#but how far can you travel when youre six feet underground?

[beardedblizzardstrawberry]

Grief

Wanderer X Gn!Reader

‘The most painful feeling is when a loved one is buried six feet underground, no longer breathing the same air as you. An overwhelm feel of grief is all you’re ever left with now’

W.c:1k

Warning: Mentions of death. Not proofread. 

Blizzard’s inconvenient note: This one’s a short one! I was sleep deprived so I don’t know what I wrote. One question for all. If you had the chance to grant a new name for the wanderer, what would you call him? 

Death...

Why does such topic stabs your heart with a mallet? 

Connected both of your palms, you silently pray underneath one of the many trees standing on the deserted island. Orange and red leaves snaps away from mothers’ branches. The wind taking them elsewhere as they follow. 

The nameless Wanderer stands behind you with a blank look on his face. He wonders. How do you deal with it? Why doesn’t it anger you when life has taken what’s important to you? Don’t you want to just burn everything down to ashes? Call it a joke? 

He finally snaps his thoughts when you gently call his name. The eyes you give him. You show a sense of warmth in them and he despises it. That look of those who used to be by his side. Nothing good ever comes from it. In the end, it’s all a waste. Why even bother?

“Right here is my brother. He was only six years old when he ultimately took his final breath. It’s only been a couple of years but it stays ingrained in my memory”, you said. You don’t tell much about your past to anyone. It’s simply the fact that you don’t trust anyone. The wanderer wasn’t an exception at first. When he opened up to you on the day the both of you were prepared to travel to Tatarasuna, you can’t help but feel a sense of guilt. You would’ve left him at Narukami Island but that goes against the promise you made to the Dendro Archon. Hence why you also decided to unravel your heart before him. 

“We lost both our parents to an unidentified disease. I was young and helpless at the time. Almost all of our neighbours migrated, leaving a few to fend in this tarnished land. My brother and I were one of them”

He listens carefully to whatever you have to say. In the end, it helped him push the burden off his chest when he told you about his story here. 

“When he lie lifeless on the floor of our home, I can’t describe the emotion I felt back then. I didn’t know whether its grief or...betrayal. I wanted to curse the world for it”

Tears brim your eyes as you speak without a care whether he chooses to hear you or not. It’s not the first time you’ve talked to yourself. Sniffles can be heard. He can only stand and watch you suffer from the memories you recall. He knows how you feel, deeply. In spite that, the two of you handled the grief differently whereas he became the destroyer of the world but you, you chose to be the peacemaker of this wretched world. That’s why you studied hard in Fontaine. To study about the life of human like machinery. Thinking that maybe you could bring your brother back. Thus,

It’s all just a fever dream...

Never meant for reality...

Until you met him. 

The first time the both of you laid eyes, both of you knew you wanted nothing from each other. Let alone be near each other. You were brought by one of the sages to abruptly meet with the Dendro Archon. True to her name, she knows everything about you in and out. By scoring first in this years dissertation, you were chosen to study -take care- the former Balladeer, once known as Scaramouche. 

The both of you had your petty fights. You’d admit. Mostly started because of him. However that was all in the past. The both of you learnt to set your differences aside and comply what is told. 

You study and observe him for the God of Wisdom, while he gets the chance to wander again and hone his new heart. This time not impended by the higher ups belonging to the Tsarita. 

You and the nameless wanderer explore far and wide. Immersing in the nature of what you call serene and tranquillity. Without even realising it, whenever he would cause a ruckus, whether It’d be fighting a mob or arguing humans,  you start to concern about his well being. You were beginning to care for him...

But unlike your deceased brother, the wanderer is immortal. You wonder if he feels the same way for you. What will happen if you’re no longer in this world? Does your kindness and affection reach out to him? Your body has fallen too deep into the pits of your emotion. Perhaps you wanted to give him the love that you couldn’t provide for your little brother. You didn’t need the same thing happening to him. 

The story sounds awfully similar to the boy he met centuries ago that he almost thought your brother to be that boy. But who knows, it could be his reincarnation dealing the same ending in sickness. He never displays it but he does have affection for you. Very close to how he felt for both the boy and Katsuragi. Possibly more unique. It’s just that he wishes to never return back to his vulnerable self. Never. Again. 

He doesn’t want to go through a mental break down again...

when you’re gone too...

You turn around slowly after finishing your prayers. He sees your eyes has redden and puffed up from the silent whimpers. His throat tightens at the sight. You remind him of himself and he hates it so much. Why can he conjure an image of himself at your place? For many years, he tried to walk in life as lifeless as he was made out to be. But he feels like a tin soldier who puts their hand on the left side of the chest when they are overwhelmed. 

You stroll to the Wanderer and took his hand in your grasp in which he intertwines his fingers with. The two of you continue your journey and face what awaits in the future. A howl of wind blows. Maple leaves dancing around mid air. He glances at you and his heart softens. He too wants to give you love. Something he wasn’t able to do because of the pain that derived from love. He wants to try again. After all, he’s basically a flipped leaf. 

And when you’re no longer around, he won’t act the same as a result of his previous action. Instead, he’ll be like you. As kind as you. To love like you, just as much as you did for your little brother. He’ll just accept it. Death comes after life. That’s what mortality is all about. 

Ultimately, he’ll wander again in the future. This time as a true lone wanderer without you by his side. Your mere existence becomes a recollection to him. All he can do is move forward in life while you’ll forever be remembered in his heart...

-

@Do not repost, plagiarise or submit this to other platforms without permission.

Like and Repost if you enjoy the post

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fatui #genshin x reader #wanderer genshin #wanderer x reader #genshin angst

[limbotv]

You're gonna take that ocean trip, no matter come what may

You've got your reservations made, but you just can't get away

Next year for sure, you'll see the world, you'll really get around

But how far can you travel when you're six feet underground?

- Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think), Guy Lombardo

A heart that's full up like a landfill

A job that slowly kills you

Bruises that won't heal

You look so tired, unhappy

Bring down the government

They don't, they don't speak for us

I'll take a quiet life

A handshake of carbon monoxide

- No Surprises, Radiohead

CHAPTER ONE “BEGINS”

#analog horror #arg #limbo tv #alternate reality game #lost media #horror arg #character: tim #chapter one: the spider and the fly

[laxyaklovesloz]

The Legend of Zelda: Real Courage | Chapter Fifteen: In the Secret Corridor

The path to Castle Town was pretty much straight through Hyrule Field, and therefore uninteresting. The town was split into six sections. An outer wall hugged an inner wall about ten feet across. Guards stood in various spots within the gap and upon the walls, but they looked bored and lazy. There hadn't been any conflict in Hyrule for decades; most of the soldiers probably haven't been in real combat.

Inside the inner wall, the town was divided into four quadrants and the center of the city. Each area buzzed with people, but it wasn't as crowded as Kakariko Village, for which Lila was grateful. Castle Town was small enough, it didn't need a bunch of people pressed together.

As far as she could tell, all of the soldiers who should have been patrolling inside the town chose to congregate in the taverns. The sheer number of bars surprised Lila the most. While Kakariko had maybe two, Castle Town boasted two taverns in each quadrant. The town was not protected in the least. That was something Lady Ganondra would like to know.

Then again, she had sent Lila to Castle Town to orient herself, not give him details of its weaknesses. With that in mind, she began seeking out various pathways from each gate to the castle, which she had not yet seen. She wanted to discover other ways to the castle other than the main gates. The main entrance to the castle was foreboding with guards and openness. It was maybe the only well-defended location in all of Castle Town.

Mori was the one who found the sewers.

"Really? Sewers?" Lila complained. They stood – or flew – outside the entrance.

"Really. Secret tunnels," Mori replied with snark. "Your mission."

"Alright, alright. Sheesh."

Once underground, Lila was immediately accosted by a miniblin, its tiny spear jabbed into her kneecap.

"Ow!" she shouted and kicked at the offender. Several others swarmed to take its place. "Get away, fiends!"

"Meenp meenp!" they shouted back.

She pulled out her sword and swiped at the miniblins, but they stepped back from her blade as easily as though she was moving through a thick liquid. Frustrated, she growled, "Go away! Mori!"

"What can I do?"

"I don't know! Something!"

Mori flew down in front of the miniblins and flapped his wings hard. That was enough to scatter the miniblins, hopefully for good.

"Thanks. I don't know why that worked, but thanks."

"You're welcome, I guess."

The two continued through the sewers. Most of the muck flowed along the bottom, and ledges allowed for clean travel. ("Thank the Goddesses.") The miniblins poked around but didn't approach again. ("Annoying little demons.")

When Lila and Mori exited the sewers, they were in a prison.

"Is this the castle prison?"

"Must be. I don't know of any others in or near Castle Town."

"Nice. Now we know how to get in."

"But how do we get into the actual castle?"

"Um..." Lila pointed down the one way they could go. "That way, of course."

"It's probably guarded."

"Probably not. Why would they defend empty cells?"

"They probably know about the entrance to the sewers."

"Oh. Good point." Lila stopped walking. "Wait, what's this?"

Where she had stopped, there was a small opening that was hardly visible. Mori flew into the space, and his wingspan fit perfectly. Then he disappeared.

"Where'd you go?"

"Come in and find out."

Lila stepped into the opening. She couldn't see a thing and placed her hand on the wall. With her fingers trailing, she followed the sound of Mori's wings. Her foot hit something.

"It goes up," Mori supplied.

Lila took the stairs. They went up about two stories and then there was an arrow hall, still pitch black. At the end of it, she bumped into the wall. She would have panicked if she didn't hear Mori on her left.

"Hurry up!" he muttered.

"We've been over this," Lila replied, going up even more stairs, "I don't have lechonotation like you."

"Echolocation."

"Whatever! I'm blind here."

"Poor humans."

"Poor armless keese."

"Hey!"

Lila chuckled. This stair wound in a spiral and seemed to go on over twice as long as the first one. When they finally reached the top, Lila's foot fell hard on the floor. "Ooh, that was a jolt."

"Shh, I can hear voices."

"Really?"

Lila walked forward slowly, trying to calm her breathing. She kept one hand on the wall and the other outstretched. Slowly she began hearing what Mori was talking about. She gasped.

"Zale..."

"Shh!"

The talking stopped. Lila's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't believe Zale was within hearing distance. Her heart pounded, making her ears ring. She wanted so badly to see him again, but she didn't know why.

A girl's voice said, "I didn't hear anything. Zale, keep telling me the story! How did the Hero save the Zora?"

"Well, Zelda, he had to get eaten by a giant fish."

The girl gasped and squealed. She giggled, and Lila could imagine her rocking back and forth in laughter. "You're teasing me!"

"Nope, it actually happened. The Hero was swallowed by Jabun."

"Lila, let's go."

Lila knew this story. She didn't care to hear it. She just couldn't stop listening to Zale. She closed her eyes and felt tears. Maybe if she made a loud noise, she would at least have an excuse to talk to Zale, to see him.

She shook her head slowly. Such thoughts were foreign to her. She didn't know why she was thinking this way.

"Okay."

She turned around and left.

#fanfic #fanfiction #legend of zelda #genderbend

[malarki]

Harry Potter FanFiction I greatly enjoy (it’s just tomarry and sevitus)

Fair warning, I’m not good at describing stuff, and most of these are not complete (yet) but if you have similar tastes as I do then you’ll definitely like these stories.

Meddling of a Mischief Maker - by Athy

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380535/chapters/12427268

I enjoy this fic because it shows a more human Voldemort with him still being an asshole as per usual. They do a good job of having Voldemort believably change into a not crazy murderous bastard haha. It also has Sirius interacting with Voldemort and for some reason I find those scenes hilarious in any fic I read.

“Harry's being a horcrux is a bit reworked here in this AU Story set during the summer after 5th year. A Mischief Maker intervenes in the Ministry during Voldemort and Dumbledore's duel, changing the course history. MorallyGrey!Dumbledore, Sirius, Restored Souls, HP/TR”

Draw Me After You (Let Us Run) - by ToAStranger @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327684/chapters/53334382

This story is a delight, it’s tone is very good and they do a great job of writing in the characters ‘voices’ for their pov’s. I especially like the posh way Voldemort talks and acts. This story is also hilarious on top of just being a very good slowburn, AND it has Sirius, which as you might have guessed, I love dearly. They also don’t bash any of the characters, and instead make them well rounded but flawed individuals, which I really appreciate.

“Harry Potter,” comes the soft, sibilant hiss of a voice he has heard in his dreams, in his nightmares, in his waking hours for years.

Slowly, carefully, Harry twists over and pushes up onto his hands and knees. He stays there, short breath fogging in front of his face, and his pursuer lets him. Harry has no doubt of that; he’s being allowed this respite. This small moment to catch his bearings, heart pounding in his ears, blood singing.

“It seems I have finally caught you.”

Consuming Shadows - by Child_OTKW @childotkw

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040089/chapters/16011331

I’ve read two of childOTKW’s fics and both of them are fantastically written and attention grabbing stories. This one was the first one I read, and it has a very interesting take on lily Potter (one which I really enjoy) and the plot can leave you on the edge of your seat at times. The characterization is great, and the process of Harry and Tom getting to know each other is done very well.

“His attention skipped passed the students and moved to the politicians’ pavilion. His gaze locked with crimson, and he nearly faltered under the sheer hunger in those eyes.

It unnerved him how fixated the man was on his dirtied, exhausted figure.

But what troubled him more was the slight smirk he could make out on the man’s lips. It was almost pleased.

On the night of the attack, Lily managed to escape with her infant son, but at the cost of her husband’s life. Distraught and distrusting of her friends, she fled to France with Harry, to raise him away from the corruption in Britain and the rising influence of the Dark Lord. She trains him to the best of her abilities, shaping him into a dangerous, intelligent and powerful wizard.

But when Britain re-establishes the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry is forced to return to his once-home, he finds himself questioning whether he really wants to kill the Dark Lord. Voldemort finds an unexpected challenge in the child, and as his intrigue and amusement grows, so too does the desire to possess the spark in those defiant green eyes.”

A story that is kind of similar but not really: The Train to Nowhere

You Belong To Me (I Belong To You) - by child_OTKW

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11270490/chapters/25203408

This is a story inspired by the manwha ‘At The End Of The Road’ by Haribo. A comic I read before reading this, which is very good I recommend it. They do not take the exact plot from the comic though, obviously changing significant details for it to work properly as a Tomarry Fic, but one main thing stays the same, which is that this is a body swap. Honestly I really enjoy childOTKW’s works, and this is no exception. The characterization is wonderful as always, and Harry is Fantastic. Plus I’ve always been a fan of time travel fics. (Fair warning this is another slow burn and Harry centric)

“What I find absolutely fascinating,” Riddle said, stalking closer, “is you.” He marched forward, backing Harry up until he was pinned to the cool wall of the common room. “Do you know why?”

“No. And I’ll be honest here, Riddle, I don’t particularly care.”

The taller boy grinned at him, small yet infinitely pleased. “That. Right there.” One hand rose and brushed some of Harry’s fringe from his face. “Nathan Ciro was a spineless little boy too afraid of his own shadow to dare even glance in my direction. But you…”

He leaned closer, “You look at me like you want to stab me.”

“After an accident, Auror Harry Potter wakes up in the body of fourteen year old Nathan Ciro, a tormented Slytherin who recently tried to end his own life. Seeking answers to his strange predicament, Harry returns to Hogwarts, and causes quite the stir through staff and students - especially when they come to realise he is not the same boy as before.

He tries to avoid suspicion, but as his quest for the truth draws more and more attention to him, Harry begins to think that he might not like what he will discover.”

Some Bonus AU tomarry

A Thousand Paths Among The Stars - by Haplessshippo @haplesshippo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015060/chapters/27191238

This is a star trek au and it’s honestly my favorite tomarry au fic. Granted, I am a huge sci-fi fan. There’s also a bit of a twist at the end, or at least it surprised me, due to the way we usually expect tomarry plots to go.

“Harry Potter, newly appointed Captain of the Marauder and son of the famous Captain James Potter, was falling apart at the seams. His crew didn’t respect him, he was lost in the empty expanse of space, nightmares plagued his sleep, and his Commander deserved the Captain position more than he did. Good thing multiple attempts on his life and a vicious warlord after his head was all it took to turn it all around.

Alternatively, that space fic in which Harry Potter almost dies too many times, Tom Riddle slowly becomes the most smitten fool on the ship, and the rest of the crew are all just a bunch of assholes with popcorn watching the show. And exploding ships, don't forget the exploding ships.”

The Matchmaker - by TanninTele

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507676/chapters/38664089

I am ALSO a huge true crime fan, and this story has a criminal that kinda reminds me of one that might appear in Hannibal (but with less murder). I enjoy the characterization, though tom is pretty tame in this compared to more cannon fics, considering he’s not the criminal and instead an investigator. Harry is also different from how people usually portray him, but I still like it.

“'The Matchmaker' is a serial abductor whose modus operandi consists of pairing two same-sex individuals together in a coffin, six feet underground - buried alive. He isn't a killer. He's a kidnapper with morals, and Detective Chief Inspector Tom Riddle finds himself obsessed with solving the case.

Unfortunately for Tom, the Matchmaker is just as intent on knowing him.”

And on to the Sevitus Stories

Far Beyond A Promise Kept - by oliversnape

https://archiveofourown.org/works/547431/chapters/974693

A classic, Harry stays with snape and unintentionally proves all his assumptions wrong and makes snape care about him. Both the stories have this aspect, but this one has snape a bit nicer from the get go. Probably because it takes place during the third book, so they’ve only known each other two years. It’s quite wholesome though, and I rather enjoy the progression of their relationship.

“Snape never wanted anyone to know of his promise to Dumbledore, but has realised that he can protect Potter much better by taking a less passive role in the boy's training. Actually liking Harry Potter has never been part of his plan. mentor/guardian.”

Crime And Punishment - by melolcatsi

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102232/chapters/58018174

Snape and Harry have way more of a rocky start in this one, and Snape having to pick Harry up from the police station Really Doesn’t Help Snape’s opinion of him. This story very realistically shows the progression of their relationship, going from enemies to family, and near the ‘end’ (it’s not finished) it becomes very wholesome with Snape trying to help Harry with his mental and physical health after years of abuse/ neglect.

“Harry is accused of burglary. The Dursleys leave him to rot. Dumbledore sends Snape to remedy the situation. Harry finds himself in the care of an irate Snape. Not slash, gen-fic w/ focus on Sevitus relationship. Angst galore. Warnings: coarse and suggestive language, mentions of abuse/neglect. Un-betaed and un-Britpicked.”

#tomarry #tom riddle #harry potter #sevitus #severus snape #fanfic #fanfic reccomendation #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #tom riddle x harry potter

[midearthwritings]

Without Me

You mourn Kíli's death.

Words Count : 967

Pairing : Kíli & Reader

Warning : Canonical Character Death, Grief

Author's Note : Again, this is a very personal piece. I hope you guys will like it.

I like this place.

The gentle evening breeze blows on him, making his hair wiggle timidly. He looks up at you with the same glint of happiness that never leaves his eyes, his eternal childish smile splitting his face in two. Beneath his cheek, the grass caresses his skin. You envy it. And you envy the wind and the last sun rays, and anything that touches him for you cannot do so. 

“So do I.” you murmur with a soft smile.

As Kíli shifts closer to you, you can almost feel his warmth enveloping your body. But you know it is only a memory. A wicked one that has decided to make you suffer a bit more than necessary. 

The prince is silently staring back at you. He is like a mirror, showing things you had not noticed before. But right now, you do not know what it is that he wants you to see. 

Slowly, your eyes travel from his face to his torso, stopping at the gaping hole adorning his chest. Blood pours from it, staining his tunic. It is red, almost black, and terrifying.

“Kíli?” 

At his name, he gives you a questioning hum. His brows are slightly furrowed, his face painted with confusion. The wind blows harder, brushing his bangs away from his face.

“You are bleeding.” you point out, still looking at his wound.

Kíli pushes himself up, resting on his elbows. His eyes follow your gaze, but he does not look surprised. Of course, he does not. After all, wounds were made to bleed, weren’t they? Even those of the heart.

