet it’s nauseating.

“So you’re taking your fake kids camping so you can keep playing domesticated dad to a woman and children who’d hate you if they knew who you really are?” My smile’s so feigned it hurts. “Sounds like a great time.”

My brother, the shrugger, shrugs once again. Doesn’t even try to defend my interpretive accusation. “I gotta be there.”

“Well have fun on your little adventure,” I muse; side-eying him. “Not sure why it took you this long to tell me. I’m sure I’ll find some way to busy myself in the meantime.”

You and Dexter exchange that look again. That look which betrays how you still haven’t shared whatever’s so lodged down your throats and wherever this is really going, and by this point it’s driving me toward wanting to just rip open your necks to drag whatever it is out, myself.

“Well, actually,” my brother begins, struggling once more with saying things. “I’ve already got an idea that’ll keep you busy in mind.”

I steady him in the crosshairs of my vision. Well. Now we might be getting somewhere. And I can’t deny my interest, much like my frustration, is piqued.

“Oh?”

“A favor, really,” he adds, without elaborating, and I really am going to rip the words right out of him.

“Are you going to tell me what that favor is?” I’m finally forced to ask, before glancing exasperatedly at you. “Or perhaps I should defer to your translator?”

There you go, nervously rubbing that elbow again, though I find myself oddly mesmerized by the motion of it. I can’t say for what cause, other than I’m not blind, and you’re obviously attractive. Watching you anxiously stand there is becoming one of my favorite pastimes.

“I, um,” you mumble, so quietly I almost can’t hear you. A nervous mouse again, one my nature is stirred to chase. “Well. Dexter was going to help me with–you know… What I was saying before. We have everything planned for tomorrow, and it has to happen tomorrow.” You seem strangely adamant about this, and I don’t care enough to question the ‘why’, just as I don’t care for the ‘who’–I’ll take your word for it. “But, um, with Dexter out of town…”

Helpless, as if to say any more’s an impossible task, you glance to Dexter for support.

“Really, the two of you,” I lowly muse. Eyes glistening between the pair of you, alight with my wicked amusement. Stretching out more broadly on the throne of Dexter’s hideous couch. “You could almost put a full sentence together so long as you tag one another in after every breath.”

The taunt’s enough to unlodge wherever Dexter’s tongue’s at.

“I need you to help her kill this guy while I’m gone,” he finally says bluntly. Arms folded, expression stern, yet hinted by what may as well be him begging me, which in itself, is…

Well. He’s never asked me for anything. Not like this. Though I certainly don’t owe him any favors…

“I know you know how to set up a proper kill room,” he states, and he should–he’s seen my imitation of his plastic-drenched kill room, firsthand. I’ve studied his work more than anyone. Emulated it to perfection, and all for a happily-ever-after he refused to take part of, spat cold in my face.

For a moment, I feel almost human in how I can’t seem to react or respond to this request. Though as I watch the mirrored hope in you both, as the idea of this slowly settles, I find that it doesn’t completely bore me…

My eyes drift to you. Singling you out. Stringing round your anxious expression. And you’ve mettle, at least, to not look away from the barbs of my musing intensity.

So. This is why you’ve been acting so sheepishly inept. You need big bad Brian’s help with something.

It’s laughably cute, the idea of you killing, and already I know I’m going to do it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t make you sit in it a little. Take my time in toying with you, first.

“You want me to babysit your blackmailing little friend here,” I say to Dex, with raven-dark eyes still on you, “while she attempts–and correct me if I’m wrong here–her first kill?”

I can tell you can feel how my gaze is dissecting you. Pulling apart, piecing together, assessing every piece and shape and shade of you. It makes you squirm, and I love it; sparing a moment to slide my tongue over the sharpness of my teeth as I feast on such a beautiful reaction.

I turn back to Dex. “What makes you think she’s even capable?”

“I’m capable,” you insist, drawing my gaze again. And even through those nerves roused in my presence, you appear quite convinced of it.

Interesting.

“I can do this,” you again allege. With such frail confidence, but confidence nonetheless. “I just… need a little help.”

I tamp down the rearing head of my inquisitiveness. Ensure my interest remains vague in how I lackadaisically eye you.

“Help with what, exactly?” I slowly ask. And it’s not a no, which I’m amused to see is so surprising.

You blink a few times, eyes growing wider, more determined–before you’re explaining, quickly, as though whatever luck this is may run out.

“Getting him to the kill site,” you say succinctly, with all the puffed-up bravado of a fluffy little rabbit pretending that they’ve slayed a fox before, and it really is amusing. “Moving the body. Clean-up.”

I let my watchful silence drag on. Held in supposed indecisive contemplation. Should I? Should I? Until, when I can nearly hear your fretting heartbeat, I feel one corner of my lips slowly quirk up. Watching every minor movement of you like a fox might a meal, might a rabbit, and find I really wouldn’t mind taking a bite.

“Don’t need help doing the deed, then?” I subtly ask you.

Your eyebrows flicker to a knot. Lips pressing flat, before you shake your head at me. “No.”

“You sure?” I further goad, with silken smoothness. Loving those little cracks of hesitation along your lovely surface so much I’m inclined to hammer in even more of them. “‘Cause I won’t kill him for you. You have to do that, yourself. And what’s more, if you for any reason chicken out on me and can’t follow through with all this…” I calmly smile. “I’ll simply leave you there all alone with whatever maddened mess of whoever this man you’ve left behind.” The idea of it sparks a delicious flame somewhere deep below my cavernous lack of heart. “After ensuring he’s woken up, first, of course. Aware. Pissed off. Untied.”

I smile my cheshire smile as that resolve in you flickers in place; the smallest glow, so nearly snuffed out already.

“So?” I spur in your uncertain silence. “Do we have a deal, little killer?”

And still, you hesitate. Seeming to weigh my words with care, along with the cost of your own, which I certainly appreciate. You’re not as stupid as I’d originally believed, in any case.

At long last, you nod, but I don’t move, don’t even blink from how I wolfishly watch you from my throne of Dexter’s couch. Not until you say the words out loud. And you will, if you want my help. You have to.

If that’s a flash of resentment within those pretty eyes of yours, it only causes my broadening smirk.

“Fine,” you say at last, after thickly swallowing. “We have a deal.”

And surely light must dance in my entertained eyes as I bite back just how pleased I am by this answer.

This should be fun.

✧˖° chapter 2

#brian moser x reader #brian moser x you #brian moser #dexter #reader insert #wild animals #slasher x reader #fanfiction #rudy cooper #ice truck killer

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