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mulloey · 5 months ago

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hunted • yunho

it’s all a game, he says. you’re desperate to play.

yunho x fem!reader

words: 4.7k

warnings: extremely dark kinks, heavy consensual non consent (cnc), dubcon at some points though you have a safeword, internet hookups (don’t), unprotected sex (don’t), the word ‘rape’ is used, hard dom!yunho, fear play, glove kink, choking, impact play, knife play, under-negotiated kink, size kink, painful sex, sir kink, you’re referred to within the scene as a victim and a sex slave, explicit threats of bodily harm and death in the context of cnc, mind break possibly, aftercare, crying etc

you’ve been appropriately warned of the content ahead. click out if you are uncomfortable. this is not safe to do irl. hate is blocked.

You don’t know where else to turn.

It’s been on your mind for a while— this fantasy. This game. You don’t know why, or how, and you’d never, ever admit it, but it plagues your thoughts, day after day, haunting your dreams night after night without respite. You’re too ashamed to even say it.

You never told any of your previous partners; you’d hint, maybe, suggesting weaker, milder things to nudge them the right direction, but they always shied away, got scared about three miles south of what you actually wanted, and ran screaming. You know it’s wrong. If anything, the fact that they ran away should have been a green flag. But it wasn’t. Not to you.

You make the account around 3am. Your username is nondescript, profile photo grainy and blurred, showing just enough to attract someone who might be able to do this for you. You write the post with trembling hands; the words come easier to you than you’ll ever admit.

I want to be forced. I want to be raped. I want to be punished for resisting. I imagine a stranger, maybe one I’d only seen in passing. He can’t get enough of me. He needs me. He’ll have me. He follows me wherever I’m going, lying in wait. It doesn’t matter how much I resist. I’m going to be his. He. Will. Have. Me.

As expected, your phone is blown up by the time you check it. Hundreds of old, gross, sleazy men desperate to get a taste of your — shudder — young pussy, as one called it. You hadn’t given a specific age, just that you’re in your 20s, but they all seem content to run with the idea of you being on the lower end, rather than the higher. Perverts.

You scroll through the messages. each one confirming the rational part of your brain that says this is a stupid, dangerous idea and you should forget you ever even had it.

It’s the one at the bottom that stops you. Sent not long after you’d gone to sleep, but they’d liked the post almost instantly. The profile picture is like yours — grainy, blurred, but suggesting a toned, young-ish, large body — and he too is in his 20s, if he’s telling the truth. His message is short and respectful— a breath of fresh air.

youknowme: Nice post. Do you really want that, or do you just like imagining it?

You bite your lip. You don’t know why, but this person feels… different. Exciting. You want to know more.

rosedepths: i really want it. can you give it to me?

youknowme: I could. Would you take it all?

You chuckle— you know what he means, but you figure you’ll have some fun. See if he’s expecting a sweet, scared little doe who’ll be quick to submit; or if he’s expecting a fight. If he’s expecting you.

rosedepths: nope.

The typing button appears and disappears a few times. You assume he doesn’t like your response, and he’s not as exciting a match as you’d hoped, until his next message comes through.

youknowme: Yes, you will.

Oh, fuck. You feel yourself leaking as you read it over and over. You’re desperate to know more.

rosedepths: have you done this before? raping a stranger?

youknowme: I hope you’re talking about CNC, Rose. If you are, then yes. I have.

rosedepths: you any good at it?

youknowme: I’ve subdued much feistier things than you. I can give you what you’re asking for. Do you want it?

The need in your stomach is so profound you think you could keel over. You’ve never found it easier to type something out.

rosedepths: yes.

You talk until you sleep, and you’re optimistic about this guy. He’s careful and meticulous with your kinks and limits, guiding you through the details while still retaining the mystery and allure you’re craving. Despite your protests, he insists on a safeword, but assures you that that’s ‘the only thing in the world that will stop him.’

As you become more familiar with this site, designed solely for this purpose it seems, you see this man is… popular. To say the least. He even has what looks like a review section from other women he’s fucked and oh, there’s pictures. Not of him— but of the deep bruises and stinging cuts he’s left behind. You click through the reviews, pupils dilating the longer you stare the screen down.

He fucked me so good.

He put me in my place.

He’s brutal.

No one’s ever made me cry like that. Or cum.

When he proposes a meeting, you don’t think twice.

By the time next Friday rolls around, the knot in your stomach is a constant; it follows you around, heavy and aching as it trails behind every step. You know it’s just nerves, excitement, the thrill of knowing you’re about to do something very, very wrong. But some part of you does wonder if it’s doubt— are you being stupid? Is this a bad idea? Well, yes. You are and it is. But is it… too bad? You don’t know. As the clock ticks slowly towards your ‘appointment’, you feel more and more anxious to find out.

You clock out at 5, hurrying down the stairs of your office building to dash home. You’d prepared your bag already, shaved this morning and placed your fanciest, laciest set of lingerie under your work clothes. You take a second to freshen up, touch up your makeup and dump your work bag on your bed before you’re hurrying out the door again.

The hotel he’d booked is downtown, shiny and new and well beyond your price range. You wonder for a moment what this man does for work. Your knowledge of him is very, very limited— by design, of course. This whole game, this whole exercise hinges on him being a total stranger. But still, you can’t help but be curious. The one clue you have is the name the room was booked under— Yunho. You must have said it to yourself a thousand times; trying it out, the sound, the feeling. It tastes tantalising on your tongue and you’re bubbling with need by the time you make it to your room.

You hesitate when you reach the door. He’d told you he’d arrive later, at an undetermined time, but you can’t help but wonder. Is he in there, lying in wait? Will you open the door to find him sat on the bed, or hidden behind a corner, or, your heart races at the thought, right there on the other side? You breathe, in, out, in, out. You can do this. There’s nothing you could find on the other side of the door that you wouldn’t beg for another day.

You’re almost disappointed when you walk into the room to find it totally empty. You check the bathroom, the corners, the cupboards, half hoping to find him looming there, waiting to strike. But you don’t. You sigh, sitting down on the bed and sliding off your shoes. You’re not really sure what to do now. You suppose you could touch yourself, you doubt he’d blame you for being excited, but over the past few days, without realising you’ve found yourself almost saving yourself for him; each time your hands had wandered down there, you’d stopped yourself. He’ll take care of it.

Sighing, you decide to turn on the TV, flicking lazily through the channels until you find something that entertains you until he arrives.

With every unexplained noise, every creaking of a neighbour’s door, you look up eagerly, hoping to see Yunho looming in the doorway. But you don’t. Hours go by, your hope fading more and more, until you accept that he’s just not coming tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. You hope.

By the time you’re ready to sleep, you’ve passed several hours in front of the mindless reality show you ended up settling on. Trying to ignore the crushing disappointment that Yunho hasn’t shown up today, and the fear that he never will, you turn the TV off and settle into the sheets.

He’ll come tomorrow. He has to.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, you make yourself comfortable in the cool, fresh sheets. The only sounds in the quiet room are your slow, steady breaths and the low hum of the air-conditioning. As your eyes begin to droop, you feel yourself relaxing into the memory foam, wondering and hoping he’ll be there when you wake up…

Click.

There’s a hand on your mouth. The lights are on.

Your eyes snap open and your body jolts, adrenaline flowing instantly. The hand is large, covering your mouth and nose and you can’t breathe.

As you adjust to the light you get a good look at him, and you’re so shocked that for a moment you forget you’re supposed to struggle. Yunho is gorgeous. Fading blue hair, dark enough to seem black from a distance; features gentle, eyes dangerous and all blending perfectly together. He’s wearing a white shirt and pinstripe waistcoat that struggles against a broad, toned chest that seems to be trying to escape and his large hands are covered by a pair of thick, leather gloves.

Fuck. You’d beg for this man any other day, happily and eagerly. But you can’t do that now. You have to fight. You thrash against him, legs flailing but his body holds you down, pinning you in place and oh, he’s large, too. He could incapacitate you now and be done with it, but it seems he wants to play.

“Well, aren’t you sweet.”

His voice is low and rough and addictive, dripping with want and danger. He stares you down, eyes narrowed, blank, burning.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?”

The pressure of his hand has eased enough for you to breathe and you lie still for a moment, gauging your next move. You nod, slowly. I’ll be good.

He smiles, not really believing you, and then his hands are off you. For one second, they’re off of you and you take your chance— you jump up and bolt out of the bed, dashing in the direction of the door. You hear him curse, but you know he’d chosen this room, large enough to practically count as a suite, specifically to give you more room to run. And run you do; you’re still half-asleep — you’re not quite sure if you did fall asleep, in the end, or if he got to you just as you were drifting off — but the adrenaline pumping through your veins is enough to carry your feet towards the exit.

You hear him on your tail but he’s not running— no, his steps are leisurely, like he knows he’s going to catch you and is merely amused by your idea that it would end any other way.

He lets you get to the door and pull it halfway open, just enough to think you’ll make it out into the hall, before it slams shut in your face, only just missing your fingers where they’d lingered in the doorway. Then there’s strong arms on your body, slamming you with full force, your body colliding painfully with the heavy wood. You struggle pitifully in his hold and as the lock clicks shut above you, you hear the barely restrained anger in his voice.

“And where the fuck are you going, bitch?” He growls. He grabs your hair and tugs your head backwards, sending a painful sting through your scalp then slams your head back against the door. “You tryna get away, pretty girl?”

You grunt, pushing back against him as hard as you can, but with his firm grip on you all you manage to do is push your ass back against his crotch. He groans, the grip on your hair tightening. “Fucking tease,” he mutters. “Bet you’re wet already.”

He spins you around, holding you by the neck against the door, his body caging you in as his other hand roams across your breasts, squeezing them just short of painfully. You struggle fruitlessly but you’re completely trapped and you know it.

You feel his knee nudging at your closed legs, clenched together to keep him away from your heat as if it’s not aching for him already. “Open,” he says.

“Never.”

“Fine.” His leg draws back and lands a kick between your knees and you yelp, legs forced apart; he shoves his thigh into the gap, holding your legs open and your pussy exposed as his hand runs up your bare thigh and slips beneath the silk slip you curse yourself for wearing to bed. Could you have made this any easier for him?

His fingers tease the edge of your cotton panties, pulling it back and slapping the elastic against your skin and all you can do is stay in place, held under his weight as he toys with you. But you’re not done and this isn’t over. You’re just biding your time. You just need an opportunity; a moment of carelessness for you to slip away.

He runs a finger softly across your covered pussy, and the smug expression on his face tells you exactly what he finds there.

“For someone who doesn’t want this,” he says, “you’re awfully fucking wet.”

“Fuck you,” you spit.

He’s quick to react; a heavy slap lands on your face, turning your head forcefully to the side and leaving a lingering ache.

“Wet and mouthy,” he says. “I wonder how quickly you’ll break.”

Your stomach twists but you give nothing away; you’re enjoying the back and forth, the game, too much to give up yet, no matter how desperately you want him to just fuck you alrady.

“I’ll never fucking break,” you snap.

“Oh, you’ll break.” He leans in closer, enough for you to feel his breath on your face as he speaks. “They always do.”

You can hear your heart beating wildly, pounding against your ribs and your breath stutters. “And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t…” He lets the words hang in the air, gaze flickering across your shivering form. His mouth curls into a thin smile. “I’ll just have to hurt you real, real bad.”

You swallow thickly, tension caught in your throat. You wish that didn’t sound so enticing.

“Now,” he says. “Open your mouth.”

You force yourself to laugh, amused despite your terror by the notion that you’d just give in and obey. You purse your lips, sealing your mouth shut— directly defiant. His eyes flash and his hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your airflow as he presses down on the sides of your neck. You manage to hold out for a few seconds until you feel your eyes bulge and you gasp, mouth opening in a desperate bid for air. He loosens his grip, grabbing your chin and pushing his thumb in just far enough to hold your mouth open for him to spit into it. The saliva lands on your tongue and he pushes your mouth closed, pressing his hand over your mouth and nose again. “Swallow.”

Knowing he won’t let you breathe until you do, you swallow the spit; it feels disgusting and degrading sliding down your throat but the humiliation burns with pleasure and you’re desperate for more.

“Good girl,” he smiles. “Not that hard to listen, is it?”

You scowl, squirming under his hold. Yes, it is that hard. You manage to wring your arms free enough to grab at his arm, trying to pull his hand off of your face. In the panic one of your nails digs into his forearm and he growls, pulling you forward just to slam you backwards again. Your ears are ringing and his hand is pressed even tighter across your mouth and nose.

“Disobedient little bitch,” he hisses, “you want me to fuck you up?”

Yes, fuck, please, your mind says. But you keep that on the inside, and instead of begging or submitting or doing any of the things your body is screaming and pleading for you to do, you bite down. You bite down hard.

The taste of blood is a small victory as he shouts, snatching his hand away from you but this time he doesn’t give you the chance to get away; you make it a few steps before he grabs your wrists, clutching them easily in his injured hand, forcing them behind you back and twisting them painfully to hold you in place so he can backhand you again— and again, and again. You scream in pain, but if he notices, he doesn’t care. His expression is livid, eyes black and burning with rage. “Fucking. Little. Bitch.” Each word is punctuated by a hard slap, knocking the wind out of you over and over.

“Someone needs to put you in your fucking place,” he growls. “Dumb little sex slave.”

The word hits you somewhere deep, stomach twisting into knots as wetness pools. Slave. Fuck.

“I’m not your fucking sex slave,” you bite back and he laughs.

“You don’t know what the fuck you are. Stop squirming.” He twists your arms a little further, teetering on the edge of too far. You whine, straining against him and he cooes. “Hurts, baby?”

“Yes it fucking hurts,” you snap.

He snorts, amused. His eyes darken again as he leans in closer. “Any more attitude and I’ll fucking break them.”

You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, fear pushing through your veins again. His grip on your arms is iron and you know he could snap them with ease. But would he really? You say nothing, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes. He grins.

“Don’t think I won’t,” he laughs. “I’ll break every bone in your body if it’ll keep you pliant.”

“I’ll do it one by one,” he continues. His grip on your wrists tightens again but he doesn’t twist any further; still toeing the line. “Nice and slow so you feel it all,” he smiles, and you know he’s imagining it as he speaks. You wish you could say you weren’t. “Let you hear the crack of each bone snapping in half until you’re completely destroyed. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You shake your head, voice quivering. “No.”

“Good.”

You scowl, squirming again to show your displeasure. “Let me go, Yunho.”

He hadn’t told you what to call him, but you decide to take a gamble that he doesn’t want you using his name and you’re right— he grabs your neck, pressing down hard enough to make you dizzy. “Call me that again,” he hisses, “and I’ll slit your fucking throat. Got it?”

You catch the whimper before it leaves your throat but you can’t stop your pussy from leaking even more than it already was. You didn’t know you could be so terrified or so horny. But you’re not giving up yet.

“You call me sir,” he says, “is that clear?”

You smile thinly. “Yes, sir,” you say, so sweet and polite that he sees right through it. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for your next move and it comes in the form of a wad of spit, landing like a bullet between his eyes.

Then you’re on the bed. You’re landing on the bed, shoved down and he’s crawling over you, holding you down with his weight and— there’s a knife on your throat.

Your eyes widen, all your blood rushing to your head at once. A knife… he’d never mentioned a knife. On your profile you’d said you were open to knife play, but he was so meticulous when he went through all the kinks he was planning that you thought… Well, you didn’t think he’d have a knife.

“Oh, that got your attention, didn’t it?” He grins. There’s a fire, a dangerous gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before and you feel it in the deepest parts of your body. You feel something else, too, and it burns just as brightly as your arousal. As he presses the knife down just enough to sting, you realise you are genuinely, truly afraid of Yunho. And yet…

Yunho sees it too; “fucking gushing,” he spits. “You’re more sick than I am. Don’t act like a victim now.”

You whine, squirming slightly and he hums thoughtfully.

“Or do,” he decides. “Actually, I’m sort of hoping you don’t do what I tell you. I’d love to watch the light leave your eyes when you finally stop struggling.”

Your breath hitches, caught in your throat. You don’t… you don’t know how you feel about this. You knew he’d be intense; the reviews had painted a clear picture of just how much he feeds off of fear. But there’s a wild, uncontrolled look in his eyes as he threatens your life so casually, so smoothly, that makes you wonder…

No. You know it’s fake. It’s all fake. You know it’s just a game and you know he’d stop if you said the safe word he gave you. But the knife at your neck is real. The darkness in his eyes is real. The fear is real. And he sees it in your eyes, his lips twitching into a small smile as though he can tell the exact moment you accept it. “Good girl,” he purrs. “Are you ready to listen?”

You say nothing, glowering up at him. He smiles, tilting his head.

“Open your mouth.”

Fuck no. This isn’t over. You meet his eyes with your mouth firmly, resoundingly shut. You purse your lips for good measure, determined to disobey.

His hand collides with your face again; the back of it, this time, and the feeling of his knuckles against your cheek makes you cry out before you can stop yourself. He seizes the opportunity of your parted lips and plunges two gloved fingers into your mouth. You choke, spluttering and he tuts, looking disappointed. Even with fingers in your throat, you feel like a naughty, scolded child beneath his firm gaze.

“See,” he says, his voice low, “I could make this so much worse for you. It’s in your best interest to do what I tell you.”

His fingers push in deeper and you feel the bile rising; you thrash and panic in his hold and he snorts, finally easing up. As you gasp for breath, he pulls his fingers away, a string of drool following him from your mouth and coating his fingers. He wipes them down on his pressed pants, looking disgusted. “Fucking mutt,” he spits. “Let’s put you to good use.”

Before you can register what’s happening, his dick is pushing into your mouth and fuck he’s massive. You can hardly hold him in your throat and your vision blurs with tears even before he starts to move— when he does, he wastes no time starting slow; he goes straight to fucking your mouth with hard, deep thrusts and you feel your tears and saliva cascading down onto your chest. You must look disgusting, but you’ve never heard anyone sound as feral as he does.

Just as you’re getting used to the feeling, he pulls out. His cock slaps against your face before he flips you over, bending you painfully over the edge of the bed. He doesn’t waste time prepping you — not that he needs to with the way you’re dripping — before forcing himself into your tight hole. You scream, feeling yourself being torn apart and he laughs, pushing your head into the mattress. “Fucking bitch,” he growls. His low voice is barely heard above the slapping of his skin on yours and the lewd squelching of your sopping pussy. You burn with humiliation but you can hardly think of anything but the pain of being stretched open and the force of his thrusts. You sob into the sheets but he doesn’t care, only getting rougher each time you cry out.

“Take it,” he barks, “you’ve been waiting for this dick your entire fucking life. So fucking take it.”

“S-sir,” you gasp. You thrash as much as you can under his iron grip, dizzy with pain and pleasure.

He snarls, hand landing hard on your ass. “Drop the act, bitch,” he growls. “I know you fucking love this. Clench.”

Still sobbing, you do your best to obey, clenching your pussy around his dick and it sends a jolt of electricity through your body. He groans, movement stuttering slightly under the new pressure on his dick.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Such a pretty little victim. With a tight fucking hole.”

You feel his orgasm approaching; all the pent-up energy and frustration of fighting and subduing you pulsing through his dick as it pounds against your walls. His grip tightens on your waist, other arm coming to wrap around your neck, holding you in a chokehold as he finally releases inside you.

He grunts and moans through his orgasm and you feel the warmth of his cum filling you up before he finally collapses on top of you, pulling out quickly.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “It’s over, baby.”

The dam breaks. Your low, desperate sobs give way to full blown weeping, your whole body shivering with each cry. A million emotions, previously drowned out by pain and fear and pleasure, are suddenly at the surface, pushing against your skin and desperate to break through. You couldn’t name or number them if you tried but you don’t have to, because Yunho is there— his hands are on your skin, voice in your ear as he soothes you with whispered words you can’t comprehend.

“I’ve got you,” you finally make out. He says it again and again, over and over. It forms a familiar rhythm you can follow and cling to as you come back down to earth.

I’ve got you.

He’s there when the fog clears, cradling your aching body in his arms. His smile is soft and fond but there’s a concern in his eyes as he looks you up and down. “How do you feel?” He asks.

You open your mouth but no words come; you make a soft, content-sounding noise, the best you can do for now, and he chuckles. “I’ll take that as ‘you’re fine’, then.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting you to hold you closer to his chest. You follow his heartbeat as it thuds lowly in his chest. You hadn’t expected this, really; he’d said aftercare was a non-negotiable for him, so you knew he wasn’t going to just fuck you and dip, but the care and tenderness with which he cradles and soothes you is almost as electric as the brutality of before. It’s as funny as it was, you suppose, inevitable— this man has violated you in every way, and yet you’ve never felt more safe than you do in his arms. Two separate faces; opposing but inseparable.

A while later, he asks if he can give you a bath and you nod. You’re strangely embarrassed as he lowers you into the hot water, quietly soothing you when you hiss as it touches the wounds on your ass and thighs; maybe it’s the tenderness of his care or the knowledge that every mark on your body was put there by him, but you feel oddly exposed.

Still, he’s careful as he holds you still, letting your aching joints soak as he cleanses you of the remnants of what he just did to you. When he lifts you out, wrapping you in a soft towel and carrying you back to bed, you feel like you’re floating on a cloud.

Your voice returns soon enough, and quickly something pushes through to the front of your mind. Still slightly in the haze of subspace as the last drops of adrenaline dissipate, it seems like a reasonable, if not pertinent question.

“Yunho,” you say. He makes a ‘hm?’ noise, squeezing your thigh in recognition. “Would you really have broken my bones?”

He laughs, and you feel his body shaking slightly. It feels… warm. Familiar. “No,” he says. “That’s just part of the game. My favourite part, actually.”

“What part?”

“Making you wonder if it’s really a game.”

Through the aching pain of your pussy, you feel a slight twinge, making you clench unconsciously. Oh.

“You had a safeword,” he says. “So I knew I could push you. But I didn’t do anything I wasn’t sure would make your little pussy throb.”

You can’t help but blush at his words, mewling slightly as you snuggle further into his hold. You could stay like this, wrapped in his strong arms and held securely against his chest, for a long, long time. You wonder if he could, too.

“Yunho,” you say softly.

“Will you stay?”

You glance at him nervously, afraid of his answer. He smiles, holding you closer. “As long as you need,” he says.

thank you for reading! comments/feedback/reblogs are appreciated! requests are open! love🖤🖤🖤

taglist open!

#ateez smut #ateez hard hours #kpop smut #ateez hard thoughts #jeong yunho smut #yunho smut #dom yunho #yunho hard thoughts #yunho hard hours #mulloey writes

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ivorivet · 2 months ago

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Fellowship Cloak Weaving Draft

Hi all! I've been kind of quiet on this blog, but I have something really exciting to share today: after six years, I FINALLY figured out the weaving draft for the Fellowship cloaks from Lord of the Rings.

This is a problem I've been trying to figure out since shortly after I made my Legolas cosplay in 2018. The cloaks that the nine members of the Fellowship receive in Lothlórien look like a nondescript gray fabric from far away, but zoom in and you'll see a very complex pattern of horizontal and vertical bars of dark gray and white.

(First image from Alleycatscratch, second is a photo of the scarf of the same fabric I bought from Stansborough where I was attempting to trace the pattern repeat with orange thread)

This is going to be a long post, so I'm just going to lead with the completed draft:

Imagine me Will Smith wife posing at this for the last 24 hours.

It's got the correct size of pattern repeat! It's got the five individual ripples! It's got that dumb little pattern break in the middle that breaks up the center of the leaf motif! I am OVER THE MOON about figuring this out, especially starting out with very little knowledge about weaving drafts in general. More ramblings about this type of draft and my thought process below:

This particular pattern is known as "shadow weave," a subset of color-and-weave where the pattern is created from the interplay of different warp and weft colors plus the weaving draft itself. To get an idea of how that works, let's start by looking at plain weave in one color:

The solid purple bar at the top indicates the color of the warp threads, and the solid purple bar at the right indicates the color of the weft threads. So far we've got our basic under-over-under-over pattern in a single, solid color (purple). But what if we add an additional color (green) to the warp, and alternate those colors? Then we'd get a speckled fabric like this:

The visual effect looks pretty much identical regardless of if you start with green or purple. However, if you also alternate purple and green in the weft, it produces a very different effect depending on if you start with purple or green (note the differences in the bar on the right):

So cool, now we can make either vertical or horizontal stripes! If you double up on the colored threads in some areas, you can even flip between the two and start dividing the fabric into "blocks," like so:

Note that with all these changes, the only thing we've been doing is changing the order of the colors in the warp and weft. The actual weave structure itself is still just regular ol' plain weave. The pattern that we've created in the pictures above is called "log cabin," which you can read about here. But similar effects can be created by skipping shafts/picks in the weaving draft as well. So how do we get from log cabin into the more complicated and general category of shadow weave?

It's weird to describe how to convert a given pattern into shadow weave. There are multiple very good books with chapters on shadow weave as well as books entirely dedicated to it. Despite my best efforts, all these explanations still got so technical so fast it feels like, to me at least, asking a 6 year old to recite an entire Shakespeare play verbatim immediately after confirming that they can, in fact, sing the alphabet song. So I'm going to give my best shot at explaining it, and if it doesn't make sense, just blame it on me and check out some of the linked books above if you're really curious.

Think of shadow weave as a beauty filter for a black and white drawing. If you create a pattern out of black and white blocks/pixels/whatever, the shadow weave "filter" can be applied to it to create a similar pattern that preserves the shapes in the original, but makes them out of vertical/horizontal lines instead of solid color blocks. So in some of these books you'll find mention of converting a twill or an overshot pattern into shadow weave - that's what this is referencing. The original pattern (usually designated with light yarn) gets a secondary shadow pattern (in dark yarn) inserted into in between every other thread (also called an "end" when referencing warp yarns).

I got stuck at this point for literal years. I could find examples of weaving drafts using shadow weave, but couldn't figure out how to generate ones of my own. I imported some of the drafts I found in books into weaving software and poked around to see if I could push the patterns in the direction I wanted by changing individual elements. My experiments in changing individual warp ends and weft picks always ended up looking like stretched or compressed versions of the original pattern (when I was being careful), or incomprehensible garbage (when I was being daring). I even bought a sample of the fabric from Stansborough in the form of a scarf, thinking I could brute force it by using a magnifying glass to figure out the interlacements. I was able to figure out how large the pattern repeat was (approximately 160 x 80 ends), but otherwise I got nothing but eye strain. I ended up tabling the project and coming back to it every couple years, banging my head against it until I gave up.

Until one day last week when I was flipping through the Strickler book and saw this page:

And I was like

HOLD UP

IT'S HER

...or at least a close cousin of her. BUT IT WAS A START.

So the first step was to identify what about this pattern needed to change in order to make this look like the Fellowship cloak. Overall, the main differences were:

Pattern repeat on Strickler 304 was too small - it was 42 x 42 ends and I needed it to be somewhere in the ballpark of 80 x 80 before altering the repeat.

The Fellowship pattern has a weird vertical dividing line that runs down the middle of the leaf motif, effectively doubling the width of the repeat by creating two similar looking but different leaves. This was the change I was least concerned about, as flipping between vertical and horizontal lines is pretty a straightforward process as shown above with the log cabin draft.

Strickler 304 also has a different number of waves (peaks and valleys, or whatever you want to call them) compared to the Fellowship pattern. There are 3 waves in Strickler and 5 in Fellowship. Figuring out how to add these extra waves was the biggest obstacle for me to address.

And finally, a couple of things I didn't need to care about for the weaving draft: 1) the Fellowship pattern is elongated in the warp direction, but this has more to do with a little extra spacing between weft picks as compared to the warp threads. When weaving this you'd just need to make sure you don't beat it very hard and you'll get that tall rectangle shape instead of a square repeat. 2) Both patterns have mirrored symmetry around a diagonal line drawn through the center, meaning that for treadling I could "tromp as writ" or basically just mirror the threading diagram to get the treadling instructions. For reasons I can't figure out, the Strickler pattern isn't exactly tromp as writ but looks close enough to it that the effect is still there. But I don't really care enough to figure out why - the important thing is that it gives us a threading diagram to start with!

So to start with, here's what Strickler 304 looks like in my weaving software:

(By the way, this is Fiberworks PCW Bronze. The trial version is free, and the only difference between that and the paid version is that the save/print options are disabled. I'm not sure they know about screenshots, bless their hearts.)

This is a design for 8 shafts and 8 treadles, thus the 8x8 square in the upper right corner. And you can see in the threading diagram (upper horizontal bar) and treadling diagram (right bar) that the curvature of the waves takes a similar shape to the curves of the final pattern. We just have to figure out why. And since I had already tried changing individual warp ends and treadling patterns without much success, I needed to approach in a different way.

What ended up helping me see the forest for the trees was de-shadowifying the pattern. It's relatively easy to get the black-and-white version of the pattern from the threading draft - you just need to delete the shadow, which means removing every other warp end. This is what deleting all the dark ends from the warp and light ends from the weft looks like:

We can also see with a little more detail how the threading diagram is similar to the curve in the pattern. The pattern is 21 pixels tall, but it's been chopped up to repeat over 8 shafts, like so:

OKAY COOL COOL COOL. EVERYTHING'S COMIN' UP MILHOUSE IVORIVET. From this green squiggly line we know two things:

The final number of warp ends in the shadow weave pattern is double whatever the height of the squiggle is. In the case of the Strickler pattern, we're going from 21 to 42. Since we know that we need our final height for the Fellowship pattern needs to be 80, the squiggle for that pattern needs to be around 40 pixels tall.

We needed to stitch three repeats of the Strickler threading diagram together in order to see the full squiggle. How many waves does the Strickler pattern have? Three. How many waves does the Fellowship pattern need? Five. How many shafts do we have to work on? Eight. What is 5 x 8? 40!!!

So how about we make a NEW squiggle, only 40 pixels high instead of 21? (We're gonna drop the pixels in blue, since threading diagrams won't work if you put a single end through two shafts.)

Next, we're going to chop up that squiggle and use it to create a new threading diagram in Fiberworks. I'm also using "tromp as writ" here to create the treadling pattern.

LOOK AT THAT. IT'S GOT MORE WAVES!! FIVE OF THEM!

And then we add back in the shadow by creating a space for a new end between each existing end:

And then add in the shadow. I'm using 4 as my number for the shadow offset since we're using 8 shafts. So shaft 1 shadows to shaft 5, shaft 2 shadows to shaft 6, etc.

And we're going to apply tromp as writ again to get:

AYYYYYY WE'RE GETTING CLOSE! I'm fairly certain that the reason why the Strickler treadling wasn't exactly tromp as writ had something to do with centering the pattern repeat a little more than this, but I don't really care about that so I'm going to leave this treadling the way that it is.

From here out, we need at add that weird vertical dividing line that chops up the center of the leaves. So we double the pattern repeat along the horizontal axis, and offset a 40 pixel section in the middle of the threading diagram by 1 pixel. I've also colored in the differences between the dark and light ends to help differentiate the original and shadowed curves a little bit more. (I also tried offsetting the colors of the warp ends by 1 as well like what we did in the log cabin example, but I ended up liking the way that this looked more.)

THERE SHE IS!!! MY PRECIOUS!!

From here on out, there is still a ton of work I need to do if I actually want to weave this cloak from scratch. I did buy roving in quantities that could be used to spin both the dark and light yarn (dark gray Gotland for the dark yarn, and dove gray merino + white alpaca for the light yarn), but there's still the matter of, like, handspinning a cloak's quantity of extremely fine yarn. I did start spinning the Gotland several years ago as fine as I could possibly manage, and got through maybe 20 ounces of it. However, I'm a much better spinner now and I'm not sure if the my skeins from several years ago would be suitable for weaving, or if it would be worth replicating what I did back then vs. just starting over with a new standard. There's also the possibility of just... buying weaving yarn if I want to skip that step, which would definitely save me a significant amount of time.

Anyway, thanks for reading this far and I hope it helped break down why this was so exciting for me!

#lord of the rings #lotr #weaving #lotr cosplay #shadow weave #handweaving #hand weaving #cosplay #fiber arts

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sailorsoons · 2 months ago

Text

Dark Gospel (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either.