Aye, I am. Is it a bother? 

The question, both in his mouth and eyes, is genuine. You feel silly for telling him. After all, it is not his fault if he had had to come like that. You had given him no choice.

Quickly, you shake your head, and he flops back down onto the soft grass. He sighs quietly and pulls at some poor flowers that had the misfortune to be growing there. When he throws them away, they vanish.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, the question burning your lips.

The thunderous laugh that he lets out startles you. It reverberates around you, bouncing on every tree, scaring some birds away. In your head, it had not sounded funny. And you were pretty sure that it was not. 

“Why are you laughing?” you question, moving to hit his shoulder. But you quickly retreat as if you had been burned.

The prince’s laugh only intensifies and his arms curl around his stomach, his back arching from the ground. You groan, almost offended.

My apologies, but I find this to be hilarious.

“Nothing about this is hilarious, Kíli.” you snap, turning your back to him.

Near your face, a small ladybug lands on a flower petal. She walks there, wandering on the colorful plant. You wonder if, perhaps, she is lost, too. 

It is.

With a sad sigh, you roll over to face him again. He radiates so much love and tenderness that it almost makes you uncomfortable. You could not be the only one whose heart was into pieces, could you?

“How so?”

Kíli rips more flowers from the ground and throws them at your face. Of course, they never hit your skin. Yet, you flinch, causing him to chuckle.

Because only you can decide if it hurts.

“I do not understand.”

The prince now looks at you with a smug grin. He knows that you understand. He knows you are not as stupid as you pretend to be. There is some mischief in his eyes, and you groan.

“I hate you.” you whine, throwing your arm over your face.

No, you do not. Else, I would not be there.

Inside your chest, your heart breaks a little more. It sounds like glass crashing against a wall, like the cry of a mother who just lost her child and a little bit like Kíli’s last words. 

You do not try to muffle the ugly sob that escapes your throat, nor to stop the burning tears from running down your face. 

If I am not afraid to leave, then why are you so afraid to stay?

He is lying. You can clearly remember the fear in his eyes as the blade had pierced through his body. It is only to reassure you, to make you let go. 

“Because I cannot imagine living a life without you by my side.” You choke the words out, feeling more tears spilling on your face. It hurts, but not as much as Kíli is hurting you right now.

Look at me.

Without question, you obey. He looks worried and exhausted, mirroring your misery. But he still smiles, because Kíli always does. Even at his lowest, he never stops smiling. Even dead, he still smiles.

I will never be far from you, that I can promise. As long as you remember my face, and say my name, I will still be somewhat alive, somewhat with you.

The tears fall from your eyes like a river of sorrow, cutting your skin and marking you with all the pain of the world. 

You do not believe him, not entirely anyway. How could he be alive when you had witnessed his burial? How could he be with you when he was decaying six feet underground? But you know he is right. Only you can decide how long it has to hurt. And as long as you keep him there, it will make you suffer.

“Alright then,” you finally whisper, forcing a smile. “I love you, Kíli.”

Always…

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes shut tightly. Like a child afraid of the dark, you stop moving. When you reopen them, there is only you and the moon.

#the hobbit reader insert #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit #the hobbit kili #kili #kili imagine #kili x reader #kili x y/n #kili x you

[eirikaanemo]

The Hidden Hero

Superhero!Venti x GN!Secretary!Reader

2.7k Words

Warnings: Stalking (not you), thievery, human trafficking mentioned once

Of all the heroes to ever exist, Barbatos: the Anemo Hero is your favorite by far. He was one of the big heros from the Archon Agency along with other major elemental manipulators like Rex Lapis and Baal. They were the big wigs back before All Might hit it big. While they weren’t quite symbols of peace like him, their sheer presence was enough to send most villains running for the hills. Their quirks, teamwork, and training made them extremely formidable. The Archons, as the main seven heroes of the agency were called, were very successful, until they weren’t.

It’s said that ‘all good things come to an end’ and the reign of the Archons came to an end when Tsaritsa left the agency for reasons unknown to the general populace. The remaining six scattered to the winds. They each founded their own agencies and continued to fight crime. But their earlier fame was unsustainable and their hero rankings fell significantly. Despite this, most of them are still actively and visibly involved in the world of heroes. Some, however, are not.

And unfortunately Barbatos is one of those heroes that seemingly faded away into obscurity after founding the Mondstadt Hero Agency and handing it off to his former sidekick, Dandelion Knight. Only the most dedicated fans remember him anymore. It frustrates you sometimes that such a great hero could be so easily forgotten. You will never forget him though, not anything from his teal tipped braids to his signature “Ehe”.

So when an opening for a front desk secretary at the Mondstadt Hero Agency opened up you put in your application immediately. Sure you already had a good job, but working at the agency Barbatos started would be a dream come true. Thankfully your resume got you an interview and the interview went surprisingly well. Apparently you remembering Barbatos was a huge advantage on top of your excellent work experience and recommendations.

When you got the job you could barely believe it! This was a dream come true and you resolved to not let them down. Your first day was absolutely amazing. You got a tour, a run-down of your responsibilities, and got some training. But the best part was meeting many of the heroes and sidekicks who work there, from Alchemist to Outrider to Dandelion Knight herself. The whole day almost didn’t feel real.

You settled into your new job easily and enjoyed it immensely, even if it was ridiculous some days. This just happened to be one of those days. Captain Cryo had been jumping on Dandelion Knight’s last nerve all day. Alchemist’s niece, Klee, had lost her babysitter again and was running around the agency causing chaos. Traveler’s sidekick, Paimon had gotten into another argument and was yelling loud enough that everyone in the agency could hear. And with all this you decided to stay after your shift for a while to finish up some work that needed to be done by tomorrow.

This ended up being the best decision you ever made. Fifteen minutes after your shift should have ended, a new hero slipped through the front doors. Your eyes glossed over him at first before you quickly looked back at him. Were those… teal tipped braids? Could it be? Yes, it had to be Barbatos!

You took a second or two to school your face before looking at him again. He wore a skin tight suit under a loose poncho with a utility belt and some other equipment, defensive and offensive, layered on top. The outfit is mostly dark grey with some dark teal accents breaking up the monotony. His steps were nearly silent as he passed by your desk, scanning his hero badge with the badge reader, and continuing deeper into the building.

Out of curiosity, you took a peek at the information on his scanned badge. Apparently he is an underground hero called Wind Spirit: the Freedom Hero. His specialization is organized crime, specifically dealing with the sensative cases like human trafficking. Not much more is there, but that’s to be expected since he’s underground.

Shaking yourself, you quickly close out the badge scanner software and finish your work for the day. You have work to do and can’t allow yourself to be distracted any longer. But once you finish and go home, you can’t stop thinking about it. Not even two hours ago you had been only feet away from your favorite hero of all time.

You’re so excited that it takes you a while to calm down. But when you do, you have questions. Why did he change his hero identity and go underground? He had been hugely popular. Why did he give that up for a job where he would get little to no recognition?

In the end, you decide it doesn’t matter. He obviously doesn’t want to be recognized or bothered, so you will respect that. It will be difficult but you resolve to try and treat him no differently than you do the other heroes at the agency. No one needs to know that you recognize him, not even him. That would probably be the easiest way to keep his secret. Pretend you don’t know it and play dumb if it ever gets brought up.

By the time you get to work the next day your mind is well and truly made up. In a moment of weakness you do request a change to serve half an hour later than you used to. You try to rationalize it to yourself a couple times, but know deep inside that it’s really just so you can see him. It’s kind of risky but it’s a risk you’re willing to take for a chance to see your favorite hero at the end of every shift.

As time goes on things go even better than you had expected. Apparently the first time you saw him, “Wind Spirit” had been exceptionally busy with a high risk case. Once that was taken care of he slowed down his entrance and started chatting with you as he came in. You learn more about him as a person than you could have ever imagined before.

He likes to sing and knows how to play several different instruments. His “ehe~” laugh is, in fact, how he really laughs and was not just him playing things up for the fans. Rhyming is a habit of his and he loves trying to fit it into casual conversations which bugs some other heroes, like Darknight, to no end. And most of all, he is one of the nicest people you have ever met.

From what you can tell, only a few other heroes know of his past as Barbatos. Dandelion Knight knows of course since she used to be his sidekick and now leads his agency. Darknight and Traveler seem to know as well. But other than that no one else seems to know. They do know him and consider him a friend, but are clueless as to his past.

But there is one other person that seems to know. Every once in a while La Signora, a sidekick from the Snezhnaya Agency, will show up loiter in the waiting area by your desk. When you ask how you can help she responds with, “No, I’m just waiting for someone. There’s something that I have been instructed to… acquire from an old colleague of my boss.”

While she has yet to stay long enough to see him, you’re fairly certain she’s looking for Wind Spirit. And she’s started staying longer and longer. If she keeps this up then she will actually run into him. And your quirk, which gives you emotional impressions based on people’s intentions, makes it clear that she is bad news.

After a couple of these visits you decide to take your concerns to Dandelion Knight. Once you make sure that she is available and have someone watch the front desk for you, you make your way towards her office. You take a deep breath to calm your nerves before you peak your head through the open doorway to make sure she’s there.

“Miss Jean, do you have a moment?” You ask cautiously. She looks up from the paperwork on her desk and smiles, obviously relieved to have a distraction from her work.

“Of course,” she says. “Come sit down. How can I help?”

“I have some concerns that I would like to inform you of,” you explain as you take a seat across from her desk.

“Sometimes La Signora comes in and sits in the waiting area for hours and hours at a time. She insists that she’s waiting for someone that she’s been asked to ‘acquire’ something from and that there’s nothing I can help her with. But my quirk is giving me the feeling that she’s up to no good.”

“Do you know who she is waiting for?” Jean asks you.

“Yes, she hasn’t told me outright but I believe she is waiting for Wind Spirit.” You inform her. Jean’s gaze immediately turns piercing and the mood of the room turns sour. You fiddle nervously in your seat as you wait for her response.

“I’m authorizing you to call security if she tries to stay longer than she already has been.” Jean states after a moment of contemplation. Your eyes grow wide. “She is not to run into Wind Spirit under any circumstances, do you understand?”

You nod vigorously. “Of course, Miss Jean, I’ll be sure to let her know and do so if I must.”

She sighs and sends you a thankful smile. “Thank you. The Snezhnaya Agency has been trying to meet with him for some time despite our insisting that, as an underground hero, he is to be left alone. I’m sorry you have gotten caught up in all of this.”

“It’s fine,” you assure her. “I consider Wind Spirit a friend. I will do my best to make sure he is not bothered.”

“Thank you again then,” she remarks. “Is there anything else? I should probably get back to this.” She very carefully keeps her face neutral as she gestures at her paperwork, but you can see the budding grimace on her face.

“No, that is all,” you reply. “I’ll go get back to the front desk.” You get up and walk back to your desk, pondering this new development. To your non-existent surprise, you find La Signora in the waiting area. As usual, you ask if there’s anything you can do to help and she gives you the same response as always. But this time, you have something to say after she says her piece.

“Alright, just know that if you attempt to stay any longer than 4:30, I will have to call security to escort you out.” Her face was priceless as she ground out an acknowledgement before going back to waiting. You did end up having to threaten to call security several times within the next couple weeks, but it did the job and kept her off of Wind Spirit’s back.

In the meantime, Wind Spirit had started coming a little earlier and talking with you a little longer. If you didn’t know any better you would think he was trying to flirt with you. But no, he’s Barbatos. Why in the world would he be flirting with you? Sure he told you his real name, Venti, and lets you call him that now; but you’re just a secretary who got lucky. So you decide that he’s probably joking around with you. There’s a little part of you that hopes though. A part of you that wishes that maybe he might just mean it.

After all, what isn’t there to like? Venti’s a nice guy, makes you laugh, is undeniably attractive and around your age, and you love every moment he spends with you. It might also have to do with the fact that you’ve had a slight celebrity crush on him since he debuted that still hasn’t gone away. For now though, you just enjoy what you have. Why risk what you have?

Then you get sick and miss a day. One day is all it took. You had hoped La Signora would have stayed away for one day when you were stuck puking your guts up all day, but no such luck. While you had been away, the stand-in had ignored you and Jean’s very specific instructions to not allow La Signora to stay past time for some reason. So she ran into Venti and things went down.

You come into work the next morning, still queezie, but better, to find out that she’d stolen a valuable support item from him. A lot of people were running around like chickens with their heads cut off but you could barely breathe. You shouldn’t have missed yesterday. This is your fault. If you had been here it never would have happened.

Flopping down onto your chair at your desk, you bury your face in your hands and try to breathe. It’s not easy, especially with the stress of the situation and the fact that you are desperately trying not to cry. The one day I’m not here, you think to yourself. A tear rolls down your cheek, hidden by your hands.

Then you feel a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?” You hear Venti ask. With your face still in your hands you shake your head.

“No, no I’m not,” you choke out. “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten sick. I should have been more careful, I’m sorry.” You feel him go still. He must not have known. Now he must blame you, hate you, just like you do yourself.

As your thoughts start spiraling you feel two arms wrap around your shoulders and feel him pull you into his chest. “It’s not your fault,” Venti murmurs. “Tsaritsa has been trying to do this for years, it would have happened eventually. And I should have been strong enough to stop her. I guess I’m out of practice with the less subtle, more brute force type moves I used to use.”

“Yeah,” you muse. “You were a lot flashier as Barbatos, weren’t you?” You feel him go still again.

“You knew?” He questions. Then your brain catches up to what you just said.

“Whoops, yeah, uh, I knew,” you stutter. “Ever since I saw you, really. But you didn’t mention it and didn’t seem to want to be recognized so I didn’t mention it. I was a huge fan, by the way- still am.”

Venti squeezes you lightly in the hug. “Thank you, it really means a lot that you kept quiet about it. And besides, she stole my gnosis in full view of a camera so we have a lot of evidence against her when we take this to court. A camera we only thought to put up once you brought up La Signora’s suspicious visits. So we have far more reason to thank you than blame you.”

Pulling back, Venti gently tugs your hands away from your face so he can look you in the eyes. “In fact, I should do something to thank you personally! Could I take you out to dinner? Like a date?” The emotional whiplash caused by his question made your head spin.

“Huh? Me?” You ask him. “You want to take me on a date?”

“Absolutely,” he confirms. “How about Good Hunter?”

“Sure,” you reply a little absentmindedly, still reeling from the realization that his flirting hadn’t been a joke after all. Your favorite hero is actually asking you on a date. The more you recovered, the more flustered and excited you got. “When do you want to do that?”

“Are you available Thursday? I have the day off so we could do it then. Our shifts aren’t really conducive to good date opportunities otherwise.” You nod in agreement.

“I’ll see you then!” You exclaim and peck his cheek before he hurried away to where Jean was calling him. The pink that bloomed on his cheeks was adorable.

By Thursday the court case had been closed up and Tsaritsa revealed her true colors as a villain. Things had been crazy but, thankfully, Venti had still gotten the day off. Your date went wonderfully and you both agree that the next one can’t come fast enough.

He calls you the hero of his story and you call him the hero of your heart.

#eirika writes #venti #genshin venti #venti x reader #genshin impact x reader #mha au

[blushing-starker]

Of sleeping angels and forgetful lovers

im back y'all, enjoy

Tony slips between the billowing curtains, careful to make his arrival as silent as possible: there is an angel slumbering just a few feet away and God help whoever awakens them with anything less than a kiss and sweet murmurs.

Not wanting to be struck down by another celestial deity twice in a millennia, he carefully maneuvers around the scattered objects on the marble floor; a low table straining under the weight of scrolls, thick manuscripts and what honestly seems to be a stone tablet; a few chests clumsily tipped over, gold, silk and fragrance oil bottles spilling from them luxuriously. Surprisingly enough, Tony has to avoid staining four lace dresses thrown on the floor.

Poor thing. Any admirer of the creature basking inside this chamber should have known better. It's an insult to even suggest a holy being should disgrace themselves by wearing anything lesser than silk or pure gossamer. Ignorant gnat is probably swimming in the underground by now.

Still. It would be rude to tarnish a gift that isn't his to rip apart and incinerate. His lover would take pleasure in doing that himself. So he moves his body to the side, inhaling sharply when the wind shifts a garment closer to his dusty lower half. Oh, he'd get back at the wind god after this.

To honestly believe he's ancient and unable to persevere under the childish attack, how ridiculous. The offending yard and a half of pink lace (angels tended to take up more space than human minds could comprehend, but the ones who liked to roam the Earth often diminished their size; his paramour would never dress in something that large with an altered body. He's self conscious of his low stature as it is.) flies overhead and he muffles a snicker. Asshole wind god can't calculate how much strength to use.

Finally, he's at the bed. Home at last. And then the wind blasts through the chamber and he picks up the smell. Dried blood, decomposing flesh, something musky and tangible in the air. After that comes the sound. A deep rasp, powerful and similarly fear inducing as a lightning storm amidst the sea. It's a warning growl Tony had ignored, once, an uncountable number of years before. He counts them now, hastily and quickly, because surely his nemesis has grown tired and. Well. Not slow, but certainly slower in that long expanse of time. Just as he had. Fuck.

The beast appears, a vengeful mass of writhing smoke and viridescent ash hovering near the side of the bed he's currently trapped against. His lover disliked it when he brought war to the chamber, said it reminded him of harsher times and a dying Tony; he had left his knives and whip with his second in command, had gone so far for his beloved as to purge the poison from his body. (Listen. Listen. A shit ton of years past, a moron tried to eat him. Actually hoisted him on a spit before he woke up and strangled the fucker. So what if he has poison coursing through his veins to defend himself, it's not that nonsensical.)

From the grey and green smoke, a dark head emerges. And another. And another. And four fucking others and why hadn't his lover mentioned anything, why hadn't he warned Tony of the very amused looking, incredibly spiteful monster currently hissing at him? He has no arms here, the chamber's strongest weapon was currently dozing on a six feet wide bed, soft snores muffled against fluffy pillows. Oh, if his father could see him now, facing death at the hands of his enemy rather than bring his partner back from the golden fields of dreams.

Technically, he's facing the many headed beast in favor of facing his darling, a much more wrathful creature, but his father need not know that.

Death looms closer, is rearing its ugly heads and flaunting the seven inch fangs that will most likely shred him to pieces. There are ruby droplets splattered on the neck of the monster and ah, there's the ignorant admirer. At least he won't be devoured hungrily. Granted, he will definitely be devoured slowly and tortuously no matter what.

As his vision is swarmed by the huge monstrosity, Tony thinks of his beloved. Of his soft, brown hair. A little long, a little curly and always brushed aside uselessly. (There is one lock he particularly enjoys playing with because it never grows enough to be tucked back. It often annoys his lover, but he adores that stray curl.) Soft cheeks, tinted rosy during the chilly winters, a healthy tan when summer sweeps in. Lips softer and more colorful than a rose. Dimples. They appear and he's tripping in love all over, stumbling after his lover's affection just to see the two indentations on the side of his mouth.

His body is a masterpiece, graceful and as elegant as a star. Tony adores subtle, enjoys the fine curve of his paramour's neck, takes pride in making shapely thighs tremble beneath his worshipful mouth, is set on fire when the sweetest sighs and loveliest moans slip from bruised lips. All he needs in this life is to bring happiness to his companion. And, he supposes, he has, so death won't be a complete tragedy. Although, Tony would have liked to see his beloved's eyes one last time. They shone like amber, like the heady drink the humans call whiskey.

Once, when he was shy and his darling was unsure of his intentions, he had blurted out a confession under an apple tree, words spilling, spilling, going so fast that breath abandoned his chest.

"Your eyes are like star fire. Like the sun left the sky to shine inside you. It's amazing, something so beautiful I can believe in life again. How could I not when someone as lovely as you exists so gracefully?"

They had stood there, tree branches creaking overhead, leaves drifting down slowly and bees sluggishly swimming through the air in search of flowers and the ichor of life. His companion had blinked at him and then smiled, slow and sweet and pure. Whatever breath remained in his lungs was stolen, vanished without a trace. Tony had been a goner ever since.

He thinks of that time now and discovers that he is not afraid of death. After all, his lover could simply visit him in the fields of the dead, what, with being the Angel of Death, and everything.

The hydra leans back, prepares the killing blow and he thinks, Peter.

A whisper of movement, the growl of the beast; he's ready, he's going to meet his fate head on and not falter and-

A warm hand scoops him up. He tentatively opens his eyes, is met by a bleary pair much prettier than those this body has. There is amusement there, tangled with fondness and love. It's such a beautiful sight that he melts, sinks deeper into the cradle holding him up to Peter's pillow marked face. He always had a thing for his lover's hands; they could kill with just a hint of touch, but they only ever brought Tony to life.

"Anthony," oh, to hear that teasing sigh, to be given the gift of that music, "did you forget you were in your snake body again?"

Embarrassed, he dips his head, agile tongue flickering into the air to taste Peter's affection as a distraction from the flush valiantly trying to survive in his cool cheeks. The angel before him giggles, grins at him before stroking his scaly head gently.

"You forgot about your body and the fact that Milos here is, like, three inches smaller than you when you stand up?" Tony grumbles, slithers across Peter's wrist and forearm. His lover just sighs, rolls over in bed and lets him travel all the way up to the base of a long neck. He loves Peter's entire body, of course, but this is the perfect spot to settle into while he's in this form. Lightly, because it's rude to tease him, goddammit, he's the fallen angel, not a stable boy, he nips at Peter's hair, pulls at a few strands until Peter halfheartedly swats at him.

"Just because I can revive you doesn't mean I won't kill you, Tones. I've got a hundred," his beloved yawns, drags a blanket over the both of them, "and fifty four souls to pick up in the afternoon. I can squeeze you in among them and nobody would know." A lie, obviously. His best friend James would know. The rest is true, Peter would kill him if he called on him again while it was nap time, even if it was an accident.

Thing is, now that Milos is brooding in the corner of the bedchamber and some good ten feet away from him, Tony has no need to call on his angel. Why would he, when he's right by his side? Just as he always has. Just as he always will.

With snake lives saved and fates changed, the first fallen angel and the Angel of Death fall into a deep slumber; tail and hands wrapped around each other, as it should be.

#starker #peter parker x tony stark #peter x tony #angel!peter #fallen angel!tony #sweet and fluffy yall #sophie writes #i need to at least write one #snake!tony #for the giggles

[pennamesmith]

For Want of a Skeletor

Entrapta hosts a Princess Alliance meeting at the Crypto Castle and absolutely nothing goes wrong. More Skeletor stories!

*

The lights were on late in Dryl. 

Stars shone outside the windows. Entrapta sat hunched over her desk, studying datapads and readouts. A polite cough from the laboratory door caused her to look up from her work.

“Oh! I’m sorry Hordak, did I wake you?”

Her partner stepped softly into the room and shook his head. “Imp did. You know how he gets when either of us take too long to come to bed.” 

Hordak crossed the cluttered floor and joined Entrapta at the desk. He was holding Imp in his arms, and the smaller, winged clone whined plaintively when he saw her. Entrapta kept her screens on, but leaned gratefully into Hordak’s side and curled a tendril of hair around his waist. She yawned, despite herself. 

“I know. I just want to make sure I get everything right before the other princesses come over tomorrow.” She glanced back at the data, nervously tapping her fingertips together. “I’ve never hosted an Alliance meeting before! And this rescue will be our biggest mission since… well, you know. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

Hordak smiled. “Your diligence is admirable. But I also seem to recall someone telling me that imperfections are beautiful.”

Entrapta stuck out her tongue. “No fair.” 

“I’m afraid the science is sound. Come to bed, my dear.” 

The scientist scoffed, but she did not protest when Hordak gathered her up in his arms. She wrapped more of her hair around him, and Imp settled sleepily in the resulting nest. Entrapta could already feel herself drifting. 

“You will be a shining star tomorrow,” Hordak promised, as he carried his family back to rest. 

“Tomorrow,” echoed Imp.

*

The next day saw the Crypto Castle’s largest meeting room filled with princesses, dignitaries, and other honorary Alliance members. While Scorpia and Perfuma admired the tiny refreshments laid out for everyone, Mermista split her time between groaning at Sea Hawk’s boasts and trying every available chair to find the most comfortable one. Glimmer and Bow stepped uneasily around the edges of the room, watching carefully for anything that might be a trap, and Frosta followed their lead. Netossa and Spinnerella tried their best to find a chair Swift Wind could sit in. 

Adora and Catra, wearing increasingly baffled expressions, were conversing with two domestic-looking robots who sat at the head of the table next to Entrapta. One was tall and skinny, and the other wore a welded-on handlebar mustache. 

“Entrapta has parents?” Catra was asking, her face a galaxy of disbelief. 

“Adopted, technically. Or adapted,” the skinnier bot explained. “We’re Entrapta’s parental units. She built us when she was six. You must have seen the painting in the foyer.” 

“Yeah, we’ve been here pretty much the whole time,” the mustachioed model added. “You kids sure made a racket during your last few visits. What was that all about?” 

“Uh,” Adora faltered. 

To her immense relief, Hordak swept into the room at that very moment, flanked by Imp, Emily, and the reprogrammed Horde drone Entrapta had dubbed ‘Skeletor.’ 

“Welcome, everyone,” Hordak boomed, bringing the gathering to a respectful hush. 

“Witless fools! I’m in charge now! And if you know what’s good for you you’ll do as I say!” Skeletor shouted. 

Hordak scowled and shooed the fussing robot away from the table. “Pay no mind to that one,” he grumbled once he’d regained the floor. “Now then. Please allow me the honor of introducing the unparalleled mind who has made this operation possible, Princess Entrapta.” 

“Thank you all for coming!” Entrapta started, while everyone took their seats. “I know you’re all excited about what we’re planning, but there’s still a lot of preparation to do before we can take off. As the chief science officers for this mission, it’s vital that Hordak and I gather as much data on your abilities as possible! Interdimensional travel is severely unpredictable and —” 

“Hold on,” Mermista interrupted. “Exactly how high are the chances of us getting mutated by cosmic space energy or whatever? Because I only want cool mutations, not gross ones.” 

“Maybe thirty, thirty-five percent?” Entrapta guessed. She shrugged. “A lot of this is theoretical. You guys will be like my guinea pigs! By which I mean the small robotic animals in the castle I protect and care for. And experiment on, sometimes.” 

She laughed heartily. Glimmer and Bow shared a nervous glance. Perfuma turned slightly green. 

Entrapta regained her composure and pointed back to the display board. “Ahem. Anyway, the good news is we already know some things about where we’re going! Probably.” She shuffled her notes, gaining confidence as she spoke.

“Before Adora found the Sword of Protection, historians debated ancient records of She-Ra. Some claimed she was called ‘Her-Ra’ and fought for the ‘Power of Grayskull.’ But I theorize that what those archaeologists actually uncovered was evidence of —”

“I have a question!” Frosta yelled. “Will there be hunky guys in the other dimension? I’m asking for a friend.”

“It’s funny you mention that, actually,” Entrapta replied. “Listen, just let me finish and…” 

Unfortunately, anxious impatience had already gripped the assembled Alliance members. They clamored with questions, all talking at the same time. Entrapta shrank back in her seat and pulled her welding mask down, seeming to reach for something under the table. 

Hordak stood up. Just as it looked like he was about to do something violent, a loud alarm sounded and the lights in the room flashed red. 

“Uh-oh.” Entrapta glanced around at the assembled company. “Um, get ready to tuck and roll everybody!”

“Get ready to what?” Mermista cried out, but it was already too late. Multiple trap doors swung open across the meeting room floor, and with flailing limbs and startled shouts the guests were sent tumbling down chutes in every direction. In moments they had all vanished.

“I always feel so much better after doing something bad!” Skeletor cackled. “Now we begin phase two!” 

*

Adora and Catra, who had clung to each other as they fell, landed with a bump in a darkened, underground space. As soon as they arrived, bright lights flickered to life and a huge screen lit up against the wall. 

Entrapta’s face appeared on the monitor, larger than life. “Oh good! You’re alive,” she chirped when she saw the other two. 

Adora clambered to her feet. “Entrapta! What’s going on?” 

The scientist glanced away. “Well, I guess Skeletor didn’t like that we were ignoring him. So he stole my map of the castle and activated the security systems! Which means we’re all lost in the labyrinth until I can catch him. Isn’t that great?” 

“It’s something,” Catra groaned, rubbing her head. 

“Exactly! Now, without my map I can’t come find you. But if you can make it through the traps, the hallway you’re in should take you back to the meeting room. Then you’ll be safe until I can fix things!” 

The screen dimmed again before Catra or Adora could protest. Left with few other options, they turned to get a good look at whatever dangers lay ahead. 

They were standing at one end of a long corridor. Square blocks floated along its length, suspended in midair with anti-gravitational tech. An interrogative punctuation mark flashed on one, while a squat robot with painted-on angry eyebrows shambled slowly back and forth beneath it. 

Catra took it all in. “You have got to be kidding.” 

Adora had already drawn her sword and begun to venture forward. Catra was about to follow her, when something made her ears flick. A suspicious frown crossed her face.

“Hey, Adora!” Catra called. “Listen!” 

“What?” 

Catra pressed her ear to the wall. “There! Do you hear that?” 

“Obviously not,” Adora huffed. “Now stop dawdling, the first puzzle looks pretty easy.” 

Catra stayed where she was. “Hold on a second. This part of the castle feels familiar. I remember walking through here back when, uh, back when it was still Horde territory.” She coughed awkwardly, and then reached up to tilt the frame of a big-eyed kitten painting. “Look!” 

Something clicked and the wall slid open, revealing a new passageway. Distinctive laughter could be heard coming from the other end of it. A purple neon sign reading “Secret Entrance!!!” buzzed to life. 

Adora sighed and rolled her eyes. 

“One time Entrapta had me and Scorpia over for a life-size Snakemen and Ladders game that got a little out of hand,” Catra explained as they entered the tunnel. At the far end there was a brightly lit office; inside, it was filled with laboratory equipment, video monitors, and a humble but dignified desk. 

Hordak was sitting at the desk, in what appeared to be a smaller version of his old Fright Zone throne. It swiveled. Entrapta was sitting on the desk, and she waved as the other couple entered. 

“Myaah! Sleep gas and stun-rays only, my evil minions!” muttered Skeletor, who was busy working the video monitors. On closer inspection, Adora realized that each of them showed some of the other princesses as they traversed the castle labyrinth. 

“Welcome to mission control!” Entrapta sang, spreading her arms wide. “Hordak didn’t think you’d find us, but I had a hypothesis you might.” 

“It was a ruse!” Adora gasped, scandalized. “You’re not lost at all!” 

“You really need to hang out with Entrapta more if that still surprises you,” Catra observed. She looked at the monitors. “Ah, are they gonna be okay?” 

“Better than!” Entrapta sprang off the desk, hanging by her hair as she showed off multiple datapads. “Everyone was getting a little… distracted upstairs, so I just decided to speed things up a teensy bit! The princesses using their powers to escape the maze will let me get all the readings we need, and then we can have a nice little party! I had the baker make tiny cakes.” 

“I made sure Hordak’s doomberry pie was especially tasty!” Skeletor piped up. 

“And it’s all perfectly safe!” Entrapta promised. Discreetly, a ribbon of hair reached out to push a blinking button. On the monitors, Mermista and Sea Hawk were rescued from a robot shark attack by a convenient change of the currents. 

“This is hilarious,” Catra laughed, looking more closely. On one of the screens, Swift Wind was gleefully running loop-de-loops along a curving racetrack. “I think they’re actually having fun in there. Can we stay and watch?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Hordak said. She-Ra’s — and your — assessment is the most important of all. But we’d love to have you over to the castle for dinner soon. Shall we say eight o’clock next week?” 

“That sounds nice!” Adora chimed, before Catra could stop her. 

“Splendid. I’ll cook,” Hordak concluded. Then he pressed a button on his desk, and a trapdoor sent the younger women plummeting through the floor. 

Catra and Adora yelped in surprise, only for their fall to be cut short by an enormous pile of pillows on the level below. They struggled to their feet. Another corridor stretched away in front of them, filled with further challenges. Floating gold coins, each about four feet tall, indicated a pathway. 

“Try not to have too much fun,” Hordak called good-naturedly as the trapdoor slid shut. 

“Use the warp zone! It’s faster!” Entrapta added. 

“Have a nice trip down!” said Skeletor. 

*

Hordak settled back in his chair (it had soft armrests, and a cushion for lumbar support) and watched his partner at work. Entrapta flitted from screen to screen, taking notes and making adjustments. On one display, Bow and Glimmer had met up with Netossa and Spinnerella while navigating a cage minefield. On another, Frosta was making an ice bridge to help Perfuma and Scorpia cross a slow-moving spike trap. 

“I’m sorry you had to use your backup plan. They really are utter fools if they ever doubted your genius,” Hordak mused. 

“Different people have different strengths and weaknesses,” Entrapta replied, without looking up from her work. “And a good scientist collaborates whenever they can! Even if that requires a little creativity sometimes.” 

Hordak nodded. “Fair enough. Nevertheless, I would not blame you if you wished to have nothing more to do with the Princess Alliance. Even their attempts to help you can seem… insensitive. You’re not obligated to forgive that.” 

Skeletor looked up from his control panel and shook a fist. “Don’t you get awfully tired of being a hero all the time? Don’t you ever feel like doing something evil?” 

“They’re trying to be good friends,” Entrapta defended. “And so am I. And if I really did need their help, maybe things would be different. But I’ve got it all under control!” 

She vaulted across the room, flipping switches and turning dials along the way. On the monitors, Perfuma’s fall from a tall platform was gently broken by a sudden anti-gravitational field. 

“Besides, forgiveness isn’t always about the person being forgiven. It’s also about taking back potential energy that was lost.” 

“Did you learn that in my brother’s therapy group?” Hordak asked. 

Entrapta smirked. “Actually, he got it from me.” 

A pleasant ding sounded and Entrapta clapped her hair. “Hooray, everyone made it back! I’ll calculate the high scores and then we can continue the social experiment!” 

“You astonish me every day,” Hordak purred as he rose to follow her. Entrapta put out her hand, and he took it. 

“Wait for me!” Skeletor cried out. “You might get lost by yourself!” 

*

One week later, a much smaller gathering of royals met in Dryl. 

Catra and Adora sat together in one of the Crypto Castle’s least intimidating dining rooms, listening with barely-contained delight as Entrapta’s parental units thoroughly embarrassed their former boss. 

“...And so I said to him, ‘I have charging ports Hordak, can you download raw data offa me?’ Ha! Oh, you shoulda seen his face!” 

Hordak slouched in his chair. “I do not think we need to bore our guests with the details of this particular story,” he protested, feebly. 

“Oh, I’m not bored at all! I want to hear everything,” Catra said. She leaned forward, grinning. “So, was this before or after you hooked him up to the lie detector?” 

Entrapta giggled, and gave Hordak a gentle pat on the shoulder as she reached for another helping of his tiny quiche. All things considered, the night was going surprisingly well. 

It was exactly what Entrapta wanted. 

After dinner, wheeled bots carted away the leftovers and dirty dishes. Hordak poured coffee for himself and Adora, and the parental units retired to wherever it was they lived in the cavernous castle. Entrapta, lost in thought as usual, felt a familiar feline presence approach her. 

“Thank you,” Catra said, sincerely. “Not just for this. For everything. For being so nice all the time. For making this mission happen. It means a lot to me.” 

Entrapta smiled softly. “To me, too. Everyone makes mistakes. It would be a shame not to learn from them when we can.” 

“Did you say something?” Skeletor squawked, suddenly materializing in the doorway. 

Entrapta, unbothered, immediately produced a datapad. “Oh we’re just talking about the big rescue mission! Actually, you should probably take a look at my data, Skeletor. I haven’t told you much yet, and we might need you!” She held the blinking screen out happily. 

Skeletor looked at the datapad. At first he seemed confused; then he boggled as he registered the information in front of him. “Eternia?” he gasped in disbelief. “Grayskull?” 

His voice rose to a fevered pitch. “He-Man!”

For once, Skeletor had no words. He shrieked incomprehensibly instead, fists shaking. 

Hordak chuckled. “It’ll be just like the old days!” 

Skeletor screamed. 

#spop #skeletor #entrapdak #entrapta #hordak #Catra #Adora #the princess alliance #smith stuff #fan fiction #thank you for reading

[jimlingss]

The Weekend Massacre

➜ Words: 19.7k

➜ Genres: 90% Angst, 10% Action?, Serial Killer!AU

➜ Summary: Receiving an invitation to a party, Jimin finds himself in a room of serial killers and a game to see who can gain the most notoriety.

➜ Warning: vomiting, toxic relationship, murder, gore, homeless abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, cults, mutilation etc. I don’t condone the actions of my characters.

cr.