WC: 12,779

AU: Supernatural, Thriller, It’s Complicated to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, A Little Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Light discussions of morality - Vernon has killed people and reader struggles with the fact that she doesn’t care more than she struggles with him having done that, a handful of silly rituals, lots of talk about spiritual possession, mentions of death, brief but nondescript mentions of violence, some philosophizing, me making a Protestant minister an asshole - sorry, this is not a read on Protestants, it just made sense for the plot, Vernon being a lil scary at times and pretty unsettling, Vernon is a little obsessive but specifically in a I Will Do Whatever You Want I’m A Scary Puppy way, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, nipple play, a lot of spit and biting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms, light breath play/choking. Tbh these two are just… kind of obsessed with one another probably in what would eventually be co-dependant but is not represented here. Also, parts of this are definitely blasphemous like - during the smut scene there’s a lot of religious terms used for description etc. etc so if that bothers you, that’s there. I would classify both of these characters as morally grey, in the grand scheme of things.

A/N: This is the second half of Hello, Darling, despite me swearing I would not write a part II. It is Vernon and the new SVT teaser’s fault. I highly recommend reading the first part of this - I wouldn’t say it can’t be read as a standalone, but it makes more sense with the context of the first fic.

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and calling Vernon Spooky Puppy approximately 15 times.

MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷NOW PLAYING: ASCENSIONISM BY SLEEP TOKEN | READ PREQUEL

WHO MADE YOU LIKE THIS? WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? SYNAPSES SNAP BACK IN BLISSFUL ANGUISH TELL ME YOU MET ME IN PAST LIVES, PAST LIE PAST WHAT MIGHT BE EATING ME FROM THE INSIDE, DARLING

SALT BURNS YOUR NOSE. You grimace, realizing you’ve knocked over a candle, the grains of salt charring as the flame nearly goes out. You fix the candle, thankful that salt isn’t flammable. Had it been, the entire circle of salt would have gone up in flames, taking the dilapidated building and everyone inside.

Thankfully, there are only two people inside the building. The term people is a bit generous. You’re certainly human, all flesh and bone, mortal to the very soul. The man occupying the center of the circle, on the other hand, you’re not really sure about.

You glance at Vernon. He’s staring at you the same way he always does, dark eyes like twin flames. He does that a lot now, watching you more intensely than you can ever recall in your years of friendship. You quickly avert your eyes, fighting the shiver that threatens to slither through you.

From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch. Of course he notices the way he affects you. He notices everything about you - swears that he always has, but isn’t afraid to be more obvious now. You’re not sure the validity of that statement, but Vernon seems to enjoy the effect he has on you, and he’s not shy to tell you so.

For now, he keeps it to himself. You’re grateful, standing and walking the circle of salt to make sure it’s intact while you try not to think about all the other times you’ve salted around him. This is your fourth attempt this month, and though you know Vernon can’t cross the salt, it doesn’t seem to do anything else but serve as a messy - and expensive - sort of cage.

Prior to that, your experience with salt and Vernon had been at his apartment that night a few weeks ago when the strange murders in your town had all started to make sense - it had been Vernon eliminating the town of its adulterers. Vernon has agreed to stop that for now, and though most people might not believe the recent college student turned serial killer, you do believe him.

The only thing Vernon seems unequivocally dedicated to these days is you and fulfilling your every demand.

Which is how he ended up in a salt circle now for what must be the eighth ritual you have put him through in a matter of weeks.

Dusting your hands off, you observe your work. You’ve tried salt circles and candles a few times - it had been what you used the night of Vernon’s possession after all - but you’ve tweaked the ritual each time.

Each time is unsuccessful.

Vernon watches you with hungry eyes, leaning back on his palms. His legs are crossed casually, entirely at ease. The only part of him that appears dialed in is his eyes, tracking your every movement, a predator tuned in to its prey.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning to your backpack on the floor.

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“Like I want to taste you again?” Your stomach flips and your grip tightens on the notebook you pull from your bag. “Fine, I will try not to look at you like that. Proceed with your little ritual.”

“You agreed to it, you know?”

“Like I said.” He sighs, rolling his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Your wish is my command. And it’s not going to work - I’m just me. Nothing to get rid of.”

“Well ‘just you’ can’t cross a line of salt, the lights flicker when you get mad, and you make dogs and cats go berzerk. So that can’t be true.”

“It’s my new salt allergy. Maybe it’s you the animals don’t like, hmm?”

“Vernon.”

He’s grinning at you when you look at him, that ravenous gaze just as present on his face. “It’s a joke, Love. Feel free to laugh at your convenience.”

Love. Not Lovecraft, like he used to call you, but something new and with weight to it, something intimate, said with a velvet purr that makes your hands sweat. Not darling like the spirit that had - and still might be - possessing him.

You think he is still possessing him, anway. Vernon insists that it’s just him with a new edge, forever changed by that night on Halloween. You cannot imagine it’s just Vernon and not the spirit of the murderer Thomas inside of him. Why else would Vernon have killed those people? Why else would he not be able to cross salt? Why else would strange things happen around him, like flickering lights and eerie feelings?

The way he looks at you makes you want to implode. He watches you with a new sharpness now, desire written all over his face at all times. He’s looking at you like that now, gaze half-lidded and heady. You ignore him in favor of scanning your scrawled script on the paper, memorizing the words you’re supposed to chant. You nod and toss the journal back onto your bag, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before standing in front of the circle.

Vernon cocks his head up to gaze at you. He looks beautiful like this, his long, silky lashes framing his dark eyes. His face is flickering in shadow from the candles, equal parts demon and angel. Again, you fight the urge to shiver. Instead, you begin walking clockwise, careful not to break the line of salt.

Voice wavering, you whisper, “By salt of earth and flame of will, I break your hold, I bind, I still.”

A chill seeps into the room. You do shiver this time, not from Vernon watching you, but because of the drop in temperature. The kind that feels like breath on the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out on your arms as you go. Upon a complete rotation, you continue the chant but lean down to extinguish a candle each time you reach it, not daring to look at Vernon each time you bend down to blow on it gently. You swear the shadows stretch just a little longer every time the flame dies, curling like fingers at the edge of your vision.

When you reach the final candle, you risk a glance upward. You’re right in front of him, the orange light reflected in his glassy eyes. He gives you a small smirk, and looks at the candle, as though he’s daring you to blow it out. With a deep breath, you do, bathing the two of you in darkness. For a moment, it’s too quiet.

Moonlight filters through a dirty window on the other side of the room. It turns Vernon into an eerie shadow, nearly blue in the pale light. You hold your breath, watching him as he remains in the center of the salt, unmoving. His outline flickers faintly, like an old film reel catching on something sharp. You can sense he’s still watching you, unnaturally still but just as severe as always. Somewhere behind his eyes, something ancient stares back.

“Well?” You whisper, too afraid to raise your voice. “Are you feeling different?”

“I feel the same as I did early, which means I still want to eat you out. So not really.”

You deflate, sitting down abruptly on the ground.

“Tough crowd. I thought that would excite you.”

“Shut up, Vernon!”

He obeys. As sharp-tongued and wicked of mind this new version of Vernon is, he listens to you.

Usually.

Silence falls on you as you sit with your elbows propped on your knees, heels of your palms pressed into your eyes. The force of it makes colors explode behind squeezed shut lids. It feels like nothing is going to work, despite making your entire academic career into occult studies with the intention of applying it to understanding modern culture and shaping psychological theories and studies on human behavior.

For the last few weeks, you’ve spent it going back through all your lessons thus far to take theory and make it applicable. To pilfer through all of your countless books, exams and papers on rituals, culture, and occult through the ages to find something that would work. To find something to explain why Vernon is both Vernon and Not Vernon - anything to convince you that you can reverse whatever this is.

Do you want to?

The voice comes to you unbidden, a tiny part of you doubting exactly what you’re doing here.

Vernon’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “You’ll find something else to try.”

Your hands drop from your face and you stare at him. He looks like an ancient thing, sitting in the dark, but his face is so soft that you fight the urge to crawl over to him and into his lap. You know he would let you - would love if you gave in and did it. His every moment, every look, every word is borderline begging you to touch him, to close the distance between you, to have him again.

“Do you even want me to keep trying?” You ask, exasperated.

He shrugs. “You want to keep trying.”

“What do you want, though?”

“You.”

Your fists close. Open. Close again. “Vernon.”

“You asked me what I wanted. The answer is the same, no matter how much it annoys you.”

“Don’t you want me to solve this? Don’t you want me to find out what happened to you?”

His voice is low when he says, “I already told you, there’s nothing to solve. But if you want to keep trying, then I will. I don’t really care about the rest.” Silence falls between you once more. He sighs, shifting to stand. “Will you let me out of my cage?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to hurt anyone?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. Have I broken my promise?”

He hasn’t. You know it, he knows it. The memory of his promise comes back to you as easily as if it were yesterday: you in his kitchen, chest heaving when you realized he couldn’t cross the salt line. Vernon, trying to lure you back toward him, voice soft. You, screaming that he had killed people, that he was a murderer and not your Vernon.

Since then, he’s assured you if it bothers you that much, he won’t do it. That had, of course, been after he’d lectured you and vehemently assured you that they deserved it, the vitriol coming out of his mouth and the violence he used in his words enough to make you cower against his living room couch, knees tucked into your chest.

That had made him shut up. He’d approached you carefully, hands out like you were going to run. And maybe you should have, but it was Vernon, and you love him, and you weren’t totally convinced any of it was real. So you let him coax you back to calm levels, his voice soft and sweet as he promised you he wouldn’t do anything without asking you. That he’d do whatever you wanted.

He had promised, and he’s lived up to that so far, even if you can tell it chafes him to do so.

Standing, you kick the line of salt, breaking it. He gives you an appreciative hum, stepping through the gap and stretching his limbs. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt, the hem riding up to reveal a small flash of smooth stomach. You avert your eyes, shifting from foot-to-foot.

“Hungry?” He asks.

“I guess.”

“Sal’s?”

You nod and follow him out of the room. You’d picked an abandoned house to do this in, hoping that if anything went wrong or you unleashed something worse, that at least it was just you and no one else for miles.

Gravel crunches beneath your boots. Crickets chirp while a pale moon rises in the sky. Removed from the main town where your college lies, you can see the thousands of stars. You crane your neck upward to look at them, slowing your steps as your eyes trace all the familiar constellations: Orion the Hunter, Canis Major, Draco, Scorpius.

Looking back down, you notice Vernon leaning against his car, watching you over the roof. He’s got that same burning gaze but a hint of a smile, refusing to look away until you’re sliding in the passenger seat and shutting the door. When he gets in, he pauses to look at you again.

“What?” You ask into the silence, staring straight ahead.

“You’re beautiful when you’re not afraid of me.”

You frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He hums and starts the car. “I wish that were true, Love.”

Music pulses loud enough to vibrate your ribs. You hate coming to clubs - especially shitty ones in college towns that don’t really have a bottle section but sort of do, with bottle girls who are all in your English classes and who pretend not to know you when they bring another bottle of champagne to your section.

Chan does not need another bottle of champagne. No one does, really. Vernon’s fraternity brothers are falling over themselves, coaxing girls into their laps to secure one to go home with for the night or sinking heavily into the booth, becoming one with the leather.

One of the boys you don’t know crashes down into the seat next to you. You flinch and he flashes you an apologetic smile, his pupils blown and his goofy grin all you need to know that he’s fucked up. You scoot away from him a little, offering a cautious smile that you hope says I’m awkward don’t talk to me.

Even if he could read, he can’t read body language. He leans over and yells, “You know Chan?”

“Yes. Sort of friends.”

“Nice! We go waaaaaaay back.”

“Cool.”

“So, Sort Of friend. Are you sort of single?”

Thankfully, you don’t have to answer. It feels like the temperature plummets. One second, it’s just you and the nameless friend of Chan’s. The next, Vernon is crouching down on his knees in front of the dude, his eyes fathomless as he levels a stare at him.

“She’s not available.”

“Woah dude. Chill.”

The air shifts. Vernon needs to say nothing more. Lights flash behind Vernon, painting him in violent colors of red and blue and pink. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever and you feel a tingle go up your spine, though you’re not sure it’s explicitly fear.

When Vernon smiles, you’re reminded of something uncanny, like you’re looking into a void you shouldn’t be. That does scare you, but it scares the guy next to you more, who jumps to his feet and tries to bolt from the booth. He trips as he does, toppling over and slamming into the table in the middle, sending buckets of ice and bottles exploding in several directions.

Everyone jumps up, trying to avoid the carnage, screaming at the guy as he flails in his own destruction. Vernon slides into the seat next to you, back to normal. Nothing in his face indicates the malice that was there seconds ago, easing back into his quiet demeanor within seconds.

“What was that?” You hiss, though you don’t exactly mind.

“That,” he emphasizes, giving you a meaningful look, “was me showing restraint like you’ve asked.”

“What, you were going to murder him?”

Vernon blinks and without missing a beat says, “Wanted to and was going to are different. I told you I would do whatever you wanted me to.” His face hardens. “I meant what I said.”

You lean back, entirely unsure what kind of creature you had dedicated to your every whim.

Vernon is pounding on the door. He’s screaming, earth-shattering, heart-stopping screaming. His fists slam against the door with such force that it groans against its frame, hinges shrieking. You scream his name back, bloody fingers scraping against the splintered wood of the door, clawing at it, trying to tear it open, trying to get him out.

The door doesn’t budge. There’s no doorknob. No keyhole. Just a dead piece of wood, locked and unmoving like it was never made to be opened.

Vernon has never screamed like this, never sounded so afraid never-

The door opens with a soft, sickening creak.

Vernon stands there, framed in the dark, unmoving. The shadows cling to him like they’ve grown fond of his shape. You can’t see his face clearly, only the light of his eyes, too still, too glossy. Your chest tightens as you watch him and he watches you, something ancient staring back.

“Vernon?” Your voice shakes.

When he smiles, it’s slow. Too wide. Too many teeth. Rows and rows of them, glistening sharp, stretching too far.

When he leaps, you scream-

You wake up screaming, thrashing your arms as your sheets tangle in your limbs. You finally get them off, falling out of your bed to your hands and knees as you gulp down fresh air. You scramble away from your bed, eager to get away from the claws of your dream, shivering and sweaty and terrified.

In the middle of your room, you sit. You try to catch your breath, staring at the bed where your sheets and pillows have been thrown around during your nightmare. The only source of light in the room is through your window. The moon paints your room silver, the glass open to let in the almost-winter breeze.

On your nightstand, your phone begins to buzz. You stare at it, watching it flash on. You can’t see who's calling, but you don’t move, still frozen in fear. The call goes to voicemail and the phone turns off, dark once more. It’s only a second before it lights up again, a new call coming through.

Gulping, you crawl toward your nightstand, hesitant to come near your bed. Getting up on your knees, you see that it’s Vernon’s name flashing across your screen. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rows and rows of teeth from your dream.

He starts calling a third time and you answer it, hand shaking when you bring it up to your ear. “Hello?”

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I had a weird feeling.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Are you okay?” You hesitate and you hear him moving on the other side of the phone. “Love?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“I’ll come over.”

“No!” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his trepidation on the other side of the phone. Your hands squeeze your device, knuckles popping. “I mean - can I come there?”

His surprise is just as palpable as yours. “I mean, yeah. Can I come get you?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to stay on the phone while I drive?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line goes dead and you stare at your empty bed. You don’t know why you asked to go there. Don’t know why it was the first thing you thought of. Don’t know why or how Vernon knew anything was wrong. What you do know is that you’ve been having nightmares almost every night in your bed, and trying to coax yourself back into the fluffy sheets feels insurmountable.

Instead, you slowly get up and grab a few things for Vernon’s. You don’t know what you need. You don’t know if you’re staying. All you know is that you don’t want to be in your bed, where the nightmares come, and that the last time you were in his bed, you felt safe.

And then shortly discovered that he was harboring - or had harbored, if you ask him - an entity somewhere inside him.

Still, Vernon’s apartment is where he’d touched you for the first time, where he had pulled you apart and pried his name from your lips like no one ever had. Where he had pressed his mouth on every part of you, promising that you were his, that you were only his, that he would do anything you asked of him, that he was devoted to you.

Light splashes across your face when he texts you that he’s downstairs. You grab your phone and keys, and a single charger as you do.

Downstairs, Vernon is out of the car and around the hood, hands reaching out to you. You slow your steps but you let him take you by the shoulders, ducking his head so his dark eyes can scan your face. You hold your breath as he does, eyes darting from his intense examination to his lips, where you imagine rows and rows of teeth.

“You look tired,” he murmurs.

“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.”

He hesitates. “Of me?” It sounds like he already knows the answer, but you nod anyway. He tongues the inside of his cheek and for a second, you think he’s annoyed. You start to bristle, but he softens and nods, dropping his hands to your wrist where he gives you a squeeze. “Come on.”

Despite everything, you follow him. You let him open the door to his car and put you inside, closing the door gently behind you. You let him put the car in gear, his hand reaching across the center console, hovering above your thigh. You stare at his hand for a few long moments, watching it waver.

You want him to touch you. You don’t want to acknowledge what it means that you want him to touch you, despite everything.

You give him a tiny, barely-there nod. His hand drops down softly on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Goosebumps break out across your skin and your eyelashes flutter, immediately at ease. He starts to drive, the sound of the tires against the road and the engine lulling you into a sense of calm.

Settling against the headrest, you let your eyes close. You don’t want to think about anything but the heat of his fingers on your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight and loving. Later, you can think about what it means that you’re here with him. Later you can regret what you’re doing.

Vernon’s apartment appears against a black sky. It looks no different than the last time you were here. He stops in the parking lot and holds a hand out to you. His face is soft, but his eyes are sharp as always. Carefully, you slip your hand into his. It’s warm and firm, wrapping around yours and tugging you gently toward the stairs, keeping you moving even when your trepidation grows and your steps get heavier.

His neighbor's doormat catches your eye. Come in, it says. You stare at it long enough that he notices, turning over his shoulder to glance at it and ask, “What? No joke about vampires this time?”

“Last time I didn’t think they were real.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know what’s real.”

He hums noncommittal as he works the lock with his keys.

Inside of Vernon’s apartment smells like him. You feel a sense of relief, breathing in the smell of bergamot and vetiver, unsure if you had expected sulfur and something rotting. It looks normal as ever inside. Vernon’s home looks lived in, tidy but with pairs of shoes by the door, a blanket thrown across the arm of the couch and a few video game controllers on the coffee table.

Vernon toes off his shoes before drifting toward his bedroom. The doorway is a gaping hole of darkness and you feel yourself hesitate before calming yourself and following him, too nervous to linger alone.

He switches on a salt lamp and soft, orange light fills the room. It helps put you at ease. You drop your stuff on his dresser, phone, charger and keys. You don’t know what else to do, turning to look at Vernon as he pulls the blankets back and sits on the bed, swinging his feet in.

“Gonna stand there?” He asks, grabbing pillows and shoving them against the headboard. He leans back on them, draping his arm across the tops. “Come here.”

“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” He narrows his eyes. “I meant like sex. I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”

“I know. You came here for comfort.”

Well, yes. You feel hot all over, flushed head to toe with embarrassment. For once, he doesn’t prod you about it, watching you patiently as you scramble over to the other side of the bed and climb in. His sheets are soft and warm as ever, mattress sinking as you slide over next to him.

Before you can get too close, you freeze up. You don’t know where you stand, suddenly. A few weeks ago, he was just Vernon, your best friend. Sure you’d been in love with him and he hadn’t known, but now he does know. And circumstances have changed since the admission of feelings. You haven’t been this close in weeks and-

Vernon wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you to him. You make a small sound of surprise and he laughs, low and deep in his throat. The sound scratches something inside of you, making your toes curl as you stiffen for a split second while he melds you to his side.

Then you melt. He’s warm and smells like he always has, his arm tethering you to him. Tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder. He shuffles a little so that your head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, comfortable. You’re pressed close to his side, your hands pulling nervously at the strings of your hoodie.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” His question rumbles through you where you’re leaning against him. His voice is deep and soft, a lullaby. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head. “I would never hurt you. Ever. I know you’re afraid of me but… you don’t have to be.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I’m afraid of me.”

“Explain.”

Vernon is patient. Even this new version of him lets you find your words without pushing you to go faster. You think of how to explain, starting with halting sentences. “You’ve killed people.”

“Three, specifically.”

“Does that bother you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. “They weren’t very good people.”

“Cheating is bad, but killing them?”

“Ah,” Vernon chuckles without humor. “I think I understand now. Would it make you feel better if I told you all of the bad things they did? Would it change anything to know they weren’t just guilty of adultery?” You don’t answer. “You don’t like that I killed people but what you’re having trouble with is the fact that you want to overlook it and you don’t like how that feels.”

As always, Vernon is on the nose with his guess. He’s always been able to pin down how you feel quickly, and it both relieves you and terrifies you to know that hasn’t changed. Killing people is wrong. You know that. But it’s how unbothered you are that sticks with you, this inability to figure out why there’s a desire to rationalize it, to let Vernon convince you his actions were justified.

“You have an excuse,” you mumble. “You’re possessed by some sort of murderer.”

“I am not.

“I’m just… me.”

“People are complex. Wrestling with your own morality is natural. But I advise you not to let it drive you crazy.”

You snort.

“What?”

“Getting advice from someone who is possessed-”

“-Again, it’s just me-”

“Is kind of silly.”

“Then stop listening to my advice and go to bed, Love.”

It’s the final piece you let him give you for the night, nodding and letting your eyes fall closed. The steady rhythm of Vernon’s heart lulls you into a trance until you’re drifting to sleep with the smell of bergamot and vetiver and no nightmares to plague you.

“Why don’t you add salt to your fries, hmmm?”

Veron looks up at you, deadpan. You give him a plasticky grin, grabbing the red pepper to shake over your pizza slices. As he has for the last few weeks, Vernon avoids the salt on his fries. Still likes them just as much as before, but can’t seem to tolerate more than the standard level of seasoned they come.

Cool breeze slithers down your back when someone walks in behind you. Your booth is right by the door, giving you an icy blast everytime a new patron comes in. Vernon already made you give him the side closest to the door, but you’d managed to keep him from demanding the hostess move you somewhere else.

A group of men sit down behind you in the booth. They sit down hard, making the back of your seat lurch forward. You swear, turning to look at them over the shoulder as they spread out like they’re lounging at home all over the table and seat.

Above you, the lights flicker. A low hum rides the air, barely audible, like static through bone. You whip your head around to look at Vernon. His gaze has turned to steel, unblinking and far too still. His fist tightens around his fork until the metal groans, knuckles leached of color. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. You whisper his name but the flickering lights continue, drawing the attention of several patrons, all of them craning their neck upwards.

A bulb pops at the table behind you. The men yell in surprise, causing the booth to rock. Your hand shoots out across the table, grabbing Vernon’s hand and squeezing. Immediately, the electrical anomaly stops and his gaze shifts to you, going soft at the edges.

“Are you okay?” You ask, soft.

“Are you?”

“Yes, Vernon. You can’t go all Paranormal Activity every time someone annoys me.”

He frowns at that. “Says who?”

“Says me. Please.”

He sighs and lets his head thunk against the back of the booth. “Fine. I will add it to the list of don’ts, right alongside murder.”

“Ugh.” You let go of his hand and steal a fry. “Enough complaining about the murder rule, Vernon.”

Cracking your neck, you look down at the notes scribbled in front of you. Your writing is scrawled and going off the lines in your notebook, getting messier the further down the page you get. You drop the pen, flexing your fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. You’ve been taking notes for hours, your note-taking starting off neat and with organization before devolving into a messy script you can barely read.

Stacks of books sit in front of you. Most are from your own collection, but there are a handful that come from the basement level of the library in plastic covers to protect the integrity of the book, yellowed at the edges and a little more than grimey.

Leaning back in your seat, your spine cracks. You sigh in relief, stiff from spending hours leaned over the table. You’d commandeered a table bigger than you need, spreading yourself out - much to the annoyance and heavy side-eye of everyone else in the library - taking up as much room as possible so no one else would sit next to you.

Several of the boys behind you have already tried to smooth talk their way into the seat. Normally you might let them, but the last thing you need is for them to look over your shoulder and see you’re researching the history of possession and demonology.

Also, you don’t want to give them your phone number, no matter how many times they ask.

A backpack lands on the table in front of you, making you flinch. You tear off your headphones, ready to bitch out whoever it is when you realize it’s Vernon. You stare at him in surprise, watching him pullout the chair and throw himself into the seat.

“Oh my God,” you gasp. “You cut off your hair.”

“Mhmm.” He runs a hand over his hair. It’s barely longer than a buzz cut, dark and fuzzy and soft. “Like it?”

At first, you don’t say anything. You drag your eyes over him, assessing. Today he’s in a leather jacket over a worn baseball t-shirt, ripped jeans and a beat up pair of converse. It’s a quintessential Vernon outfit, but it looks different now - better, even, with the short hair.

“I do.”

“Good.” He winks at you, making your stomach flip. His eyes drift over your shoulder, spotting something in the library that’s caught his interest. “What did you want to meet about?”

“So, I’ve been doing some research.”

His eyes briefly scan the table, a single brow arching. “You don’t say?”

“Shut up.” You throw a pen at him but there’s no real heat to your words. “I’m wondering if I’m coming at this from the wrong angle.”

His dark eyes are looking over you again, but he says, “Yes. You’re looking at it from the point of view of someone who thinks I’m still possessed. I’m not.”

“No. I’m looking at it like you were possessed by a spirit, but I’m wondering if maybe it was a demon.” He snorts and says nothing. “There are some essays and source materials that believe disgruntled spirits eventually become demonic entities. I’ve been looking up rituals on spiritual banishment and purification, but not demonic - are you listening?”

Vernon’s gaze is burning on something behind you. He doesn’t answer, his eyes narrowed and flickering. You lean forward, throwing the cap of your pen at him. It bounces on the table and joins its body, rolling uselessly to the side.

“Vernon.” His eyes snap back to you. “What is so interesting behind me?”

“Have they been bothering you?” He nods to something behind you.

You twist in your seat, turning to look at the table of boys who had sent over one at a time to try and join you. Only one of them looks in your direction, lifting his head and grinning when he sees you’re looking. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to tell Vernon it’s nothing, but he’s already out of his seat and walking around the table.

Eyes like daggers, he gives them a single annoyed glance before he pulls out the seat next to you and drops into it. He kicks out his foot and hooks the toe of his Converse around the leg, pulling you toward him until your seats clack together and you’re thigh to thigh.

Vetiver and bergamot flood your senses, heavenly and heady.

“What are you-”

“Demonic possession?” He purrs, voice turning to smoke. He leans toward you, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “You were telling me I’m a demon.”

“That’s not - why are you sitting so close?”

“We’ve been closer.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I just like sitting next to you.” He taps the page with his free hand, mouth twitching. “Focus, baby. Tell me what you learned.”

You turn molten at the name of endearment. Baby is new. Catches you off guard. You sputter as you try to reach for your notes, suddenly not remembering what books are where, all of the things you just absorbed from them flowing right out of your head.

Vernon makes it even worse. His fingers start to play with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, fingers occasionally brushing your arm and sending a pool of warmth blooming across your skin. His nearness is intoxicating, thoughts a little foggy.

“Problem?”

“You’re being a little shit,” you shoot back, huffing. He laughs - loudly - making other people flinch. “Stop flustering me. I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

“But you are flustered?”

“Yes, Vernon. Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?”

His voice is warm when he teases, “I’d rather keep making you squirm.”

“Ugh. I am out of pens to throw at you.”

“Sorry. Proceed. You have my undivided attention, I promise.”

Somehow, you manage to get through your messily written notes and your research. It was hard to compile the research, but you feel like maybe you’re on track with your new theory that Thomas, the spirit who had - in Vernon’s opinion briefly possessed him and in your opinion is still there - hadn’t been a spirit at the time of possession, but rather perhaps a demon.

It’s a working theory that because Thomas was bound to his place of death through violent and unresolved emotion, he not only became a disturbed entity, but was warped by his anger and grief, shifting into something darker. Most research on demons was clear cut that they were creatures from another dimension, but spirits aren’t of this dimension either.

Because everything you’ve tried so far for a spiritual dispelling hasn’t worked, you think perhaps Thomas’s spirit had morphed into something more proto-demonic in nature. There isn’t much to go off of, but the structure for your theory is there, even if made from toothpick-weak data and suppositions.

Vernon listens the entire time. His fingers still trace your arm absently, tracing aimless patterns. When you finish and look at him, he seems thoughtful, dark eyes unfocused. When he looks up at you, his smile is small.

“So what do you want to try this time?”

“Maybe a priest-”

He groans and drops his head back.

You quickly continue, “Just to start, okay? I want to test my theory.”

“I’m not a demon.”

“Well, we don’t really know, do we?”

“We already went to a church.”

You pout and he sighs. “When do you want to go?”

White paint peels off the church. It’s an old building with crooked, dry rotted steps outside. It’s a small church with a single steeple. You can see the bells just beyond the window, currently silent as the crickets take up chorus around you.

The sign out front is worn and sunbleached. Trinity Cross Chapel is carved across the front, whatever phrase from the Bible written under it long faded. You’d chosen an old Protestant church to test your hypothesis, partially because it was far on the edge of town where the risk was lower if Vernon turned into a demon, and partially because according to the town registry, it was the oldest church in town.

And well - because Protestants were pretty serious about absolving themselves from sin and that salvation alone could only be reached through Jesus Christ himself. Perhaps if anyone could tell you what was wrong with Vernon, it was Jesus.

“This place is a shithole,” Vernon observes, hands in his pockets.

Alright, perhaps Jesus wouldn’t want to help Vernon. You shoot him a glare and plunge ahead, rocks and dirt crackling beneath your shoes. Vernon follows you at a leisurely place, giving the building a critical eye.

“It’s worse for wear,” you admit, heading to the steps. “But it’s old and largely underfunded because when the college was built, the town moved to be centered around the college and not the church.”

When your foot lands on the first step, it cracks and your foot falls through. You yelp but Vernon’s hands are on your waist immediately, his chest pressed against your back as he steadies you. He’s so close that your heart goes from hammering at the fear of falling to thundering over his proximity.

“Are you okay?” His breath fans your ear where he asks, almost a whisper. You nod, a little out of breath. “Be careful. Let me help.”

Gently, Vernon guides you up the rest of the steps. None of the other ones cave in, though they do creak ominously. You scurry inside of the building, eager to get on more even ground before you plunge through the entryway.

Inside smells like mold and wet carpets. You scrunch up your nose, looking at the faded and stained red shag beneath your shoes. Rows and rows of wooden pews line the church, book-ended with walls of stained glass windows. You peer at the imagery as you walk down the aisle, hands hovering above the pews as you go.

The stained glass is lovely. You imagine during the day it’s stunning, the sun hitting each piece to refract into thousands of colors. You recognize each piece of artwork from your study on Christian religions: The Baptism of Jesus, The Lamb of God, Saint Paul with his sword and book, The Resurrection. Each one is meticulously crafted, dark without the sun to bring them to life.

Each piece makes you think of Vernon. There is a haunted beauty about them that has you looking at him sideways as you walk. He seems unaware, craning his head to look up at the old, cracked rafters of the ceiling.

At the front of the church is the chancel with a lectern front and center. Behind the lectern is a communion table, banners with scriptures fastened to the wall, and some seasonal decor. Vernon walks closely behind you, uncharacteristically silent as you head for a man sitting in the front row, head bowed.

“Minister?”

Your voice brings the man out of his reverie. He’s somewhere in his late forties, hair greying at the edges. He has sharp blue eyes and heavy frown lines, his eyes looking you up and down before drifting to Vernon. His mouth turns down as he stands, adjusting the simple robes he has on.

“This him?”

“Him has a name,” Vernon mutters at the same time you say yes.

“Come with me.”

The minister turns on his heel and marches toward one of the side doors behind the pulpit. You hurry after him, Vernon hot on your heels muttering, “You called ahead?”

“Well yeah… what else was I going to do? Walk in and be like ‘yo is this guy possessed?’”

“Might be possessed.”

“So you admit you might-”

Vernon swears. “Love, that is not what I meant. I can’t give you an inch, huh?”