[Friday, 10:00pm]   Jimin grips the envelope.   It’s a dark blue, glittering when he holds it up to the light and silk-like to the touch. A complete blank front, it’s without a return or delivery address. He had tossed the first envelope out, supposing it was a mistake. But then another one was sent. And another. And another.   Another. Until he broke the floral red seal that was seemingly dripping off the page.   It didn’t make sense to him — it was an invitation to a party on the far outskirts of the city with his name on it.   He’s not sure how anyone found him. Who it was that sent this. Or what this was.   Then, as if to add to his confusion, he received several phone calls. Whispers. Incoherent. In the middle of the night. Between hours of the day. Startling as it was jarring. It was as if to show these people were watching constantly, as if to tell that he shouldn’t ignore this any longer.   So here Jimin was. Standing in front of a ragged wooden door with the envelope in hand, shrouded in the middle of pitch black without the moon’s luminescence.   He knocks twice.   The door slot slides open. Beady eyes look through.   “Password?”   Jimin recalls the instructions laid out for him. “Never look in the eye of the beast.”   The slot slides shut and the noise of lock gears unwinding soon becomes replaced with the hinges creaking as the door widens. The hall is narrow with a set of descending stairs, a tiny bulb swinging from the moldy ceiling.   The man is burly, over six feet with bulging biceps and tattoos wrapped around them. Jimin swallows hard, burdened with the stranger’s intimidating air and averts his eyes. But the man isn’t dissuaded and reaches into his pocket to hand Jimin a rectangular business card.   It’s black, but golden looped letters etched into the smooth card reads welcome.   Jimin isn’t sure what to do with the card and receives no explanation. The man simply moves ahead. “Follow me.”   Jimin complies wordlessly, stuffing the card into his pocket, suffocating the many questions he has in his throat.   The man leads him down the rickety stairs, knocks on a steel door that opens with another stranger behind it and then past yet another door. It opens to a room of thumping music and neon strobe lights that Jimin’s eyes have yet to adjust to. But the man doesn’t walk into the room, merely stepping aside.   He stares at Jimin.   And Jimin enters on his own.   The bass is boosted, trembling the walls of the underground room in a beat he doesn’t recognize. The scent of alcohol is thick and people are dressed in lavish outfits and laughing. Jimin self-consciously grips the hem of his hoodie, feeling out of place with his jeans he threw on haphazardly.   He awkwardly shuffles amongst the crowd, looking around, squinting when the pink flashing lights cast into his eyes. He’s unable to recognize the people around. There’s fifteen or twenty so, a mix of women and men—    Jimin’s shoulder collides with another. “S-Sorry.”   He locks eyes with the older man, thick framed glasses around kind eyes and wrinkles, a dimpled smile and blonde locks. “Don’t worry about it.”   The man brushes past him.   Jimin doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know where he is, for what purpose he’s come here for, why the invitation was sent to his name. He feels disoriented. Lost amongst the crowd, dizzy from the strobe lights and the high-pitched laughter closing in on him. Suffocated.   He gasps for air, swinging his head around to look for a wall to lean on, a corner to seek refuge in, where he won’t be swept away by strangers. But no matter where he turns to, it seems like the darkness is encompassing him—   Or at least until he catches another’s eyes.   Across the room. Jimin meets your curious pupils, your quirked head, the edge of your mouth slightly pulled. You’ve been staring at him and that alone captures his attention, roots him back to the ground. You’re in a black dress with white frills that makes it look like it’s a child’s attire.   And as he muses this, you’re approaching faster than he can panic.    Cutting through the horde. Beelining straight to him.    “You’re cute. What’s your name?”   “Jimin,” he stutters out and finally blinks.   “Nice to meet you. I’m Y/N.” Your smile expands and before he can utter your name to memory, you lean in close. “I know what you did.”   Immediately, Jimin frowns. “What do you mean?”   You don’t answer or at least not in the straightforward way he wishes. Instead, you chuckle and Jimin discerns a moment too late that your gaze has always been predatory. “The both of us are quite alike, you know. But haven’t you noticed? Everyone in this room is a serial killer.”   “W-What?” Jimin stutters, his head whipping from side to side, from person to person as he pales. You watch him carefully with an amused expression, how his eyes are widened like a puppy’s, how his mouth has downturned. It’s funny — how he acts when he’s not any different.   But the chance to ask, interrogate or escape is stolen when the music lowers and the lights dim.   “Oh.” You tug on Jimin’s sleeve. “It’s starting.”   He follows your line of sight to the stage at the back, a shimmering spotlight shining down and showing him where the end of the room exactly is. Yet the figure that stands there is obscure. Hidden by their black clothing, their hood, a mask on their face.   The voice booms when it speaks. “Welcome all to the first Weekend Massacre!”   Jimin’s reeling and his eyes travel across the room. Amidst the crowd, he finds the blonde man from earlier, another shorter man with darker hair and a taller brunette. It’s then that the realization strikes him across the face. He’s seen some of these people before. On the news. In the newspaper.   “Each of you who have received an invitation have been specifically chosen to be a participant in our games.” Games? Jimin’s attention is taken back to the stage. “Forty eight hours to commit as many crimes as you can with the promise of endless notoriety and being the first victor.”   He’s nauseous, afraid, petrified of what these people around him have done, what he’s gotten himself into. And he barely has half a mind when you peek at him with another smile.   “Each crime will be weighed differently on a point basis. You will be able to call in at any time to know your rank and the rank of one above and below you. There are two rules. Do not kill another participant and if you are caught by the authorities, then you are suspended from participating any further. The games will officially start in an hour and end on Sunday at this same time.”    “I wish you all luck. The victor is somewhere standing in this room tonight and I look forward to meeting them.”   It’s a game of killing people. A competition to see who can cause the most harm. A crowd of serial killers who have committed the most heinous crimes against women and children.    Jimin feels bile reaching up his throat. He’s dizzy. He can’t hear anything until there’s a crisp call of his name and curious eyes peering into his.   “Jimin? Are you alright?”   No. He isn’t. Not in the least bit.    He wants to run, tell someone this is happening, but he wonders if anyone would even believe him and telling anyone would mean giving himself in. It would mean being tracked down by those who organized this event and the police. It’s the last thing he would want.   And he has a feeling that choosing not to participate isn’t an option either. Not with what happened when he threw out all those invitations, when he tried to ignore those phone calls.   They’ll find him, whoever they are, and make him play.   Jimin doesn’t get a chance to make a peep. You grab both of his hands into yours, smiling sweetly and tenderly. “Don’t be scared, Jimin! How about this? I’ll take you under my wing!”   He stares at you. And an answer comes to him.   It might be the perfect escape, a medium between participating and not — watching from the sidelines. Would that be enough to consider that he’s taking part but without having to do such a heinous thing? Would he truly be resolved from needing to act?   More importantly, Jimin doesn’t understand. All he knows is your name. There’s no reason for you to offer your protection, to let him come along. He’s just met you.    “W-Why?”   “Because people like me and you need to stick together, silly! You don’t look like you can survive a second! So how about it, pet? You can join me. I don’t make this offer just to anybody!”   Jimin gazes at the way you hold your hand out to him.

[Friday, 11:34pm]   He fiddles with his fingers in his lap.   Jimin swallows hard and steals a glance at you. You’re humming some light tune and tapping your hands against the steering wheel — the fluorescent street lights illuminating your face as you drive by before you’re brought into darkness again a second later.   He’s not sure who’s the crazy one.   The one who doesn’t even bat a lash after suddenly being thrusted into a murder game. Or the one who’s cognizant enough to be aware of how insane this is but is still following along anyhow.   “So!” Your loud voice startles him. “We should get playing, shouldn’t we, pet?”   Jimin’s tone stays timid. “What if we don’t?” The game is obscure and the realm of possibilities seems endless. Maybe the repercussions won’t be that bad if he chooses not to play.    Yet at the same time, Jimin feels like he’s back at the party, placed in the crowd, shrouded in the darkness, being swept along by the tide without escape. A helpless follower.   You scoff, looking at him. “And what would we do instead? Sit around and wait for someone else to be crowned the winner? How boring would that be?! I don’t think so. This is a once in a lifetime chance to compete with other killers. Why should we give it up when it’s so much fun?!”    You command, “Pick someone.”   “What?” Jimin’s eyes widen. He grasps his hands, feeling them shake even more.   “I’ll help you kill someone, Jimin.” You smile at him. “I’ll give you the first pick.”   “I...don’t know.”   “It can be anyone you want! Anyone you’re upset with or you don’t like or you think makes your eyes sore!” You have a Chester's grin, eyes that twinkle in the night skyline’s lights. “Pick!”   Jimin can feel the car accelerate dangerously down the empty street. And he sweats, placed under the pressure. He’s frightened of you, of your presence, how it seems like you know a million things about him, but he doesn’t know a single thing about you other than your name.   It feels like you can see right through him.   He wonders what crime you’ve committed. What you’ve done to be considered a serial killer.   “Ji-min~,” you sing-song and he meets your eyes. “Pick already!”   He glances out the window, head swirling, legs quivering. He has to choose the victim. But there’s no one he hates, no one he has malice towards, no one he wants to see dead.   Out of sheer fear and compulsion, feeling the seconds ticking down and your impatience growing, Jimin bites the bullet and impulsively points straight out the windshield. “H-Him.”   It was the first person he saw. A person merely at the wrong place at the wrong time. A homeless man with a parked shopping cart, digging through a garbage can. Oblivious.   The car slows down at once and Jimin hears your hum. “Good choice. No one will miss someone like him!”   Jimin feels nauseous.   He feels queasy when the car is parked across the street, when you get out and dig into the trunk, telling him not to worry about it and how it’s actually a stolen vehicle you got your hands onto.   He feels queasy when you cross the road while hugging his arm, how you approach the disheveled man casually and how the stranger looks up with a tired, worn expression yet retains a compassionate smile—   “Is there somethin’ I can help you with?”   “Yes. My boyfriend and I were actually wondering if we could get directions to—”   And most of all, Jimin feels absolutely sick to his stomach when the homeless man innocently turns away to point to the roads, explaining the directions, and you bear a hammer from the sack you have dangling from your other arm.   It’s mid-sentence. Mid blink when you reach over to smash the man’s head. Without warning, without reasoning, without hesitation. You’ve detached yourself from Jimin smoothly and slammed the head of the hammer onto the stranger’s skull. Allowing him to stumble back on the park bench, wheezing, eyes widened from shock. The sound of the cracking bones echoes.   “P-Please!” The man is petrified, shaking with death setting in his eyes, gripping his head as blood pours down to his face and through his lashes. “I-I have k-kids! I have kids!”   The pleading voice jarring to the ears.   Jimin is horrified.    You loom over the man with an impassive expression. And as the man begs with tears in his eyes, you slam the hammer on his head again, loud enough that Jimin, himself, cries out.   “Stop!”   You turn around, crimson splattered on your cheek. The homeless man’s no longer conscious, flopped over as his head continues to pour out blood.    “What’s wrong, Jiminnie?” You loll your head to one side.   But he ignores you. Jimin looks at the man. The victim he chose.    Bile reaches up to his throat. Jimin collapses on his weak knees. And he throws up. Chunks of his partially digested microwavable dinner spew out as he wheezes. His stomach contracts as he coughs to the ground, face littered with loose teardrops and cold sweat. The pungent scent is sharp against the acid in his throat. Jimin wipes his mouth with the back of his quivering hand.   “Oh my fucking god. W-we...we need to take him to the hospital!”   “Now why would we do that, silly?” you giggle. “We need to finish him off!”   You’re insane and he was insane to come along with you, for taking the invitation and going to the party, for thinking he could go along with this and be safe watching from the sidelines. “I-I’m not a killer!” Jimin sobs into his hands, unable to look at the man any longer. Jimin doesn’t know why he was picked, why he was given an invitation. They have the wrong person.   And like he’s at a confession, he professes, “I’m not a serial killer!”   But instead of a priest, it’s the devil itself. “And what would your family say about that, Jiminnie?”   You lower yourself down to him, carding your bloodstained fingers through his soft brunette locks as he trembles. Your murmur is consoling as it is tantalizing. The silence isn’t as eerie as it should be.   “I heard about it, you know. I saw it on the news. I know you did it. It takes one to know one.”   “Stop.” Jimin hyperventilates between tears, shaking his head, but you don’t.   “You mutilated them.”   Beneath his eyelids, he sees it. The crimson coated floorboards, splattered on the yellow paisley wallpaper, on the popcorn ceiling of the living room. He covers his ears. “Stop it!”   “You flushed your younger brother down the toilet.”   The chaos of the entire scene projects before his eyes. The knocked over chairs, the picture frames thrown, the stench of iron in the two bedroom house heavy, the warmth of the blood.   And Jimin feels the same warmth after you’ve pried his hands off of his ears and you hold his cheeks between your hands. You force him to look you in the eye.    “It...it was an accident,” he sobs, the words barely stuttering out of him. “I b-blacked out. I was angry. I d-didn’t know what I was doing.”   He had no control of himself. And worst of all, he never got to repent for his sins. He had an alibi — a timesheet at work that told them he was at another place at that time, yet in reality, he had forgotten to clock out. But by then, he was too much of a coward to fess up to his actions, to tell them that he was the perpetrator, to be looked at as the monster he knows he is.   But somehow, even with all these facts, you don’t look at him like he is one.    “Something like that is never an accident, Jiminnie,” you coo and with a sweet smile, you stand and finish the man off.   The last pained grunt lingers.   Jimin follows along on auto-pilot as you drag the body yourself with much effort. You bury him by the playground where the soil is softest, where in the morning, old couples and children will trample by the dirt without a single thought.    It takes thirty minutes for you to get rid of it, for you to pour two bottles of water over the bench to wash the blood into the nearby gutter, to shove the shopping cart onto the road as a traffic hazard.    Then, you’re grabbing Jimin’s palm, interlacing your fingers between his, staining his skin with the blood on your hands like it’s part of a ritual. You’ve imprinted the patterns of your palm on his. And then you’re pulling him along like a doll, laughing down the street in a high, in a drunken madness in spite of being sober.   “You helped me kill someone, Jiminnie.” Your eyes seem to shine brighter, more excited than before. “You know what this means? It means we’re connected now! Forever and always.”   It’s unsettling, but you’re right.   He’s an accomplice. A bystander. A follower. No worse than you are.   He let this happen. Chose the victim. Watched you do it.    He allowed himself to become your pet.   “I wonder how many points that gave me,” you hum with pouty lips before turning down the alley. Jimin’s not sure where you’re going but he doesn’t care to ask. As if he wasn’t susceptible to being pulled along by the crowd, he feels exceptionally inclined to follow your whims.   He wonders who you are. How he feels somehow feels grounded when he looks at you, even after everything that you’ve done.   “Hurry the fuck up!”   There are two shadowy figures at the end of the dark alleyway the pair of you turn into. You loll your head to one side, curiosity gleaming in your irises. “I wonder what’s going on.”   “T-This is all I have!” The panicked voice tears out of the stranger’s throat. “Please! Let me go!”   Jimin automatically stumbles back, ready to escape to where he came from. But you lean over, interest piqued and you quicken your steps, tugging him along.   “Who’s there?!” The tall brunette points his revolver towards you and you lift your hands up, stepping into the light with Jimin behind you. “What are you looking at, huh?!”   You greet the man with a smile, not at all frightened with the gun being pointed at you. “Relax. I’m a part of the game too.”   “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” he yells from the pit of his stomach, “Don’t tell me to relax!”   Jimin’s eyes search the scene, the stranger with his pockets pulled out, wallet on the floor, shaking incessantly. The one holding him hostage and robbing him is a tall brunette with sharp features. He has a deranged look in his eye, chest rising and falling, sweat built at his hairline.   He recognizes him from the party.   “Taehyung, right?” you chime, “From the infamous Kim family.”   “The hell do you want?!”   The victim looks at Jimin and their eyes meet. The desperation and fear is tangible, and he mouths ‘help’. But then Jimin tears his eyes from the stranger, looking away.   There’s nothing he can do to help him. He can barely help himself.   “Nothing. We’re just passing by. Didn’t think we’d run into someone so soon, but looks fun. I’ll leave you to it then.”   Taehyung glares and gestures away with his gun after a beat. You wave goodbye enthusiastically and pass by humming. Jimin follows after you, quickening his steps until the two figures become distant again.   “H-How’d you know who he was?”   “It’s not hard to know about the Kim family. They might all be imprisoned, but they’re famous,” you tell him as if he should know. “Even if I didn’t know about them, I would’ve, since I had to scope out my competition. I did research on everyone.” You turn to the boy with a sly smirk and your index finger pokes his chest. “Even you, Jiminnie. How do you think I know what you did? But when I read up on you, I knew I’d like you.”   Your smile widens and you turn onto a suburban street. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a Bonnie and Clyde duo.”   He walks with you, shrouded in the darkness while watching a flickering lamp post in the distance. You audibly play eenie, meenie, minie, moe with the houses lined on the avenue and once you land on one, you walk towards it. Jimin stalks after you.    “What are you doing?”   “Watch and see,” you whisper with the corners of your lips curled, twirling around to him as you walk to the front door. From the sack thrown over your shoulder, you come out with two silver pins and you show off to Jimin with your sly smile.   He doesn’t expect you to pick the front lock, but he looks around and hopes no one’s watching.   Within a minute, the door opens. “Nice and easy.”   You skip inside like it’s your own house, but Jimin remains hesitant at the step. It takes a deep inhale before he steps through.   There are shoes haphazardly thrown on the side by the closet, the entrance small. He’s led into a hall and then a living room. Enveloped in the dark, the little street lights cast in and help him find his way. Jimin’s eyes eventually stray to a shelf of frames, old wedding photos of a young couple to pictures of the family gathered around one another with enormous grins.   Yet one photograph takes his attention in particular — one of a little girl in a polka dot dress, showing off her missing front tooth in a wide smile.   You seem to pay no mind to the pictures. Instead, you’re leaning over to shut the open window by the armchair.   The floorboards creak subtly as you creep along the walls, quietly shutting all the windows.    Jimin follows along at a delayed pace, confusion written across his face. At least until you come to the stove and turn all four gas stove tops on with a smile. “What can I say? I like to get creative.”   Jimin pales with the realization. You’re getting rid of an entire family with little to no effort and all you can do is silently giggle.    You walk around the kitchen, up the stairs and on the way, you stop by the carbon monoxide detector to rip out the batteries from it and toss it aside. You’re methodical and careful every step of the way, always controlling the crime scene, playing it like a game of chess.   Jimin’s not sure if he’s scared of you or if he admires you.   The door creaks as you peer into the bedroom. He squints into the darkness over your shoulder but then you slip away to the next door. The following room is brighter. The open window is next to a street lamp outside, so Jimin can make out the princess posters pinned on the pink walls, the toy boxes shoved in the corner, and the little girl asleep soundly in her bed, covers rising and falling every so often.   You don’t blink, taking three strides to reach over and shutting the window. You lock the latch.   Jimin steps into the room as well, but he doesn’t see the doll on the ground. He doesn’t notice it until he accidentally kicks it aside and the thing sounds, greeting him with a deafening — “I love you!”   You whirl around. His entire body freezes. The girl under the covers shuffle.   She twists, turns and audibly sighs. “Mommy?”   Immediately, you move. Like it’s your sheer instincts. Before Jimin can stop you, before he can call your name and tell you to spare her. You rip the pillow from underneath the girl’s head, shocking her awake, and before she can scream aloud, you press the pillow to her face.   Her legs kick out, but you push your entire body weight onto her, suffocating the girl.   Jimin’s knees weaken, his breath staccatos as he sees red beneath his eyes — recalling the splatter of the ceiling, of the paisley wallpaper. He should cry out, shove you off. But whenever he opens his mouth, his voice is lost. He can’t utter a word.   He knows it’s too late. Stopping you would make the girl cry for her parents. They would waken. They would call the police. And he would get caught. Jimin’s too much of a coward.   So he looks away.

[Saturday, 3:28am]   The harsh red and blue spinning lights flash through the alley.   The moment it swirls away, the scene is clouded in darkness before another shade floods inside.   Seokjin releases a heavy breath, shuts his car door and strides down. He shakes away the sleepiness that still lingers after being rudely shaken awake. There wasn’t even time to get a coffee.   “Detective Kim!” someone calls out. A younger man with brown doe eyes waiting for him.    Seokjin wonders how he got here so soon when he wasn’t on a shift. But the new upcoming ones are always like that — ambitious and keen. Give them a few years and they’ll learn to mellow out. Or at least most of them do. He’s not so sure about Jeon Jungkook.   “When’d you get here?”   “Five minutes ago.”   “So I suppose you’ve had enough time to take a look?” Seokjin receives gloves handed to him and puts them on.   “A little.”   The two of them bend over the yellow tape wrapped around the perimeter of the scene. There’s forensics in their white garbs, marking bullet casings and blood splatters, the flashes of their camera blinding to the eye. They set up their lights and the entire alley becomes illuminated.   The victim is lying face up in the middle of the alleyway. His eyes are still wide open. Blood poured out in a pool and staining the pebbles. It’s splattered on the brick wall nearby.   Seokjin’s brows furrow, noticing several bullet holes on the victim’s forehead. His face has been mutilated from the wound. His left shoe is also missing, but Seokjin’s eyes trail to see the leather loafer a meter away.   “What’d you think?” When the older man is met with silence, he turns.   Jungkook swallows hard, quiet as he stares at the corpse. Seokjin doesn’t blame him. It always takes a long time to get used to seeing dead bodies in such a way.   The department might praise Jungkook for being a prodigy with the newer techniques — the whole fancy profiling spiel that Seokjin’s old mind has yet to wrap his head around. But Seokjin has one thing Jungkook lacks. Experience.   Maybe that’s why the chief linked them up. They both could benefit from this partnership.   “Jeon.”   “Sorry.” He snaps back to it and clears his throat. “His name is Park Chanyeol. Twenty eight years old. Works in construction. He was shot in the face six times.”   “Bullets?”   “Point three five seven magnum. They think it’s most likely from some kind of revolver.”   Seokjin hums and Jungkook continues, “His pockets are empty and his wallet is gone. It looks like an armed robbery. Most likely the victim has no connection to the perpetrator. There’s a bruise on his left cheek. He probably had a physical altercation with the perpetrator before he was shot. His knuckles are bloody, so they’re collecting DNA samples to see if it belongs to someone else. That’s most likely going to be our best bet in catching this person considering there aren’t any security cameras in this area or witnesses.”   He nods and after a beat, their eyes meet again. Seokjin asks, “What else? Aside from the main facts of the case.”   Jungkook inhales a deep breath. “The scene is disorganized. There’s no need to shoot someone six times. Whoever did this, not only left the body but left physical evidence. And if they have no connection to the victim, that means they did this spontaneously.”   “So?”   “We’re most likely looking at someone who has poor hygiene and nighttime habits. I’m guessing a man in his early twenties. Below average intelligence. His motive…..is quick financial gain and also being able to feel a sense of superiority and power.”   Seokjin’s eyes narrow into the boy and his soft facial features. He’s not inclined to believe in pure speculation, but Jungkook’s proven himself right on several cases they’ve worked on together and he’s not one to disregard credit where it’s due. So, he takes his word for it.   They cross the tape once more, walking back to the parked cars. The noisy static of the radios and snapshot of cameras fade into the back. “Call Baekhyun. He might want to see this for himself.”   “Detective Byun is down at seventh avenue, Detective Kim.”   He lifts a brow and Jungkook explains, “I heard there was a homicide case there.”   “It looks like it's a busy night tonight,” Seokjin exhales, a cold cloud of air emitting from his lips. He recalls a number of police cars rushing past in the other lane while he was driving here.   Jungkook gets into the passenger seat as Seokjin slides into the driver’s. “Actually, there’s multiple homicide cases being reported at the same time. More than the usual amount. It’s almost like they’re being committed at the same time.”   He puts the keys into the ignition and the engine roars to life with the head beams. “Is it gang related?”   “Hard to say,” the younger sharply inhales. “From what I heard, all the crime scenes are starkly different.”   Seokjin frowns and casts a glance down the busy alleyway. At the same time, the DNA sample on the man’s knuckles are swabbed and bagged to be tested.

[Saturday, 7:58am]   You cackle, leaning on the arm of the armchair with your legs thrown over the other.    Even though Jimin was against entering the house again, you weren’t dissuaded by the lingering traces of carbon monoxide. The open window nearby is enough to air out the area and what better place is there to hide out than a definitely empty home. It gave you a chance to steal more comfortable clothes, rid of your dress and burn it too.   “Nearly two hours ago, a suspect has been arrested in the second degree murder of Park Chanyeol whose body was found in the alley between Third Street and Canons Boulveard.”    You’re seated on the armchair like it’s your throne as Jimin stands on your right side, less like a loyal guard dog and more of a scared puppy who’s not sure what to do. But he’s endearing like that.   “Nineteen year old Kim Taehyung, the youngest member of the notorious Kim family, has been charged with second degree murder, assault with a deadly weapon, robbery and illegal possession of a firearm—”   You laugh as you watch Taehyung on screen cuffed and led out of the car. He’s screaming at the reporters while his lawyer at his side tries to cover his face, but to no avail.   It hasn’t even been twelve hours since the game started and he’s already caught red-handed. In all honesty, you’re a bit disappointed. It’s pleasant to have less competition, but you thought Taehyung would put up more of a fight than that.   Well….you suppose this is the consequence of being as reckless as he is.   “Breaking news that we just received.” The screen flashes to the news anchor. “We believe a bomb has been detonated at the city hall. That happened within the last two minutes, major evacuations are now taking place. Police have still yet to confirm the number of casualties or if this is the act done by a terrorist organization. Stay with us. The scene is now live.”   Your brow quirks. Jimin stumbles forward. His hands tremble, expression stunned.   The news channel gives a helicopter view of city hall, the smoke plumes rising in the air, the chaos on the road with firetrucks and police cars rushing into the scene.   “Is this…”   “A part of the game?” You throw your legs off, feet touching the carpet as your back straightens. It’s not time to be sitting back anymore. “Probably. I’m guessing this is Min’s work.” When Jimin remains confused, you smile and explain, “Min Yoongi. He’s a guy who likes doing flashy stuff like this. Don’t be too impressed, pet. He might have a high fatality rate, but it draws too much attention for my tastes. It makes the cops go cuckoo to find him.”   You stand up and stretch your limbs over your head, groaning as you do so. Finally — there’s some real motivation. The game’s definitely more fun with characters like Yoongi.   “Time to go, Jiminnie.” Your grin is enormous and your eyes gleam. “We can’t just sit back and let someone else win, can we?”

[Saturday, 10:03am]   Even from the distance, the smoky air still permeates through his mask. The scene is largely cleaned up. Just a few hours ago, there were victims crying outside and tens of fire trucks parked on the curb, first responders at the scene rescuing those stranded inside and carrying out the bodies.   The site is still somewhat chaotic, yellow tape lining the perimeter, debris and remaining rubble scattered all over the steps and the road; the shadows of the atrocity committed not long ago.   “In all my years of work, can’t say I’ve ever seen something like this.”   After closing the Kim case in record time, Seokjin only had an hour of sleep before he was abruptly called here. But it’s not just him. All investigators were pulled and dozens of homicide cases have been pushed aside in view of this event.   “How many casualties?”   “Twenty so far.”   “So far?”   Jungkook nods solemnly. “They’re pulling out more bodies from the rubble.”   Seokjin sighs, feeling his dark circles deepen in its lilac shade.    A moment later, he catches a familiar figure approaching from his peripheral vision. Someone with a sharp jawline, darkened hair and a five o’clock shadow around his mouth. Said man appears even more exhausted than Seokjin is, as if he’s aged an additional ten years.   He’s not at all like the strapping, energetic friend he had at the academy all those years ago.   Seokjin manages a smile to the all too familiar Chief of Police. “It’s not often I see you out on the field anymore. I always thought you would get a stroke in that office chair of yours.”   “Sometimes the time calls for it, Jin. I can’t always sit back with my hands clean.”   “And here I thought you forgot what it’s like to get down and dirty.”   “Sir,” Jungkook greets Hoseok, lowering his head just an inch out of respect.   Hoseok nods. “You must be the new profiler that was transferred over. I believe we met once.”   “At the gala.”   “Yes. How have you been managing? I’ve been hearing great things about you.”   “I’ve been doing alright. Just trying my best.”   “He’s keen,” Seokjin says and Hoseok’s lips curl, knowing full well how he feels about keeners.   “Good. Maybe that’ll inspire you to be less grumpy.”   He scoffs and ignores him. “What do you have for me?”   In spite of the difference in their positions, their friendship allows them to be casual with one another. After all, they started at the same time and it was Hoseok who chose to climb the ladder and make his way to the top. Seokjin, on the other hand, has never been one for bureaucracy. Many find his brash way of speaking displeasing, and it’s not what he signed up for either.   “The bomb was sent in a thin package.” The file folder is passed to him as they walk. Seokjin flips it open and studies the photograph of the dollar sign symbol carved into a metal piece, the signature trademark.   “So it’s the Unabomber copycat?”   “I don’t know if I’d go as far as to call him a copycat.”   “Then he’s at least a more advanced version.” Seokjin flips through the report. “It seems like he’s more sophisticated. Are you planning on setting up a task force to find the guy?”   “I don’t know yet.” Hoseok drags a hand over his face. “I have a few investigators in mind that I might assign.”   “But not us?”   “We’re full hands on deck. I’d rather have my most efficient detectives on standby in case something else happens which I have a feeling it just might.” Hoseok’s cautious, always saving his best cards. “In the last twelve hours, crime in the city has spiked to two hundred percent, but there are no connections at all to any of them. I want you to look into it and see if you have any theories. As for this case, the bombing of city hall, I just wanted to hear your thoughts.”   Seokjin hums and turns to the younger man who’s been listening in. “What do you think, Jungkook?”   It takes a second to collect his thoughts. Then, Jungkook’s doe eyes lift, unwavering. “Whoever did this, they left little evidence to work with. The origins of the package can’t be tracked either. So not only did they make the explosive themselves, they controlled every step of it.”   “Above average intelligence.”   Jungkook nods. “And most likely an outcast of society. In the past, this bomber targeted high members of society. And of all the places they could’ve sent it to, they chose city hall this time. Not to mention, his trademark is peculiar. It’s not any initials, it’s a symbol. The dollar sign. I think this person has an ideological motive.”   “Then he’ll most likely be in contact with the police or news outlets soon to spread whatever message he has,” Seokjin adds.   “Most likely. I think we’re looking at someone organized and nonsocial, someone who lives alone and follows the news closely.”   Hoseok smiles. “That’s more than enough to work with.”

[Saturday, 12:01pm]   “Where are we going?” Jimin struggles to keep up with your determined strides.   “Winning the game isn’t just about who kills more, Jiminnie,” you teach him with a sly smile. “You also have to strategize how to take down your competitors.”   The pair of you step up the driveway to the door and you hold the doorbell down with your index finger for an extended amount of time. Then, you knock thrice. There’s silence.   “Who’s house is this?”   “His name is Kim Namjoon. He’s a big competitor.”   Jimin’s head whips towards you. “We’re at his house?!”   You grin. “Pretty sure. What’s the issue?”   He opens his mouth, but no words are uttered. Jimin can’t wrap his mind around how he’s on a serial killer’s doorstep, how you’ve knocked on it, expecting it to open. “How do you even know this is his?”   “I told you. I did my research on everyone, Jiminnie. And don’t worry. If this is really his place, he’ll let us in. It’s not like he can leave us on his porch.”   You turn around to wave enthusiastically at an elderly neighbour walking her dog.   You’re clinically insane — Jimin’s sure of it. But even if you come off as deranged, it’s apparent you’ve thought things through, that you’ve strategized every step. He wonders if that’s why he feels a sense of calm, why it always feels like Jimin’s rooted in the ground when he sees you.   There’s a shift at the door and you look towards the peephole with a massive smile.   The door cracks open.   There’s an older man in his forties, thick framed glasses around kind eyes and wrinkles, a dimpled smile and blonde locks. They recognize each other from the party. “What are you doing here?”   “Seeking refuge obviously,” you sing-song. “Can we come in or what?”   Namjoon’s glare turns menacing. His pupils are blown, eyes bulging from their sockets as his mouth lopsides. The facade of the friendly neighbour crumbles instantaneously and Jimin instinctively shuffles back in intimidation and fear. But then the door widens a moment later.   “Ugh.” You step aside from the large puddle of blood on the floorboards. Jimin’s eyes expand. The streaks of the crimson fluid are pulled towards a closed door meters away as if a body was dragged. “Clean that up, will you?”   Jimin’s knees shake, but he follows after you, stepping aside and slipping into the house. The door is slammed shut.   You’re humming, looking at all the decor of the cozy abode. “Nice house. I like the green drapes.”   “What do you want?” Namjoon stalks after the two of you. “If you’re looking for someone so you can be a trio, I’ll have to refuse. I don’t work well with others and I don’t like anyone interfering with my business.”   “That’s disappointing. I’ll just take breakfast then.” You round the corner, plopping down on the wooden chair by the small dining table. “Have anything good to eat? I’m starving!”   The man glares. You prop your elbow on the table, pouting at him. “Just let us hide out for a while and we’ll leave. Promise.”   “You should’ve done this somewhere else,” he warns, yet turns towards his kitchen.   Jimin releases his held breath from his tense body and comes to sit next to you. He leans in close to whisper, “What are you planning?”   “You’ve never poked a bear before, Jiminnie? It’s all part of the fun. Relax,” you coax him with a crooked smile.    Jimin doesn’t know but it’s because of him that you’re even able to pull this stunt off. He has this permanently scared look on his face, his features etched with fear and regret. It’s endearing, but because of that, Namjoon is sincerely fooled into thinking that you came here as a last resort to escape from prying eyes and just to have a meal.   Jimin has the ability to disarm. And if it wasn’t for him, Namjoon would never believe you.   You look around at the fake flowers in the vase, the nature calendar on the wall, the table without a smudge. Then your eyes trail to a thick pile of photos across the table and you lurch over to grab the stack.   You hum. Jimin pales.   “Is that….”   “Yep.”   Jimin immediately looks away.   It’s dark pictures of dismembered bodies, naked and tied up women caught in the camera’s yellow flash, and women who are just walking on the street, unaware that they’re being stalked and captured from afar. But each photograph is meticulously labeled with a date and name, sometimes with a phone number at the back.   Namjoon’s one of those types who like to call the family of victims just to taunt them, to record conversations he has with victims to play it back for them. Even for your standards, you know he’s sick.   Your study session is interrupted by a meow. An orange tabby cat with narrowed pupils jumps onto the table and then suddenly, the pictures are being snatched out of your hands.   Namjoon’s jaw is clamped, teeth gritted together. He plops down a plate of baked pastries and jams, and quickly collects the stack of photographs.   “That’s not yours to look at.”   “Sorry.” You loll your head to one side. “Got curious.”   There’s an ear-piercing, muffled scream that makes Jimin flinch — a bloodcurdling ‘help’ echoing along the walls. It’s coming from the basement.   You whirl your head back to your host. “Shouldn’t you go take care of that?”   “Don’t touch anything,” Namjoon warns in a low voice and steps away.   You grab the croissant and your teeth tear into it. Your other hand reaches for the cat and the animal allows you to scratch underneath its chin. Its tail curls and it hops off the table.   “Y/N.” For the first time, Jimin calls you by your name and you turn to him. He’s timidly eating his cream cheese pastry with strawberry jam and you reach over with your sleeve to wipe the corner of his mouth free from crumbs.   “Yes?”   “Would...you ever kill me?”   He wonders what it would be like if you considered him a competitor. Or if he wasn’t competing at all, if he could be your victim. Part of him wants to trust you just because it’s easier that way. To be a follower. Hold zero responsibilities. Make no decisions. But he’s not sure if he should allow himself to.   Jimin still has yet to figure out how much he should lean on you and believe in your methods. He doesn’t want to win and you know it too. All he wants is to just be kept safe from the organizers of the event, from the other serial killers, from the police. And it looks like as long as he follows you, everything will work in both of your favours.   “Why would I, silly?” Your smile softens. “It would be too much of a waste if I did.”   It’s not long after the breakfast shenanigans at Kim Namjoon’s house that you make your exit with a ‘see you later’ and slip back onto the suburban street undetected. The older man is happy to have you gone, but if he knew what was up your sleeve, he wouldn’t feel that way.   “A-Are y-you sure this is a good idea?” Jimin’s shaking again, wide-eyed as he grips the phone in the red phone booth. You’re forcing him to make the call purely because it’s too cute to see him sweat under the pressure.   “There aren’t any rules against being a snitch, Jiminnie.” You grin. “And since when did serial killers follow any rules or moral conducts in the first place?”

[Saturday, 6:00pm]   Jungkook scrubs his hands.   Once his skin is free of soap, he turns off the tap and braces himself against the porcelain sink. He exhales staggeringly. He’s seen stuff like this before — made to listen to countless interviews and interrogations, watched tons of videos. It was all a part of his training.    But it’s different when it’s not through a screen and when he’s sitting on a cushy chair behind a desk. It’s different when he’s the one apprehending the criminal and collecting the evidence with his own hands.   Jungkook swallows hard and goes for more soap, trying to rid himself of the disgust he feels.   Kim Namjoon was taken in not even a half hour ago. Luckily, it’s an airtight case. At least with the stack of photos Jungkook found and the two victims barely alive in his basement that was sent away on ambulances. The man might remain silent, but the evidence is insurmountable.   Jungkook turns the tap off, wipes his hands with paper towels, discards it in the trash and walks out of the bathroom. He puts on a stoic expression. He has a job to do. He was assigned this case when they’re short-handed with other detectives and officers, so there’s no choice but to detach himself and be professional.    He finds his partner in his office, seated in his chair and fiddling with a rectangular card.   “Detective Kim?”   Seokjin looks up. “They found this on Kim Namjoon when they were booking him in.”   It’s black, but golden looped letters etched into the smooth card reads welcome.   Seokjin flips it over but there’s nothing else on the card.   “Kim Taehyung had the exact same one,” the older man reveals on an exhale and that immediately piques Jungkook’s attention who cocks a brow.   “Then they know each other. Or at least, they’re connected somehow. If this isn’t gang-related then is it possible that Namjoon knows the Kim family somehow?”   “It doesn’t seem likely. The Kim family is high profile. They wouldn’t have anything to do with a middle class man in his forties living in the suburbs.” Seokjin leans back, scrutinizing the black card and the golden letters. He thinks about the big picture. “But what if this was indeed organized? But by different criminals banding together.” Their eyes meet. “Like they picked a date to have a massacre.”   Jungkook frowns. It’s improbable — an almost outlandish theory. The logistics of it seem too difficult to be feasible. How would a bunch of serial killers with no connection whatsoever be able to meet, arrange and agree on something doing something like that? And for what reason?   Yet that would serve to explain how crime has escalated so drastically in the city within the past day, how there seems to be homicides happening on every single corner.   Jungkook’s train of thoughts crash when Seokjin tosses the card on his desk and sighs, “Have they traced who gave the tip yet?”   “It’s from a phone booth on the corner of Westminster lane.”   “I didn’t know people still used phone booths,” he muses, threading his hands together.   “There weren’t any security cameras, but there was one down the road by a jewelry store. They caught two figures there at the same time the call was made.” Jungkook moves a file folder on his cluttered desk forward and the older man finally flips it open. It’s a fuzzy black and white shot of the camera. He’s barely able to make out the two distinct shapes next to one another.   But Seokjin’s unable to study it for long when his cellphone starts blaring.   He sighs and picks it up. “What is it?” Seokjin’s silent for a long while and then he hums that he’ll be right there before hanging up. That’s never a good sign, so Jungkook braces himself as Seokjin stands and grabs his coat.   “A family was just found dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. They suspect there’s foul play.”

[Saturday, 6:00pm]   The curdling shriek tears through Jimin’s eardrums.   He shrinks back, shutting his eyes as tight as he can until they hurt. He doesn’t allow a sliver of light to come through. He can’t look. He won’t. Even when he knows that right in front of him, you’re choking an old grandma, pinning her to the floor, your grip loose enough so she can still scream.   After a long moment, there’s silence and he hyperventilates.   “You can look now, Jiminnie. I’m not finished but you can still look.”   “No.” He shakes his head furiously, curled into a fetal position. He won’t risk it. So he stays where he is, against the wall, on the floral carpet on the floor.   Jimin hears your sigh and then there are footsteps. What follows is the noise of fabric tearing, threads being roughly pulled. He hitches his breath and automatically flinches when he feels you behind him, your warm breath against his neck.   “Relax. I got you a blindfold.”   You delicately wrap the black cloth around his eyes. And you tie it into a pretty bow behind his head while humming a light tune.   Jimin’s fingers brush against the silky material. He hesitates but trusts you enough to finally peel back his lids. He encounters the comfortable darkness.   “You don’t need to look if you don’t want to,” you chime and he feels your presence fade away from his backside.   He exhales, loosening the tension in his body. But he still doesn’t understand.    Jimin can’t comprehend how you can be so accommodating and thoughtful to him one moment and the next, your eyes are cold to others. “Why are you doing this?”   “Because I want to and it’s fun.” Your giggle tinkles. “Don’t you think so, pet? To have someone at your complete mercy. To see the fear in their eyes and hear them beg.”   With his vision gone, his other senses are in overdrive. Jimin perceives the sharp scent of iron in his nose, tastes the sultry air, and hears rustling. He catches the way you’re panting, how each breath seems heavy from your lungs.   “Lots of people do it for different reasons. For sexual pleasure, the thrill, for their beliefs, or even because they get angry like you do,” you state nonchalantly and he flinches. “There doesn’t need to always be a complicated reason. You can do it out of sheer spite even.”   For the next minute, it goes eerily quiet. Jimin doesn’t know if you’re gone, if you’ve left the room, or if you’ve abandoned him entirely. His arms lift up into the air, batting at the empty space. He’s about to call your name, but then hears your footsteps.   “All done!” you sing-song.    You reach behind him, undoing the ties and the blindfold slips off.    There isn’t a body in sight. Jimin’s met with your smile.