The back offices of the church are stuffy, full of tepid air and dust. You sneeze and Vernon mutters bless you, his tone sharp. You give him a look and he grins, wicked and sharp. “See?” He whispers. “Bless you.”

“Well don’t stand in the hall,” the minister quips.

“Sorry.”

You rush after him where he holds the door to his office open, Vernon still muttering obscenities under his breath - you’re pretty sure he has called the minister five types of cunt by now. The minister leans away from him when Vernon walks by, partially to be safe and partially because Vernon leers at him. You whisper at him to cut it out, hand shooting out to grab his hand and pull him to sit in the seat next to you.

Rounding the heavy desk, the minister sits down. His desk is full of ledges and books, religious imagery covering the walls. It smells damp and stale, making you scrunch your nose. It distinctly reminds you of your grandma's closet with moth-eaten coats and water stains on the carpet.

“Tell me his ailments.” The minister folds his hands under this chin, watching you with sharp eyes. “Be thorough.”

“I have a name,” Vernon growls.

The look the minister gives him tells you he’s taking mental notes. You clear your throat, leaning forward. You reach your hand over to Vernon, resting it on his knee and squeezing comfortingly. The minister’s eyes don’t miss the motion, narrowing when you leave your hand on Vernon’s leg.

“It started on Halloween,” you explain, recounting the ritual and some of the side effects Vernon has experienced since then. Vernon sits in steely silence, his eyes boring into the minister’s head as you talk. You skip over the murders but imply that Vernon has more violent urges. “I was researching and-”

“Leave the research to the professionals, girl.”

That pulls you up short. “I am a professional, sir. Or - well - I will be. I’m an occult studies major, so this is sort of my expertise but-”

“Occult studies major,” he scoffs. “Nonsense. The only study you need is the word of God. Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place and reeking of sin.” When he says the word sin, he looks at where you’re touching Vernon. “The ritual is nothing. You could not have summoned anything that wasn’t already there. You are possessed by the sin that poisons-”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “The ritual wasn’t exactly formal, but it had all the right materials to summon an entity.”

“You know nothing. You come into a house of God with this nonsense talking about rituals and bells because you read them in a book, as though they’re on par with the Word?”

You open and close your mouth, confused at the turn of events. The minister presses on, “Your paganism is just as much as a sin as drinking in an abandoned house and giving into lust and gluttonous pride and other salacious acts. If you are looking for demons, it is the ones you already carry inside of you and must purge through confession and devotion to Jesus Christ.”

“Wow.” You lean back in the chair. Vernon’s muscles have gone taught in his thigh, his shoulders ridgid and his nails digging into the wooden arms of the chair. “This is not at all what we’re here for. By the way - there is nothing wrong with paganism. I would argue that historically most religions, including branches of Christianity, are full of paganism. You have rituals and-”

The minster sits up straight, slamming a hand on his desk. “The truth of God stands apart from the lies of paganism. What I see here is not a victim of a pagan ritual, but two young adults brimming with sin who should confess their sins to Jesus Christ to absolve-”

“Lies of paganism? You can’t erase where things come from, you know? Religions all borrow from one another- symbols, holidays, whatever. One is not less valid than-”

“Only the Word is valid.”

You bring up a hand, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Look, minister, I came here to help if you could identify demonic energies or symptoms in Vernon. This has turned into a religious lecture, and I’m not arguing with you on the semantics of scripture.”

“I sense deep darkness in both of you. You can’t even speak to me without touching him, full of gluttonous-”

Vernon gets up, interrupting the minister. “We’re going.”

“You should beg for guidance and confess-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Vernon growls, leveling the minister with a stare. He bends down to pull you to your feet, his glare softening slightly when he looks at you. “He’s an idiot. You’re having an academic argument, he’s pissed off because he’s popped a boner under his robe and can’t do anything about it because I’m here.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Vernon crowds you against the side of the chair. He presses in close, ducking his head to press his forehead against yours, nose nudging against you. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-soft and barely a whisper. “And he probably hates that he could never fuck you the way that I do and I know all the little sounds you make.”

It feels like the air has evaporated from the room. Vernon’s eyes are only for you, his pupils dilated, completely trained on your eyes. His breath fans your face, his hands pressing against the small of your back as though he can press you any closer to him.

Dizzy, you try to say his name, acutely aware of the minister yelling at the two of you to get out. Vernon gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before turning to look at the minster, a sneer on his face. He looks more terrifying than you’ve ever seen him, but his grip on you is firm. Warm. Strangely enough, safe.

“She’s ten times the brain that you are. Cunt.”

Vernon’s lip twitches like he’s going to snarl. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door, hand shooting down to yours to tug you along. You stumble after him, unable to find words but wanting to stay close. Your heart hammers, mind spinning from how quickly the situation had spiralled out of control. You’d just wanted the minister to do some sort of demon test and-

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Vernon admonishes, escorting you out of the church. He’s careful with you down the steps, lifting you by the waist to let you skip the last step entirely. He plants you firmly on the ground. “He was a fanatical dick. Maybe next time we do a new wave church or something.”

“You’re going to let me do a next time?”

His mouth kicks up at the side. “I know you’re not done, Love.”

Vernon swings his legs back and forth, watching you rub cleanser into your face. You’ve given up on asking him why he likes to sit in the bathroom while you do your skincare. ‘Cause I like you was always the response, or some similar variation. You don’t mind. It’s endearing, and you’ve wanted to have Vernon like this… well, since forever.

Usually, you use this time to talk your way through things you want to try to help free him from possession - lack thereof, he asserts - but tonight you’re quiet. The water is warm as you splash it onto your face, melting the cleanser away and leaving nothing but blotchy, irritated skin.

You pat dry your face, avoiding looking in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s question is soft. You look up at him, eyes round. “You’re extra quiet tonight.”

“Oh. Thinking, I guess.”

“About what?”

About everything. Somehow, this has become your new normal. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, or the fact that it’s been weeks and Vernon genuinely shows no other signs of having an entity inside him. It’s more like he is the entity now.

Before, Vernon had always been a little on the sardonic side. But it had been quiet, his sharp words muttered, not spoken, his irritation silent, not voiced. In a way, it was the same way with his feelings for you. He’d revealed that he’d liked you as more than a friend for years, angry at how much of a coward he’d been and how it had taken motivation to make him say anything.

The Vernon who chose hiding and restraint was now replaced with a Vernon who asserted himself and could barely hold back. It was different. Not bad, different, just different. You liked the old Vernon but… you don’t dislike this Vernon, either. He still has the makings of his normal self, still interested in all the same books and video games, content to lose to Mingyu in Fortnite over and over, the same Vernon who likes movies and music and Sal’s Pizzeria.

Vernon gently taps a knuckle underneath your chin, getting your attention. “Tell me.”

“I was sort of wondering if the minister was right.”

He scoffs. “What?”

“Okay maybe not about the sin and everything but more like… I don’t know.”

Vernon senses your train of thought. “You still don’t like that you don’t care I killed people.”

You wince at his words. They are sharp and real and more honest than you can voice. Unable to find the courage to agree out loud, you nod your head.

Gently, Vernon reaches for you. You let him grab you by the biceps and navigate you so that you’re standing between his knees. He squeezes his legs shut, pining you to the spot, albeit gently. His gaze is soft when he looks down at you, his hands playing with your fingers.

“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he starts. “I can tell you… look, let me tell you what those first three nights were like. And why I don’t think I’m possessed, alright? This is just… me. A little different, but me, okay?”

Chewing your lip, you nod. His gaze falls down to where he plays with your fingers. “I definitely was possessed, that first night on Halloween. I have no idea how Soonyoung managed a ritual that was done right.” You pinch him and he laughs. “Yeah, right. You were sort of the linchpin. In that closet, I… felt taken over, like I was suddenly shoved in a box and flooded with emotions and rage and hate but more than that? Fear.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. Then it got sort of quiet and I felt really disconnected. You left so fast and I didn’t even go after you because it felt like I was grappling with myself and I felt a little lost. When I went home is when the real mess started. I had all these thoughts and memories that weren’t mine, all these feelings and images and knowledge. It was overwhelming.”

“Is that why you avoided me?”

“Yes, but I was also just full of anger. Not just at things that didn’t belong to me, but things that did. A lot of it was at myself for wandering through life never voicing what I wanted or never taking action or just sort of… riding in the backseat, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And having the presence of someone else there was like - fuck it was like being in the backseat again. It made me pissed and I just sort of grappled with the spirit for what felt like days until I woke up and I was just… me. But there are random pieces that belong to him, I think. Like sort of an impression?”

“Is the… murder, one?”

“I don’t really know, Love.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I remember seeing him kill that woman he loved and then himself and my first thought was that I could never do that. I could never kill you. Regardless of what you ever did to me, I vowed that I would do anything for you. But on the other hand, it made me so angry to think anyone could do that to someone they cherished. I would set the world on fucking fire for you - how could others not feel that way when they love someone?”

Love someone. Vernon has never explicitly said that he loved you or was in love with you. He’s implied it - talked about you like he loves you or alluded to it. But now it’s out in the open as he speaks, a full admission that you are someone he loves that he would do anything for you.

“And then I saw those people who weren’t only cheating on people who loved them,” he murmurs. “But they were also terrible people. Like full of such shitty things they’ve done and I just… What if those people ever came across your path? Would they fuck you over? Would they cheat on you?”

Panic grips you. Vernon feels you go rigid in his grip and he looks up at you, realizing what he’s said. He shakes his head quickly, tightening his hands on you. “No - sorry. I didn’t do it because of you, that came out wrong. Please don’t - that isn’t what I meant. It isn’t your fault. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how the world would be better without them so I just… did it.”

“Vernon…”

“I swear to you, it wasn’t for you. It was… for everyone? I don’t know. I cannot stand the thought of fucking scum walking the earth like that, so I did something about it.”

“And then you stopped.”

He looks up at you, a bit sulky. “What you want is more important to me. But my point is… I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I don’t care about what I did either. And even if you don’t care, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or anything. It just makes you the person I want most in the world, still.”

It’s terrifying, this profession from him. To realize that you have this much power over him, this much sway is overwhelming. Pinned between his knees, your thoughts race with no direction, pulled in so many different ways. This kind of love is everything - and yet it scares you. But if you step away from him now, if you pull away in the slightest, you know it’ll do irreparable damage. That it’ll hurt.

“Can we go to bed?” You whisper, daring a glance at him.

Vernon nods, sliding off the counter. As he does, you shuffle backward, but not far enough to be out of reach. He lifts his hands to your face, cradling it gently and angling you to look at him. “I’m me. A little weirder. A little less refined. But I’m me.”

He’s right. You hear the truth in his words and you realize perhaps that’s why you don’t care about the blood on his hands. Because it is Vernon, and he’s yours. You don’t care because you love him, and you’d do anything for him too. Which is why you’ve spent weeks researching a way to free him - from nothing, you’re starting to suspect - and why you’ve not taken a single opportunity to turn him in.

“You’re you,” you agree softly. He smiles and you stand on the tips of your toes, pressing your mouth to his. He makes a surprised sound but you feel his grin grow wider for a split second before he kisses you back in earnest, soft and slow. “Remember what you said to the minister?”

The question catches him off guard, his lips ghost against yours when you break the kiss. “What?”

“That he can’t fuck me like you do.”

Vernon’s grip on your face turns firm. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes flashing. “I meant it.”

“Do it.”

“Yeah?”

You nod, leaning into him. “Show me.”

“Fucking say less,” Vernon growls, pulling your lips to his again.

This kiss is all-consuming, needy. Vernon’s fingers slide to the sides of your neck, angling you to deepen the kiss. Your pulse hammers against his fingers, mouth sliding along his. His tongue presses against yours, hungry. You meet him with equal fervor, weeks of holding yourself breaking though.

Somehow, Vernon manages to walk you backward. You cling to his arms, careful not to trip over your own feet until you’re falling backward onto his mattress. It smells like him - safe. He reaches behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt and yanking it up and over. Propped on your elbow, you watch him. He throws the shirt and then he’s on you again, pushing you back gently so he can climb on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist.

Vernon’s skin is burning hot. Your fingers trace his lines, making him moan into your mouth as he kisses you furiously again. Your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it, a racing rhythm that backtracks the sound of your heavy breathing when he breaks the kiss to pepper your jaw and neck in warm, wet kisses.

Your lids flutter, stomach flipping when he bites down on your neck harshly, soothing the sting with a rough swipe of his tongue. It feels so good, a slow but steady ache spreading between your thighs as he busies himself with sucking fervently at your collarbone.

Slipping your hands around his tapered waist, you scratch your nails up his back, not hard enough to leave marks but firm enough to make him groan and shiver. You grin, arching up into him as your hands explore the muscled planes of his back.

Your hips squirm, canting up against him seeking friction. He laughs, dragging his mouth from your neck to your lips, mumbling, “Need help?”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not, baby. It’s cute.”

Baby. You whine, hips thrashing and he grins before silencing you with a sweet kiss before reaching down to slide a leg open, replacing the open space between your knees with his thigh. A thrill shoots through you when he brings it up to your core, one of his hands dropping to your ass to help grind you against him.

“Come on,” he urges, licking your jawline. “You know you want to.”

You do. You roll your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along his sweats. It’s not nearly enough friction to do anything significant but it still feels good, turning your body static.

Vernon slides his hands under your shirt, bunching up the material as he slides upward to rid you of it. The room is cool, your skin pebbling and nipples tightening at the temperature. Vernon immediately sends a lick of heat through your, dropping down to capture a nipple in his greedy mouth.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes closing. It feels so good, his tongue swirling lazily around the bud as you grind against his thigh. “Feels good.”

Teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. You let out a breathy sound, eyes rolling back. You give Vernon control easily, letting him work you up. It’s sweltering between your bodies, his skin warm against yours, the air charged. You can barely breathe, head falling to the side as he lavishes attention to your chest, your little rolls against his thigh desperate.

One of Vernon’s hands slips to your waist, firm and sure. He lifts himself off you and you protest but he hushes you with a quick, hungry kiss. His breath is warm against your cheek when he pulls back, shifting to kneel between your legs on the bed.

His fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate. The fabric scrapes against your skin soft-slow, like Vernon is unwrapping something sacred. The cool air hits your skin with equal intensity as his stare, dark and focused. There’s no teasing smirk anymore, replaced with a desire so powerful you start to squirm.

Then he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kisses you like he’s trying to become one with you, like he needs to taste every sound and whimper and noise you make. You can hardly keep up before his hand presses between your legs, fingers sliding over the front of your panties, pressing into the heat and slick of your cunt through the fabric.

And fuck it feels good.

One of his hands stays there, circling your clit with firm, steady pressure, rubbing the soaked fabric against you. The other creeps upward, fingertips brushing your chest, your collarbone, until it finds home at your neck. His palm settles there, warm and weighty, and you feel him shift his grip just enough to pin you gently to the mattress. It’s not tight, not rough, just present. Possessive. Perfect.

You thrum beneath him, the room tilting on its axis, slow and dreamline. You feel lightheaded, not just from the stimulation building in your core, but from the soft restraint of his hand around your neck. He’s not squeezing just yet, but the pressure is enough to remind you that it’s Venron in control, a promise of more that sends a thrill through you. If you want it.

You do want it. Your hand stretches up without thinking, shaking fingers curling around his where he grips your throat. You give him a gentle squeeze, a plea. His glaze flicks down to yours, searching. He seems mystified by what he sees there for a moment, swearing before he nods once, barely perceptible, before tightening his grip just enough to send a tingle down your spine. Not too much. Not too tight. Just enough to make your body sing.

Vernon presses his forehead against yours, mouth barely brushing your lips. Your breathing is coming harder now, trying to keep up with the way your body is vibrating at his touch.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and reverent. He slips a hand under the waistband of your underwear, fingers hooking the edge to pull the damp fabric aside, revealing the slick warmth underneath. He groans softly at the feel of you against his fingers, sticky. You moan and he curses again. “There it is. You sound so pretty, baby.”

That spurs you on. You make more sounds for him, gasping when his fingers circle your clit properly. Your thighs twitch in response, nearly closing around his hand. He tuts, pressing his mouth against your jaw. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” you whine. His grip tightens a bit more. “Yeah. Yeah like that.”

He pecks your cheek and does as you ask, squeezing the barest hint more.

You start to fray at the edges. You feel yourself coming apart, incapable of doing anything but shaking under his ministrations. Having him touch you like this again is good. You don’t want anything else, happy that you’re here again. You don’t care about the cost, don’t care what it means anymore. It’s just you and Vernon and his hand between your legs, pulling a long, drawn out orgasm that has you trembling quietly in his hold.

When you let out your breath, orgasm subsiding, Vernon moves. He lets go of your throat, the sudden loss bringing the blood back, rushing. The room turns on its axis, your eyes fluttering as he shuffles down the bed, his hands pressing your thighs open.

“Vernon.” His name leaves your mouth, hand shooting to grab him by his short locks when he presses his tongue to you. You can barely breathe, shaking when he slowly licks up your cum, not wasting a drop. “Fuuuuck.”

“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, tongue lazily licking you in circles. “Missed this so fucking much.”

Vernon’s tongue is addicting. He’s messy with it, closing his lips around your clit to give greedy sucks before dragging his mouth down to prod at your entrance. You shake under the attention of his mouth, barely able to do a thing.

His tongue drags slowly, warm and wet as he licks you at his own lazy pace. You realize this is for him. He savors the way you melt in his mouth, the little sounds you make when his tongue flicks back and forth on your clit, the way you cry when he fucks his tongue into your entrance, nose bumping your clit.

It’s maddening. His tongue traces along your entrance, collecting arousal before curling back up to lap at your clit. It feels like your blood has turned into electricity, your veins the conductors, Vernon’s mouth the source. He hums against you, enjoying this as he gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

“Shit,” you hiss. He’s going to make you come again. You’re not even sure that’s his goal. He seems more focused on tasting you, on drinking you in, on running his tongue around and around on your sensitive flesh.

He hums, looking up at you with a mouth full of pussy. You see the gleam in his eye, see how much he wants this, watch as he grins and puts on a show for you, opening up his mouth and holding his tongue flat to your pussy, letting you roll your hips to fuck his tongue.

Vernon nods, little mumbles of mhmmm as you near your high. He lets you take control, riding his tongue until you’re spasming, thighs squeezing his head. He doesn’t care, tongue moving back and forth, keeping you shaking as long as he can until you’re twitching, pushing at his head.

He comes away, mouth and chin slick, lips swollen. You don’t care, grabbing him and dragging him up to you, surging forward to lick across his lips, tasting yourself. He grins and pins you down to the mattress by your shoulders, content to let you taste as much as you want.

“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you.”

He curses. “Say it again.” He leans down to your ear, lips pressed against it when he says, “Say you want me.”

“Want you. Only you.”

“Mhmm.” He licks down your neck, biting down when he reaches the juncture of your shoulder.

Leaning up, Vernon kicks out of his sweats. His hands are reverant when he pulls your underwear down your thighs, fabric scraping against your hypersensitive skin. He dives back in, kissing you as he presses his waist against yours, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh.

You reach down, palming him in your hand. He moans, desperate and breathy, breaking the kiss to drop his head against your shoulder. He’s warm and smooth in your hand. He lets you swipe your thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, hips jerking. You spread his precum down his shaft, hand firm. He fists the sheets, hips twitching forward as you stroke him leisurely.

“Please,” he murmurs, breath fanning your neck. “Please.”

Hearing him ask for it nearly makes you pass out. You drag the crown of his cock through your messy folds, slicking him up. He growls when you do it, pressing his cock down down down until the tip catches your entrance. You moan in tandem, you at the pressure of him pushing in slightly, him at how bad he wants it.

Vernon sinks in slowly. You suck in a sharp breath, overwhelmed from the feeling of his cock pressing you open until there’s nowhere left to go. It feels good as he stills, hip-to-hip with you as you adjust. Your mouths tangle again and you slide your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging what you can.

He gives an appreciative sound and pulls back slightly just to give a sharp fuck forward. You jostle and break the kiss, gasping, spit linking your mouth. His grin is wicked and he licks into your mouth again, starting to fuck into you slowly.

You start to synapse. You feel on firel, burning up from the inside out as Vernon sets a slow but deep pace, pulling all the way out before he drives all the way back in. He grabs one of your thighs, nails scraping as he pulls it up and fastens it around his waist. It changes the angle, makes everything feel deeper.

Everywhere Vernon touches you leaves a mark. He stains your soul, every press of his mouth a promise of ruination, every brush of his hands speaking prophecy into your skin. You feel him write himself into your scripture with each thrust, every pass of his tongue against yours a prayer.

The minister was wrong. You and Vernon have something holier than he could ever understand, a dark gospel unfolding between your moving bodies that only the two of you know the hymns to. How could it be anything but when you feel closer to God as Vernon grips your leg tight, pulling you down to meet each thrust. What is religion, if not the feeling of his moans buzzing through your lips, bringing you closer to revelation?

“Mine,” Vernon promises against your lips. “Mine.”

“Yours.” Your hand slides from the back of his neck around to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, lungs heaving. “Mine.”

“Only yours.”

“You love me?”

You nod frantically against him.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I love you.”

And you do. You realize that nothing else matters. You don’t care how fucked up the last few weeks have been. You don’t care that Vernon is something a little more than human, maybe something a little less. You don’t care about anything other than the fact that now he’s here, vulnerable with you - only for you.

He picks up his pace. You feel another orgasm coming, all of your nerves pulsing, near overloaded. “I would rip heaven from the sky if you asked.”

“I know.”

And you do know. You see it - feel it in the desperate way he grabs you, the way he fucks into you, frenzied. You feel yourself light up, an imploding star as you come around him, squeezing. He growls out your name, coming undone with you, thrusts messy and wet as you soak his cock.

Vernon’s mouth finds yours, uncoordinated and messy but greedy, gluttonous, needy. You kiss him with equal fervor, uncaring that your mouth feels bruised and swollen, willing to let him tear you apart just to have some fraction of him with you.

He starts to slow, spent and shaking until he’s hovering over you, trembling. Your hands rub up and down his sides gently, calming him down. He breathes heavily, the only sound trapped between you. You tilt your head to the side, pressing soft kisses against his inner forearm.

Eventually, he pulls out, leaving a wet mess and dull ache between your legs. He doesn’t go far, content to tangle himself up in you, pressed as close as he can. His mouth goes to your shoulder, pressing butterfly-light kisses there.

“If I’m a demon,” Vernon mumbles, voice scratchy from use, “you must be my angel.”

“Yeah?” You roll toward him, lifting your hand to cradle his face. His eyes are soft as ever, watching you. Your thumb brushes back and forth over his cheekbone until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “So are you saying you’re a demon now?”

His mouth twitches but he shakes your head. “Don’t know what I am. I’m just yours.”

“Yes,” you agree softly, gazing at him with stars in your eyes. “Mine.”

All the candles are nearly burned to the wick when Vernon enters the church. The flamelight stutters, reacting to him like prey sensing a predator. His boots fall heavy against the threadbare carpet, each step a low, deliberate thud that echoes too long in the still air. His hands are buried in his pockets, but there’s a lazy, cruel confidence in his gait now, a swagger that would have been foreign on the boy who used to flinch at raised voices.

He thinks of that version of himself as dead now.

Old Vernon. Soft-spoken, uncertain, dying under the weight of all the words left unspoken.

This Vernon doesn’t tremble. This Vernon doesn’t hesitate to say what he wants - which is only ever you. This Vernon isn’t afraid to make the world bow at your feet, to crush anyone who would stand in your way.

He’s not possessed. He knows that. He hasn’t been possessed for a while. It doesn’t feel like Thomas left so much as Vernon devoured him. Bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Thomas’s spirit. Now, Vernon is more than he was. Maybe a little less human, he isn’t sure. Something with blood under his nails and your name forever on his tongue.

All his rage, all his violence, all his power? It's yours. It's what makes the constant simmering need to do damage bearable.

Vernon doesn’t knock when he reaches the minister’s office. The door opens with a warning creak, and the man looks up in confusion, wondering who would dare enter his office this late at night without knocking. He realizes who it is and his face twists into a tapestry of anger.

It dies just as fast.

Vernon doesn’t give him a moment to speak. He drives his boot into the desk, splintering the wood with a sickening crunch, sending it skidding into the minister’s chest. The man crumples with a wheeze and a painful shout, papers floating down around him like ash.

Circling the wreckage with deliberate calm, Vernon grins as he watches the man flail, trying to get up, a beetle stuck on its back.

“My girlfriend told me not to kill anyone,” Vernon explains. His voice is casual. Conversational. “Didn’t say I couldn’t ruin you for opening your fucking mouth, though.”

The minister gapes, trying to push away from Vernon. “What are you doing?”

Vernon’s fingers unlace from his pockets. He flexes them, tendons twitching like coiled wire. “Paying you back,” he growls, leaning down, breath hot and too close. “For every time you insulted her while we were here the other night. For calling her study a delusion and making her question herself and her work.”

He seizes the minister by the collar of his robe and hauls him upright like a limp doll. “This time,” Vernon murmurs, voice suddenly soft. Sensual. “I won’t stop at words.”

This time, Vernon’s hands draw blood.

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p-seduonym · 3 months ago

Text

Switched At Birth (Part Four)

A/N: I lied. I'm posting cause I'm bored. Also, since I've been getting mixed reactions, I might make the relationship between Mel and Reader ambiguous. Melissa will love Reader, that's a fact. But you can decide if it's familial, platonic, or romantic.

Taglist (I'll add you if you ask)@luludeluluramblings, @von-jour, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @kenyummy, @bunniotomia

Yandere!Batfam X Switched! Fem! Reader X Yandere!Wayne!OC

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

You stood out, just outside the gates of Gotham Prep.

Baggy jeans, a sweatshirt repping some nondescript band, and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

You could feel the passing glances from the sea of uniformed students as they spilled through the gates. Some whispered. Others brushed past without a second thought. The security guard who’d been watching you from a distance finally approached, making idle chit-chat.

“Hey, how’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Waiting for someone?”

“Yeah.”

Just as he was about to ask you to move along, Melissa appeared. She looked flustered, hesitating a few feet away from the both of you. Before she could say anything, you called out.

“Hey, Mel!” Sauntering over, you threw an arm around her shoulder. She jumped slightly.

“W-Why are you….”

“C’mon.”

You flashed the security guard a smile like you belonged here, then steered Melissa away from the gawking crowd.

“Where are we going?” she hissed—wary, but not resisting.

“Somewhere fun,” you said. “C’mon, quit acting like I’m kidnapping you or something, Mel.”

“You ambushed me outside of school,” she pointed out flatly.

“That’s such an ugly way to put it. I told you I’d be around, didn’t I?”

“T-That was a week ago! I thought you were joking.”

In all seriousness, you lied: “I never joke.”

After a beat of silence, Melissa sighed.

“I haven’t even told anyone I left”

“Then text them? You aren’t flaking on me, are you?”

She looked confused, like the idea never crossed her mind.

“No…”

“Then let’s go”

And with that you were off.

Truth be told, Melissa rarely set foot in malls.

To her, they were nothing more than glittering temples of consumerism—designed to guide you from one impulse buy to the next, all while drowning your existential dread in a wash of piped-in pop.

But she kept that to herself. You looked like you were having fun.

“Forever 21’s on its way out, so let’s see if we can score some deals! There are also a couple thrift shops a block over—best prices, promise.”

Melissa blinked. It was like you were speaking another language. The overly peppy music thumping from the ceiling speakers didn’t help.

“Thrift store?” she echoed.

“You know? Secondhand clothes?”

“Oh.”

“Mel, you’re missing out, I swear.”

She fidgeted. “It’s not like I ever had a reason to go to places like that…”

It was true. Her father had handed her a black card, and that was the end of it. Luxury brands never interested her, but she didn’t know anything else.

“Well, now you do. I swear, Prada’s got nothing on a good thrift find—oh, look!”

You held up a gingham dress against her, tilting your head thoughtfully. She flushed under your gaze.

“Not the best color, but an A-line cut looks great on you. Let’s see if they have other colors. What do you like?”

“Any is fin—”

“If you say ‘any,’ I’m pinching you.”

Her mouth snapped shut, startled.

“C’mon. What colors do you like?”

She paused. What did she like?

Normally, she’d say something neutral. Tasteful. Nothing too loud—Waynes didn’t do loud. But she wasn’t a Wayne. Not really. Not ever.

“…Bright colors,” she said, almost to herself. “I like stuff that’s bright.”

Something to cut through the gray.

“I knew it! Something light would totally suit you. Hey, there’s a pink one—what do you think?”

You held it out to her. It looked mostly polyester and popped out against the darkness of her uniform.

“Some kitten heels and you’re golden.” You assured her, already scanning the shelves to find just that.

It was kind of embarrassing that she didn’t realize straight away. Of course, you’d go shopping. What other use did she have outside of her purse. Well, it wasn’t hers, per se, but that's besides the point.

It seems you just want to take advantage of the opportunity.

She couldn't fault you for that. Many people tried in the past, before they realized she didn’t have much worth outside of her wealth.

That’s what she thought as she approached the counter with her black card in hand. Until you stopped her.

“Hey, woah, what’s that for? I got it covered— don’t worry!”

Really, this fake courteousness was a little stale.

“It’s fine” She assured you, but you didn’t budge.

“I’m serious. I’ve been saving up anyway.”

Melissa paused. The cashier was looking between the two of you.

“Think of it as a gift, okay?”

She would have argued– maybe– but you had already pushed her aside gently and rung up the clothes.

It was such a simple gesture—one that shouldn’t have meant anything. A thrifted dress, a stubborn insistence to pay. But for Melissa, it lingered. The ease with which you offered kindness, the way you brushed off her protests like it was nothing—it all struck somewhere deep, somewhere soft she didn’t like to acknowledge. She told herself it didn’t matter. That you were just another person trying to be nice for the sake of appearances. But something about you felt different. And that terrified her more than she’d admit.

Because Melissa was used to pity.

She had seen it in the too-long glances of strangers, in the hushed whispers they thought she couldn’t hear. In the way people softened their words when breaking bad news—another broken promise, another inevitable disappointment.

Pity clung to her like a second skin. When it started, she couldn’t remember. Maybe when they said her mother had “passed”—such a gentle way to say she’d overdosed in some seedy club. The mourners at the funeral were nearly drowned out by the snapping shutters of paparazzi, lingering just far enough back to seem tactful. Still, their heavy gazes never wavered from her tiny shoulders.

That was the first time she realized she hated that feeling.

But it couldn’t be helped. She was just… a pitiful person.

Mournful eyes. Pathetic demeanor.

So she got used to it.

Used to her peers staring when her father missed another recital. Used to Alfred gently informing her she'd be dining alone again. Used to the sympathetic nods from teachers who knew better than to ask about her weekend.

Used to being passed over in favor of her siblings—until some throwaway tabloid decided to spotlight “The Forgotten Daughter of Gotham’s Billionaire.” Once in a while, they remembered her. They crafted stories about the sad little girl in the big empty mansion, as if they knew anything. As if they cared.

Melissa learned early: people loved tragedies. But they didn’t care.

Pity was worthless. But it was all she had.

And even now, she was sure you pitied her. How could you not? The poor little rich girl—born with a silver spoon, but not a drop of love.

Yes, you pitied her.

And yet… she couldn’t bring herself to hate you for it.

Why else would you offer her your whole world? Your family, your home—everything that was yours, you shared like it was nothing. Without even thinking.

Okay, maybe part of her did resent it. That you showed her—so casually—all the things she’d been robbed of. Family dinners. Petty arguments. Noise. Mess.

What gave you the right to pity her when you were the odd one out? The misfit. The one who didn’t belong.

And still… she couldn’t hate you.

Because you were different.

You were kind.

Even with the sharp eyes and polished exterior of a true Wayne, you chose to be kind.

Not performatively, not out of guilt. Just… because you could.

Melissa hadn’t known what to make of that at first. She kept waiting for the catch—for you to ask for something, for the mask to slip. But it never did. You tittered with a joy that could only be genuine as you observed her.

“C’mon, let’s get some BatBurger– it’s in the food court over there. Then I can do your colors– I’m betting you're a spring and–” As you chattered on, you laced your arm with hers and walked forward.