[Saturday, 7:48pm]   “What is happening is very unfortunate and our hearts reach out to all the families of these victims. These senseless crimes will not go unpunished. The terror these criminals have inflicted on the population will not dissuade this country from seeking justice. I have called upon the best personnel who will be involved in these criminal investigations. We ask that during this process all people take caution and stay inside. And I ask that people send their thoughts and prayers…”   Jimin’s focus on the President’s press conference happening in the corner television fades as you start singing to the country music playing overhead. He turns his attention to you.   His expression must be impressed on how you know all the lyrics since you lean in with a grin. “I love this song.”   He never took you to be much of a country music lover.   The retro diner is cozy, a long counter with stools, classic red booths and yellow lights. It’s as if time has stopped in this place and the emptiness only adds to the eerie atmosphere.    The waitress with a half white apron and dress comes out and places two plates on the table. “Here’s your regular stack of pancakes with a side of fruit and bacon, and the strawberry avalanche french toast.”   You smile. “Thanks.”   The woman nods with a “you’re welcome” and returns to the back.   Jimin doesn’t have much of an appetite. But he tries his best to stomach the food, cutting through the bread and piercing it with the fork. You, on the other hand, visibly blanch at the sliced strawberries, banana and oranges on your plate and one by one, you transfer them over to his.   The corner of Jimin’s mouth twitches. “You don’t like fruit?”   “Not really. I only like grapes.”   You grab the maple syrup and Jimin watches with his bugged-out eyes how you nearly empty half the canister. By the time you’re satisfied, your pancakes are drowning in the syrup. Yet you grin happily, excited as you cut into them. You fill your cheeks and Jimin lets his entire smile slip.   “I’m guessing you like pancakes.”   “I love them.” Your knife scrapes the plate as you saw down into the fluffy texture. You muse, “I never got to eat them much as a kid.”   “What did you eat then?”   “A lot of vegetables, fermented food, canned stuff,” you say while chewing in your cheek.   Jimin pushes the strawberries around on his plate for a moment before his eyes lift and his voice lowers. “When...did you start killing people, Y/N?”   “I don’t know. Ever since I was born, I guess,” you deadpan. And after he stares at you for an extended period of time, you elaborate, “I grew up in a cult. Anyone who disobeyed or did bad things was killed. It’s normal.” You shrug. “I don’t know why people make such a big deal about it. People are okay with killing pigs and cows to eat, but not humans.”   It’s jarring to hear and it makes it hard to swallow down his food. “Well, it’s different.”   “Is it?” you ask. “We’re all animals. Having exceptions seems hypocritical. Plus, some people deserve to die, right? That’s why the death penalty exist.”   It’s an odd sense of logic. But what’s even stranger is that he can discern where you’re coming from.   “Why do some people deserve to die more than others? Just because of their actions?” You cut into your pancakes. “If the government kills someone, that’s somehow okay. But if I kill someone, then that’s bad. Who decided that?”   “The world is full of contradictions.” You swallow a mouthful. “At the end of the day, aren’t laws just made by people trying to govern and control other people? Burning witches at the stake used to be legal, you know.”   Jimin’s unable to keep his gaze away from you.   If it wasn’t against the law, he wouldn’t be so scared of getting caught. He wouldn’t have had to spend the last year constantly looking over his shoulder and afraid of sirens. But if it wasn’t against the law, would he even be sitting with you right now and having this conversation?   The games wouldn’t exist. There would be no reason to come up with something like the Weekend Massacre.   Then again, it’s because they didn’t catch him that he could be sitting here at this time. The flawed system made up by people to regulate others failed to accomplish their goal.   You finish the pancakes in a flash and somehow, Jimin finds the strength to finish his too.   Once he’s done, he pushes it aside and your eyes gleam. “Ready?”   “For what?”   “Running, silly.” You grab his hand across the table, stand and yank him out from his seat. “Have you never dined and dashed before?”   You start running before he can protest. Jimin hears the shout and curses of the waitress from behind as you shove the door open and it bangs against the wall with the golden bell up top.    You’re giggling, sprinting as fast as you can, ducking and moving between the crowd. Jimin struggles to keep up but he widens his pace and quickly matches your speed. He steals a glimpse of you, catching the fleeting moment of the wind twirling through your hair, the way your eyes are crinkled with your playfully devious smile, how your expression is innocent as you’re committing such a juvenile crime.   Hands held, Jimin interlaces his fingers with yours.   You turn your head, locking your eyes with his, and softening your gaze.   “People like us need to stick together, Jiminnie. We’ll always be marginalized for what we do.”   You’re right. He’s been living like an outcast out of fear, and if people knew the crimes he’s committed, he would be casted away either way. But the realization sinks into Jimin — you’re the first and probably the only person who wouldn’t look at him any differently for what he’s done.   You don’t treat him like he’s a monster. Even when he’s scared of himself, you aren’t.   His hand holding yours tightens.

[Saturday, 9:07pm]   Seokjin hasn’t slept.   He doesn’t think he’ll get the chance to tonight.   There’s no time to when he was being called left, right and center. There are crime scenes behind dumpsters, on the fifth level of a downtown apartment, murderers on every corner of the city. Every officer off duty and on duty have been called, spread thin throughout, and with every hour, there seems to be more and more murders. It’s impossible that this is done by one person or even by five. But Seokjin doesn’t know what to make of it.   He doesn’t know what to do. He hasn’t experienced something like this before — this massacre.   He leans back into the uncomfortable chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. Seokjin studies the black card with golden letters etched into it, the word welcome catching the light.   If this was indeed an organized massacre, then how and who? How could this many killers come together and be this organized? Who is behind it and orchestrating it? And why? Could it be for fame alone? For chaos?   It feels like it’s all part of some sick game.   “Jin, you wanted to talk to me?”   He’s snapped out of his thoughts by his old friend unlocking his office. Hoseok is disoriented and exhausted, coat hanging off of his arm, briefcase swinging in his hand. He doesn’t look like he’s had the chance to sleep either.   Seokjin stands from his seat, having waited for the man, and he follows him into his office. It’s monotone except for the dog figurine on top of the file cabinet and the many awards and certificates framed in a line on the wall. They offered this office to Seokjin once. He refused.   He’s starting to think he shouldn’t have.   Seokjin shuts the door behind him. With the blinds still opened, he witnesses some officers rush past.   Hoseok throws his briefcase onto his desk and collapses into his chair.   “Did you take a look at the monoxide poisoning case?”   “I have, but there aren’t any leads yet. The extended family’s not looking to do autopsies.”   “Give them some time.” Hoseok rolls up his sleeves. “They might change their minds. What did you want to talk to me about?”   Seokjin leans forward, palms flat on the wooden oak of the desk. “I think we should call a citywide lock down.”   For the first time, Hoseok appears alert again. His posture straightens. “What?”   “We need to tell people to stay inside, Hoseok. That’s the best way to protect them.”   “The best way to protect them is to be out there on the street.”   “And that’s what we’ve been doing.” His index finger juts against the file folders piling up. “This is getting out of hand and you know it.”   But Hoseok merely shakes his head. “It would never bode well.”   “We can’t have people running out on the street to get killed,” he spits.   Jung Hoseok stands and the two of them come face to face. “A lockdown would only increase hysteria. This is the time to keep people calm. Mass panic won’t help anyone.”   “People dying won’t help anyone either.”   “Don’t tell me how to do my job!” Hoseok shouts, red in the face, anger overwhelming exhaustion. Someone outside the windows halts before quickening their pace. “You do your job and I’ll do mine!”   Seokjin’s jaw ticks. He feels frustration’s urge to launch himself forward, shake the man until he’s heard. But instead, he steps back and swallows hard. “Fine.” He’s powerless to Hoseok’s authority and he can sense it — neither of them are willing to budge. “I’ll take my leave then.”   As Seokjin shuts the door, Hoseok collapses into his chair again with a sigh.   “Is everything alright?” Jungkook’s stopped in the hall, doe eyes rounded.   Seokjin nods. He doesn’t dwell on the subject. “How did the interrogation with Kim Taehyung go?”   “It was unsuccessful. He refused to talk without his family lawyer.”   He’s not surprised. “They’re about to start on Kim Namjoon, right?”

[Saturday, 9:33pm]   Jungkook hesitates, left hand on the steel knob. But then he takes a deep breath and opens it.   The room is small, brightly lit, a rectangular table on one side of the cream wall with uncomfortable chairs adjacent to each other. One of them is occupied with a glasses-clad, blonde man. He’s dressed in jeans and a flannel, sitting straight, eyes following Jungkook.   “Hello, you must be Kim Namjoon.” The corner of his mouth politely quirks. “I’m officer Jeon Jungkook. It’s nice to meet you.”    Jungkook’s open hand is refused. Namjoon never shakes it. He simply stares at him.   Yet the detective is undeterred and his smile remains, although it never reaches his eyes. He takes a seat and places the file folder on the table. He mimics Namjoon’s posture and leans forward to be closer to the man.   “I believe you know why you’re here.” It’s quiet. “We’ve been looking into several cases of missing women and they’ve all been traced to your house, Namjoon. We found the photos as well and two witnesses are still alive. I’m here because I want to know why you did this. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want to understand you.”   Namjoon stays silent. His eyes cold. Expression blank.   It’s not looking good. “Look, I’m here to help you, Namjoon. We’re beyond denial. Silence won’t help you anymore. It would be better for you to come forward and let me know what’s going on. It’s not like a person wakes up one day and decides they’re going to kill someone. If it’s something in your childhood or if it’s because these women have wronged you somehow then I want to know, so I can help you.”   A minute passes, but the forty-year old man refuses to utter a single syllable.   Jungkook flips open the file folder. There’s the black business card on top of the paperwork, the golden letters looped into the word welcome. He picks it up and shows him. “What is this?” There’s not a single peep. “Can you tell me where you got it from, Namjoon? Do you know who gave this to you?”   Jungkook continues, “It was on Kim Taehyung as well and unless you want to be responsible for his crimes on top of yours, then I think it’s best if you tell me how the two of you are connected with one another. I know this isn’t normal. The both of you are from very different backgrounds. You don’t know him personally, do you?”   Jungkook is steadfast, searching the man’s expression for some sort of clue. But Namjoon is motionless, unresponsive, as if he’s prepared himself for this situation before. The man has no intentions on revealing a single thing — he plans to make it as difficult as possible.   Jungkook concedes this time and switches his tactics. He puts the card down and flips to the back of the folder. There’s a flash photograph of a corpse without their arms. Jungkook swallows hard upon looking at it and then slides it across the table. “Do you know who this is?”   There’s silence.   Namjoon looks right at Jungkook.   “This is Lee Wendy. She’s a mother of a five-year old boy.” He exhales in staccatos. “You stalked her, didn’t you, Namjoon? We have the pictures you took when she was grocery shopping and when she was taking out the garbage.” There’s a pause. “After you took her, you called her family and told them…that...she cries out for her son a lot, right?”   Jungkook drops his hands into his lap, trying to hide the shakiness of them. Yet he forces his voice to remain steady with the picture of Wendy still on the table. “Why did you do this?”   “You knew all of their names, didn’t you? And you followed each of them for weeks.”   “Have you ever—” The older man finally speaks up in a baritone, nearly startling the young officer. But finally Namjoon’s listless eyes aren’t glazed over. Instead, they’re looking straight into Jungkook’s pupils, ogling deep into his soul. “—felt drawn into someone so much that you felt an itch to do it.”   His voice doesn’t come. Jungkook’s pinned to his spot, scrutinized by the monster’s fixated, terrifying gaze that’s a mere inch away. The same eyes that had looked upon countless women. That lured them into his home. Chained them in his basement around the water pipes. Torn into their bones with the hacksaws—   Jungkook stands.   He can’t do this anymore. He can’t take it.   “If you’ll excuse me,” he manages to mutter.   He staggers out. And once the door shuts, Jungkook braces himself with his hands on his knees, wheezing.    From the adjacent room, Seokjin emerges in alarm. The others in the room look out at him. “Jeon! Are you alright? You were getting somewhere!”   Jungkook shakes his head. “I-I’m sorry. I just...her photo was right there and I...I—”   “Hey. It’s alright.” There are firm pats on the back, a comforting squeeze at his shoulder. “We can get someone else in there.”   Jungkook tries to straighten himself out, but his professional facade has crumbled. He’s ashamed as he is nauseated. “I really tried, Detective Kim.”   “And you did good,” Seokjin reassures. “You got him talking, even if it was just a sentence. Better than any of us could. He’ll crack sooner or later.”   Jungkook takes deep breaths and nods.   But before any of them have a chance to say much else, an officer runs towards them with panic-stricken over her face. It’s not a good sign. “There’s been another bombing.”

[Saturday, 11:19pm]   He picks up the black handle of the payphone. The dial tone is monotonous on the other end and he carefully slips the nickels into the slot.   “Five four six,” you read off the numbers you scribbled on your wrist with permanent marker and Jimin follows, pressing the number pad. He was innocent when he asked you earlier how you knew the number, but it wasn’t a big secret. If Jimin didn’t come late to the party, he would’ve had a better grasp on what the games are about, the details and the how-to’s. He might’ve been able to meet a few others as well.   But it was fine by you. He doesn’t need to know anything or anyone when he knows you.   After you read the string of numbers, he stays quiet. After a moment, you hear the muffled voice on the other end.   Jimin glances at you. “I’m calling on behalf of Y/N.”   Thirty seconds pass and then he’s hanging up. You look expectedly at him, lashes batting, bright smile spreading into your cheeks. “So?”   “You’re in second place,” Jimin informs, swallowing hard to deliver the news. “Behind Yoongi. There’s a person behind you by two.”   “And Yoongi?”   “He’s ahead by ten. There are nine others left in the game.”   You sigh, backside hitting the brick wall of the seedy strip mall. It’s not terrible, but not as good as your estimations. “We need to step up our game if we want to win, Jiminnie.”   His confused and curious expression reminds you of a puppy. Jimin’s too cute, especially when he follows after you when you walk off. He’s always trailing your shadow, one step behind your heel.   You can’t help turning around just to take a peek at him.   “Y/N.”   “Hmm?”   Jimin’s brows are furrowed, pouty lips lopsided, voice tender and quiet in the night. “Do you know who started this game?”   “I don’t.” You face the dark road dimly illuminated by the streetlamps again. Before the games, you did a lot of personal research, but you were never quite able to dig that deep. “People like you and I probably, or people who just want to watch the world burn. Or maybe…”   “Maybe?”   “People who don’t like the current police force and want to overthrow it.” It’s plausible. A theory you never really thought about, but it sounds good. You shift over your shoulder with a glimmer in your eye. “What better way to mess with an institution than by throwing it into absolute chaos? And what better chaos is there than a bunch of criminals running rampant in the city?”   Jimin has that conflicted look on his face like he’s not sure if he should believe you. But you’re not even sure if you should believe yourself. It’s been a long time since you could differentiate between your own lies and truths. Your bad habit of running your mouth and saying whatever you want, whatever comes to mind, has long engrained itself into your behaviour.   “What’s the prize for doing all this? I mean, what’s in it for everyone else?”   “Notoriety, of course,” you giggle at Jimin’s naivety. “Don’t you want to be remembered as the first ever champion, pet? Come on, stop asking so many questions and hurting your head with it.”   You grab his hand, pulling him along while you laugh. Jimin stumbles after you but catches up.   You’ve noticed — Jimin doesn’t seem so hesitant or scared of you anymore. And it’s a change you welcome happily. This is a partnership after all and it’s not right if he’s frightened of you.    The pair of you careen in the middle of the road as you sing songs from musicals you’ve never seen, disrupting the peace and quiet. And when you turn to him, Jimin’s smiling tenderly at you, in a way you’ve never witnessed before.   “Have you ever thought of giving this up, Y/N?” he asks a little later. “Have you ever thought of trying to live a normal life?”   You’re not sure why he’s asking something so useless or what even constitutes a normal life. But any semblance of doing anything different than what you are now seems entirely unnecessary. There’s no reason to when you’re enjoying it so much. When this is who you are.   “Why would I?”

[Sunday, 6:21am]   It’s a sick and twisted game.   Jimin picks and you kill.   It’s eenie, meenie, minie, moe with the worst consequences, where he chooses the victims at their face value — lone, drunk gangsters making a ruckus, the old man trying to convince an intoxicated woman to come along with him, the girl that seems to be harassing her classmate.   He doesn’t know their name or their story, but he tries not to think about it. Jimin doesn’t dwell as he makes his choice.   And as you follow through with his decision, he never once looks.   He can’t. Not when he’s blindfolded himself and can only catch the noises. The begging. The screaming. The crying. The squealing. The silence that follows.   “You can look now—” is the only cue from you that allows him to slip off the black blindfold and not to have to witness the victims looking at him, pleading with their eyes, blaming his passivity.   Most of the time, you’ve moved the body out of the way. Rolled up in a carpet to be abandoned, buried, thrown into the river, or bagged and ready to be burnt. Or even simply laying in their bed as if they died of natural causes. You know how to control the crime scene — every trace and clue has its own purpose, to distract, to mask. You don’t even so much as leave a hair behind.   But this time, none of that is the case.   The corpse of the man lays in front of him and Jimin tries to find his voice again. “W-Why is the body convulsing? What did you do?”   You kick the stranger’s leg and after a moment, it stops moving. You shrug. “I found pills in the medicine cabinet. I made him take it all and covered his mouth with my hand so he wouldn’t try to spit it out.”   Jimin looks at you. And you flash a smile. “Changing up the method makes it harder for the police to capture us. Plus, isn’t it more fun that way?”   “How….a-are you going to dispose of the body?”   You hum, tapping your chin as if you’re picking from a long list inside your head. Then your eyes suddenly light with amusement and you lean closer to him, irises twinkle with the first crack of dawn’s light.   “What if we dumped it in front of the police station?”

[Sunday, 6:48am]   Jimin’s driving this time and he’s sweating bullets with the corpse in the backseat. He constantly ducks his head when a police car drives by and he looks in the rear-view mirror more often than out the windshield.   It’s endearing to watch. He won’t relax even if you tell him to, so you do his part for him. Your feet are propped up on the dash, window rolled down to feel the breeze as you hum to the tunes of the radio.    Jimin really shouldn’t act so suspicious unless he has something to be sorry for.   Everyone likes to talk about how valuable human lives are until their own interests get in the way — polluting the environment, refusing refugees, entering wars for economics. They’re so, so hypocritical.   “There it is!” You sit straight and Jimin’s breaths become laboured as he parks across the road on the curb. The precinct is an old cream brick, sitting right on the corner with the flag on the side of the building. You grin. “Let’s go!”   “Y/N, I...I-I don’t think this is a good idea—”   But there’s nothing to worry about, not when your faces are covered with your hoods and the stolen sunglasses. Jimin really needs to live a little. Everything you do is a calculated risk and this just happens to be on the higher end, but it’s fun that way. He really needs to learn that caution should only be practiced in moderation or else he’ll spend the rest of his life quivering in fear.   You get out of the car before Jimin can finish. His eyes widen and he’s forced to follow after you.   You round the stolen vehicle and pop open the passenger side of the door. “If we’re doing this, we need to do it quickly.” The edges of your lips quirk. “Help me out, pet.”   You grab the man’s ankle and Jimin fumbles before grabbing the other. He winces and looks away. But the both of you pull with all your might. The skull cracks as it lands onto the concrete.   Limbs tangled. Body dumped.    You slam the door shut and run. Jimin slides back into the driver’s seat as you take shotgun again. He shifts the gears into drive, pumping the gas hard as you cackle. The precinct is left in the dust.   “Oh my god.” Jimin exhales. “I can’t believe we just did that. We...w-we just dumped a body in front of the police station!”   “I know!” You grin, riding on the rush of exhilaration. It was done right under their noses without them even noticing. “I knew you could do it, Jiminnie!”   As Jimin drives back to the house to swap cars again, the sun rises over the horizon. It pierces its golden light into the lightening blue sky, the air feeling crisp this morning. You know there’s a lot in store for the rest of the day — in just a few hours, you might be crowned the champion.   “Jimin! Stop the car for a second!” You tap him on his arm and alarm takes over his expression.   The vehicle comes to a screeching halt, wheels marking the asphalt. Luckily, there’s no one on the road to rear-end him, but you don’t dwell on the fact. You undo your seat belt and climb out.    Jimin watches with his hands on the steering wheel as you rush to the phone booth on the corner of the street.   You roll the loose change you have from your pocket into the slot. And you dial 911.   It rings only once before a woman’s calm voice comes alive on the other line. “911, what is your emergency?”   You’re still catching your breath from the excitement of it all. “I killed them, you know. I did it.”   “W-What?” The dispatcher's voice is pitched and you smirk. “Who did you kill?”   “Enjoy that body I left. Good luck catching me.”   You drop the handset while laughing, leaving it dangling on its wire. The echoing voice of the woman with her helpless — “Hello? Hello?” — fades as you walk away. It’s always a joy to mess with them.   You get back into the car and Jimin whisks you away.