Melissa had been surrounded by ghosts her whole life. Ghosts of people who left, ghosts of promises never kept.

But you weren’t a ghost. You were real. Solid. Warm.

And for the first time in forever, she didn’t feel pitied. She felt seen.

Loved? No. Not yet.

But maybe… Maybe she was starting to understand what that could feel like.

@GothamGal96 Just saw Melissa Wayne at a thrift store?? With some girl in cat socks?? 2025 is wild already 😭🛍️ #GothamSightings 🕐 1:42 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Gotham Eastside

Reply to @GothamGal96 @mallratmayhem not cat socks 😭😭 she’s converting the billionaire one meme sock at a time 🕑 1:48 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@urbancryptid melissa wayne looked like a deer in headlights when that girl held up a pink dress to her. rich people rly don't know what polyester is huh 🕓 4:17 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Near Clocktower Market

Reply to @urbancryptid @fauxfurfemme melissa was probably like “what’s a price tag?” 🕓 4:23 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@CoffeeAndChaos ngl it was kinda cute watching that Wayne girl try to argue over who pays for a $12 dress. Money can’t buy stubborn friends I guess 😂💳💥 🕝 2:31 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Midtown Gotham

Reply to @CoffeeAndChaos @thriftybaddies this is what late-stage capitalism meant actually 🕜 2:35 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@batbratblog melissa wayne looked so awkward at the checkout… like she didn’t know what to do with her hands 😭 the other girl just smiled and paid like a pro. power move tbh. 🕖 7:03 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Gotham Mall District

Reply to @batbratblog @chaoscrochet she held her card like it was a weapon and the other girl just hit her with ✨emotion✨ 🕖 7:08 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@thegothamsocial Spotted: The Forgotten Wayne Daughter™ being human for once?? 👀 Thrift shopping with a girl who clearly gives no f’s about her last name. Friendship goals or PR stunt?? 🤔 🕘 9:14 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Gotham Heights

Reply to @thegothamsocial @gossipgargoyle i kinda hope it’s not PR. she looked… real? like, not camera-ready real. mascara smudge and everything. 🕘 9:21 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@pennyworthtruthers okay but the way that girl just knew melissa liked bright colors??? 👀👀 that’s not just friends behavior I fear 🕥 10:48 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Gotham Northside

Reply to @pennyworthtruthers @roomtempteablog this is the slowest burn enemies-to-besties arc i didn’t know i needed 🕚 10:53 PM · Apr 5, 2025

@chaoticneutralvibes melissa wayne walking out of a thrift store looking like she just survived emotional whiplash… girl. blink twice if you’re being socialized against your will 💀💅 🕤 3:09 PM · Apr 5, 2025 · Old Quarter

Reply to @chaoticneutralvibes @thisisfinebat melissa walking like her soul just updated its firmware. girl’s emotionally rebooting in public 🕤 3:15 PM · Apr 5, 2025

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere core #yandere batfam #yandere oc #just let me ramble #original character #switched at birth au

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natalievoncatte · 2 months ago

Text

Alex and Kara looked at each other. Kara stood before her desk in full Supergirl regalia, cape feeling heavy on her back.

“There has to be an explanation for this,” said Alex.

Kara couldn’t accept that. If Lena had gone no-contact for a time, that would be reasonable. She’d sometimes hole up in her lab for days at a time, barely sleeping or eating, consumed by an idea- but she would warn Kara first. She definitely wouldn’t no-show a brunch da… a brunch friend meetup between friends at their favorite patisserie and then go totally off radar for three days.

“She didn’t show up to our brunch,” Kara said. “We have to find her. I need to know she’s okay, Alex.”

Her sister sat back in her chair and looked back at her over her desk.

“Have you looked? You can cover more ground and do it faster than we ever could.”

“Of course I’ve *looked*,” said Kara. “That’s why I’m so worried. I flew past her apartment and things weren’t right. There was a mug of tea left out on the counter. The place was messy. Lena doesn’t do messy.”

“But no signs of a struggle,” said Alex.

“I called Jess and she said Lena left her a message saying she needed a few days away and she’d be back by Friday.”

“So,” said Alex, “sounds like you should wait until Friday.”

“She missed our date, Alex.”

There was a heavy, uncomfortable pause. Alex went very still, examining Kara with calculating eyes. She picked up a pen and toyed with it in both hands, frowning.

“Maybe she just needs space?”

“Why would she need space. I’m her best friend. We were having Sunday brunch. We have Sunday brunch every Sunday.”

Alex rocked slightly in her desk chair.

“Okay. I’ll order Brainy to start a search and we’ll see if we can pin her down, but Kara… she’s your friend. Sometimes friends need space. Something may have come up.”

Kara crossed her arms. “Then why wouldn’t she tell me? She wouldn’t just ghost me, Alex. I’m telling you she wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” Alex began, “alright, like I said, we’ll start a search.”

She said something else, but Alex’s voice was drowned out by another.

Lex.

“Hello, Kara. Don’t move, don’t react. I’ve hacked the DEO systems and I’m broadcasting on a frequency your charming sister can’t hear, only you. You’re going to follow my instructions. Say okay, or there will be consequences.”

“Okay, Alex,” said Kara, “I’ll go home and try to relax.”

Kara had to use every ounce of her Kryptonian control over her muscles and breathing to appear calm.

“I’ll let you know if we wind anything.”

Kara nodded and turned to leave.

“Go to your locker, and change. You’ll find one of my agents has left a note with an address. Go there, and do not change back into that cheerful little costume of yours. This one is for Kara Danvers.

Thinking along the way, Kara walked silently to the locker room. Once she was inside, and free of cameras, she hurriedly texted Alex, urging her not to react or do anything obvious but that the system had been compromised and there was at least one Cadmus goon in the building.

Then, she changed. The note was in the pocket of her shirt.

Grinding her teeth, Kara left the DEO as a human did, on foot, and traversed National City as a human did, slowly. It didn’t take long for her to spot the drones; she was being watched.

The address wasn’t far, a small commercial building about ten blocks from the DEO, a nondescript brick block with roll-up garage doors not unlike a dozen others on the same street. Kara walked around to the side of the building where a glass door buzzed and unlocked.

Kara opened it and stepped inside. Immediately inside the entrance was just an empty vestibule with an occupied receptionists’s counter and an old chair. A sticky note hung on the wall with an arrow.

Following it, Kara found a solid door that was lined on the inside with lead, as were the walls, of course. She turned the knob, super-hearing amplifying the turning of its oiled core, and stepped through.

On the other side was a large pod hooked up to a variety of tubes and cables. As she walked in, Kara passed a bank of monitors lining the wall with the door. A Bluetooth speaker sat on a folding table. Lex’s voice carried from it.

“Hello, Kara.”

“What is this?”

“I know you’ve been frantically looking for my sister. She’s been here the entire time. Look- but don’t touch. You won’t like the consequences.”

As he spoke, the outer shell of the pod rotated open, revealing a tank of amber liquid. Lena floated inside, an oxygen mask on her face and sensors stuck to her body. She was dressed in a black bodysuit, and looked changed somehow. Kara wasn’t sure how, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Sleeping beauty herself.”

“What have you done to her?”

“Well,” said Lex, “it’s quite a long story and you’re a bit too dull to grasp the complexity so I’ll sum up: a little bit of Harun-El here, a bit of your DNA that my mother stole there, and a tiny sprinkle of a special bespoke Kryptonite with a very short half life… the short answer is that I’ve given my sister superpowers.”

Kara blinked.

“You… what? Why?”

Lex laughed, tinny and distant. “It’s simple really. It’s all about the final, secret ingredient, another type of Kryptonite radiation courtesy of my… what’s the word I’m looking for… my inferior imitator, Max Lord. You may remember it.”

“Lex,” Kara said. “What did you do?”

“Let me show you.”

The pod’s inner transparent walls opened and dumped Lena on the floor. She landed on her knees, gasping as she yanked the mask away from her mouth and stood up.

“Kara?” she said. “Where are we? How did we get here? I was about to leave for… I feel strange.”

Lena looked at her with wide wild eyes and Kara edged closer, her heart pounding harder with every step. Her dark hair was slicked back over her neck from the fluid in the tank and she looked pale, but her cheeks were just a touch fuller.

Then it hit Kara, why Lena had looked different. She looked to have put on fifteen pounds at least of muscle, adding a blocky quality to her shoulders, thickening her legs and biceps. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Lena dear,” said the tinny speaker, “sister mine. I must tell you something.”

Lena winced. “Why is he so loud? Wait, Lex? What is this? What did you do?”

Kara froze, a cold ball forming in her stomach. Oh great Rao.

She could see it. A faint hint of a red sparkle in the whites of Lena’s eyes.

Courtesy of Max Lord.

“Lena,” said Kara. “Listen, okay? Try to stay calm. I’ll get you som help.”

“No, listen to me,” Lex said. “I have a little secret to tell you.”

Lena’s gaze snapped around to the speaker. Behind Kara, the monitors turned on, and Lena’s eyes went wide. Kara paused for a moment and then turned, dread coiling like a serpent in her guts.

One monitor showed her catching a bullet. Another, yanking open her shirt to reveal the crest. Another… another… another. There was even one with a feed of her changing out of her suit in the DEO locker room.

“Kara Danvers,” Lex intoned, “is Supergirl. She lied to you. She’s been lying to you. She’s always lied to you. It’s just as I said- the alien has been using you since the start.”

“Lena,” said Kara. “He’s lying.”

Lena looked at her sharply, eyes narrowing. “About you being Supergirl?”

“No, I am,” Kara admitted, “but I would never use you. I have my reasons why I didn’t tell you and I promise I’ll tell you everything, but first you need help. Lex has poisoned you. You will get very sick if we don’t take you back to the DEO.”

“So she can take your powers!” Lex said. “The powers I gave you. I didn’t poison you, I made you a god. We’re going be gods together, Lena. Once we rid the world of these alien freaks we’ll show the world a better tomorrow.”

“Lex,” said Lena, “shut the fuck up.”

“She lied, she lied!” the speaker cackled.

Lena looked at it. “Where are you?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as you’ve dealt with the Kryptonian.”

Lena smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only a baring of teeth.

“I see. I need a moment in private with Kara.”

Lena glanced at the speaker and it exploded in a shower of sparks and melted plastic, leaving scorch marks on the table.

Oh Rao. It took Kara years to use her heat vision. Lena had tapped into it in what, a minute?

“Lena,” Kara said, as softly as she dared. “I need you to listen to me.”

“No, you’re going to listen.”

Lena blurred. The impact shook Kara to the bones, rattled her teeth in the sockets. Before she knew what happened, she was against the wall, wrists held firmly in Lena’s hands, pinned above her head. Lena leaned in close, languidly pressing her entire body against Kara’s.

“Do you remember,” Lena husked, “that day in my office when you were being a little brat about doing your job and I called you to the carpet for it?”

Kara blinked.

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “I don’t think brat is the word I’d chose.”

“I would,” Lena said, her voice low and sultry, as she looked at Kara through her lashes. “That’s exactly what you were until I put you in your place, and then you were ready to be a good girl for me.”

Kara’s brain short circuited. It took her a half minute to stammer a few nonsense syllables as a jolt shot up her spine from low in her hips to the crown of her head, like she’d been plunged into frigid water.

Kara stared back at her, feeling a strange squirming pressure that she quickly realized was Lena pushing her thighs apart with one of her own, pressing her knee between them to drive her thigh muscle into Kara, against the apex of her legs.

“Interesting,” Lena whispered, her blow eyes scanning Kara’s features. “The flush is obvious… but the heat bloom on your skin and the pupil dilation.”

Kara gasped.

“See,” Lena whispered into Kara’s lips. “Good girl.”

Kara honest to God whimpered.

“My brother. Silly boy, probably thought I was going to go into a rage and kill you because you lied to me for so long.”

Kara nodded. “Yeah that was probably his plan.”

“He’s such a silly goose,” said Lena. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised when I rip his head off his neck.”

“Lena!”

“Oh come on, you know you want to. You must have thought about it. It would be so easy to just… finish it.”

“I have,” Kara admitted, “but it wouldn’t be right. I can’t just murder a man in cold blood.”

Lena’s body undulated against her.

“Please stop.”

“Why?”

“He exposed you to Red Kryptonite. You’re not thinking straight. I’d be taking advantage of you.”

“It seems I’m the one who’s pinned you, miss Danvers. I don’t think you’re taking advantage.”

“Lena,” Kara said, “I want to talk, okay? I want to talk about all of this and… and take things slow. Your brother is probably watching this.”

“Let him,” said Lena. “I’ll be the icing on the cake. You know all this sturm and drang of his is just Lex throwing a tantrum because Clark wouldn’t fuck him.”

“Lena!”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Kara. The way you look at my tits. We both know you want this.”

“Okay maybe I was looking,” Kara admitted, breathing harder. “You’re v-very… very pretty and I’ve been feeling things for you for a long time and… and Lena please I don’t want to do this like this.”

Lena drew back.

“You’re terrified.”

Kara nodded, biting her lip. Slowly, Lena released her grip on Kara’s wrists and stepped back.

“Please come with me to the DEO. It hasn’t been long but the longer you go without treatment the worse you’ll get. Pretty soon it won’t matter if I say no.”

Lena recoiled, horrified. “I would… I would never.”

“When I was poisoned like this, I threw Cat Grant off a building.”

“Apparently, it didn’t work. I’m sure she had it coming.”

“I almost killed Alex.”

Lena frowned. “Oh.”

Kara extended a hand. “Come with me, okay?”

Lena hesitated, then closed a firm grip around Kara’s outstretched palm and let Kara lead her back to the door. Kara took a sharp breath and guided Lena outside.

As soon as they hit the open air, Lena clapped her hands over her ears and screamed.

“Kara! Kara, what’s happening, what is this?”

“It’s your super-senses. Just try to focus on one sound. Here.”

Kara pulled her into an embrace, guiding her ear to Kara’s chest as Eliza once did for her. Gritting her teeth, Lena locked her arms around Kara and breathed hard, squeezing Kara’s ribs.

“Come on, I’ve got you.”

Finally, Alex showed up with five vans full of DEO agents. Kara focused on guiding Lena into the back of one of the vans.

“Was he here?” said Alex.

“Clear the building and all that but get us back to the DEO now,” Kara demanded. “Tell Brainy to get the Red K protocol ready.”

“What? Oh God, Kara, have you been exposed?”

“No, Lena has.”

Alex blinked.

“Wait, what?”

“Just get us back!”

Alex turned and made a motion at the driver and the van backed into a j-turn. Lena was still clinging to her.

“Kara, it’s too much, it hurts.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’ll get you some noise canceling headphones when we get back. Just listen to my heart, okay?”

Lena nodded against her chest.

When they finally arrived, Kara gently picked Lena up and carried her inside and directly to the med bay, laying her on a the sunbed, while Brainy helped Alex set up the Red Kryptonite scrubber protocol.

Lena relaxed into the bed as Kara placed the headphones on her.

“Kara,” said Alex. “A word.”

Kara followed her outside, then immediately dumped everything on her.

Alex blinked a few times.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

“Yeah,” said Kara.

“You didn’t have to be that detailed, Kara. I could have gone without you describing Lena doing the knee thing to my little sister.”

“The what?”

Alex rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Okay, okay. She’s going to be okay. Except she has superpowers now. She still needs a complete physical, just to make sure he didn’t do anything else, no surprises.”

“Right.”

“I can’t believe that was his whole plan. Make Lena a super and expose her to Red Kryptonite?”

“If he could give her powers, he could give himself powers, or someone else. This is serious, Alex.”

“I know, but seriously, what did he think was going to happen? She’d lose her mind and attack you?”

“I think that was the idea, yes.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. This is a lot. One step at a time. We’ll need to find him. Let your girl sleep off the treatments and we’ll talk to her, see what she knows that might help us.”

“My girl?” said Kara.

Alex rolled her eyes.

Kara was on the balcony when Lena joined her, having changed into a borrowed set of DEO fatigues. She nervously walked out into the night air and leaned next to Kara.

“Have you adjusted to the noise?”

“Yes, but I…” she trailed off.

Lena stood up and her gaze fell upwards. She stared at the sky, dumbfounded.

“There’s… there’s an aurora. There’s an aurora and… colors. My God, is this how you see it?”

“Yeah,” Kara said softly, too busy staring at Lena.

Finally, Lena looked at her.

“About earlier. I’m sorry. I pushed boundaries and… thinking about it scared me. I would never hurt you, Kara.”

“I know,” said Kara. “I know that, but I also know what it’s like to be exposed to that stuff, to have all your worst thoughts come to the surface. To not feel control of yourself. I forgive you.”

Lena nodded, wringing her hands.

“About what I said, though.”

“About what you said.”

Kara turned and lunged, pulling Lena to her, lifting her slightly off her feet. Lena’s eyes went wide.

“Is this okay?”

Lena blinked a few times and nodded.

Kara kissed her.

She kissed her freely, without worrying about injuring her. She held her the same way, pressing firmly. Lena’s hands curled around her arms with stunning strength and Kara felt her belly do a backflip as Lena actually pushed her back a step and into the balcony railing.

Kara didn’t have to worry about hurting her. She didn’t have to hold back. Lena apparently had never even considered holding back, because she was apparently going for the Knee Thing again. Kara thought she heard the sound of something cracking, but that made no sense.

“Kara!” Alex barked.

Kara broke from the kiss, looking over Lena’s shoulder to find Alex glaring at her.

“Kara,” said Alex, “I’m glad you two dipshits finally realized that you’re dating, but please do not destroy the building.”

Kara furrowed her brows, then looked down to realize that her butt had cratered the retraining wall behind her.

“Oh,” said Kara. “Right.”

“We need to talk about next steps. Lena, I need to know what you know about-“

“Lex is, or was, at an old LuthorCorp satellite lab in Central City. I recognized the background sounds while he was talking.”

“Oh. Okay. We should-“

“Later,” said Lena.

Alex put her fists on her hips. “I don’t work for you, Luthor.”

“True, but your sister does,” said Lena. “Don’t you, darling?”

“Um, yes,” Kara said softly.

“I hate my life,” Alex muttered, as she stormed back inside.

Lena turned her full attention back to Kara, tilting her chin down to look at her through her eyelashes and smirk.

“Now, let’s pick up where we left off.”

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pathologicalreid · 7 months ago

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a long way to go | s.r.

in which your family breaks no contact and Spencer reminds you that you're doing the right thing

margovember

kindergarten teacher!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst? (hurt/comfort) content warning: nondescript childhood trauma, kindergarten teacher!reader word count: 1.4k a/n: okay so the request was for angst and it is but the comfort gives fluff. at this point my genres are arbitrary. huge shout out to anyone else who isn't going home for thanksgiving for one reason or another.

Frowning at the email on your computer, you shifted your weight on your rotating chair and leaned your head back into the chair cover that Garcia had crocheted for you.

We’d love for you to join us.

It felt as though someone had tossed a bucket of ice water over your head, years and years of blocking emails and leaving your phone number unlisted had culminated in this moment. It shouldn’t surprise you; you worked at a public school and your email was listed in the faculty directory, but the sight of your father’s name left a sour taste in your mouth.

You were alone in your classroom, the fluorescent lights were turned off, leaving you in the gentle illumination of the string lights that you kept threaded along the walls. Contract hours were over, but you still had papers that needed to be completed. Opening your email after the final bell had thrown a wrench in your plans.

A knock on your door pulled you out of your haze, you looked up to see Spencer standing in the doorway. You checked the time in the corner of your monitor to find that it was nearly six, well into the evening, and you hadn’t even noticed. “Did we have plans?” You asked, alarm rising in your tone, you looked down at your day planner and didn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t miss something.

“No,” Spencer said immediately, wanting to quell any of your anxieties before they had the chance to develop. “I hadn’t heard from you today, so I might’ve asked Garcia if she had your location on your phone and found that you were at work much later than usual,” he told you, setting his messenger bag on one of your student’s desks before leaning against yours.

You leaned over your desk, setting your chin in your hands and sighing. “You found me,” you mumbled unenthusiastically, eyeing your monitor again.

He’d cut his hair again, in a moment of frustration he’d started snipping, but he ended up calling you for help. It no longer feathered the tops of his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, tilting his head to the side and tapping the bobblehead you kept on your desk.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your head, “Nothing, I just have a lot of work to do.” You were designing a holiday coloring page, making the outlines yourself because you didn’t like any of the ones you found on the internet.

“Okay,” Spencer responded, extending his vowels. “Now you’re lying to me,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation; he was merely stating the truth.

It bothered you that he was right, and it bothered you that you lied to him. You shouldn’t feel the need to lie to him because, really, if anyone was going to understand how you felt about the email, it was Spencer. You wedged your hands beneath your thighs, keeping yourself from digging your nails into your palms, “My father sent me an email.”

Dad felt too casual, and his first name felt too detached. He was just your father, someone who had been chosen time and time again over you, and whom you hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Five years ago,” you answered distantly, remembering how he’d had the nerve to show up at your college graduation even though the rest of your family knew you weren’t in contact with him. Wetting your lips, you looked back at the email on your screen, “He wants me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family.” People that you shared no connection to—blood or otherwise—and made up the family that had taken your place in his life.

Spencer straightened up a stack of papers on your desk, the shuffling sound so familiar that it put you at ease, “What do you want to do?”

You pinched your eyebrows together, not used to someone asking for your wants, “I want to reply to him, but I know that engaging with him would be equivalent to opening the floodgates.” Releasing a dam of trauma that wasn’t suited for your kindergarten classroom, “I can’t reply to this email.”

Nodding softly, Spencer studied your eyes with a pained look in his eyes, “I know, honey.”

Taking the computer mouse in your trembling hand, you scrolled over the email and blocked the sender before deleting the email and deleting it from the trash for good measure. Hot tears welled in your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself, “I hate him.”

You despised him. A man who you shared blood with just so happened to be someone you hated with bone in your body. Bones he had contributed to that you wished you could pull from your body and replace with an untainted set. What was worse was that he had the ability to influence your emotions like this, he could make you angry with nothing more than digital mail.

Anger felt so useless, it was something he used as armor, and you feared that by being angry, you were becoming like him. You were so horrified by the mere idea of your own anger that it made you cry, and you were terrified of your life becoming one big circle.

They say if you grow up with an angry man in your house, then there will always be an angry man in your house. All you needed was to believe in Spencer’s ability to be gentle, but nothing Spencer did would change the fact that you cried as soon as you were pricked with rage.

Spencer crouched in front of you, taking both of your hands in his larger ones and keeping them warm for you. “You don’t owe them anything,” he told you, watching you carefully with his big brown eyes, “It hurts. I know it hurts right now, but you know that you just did the right thing. I’ll remind you of it for as long as it takes for you to believe it.”

The dam broke then, tears fall from your chin to your lap as Spencer gathered you in his arms to the best of his ability, you tried not to flinch away from his embrace. You reminded yourself that he wasn’t there to hurt you, he was there to help you. He ran his palm flat along your spine as you gave in, burying your face in the crook of his neck and basking in the darkness of your own sorrow.

“You did the right thing,” he muttered softly, pulling away and using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your tears. “You don’t need to apologize to anyone about it,” he said preemptively, knowing you were about to apologize to him for your show of emotion.

You nodded dazedly, leaning your cheek into his palm as he cupped your face with his hands, “I don’t know what I do now.”

Spencer smiled gently at you, “We’re gonna keep moving forward. Are you hungry? Do you want to get dinner?”

Sighing, you shrugged despondently, looking back at your now blank monitor, “I should get some stuff done.” You wiggled the mouse and typed in your password, you stared blankly at your unfinished coloring page, any and all motivation to finish the drawing had vacated as soon as your father made contact.

“What if,” Spencer started, “You come home with me tonight, and tomorrow I’ll come in with you? You can finish up your work and I’ll get to spend some time with you.” Spencer Reid might just be the only person willing to accompany you to work on a Saturday just because you’re having a hard time.

You bowed your head, “You don’t have to do this, Spence.”

He hummed in response, “I want to, and besides—we have plans to make.”

You frowned, your head lifting so you could look him in the face and inquire for more details, “Plans for what?”

“Thanksgiving,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious, “You’ll get to join BAUsgiving this year, it’s one of Garcia’s favorite holidays.”

Faltering, your eyes widened at his insistence, and you took a deep breath, “I’m not… I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows incredulously, “Honey, you’re part of that family now. Besides, sometimes I think the team likes you more than me.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #margovember #kindergarten teacher!reader

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thewinter-eden · 2 months ago

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That Your Man? pt. II

pairing: Lee Minho x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: mugger!Minho patrols his usual haunts, one of which being the parking lot where you first met. One night, mid-mugging, he sees you through the window of the coffee shop where he first bought you cake--but you're there with the man he thought you were going to break up with. He decides stealing girlfriends (or, rather, you) is now included in his job description.

warnings: Mugging, Minho still has a gun, asshole bf (still), evidence of past successful muggings, cats, fake boyfriend, angst, Ateez (one member), more crack/slice of life than horror.

Author's Note: I don't even know what to say about this. It just kind of happened and then it kept going. Oh well. Here we are.

Word Count: 15k

series info PART 2 INFO

< part 1

You’re newly single, newly apartment-broke, newly jobless. Happy birthday to you. Your alarm wakes you at 5am even on Sundays, your phone battery refuses to last longer than two hours unplugged, and your printer is sick of spitting out wads of mangled cardstock for your resumes.

Three weeks after that fateful birthday night in the parking lot, when Jake gave you the last bit of persuasion you needed to stop putting up with his cool detachment from your relationship, and you’re already struggling to make ends meet. You hadn’t quit your job, nor would you ever have dreamed of it. You’d worked and schooled infinite hours to get it, at last landing the vet tech job of your dreams in a private boutique clinic, only to lose it with one phone call.

You’d never realized how very small Jake was until he coped with your breaking up with him by informing your place of work that you were implicated in an armed robbery.

It’s not true; the police never even looked you up after Minho called them and reported that some nondescript, unidentified woman had been robbed; your name wasn’t in any reports or investigations, but Jake had decided since it was his company card that had been stolen and maxed out on gift cards, you must have given it to the mugger (and, technically, true enough).

But the phone call was more than enough reason to your vet clinic, and they let you go without even a week’s warning.

You’re halfway through a stale, microwaved breakfast burrito, sitting in the dark at your kitchen table with only the painful light of your laptop screen beaming stubbornly through the tinted lenses of your blue light glasses when an email pops up in your inbox. The subject line reads INTRODUCTORY INTERVIEW - WAYWARD STREET CAT HOTEL.

You’ve never clicked into an email so fast.

A quick scan tells you they liked your resume, they want you to come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon, and their address is only four blocks away from your apartment—a major plus when you don’t have a car and you’d rather avoid public transportation if at all possible.

Typing back a hurried—and quadruple spelling checked—response accepting the invitation, you immediately add the appointment to your calendar. It fits snugly between two other interviews, one with a coffee stand that just barely promises to pay minimum wage, and the other for a receptionist position at the biggest commercial vet clinic in town, that made sure to inform you in their very first email that there were over a hundred other applicants being considered.

You don’t want to be a drive-through barista, and you don’t want to diminish your college degree to a receptionist job (although a foot in the door is a foot in the door), so your heart is fully set on Wayward Street Cat Hotel. There’s so much bubbling hope in your chest that you have to close your computer and eat the rest of your burrito in the dark, praying with all your might that the hope doesn’t pop.

Trudging through your full day of first interviews (and one second interview that definitely doesn’t seem like it’s going to lead to a third), you finally make it back home and crash into bed, barely managing to change out of your day clothes and brush your teeth before sinking into disappointed slumber.

Night turns to day, and after another chalky burrito and another cup of cheap coffee, another fruitless morning of refreshing your email inbox, you step into a fresh set of professional interview attire and try to face the day with renewal. It’s not like you try to anticipate another booked schedule of unsuccessful interviews, but after so many days of getting punched by one rejection after another, it’s difficult to approach each appointment with an open mind.

After a pleasant but uninspiring meeting with the manager of the drive-through coffee stand, you leave the interview with basically the promise of the job if you want it, but you don’t see yourself jumping at that opportunity until you absolutely have to. After the two remaining interviews of the day, you may reassess, but you withheld your commitment until you could actually be sure that it was your only chance.

The Wayward Street Cat Hotel is a charming little house-like structure on the corner with a picturesque coffee shop and a small business ice cream shop on one side and a positively blooming little florist on the other side.

As you approach the door, there’s a number of cat-related signs on the window. “No dogs allowed,” “This property is protected by attack cats,” “Free range cats at work, please knock before opening.” The soft and quaint feel of the warm green door and front step of the facility draws you in immediately, thinking of those hand-drawn greeting cards or water color canvases that portray little cottages surrounded by flowers. You knock on the door.

Not even a full minute later, a young man’s face pops into view, dimples cratering his cheeks as he tosses you a wave and then gestures for you to wait. You smile back awkwardly, watching as he bends down and scoops up a small white cat into his arms, cradling it to his chest and hurrying to close it into a room in the back. Moments later, the man comes jogging back, unlocking the door, and letting you inside.

“Hi there,” He greets cheerfully. “You’re the interview?”

You nod, pressing your hand into his palm to shake, and tell him your name.

He gestures for you to come in and sit with him at the tiny desk in the back, picking up a clipboard and brushing cat hair off of his black shirt. “I’m San. I’ll be heading our conversation today, is that okay?”

You’re confused. “Um. Yes?”

“It’s just that I’m only an employee, and that the owner won’t be in until tomorrow. But I promise I’ll be thorough in my notes.” He grins at you, encouraged by the polite laughter you give him as you wave off his concerns.

“That’s completely fine, no worries.” You spend the next few minutes discussing your education, your work history, and your personal experience with animals. He’s polite, charming, and pleasantly engaging as he runs you through a list of scripted questions, pausing between each one to pen down your answers and offer kind little comments as you bounce back responses.

“Okay!” He sets the clipboard down at last and fixes you with another dimpled grin. “Well, I feel good about this. You seem great, and I love your background for this. Why don’t you accompany me on my rounds this morning and we’ll see what you think of the actual work?”

This suggestion thrills you. No polite, tight smiles and tense handshakes and empty “We’ll be in touch” promises. Even if he decides that you can’t be trusted to work in cat boarding, at least you get to meet some kitties before you go home and cry into a vat of ice cream. You get up, leaving your bag on the chair you were just sitting in, and quickly follow him back towards the door.

The facility is a single large room, one half wall dividing the front from the back, with the desk you just had your interview at set on the back side of said wall. At the front of the room, there’s a sink, a set of cabinets, and a supply closet on the same wall as the door you entered through. To either side of you, the walls are lined with doors, all the way to the back of the room.

Each door is solid on the bottom and grated at the top so you can look in and see the kitty guests lounging in their own private rooms, blinking lazily at you as you pass by the windows. It’s not what you would have thought—all of the cat boarding facilities you’ve seen online look like sterile vet environments, with boxes in the wall that have barely enough room for a cat bed and a portable litter box.

This is small and cozy, but genuinely akin to a hotel for cats.

“So we have two shifts per day—but the boss said maybe we’d add a third since we’re looking for another worker. Every morning I come in around six am and check on everybody.” San begins, peeking into all of the rooms. It’s almost noon, so you figure he must have done all of this already, but that doesn’t stop him from chatting blithely about his entire morning routine.

When he’s finished his spiel, he guides you to a room about halfway down the row. “This is how far I got before your appointment. This is Bbam.” He steps aside so you can peer in and find the big gray tabby lounging comfortably on a plush bed. “He’s either an animatronic cat or a changeling.”

You give a shocked laugh at his playful words, but as you look at Bbam, you realize exactly what he’s talking about. The gray tabby has perfectly round eyes, about half the size of golf balls, which he pins to you the moment you appear in his line of sight. He meows at you, and when he does, his mouth hinges down at the jaw like a robot kitty. He does look like an animatronic cat. “Oh my god, he’s kind of freaking me out.” The moment you speak, Bbam’s eyes flick to the side, then down to the floor, then back at you—like he’s actually understanding your words.