[Sunday, 9:14am]   Seokjin is being driven crazy and he knows it. Between caffeine stops and the piles of file folders growing on his desk, his head throbbing was worsening. But there’s no room to complain, not when the other officers and detectives in the department have their hands full as well.   Several other criminals have been caught, charged, interrogated within the past day. All with the same black card reading welcome. Yet most of the crimes left to tackle remain unsolved. Namely the Capital Bomber, as they started calling him, and whoever left the tip. Or rather, the taunt.   The body of Choi Soobin was dumped in front of the station two hours earlier — the two shapeless figures were seen on the security cameras — the victim’s car was being driven and then somehow returned to his home in perfect condition without a fingerprint to dust for. And that mocking voice provoked everyone.   It came from a phone booth again. But it was a woman’s voice this time.   “Detective Kim.”   Seokjin looks up from his desk. The young man’s hair is in a disarray — it looks like he followed Seokjin’s instructions to get some shut eye on the couch in the break room. There’s no point in working oneself to exhaustion and inhibiting cognitive function. He would’ve slept too if the multiple cases on his plate didn’t keep him up.   “I know we’re not officially on the task force, but there’s been some new developments with the charity bombing.”   “What is it?” Seokjin urges him to step forward and Jungkook hands him the folder. Inside, there are close photographs of some penciled scribbles on pieces of metal.   “This was found inside one of the parts of the bomb. It looks like notes of some kind. The lab’s still doing their analysis, but we might be able to match it with someone.”   The corner of his mouth quirks. “They always slip up at some point.”   “I took a look at the list of suspects as well.”   “And what did you make of it?”   “These three particularly stand out,” Jungkook says and Seokjin flips the page. He encounters a brunette with big eyes. “His name is Boo Seungkwan. He’s twenty five. Single. Living alone. No family alive. He has a background in physics. But oddly enough, he’s been unemployed for the past five years. He had been convicted of animal cruelty a while back and has been on the down-low ever since.”   “Sounds isolated.” Seokjin nods. “Worth looking into.”   “The next person is Mark Tuan. Thirty. Immigrated here back in o six. Divorced two years ago with one daughter who’s five. He’s a mathematics professor but he’s been on a sabbatical for over a year now. His sister called in and said he thinks the bomber might be him because of some conversation they had.”   He hums, staring at the picture for a moment before he flips the page.    Seokjin finds a darker hair man with a tender face and sleepy eyes. He skims over the information provided as Jungkook elaborates, “He’s Min Yoongi. He’s thirty two. Single. Lives alone. His older brother works in accounting, but they seem estranged. He spent three months in a youth detention center once, but somehow managed to pick himself back up and graduated from Yale ten years ago with a Master’s degree in biochemistry. But strangely, he never worked a day in his life. I can’t seem to find an address on him either.”   “What was he in the detention center for?”   “Trying to burn his school down.”   “That’ll definitely get you in there,” Seokjin exhales in surprise.   “It was a particularly bad case too, so they never sealed the records of it.”   Somehow, Seokjin feels less exhausted now that there was a direction in the case. He muses how beneficial it is to have such a capable partner, to have someone to depend on. Seokjin feels a tinge of guilt for denying the young profiler all those months ago.    “Good work, Jeon.”   Jungkook’s timid smile disappears as quickly as it comes. “I still haven’t drawn up any suspects for the carbon monoxide family case or the duo responsible for the phone booth calls.”   “We still have some time, so don’t beat yourself over it,” he notes. “I’ve been looking into it myself. I don’t know if this is a purposeful pattern or just a coincidence, but have you realized one similarity between all the crimes being committed in the past two days, Jeon?”   Jungkook’s brows furrow and he shakes his head. “What is it?”   “They’re all people who have done this before. They’re experienced criminals.”   Criminals that have never been caught, that are responsible for dozens of cold cases. None of them are first-time offenders. From Kim Taehyung to Kim Namjoon, and the three others that were caught red-handed by other detectives. Even the Capital Bomber has set bombs before, albeit on a smaller scale. It’s clear — this isn’t the first time for any of them.   The look on Jungkook’s face confirms Seokjin’s theory and tells him this new detail isn’t unfounded.   “So I’ve been looking into the suspects of unsolved cases and older crimes. As for the poison monoxide case, no matter how many times I look at it, it appears like it’s done by one person. But for some reason, I can’t shake off the idea that it was done by two.”   It’s just a hunch that keeps plaguing Seokjin’s head.   A thought comes across Jungkook’s mind. In the past day, there’s two particular people that have come up twice now. “You don’t think….the carbon monoxide case has any connection to the phone booth duo, right?”   “I don’t know,” the older detective admits honestly. There's no point in just sitting around speculating. He gets up and grabs his coat. “Well, we should take a quick visit to all the bombing suspects first and foremost. The other cases can wait for now.”   There’s not enough to incriminate anyone or build a solid case, but it’s better than nothing.

[Sunday, 2:53pm]   He feels a tap on his shoulder. A quiet call of his name.   “Jimin.” It’s soothing, a comfort seldom found and one he has always yearned for, even as a child. So he savours it, the notes of his name spoken on gentle lips— “Jimin.”    He can’t resist floating in the darkness. It’s too hard to open his eyes. To face reality.   But then the shaking becomes insistent. “Jimin, wake up. Stop sleeping.”   Taken out from his slumber, the world is fuzzy as he blearily blinks awake. The sunlight is blinding and his limbs ache, body folded to the side as he slept in the passenger seat of the car.   You’re in the driver’s and you look at him with a blank expression. Jimin holds back a yawn and his voice is groggy when he asks, “What’s wrong?”   “I have an idea.”   That’s what you told him.    And then, he was crossing the road in the seedy part of town by a strip. Face covered, hood up, hands dug into his pocket.   “We only have a few more hours before the results are out.”   The people behind the stand didn’t speak the same language as he did. They looked at him skeptically with his suspicious attire — even the children nearby were staring. But he still managed to purchase the fireworks.   “We need to drag the lion out of its den.”   You praised him when he got back into the car and Jimin had to admit to himself that it felt good. It feels good to listen to you, for you to look at him so proudly. He’s happy when you are.   “So what are you planning?”   “We’re going to frame Yoongi, of course.”   The pair of you stopped by a gas station for a cardboard box and some duct tape — it felt like you two were making crafts in the car. But soon, he was gripping the package under his arm while walking up the stairs, brushing past the dozens of strangers during the rush.   “Drop the package at the city center train station. Go as close to a crowd as you can.”   He was here. The intercom making announcements was noisy over top the many conversations of students and families, businessmen and women getting back from late lunches. It becomes even more clamorous with the jingle signaling the train’s arrival, the whir of the doors opening.   No one notices him. Not in the bustle. Jimin’s shoved roughly aside when he slows. There aren’t any apologies, no glances over the shoulders. It’s always like this — those who can’t keep up are pushed behind.   “I don’t think I can do this, Y/N.”   “Why not? We’re not harming anyone, silly. We just want to scare them.”   Jimin takes a deep breath, steals a glimpse of the clock and slides the lighter from his pocket. He lights the end that sticks out of a hole in the corner. And once it catches the flame, he drops it and turns around.   “Don’t you trust me?”   He walks away, blending into the crowd with his hood up and his eyes covered. When he’s at the stairs, the explosion is deafening above the noise and the petrified screams echo behind him.

[Sunday, 4:23pm]   “Maybe he decided to change it up,” someone says.   Seokjin is hunched over the screen, watching the footage of the man dropping the box and then turning abruptly on his heel before disappearing. Moments later, the orange explosion takes up the entire screen. Three were left injured. Seokjin plays the clip again.   “It’s too sloppily done,” he mutters, turning over his shoulder to glance at his partner. He knows that Jungkook agrees. But what’s even stranger is that the figure of the man is eerily similar to the fuzzy one at the phone booth. Seokjin wonders if this is a set up. If so, why?   “You don’t think this is the Capital Bomber?” Hoseok asks.   “It can’t be,” Jungkook speaks up to bolster Seokjin’s professional opinion. “Up until now, he used explosive bombs. This was five fireworks stuffed together and the package it was put in is completely different to what it usually is. No one needed to open it either.”   “So you think there’s a copycat?” Detective Byun stands from his seat, sighing heavily. He drags a hand over his face, shoulders slumped and posture tense.   “Maybe it was a failed package,” Captain Chou suggests, reading the room.   A few others nod along. “Or maybe he decided to change his techniques.”   “Why would he?” Jungkook’s voice pitches up in growing frustration, startling a few officers and the sergeant standing by him. They’re turning a blind eye to logic just because it’s easier that way. “This is someone who’s come up with sophisticated explosives that have killed tens of people! Why would he resort to using illegal fireworks?!”   Captain Chou whips her head towards him. “Are you shouting at me, officer Jeon?”   “Jungkook.” Seokjin squeezes at his shoulder and the younger shifts. Their eyes meet and Seokjin steps forward to redirect the attention back onto him. “I agree with him. There’s too many disparities for this to be the Capital Bomber. He wouldn’t have done something like this. It looks more like a poor attempt to pretend to be him.”   “How will the people react when they find out there’re copycats now?” Detective Byun collapses in his seat. “And we haven’t even caught the real one yet.”   It goes quiet around the room. The Chief of Police clears his throat. “Do you have solid evidence this is a copycat?” Hoseok is looking at both him and Jungkook.    Seokjin’s jaw clenches when he knows where he’s getting at. The answer is ultimately— “No.”   “Then it’s still entirely possible that this could be the work of the real Capital Bomber.”   Anger flares in Jungkook’s eyes. “Sir.”   Little can be said when someone knocks on the conference room doors and an assistant enters, whispering into Hoseok’s ear. Said man stands a moment later. “The press conference is starting. We’ll resume the meeting afterwards. Try your best to follow this lead.”   When he leaves, everyone settles down. The murmur of conversations spark throughout the room in between fatigued sighs and Jungkook turns to Seokjin with irritation.   “Detective Kim,” he unintentionally whines, like a child to a father. “This is obviously not him.”   “I know you’re upset, but control yourself, Jeon.” His own anger is palpable, but knowing someone is on his side helps his sanity. “It won’t help our case if we can’t remain calm.”   Suddenly, a woman bursts into the room. All heads turn and she hyperventilates, “S-Someone claiming to be the bomber is on a call with the dispatcher.”   Chaos follows. “What?!”   Seokjin rushes forward, his facade of composure amplified. “Can you put us through?”   It takes seconds before the deep baritone is fuzzy over the speakers around the room.    He’s shouting. “—wasn’t me!”    “Sir, please stay calm. Where are you?”   “Listen here.” The rumbling timbre is menacing, each syllable punctuated with animosity. “I want them to know that it wasn’t me. They’re saying it’s me.”   The dispatcher on the line is amiable. “Who’s saying it’s you, sir?”   “Everyone.” Heavy breaths pant. “It’s all over the news. But I would never do something so stupid to soil my message. Everything I have done up to this point has been crafted to perfection. It’s been masterpieces after masterpieces. But this….this is a distraction! How dare they try to copy my method—”   “Trace the call,” Seokjin commands.   “It’s already happening,” they inform.

[Sunday, 8:20pm]   It took four hours — tracking, planning, putting it in action. And the efforts have paid off.   Min Yoongi is caught, arrested, and charged. He was the Capital Bomber, the one who killed and maimed so many, who caused terror on the streets and panic through the people. Now, he’s safely behind bars and the whole department is celebrating. Seokjin can hear it through the walls.   But it’s not right.   There are too many missing puzzle pieces. Crucial fragments that aren’t part of the story.   Until the last second of the interrogation, he denied any affiliation to the explosion of the train station and with every breath, he denounced such an act. Then who was it? And why now?   Min Yoongi is a cautious criminal, an intellectual with a message of anti-capitalism to send to the world. He knows how to target the right people, how to make the media talk about him. But for him to contact the police directly from sheer fury, for his temper to flare beyond his rationale — whoever was behind the attack of the station played Min Yoongi.   They knew that mimicking him so poorly would rile him up. They knew it would tarnish his message. And they knew that his message was the most important part of his actions.   Yoongi would be scrambling to separate himself from stupidity. To clear his name. And he did.   Whoever did this set him up. But Seokjin doesn’t know the reason for it. He doesn’t have even an inkling as to who it could actually be and why.   It always feels like he’s three steps behind.   Seokjin knocks on the door lightly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Hoseok is busy organizing his files, stacking them neatly into piles. When he looks up at the sound, he smiles meekly. “Shouldn’t you be out there celebrating with the rest of them?”   “Shouldn’t you be?”   Hoseok’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t tell the rest of them, but I was planning to sneak out of here within the next ten minutes. I haven’t gone home in two days and all I want is a shower and some shut eye.”   “I won’t tell them,” Seokjin assures. “We all deserve some rest, especially after the last few nights. But god knows we’ll have to be here tomorrow at nine sharp.”   The man smiles and grabs his coat. “You should take a vacation day, Jin. I know you have a ton of them saved up. I don’t want the department to force you to take leave.”   In spite of their civil exterior, the air still hangs tense with the last argument that erupted right here.   “But that’s no fun. What would I do at home?”   “Always the workaholic,” Hoseok muses and the next words are full of implication— “You should take it easy.”   His stare lasts a fraction longer than normal. And Seokjin knows his old friend long enough to recognize what he’s implying. But he’s not so willing to give in. “A break doesn’t actually sound so bad. When I’m back, I could look at the station bombing with fresh eyes.”   The smiles fall, silence strained. “It’s over, Jin. The bomber’s been arrested.”   “Not all of them.” Not the phone booth duo, not the carbon monoxide poisoning case. There are still a lot of crimes to be solved, questions to be answered. It isn’t time to be celebrating.   “For all we know, he’s responsible for the station bombing.”   “Then why does he keep denying it?” The detective steps forward. “He was happy to take credit for the rest of them. City hall, the charity event, the one on—”   “Seokjin.” His entire name said firmly aloud. When their eyes meet, Seokjin is caught off guard — Hoseok’s is listless. Defeated. “I’m not going to have a job after this.”   His voice catches in his throat and his brows furrow a moment later. “What do you mean?”   The man looks at him without trying to impose his authority, without the professional demeanour that took years to craft. It’s human to human. Hoseok is frank with him. “Someone has to take the fall for how things turned out this weekend. For letting so many people die and failing to do our jobs. We might’ve caught him, but it was still too slow for them. You know how the media and the politicians are. My name is going to be dragged through the mud for how inefficiently the department ran.”   “But why does it have to be you? We can fight this—”   Hoseok shakes his head. “It’s useless.”   “Why are you giving up?!” Anger surges through Seokjin but all Hoseok can do is muster a smile.   “If I resign, I can still get a severance pay. Enough to last me a long time. It’s better than if any of you took the fall,” he says and quietness simmers throughout the private office. “We did the best job that we could, Seokjin. We caught him and a bunch others. We’ve done our part. They’re serial killers who will be locked behind bars forever. But this needs to end somewhere.”   He continues— “Do you think whoever replaces me will let you continue this?”   Not much is said after that. Not when Seokjin can’t gather any defenses or further arguments. Not when Hoseok takes his briefcase, exchanges a sad smile and flicks off the lights of his office to drown the walls in darkness.   Seokjin slips out when he starts feeling suffocated.   He leaves the office and escapes outside, in favour of leaning on the brick at the back of the precinct where there are rats scurrying by the dumpsters. He lights the cigarette he swiped from Baekhyun’s desk and brings it to his lips.   Seokjin hasn’t smoked in years.   He muses that a break does sound nice.   The steel doors creak and Seokjin turns his head. He least expects to see the dark-haired young officer with doe eyes. “Detective Kim?”   “Shouldn’t you be inside?”   “I just wanted some fresh air.” The door swings shut while Seokjin taps the ash off of the cigarette bud.   “You were having fun, weren’t you?” He manages a small smile. “Looked like that girl had some plans for you tonight. She works in the dispatch department, right? What’s her name again?”   “Yoo Jeongyeon.” With the single incandescent light on the wall, the blush on Jungkook’s cheeks is visible. “She’s alright.”   “There’s no policy against workplace romance, you know. You might hear it from the others, but all you have to do is take it up with HR.”   Jungkook gives a disgruntled hum, not furthering the subject. Seokjin watches the smoke curl.   “Actually, I wanted to come out here to tell you that I was looking into the list of suspects for the station bombing. I think I’ve narrowed it down, so—”   “This is the best we could do, Jungkook,” Seokjin interrupts and sighs out a puff of smoke. He drops what’s left of the cigarette onto the ground and the toe of his shoe snubs it out.   “Pardon?”   “They’re not going to let us continue investigating the case, Jeon.” He turns to him. It's painful to see the disappointment on his face because Seokjin’s sure he has a mirror image on his. “They’re going to replace Jung Hoseok. And even if they didn’t, he wouldn’t let us continue. They want it to end.”   They want to pretend that all the loose ends are wrapped up, that Min Yoongi was the last. Of course they would. It’s the picture perfect finale. The main criminal is caught after the string of others.   No one wants to imagine that there’s more.   “This is it?”   “This is it.”   “But what if they strike again?” Jungkook persists. “We’re just going to let them go free?!”   “Then we’ll have to treat it like a whole separate incident and not part of this weekend massacre.”   He opens his mouth — speechless, frustrated, disappointed. If there’s one thing Jungkook lacks, it’s experience. And with experience, he’ll come to know these emotions well.    Being a part of the system doesn’t necessarily mean fighting crime and striving for justice. It’s much less righteous than that.   The two of them stand side by side, watching dusk set into night as all the events in the past forty eight hours sink into their shoulders. It’s not until the older, worn detective speaks up that the silence is shattered. “What did you think about the phone booth duo?”   There’s a beat and then Jungkook answers. “I was considering the theory you brought up.”   “That they’re responsible for the monoxide poisoning case?”   He nods. “And that maybe they were responsible for the station bombing too.”   Seokjin’s brow quirk. The figure on the footage certainly resembled the fuzzy shape of the security camera. “So?”   “None of the crimes are excessively violent. They’re unobtrusive and all the victims don’t have any connections to each other. It’s likely they didn’t plan who to kill but planned how they would do it.”   The corner of Seokjin’s mouth curls while he watches as Jungkook’s eyes light up again, his mind at work. It’s relieving to know that the future has an intelligent boy in its midst.   “The crime scene wasn’t messy. It was organized. Even Choi Soobin’s car was spotless and they were seen driving it on camera. Not to mention the house. It shows self-control.”   “They were prepared,” Seokjin affirms.   Jungkook nods. “And they used restraints. Whoever did it is competent. Likely to be above average intelligence and probably has some kind of education. They have to be healthy enough to carry a body to a car too.” He continues on his profiling, “They most likely alternated between walking and driving between each crime scene. They follow the news, taunt the police. They probably have nonsocial habits.”   “Then what about the power dynamic of the duo? It was a male voice who gave the tip and the female voice who taunted us, remember? Do you think it was the male who did these acts and the female who’s the accomplice?”   Jungkook shakes his head. “I don’t think so. That’s what I thought at the beginning, but then I listened to the recordings again and again, and for some reason, the male who gave the tip sounded...scared. While the female, it sounded like she was enjoying taunting us.”   The older detective hums. It’s an interesting thought.   Jungkook arrives at the end of his analysis. Having nothing left to say, he turns to his partner. “What do you think, Detective Kim?”   Seokjin’s head knocks back on the wall as he considers the facts. But truth be told, he already has a theory of his own. “If the pattern still holds, then the phone booth duo are experienced criminals. They likely have some kind of history, some criminal background. They knew what they were doing.”   Jungkook knows by the way he’s talking that he has an idea. “You were looking into the suspects of unsolved cases, right?”   “I was.”   “What did you find?”   “L/N Y/N.” By the look on Jungkook’s face, it’s an unfamiliar name to him. “She was the only daughter of a cult leader. They were out in the middle of nowhere and called themselves the Seventh Sect. They murdered disobedient followers, women, children, the usual. She would’ve experienced emotional abuse as a child growing up in a place like that. She was educated though. Homeschooled. Got her GED.”   Jungkook speculates, “So she’s likely to be socially competent.”   “Probably on some level.” He pauses. “The entire cult was wiped out six years ago.” Jungkook turns his head and Seokjin can feel his stare piercing into his profile. “Most of them died by rat poisoning. The leader was ruled dead by suffocation and the others by carbon monoxide poisoning.”   There’s a pattern that resembles the most recent cases and the realization makes Jungkook’s eyes widen. He’s sure now more than ever they have the person.   “Funny enough, the only daughter of the cult leader disappeared. They couldn’t find her body. So they ruled her dead after a few months and that’s what everyone assumed.” Until now. “But maybe she isn’t.”   It’s a theory, conjecture that would never be accepted by the general attorney or even the department. It’s circumstantial evidence at the end of the day. Yet deep down, Jungkook and Seokjin know what the truth is.   It feels like they’ve solved the case together, albeit all in hypotheticals.   “Then what about her accomplice?” Jungkook eagerly asks. “Do you know who he is?”   “That’s where I have the most trouble,” Seokjin admits with a sigh. “All we know is that he’s about five foot eight, average physique, dark hair. Likely to be of Asian descent. And he most likely has self-control too.”   “But I don't have any ideas on who he could be.” Seokjin looked hard enough that his eyes still sting and his brain throbs. All the people he considered fell through with one qualification or another. “I don’t know how much involvement he had. If he was strung along. Or if he orchestrated it.”   “He probably orchestrated it,” Jungkook guesses, “It makes sense if Y/N was the one who did the killings, then it would make sense if he was the one who manipulated her and planned it all. He’s the mastermind. The one who came up with the idea for framing Min Yoongi, who wanted to leave the tip for Kim Namjoon, and who made Y/N taunt us. He used her like a puppet.”   He hums. It’s all possible.   “Maybe he’s someone from the Seventh Sect,” Jungkook offers.   But Seokjin knows it’s all just hunches built on top of hunches. There’s no point in playing this game and naming potential criminals. There’s nothing they can do when they’re just standing at the back of the precinct as the rest of the department celebrates inside. It’s worthless when they’re unable to pursue their leads, follow through with their investigations.   It’s merely another day of letting criminals go free.   “Maybe.”