San laughs at the sudden look of discomfort on your face. “Yeah, he appears in my nightmares sometimes. I frequently ask him not to answer me, if he has the ability to do so. Just in case. But he’s a huge sweetheart. Step back.” San turns the knob and swings the door open, and Bbam immediately jumps down from the bed and winds himself around your feet. “He’s a total love, once you get past the horrible expression on his face. So, he’s here for three more days—his owners went to Costa Rica.” He tells you every detail about the cat as he shakes out the blankets and the bed, sweeps the floor, cleans the litter box, changes the water, and then fills the food dish. “He gets totally nutty about meal times so he gets a Prozac at dinner.”

“Aw, poor Bbam.” You’ve spent the entire demonstration crouched in the doorway, letting the kitty bonk his head against your knees and curl himself around your hand and purr deep guttural grumbles at you. “He’s just a hungry little guy.”

“Bbam weighs thirty-one pounds.”

“He’s a hungry big guy.” You’re totally in love. Bbam the freaky animatronic changeling cat is the sweetest thing you’ve ever put your hands on, and every little mew he gives you digs right into your heart.

San notices the dumbstruck puppy love look on your face. “You haven’t even met the kittens yet. Come on.” He takes you all through the facility, introducing you to each of the cats and talking to them sweetly in a low, soothing tone. Some of them jump out and practically maul you for affection, while others tuck themselves safely under the stools that are set up specifically for the purpose of hiding. Every time one of them hides from you, San seems to know exactly why.

“She just got here this morning,” He’ll say. “That’s Bobae, she’s still nervous. She probably won’t eat her food tonight but I put just enough in to cover the bottom of the bowl, so I can see if she’s comfortable enough to try.”

Or— “That’s Kyong, he’s a little nervous. He hisses but as soon as we open the door he’ll run over here and start demanding affection, hissing all the while, see?—yep, there he goes. He won’t hurt you, just wants to make sure you know he’s a big scary cat.”

You follow along, soon jumping in to hand him things or going ahead to read the charts and starting on the food prep, even taking a few litter boxes from him to clean so he can focus on tidying up the rooms. By the time you’ve helped him finish his shift, your head and heart are chock full of cat information and your interview clothes are positively covered in kitty hair.

“Yeah, so that’s the morning shift. Evening shift starts at 4, and we do pretty much exactly the same thing, and then in between washing dishes and doing laundry we take care of emails and phone calls. It’s really simple, really rewarding if you like cats—you just have to hope the clients are nice. Most of the owners are little old ladies, and it’s kind of hit or miss with their temperaments.” San beams at you, standing back after letting you wash your hands and borrow one of the many lint rollers. “So? What do you think?”

“I think you must be the most peaceful person on the planet, if this is your day job.” You respond, somewhat in disbelief at the calm atmosphere and the instant gratification of seeing all of your efforts be either appreciated or at the very least quietly tolerated by all of these cats. “But I was wondering how our schedules would work? Like would we swap mornings and evenings, or do you do full days?”

He passes you a towel to dry your hands. “Since right now it’s just me and the boss, we’ve been trading days. I do the first half of the week, we both work Wednesdays, he does the second half of the week, and we alternate so that we can have weekends off. If he likes you and hires you on, then we’ll have more flexibility, which I’m excited for.”

You can’t think of a single better place to work right now, where your still emotionally-reeling brain can take a break and get 6-8 hours of kitty love as your day job. “That sounds great. So, um…” You clasp your hands. “I guess you’ll call me, or?”

He flinches a little, like he totally forgot that you weren’t a done deal yet. “Oh, gosh, yes. Hold on.” He runs back to the desk and returns to you with your bag, passing it to you as he scribbles a note on his clipboard. “The boss told me if I like you for the interview and the rounds both to go ahead and invite you for the morning shift tomorrow. I get here at 5:30, drink my coffee, look at emails and the schedule for the day. You’re welcome any time between then and 6am. Just knock on the door and I’ll let you in. If he signs off on you by the end of the day, I’ll get you your own door code. This is my personal cell number in case you need to reach me, and the internal email address for employees.” He gives you the piece of paper.

You hold it like treasure, your hands shaking as you tuck it carefully into your bag and then double check that it’s safely inside one of the pockets.

“I say employees,” He laughs at himself. “Right now it’s just me and the boss. But we both check it every day, so don’t hesitate to email for any reason. I’m kind of a stickler for punctuality, so please shoot an email or a text if you’re going to be late for traffic or something. Sound good?” He sticks out his hand, and this time you’re greeted with a warm and friendly handshake rather than the tight ones that reek of hand sanitizer from all of the other places you’ve been to this week.

“It sounds great. Thank you so much for having me in, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” You’re practically vibrating with excitement. He sees you out the door and waves through the window as you head for the sidewalk, and as you all but bounce your way home, you couldn’t pry the toothy grin off your face with a crow bar.

You don’t go to your next interview.

Instead, you finally take the time to cook yourself dinner. The first real meal you’ve had since the night you got robbed at gunpoint by a strangely considerate criminal who bought you cake on your birthday. You actually use pans and cutting boards and the oven fan and an egg timer and by the time it’s done, your stomach is growling so loudly that it’s automatically the best food you’ve ever eaten.

You take the time to shower, and wash your hair and shave your legs and then moisturize your skin until you’re glowing and pink in the dingy light of your cramped bathroom. You’re five seconds away from tumbling into bed in a set of matching cotton pajamas and a microfiber towel turban and the book you’ve been dying to read but haven’t had the energy to even look at when your phone dings.

Your heart slams like a jackhammer.

What if it’s San? Or the owner of the cat hotel?

What if they changed their mind?

You can just see the text—’sorry, we’ve selected another applicant. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow.’

You snatch the phone off the nightstand, thumbing past the password and blinking hazily down at the dim screen. It’s not San, or anyone who works at Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

It’s Jake.

‘911—need to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

Your eyes reflexively well with tears, the raw edges of your heart still bleeding from the difficult emotions of breaking off your lengthy relationship, and you feel a clenching in your chest. Despite knowing that nothing Jake has ever thought of as urgent has ever been actually urgent, you glumly type back a response and get an address in return.

You blink at it in disbelief.

It’s that coffee shop.

The one in the parking lot that you got robbed in. The one in the parking lot that Jake left you in, with an armed robber. The one across from the McDonald’s where Jake tried to make you eat (and pay for) your birthday dinner. The one across from the movie theater where he made you feel like a child for crying through a sad movie on your birthday.

The one that Minho took you to and begged you to eat from after your heart broke into a million little pieces.

It doesn’t matter. Jake says it’s urgent, so you have to go. You toss back your covers, dig through your drawers for something to wear—and you’re far too committed to the comfort you’re currently wrapped in to go for any of the jeans, so you pull out your coziest sweats and swap one cotton set for another.

Shaking out your hair, scrubbing your fingers through the stringy wet tendrils, you fold it into the fastest, sloppiest braid you’ve ever embarrassed yourself with, grab your purse, and head out the door. Cool air wraps around your damp throat, digging fingers into your dripping scalp, laying it’s icy palm against your back where your hoodie is catching all of the water from your hair.

One hasty Uber and about twenty minutes of anxious hand wringing and mentally chanting reassurances to yourself, you arrive at the coffee shop with almost rock-solid certainty that you’re going to be able to face Jake without completely falling apart.

Yeah, you’re the one who broke up with him.

Yeah, he definitely had it coming, and you definitely deserve better.

But you’ve been with him for so long that sometimes you still feel like he’s missing from you, and to see him again after three weeks might just be the straw that breaks you. Running your hands over the awkward fly-aways that float around your hairline, already feeling the knobby lumps of your terrible braid but not wanting to prolong the inevitable by stopping to fix it, you make your way up the sidewalk, adjusting your jacket collar under the hood of your sweater.

In the darkening light of evening, the coffee shop glows a warm golden light out onto the sidewalk, and you take a deep breath to brace yourself. You can see him just inside, in a thin t-shirt and a pair of jeans that you’ve seen a million times before—clothes that he barely manages to drag on before going out in public without a care.

You feel just a little miffed. This meeting had better be an actual emergency if he pulled you out of bed to spend money on an Uber and didn’t even bother to dress appropriately for the high-dollar coffee shop.

A bell rings softly when you push the door open and step inside, instantly enveloped in a rush of warmth. The air smells like hot sugar and cinnamon and rich coffee, and your eyes automatically slide to the display case full of aesthetic cakes.

Even after your hard earned dinner, your stomach grumbles at the thought of that cake.

You make your way to the small table where your ex is seated, going around to stand across from him, one hand gripping the straps of your purse in a fist. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You didn’t realize your voice was going to come out with such a hard edge, but it’s too late to soften your approach now.

Jake looks up from his phone, brow furrowing at your words. “Can we talk?”

Frustration fills your entire chest cavity. “You said it was urgent. What’s wrong?”

He pushes his phone away and drops his hands into his lap, staring at you pitifully. “I just want to understand. I don’t get it. Why would you throw everything we had away like that? How could you do that? I thought we loved each other.”

You want to scream with disbelief and anger and the heartbreak that is rapidly evaporating to be replaced by incredulous resentment at the utter gall of this man. “What am I doing here, Jake? What do you want?”

He gestures for you to sit, and you stare at his hand blankly. “I need closure, babe. Please. I want to understand. I think we could give this another chance if we just talk about it.”

You slam yourself down in the seat and have to stop your body from lunging across the table and strangling the living daylights out of him. “You texted me 911 so that you could get closure? I was in bed, Jake. I have work in the morning—and don’t call me babe.”

His lips twist in confusion. “What work? I thought you got fired.”

You’re about two seconds away from having a psychotic episode in the middle of a coffee shop. “Yes. I got fired. Because you lied to my boss. And you expect me to come here and hold your hand?”

“I called your boss after you broke up with me. That’s not why you ended things. I want to know why. Was it the mugging? You know I called you all night long. I was worried sick about you, babe, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and you ignored me.”

All you can do is breathe.

Just keep breathing.

“I just think you could have at least talked to me before you ended it. I took you out for your birthday. I gave you a scarf, do you know how much that cost?”

“Yeah, about a buck fifty.”

He blasts right past the revelation that you somehow knew he thrifted it out of the clearance bin. “I was up the whole night just hoping you were okay, and the next thing I hear from you is a full 48 hours later, breaking up with me. How can you think that’s fair? How can you say I deserve that after everything we’ve been through?”

A waitress swoops by the table then, smiling sweetly at you. “Can I get you guys anything? Our cakes are incredible, or we have savory options as well.”

“Just a coffee for her, but I’ll take a slice of the chocolate cake, please.” Jake says softly, giving the waitress his most pitiful smile, and then fixes you with the same look. “Babe, please. Please, I just want to work this out.”

Your mind is so completely blown by everything that’s just happen that you can’t even pull a facial expression to reflect the shock consuming you. “What did you do?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“For the 48 hours. What did you do?”

Stammering, surprised by the question, he lifts one hand in a pointless gesture. “I…I waited around. I mean, I had to go to work, of course. And then I caught up with a friend for dinner, because they were going out of town the next day, but you understand that I had to go. But I waited around for you the whole time, just hoping. I couldn’t even sleep, baby, I was so worried.”

“You left me. You left me there.”

“The guy had a gun! Everybody makes mistakes. Not everybody responds well under pressure. I was stupid, and I regret it, and—oh my god I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

His gushing words fill you with revolted disgust. “Please stop.” Nausea floods your senses. “Seriously, just knock it off. We’re done, Jake. There’s no talking about this, there’s no fixing anything. I will never consider it okay, or just a mistake, that you left me with an armed robber in a dark parking lot. You left me there.”

You don’t say anything about the fact that you ended up feeling safer with the armed robber than you had felt with Jake in a long time, because that’s entirely beside the point.

He doesn’t need to know that.

“I would never do that again. I could never dream of leaving you. Please, baby, please, I swear—”

“So this is the jackass, huh?” Somebody slips into the booth next to you, and you’re startled to find a warm arm looping around your back, fingers tickling you where they brush softly at your sides. “He looks like an accountant.”

Both you and Jake turn to the newcomer, wide-eyed, but you recover first.

Minho is sitting next to you.

Minho, the armed robber who held you up on your birthday. Minho, who took pity on you when you cried your eyes out in the cold. Minho, who took you to this very coffee shop and bought you warm food and a warm drink (with your boyfriend’s card) and told you that you were worth more than he made you think.

For a second, your gaze snaps to Jake, terrified that your cover is blown and that he’ll only be further convinced that you and your mugger were in cahoots against him—when you remember. Minho had taken his mask off only after Jake had burned rubber out of the parking lot.

You recognize him.

Jake does not.

Your ex straightens, instantly offended by the cool smirk and downward gaze of the criminal who currently has his fingertips playing with the hem of your sweater. “Who is this?” Jake snaps at you, scooting his chair back. “You moved on from me already? You were cheating on me, weren’t you? Who are you—what the fuck are you doing with my girlfriend?” He’s practically combusting with derision.

Minho just blinks lazily up at him, reminding you of the way the cats from the boarding facility earlier calmly stared at you as you walked with San. “I’m the one who knows everything about you, and, may I say, this charming display is entirely consistent with what I’ve heard.”

You gawk at him, only managing to close your mouth and swallow your surprise when he gives your side a little pinch. Clamping your jaw, you let him tug you into his side and smile smugly at your ex as the other man sputters angrily.

“This is why you broke up with me? You had some fucker on the side?” He snaps at you, and you really wish you had an answer for him, but you’re just as surprised as he is.

“I never cheated on you, Jake, this isn’t—”

“I think you should leave.” Minho says simply, interrupting you. “You’re disturbing the customers here, and your voice irritates me.”

“You expect me to stand here and believe that this guy with his arm around your waist isn’t some secret boy toy that you’ve been screwing while I’ve been taking care of you? Do you know how hard I worked to provide for you? I was going to give you safety and security and—”

“And McDonalds every year for her birthday? That she pays for and you bill your company for?” Minho finishes lightly. His hand slides up your side to smooth over your shoulder and then drag back down to your hip. Every inch of his touch is possessive and unthreatened by Jake’s presence. “I think she can do better. Can’t you, jagi?”

Your stunned expression meets his cool smile, and he blinks at you in a way that somehow very clearly and very subtly tells you to stop your gaping and pretend that you’re comfortable in his arms. Strangling the part of you that wants to ask just as many questions as Jake is asking, you force your eyelids to lower to a normal degree and finally turn to face Jake again. “We’re done, Jake. You should leave.”

Jake bursts out of his chair with frenzied outrage. “I asked you here to give you another chance, but that’s over.” He snaps, jabbing a pointed finger at you.

Pressed against you, you feel the solid muscles along Minho’s side tense as he closes his hand firmly around your hip and narrows his eyes at your ex.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t even fucking try to explain.” He yanks his jacket off the back of his seat and then slams the chair up so hard that the edge of the table thumps harshly against your ribs at the impact.

“Then stop throwing a fit and get on with it.” Minho says harshly. “And calm down before I make you.”

From anyone else it would sound like your average amount of masculine posturing, designed to make the other man uncomfortable and test the boundaries of respect, but from Minho—the man who spends his nights holding people at gunpoint—it strikes you as a sobering promise.

Jake shoots you one last petulant glower and then storms out of the coffee shop, slamming the door behind him.

The moment he’s gone, you twist yourself to face Minho, seeing the cool smile drop from his face as his arm slides away from your back. “What are you doing here?” You hiss. “What was that? Last time I saw you, you were robbing me. And now you’re pretending to be my boyfriend or some shit? Are you bipolar?”

His eyes are hooded, and he picks up the coffee that the waitress left for you and sips at it quietly. “So you do remember that night,” He says. “And do you happen to remember the part where we discussed getting rid of assface?”

Your mouth falls open. “Excuse me? The part I remember is you pointing a gun in my face.”

He rolls his eyes, leans forward, hooks his finger on the lip of the plate with Jake’s untouched cake, and drags it towards you. “Eat. I saw you eyeing the cakes when you came in here.”

You push the plate away. “Minho.” The name is hissed through gritted teeth.

He pops an eyebrow at you. “And you remember my name. I’m flattered, jagi, you’ll make me blush.” The smirk drops once again and he scoots the plate back towards you. “It’s nine o’clock at night and you look like you got your hair caught in the door of a car. Eat the cake and go home.”

“I don’t want to eat the cake. I want you to tell me what the hell you’re doing here—and how long have you been watching? What do you mean you saw me eyeing the cakes?”

“I’ll tell you if you eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it. I don’t eat in public, remember?”

“You do with me.” He’s watching you, expressionless, firing back responses as quickly as you can scrounge up an argument.

“I was under the unique pressure of being held at gunpoint.” You snap under your breath.

“I wasn’t holding you at gunpoint when we had birthday cake together. Eat it while I’m still trying to persuade you unarmed.”

You grab the fork on impulse, a jolt of fear striking you before you realize he’s kidding. His eyes are tracing your face, reading the reflexive terror as it rises and then fades slowly, and he settles on a small smile when you breathe again. “I don’t feel like eating this here.” You tell him quietly. “I still have the—” You break off, filled with frustration. “Look, I’m already thrown off by you being here, sitting here, I don’t really want to feel even more vulnerable by eating in front of you, too.”

“I want you to. See? I can be vulnerable too.”

“Why are you being so damn pushy? Who cares about the cake? Why won’t you just tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

“Because you’re shaking. And you’re uneasy, and eating the cake will distract you. And you deserve it after that prick didn’t let you order one for yourself.”

God, how long had he been watching?

“That’s because it’s embarrassing.”

“It’s cute. Your face scrunches like a baby’s, like you’re afraid of what you’re eating but you want it anyway. It’s cute. Eat it, jagiya, I’ll answer your questions.”

You scoop a bit of the cake onto the fork and stare at him, heart pounding. “Are you sure?” Like you’re giving him an out. This fucking criminal who has inserted himself into your personal space and considered it a personal favor that he’s not pointing a gun at you while he’s doing it. There’s no reason for you to be offering him the chance to not be seen in public with you, twitching every time you take a bite.

“I’m sure, babyface, just eat it.”

You scowl. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then eat it.”

You do. Finally, after practically wearing yourself out arguing over your biggest, deepest insecurity, you begin to eat the cake, and do your best to ignore the warmth you feel when Minho’s arm settles against your back again.

“I was outside with…some friends, when I saw you show up. I recognized you, I got curious, and imagine my surprise when I see you meeting good ol’ assface for coffee, like we hadn’t already promised each other we were gonna break up with him.”

“We?” You mumble around the tiniest bite of chocolate cake. “I don’t remember us being in that relationship.”

“Tell me you haven’t been dating him all this time.” Minho leans back with a sigh, watching you pick daintily at the cake, his fingertips walking up your spine to tug at the lumpy, damp braid that’s still soaking through your sweater.

“I haven’t. He said he needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent.”

“It’s always urgent.” Minho mumbles, and you feel him picking at the end of your braid. Suddenly the elastic is gone, your hair stiffly unwinding against your shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t go back home to him that night.”

“I didn’t.” You twist your neck around to see what he’s doing, but he puts one finger to your temple and turns your head back to face your cake, and then continues unraveling your hair. “I went home. To my apartment. I didn’t talk to him for two days and when I did, I broke up with him. I didn’t even get my iPad back from his house.”

“Good girl.” He twists your hair into a firm knot at the base of your skull and fastens it with the elastic. “There. Try not to contract pneumonia next time you get played by your ex.” He pats your back firmly, and it’s jarringly platonic after the tenderness of his hands threading through your hair. He pushes himself to his feet and holds his hand out, palm up. “Come on. Bed time.”

“Bed time?” You repeat, absolutely stunned.

Whatever he’s expecting from you right now is nowhere near what you’re prepared to give to the man who has at one point pulled a gun on you.

He turns his hand and flicks your arm softly. “Stop your blushing. I know you took an Uber here. I’m taking you home. You said you have work tomorrow, so let’s go.”

You just blink at him. “I’m not riding home with you. You have a car?”

“Of course I have a car, I’m not destitute.”

“You rob people.”

“It’s really more of a hobby.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely not going home with you.”

“Again,” He flicks your arm once more. “I’m not taking you home with me, I’m taking you home. Your home. Finish your cake and get up.”

Moments later, you are making the second inexplicably foolish decision of your life to follow Minho across the parking lot to the small gray car in the shadows. He opens the door for you, waits for you to get inside, and then closes you in to spend the next few seconds wondering if you’re going to survive the rest of the night.

Because there is stuff everywhere.

Purses. Backpacks. Wallets. A gun in the floorboard. A small document safe, busted open on the back seat. A crowbar. Numerous disposable masks. Multiple boxes of latex gloves.

The instant that Minho crosses around to the driver’s side and gets in, your fingers are grasping for the handle, seconds away from leaping out into the night. He frowns at you as he puts the keys in the ignition. “What? Where are you going?” As you gawk at him, terrified, his eyes skate the condition of his car. “Oh. Shit. Right, sorry.” He leans into your space, scraping up a handful of purses and wallets and tossing them in the back seat. He ducks back down one more time, grabs up the gun, tucks it in the glove compartment. “You can put your feet anywhere, it’s fine.”

You gape at him. “Minho, this is—”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a prude. I robbed you, too, and look at us now. I’m a nice guy, I swear.”

“Have you ever killed anybody?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Well, let me know when you figure it out, and I’ll give you my answer.”

He wheels the car smoothly out of the driveway, and when he asks for your address, it takes an infinity for you to decide to give it to him. You live in a nice apartment building, with good security, and watchful neighbors. Even if he’s been nice to you so far, possibly scoping you out and getting you to trust him, it should be difficult for him to actually gain access to your apartment later.

“Block his number.” He tells you quietly, one elbow propped up on the window sill. “Don’t go chasing after his 911 texts anymore.”

“Why do you care?”

Silence.

Streetlights and traffic signals shine into the space between you, flashing over his face and illuminating the quiet consideration that he wears in place of the smug expression he had only moments ago. “I care.”

“Why?”

“God knows.”

He drops you off at your apartment, peers at you quietly through the window as you back away from his car, your eyes dubiously fixed on him as you scoot backwards into the building, and then he’s gone, racing off into the night, and taking all the evidence of his transgressions with him.

By some stroke of cosmic grace you get yourself to bed and convince your brain to abandon all thoughts of Minho and get a bare minimum amount of sleep. By the time your alarm sings its obnoxiously cheerful jingle at you, it feels like you only just closed your eyes. But it’s 4am and you have a day of kitties ahead of you, so you put your feet on the floor and trudge to your bathroom to get yourself awake.

Two pieces of toast, the last of your Folgers instant coffee, and one glass of water, off-brand orange juice later, you’re bundled up in your favorite winter jacket, watching your breath appear in the dark of morning as you walk to the Wayward Street Cat Hotel.

By the time you knock on the warm green door and watch San’s head pop around the corner of the half wall, your nose is pink and your fingers are cold but it’s only served to get your heart pumping and your brain wide awake.

San approaches the door with a sauntering gait and a dimpled smile that is far too kind for 5:30 in the morning, but he unlocks the door and ushers you into the golden warmth of the facility. “Good morning!” He greets, standing back as you unzip your jacket. “You are prompt, right on time.” He holds out a hand and takes the garment, showing you to the storage closet where he hangs it next to his own jacket.

“I hoped you might be punctual, so I brought you a coffee. Cream and sugar on the side, you can fix it how you like. Is that okay?”

You’re warm all over. “That sounds amazing, thank you.”

He leads you back to the desk and pulls up your chair for you. “So right now I’m just going through emails—oh, here.” He passes you a blue paper to go cup and a handful of cream and sugar packets. “If all goes well today, give me your usual coffee order. The boss pays for coffees on Wednesdays to warm me up for when he comes in and extends the shift by two hours.”

“By two hours?” You repeat, popping the lid off and dumping four of the creamers into the dark liquid that smells about a thousand better than your Folgers instant. You’re halfway through wondering if you should be reassessing your excitement for this job, adjusting your hope for success today and a contract by evening, mentally filing through labor laws, when San waves your worries away with one hand.

“Accidentally. He doesn’t make me stay, but I usually stick around and do emails or laundry and it gives me two more hours on my time sheet, so who cares? If you work here, he’ll let you go home at your normal time, don’t worry.”

“How does he make it so much longer? Is he a slow cleaner or something?”

“No, no, not at all. He’s the one who taught me how to be as efficient as I am, and he can still clean a room about two minutes faster than I do. No, he runs an Instagram page so owners can see their kitties while they’re gone. So when he comes in on Wednesday, he takes all kinds of photos and videos—plus he’s a total lush for cats so he spends like ten minutes with each one, just hanging out with them.” He sips from his coffee and lets out a slow hiss as the heat hits his tongue.

“Oh.” You blink, pressing the lid back onto your cup. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah, he’s really great. I think you’ll enjoy working with him, if you’re good with rolling with a wry, dry sense of humor. He’s super chill and easy going and even though he looks at you sometimes like he can’t remember your name, he’ll listen to anything—even if you’ve forgotten for the fifth time how to print out the daily schedule.”

“Is this…experience speaking?”

San chuckles, ducking his head and sighing at his keyboard. “Ahhhh, yes, unfortunately. I was so nervous my first day. I thought he hated me until I asked him my hundredth inane question of the day and he noticed how bad I felt about it and he just took the time to kindly walk me through it again.”

You’re a little nervous now, both about the complexity that the shifts must be if San was so psyched out about it, and about the apparently closed off demeanor of your potential boss. “So, he’s nice about it, though?”

“Oh yeah.” San clicked through a couple of emails and then leaned back in his chair, spinning it lightly back and forth. “No he will full on stare at you like you’re speaking another language and then just when you think you’re going to cry for being the dumbest person on the planet, he starts talking to you in this very sweet, like, don’t-spook-the-kittens voice and answers whatever you’re unsure about and then tells you that you aren’t completely hopeless.”

“Aw,” You’re laughing at the utter embarrassment on San’s face.

“I had such a hard first day. I was so nervous. So please, whatever you feel about today, barring a medical emergency, it can never be worse than mine.”

You’re at ease almost immediately after that, relaxing in your chair and sipping at your coffee as he chatters about the process of checking emails and showing you where the form letters for rote responses are, and showing you how to use the database to check the schedule and make bookings and check kitty records.

By the time 6am rolls around and San pushes himself back from the desk, he’s finished his coffee. He shrugs out of his hoodie and gets up, instructing you to start on one of the rooms while he gets started on the other. For the next hour, you clean kitty rooms, check the database for feeding and medicating instructions, refresh water bowls, and clean litter boxes, all the while getting positively coated in kitty affection.

San keeps up a regular dialogue, occasionally breaking off to laugh as you react to whichever cat you’re interacting with at the moment, from a couple of calico kittens who jump on your shoulders while you clean their litter box, to Kyong hissing at you whilst demanding affection, to a little old lady cat who meows at you like she’s been smoking for fifty years.

“Why don’t you go do the last room and I’ll start washing the dishes.” San suggests at some point around 7, gesturing for you to go get started on a little black cat named Jia, who has been not so patiently waiting for her turn to be fed since you started. He begins pulling on dishwashing gloves and setting to cleaning the previous night’s dinner dishes while you hurry to comply.

“Hi Jia.” The moment you open the door, the older cat scoots out into the hallway, winding around your legs, whisper-meowing up at you constantly. She follows you back into the room, pawing and headbutting you as you shake out her blankets and sweep the floor. It takes you a few minutes to clean little splatters of her drool off the floor and sift out the litter box, but finally you scoop her up in your arms and begin the less pleasant task of giving her her daily medications.

“This is gonna be so fast, baby.” You whisper, letting her lean her head back against your chest. “Just a couple of nasty pills and then it’s canned food galore, I promise.” She squirms and cries at you as you push the pills into her mouth, and in a matter of seconds she’s swallowed both of them. “See? You did so good, and now it’s all over. What a good girl,” You lean over and pick up her bowl of wet food before she can get too upset about swallowing the tablets. “See? There you go, pretty girl.”

You lean back on your heels and stroke her as she abruptly forgets all about the terrible medication and chirps her way through her breakfast.

“Look who the cat dragged in.”

Before you can shoot San an unimpressed look for his very unoriginal one-liner, you realize that that wasn’t San’s voice. And the not-San voice sounded very, very familiar.

You twist around, nearly falling on your ass in the middle of Jia’s room, to see fucking Minho staring down at you through the window in the door, that smug smirk on his face. His eyes glance to Jia, then around the room, then to you. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”

Jumping to your feet, thoroughly appalled by his sudden appearance, you glare through the grate. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks at you. “I’m the owner.”

Your eyes fall back down to Jia. “Oh. Yes, she’s very sweet. She took her medicine very well and her appetite is fantastic this morning. Are you checking her out?” You don’t remember San saying that Jia was going home this morning.

Minho’s smirk widens. “Isn’t it cute the way she whispers?”

Your patience is thinning. “Yes, Minho. She’s very cute. Can you just take your cat and go?” You’re praying, hoping beyond hope that San or the boss doesn’t show up and watch you snarl at a client, but you cannot cope with running into your robber for the third time.

This is it.

You’re going to lose another job before you even get the chance to have it, all because of the same night that lost you the first job.

You hate him.

You hate Jake.

You hate Minho.

You hate everybody right now except for Jia, and the knowing look on Minho’s face is not helping matters.

It is too early in the morning to be playing mind games with a criminal.

“Why are you still here?” You hiss. “Why are you even here at all? If you want your cat, take your damn cat.” You see San approaching from behind Minho, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Maybe I just can’t stay away from you.” Minho raises an eyebrow at you, eyes trailing down your body to examine the long sleeve button-up and soft, stretchy slacks that you’re wearing whilst crawling around on your knees in cat rooms. “You’re just so damn enchanting.”

“Do not bullshit me right now—” Your hiss is broken off and transformed into a sweet smile as San sidles up next to Minho and smiles that cratered smile at you.

“Looks like you’ve met the boss, huh? She’s pretty great, right, hyung?”

Your entire body stops functioning. Minho’s lips are spreading into a cheshire grin, watching your face go through all the stages of grief, looking one hundred percent pleased with your sudden inability to form words.

“Like I said, I’m the owner.” Minho tells you. “Of Wayward Street, not Jia. Though she’s quite the little sweetheart. I could just take her home with me.” The significance of his words settles on you with horrible weight, and your mouth falls open.

“Right, right, yes, this is Minho, he’s the boss. Hyung, this is our new prospective worker. She’s already done half of the rooms by herself, and I gotta be honest, she just took the routine and ran with it. She’s got it down.” That means a lot coming from him, especially now that you know his first day had been an utter disaster.

“Is that so?” Minho’s humored eyes haven’t left yours. “Does she maybe want to let Jia eat her breakfast and come back to the main room now?”

You scramble to grab up your cleaning supplies, leaving the kitty with one final scratch between the ears, and follow the men back to the desk. Minho sits before the computer, glancing at the empty email inbox, and sets his own coffee down next to your cup. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come in at 6 this morning, San, I had a task to do. Looks like the rooms are already done?”

San nods proudly. “All done. I just finished dishes and I was about to fold the clean laundry. Other than the floors, we’re pretty much good to go.”

Minho glances to the schedule. “Any appointments this morning?”

“Dakho and Hei are going home at eight, Ppang goes home at ten, and we get Mihi into room 4 at nine thirty.” San rehearses easily. “I’ve got Dakho and Hei ready to go, and I just need to prep Mihi’s room.”

Minho glances between you and San, San who is eager to get through the rest of his tasks, and you who is both too mortified and too frustrated to meet his eyes. “Alright, teach the newbie how to get Ppang ready to go, and show her how to reset room 4 for the new one. Then have her greet clients with you.” His eyes settle on you. “You can stand there and listen, just let him do it and pay attention.”

You nod quietly. “Will do.”

“Alright. You two get to work and let me know if you need anything. I’ll be reaching out to upcoming reservations so just give me a yell.” Minho meets San’s gaze, ensures that he’s been heard, and then shoots you another sideways glance. That same wicked smirk plays at the edges of his lips as you turn to follow San to Ppang’s room, your shoulders hunched almost painfully.

So much for your fresh beginning.

So much for your new start.

So much for Minho being an isolated incident—or even two isolated incidents.

You spend the rest of the morning shift doing exactly as you’re told, expertly finagling Ppang into his kitty carrier—a skill you acquired at the vet’s office and impressed San with when you completed the task with a few soft words and firm hands and got away without a single even attempted scratch. He chit chats companionably as you clean the room and start a load of laundry with the old blankets and beds that Ppang had used, washing the dishes and sanitizing the entire room from floor to ceiling.

Minho’s eyes can be felt on you as you move back and forth from the sink and the supply closet to Ppang’s room, hurrying to do San’s bidding, careful not to disturb any of the other cats with any clanging noises or anxious energy. The two of you handle both of the kitty pick-up appointments and Mihi’s intake, settling her into a freshly prepared room and leaving her to hide under her blankets until she feels comfortable enough to come out on her own.

When the shift is finally over, Minho dismisses San for the day and then turns to you with a levelling stare. “While I admit that we have a rather unconventional relationship that we just can’t seem to get away from, I want you to know that your performance is being fairly assessed.”

He’s giving you the courtesy of professionalism (sort of), so you relax into the role of prospective employee and fold your hands in front of you. Even so, you’re not entirely sure that you’re hoping you get the job anymore. While the work is simple and the cats are thoroughly enjoyable to be around, you can’t see yourself reporting to a known criminal every day.

That’s not ethical, right?

Shouldn’t you report him?

“Wayward Street is very important to me.” Minho says solemnly, eyes hooded as he speaks to you in a lazy drawl. “I won’t have some stranger come in and automatically be given trust over my cats without consideration for her existing or non existing ability to properly care for them.” His eyes scan you again. “No matter how intriguing I may find her to be.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. It bothers you that he’s speaking so frankly, but you’re not decided about your plans for the job yet, so you don’t say a word.

“I’ve arranged for San to take the evening shift off so that I can watch you work more closely. Come back at 3:30 and be prepared to take the reins. I’ll be available for any questions you might have. It’s not a trap, the work is just as straight forward as you’ve seen so far. I want my cats and my people and my company to be cared for. Do you understand?”

You nod soberly. “I understand.”

“If your work tonight satisfies me, I will be happy to offer you the job.” He leans forward in his desk chair, the cunning gleam finally disappearing from his eyes. “I also want you to understand that you can choose not to take it. It will not be offered with some kind of implicit agreement that you are expected to keep silent about my extracurricular activities. If you choose to go to the police, then so be it.”

You’re surprised by the sudden claim of accountability. Perhaps it’s some form of manipulation, that he’s wanting you to shirk away from accusing him while he’s being so kind to you, or that he thinks you’ll take pity on his boarding business and save it from going under if he were to go to jail. Either way, you’re now watching him with guarded interest.

“Additionally, if you choose to take the job and work here, with me, you can consider our previous interactions a wash.” He observes the slight confusion on your face and taps his fingers on the desk. “My behavior towards you to this point, extracurricular activities notwithstanding, would be inappropriate for an employer to express towards a subordinate. I will not be pursuing any kind of dynamic which might make you uncomfortable. Do you understand?”

You feel strangely calmed by this. “I understand.”

He leans back in his chair and slides his eyes back to the computer. “Come back at 3:30. Dress for comfort and utility. This business casual get up you’re wearing now is fine but it’s unnecessary. San prefers to work in a t-shirt and joggers, as the job requires us to be down on the floor quite a lot. You’ll see me in jeans most days. Please represent my company appropriately and choose attire that reflects self-respect, and that will suffice. Do you have any questions?”

He’s not looking at you, not smirking at you, not even treating you like he’s witnessed you bawling your eyes out and being humiliated by your ex boyfriend. “I don’t.”

“You can go, then. I’ll see you this evening.”

You check your watch. It’s only 10am. With hours of 6am to 10am and 4pm to 7pm, you have a good majority of your afternoon to do with as you please. You collect your things from the closet and head out into the bright, sunshiney morning.

When you return for evening shift, you’ve changed your clothes. Minho lets you into the facility with a quick glance at your cotton sweatshirt and breathable pants and gives an approving nod. “Did San show you how to answer emails?”

You nod.

He gestures to the desk. “Go ahead and start there. Ask me if you have any questions.”

You sit at the desk and spend half an hour shooting back emails, updating bookings, making reservations, and filing vaccination records. He watches in silence, occasionally spending time on his phone to give you space. When you finish, he follows you as you begin the rounds. He lingers quietly, doing little tasks like refreshing water and handing you supplies, but he lets you take the lead.

When clients arrive for pick-up and drop-off appointments, he chats with them pleasantly but lets you discuss care instructions and payment info on your own.

At seven o’clock, you’re standing in front of him, hands clasped once again in front of you, surprised to find yourself hoping that he’s pleased with your work. He sits at his desk and pulls a few pages off the printer. “I think the first thing we should talk about is whether or not you want this job.” He says quietly. “I think we’ve assessed each other fairly well today, don’t you?”

He’s right. His constant presence today has been one of steadiness and stability, not at all someone that you were worried to turn your back to or feel nervous questioning. He had been polite, unassuming, helpful, and temperate all day—excluding your brief fiasco with Jia.

“That depends.” You hear yourself say softly.

“On what?” His eyes are gentle, wondering, searching.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

A light smile plays at his lips. “You’ll trust my answer?”

You will. He can see that on your face.

“I’ve never hurt anyone. I swear on my cats.” The words are delivered with a playful smirk.

You take a deep breath. “I don’t appreciate your extracurricular activities.” He watches your eyes dart around the desk, watches your mouth form the words. “But I do love your business here. I think I demonstrated a fair command of the work today, and if you’re willing to take me on, I would be grateful for the opportunity to be employed here.”

Minho grins at you. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He slides the pages from the printer towards you. All of a sudden you’re signing your contract, setting up your banking information, receiving a door code. He discusses a schedule with you, and the next time you meet his eyes, you have a job.

“Thank you, Minho.” You tell him quietly.

“I’m glad you want the job.” He responds. “I liked the way you handled Jia this morning.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “The way I handled Jia?” Trying to think back to the moments before he made his presence known and made you assume he was here to take the little black cat home, you struggle to come up with whatever he’s referring to.

“She gets nervous when she knows the pills are coming. You were sweet with her, and she recovered with no hurt feelings. You’re good with them. You’re kind. I want someone like that taking care of my guests.” He leans back in his chair and places his palms flat on the table. “Now, if you’ll walk me out to my car, I’ll let you get home and we can start over again in the morning.”

You balk immediately. Follow him out to his car? What happened to him not trying to make you uncomfortable?

He sees the apprehension in your eyes and he gets to his feet, a chiding expression on his face. “Don’t look so scandalized. You’re safe with me. I just have something of yours in my car.” He scoops up his keys and tosses his jacket over his arm, gesturing for you to follow. “Keep your distance if you must, but it’s really no big deal.”

Resentfully, you follow him to his car.

He digs around in the passenger seat for a minute and then turns back to you, producing a familiar purple case. It’s your iPad. The one you had left at Jake’s house and never gone back to get. You gawk at him, snatching the device from his fingers. “Where did you get this?”

“You don’t want to know.” He’s smirking again.

“You robbed him? Again?”

“Shhh.” His eyebrows lower, glancing around the dark sidewalk. “I’d rather not announce it in front of my place of business.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help the grin that tugs at your cheeks at the thought of him breaking into your ex’s house and robbing him without a care. “Thank you, Minho.” You shouldn’t be thanking him. You really, really shouldn’t be thanking him. But god, does it feel good to be holding your iPad and knowing that it’s only back in your possession because a smarter man than Jake got it back for you.

Minho struggles to control his own smile, forcing an aloof shrug. “Couldn’t have you coming up with any more excuses to see the assface again.” He shuts the passenger side door and moves away from you, around to the driver’s seat. “Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You walk home with the iPad clutched to your chest, shocked and a little disappointed in yourself that you’re actually excited about how the day turned out, despite everything that’s happened to try to persuade you otherwise.

The next few weeks are spent accompanying San and Minho on their shifts, working under their supervision while they finish training you and getting a solid feel for your ability to manage the dynamic workspace and client concerns. San grows fond of your presence rather quickly, and soon enough you’re often getting lunch together after your morning shift.

Minho maintains a strict air of professionalism with you. He’s gentle, available, and cautious about your space, and it doesn’t take long for you to all but forget about the strange way in which you first met him.

Finally, at long last, you’re given your first independent schedule away from both San and Minho. It’s your first weekend by yourself, and the facility is yours to run and enjoy in solitude. Everything goes peacefully and beautifully well, until Sunday morning, when you step into your last room of the shift, and little Jia doesn’t wake up.

Your heart shatters.

You call San first, weeping over the phone in garbled words that he barely understands, until suddenly he gets the gist. “Calm down, it’s alright. I’ll call hyung, and I’ll be over there in two minutes. It’s alright. It’s not your fault, alright? I’ll deal with it. I’ll come deal with it. Sit down at the desk and wait for me.”

Less than a minute later, the phone rings, and it’s Minho. You answer in a storm of tears and apologies, your heart breaking into a million pieces over the phone. “I’m going to call the client,” He tells you. “I’ll handle it. I’m a little farther away than San is, so wait for him to get there. Just sit tight and wait, okay?”

You can’t stop crying. You can’t stop apologizing.

“Just wait for San. I’ll call the clients.” He hangs up the phone.

San arrives shortly after and finds you slumped over the desk, pouring out your tears into the keyboard, fighting the memory of discovery. He immediately shrugs off his jacket and pulls you into his embrace, letting you fling your arms around him and cry. “She was an old cat. She was old, it’s not your fault.” He holds you tightly, rubbing your back, letting the moments pass slowly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

It doesn’t help.

You know you didn’t do anything wrong, but it doesn’t help.

The little bell chimes and quiet footsteps approach the desk, and then San is easing away from you. You lean your weight on the counter and try not to listen to him telling Minho that he’s going to go back there and take care of Jia so you don’t have to. The next thing you know, Minho is kneeling in front of you, tapping your hand lightly with a finger. “Hey. I talked to them.”

You turn your eyes to his and find him tense with anger, and your heart sinks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Minho, I don’t know what happened.” The clenching of his jaw and the tightening of his fists fills you with guilt. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” He covers your hand with his. “The client told me that Jia’s been sick. She got a new diagnosis about two months ago, and they chose not to take her in for the treatments. They said they didn’t expect her to last until they got back.”

His words feel like a punch. “They knew she was going to die?”

“They left her to die with us.” He confirms. The outrage on his face makes more sense now, that it’s not directed at you, but rather at the negligent owners who preferred to send their cat away to live the rest of her weeks with strangers and keep their vacation plans. “You did nothing wrong, okay?”

Your head droops, tears rolling down your cheeks, and he tilts your chin up with a finger. “You hear me, jagi?” The words are barely a whisper.

He doesn’t have a chance to apologize or take back the endearment that he promised he wouldn’t use anymore, because you’re blinking at him tearfully. “Can I not be your employee?” You ask brokenly.

He blinks, disappointment flooding his expression.

“Just for a second?” The rest of your sentence breathes past your lips.

Now more confused than anything, Minho’s brow furrows in consternation. “Okay.”

In the next second your arms are around his neck, your face buried in his shoulder, clinging to the comfort of the person who chose to comfort you when he was supposed to be robbing you; searching desperately for the man who protected you from your ex instead of just leaving you where you stood.

Minho returns your embrace without hesitation.

He holds you so tightly that he pulls you out of your chair, falling to your knees on the floor in front of him, trying desperately to close your ears to the sound of San taking care of Jia. “It’s alright.” Minho murmurs. “It’s okay.” But he’s fuming. He’s on fire with rage, mind racing through a dozen plans to access client records and track down their address and make them regret ever doing such a cruel and calloused thing, and leaving you to deal with it.

It takes a few minutes for you to pull yourself together, awkwardly shuffling out of the half-in-his-lap position that you’d fallen into and seating yourself back at the desk. He kneels on the floor and remains quiet as you wipe at your face, sniffling pathetically into your sleeve. “I’m sorry.” You say again. “I’m so very sorry, I know that this weekend was my first time in the hotel by myself, and I know it was supposed to be an exercise of trust and faith and everything went wrong—”

“Jagi.” Minho lifts himself on his knees so that he can better look you in the eye. “Everything didn’t go wrong. Something happened that was out of our hands before you ever got a job here. Don’t put this on yourself.”

Your eyes close painfully. “Minho, you trusted me with your cats and one of them died. Tell me you don’t have even a second of doubt about trusting me.”

“Not a second.” He says immediately. He takes your hand again. “Not even a second.”

“You don’t know me.”

Minho’s gaze traces every inch of your face, slides down the shaking length of your arms, watches your fingers clench into fists on the surface of the desk. “I do now.”

“Here you go, girlie.” San puts your usual coffee order down on the desk in front of you, pulling up a chair to peer at the computer with you. It’s been just over a week since the incident with Jia, and you’ve finally managed to come to work without feeling heart-shattering panic every time you approach any of the kitty rooms. You smile at him, accepting the hot beverage with grateful hands.

“Thanks San, I’ve been jonesing.”

“I can tell, your foot is doing that twitchy thing.” He rubs your shoulder and props one elbow on the desk. “We busy this morning?”

“Looks like five appointments, most of them pick-ups. We’ll have a lot of rooms to clean.”

“I’ll help.” The voice is succeeded by Minho’s sudden appearance around the corner of the half wall, carrying a pink donut box. “We’ll get it knocked out in no time.” There’s a second of shuffling papers and office supplies around so he has a place to set the donut box, and then he comes around behind your chair to peek at the screen.

You fight a shiver as his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Oh, Ara goes home today.” He murmurs, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I’m gonna miss her.”

You’ll all miss the tiny Russian Blue who stares at you patiently as you clean her room, and then makes her request with a single, kitten-pitched chirp so that you’ll pick her up and let her snuggle her little head into your throat and purr all your troubles away.

“Have a donut, girlie, he got your favorite.” San picks up an old fashioned cake donut wrapped in a napkin and passes it over to you.

You accept the pastry in silence, feeling Minho’s eyes on the side of your face as you pick crumbs off of it and try to nibble as minutely as you can manage. “Looks like we also have a cat named Bong coming in at eight.”

“Bong’s a sweetheart, he sits on my lap while I do emails.” San says, glancing at you right as you take a small bite and feel your cheek twitch involuntarily. He gives a soft snicker, mouth opening immediately to comment on it, but he never gets the chance.

“Do me a favor and go get started on food prep, would you, San?” Minho requests abruptly.

Glancing at his watch in surprise, San lifts his eyebrows and stands slowly. “Sure thing. Don’t eat all the donuts.” He grabs his coffee and disappears to the front of the facility, leaving you with Minho at the computer.

The boss comes around to sit in the seat that San had vacated. “Can you print the client info for Ara?”

“Of course.” You click around the screen to do as instructed. It’s easy now, navigating the database and booking system, and San regularly complains about how much faster you picked it up than he did. “He wasn’t laughing at me.”

“Sorry?” Minho’s voice is a light hum, but he knows what you’re referring to.

“San. He wasn’t laughing at my face. He knows about the twitch. You’re not the only person I’ve ever eaten in front of.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special, don’t you?”

You meet his eyes, surprised. “You are special. In an armed mugger kind of way.”

He nudges his knee against yours, jabbing a finger into your ribs at the risk of your voice carrying to San at the front of the room. “Would you shut up?”

“So sorry, boss, I thought you wanted to feel special.”

He frowns, rolling his eyes at you and focusing on the printout you’ve given him. The displeased silence is rolling off of him in waves of tension, striking you with sudden realization.

“Oh my god.” You utter, gaping at him. “You want to feel special.”

He scowls, closing off his expression entirely. “I want to feel like you’re about to get up and do your job.”

The interaction sticks with you for the rest of the shift, tumbling through your thoughts at every turn. No part of it is a surprise or revolutionary in anyway, not after he called you jagiya five minutes after meeting you, or after he basically took you on a sorry-your-boyfriend’s-a-douchebag-but-I-can-do-better date on the night of your birthday, and then he strongly suggested and fully intended for your ex boyfriend to believe that he was your new boyfriend.

No, his attentiveness and interest and softness towards you, while inexplicable, is not a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is the girlish fluttering happening in your chest at the realization that this man, dubious morals or not, just became flustered in the place of business that he owns because you teased him.

An entire world of possibilities opens up to you.

Possibilities that will come with a very firm, very condition-heavy conversation, but exciting possibilities nonetheless.

Your entire demeanor shifts by the time evening shift rolls around. Punching in your door code, already knowing that San won’t be here since most of the appointments are already done, you shuck your coat and bag into the supply closet. Minho is already here, you can tell by the scent of his laundry detergent and subtle cologne, and for a minute you wonder if he ever left after the morning shift.

He’s in the back with two white kittens named Choco and Nabi, sitting cross-legged in the floor and letting them scamper all over him with frenzied energy.

“Look how cute.” You ease yourself down to the floor next to him, wiggling your finger at Nabi and smiling as she immediately engages in a series of pounces.

“Good evening,” Minho greets flatly, once again maintaining his detached mannerisms.

Your shoulder brushes his as you lean forward to play with the kittens, and you feel him immediately move away from you.

“You can go ahead and get started on rooms whenever you’re ready.” He says, and moves to get up.

“Oh, sure, but, Minho?”

When he turns around, he finds you looking up at him, hand extended for him to help you to your feet as well.

“What?”

“Help me up?” You smile at him, eyes wide and innocent.

He frowns at you, begrudgingly stabbing his hand out to hoist you upright. “Let’s get our work done quickly, I have some things to do tonight.”

“More people to rob?” You chirp cheerfully, like you’re asking him if he’s going to run to the grocery store.

Minho’s expression flattens into severely unimpressed. “Are you never going to let that go?”

“Are you never going to stop mugging people as a hobby?” You grab the broom, dustpan, and trash can, and move into the first room to begin cleaning.

“My personal hobbies are none of your business.”

“They became my business when you held me up on my birthday.”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” He steps into the room, leaving a bowl of food for Eun, a big brown tomcat who immediately bumbles over to bury his face in the dish. “And I didn’t mug you.”

“You did, too.” You fire back, sifting the litter box.

“I stole the assface’s company credit card, bought gift cards, and used them to buy kitty litter and latex gloves and cat food. Fucking sue me.” Minho takes the water dish and dumps it, filling it fresh from the tap.

“No, you robbed me, too.” You flash him a sweet smile as you move from Eun’s room to the next one, saying hi to Bobae as she stretches and comes out from her covered bed.

Minho’s face appears in the door window, frowning with confusion. “I’ve never taken anything from you.”

You fake a gasp, pressing one hand to your chest like you’ve been emotionally injured. “You stole the very thoughtful and expensive gift that my loving boyfriend gave me for my birthday.”

There’s a second of recollection before Minho rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Fine, you can have it back.”

You immediately hold out your hand expectantly.

He just gestures to the supply closet. “It’s in there. We use it to clean the litter boxes.”

Your mouth falls open, shocked laughter bursting from your lips. “Oh my god, you’re so bitter.” You turn back to Bobae, kneeling down to run your hands over her white coat. “He’s so bitter, Bobae, baby.” She blinks one blue eye and one green eye up at you. “I think he’s jealous of the assface.” Bobae purrs loudly, bumping your hand with her freckled nose.

“I am not jealous of the assface.” Minho’s voice comes from the front of the room, and then he’s grumpily bringing a bowl of Churu for Bobae. “Here you go, sweetheart, don’t listen to the bad lady.” He scratches her between the ears, shoots you a surly look, and leaves with the water bowl.

“I think he is jealous.” You continue, shaking out the blankets. “Big bad Minho couldn’t even point a gun at me without feeling bad about it, Bobo.”

“Stop lying to my guests.”

Your voice lowers into a sweet croon. “He bought me cake and coffee, and called me cute names, and he told me I deserved better than the sucky boyfriend who forgot I existed.” You pause in sweeping to scratch Bobae’s back. “I think he’s secretly a softie, Bobo.”

“Are you done being delusional?”

“And right when I thought I was never going to see this insane psychopath again, Bobo, you’ll never guess what happened. Guess what happened? That’s right, he found me in trouble again, and jumped in to rescue me again. Does that sound like a big bad man to you, Bobo? I don’t think so.” You get on your hands and knees to run a sterile wipe over the floor, keeping Bobae up on her shelf while it dries.

“Do you mind not feeding your lies to my innocent cats?” Minho glares at you as you exit Bobae’s room and step into Kyong’s. Past the lowered brows and clenched jaw, you can see a flush of heat tingeing his ears a delightful pink.

The big orange cat immediately jumps off his shelf to greet you, no longer hissing his empty threats as he winds around your legs and demands affection. “You would probably understand him better than anyone, wouldn’t you Kyong? Why would a big bad mugger have mercy on me and choose to keep helping?”

“Maybe because he’s used to pathetic charity cases and can’t help himself.”

You start the cleaning process on Kyong’s room. “Why do you think he insisted so strongly that I get rid of my ex boyfriend? Huh, Kyongie? Do you think he likes me? Do you think maybe the big bad mugger Minho likes me just a little, teensy, weensy bit?”

He’s had enough of your ribbing, all delivered in a condescending baby voice for the sake of your adoring kitty guests. Minho opens Kyong’s door, drops off a bowl of food, and stands there, glaring at you. “Are you done making a spectacle of your boss, or are you going to keep talking your way out of a paycheck?” His ears are bright, flaming red.

You turn your back on him, shrugging innocently. “I’m just wondering when my big bad boss is going to go back to being the guy with his arm around my waist who called me jagi like he couldn’t remember my name.”

Utter silence follows in the wake of the bravest thing you’ve ever said to another human being—who carries a gun.

You’re too scared to let the silence fester. “What do you think, Kyongie, do you think he doesn’t like me anymore? Did I put my big fat foot in my big fat mouth? Wasn’t that silly of me? Yeah, I think it was—woah!” You’re halfway through bending down to scoop Kyong up off the floor and set him on his shelf when a pair of hot hands land on your hips, yanking you backwards away from the big orange cat.

The hands slide to your waist, spinning you around, and then you’re pressed into the chest of your boss, who is both entirely fed up with your patronizing crooning and just barely containing his evident excitement at the words that you’re saying to the cat instead of him. “Say that again.” It’s almost a whisper, breath tickling over your cheekbones, arms circling your waist like he doesn’t actually need you to say whatever you’re supposed to be repeating.

“Say what?” You can’t speak, you can’t breathe, you can’t feel anything but the hard lines of his body pressed against the soft ones of yours, and the frantic slamming of your heart.

“The part you didn’t say. The part you implied. The part that makes me think that this is exactly what you wanted to happen.” His eyes are darting back and forth between yours, hooded and piercing as they search for the words you haven’t had the guts to say directly.

“I think you like me, Minho.” Somehow you manage to peel off your latex gloves without ruining the moment, resting your clean, bare hands against his chest and breathing in the scent of him, feeling the hammering of his heart against your chest. “I think you like me, and I wish you would stop trying to make me comfortable and just say it.”

His arms tighten around your waist. “And if I say it?”

“You can’t mug people anymore.”

“What about really, really bad people?”

“You can’t be mugging anyone.”

“What if the person is the assface and he definitely deserves it?”

“Maybe I make an exception for the assface.”

“And if I stop mugging people?”

“I’m serious, Minho, I’m not going to jail for aiding and abetting or harboring or whatever crime I automatically commit by doing this.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.” His hips are pressed into yours, his face so close to yours that you’re breathing the same air, and you’ve only got a few more seconds of strangled focus before he completely breaks.

“I’m really, really hoping that the guy I like won’t make me kiss an active criminal.”

You can feel when his heart starts thudding infinitely faster. “No more mugging.” He breathes.

“Just like that?”

“Nothing bad will ever happen to you because of me, jagi. Just like that.”

This is nothing like how you thought this would turn out. You thought you would test the waters, see if your assumptions were correct, spend a little time teasing him and see if you could get a reaction. You never thought you’d lay him bare to a bunch of cats and wait for him to shut you up. You never thought you’d be crushed to his chest, breathing him in, watching his molten eyes burn into yours.

“Are you going to keep distracting me from Kyong or are you gonna do something?”

He kisses you. Hard and feverish, tugging you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your waist like you’re about to slip right through his fingers. Your hips feel like they’re going to give, your knees pressing together to keep you up. This is everything you never thought it could be.

Your hands go around his neck, letting him drag you up against his chest. His mouth presses and sucks and moves against yours, closing around your bottom lip, pushing at your top lip, and when he pauses to see just how badly you regret teasing him, you chase him.

He’s walking back, hitting the wall, fingers kneading at your hips, uttering a low groan as your teeth scrape his lower lip.

“I hope you don’t treat all of your employees like this,” You gasp when you break for air, your body leaned against his and his hands holding you securely by the waist.

He smirks that cunning, catlike smirk at you. “San doesn’t usually pressure me to kiss him this much.”

You scoff, smacking a hand against his chest, only to bite your tongue as he ducks in for another kiss, stealing your breath away. “Just let me do one more job.” He whispers against your mouth.

Your brain physically blinks. “No, Minho.”

His nose pushes at your cheek, lips littering kisses across your jaw. “Please. I promise they’re really sucky people.”

“No, Minho.”

“I’ll bring you back something pretty.” His lips latch to your throat, tongue tickling your skin as you beat lightly at his chest in protest.

“No, Minho!”

“What if they’re really, really sucky people?” He’s making his way down your throat, back up your throat, across your jaw. “What if it’s something really, really pretty?” His lips seal over yours again. You melt into his touch, wishing it didn’t absolutely reduce your brain to mush to be kissed and held by this relentless deviant, but you are completely enchanted by the heat of his touch.

“No more mugging.”

“God,” He kisses you again. “Fine. No more mugging.”

“Are you going to let me finish Kyong’s room?”

“Kyong can wait five more minutes. I’m not done with you yet.”

< part 1

bonus feature banner because I probably won't write a separate cat cafe Choi San fic but the vibes are too good:

tag list : @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @dreamingartist13 @ebnabi @bangtan-sonyeondamn8 @lemonn015 @thepoeticpurplepotato @brbwritingfanfic @skzlover24 @stephanieeeyang @my-neurodivergent-world @xgridx @igotajuicyass @annovaz @robinnotgood24 @butterflybananabread @tirena1 @nougatjade @wickedbutlovely @justiceforvillains

#skz #stray kids #lee know #lee minho #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz x you #stray kids x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #crack horror #choi san #ateez #san #minho #fluff #angst

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untitled-document-95 · 3 months ago

Text

Back and Forth (jake "hangman" seresin x reader)

Summary: Jake doesn't know why you're playing hard to get. Only you know that you're not playing at all.

Warnings: Language, the state of missouri

Requested: by @x3zerochanx3 see full ask here

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: I typically try to keep the "reader" character as nondescript as possible, but I had to give a lil background for this one

*gif is not mine*

_________________

“Jake?”

That single word caused Lieutenant Jake “Hangman” Seresin to flush with warmth and relief.

“Hi, momma. How was your flight?”

“Oh, you know how public transportation is these days! Not a bit of southern hospitality in sight. Guess that’s why it’s called southern hospitality!” Mama Seresin ranted into the phone, causing Jake to chuckle.

“We’re getting our luggage now, sweetie. Are you still meeting us at the hotel for dinner when you get done for the day?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Jake replied.

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to see you, honey.”

The mother and son exchange “I love you”’s and goodbyes and hang up the call, dragging Hangman unwillingly back to the cold locker room. He finishes changing into his flight suit for that afternoon’s training exercises. Just a few more hours and he’d get to see his parents for the first time in too many months. He’d requested a few days off, and his parents taking the time and energy to travel to him meant he got to make the most of those days. He couldn’t wait.

Finally, Jake was driving through the sweltering San Diego streets towards the address his mom had texted him. She’d said their hotel was new, so "it had better be good". He was pleasantly surprised to see the hotel was a mere two blocks from The Hard Deck. It was new, the exterior a sun bleached white stucco with black accents.

A blast of air conditioning greeted Jake as he entered, but it was nothing compared to the hug his mother pulled him into just seconds later.

“Jake!” she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of excitement and relief. Jake responded only by holding her more tightly and humming into her hair. Her scent was familiar and comforting, nearly bringing tears to his eyes. Pulling away, Jake reached out to hug his father as well. What a lucky guy I am, Jake thought.

“Now, where are you taking your parents to eat?” Mama Seresin asked. Jake laughed.

“Well, what sounds good? I’ll be honest, I haven’t been around town much.”

“Let’s ask the front desk,” mama says, making towards the sleek marble counter. A tight-laced looking guy stands there; the kind Jake would have called a string bean if he weren’t trying to mind his manners in front of mama.

“Excuse me, sir, could you give us some recommendations for somewhere to have dinner?” she asks sweetly.

“There’s some brochures in the breakfast room,” he says curtly, immediately bringing a frown to Mrs. Seresin’s face. Jake opens his mouth to tell him where he can shove his brochures when a woman Jake hadn’t noticed in the shadows behind him makes herself known.

“Allow me,” she says, practically hip-checking the other employee out of the way. “Are we wanting to try some of the local flavor?”

I sure do, Jake thinks. The girl is pretty. Not in the typical San Diego girl way. She’s sun kissed but not overly tan, she’s got muscle and a body, not the skeletal figure of too many of the local girls who frequent The Hard Deck, trying to pick up a pilot. She must live here, or she wouldn’t work here, but Jake somehow doubts that she’s from here. There’s a twinge of an accent in her voice.

“I think that sounds lovely, dear. Where do you recommend?”

“There’s a cantina just down the road that serves the best tamales. There’s usually no wait and they don’t take reservations, otherwise I’d call ahead for you.”

“Well, if there isn’t a little southern hospitality left outside of Texas. You have been most helpful, dear. What’s your name?” The woman sticks out a hand, gives her name, and introduces herself as the hotel manager.

“You must be from a southern state,” Mama Seresin assumes.

“Sort of, ma’am,” the woman replies awkwardly. “I’m from Missouri.”

Mama Seresin’s smile shows a flash of confusion for a moment before perkily replying, “Well, close enough! Thank you so much, dear. Come on, gentlemen!” As the family retreats, it doesn’t escape the hotel manager’s notice the way Jake’s eyes stay on her as he walks away, giving a quick wink just before stepping through the front doors.

____________

Jake’s time with his family flies by, and he doesn’t see the cute hotel manager again. Saying goodbye before they leave for their late evening flight is more painful than he would ever say aloud.

He knows he probably shouldn’t, but he heads to The Hard Deck after dropping them at the airport for a beer or two. Finding an empty stool at the bar, he begins to nurse his pint, not feeling up to pool or darts or any of his usual exploits. None of his pilot buddies are there yet anyway, it’s too early for them. He may try to duck out before any of them arrive in order to have some more alone time before having to face everyone at training again tomorrow.

A boisterous laugh echoes across the room, and Jake looks towards the sound reflexively. It’s her - the hotel manager. She’s no longer dressed in her professional blazer, but a casual tank top. Something Penny and/or some old regular just said must’ve made her laugh. There’s a cocktail glass in her hand, but no friends in sight.

Better yet, no boyfriend Jake thinks, climbing off of the stool to approach her.

“Hey, Missouri,” he says as he draws closer, leaning against the bar near her.

“Hello!” she replies cheerfully as though she’s still at work. “How did my dinner recommendation turn out?”

“Delicious, thank you. The tamales were quite good.”

“Well, good! Can’t wait to go try them myself,” she says, taking a sip of her drink.

“Wait…” Jake starts. “You haven’t eaten there yet? Then how’d you recommend it?”

“I have spent an ungodly amount of time scouring reviews of everywhere within a 10 mile radius. That place had some of the best, and everyone mentioned the tamales.”

“Are you saying…you lied to my mother?” Jake says, both shocked and amazed. The woman laughs into her drink and her cheeks flush pink, making Jake wonder how many drinks she’s had.

“Well, I can’t try everywhere at once. I’m working through it, though. That’s why I’m here tonight. A bar within walking distance of the hotel? I’ll recommend it all day and night if it’s good, which…” she looks into her glass and then back at Jake. “It is.”

“Is that part of a hotel manager’s job?” he asks.

“It is if you want to be a good one,” she answers, eyebrows hiking up.

“And are you? A good one?”

“I’d like to think so, or I at least want to be. This is my first time,” she admits.

“As a hotel manager?”

“During the day, anyway. I’ve been a night auditor in a few different places.”

“And how did a girl from Missouri end up all the way here in San Diego? That’s a long way from home,” Jake smirks and sips his beer. She smirks back to let him know that she’s onto his little game.

“I have family here. You’re not from here either I’m guessing, given that your parents stayed in my hotel to see you. Where are you from, Captain Obvious?”

“It’s Lieutenant.”

This response causes her to nearly choke to death on the drink she was taking a sip of. Penny looks over to see what the fuss is.

“He has that effect on people, sweetie!” Penny hollers.

When she has stopped coughing and taken another sip to clear her throat, she speaks again.

“Was that to be funny, or…?”

“No, I’m really a Lieutenant, from Texas but stationed here at the moment. Lieutenant Jake Seresin, nice to meet you…again,” he says, offering her a hand. She shakes politely but doesn’t reintroduce herself.

“Nice to meet you,” she says.

Just then, a group of fellow pilots enters the crowded bar. Spotting Jake, one comes over and claps a hand enthusiastically to his shoulder.

“Hangman! Come on, man, rack ‘em up with me!” the guy shouts.

“Hangman?” she asks.

“Call sign. Old Navy tradition,” he says to her. “I’m a little busy at the moment, guys,” he replies to his friends.

“It’s okay,” she says, climbing down from her stool and getting out a card to close her tab with Penny. “I should get going anyway, I have a ton of paperwork to get done.”

Reluctantly, Jake pulls away from the bar.

“I guess I’ll see you around, Missouri,” he calls to her.

“Not a chance, Tex,” she replies, smiling and turning away.

—-

The next day, Jake is perusing cottage cheese options at the grocery store when someone bumps into him. Literally - her body collides with his, no doubt from lack of attention. The woman stands and immediately begins apologizing, but stops dead in her tracks when her eyes lock with his.

“I am so sorry, I was not looking where I-“

“Hey, Missouri,” Jake says flirtatiously. She attempts to speak, but each word she starts gets lost somewhere between her brain and her mouth, so Jake fills in the blanks for her. “Funny running into you here.” His tone drips with arrogance, like he knows just how much his sudden reappearance has thrown her and he wants to revel in it.

“Are you stalking me?” she asks, but there’s a lightheartedness to her tone.

“I could say the same for you,” he retorts.

“Fair enough. I’m sorry for running into you, I guess I got carried away looking for yogurt.”

"I'll chalk that up as the weirdest excuse someone has given for trying to get my attention," Jake says smoothly.

"Ah-" she starts, clearly outraged but with a smile on her face. "I was not!" she finally says.

"No, it's okay!" he says. "I'm irresistible, I know."

"Whatever makes you feel better," she quips back.

"What would make me feel better is if you'd just, you know, give it up and let me take you out properly."

A surprised smile stretches across her face as she crosses her arms.

"Is that what you think I've been trying to do?" Her tone is still casual, playful. Jake simply maintains eye contact, even giving her that signature wrinkle of his nose to really drive home the point: he doesn't need to say anything more, because they both know the mutual desire is there.

"Ohhh..kay, I'm gonna get my yogurt now." Jake smiles and rolls his eyes as she does just that. When was she going to give up the "hard to get" act? Jake reaches back as well, selecting a container of cottage cheese.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let me show you how we do it here in Fightertown, USA."

"Oh, now you've ticked me off in more ways than one," she says, tossing her selected yogurt into her cart and pulling it around to face the direction she intends on moving, but a laugh threatens to bubble out of her.

"How so?" Jake asks, his brow knitted in confusion.

"You called me 'sweetheart' and you eat cottage cheese." She begins pushing her cart away from the dairy section. Jake remains, dumbfounded.

"What's wrong with cottage cheese?" he calls to her retreating figure.

"It's disgusting!"

_________________

That night, Jake lay on the couch and did something he had never really done before - he searched for her on Facebook. He knew her name, her home state, and her current city and occupation, but it still took a while to find her. The posts on her profile were frustratingly private, but it did answer the most basic questions he had about this mysterious girl. Was she in a relationship? Was that why she was always rejecting his advances? No, her profile said "Single". Was she gay? Also no, a deep dive of her "About Me" said she was interested in men. He figured she would have said something a lot sooner if either of those things had been true, but you never knew.

Jake couldn't decide if this whole experience was new because women didn't generally reject him or because he didn't generally chase a woman this way. In fairness, she'd never technically said "no", she just deflected. Frustrated and confused, Jake ran both hands through his hair before turning on a show to calm his mixed-up feelings.

_________________

"I don't know mom, she just...isn't biting on anything," Jake tells his mom through FaceTime a few days later. Some people may assume the ever-confident, always-"on" Jake Seresin wouldn't discuss the minor details of his love life with his mother, but they'd be wrong. He always leaves out the more colorful details, of course.

"Well, just go talk to her! You know where she works," Mama Seresin replies.

"Mom. It's not 1958, I'll look like a stalker if I do that," he says.

"Whatever you say, dear. Oh! Did I tell you about..." Jake's mind swirls more as his mother updates him on more gossip and neighborhood news from home. Maybe it's time to move on, give up on this girl. She clearly doesn't want to be courted, so why waste the mental energy? But a part of him nags that she's worth whatever it takes to break down the walls she's put up between them.

"Jake? Jacob Michael, are you listening to me?" Mama snaps. Ah, shit. Middle name.

"I'm sorry mom, I got distracted," he admits.

"Well, if you're gonna be distracted, might as well be useful. I need you to run by that hotel your father and I stayed at." Jake's heart pounds. Where she works? Why?

"What for?"

"Your daddy thinks he left his glasses in the desk drawer. You know how he is with those damn things. Insurance won't cover a new pair for 6 months and with his lenses alone we're looking at over a hundred dollars, not to mention whatever the hell frames he wants, and-"

"I got it, mama. I'll run by there this afternoon."

_________________

Why the hell am I nervous? Jake wonders as he approaches the front desk of the hotel. So far, it didn't even look like she was there. If she was, she at least wasn't the one working the desk. He couldn't decide if he would be relieved or disappointed if he made it out of here without seeing her and getting another shot at convincing her.

Just as it was his turn in line, the phone at the desk rang. The gentleman working the desk called her name, the one that occupied so much of his brain at the moment. The man answered the phone, turning his attention away from the line in front of him. Presumably from the back office, she appears and looks astonished to see him standing there.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?" she says, remaining professional but with a new look of intrigue on her face. Too late, Jake realizes this is the first time she's seen him in any kind of uniform, still in his service khakis from work that day.

"Afternoon, ma'am," he says, tipping his head in her direction cordially. "My mother and father stayed here last week, in room 510, and they fear they may have left a pair of eyeglasses behind in the desk drawer."

"Let me go check the lost and found, I'll be right back," she answers, dazzling him with that smile of hers. She returns shortly, no glasses in hand.

"I didn't find them, but there's no one in that room right now and no one has stayed there since your parents checked out. If you'd like, we can run up there and take a look?" she offers.

"That would be great, thank you."

"Want me to take him?" the front desk guy says, now finished with the phone call. Not taking her eyes off of Jake, she answers him.

"No, I've got it. You finish helping the rest of these lovely people out."

The elevator ride to the room is quiet but not awkward. Jake can almost sense every modicum of professionalism in her body working to keep something inside, to hold her back in some way. Inside, they scour every drawer and cabinet and look under the beds for the missing glasses, to no avail.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Seresin, doesn't look like they're here," she says regretfully.

“That’s alright, Missouri. They’re probably in my dad’s pocket but at least now I can say I looked.”

“True,” she chuckles.

“You know, I usually take a girl out for dinner before bringing her to the bedroom,” he teases. She scoffs.

“Oh, my God. I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Literally,” Jake smirks. “Maybe we can rewind and do it right this time.” Jake steps closer to her, causing her breath to catch in her chest.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very persistent?”

“Not since last week,” he says, getting a chuckle out of both of them.

“Lieutenant S-“

“Call me Jake,” he interrupts.

“Jake,” she says slowly. “I’m sorry, I just-“ her eyes dart to her feet and she bites her lower lip before looking up at him. She squints up like he’s as bright as the sun. “I just moved here. I don’t do one night stands. I don’t have the capacity for a relationship right now.” She says each sentence like they're bullet points; a rehearsed rejection.

Jake swears he feels part of him begin to bruise, and not his ego this time.

“I understand,” he says, still gazing at her…lovingly? He winks. “Let me know when you’ve got room for me, huh?”

Looking all too much like a starry-eyed school girl, she replies, “I will.”

Back in the car, Jake tries to shake off his disappointment by calling his mom to update her on the glasses situation.

“Jakey?” she answers.

“Hey, mama. I just went by the hotel, they didn’t have dad’s glasses.”

“What glasses? Your dad’s glasses are on his face?”

“You asked me to-“ Jake stops mid sentence as the realization dawns on him.

“Mom!” he exclaims, hearing his mom’s raucous laughter in the background.

_________________

The next night, Jake’s friends drag him to The Hard Deck to try and cheer him up from whatever it is that’s bothering him, since he doesn’t seem keen on sharing with them. They encourage him to put his moves on some new lady. Despite his reservations, he figures it can’t hurt. He’s surprised by his own behavior when he scans the bar, not only looking for a potential lady but looking for her. If she’s here, he won’t be able to bring himself to talk to anyone else. She’s magnetic, that one.

He doesn’t spot her, but does spot a nice looking gal hanging a little too close to the dart board to just be a fan of darts. Approaching her and putting on the charm is like muscle memory, but there’s a soreness in the muscle. He can feel how much he wishes he was putting all this charisma down for her, not the woman in front of him, pretty and nice as she may be.

An hour and a few drinks later, Jake has Allie, as she introduced herself, on the dance floor. Spinning around, Jake wonders if it’s too early to try and get her out of here. Moreso, he isn’t sure he even wants to. The distraction has been nice, but bringing her back to his place doesn’t have the same impact it would have before meeting a certain hotel manager.

On one of many spins, Jake loses all sense of balance. Not physically, but emotionally. All because he spots her across the bar, standing at a high top table and having a conversation with another guy. What the hell is she doing? What happened to “not having the capacity to date right now”?

Jake is this close to marching up to her to ask her just that when Allie drags him to the bar for another drink. His eyes dart over to her every few seconds. At first, her interactions with the guy seem casual. Jake can tell from the way the guy shifts his body and looks between her eyes and her lips more frequently that he wants the conversation to be less casual. There’s no way she’ll reciprocate…right?

_________________

She hadn’t noticed Jake and his date on the other side of the bar. She'd remained steadily focused on her job for the evening - entertaining her boss's son, who'd unexpectedly rolled into town that day. She, like Jake had, scoured the landscape of the bar upon her arrival, but didn’t manage to lay eyes on the aviator who seemed hell bent on flying around her mind all day and night. That is, until she hears his voice boom over the din of the room. Looking over, she watches as a girl drags him to the dance floor. Wait - had he or had he not just insinuated that when she was ready to date, he’d be there? She thought that meant he’d be waiting for her…this sure didn’t look like waiting. But...who was she kidding? A guy like him and a girl like her? She was lucky he’d even been so persistent. If she’d wanted him, she should have let him in when he tried the first several times.

But oh, did she want him. So, so badly. She couldn’t admit that the fear of her previous relationship’s failure - the one that had sent her on this journey to get a job as far away from home as possible - was what was keeping her from entering into a relationship so soon. Ruminating on her regret stoked a fire in her chest - if he could move on so quickly, why couldn’t she?

In a snap decision, she purposefully leaned closer and “turned it on” as her friends always told her to do: allowing her eyes to drift to parts of Liam other than his eyes, sipping her drink a little more sensually, but still holding back just a bit so she could defend herself if she were accused of being unprofessional. She couldn’t help but feel that Liam wasn’t exactly interested in remaining strictly professional.

_________________

Across the bar, Jake was nearly turning red with frustration. Splitting his attention between Allie and the date over at the high top table, he couldn’t help but notice the changes in her body language. The way she leaned in, the way she damn near batted her eyelashes at this guy. What did he have that Jake didn’t? Jake resented the seed of self-doubt she’d planted in his chest.

He continued to watch as she actually brushed her hand down his arm.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jake mutters under his breath.

“What’s that?” Allie asked.

“Nothing, darling. Not a damn thing,” he replied, gritting his teeth a little as he looked back over at them. He began formulating a plan for intercepting their little tête-à-tête somehow when, lo and behold, someone unplugged the jukebox, sending a round of groans throughout the room. Jake had been around long enough to realize what was happening. Sure enough, moments later, someone started up a song on the piano. Looking up and over the crowd, Jake spotted - who else? - Bradley at the keys. Normally, Bradley’s piano peacocking would annoy him, but tonight, it was his chance.

“Let’s get closer!” Allie begs, grabbing around Jake’s bicep.

“You go on, I gotta do something real fast,” he shouts in order to be heard over the cheers and initial notes of Rooster’s song. Allie smiles and rushes off to get closer to the piano.

Before his targets can do the same, Jake hustles to the opposite side of the bar. Unsure if it's the beer in his system or something else making him so bold, Jake walks right up behind her and touches a gentle hand to her elbow as he says her name.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Her forehead knits and unknits just as quickly before she turns to her date, excusing herself. Jake carefully guides her out to the deck, closing the door behind them to muffle the sounds of the music inside. It’s much calmer on the deck, the sun just about to set on the horizon. The sound of the ocean waves and the faint smell of salt soothes Jake's nerves just a bit.

“What the hell is going on in there?” Jake asks, as calmly as possible despite his un-holy language.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says modestly, crossing her arms and leaning against the railing, back to the sea.

“Don’t give me that, Missouri. What happened to being too busy to date?”

“I’m not on a date, Jake. I’m entertaining a VIP guest of the hotel, and yes, that’s part of my job too.”

“Yeah, that looked a lot like a business meeting.” His tone is heavy with sarcasm.

“Well, it’s not like you did much waiting around, either!” she retorts. Jake snickers, but has no response. If only she knew how truly remarkable it is to render him speechless.

“What is this, Jake?” she asks. “Why do you care so much, anyway?” Something in her voice seems wounded, like someone who has been hurt before and fully expects to be hurt again. That phrase in and of itself digs into Jake sharply, like a knife.

Jake's hands find his hips and he looks to the sky, practically begging God to send him the words he needs to convince her to give him a chance. There’s a figurative whisper in his ear - his mom’s voice, reminding him to be himself. But who is he, really? He didn’t want her the way he wanted the girls he usually found at The Hard Deck - in the bedroom sense only. He wanted her for so much more than that. With a heavy sigh, he looks at her once again.

“I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want. But I want…us. I think that we could be something amazing, and I don’t know if I can go my whole life without finding out if I’m right or not.” His voice cracks on the last sentence, a fact that makes her look stricken, as though she takes accountability for his sudden show of emotion.

Her cheeks are a violent shade of red. Exhaling, she allows her arms to uncross, palms moving to rest on her lower back. She, too, looks to the sky. For her, though, it’s not because she has no words - it’s because she has too many. She fears drowning him with her words, unsure if that would be preferable to the drought she’s already left him in.

Jake slowly draws closer to her, but remains just barely within arm’s reach. He reaches out a hand to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers. She lets out a shuddery breath.

“I’m scared,” she admits.

“Of what?” She sniffles and drops her eyes to her feet.

“That another person will be so cruel as to pretend to care about me more than they really do.”

For a minute, the only sounds are the muffled music and cheers from the bar goers inside, the crashing of the waves, the calls of the seagulls swooping down for one last snack.

Jake looks into her face more intently than anyone ever has. He notices that her eyes are no longer on him, but beyond him, through the large windows of the bar. Turning to follow her gaze, he sees exactly what she does - the guy she'd been with inside and Allie, wrapped up in one another like they hadn't both been there with other people less than 5 minutes ago. Jake turns back around.

“I would say it’s their loss, but it’s not.” A look of befuddlement takes over her face, until Jake clarifies. “It’s not their loss because anyone who has done that to you is clearly too stupid to realize what they lost when they walked away from you. You’re too smart, too powerful, too beautiful for them to realize what they’re missing out on. I’m not going to make the same mistake…if you’ll let me prove it.” With each sentence, Jake has inched closer. Their faces are so close they’d be cross eyed if they were trying to make eye contact. That’s probably why, when they both look up, their lips brush one another. With a level of synchronization that can’t be taught, they both reach for the other, pulling each other close. Their lips crash together quietly but inside, there’s an explosion. All the tension and build up to this moment melts into the kiss, like two lovers reunited after years apart instead of practical strangers who met less than two weeks ago.

The tension ebbs as they pull apart and lock eyes. Tentative smiles sneak into view, perhaps both a bit embarrassed, but neither regretful. Not one bit.

#x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #hangman #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman fic #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin x you #top gun x reader #top gun maverick #untitleddocument95 #top gun fanfiction #tgm

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3amfanfiction · 14 days ago

Note

Three, I’ve finally had a thought! (But it might be a 10k nightmare, sorry my dear 💚)

Imagine if you will, ex-cult!AU, there you left years ago, are trying to live a “normal life” and suddenly you feel like you’re being followed, and you? You know when your anxiety is right.

You start making plans to ghost, you haven’t lived away from them for so long without a reason

When you return to your apartment you already know it’s all over. Someone’s here, but close the door behind you. Part of you always knew someone from your past would appear.

There’s a giant behind you, dark eyes cold as he holds a finger to his mouth, signaling you to be silent. All you can do is nod weakly. You don’t remember him, tears are building in your eyes

“‘S wrong, luv? Didn’t think I’d find you?” Something about his voice is familiar, but you don’t know what

When he leans in closer, you see it — a very specific scar you’d been at the birth of

“Simon?” Utter shock pitches your voice higher than you thought possible.

Your only friend couldn’t have been this big, but it had been years since you last saw him

(Is this anything? 💚)

Is this anything, you say like this isn't everything. I'm already up to 20k words my dearest, lovely Temp and I haven't even gotten to the smut so this is going to come out in chapters. I hope you all enjoy part one!

~~~~~

Escaping the Cult Chapter One

tw: none this chapter, 4.8k

summary: you've escaped the cult and stayed off their radar for years. so how did he find you? what does he want from you? simon x f!reader but it stays pretty gn for the most part.

~~~~~

"Hello, love."

He loomed over you, half encased in shadow like an avenging demon. His bulk eclipsed the room, ensuring he was all you could see. This couldn't be happening. You'd been so careful.

Your knees trembled and you used the wall he had you pinned against as a buttress. Something solid that you took what strength you could from. You clenched your fists, the peeling wallpaper getting caught, curled under your nails. "You-you can't be here. I made sure, you shouldn't have been able to find me." Your heart was beating too fast in your chest. It felt like it was about to take flight and leap from its resting place. Your lungs seized and you fought to draw in air as you panicked.

"You might've been able to hide from others. But me? You were never able to hide from me." He took a step towards you, invading your space as you pressed back, your spine molded to the wall. You couldn't help your nervous swallow.

As you took in his broad frame—shoulder eclipsing the room, blocking you from seeing anything that wasn't him—you were reminded that this was the cult's enforcer. If he wanted you to do something, take you somewhere, you wouldn't be able to object. You never would've thought the scrappy little kid you used to go down to the creek with would have a job like that. But he just kept growing that one summer. You swear he'd shot up over a foot in those three months alone. Then when the muscles started packing on it seemed like a foolish hope that he'd ever go to work as something else.

You'd seen the signs as soon as Price had walked down the lane towards your little house—butted right up against Simon's. Knew what he'd ask, knew what Simon's response would be. It marked the beginning of the end of your life in the group.

Even to this day you couldn't call it a cult. Just a nondescript 'group' the closest you could manage, a rotten taste in your mouth at the thought.

And now your past was coming back to haunt you.

"Just let me go. You don't have to do this," you pleaded, trying to find some small chink in his armor. Something you could dig your fingers into and pull. "I haven't said anything to anybody, I promise."

And you wouldn't. Honest. You had no desire to be reminded of your past. Everything you had, everything you lost. Everything you hoped to gain and how bittersweet it was in comparison to your dreams. The past was the past and you never wanted it brought up again.

But the past was standing in your kitchen, taking up more space than you remembered.

"Simon, you know me," you tried. Something to appeal to his humanity, your shared childhood, anything. "You know I'd never talk. Please, you don't have to do this."

"Oh, sweetheart," he cooed with a strange tone of voice. Was it mocking? Eagerness? You flinched, preparing for the worst, "It's not like that at all."

Not like that? What does that mean? You had no ideas, nothing to guide you, no landmarks to follow. You hadn't seen him in years. Sure, you remembered the child fondly but you weren't ignorant to what the adult had done in service of Price. The horrors that Simon must have seen, been in accompaniment to.

He didn't give you a chance to respond before his arms darted out. You took a half step backwards in shock as his hands made contact and he pulled you into his chest, constricting his thick, burly arms around you. You felt your breath huff out at the pressure around your chest, struggling to get another inhale in. Simon squeezed tighter.

He buried his face in your hair and croaked out a, "You don't know how long it took me to find you," squeezing you tightly, as if afraid you would slip through his fingers.

Oh. He wasn't looking to take you back.

He got out.

You felt the tension drain from your shoulders so suddenly you practically collapsed into him, dizzy but trusting that he would have no trouble taking your weight. You wrapped your own arms around his waist, hugging him tightly to you, afraid to let go. To be alone again. Tears started to blur your vision.

The relief you felt was indescribable. You could finally breathe, a weight you weren't aware of had been yoked around your neck, something that wasn't noticed until it wasn't there anymore.

You didn't have to do this by yourself anymore.

—

He had searched and searched for you. Dead-end after dead-end all he had to show for it as the days bled into weeks, into months. It wore on him, grinding away at his determination until it was paper-thin, a hairs-width all that separated him from continuing to look and calling it quits. But he'd always been a stubborn bastard. And if you thought you were going to get away from him, leave him behind, you had another thing coming. So he had put his nose to the grindstone and kept at it. Town after town, questions and probes, always looking. Even when his desperation seeped into his every action, he didn't falter.

It was exhausting.

But it paid off.

It was chance that had him stopping in this blip of a town. Nothing but a twist of fate. And now he had you again. Here, in his arms. Crying into his chest. This was what he had been looking for since he left Price. This was the integral part that had been ripped from his life.

You.

In any capacity he could get, he wanted you.

He buried his nose in your hair, taking all of you in as he held you tightly. Now that he had you, nothing would pry him away.

—

That was weeks ago.

You watched Simon get up to pace a lap around the small living room/dining room combo you had going on. An outlet for the anxiety that thrummed under his skin. Money was tight with you being the only one with a job and you were only able to tighten your belts so far.

Simon had a rough demeanor—a scowl that was ever present on his face ensured he failed miserably at all his interviews, even the ones for a day laborer. You were working doubles trying to keep the both of you fed and afloat while Simon did what he could. He managed to pull in a few dollars here and there but never anything substantial.

You'd forbidden him from finding a fighting ring and trying to earn his money with his fists. You were terrified one day he wouldn't come home, left to bleed out in a ditch after a bad fight. You wouldn't have any word, no way to find him, no way of knowing what happened. He'd just be gone.

No, you wouldn't have it. You'd figure something else out.

Thus the current fight.

"We can't keep doing this, you're about to fall off your feet and I'm sitting around, fucking useless," he snarled, fed up at his own ineptitude. He'd never had that problem before. Back with Price. He'd always known exactly where he fit in, which space was hand-carved just for him. There hadn't been this constant uncertainty.

Now he couldn't even help to make sure you were fed or that there was a roof over the both of your heads. He was sidelined as you picked up back-to-back double shifts, working yourself to the bone. He watched it happening. Each day you came home a little bit frailer, a little more worn. It was eating you alive.

But you didn't see it that way.

"You're not useless. Things are tough right now but they're going to get better."

You wished you had something better to say. Something that said you would work until your fingers bled to keep him here with you. That this was all you wanted, all you hoped for in the darkest parts of the night, was to have him here with you. And now that he was you were going to hold on as tightly as you could, he wouldn't be slipping through your fingers. You just wished you could make him understand what his being here meant to you.

He scoffed and jerked his head, as if he couldn't bear to look at you. You didn't acknowledge how much it hurt, gaze flickering down so he couldn't see the emotion in your eyes. "I don't see how. Rent's due this week."

"It's going to be okay," you mustered, "We're almost there. I'll pick up a few extra shifts, we'll make it—"

"You're not picking up extra shifts," he roared, finally losing his temper as he spun back around to look at you. You flinched at the sound but held your ground. You knew he would never hurt you but that didn't change the fact that he was a big man. A big, loud man. "You're barely able to stay on your feet as it is, we're not going to keep doing this."

"Well, I don't see any other alternatives, do you?" you spat back after you gathered yourself, fed up with an argument you'd had several times before. "We need food, we need electricity and water and all that costs money. Money we don't have."

Simon ran his hands through his buzzed hair in frustration, finally turning to look at you, pinning you in place with his dark gaze.

"You were doing just fine before I came, maybe I need to leave. Head out so you don't have to worry about covering for me."

"Simon Riley, you stop right there before I shove a bar of soap so far down your throat you'll be shitting bubbles. That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You think my life was fine before you got here?" You thought back on all the missed meals and cold nights you'd endured by yourself. The lonely hours you would spend staring at the ceiling, too lethargic to get out of bed, nothing that could pull you from its warm embrace. "I was struggling then too, and I'll take this over that any day of the week."

It was clear from the look on his face that he didn't believe you. You stalked over to him and pressed your finger firmly into his sternum, using it to emphasize every word you said. "I want you here. We'll figure it out."

He looked down at where you were pressed so close to his front. Chest and shoulders heaving from the strong emotions coursing through you. He wanted to touch. He wanted to feel your heart race under his palm, feel your breaths skating over the thin skin of his cheek, he wanted you.

You'd always been beautiful but there was something special about this. Something that he hadn't seen before. Certainly not back with Price. You had always been meek back then. A quiet little mouse that wouldn't hardly say boo to a ghost. Nothing like now. He wondered where you'd found your new backbone.

He wished he'd been here to see it.

He took a step closer, forcing your elbow to bend otherwise it would've been your finger, still pressed to his chest. When he was close enough to smell your shampoo he paused, suddenly unsure about pushing this further.

You watched with an uncertain look, waiting to see what he would do. Your chest was still heaving with emotion, dragging in what oxygen you could and let your hand drop. You watched his pupils expand as he looked at you. The black eating away all color of the iris.

He took a deep breath, his chest moving out to lightly brush against you before he exhaled. There was hardly any room between the two of you now, just heat and a yearning that was slowly being unearthed. Something that had never seen the light of day but was now stretching its legs, ready to be acknowledged.

You'd loved him for years and wondered if this was it. If this was the moment you were going to risk everything and tell him how you felt. How you saw him. You'd never been brave enough before, but you'd had to be tougher since leaving Price. More sure of yourself. And you knew what you wanted. Him. Simon. Just like he was.

He opened his mouth and you waited with baited breath. Waited for the culmination of years worth of longing. Everything leading up to here. To him. Surely he felt the same way as you. You couldn't have been imagining all the subtle glances and brushed hands over the years. Surely this was reciprocated.

"I—"

The ringing phone snapped you out of your haze. You watched as he closed back off, biting the words back behind his teeth. Another opportunity lost. The disappointment almost choked you as you pulled your phone from your pocket, your mood souring further when you saw it was work calling.

"I've gotta get this. They might have more shifts to be picked up," you muttered as you stepped back, putting distance between the two of you, physically and metaphorically, lifting the phone to your ear. You couldn't look at him. It was too painful. You turned away, missing the look that crossed his face for a split second. A there and gone emotion too quick for you to make out even if you had been watching, one that if you had seen you would have clocked almost as fear.

—

Your days changed after that.

Simon had always been a loner. Even when you two were thick as thieves he still valued his personal time by himself. You couldn't count the amount of times you'd spun around, talking to him while he was supposed to be right behind you only for him to be dust in the wind. Gone without you realizing it to go do his own thing. You went searching for him a few times but you rarely had luck finding him. Even as a child he'd been skilled in hiding and remaining undetected. Something Price, no doubt, saw and made plans to utilize. But something caused his loner tendencies to change. Where before you mostly saw Simon at home, you now saw him when you were out and about as well.

He followed you to the farmers market, something he normally avoided—all the people talking and yelling made his anxiety spike, not that he'd ever admit it. He'd practically kept his hand in your pocket the whole time. He followed you to the drugstore when you were only running in for one thing, he even showed up while you were at work.

You'd just set the last plate of breakfast food in front of a family when the door jangled its little bell letting you know someone new had just walked in. Letting the family know to ask if they needed anything, you turned to seat the newcomer when you came face-to-face with Simon.

You'd slipped out of the house early this morning, not eager to rehash your ongoing fight. You thought it best to give him some time to calm down, to come to terms with the fact that the both of you needed your job, needed the money that you were able to pull in from the diner. The tips were the only reason you'd survived as long as you had.

But you were shocked to see him so early. He must've rolled out of bed just after you left, you thought glancing at the clock. You hadn't been here for a full hour yet. You wondered if something was wrong.

Frowning, you made your way up to him. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"

"Everything's fine," he said, reaching out as if to trace his fingers gently along your cheek before he caught himself and pulled back. You blinked up at him in shock, mouth parting in an oh. That was new. Simon wasn't a touchy person. He didn't normally reach out to you, letting you keep your space, always a buffer between the two of you. You were the instigator the majority of the time, always the one to reach out first whether for a friendly shoulder tap or pulling him into a long over-due hug. It'd been that way forever, you thought nothing would change that.

He didn't explain anything further, just moved around you to take a seat at one of the back booths. You watched him go with confusion, standing in the middle of the diner dumbfounded before you made yourself move. Moving to pour him a cup of coffee, you sat it down in front of him. You couldn't afford much but coffee was basically free here. You could at least manage that.

Your day passed quietly but with a hefty weight to it. Simon never left, he kept the corner company for the hours of your workday, sitting calmly with a patient focus. Whenever there was a quiet moment you'd look up to find him looking at you, his gaze steady as he watched. You tried to come over and talk to him but he wouldn't say much, would just redirect you to other customers, saying something along the lines of 'we can't lose this job'.

The strangeness continued into the evening. Clocking out, you saw Simon waiting for you at the exit, finally leaving the booth he'd been sat at all day. Leaving with a wave and goodbye to the kitchen staff you met up with him and started your journey home, enjoying the cool breeze blowing across your slightly sweaty skin. The sky was dark and stars were just starting to peek out, evening turning its way into true night.

He reached out and tucked your arm into the crease of his elbow, keeping you firmly within reach.

What was going on?

Simon and personal space were near synonymous. Excluding you, he didn't care much for anyone intruding on his personal bubble and even you he would only put up with until he grew overstimulated and then he would forcibly put distance between the two of you. But him initiating contact again? Twice in one day? You wondered if he might be feeling poorly, maybe a fever was causing him to behave erratically.

You weren't sure but something wasn't right and you were going to get to the bottom of it.

You'd spent the whole walk home thinking up a game plan. What you were going to ask, his expected response, your rebuttal. All of it laid out like a general making war plans. Lines of supply and areas to push, the landmines which were to be avoided at all costs. Keeping the end goal in mind, you planned.

Walking ahead of him you heard the front door of the apartment close behind you. The locks clicking into place a short second later. Turning to frown at him, all your plans went out the window and you flat-out asked, "So today was fun. Why'd you want to hang out with me all day?"

Simon bent down to take off his shoes, not bothering with an answer.

"Was there something that I missed?" You tried again, looking for an in. Something that you could use to pry apart his silence.

He turned to put his shoes into the hallway closet where they belonged.

"Simon. Why'd you spend all day at the diner?" This was like pulling teeth.

"Wanted to," he finally grunted, moving to walk past you into the kitchen, opening the bare fridge before closing it with a huff. You'd split your two free meals with him on your breaks but that didn't go terribly far. Especially when he tried to encourage you to eat the majority of it saying you were on your feet all day, you needed the energy. Moving to the cupboard he pulled out a box of pasta.

You stepped forward, I can make that for you, only for him to pull it away and redirect you towards the bathroom with a firm press to your shoulders.

"I've got this, you go take a shower."

You wavered for a second before a twinge in your lower back made you decision and you decided to take his advice. A shower sounded amazing after your day. You were pretty sure you still had syrup in your hair from when a toddler had flung his plate of pancakes at you. Grumbling at him that this conversation wasn't done you headed towards the bathroom, a slight detour made to grab clean clothes before closing the door behind you.

Stepping under the warm spray, you couldn't help the soft moan of release at the sensation. You stood under the stream for a moment, letting the heat soak in and the running water wash away the stress of your day. When the tendrils of water reached your scalp you couldn't help the shiver that skated down your spine. Goosebumps creeping over your skin in a there-and-gone sensation.

Turning to grab the body wash, your eyes opened for the first time since stepping under the water. You saw a far-too-large shadow standing on the opposite side of the curtain and let out a shriek of fear, the call of Simon! on your lips before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He'd always been your first call whenever you were in trouble.

Watching the dark shape remain stationary, you realized what was going on. Yanking back the curtain just enough to stick your head out, ensuring the rest of you stayed behind it, you glared up at Simon standing just on the other side of the bathroom.

"What. are you. Doing?" you half shrieked, half spat at him. He looked far to nonchalant for the vitriol being pointed his way.

"Food's cooking, just have to wait."

"That doesn't—Simon!" you sputtered, "What are you doing in the bathroom?"

He just looked at you with deadpanned eyes.

"This isn't the time for your stoicism, Simon. What are you doing in the bathroom while I'm showering?"

"Thought I heard something."

"You thought you heard something," you couldn't help but repeat with derision, nose crinkling. "Was that something me showering?"

He didn't do anything beyond shrugging his shoulders, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Get out."

"Gotta brush my teeth."

"Simon Riley, I swear on your life. You get out right now or you're not going to like the consequences." He sighed like you were the one being difficult. Setting down his toothbrush he looked from you to the dark night creeping in through the small bathroom window, back to you again. A staring contest ensued before he finally shut the cabinet with a disgruntled huff, turning to leave, at last giving you peace.

"What was that?" you couldn't help but ask the empty stall once you heard the door click shut. Like it would have the answers showing the inner workings of Simon's brain.

Your shower was a touch hurried after that. Your hair took the time it took to get the stickiness from it, body and face scrubbed perfunctorily, no longer basking in the heat. Shutting the water off you could almost swear you heard footsteps retreating from the other side of the doorway, heading back into the kitchen. Like he had been waiting for you to finish. Listening.

What was happening?

Drying and dressing as quickly as you could, you decided to nip this in the bud. He was going to talk to you, one way or the other and he was going to do it tonight. No weaseling his way out of it. You were going to sit him down and have a conversation.

Walking into the living room you saw him sitting on the couch—finished bowl of pasta on the cushion beside him—looking completely unaffected by the ire pouring out of your skin.

Coming to a stop in front of him, you threw your hands on your hips and glared down at him. "What is going on with you? Why have you been acting so weird all day?"

His brows furrowed before smoothing into an impassive mien. He looked down at his hands. "I'm not acting weird, you're just being paranoid." he said in a strange tone of voice. An unknown strain bracketing his shoulders, the tension causing the cords of his neck to stand in relief.

You looked at him in askance. "Simon, you showed up to my job. You were practically in the shower with me." You were coming up with nothing when you racked your brain, nothing that could point to an instigator for his new behavior.

You thought things were fine. Not good, as your frequent arguments about money and jobs highlighted, but okay. You two had always gotten along and had a way of understanding each other that seemed almost supernatural when witnessed from the outside but nothing was making any sense in what was going on with Simon.

"You can't just shut me out like this." You chased after him as he stood up and moved to take his bowl to the sink, talking to his broad back, his shoulders tightening as he tensed with every word. "Not only is the shower thing weird, showing up at my job will get me fired. If my boss would've been in today he would've been asking about you."

Simon stood at the sink in silence, letting the frustration and indignation grow in the stagnant air as he faced away, avoiding looking at you. Why wasn't he saying anything? Was he trying to freeze you out? What good would that do? You were at your wits end when he finally gave you a crumb.

"—Making sure you're still there," he muttered.

"Still ther—You're acting like I'm some sort of flight risk," you scoffed in derision at his quiet statement, still craning to get a look at his face. A glimpse at the side of it showed you the moment his demeanor cracked.

"That's because you are!" he roared back, whipping to face you as strain finally broke in a way you couldn't have foreseen. It was clear he had no concern for the neighbors who probably had their ears pressed to the wall, eager for any drama. He spun around to face you, chest heaving as his breaths came in deep, sharp pulls. His face was turning a reddish hue, splotchy anger marks rising along his cheeks.

"I'm—I'm not a flight risk," you said, shocked, into the charged air. "Why would you think that?"

"Why would I think that?" Now that the seal had been broken he had no problem telling you what was wrong. His arms jerked out as he gestured wildly. "Tell me, was it you who woke up one day to your best friend missing? In the wind without a word about where they went?" He sneered down at you, "I was alone and you were gone. I was left wondering where you went, if you were safe, if you were hurt, why you'd left."

You heard the unspoken why you left me that hung in the fraught air. You felt your lungs squeeze as if in a fist. "It was so hard Simon, I wanted to tell you, I really did—"

"You didn't give two shits about me," he cut in with a barely contained yell. his gaze frenetic. "You just wanted to get out. Wanted out so badly that you left everything behind."

You felt your heart crumbling against his accusation as your breath hitched in your throat. Because it was true, wasn't it? You had left him. You'd packed up and sure, maybe you'd regretted the fact that you couldn't say goodbye but you never seriously thought about staying.

Not even if it meant keeping him.

Keeping Simon.

You chose yourself over him, hadn't you? And then you expected everything to fall into place once he was back? That was presumptuous of you.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Simon—"

"—Don't. Don't apologize when you don't mean it." His voice evened. His shoulders lost their tension. "I spent years looking for you. You forgot me as soon as your feet hit the road."

"Simon—" was all you could say as he made his way for the door. You couldn't help the uncalled for flinch when it clicked closed softly, the hint of an echo bouncing off the suddenly silent room in accusation.

Fuck.

#fic: escaping the cult #tempfrangit #is always coming up with the best ideas #simon x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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ooooo-mcyt · 2 months ago

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I usually don't have all that many character headcanons of the domestic non-angsty variety, but for some reason I have, like, a Lot of specifically cooking themed Life Series headcanons (in the hypothetical scenario where they eat meals like normal human beings and not based on minecraft game mechanics), so I'm just going to leave them here:

Grian cooks. All the time. He makes every meal for his team, three meals a day, every day. It's Grian's thing, and he takes pride in it. Grian will cook if someone is lagging behind in their performance, he'll cook if they don't seem like they're feeling well, he'll cook before a fight, he'll cook before a long day of resource gathering, he'll cook when he's bored. If one of his teammates is gone for the day they'll come back to food left on the table for them. If one of his teammates is working on something he'll leave snacks in their workspaces or by their beds. When Grian has to join a pre existing team late in the series cooking will be one of his go-to methods for being 'useful' enough to earn his place with them. When Grian hasn't seen someone in a while he'll ask if they've been eating and then cook them something regardless. When Grian wants to win someone over or apologize for something it will be through gifts of little snacks or desserts. I just imagine Grian as someone who cooks for people and is proud of it. Ironically, I also imagine that when he doesn't have a team (on the rare occasions he doesn't) he won't eat very much because cooking would be more of a social/affection and personal pride thing for him than something he does because he particularly enjoys the act, so there doesn't feel like much point when he's alone (and i just don't think taking care of himself would be a thought, because grian has never been too concerned with his own general health).

I think Skizz is very similar to Grian in that he enjoys cooking for people, and is probably the 'designated cook' in pretty much all his teams. Unlike Grian, though, I think Skizz would really like the act of cooking itself and find it fun. Don't get me wrong, I imagine it can often still be a social thing and a show of affection for Skizz too, because Skizz is the kind of person who would be very happy to be able to see his teammates happy and well fed because of him. But I think enjoyment would also be a big motivator for Skizz and he'd still have fun with cooking for himself if he were alone.

I truly have to imagine Bdubs as being comically bad at cooking. I just have this mental image of Last Life Etho puppy eyesing Bdubs into cooking for him and then Bdubs just happily plopping down a block of nondescript inedible burnt mush right out of a kids cartoon storyboard trying to convey the concept of 'bad food' through design alone. And Bdubs just expectantly watches Etho who (without taking off the mask) unconvincingly mimes eating it and then tosses it out the window while Bdubs goes ":D" so glad Etho enjoys his cooking and already planning tomorrows meal. Bdubs does the same thing with every team he has to varying responses.

Jimmy started off Third Life not being able to cook at all, but has become quite good over time. I imagine Scott did all their cooking in the early parts of Third Life, but Jimmy's not the type to be content with letting someone else do labor for him with no reciprocation, so I think he very quickly started trying to cook too, literally corralling Scott out of the kitchen and not taking no for an answer. I think Scott would have playfully complained about Jimmy insisting on cooking when his food was literally inedible, but Jimmy is very stubborn, and Scott knows how to go with the flow with these things, so they'd probably end up taking turns with meals. I imagine Jimmy kept up the habit through the following seasons (when grian wasn't there to stake full claim over the kitchen and push everyone else out in last life and limited life) and has become quite decent at cooking, which always seems to surprise other players.

Tango would be a disaster in the kitchen. Like. I'm picturing fires and explosions (we can chalk it up to him being a fire entity if that makes it better). Usually Tango is just outright banned from the kitchen, but Double Life is an exception. Jimmy and Tango strike me as the type of people to cook together as a cute couple thing. Jimmy does most of their cooking at first until Tango jokes about how he can't cook and Jimmy's like "Well wanna try helping anyways?" and it just becomes something they do together with…minimal..fires and explosions, because Jimmy wouldn't mind, and cooking is fun, especially when you're doing it with someone you love.

I also feel like Pearl is someone who'd find cooking fun. She wouldn't necessarily take it upon herself to cook all the time, but she'd enjoy it when she does cook. It would start being a hobby in Last Life, though I think her enjoyment would take a massive dip during Double Life. I don't see Double Life Pearl as someone who really had the will to do many things for fun, or even to take care of herself, really. I imagine Pearl didn't put much effort into cooking in Double Life, understandably, and didn't find it fun anymore. Although I think she still probably kept up healthy eating habits solely because I imagine Tilly would remind Pearl to eat and Pearl would never purposefully worry Tilly. After Double Life, once Pearl started slowly feeling better and felt like she had real friends again, I think cooking slowly would have become a hobby Pearl was actually able to enjoy again and do for more than practical reasons, which is a habit I think has continued through Wild Life.

I'm gonna put Scott and Cleo together because I imagine they have very similar views on cooking and they've teamed multiple times so I can put them together here. I feel like both Scott and Cleo see cooking as a chore. They're both responsible people who are fully capable of cooking and do so with minimal complaint because it's a necessity. But neither of them really find it enjoyable, I'd say, and would rather not. If doordash existed in the life series, they would have gotten it frequently in Double Life, but alas, they are in a death game lacking most modern technology and are cursed to cook for themselves. They had an alternating day schedule, because it's more convenient than both of them cooking for themselves every night and also even if they don't like cooking admittedly I think Scott and Cleo just like doing nice things for each other regardless. When not with each other, I think Cleo is the kind of person who'd usually go "Okay I'm cooking for myself, you guys figure yourselves out" with their teams because they don't want to be stuck cooking for other people all the time and also don't entirely trust other people to cook for them (partially because some of the people she's teamed with are just bad cooks, partially because cleo has some trust issues generally and is prone to suspicions over their teammates potentially betraying her). Although I think Etho and Bdubs specifically could both probably puppy dog eye Cleo into giving them food sometimes, and while cooking for other people isn't a habit of hers, if Cleo really wants to be nice or suspects someone they care about won't eat enough on their own, she might make an extra plate of food for them. Scott, on the other hand, I think would prefer for cooking to be split evenly in his teams (and he certainly wouldn't complain if someone wants to cook for him all the time), but is also very much willing to do the majority of the cooking if he has a partner who can't or won't cook. Scott is flexible and very willing to compromise for team cohesion and morale, even if he gets the worse bargain. Fortunately, though, Scott has never teamed with someone who takes advantage of that. Scott started off trying to do all the cooking for him and Jimmy automatically, but Jimmy is a good husband- and a stubborn one- who shut that down rapidly with his active desire to contribute (also as a side note, i feel like scott literally did not eat a single thing in between jimmy's death and his own in third life). Cleo, Pearl, Gem, and Impulse were all more than happy to split cooking duties with him too. I don't imagine Scott and Martyn spent many meals together, so Scott was mostly just feeding himself in Limited Life, which was fine. Scott probably occasionally made Martyn something while he was cooking for himself if Martyn was around, just out of love, but it wasn't something Martyn really asked him to do.

Gem is also on team "Cooking is a chore that I don't really enjoy but I'm an adult so I am fully capable of feeding myself without complaining". It's not something that's especially fun for Gem, but I think she split cooking duty with Scott and Impulse without much complaint in Secret Life. That said, I do think she maybe convinced Joel (who i imagine is surprisingly good at cooking) to do most of the cooking during Wild Life, and Gem has probably also coaxed a few meals out of Pearl when things are okay/good between them. Gem is willing to contribute but she also won't complain if people are willing to be convinced to do things for her.

Impulse is my final "Cooking is a boring chore, but I'm an adult" guy who is a decent but not super impressive cook. Usually I think Impulse defaults to just cooking for himself, unless he has teammates who like cooking and want to cook for him, or who want to alternate cooking for the whole group. I see Impulse as fairly flexible in this regard.

Joel is a shockingly good cook and also enjoys cooking. Joel was pretty much completely alone for all of Third Life, and had very inconsistent companionship during Last Life, so it was pretty much a necessity to figure out how to cook for himself at least. And, well, cooking can be very calming, which I think is good for someone like Joel who is very high intensity all the time. I think this quickly turned into Joel cooking for other people too once he started getting more solid companionship. I mean, he's not necessarily the type to frequently do things for others just to be nice, but Etho's good at the puppy eyes act, and I think Joel quickly realized as well that it's an ego boost when people enjoy his cooking, which is always a bonus with Joel, so I imagine he's made a habit of cooking for his teammates.

Etho has never cooked a single meal in his life (/hj) and he doesn't have to. If his teammates won't feed him, Etho can go around to his other allies (because he always has alliances outside his main team, etho keeps his options open) until someone invites him in for dinner. Wandering the server stopping by with various allies looking pathetic is a huge staple of Etho in the Life Series, this man is absolutely a chronic dinner guest.

Scar isn't someone I think cooks consistently, or very well. Not that he can't cook at all, necessarily. I don't think he's very good, but he can make passable simple meals. It just slips his mind, really. I imagine Scar as someone who'll often honestly outright forget to eat for long periods of time if he's left to cook for himself until something reminds him he hasn't eaten in a while. Often Scar's meal plans consist of either being fed by an ally (grian cooks, as we've established) or using his patented Scar charm to convince random people to give their food to him when it does occur to him that he ought to eat. That being said, I do think Scar enjoys baking specifically. He's not good at remembering to cook for sustenance, but if he's bored or wants to do something nice for someone, he'll bake, and he does quite enjoy it (often the product is mediocre, but the actual taste of the food is not the point of baking for scar).

Martyn is another guy who I think forgets to eat. By no means is Martyn an 'all work' type of guy, and he'll stop to goof around plenty, but I feel like he categorizes self care acts specifically as a waste of his time. Stopping to cook and eat just feels like Too Much when there are so many other things to do. He cooks simple mediocre meals when he gets too hungry and snatches little bits of food from people when he's at their bases, just to be a nuisance, and that's about it. Luckily Martyn often has someone there to get him to eat. Ren in specific is really good at making sure Martyn has meals, he'll just make Martyn a plate of whatever he's having and Martyn's not the type to complain about free food with friends (he doesn't have anything against eating, it's just the taking time out of his day to make himself food when alone that's an issue with martyn). I also imagine Skizz cooked for the whole Red Army toward the end of Third Life. Martyn probably didn't have too much issue in Last Life either. Grian Cooks, and probably had the whole Southlands supplied, plus Lizzie served snacks at Shadow Alliance meetings. In Double Life Cleo probably would have made sure Martyn ate enough too, because while they might not be on great terms, Martyn's poor self care effects people outside of him while he's linked to Cleo. Limited Life was hard, I think, because he was really into Winning that season, and for the first time ever, Ren wasn't in the series at all. That said, I imagine Scott made enough food for Martyn whenever martyn was home around meal times, and I have a very vivid image of The Clockers frequently slipping Martyn food on his way out after visits (to varying degrees of appreciation. cleo hands him an actual plate of food occasionally, which is..nice. scar passes out slightly burnt cookies, which aren't as filling or well made, but they're yummy enough and something is better than nothing. and uh..martyn isn't sure what to do with the stuff bdubs hands him). In Secret Life Jimmy, who again, likes cooking and is decent at it, is probably more than happy to make enough for Martyn while he's alive, though I imagine the later episodes after Jimmy dies is the worst Martyn gets with his 'doesnt think about taking care of himself'.

Ren is admittedly a mediocre cook. His food isn't always bad, but it's also not usually great. That being said, I think he makes up for it in enthusiasm. I think Ren likes cooking for his friends, and I think he gets incredibly excited to eat his food. And, I mean, nobody turns down free food, especially when Ren's excitement is generally so contagious, even if it's sometimes slightly burned.

Mumbo can't cook. Luckily everyone very much wants to feed Mumbo. Grian absolutely made sure Mumbo had plenty to eat during Last Life and Wild Life, and Mumbo was on a team with multiple people who like to cook in Secret Life (plus grian probably showed up with food for mumbo a few times in secret life anyways because he really does adore mumbo). Mumbo honestly doesn't even have to ask, so far I feel like people have just been happy to feed him.

Nobody has ever seen BigB eat. He does eat, obviously. It's just that people don't see it. He'll sit down for a meal with someone and only take bites exactly in the .4 seconds it takes them to blink in very exaggerated cartoon fashion. I don't know, I just wanted to capture BigB's confusion strats because he's literally so funny.

Lizzie can cook, technically, but she does not want to. Luckily Lizzie is very very good at convincing people to cook her meals for her. Usually Joel. But sometimes Ren in early Last Life and also Jimmy in Wild Life. Lizzie does bake, though. Cookies, cakes, brownies, etc. Lizzie likes having sweet things to present at meetings and parties and traps.

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somanyratsinthewalls · 5 months ago

Note

congrats on 900 followers! id like to request for a mixture of prompt 9 and 19 with maroon (mihawk) — not particularly smut but a bit of fluff included in it, have a good day or night!

-anon 🪐

Coincidence (+18)

THANK YOU ANON FOR REQUESTING! (Sorry I made it smut but theres plenty of angst cuteness too)

Pairing: Dracule Mihawk x Female Pirate!Reader

Prompts: “It’s fine. We’re all adults. We can sleep in the same bed.” And “Getting you naked was only part of the plan.”

WC: 2900

TWs: pet names, p in v sex, fingering, dirty talk, savior complex, previous alcohol mention, same bed! Swearing, kissing, idk? This is literally porn.

— —

“Good morning, little rabbit.” A low voice swims in your head.

Your eyelids flutter open. Everything is blurry. You’re laying in sand. Rain is pouring and you’re chilled to the bone.

*BOOM*

A clap of thunder snaps you fully awake and you start to cough up sea water. You heave yourself on your hands and knees to better expel the water from your stomach and lungs.

“I was sure you’d never wake up.” The voice came from above you, clearer now.

Once you caught your breath, you realized there was a pair of black boots in front of you in the wet sand. You crane your neck upwards to be met with the smug smirk of Dracule Mihawk, towering over you in the storm.

“H-how? Y-you? W-what?” You croak out, body starting to shiver violently.

“Now do you really want me to answer those questions right now, or would you like to come to my room at the inn down the road before The Great Pirate Y/n succumbs to hypothermia? An awful pitiful way to go out for a pirate captain, if you ask me.” He extends a hand to help you stand.

You roll your eyes and push yourself to your feet on your own.

Mihawk chuckles and lets his arm fall back to his side.

“Allow me.” Mihawk gestures to offer for you to follow him and heads to the cobblestone road from the beach. You hated the idea of seeking aide at the hands of another pirate, let alone one as dangerous as him… but the chill in your body and the ache in your chest were forcing your hand.

You follow him into town.

— —

After trying to keep up for several blocks, eventually Mihawk ducks into a nondescript establishment and holds the door open for you to follow. You step forward to move past him to enter the inn.

The first floor was dimly lit with oil lanterns and smelled of rich red wine and a wood burning stove. There were only a few patrons seated around the bar, none of which turned to look at you as the door was opened. The doorway was narrow so you had to turn your body to enter as Mihawk was still holding the door for you. As you brush past his chest he leans in to your ear and whispers.

“Stairs on the right. End of the hall. Be quick about it, before you drip all over the poor barkeeps floor.” His voice was low and teasing.

A deep shiver ran down your spine. No doubt due to the cold, wet clothing you were wearing, of course.

You nimbly flit up the stairs, sure that the former warlord was following closely behind as you could hear the clacking of his boots on the wooden steps. Mihawk catches up to you as you reach the door at the end of the hall. Without a word he uses a key to unlock the door and pushes it open for you.

You step inside and are immediately met with the glow of firelight and the smell of cologne. Seeing the blazing fire in the fireplace, you rush to throw yourself to your knees on the bearskin rug laid out in front of the fire.

You put your hands over the flames and you start to be able to feel your fingers again. You sigh in relief. After a few moments of enjoying the fire, you remember that you aren’t alone. Mihawk was standing against the wall, just watching you… arms crossed and feathered hat cocked to one side. The firelight glinted like topaz off his deep golden eyes as you met his gaze.

“How did you find me?” You manage to rasp out, finding your full voice again.

“A little birdie told me you were on your way to make an arms deal with smugglers somewhere in the area. I knew you’d come alone and your foolhardiness would ignore the incoming storm. Figured you’d wash up on the shore sometime.”

“A little bird? Or a little clown?” You quip back and rub your hands together over the blaze. “Stop talking like you know anything about me.”

“Was I wrong?” Mihawk is quick to retort. “The Cross Guild has eyes and ears everywhere. I am privy to endless amounts of whereabouts and information on the Grand Line.”

“And yet…” You stand. “With all that information at your disposal, you choose to end up here. Pursuing me.” You cock your head in inquiry.

The corners of Mihawk’s mouth twitch upwards briefly before returning to his stoic expression.

“You may wear my dressing gown for the night. You’ll catch your death if you spend another moment in those soaked rags.” The man says and nods towards the ensuite lavatory.

You take a moment to weigh your options… you hated to admit, but Mihawk was right. You needed to fully dry off before you caught pneumonia or worse. You push past him without saying a word into the bathroom and close the door behind you. As you close the door you see a floor length robe made of exquisite purple silk… this must be the dressing gown he was referring to. You stripped yourself of your sea-water soaked clothing and laid them on the side of the clawfoot tub to dry.

You looked in the mirror and were horrified. Your hair was tangled and your skin was littered with abrasions and decorated with sand and small wood debris from the wreckage.

You sigh.

You grab the washcloth from the side of the sink and turn on the knobs. Once the water was warm you soaked the cloth in the water and gently cleaned your face and body. The soothing temperature of the washcloth allowed you to relax more and you let our a long sigh as you rubbed your aching neck.

You set the washcloth down and straightened your hair the best you could, sorting out the tangles and knots with your nimble fingers.

Once satisfied you picked Mihawk’s dressing gown off the hook behind the bathroom door. It was crafted of a fine royal purple silk with intricate gold embroidery on the collar and the sleeves. You slip it on and cinch the tie around your waist, fully covering yourself. It was a bit large, seeing as Mihawk was much bigger than you, so the left shoulder began to fall as soon as you left the bathroom.

You enter the suite and your eyes find Mihawk’s hat and jacket discarded on the armchair.

You hear the gentle sound of liquid being poured and you turn your head. You were met with a shirtless Mihawk clad in nothing but sleeping trousers, pouring two heavy glasses of brandy on the end table next to the bed. This was the first time you realized there was nowhere else for you to sleep than the singular king-sized bed in the center of the room.

“No need to worry. We’re all adults here. There should be no issue sharing a bed.” Mihawk approaches you with two glasses of brandy in hand. “Feeling better?” He asks, almost playful. He extends a glass to you.

You take it.

“Aye. A bit.” You say as you take the glass of alcohol, your fingertips brushing against his as you grip the cup. Suddenly you were reminded of the last time you shared a drink with this particular man…

Your cheeks flushed and you looked to the floor. You had been so caught up in the drama of being shipwrecked and half-dead that you had forgotten the last time you had seen Dracule Mihawk…

“Why did you come here? Just to get me naked in your hotel room?” You ask.

Mihawk turns his back to you and sits on the bed.

“Oh darling, getting you naked was only part of my plan. You deal in arms… The Cross Guild happens to be in the market. I thought we could strike a friendly deal, little rabbit.” Mihawk sips his brandy. “We can offer triple whatever that scoundrel was willing to pay.”

“Well the cargo has been lost since the ship crashed but… wait how did you know I’d be here? This island?” You take a sip of you drink for courage. “You were accurate enough to know when and where I’d wash ashore? How?”

Mihawk smirks. He rises from the bed and fishes his hand into his trouser pocket. He steps closer to you. He pulls out a piece of soggy paper from his pocket and holds it in two fingers in front of your face.

“You don’t remember slipping me this?” Mihawk coos as the scrap of paper drips a bit onto the floor in between you both.

“My..” You gasp softly upon the realization of what he was holding in his hand.

“Yes, rabbit, your vivre card. You stuffed it into my jacket before you scampered off. You don’t recall?” Mihawk says, teasingly, cocking his head down to catch your avoidant gaze.

It was all coming back to you now…

Five months ago…

It was a loud, shady pirate bar on some shit-hole island your crew had docked at to resupply. It had been days since your ship’s booze supply had run dry and you used the opportunity to get good and sauced at the local tavern. At some point in your revelry, Dracule Mihawk had entered the very same bar and somehow you ended up on his lap… despite how much you claimed you despised him. How did it happen? Maybe a few featherlight touches across your waist… maybe a few dirty little nothings whispered in your ear… but all you could remember now was you melted like putty in his strong arms in the corner of a filthy dive bar. The memory was foggy but you remember stroking the sides of Mihawk’s carefully groomed beard and pushed your lips onto his with passion…

“You remember now, yes?” The voice snaps you back to the present.

You say nothing, embarrassed. You take another large gulp of brandy.

“I-I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” You rush past the large man in front of you and whip the comforter open. You slide in the bed. “W-we can talk business in the morning.”

“If you wish.” Mihawk says with a sigh.

Mihawk sets his glass down on the side table and extinguishes most of the candles in the room, leaving a few to burn to the wick overnight. You feel the comforter move across your body and the mattress beside you dip. You curl on your side away from the man laying beside you. You shudder, the chill of being nearly drowned still wracking your bones.

“You’re freezing.” Mihawk states before smoothly shifting to his side and wrapping his arm around your side. Your body tenses and he feels it. “So shy now, but not as much the last time we met?” You feel his hot breath against your ear.

“Well, we were drunk, so…” You huff out, trying to ignore the flush growing in your cheeks.

“And yet…” Mihawk starts. He slides his hand down your bicep to your hip, then further down to your thigh. His palm reaches your knee and gently pulls on it to hook your leg over his own, successfully opening your legs up for him. “Here you are now, completely sober and still soft and open for me…”

Your breath catches in your throat, unable to respond. Mihawk’s strong hand climbs up your torso again, this time gliding across your stomach and into your robe to grip your right breast softly. You gasp as he squeezes and runs his thumb across your nipple.

You feel a gentle grind of Mihawk’s hips against your backside, shuddering as you distinctly make out the largeness of his member between your cheeks. The former warlord’s nose nuzzles your scalp sweetly as he presses his lips closer to your ear.

“Do you feel that? I’ve been waiting so long since you ran away…” Mihawk whispers as he presses his hardened cock further into you. “Tell me… little rabbit… why did you run from me?”

You press your ass back harder into Mihawk’s pelvis and whine.

“No no, tell me. I was ready to take you to my chambers and ravish you until the sun rose….” Mihawk purrs as he slides his hand from your breast to between your legs and cups your mound. “Tell me why you fled my arms that night.” He presses his middle finger on your seam, gently stimulating your clit.

“I… I don’t know…” You manage to croak out.

“That isn’t true, darling… you know that.” Mihawk begins to rub your sex in gently circles with 3 fingers, softly encouraging you to give in to him.

“I…I didn’t… want…” You sigh and lean your head back into Mihawks face.

“You didn’t want what, love? Tell me.” Mihawk leans up further and kisses up your neck to the spot behind your ear. With your arousal growing, he spreads your folds and uses a single digit to press into your exposed, throbbing clit.

“Y-you were going to- Ah!” You were interrupted by the sensation of Mihawk dipping a finger shallowly into your hole to gather your wetness to smear across your clit, further heightening your pleasure. “You were going to leave… It- it would have- oh god!” You cry out as two thick fingers suddenly breach your entrance and curve right up into your sweet spot.

“It would have bothered you to see me leave, little rabbit?” Mihawk teases and leans forward over your shoulder. He slowly pulls out his fingers before pushing them back inside to pull at your favorite spot again. He torturously slowly continues fingering you, feeling the way your insides pulse everything now and then around him, pushing out more of your slick to coat his hand further. “You think I would have let you go without me?”

You turn your head and open your eyes. You meet Mihawk’s gaze from over your shoulder. You were half drunk on the feeling of his fingers inside of you, but you were almost certain he was confessing to you.

“Y-you.. Shit- more… please…” You moan and buck your hips upwards into Mihawks hand, trying to get more stimulation.

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue. “Sweet girl wants more? Already? You must have been thinking about this just as much as I have…” Mihawk says as he speeds up the pace of his fingers inside of you.

The grind of his palm against your slick clit in combination of his fingers hammering up and down against your special spot quickly sent you careening over the edge of climax.

“My Gods- Mihawk!” You cry out as you feel yourself gush against your lovers hand and your shoulders shudder forward.

“There it is, what a good girl you are.” Mihawk slows the pace of his fingers and pulls them out of you gingerly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the vulgar sounds and expressions you might make when you cum, and it’s far surpassed my imagination.” Mihawk shifts and positions himself on his knees between your legs. “Now let me see it again.” He rubs his tip up and down your wet slit, teasing his mushroom head at your hole. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you don’t and we go back to being adversaries and forget this ever happened.” He purrs down at you.

“I.. I want this. Please…” You get out through shaky breaths, still recovering from your orgasm. You reach your hand down to wrap over Mihawk’s hand on his member, guiding him to push into you.

“Anything you want, my rabbit.” He coos as he presses hard into your body, letting out a groan as he bottoms out against your cervix. You squeal and claw at his chest, cunt clenching around his length unpredictably. “Let me take care of you…”

Mihawk wraps one arm around your torso to push you down further onto his cock while supporting himself with his other one. He leans down and smashes his lips into yours. He kisses you hard as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. You squeak against his lips each time his cock drags against your sweet spot, your body riding up further on the bed with every hard thrust into your sopping pussy.

Mihawk pulls back.

“I knew that night I was going to take you back with me. I’ve known for a long time that you were mine… but that night you slipped away…” Mihawk huffs out down at you.

You could do nothing but moan in response as you find yourself approaching your high once again.

“Oh, fuck, oh!” Your mouth drops open as you cum, cradling Mihawk’s face against yours as you scream. Your hips buck and you whimper as your sensitivity starts to get the better of you.

“You’re mine, y/n. Ah-“

With a final gasp and a hard thrust, you feel your lover flood your insides with his warm spend.

You flinch a bit as you feel the still twitching cock slip from your hole, walls still so slick and sensitive. You were flipped around gently and pulled into Mihawk’s broad chest. You nuzzle sleepily between his pectorals. After several moments of comfortable silence, you break the peace.

“There was never any business deal, was there?” You ask.

“No of course not.” Mihawk says with a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

-- --

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