[Sunday 9:36pm]   You’re about to be crowned the victor.   Everything you’ve calculated played right into your hand and now all the efforts are going to be paid off.    Jimin’s holding your hand as the two of you walk down the desolate road on the outskirts of town. The entrance to the underground area was just over the horizon. He would’ve driven instead of abandoning the car and walking, but you had convinced him the walk to victory is a lot better. Plus the weather was too nice to not take advantage of it and Jimin has to agree.    The breeze is whisking against his cheeks, the sliver of the moonlight guiding your way, and he feels warm with you beside him.   Especially with you happily humming. Jimin’s grown to quite like your voice. He could hear it forever if you’d let him. “After we win, I’ll treat you to whatever you want, Jiminnie. We can have all kinds of desserts if you want, how does that sound?”   His cheeks are rounded with his grin. “Okay.”   “Only okay?” You turn, pouting at him. “I’m giving you a gift here! Shouldn’t you show more appreciation?”   He laughs. “Fine, I love it, alright?”   You scoff playfully. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you.”   Jimin grins to himself.    The quietness away from the city is serene. He can’t hear the engines of cars or the noisy conversations of strangers — he doesn’t feel left behind. In this place, there’s only the hitch of your breaths, the synchronized footsteps, and every thought of his amplified to a thousand.   “What are you planning to do afterwards, Y/N?” he asks after a moment. Jimin wonders if you’ll let him come with you. The pair of you could go to a place far away from here, where it’s just as quiet. Where he won’t have to worry. Where you both can leave all of this behind and no one could ever find him.   It would be the perfect end.   “I don’t know yet.” You spin to face him with another brilliant smile. “Maybe prepare.”   He squeezes your hand. Forever with you sounds like all he wants. “For what?”   “To play again next year, silly.”   Jimin’s steps slow. The vision of going somewhere far away, of leaving it all behind, shatters just as quickly as it manifested itself inside his mind.   The realization comes crashing down to him — there’s no end. “What?”   “The games are annual, Jiminnie. Did you forget? I’m going to have to keep my title. If you follow me, I’ll even get you second place in no time!” There’s no end. “The two of us need to stick together.”   There’s no end in sight.    The past two days will repeat itself for the rest of his life. He’s stuck to you.   Jimin halts on his heel and you turn your head with a frown. Your lips part as if you’re about to ask him what’s wrong, but you’re interrupted by the roar of a car. Attention taken, your eyes light up as you squint past the head beams piercing through the darkness coming closer and closer.    “Look! I don’t think they’re a part of the games. How about we go for one more, Jiminnie?”   Before he can say a word, you’ve left him behind — flagging down the vehicle, standing in the middle of the road.   And the car screeches to a stop. It’s a young woman sitting in the driver seat alone. She looks at you and Jimin, but it’s hard to see him when he’s standing in the dark. The stranger rolls down the window as you round the car.   “Are you alright? Do you need a lift?” He hears the stranger ask, oblivious to how her compassion is a demise.   “No, it’s alright. My husband and I have a farm right around here. We were just taking a walk.” Before she can express her bewilderment, you beat her to the punch. “I just wanted to tell you that I think you have a flat tire.”   “Oh my god! Really?!”   Jimin flinches when he hears the seat belt come off. He looks up to see her get out of her car.   “It’s over here,” you indicate.    Then he hears a thump, a cry, a snicker. Jimin rounds the vehicle to see the young woman on the floor, her head bleeding as you grasp the pen from your pocket in your left hand. You stab her crown again with it, digging the tip into the skin and bone. The stranger shrieks in agony.   “Y/N.”   “N-no, p-pl-please.” The stranger is crawling away, fingernails scratching the asphalt. “Pl-please. I’m….sorr...y.”   “Put on your blindfold, pet.” You smile at him and when he remains motionless, feet rooted into the roadside, you close the distance in three strides. You reach into his hoodie pocket for the strip of black cloth. All he sees is your smile before you’ve covered his eyes, tied the blindfold around with a bow at the back. “I’ll tell you when you can look.”   Jimin hears the crunch of the pebbles as you walk away. This will never end. He hears the woman’s cries become panicked, breaths quick in hyperventilation. This will never end. He hears her screech and it reverberates in his eardrums. “P-Please!”   This will never end.   It will never be enough for you.   He will never be enough for you.   “S-Stop….s-som..eone!”   Jimin’s hands reach up. He tugs down his blindfold. It flutters into his palm.    It’s so easy — he barely had to graze it.   Jimin takes one step towards your bent backside and as he does so, he reaches down, taking the jagged rock on the side of the road. It fits into his hand perfectly.   He takes another stride and holds his breath.   In the heat of the moment, Jimin swings his arm. The rock slams against the side of your head.   You fall to the ground, gripping the wound, the in-between of your fingertips holding blood.   “J-Jimin?” you whimper, eyes enlarged. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”   Jimin never once looks away. He keeps his pupils trained on you, eyes bulged, not wasting a blink. While you’re still down, he gets on top of you, pinning your body to the concrete. He swings back again as you cry his name. “—imin.”   He will never be enough for you. Why? Why?! After all he’s done!   The blood splatters onto his cheek, his expression impassive as you sob. He remembers. The crimson coated floorboards, splattered on the yellow paisley wallpaper, on the popcorn ceiling of the living room.   “Ji—…”   The knocked over chairs, the picture frames thrown, the stench of iron in the two bedroom house heavy, the warmth of the blood. The same warmth he feels now sticking to his skin.   He had no control of himself then. He was so angry. It was the heat of the moment. His mother spat on him for not giving her his money to buy her cigarettes, his father threatened to divorce her again and his younger brother stood by and just cried. They always liked him more than they liked him. Maybe that’s why Jimin dismembered his arms.   Jimin might’ve blacked out then, he might’ve regretted when he came to his senses, but you were right. It wasn’t just an accident. And he most certainly has control of himself now.   “J..i..m..in.” You’ve wrapped your hand around his wrist, but there isn’t any strength left of you.   Jimin’s deranged when he swings. The image of running away with you cracks. He swings again. The vision of the peaceful and quiet life with you he’s yearned for splinters. He swings once more and there are no more calls of his name. The dream he had of you bursts.   He’s maddened. Overwhelmed in the shade of crimson.    You would never fulfill his delusion or even try to. And he would’ve been trapped, stuck by your side or become your enemy, forced to relieve this fearful nightmare over and over again.   Your skull is cracked, eyes rolled to the back of your head, the whites of your eyes red. Streams of tears stain both sides of your cheeks. But Jimin never once looks away. Not until you’ve taken your last breath.   Then, he’s finally free.   Jimin tosses the rock dented by your head aside. He looks off at the distance where your last victim is still alive, slowly crawling away by her fingernails without ever glancing back. She’s still breathing to see the next day.   He turns away from her, stumbling into the head beams of the car. His shadow is casted on the ground until it fades away.    Jimin leaves behind the only person who would ever understand and accept him.    The person he would never be enough for.   …   He knocks twice. The door slot slides open. Beady eyes look through.    Jimin mutters the password and the door opens a moment later. The man standing by doesn’t comment even when he’s dripping in your blood.    It’s a blur, the music playing, the bustle of the after-party, the way the others ironically move out of the way as if they’ve never seen blood before. Jimin’s no longer pushed aside. He wishes he could kill everyone here.   Soon it all stops. The lights dim in favour of a shimmering spotlight on stage. He feels the person’s eyes on him with everyone else's, hears the clearing of a throat, listens to the useless congratulations and acknowledgment of efforts. Then, the announcement is made.   It doesn’t make any sense. Yet, Jimin finds himself climbing the stairs, standing right on stage in the spotlight, being awarded some heavy metal like he just saved someone’s life.   He looks into the eyes of the representative and exhales, “I killed Y/N.”   “Yes, you did.” He says it like it's some kind of honour. “And for that, you took on all her kills.”   “Isn’t it against the rules?” Jimin deadpans. It’s strange — he can’t really feel anything anymore.   “Since when did serial killers follow rules?” the stranger jests. “Plus, isn’t it more interesting this way?”   “Congratulations!” He turns towards the faceless audience a beat later. “The winner of the first annual Weekend Massacre is Park Jimin!”

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin angst #jimin scenario #this idea's been sitting in my files since 2017 #just never had the balls to write it lol #but I've always wanted to write a Hunger Games esque kind of thing and decided to combine it with serial killers #anyway I didn't want to romanticize killing in any way so I tried not to hold back.

[teamhappyme]

a series of promising events (3/5)

aaron hotchner x female!reader

word count: 6.4k 

a/n: part 3! thank you so much for all the love and support on the first 2 parts! hope you guys enjoy this part, because these are 2 of my favorite criminal minds episode. some themes, cases, dialogue taken directly from the show (S04 EP03, & S07 EP24).

also, if you’ve interacted with previous parts, first of all, thank you thank you. second, i have added you to the tag list. if you want to be removed, just let me know! :)

alright friends, let’s go!

here are the links to part 1 & part 2

****

June 2011

You were stupid. It always amazed you how you made it this far in your life with the amount of stupid situations you put yourself in. You kept pressure on the six inch gash running up your calf, lucky enough to tie off some of the wound by tearing off part of your pant leg. But you were still stuck in this goddamn compound, ready for the place to blow any second.

It was supposed to be a simple undercover interview and investigation. You and Spencer were among victims in an underground cult accused of child abuse. You’d been there all of two hours before the local SWAT team attempted to raid the compound, and an additional two before they found out the FBI was there.

Reid played dumb at first, trying to deny the accusations the best he could. But when they held two guns to his head, you were quick to offer up a confession.

“Get up.”

Cyrus led you to the storage room and kicked the shit out of you. You consider yourself a strong woman, you’d endured a lot of emotional trauma in your childhood, and in your time with the BAU, some scars on your body. But nothing to the extent of a narcissistic self proclaimed prophet who felt the power slipping through his fingers. 

You’d counted the kicks to your abdomen; there were three. Two punches to the face, and one shove to the concrete wall resulting in a broken mirror. It was safe to say you’d earned your stripes today. 

After your brief meeting with the congregation, and quickly assuring Spencer you were okay, you were locked back up in your room. Luckily, you were still mic'd up. 

Your hands were bound behind your back, so you kicked up the shade with the heel of your boot. 

“If you can hear me, I know you're coming. I can try to get the women and children to the tunnel, but I need to know when you’re coming.”

You repeated this like a mantra for fifteen minutes, praying that they could still hear you. “I need to know when you’re coming.”

With one more flick of the shade, the red laser from a sniper shown on your bedroom wall. “Okay, okay I see you. I need to know what time.” The light blinks three times, and you can feel your heartbeat rising. “Three a.m.?” Up and down, like nodding their head. “Understood. Reid is somewhere on the first floor with Cyrus, please find him.” 

Before closing your eyes from the excruciating pain your ribs were in from talking, the laser moved again. It took you a few seconds to decipher what they were trying to tell you, but after the third trace, you could barely let out a laugh. It was a check mark. 

“Thanks Hotch. A point for you.” You heard the sound of scurried footsteps running up the stairs, and you quickly put your foot down on the bed. “Someone's coming.”

It was Jane, coming in to check on your injuries again. She helped you sit up, guiding the glass of water she brought in to your mouth. 

“Cyrus is planning a mass suicide.” Her eyes widened as she pulled the glass away from you. “You made that 911 call.”

“This is all my fault. None of this would be happening if I hadn't made that call.” 

“You were trying to protect your daughter.”

She shook her head. “There were other girls before Jessie. He married them. And then when she came running to me for my consent, all I wanted was to take her and run. But I knew she wouldn’t leave without him.”

“This isn’t your fault.” You held one of her hands, needing her to understand this more than anything. “The FBI is coming at three a.m. I need you to gather Jessica, the kids, the other women, and get them into the basement just before three a.m.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

You sighed. Because I’ve been in your position before, you thought. You’ve been the scared follower in the corner of the room, praying for someone to save you while doing nothing. Until you finally took action, and attempted to save yourself and the people you cared about.

“Because I have faith that you are a strong enough woman to do the right thing for Jessica.” She stood up, not being able to look at you before she exited the room. 

Rationally, you knew there was a low chance you were getting out of here unscathed from the blast. There was no way you’d leave until everyone was out of the building, and you had found Spencer. But having your hands tied up locked in a secret room was not the easiest place to escape. 

You tried not to think of the fatal end of the day. You tried not to think of the fact that you were thirty years old, three months from turning thirty one, and had yet to travel on a plane for fun. You tried not to focus on all of your shortcomings, because there were many. Instead, you focused on the fact that your team was half a mile up the hill, waiting to safely bring you out.

What felt like only ten minutes later, Jane had come back to the room, quickly motioning for you to stand up. 

“You were right. They’re setting the place to blow up. I told Jessie Cyrus wanted her to gather the women and children in the basement.” She untied your hands, and you rolled your wrists a few times to get the mobility back.

“Where is the man I came in with?”

“He’s in the chapel with Cyrus. It’s two forty-five though, we gotta hurry.” She led you out of the room and down to the basement. There was an immense pounding in your head with every step you took, but you tried to push it away as you ushered the women down.

You could hear the tac team approaching, and made sure you were the first one in the basement to make sure it was safe. When you saw Derek’s face, you let out the breath you’d been holding. 

“Y/n, you okay?” He grabbed a hold of your elbow, helping you down the steps. 

“They’ve wired explosives.”

“Where’s Reid?” 

“He’s in the chapel with Cyrus.” You placed a hand over your forehead, the pounding settling in over your right eye. 

Derek rested a hand on your back, trying to lead you out of the compound. “We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

“No, not without Reid!”

A scream directed your’s and Derek’s attention to Jane, trying to stop Jessica from leaving the basement. “No!” 

“Ma’am, we’ll get her for you.” I held onto her shoulders, making sure she focused on me. 

“I’ll get her for you Jane. Derek, take her out.”

“L/n,” He warned, not ready to have two agents back in the line of fire.

“Take her out of this building so I can get her daughter and Reid!” You exclaimed, pushing Jane to follow Derek out. He relented, knowing he couldn’t talk you out of this. 

The SWAT team led you through the basement this time, following the sound of Jessica’s footsteps. The team took out two of Cyrus’s goonies, as you yelled for them to take a left to the chapel. You were closing in, and you could hear their voices. 

Cyrus had Spencer pinned against the wall, rifle to his chest, as Jessie and her daughter walked into the chapel. She got Cyrus’s attention as he kneed Reid in the gut twice with the butt of the rifle.

But before he could reach his family, your team took him and his second hand out. You raced over to the girls, trying to pull them away from the site of Cyrus’s dead body. But Jessica stayed in place, eyes trained on it. 

“We gotta go, sweetheart. Cmon.”

Her eyes shifted to yours for a second before looking at her feet, the yellow detonator lying next to her shoes. She grabbed it before you had a chance to reach forward, her shaky hands trying to hold on. 

“Get out of here!” You yelled out to the team, turning to make sure Spencer followed your order too. Jessie looked down at the button again as you reached for her two year old daughter, making sure she wouldn’t get hurt. “Please, don’t do this. You don’t need to follow him anymore.”

A single tear fell down her cheek, and you knew this was only going to end one way. You backed up towards the exit as she looked at you one more time. 

“He’s my husband.”

After those words, you picked up the toddler and ran out of the chapel, making it halfway down the walkway before it exploded. It threw you to the ground, but you made sure it was you who collided with the pavement, grasping onto her head to make sure she didn’t crack it.

The moments after were quiet, surprisingly enough. Everyone is always stunned to silence for a few seconds after witnessing such an event. But you barely had time to sit up and let out a proper cough before you heard Hotch and Prentiss calling your name. 

“I’m okay. I have the baby, we’re okay.” They knelt down next to you as you felt the cut on your forehead open up again. 

“Y/n,” 

“Take the baby!” I handed her over to Hotch, not wanting to look at anyone besides Spencer. 

“L/n,” 

“Where is Reid? Did he make it out?” You tried to look around Emily to find him, but she held your shoulders in place. 

“He’s fine Y/n. He’s getting checked out by a paramedic. C’mon, you need to go to the hospital.”

“No, I need-”

“You need to listen to me.” She offered you her hand, and as the adrenaline started to wear off and the pulsing in your leg came back, you took it. “Okay.”

Emily rode with you to the hospital just in case anything happened. But you were quick to shoo her out of your exam room once you got to the hospital. You needed a minute to yourself, and you were exhausted.

The doctor’s had cleared you to travel back to Virginia on the jet tonight, which was now early morning, but wanted you to get a few more hours of rest before heading out. They stitched up the cut on your leg, and diagnosed you with a minor concussion and a few bruised ribs. Lucky, to say the least.

Even though they gave you some pain meds to help you sleep, you were barely unconscious when you heard one of the hospital chairs scratch against the tile floor. Your eyes shot open, and you tried to sit up, forgetting about your bruised ribs. 

“Hey, take it easy,” You looked over to find Hotch sitting in one of the chairs, the cause of the scratching. “Are you alright?”

“Where’s Spencer?” You needed to find him and apologize for leaving him alone at the compound. “He’s in the waiting room, he’s a little bruised but he’s okay.”

You were successful in sitting up the second time, trying to get the blankets off your body. “I need to talk to him.” 

“You’re not going anywhere. You have a concussion, and you're highly medicated, so sit down.”

Hotch placed a hand on your arm in an attempt to get you to lie back down, but you fought against it, pushing him and the sheets away. 

He continued talking to you, trying to get you in a comfortable position and not cause any more pain to your pretty damaged body. But as he draped the sheet back over you, you began to feel suffocated by the room. 

“Hotch, I need to tell him I’m sorry,” The sheets were scratching your legs, and the increased beeping on your heart monitor increased the anxiety in your already restricted chest. Wait, how was the baby? Did you get her to safety? “The baby, Jessie’s baby,” You closed your eyes, not able to finish your sentence as the pounding returned over your left eye.

“Y/n,” 

“I can’t breathe Hotch. My lungs,” Your eyes started to water, your mind trying to think of a physical explanation to what was really going on. You were having a panic attack. “Fuck, I can’t-” You were hyperventilating now, your hands resting on your chest, trying to calm your breathing down.

“Look at me,” Hotch asked. But you closed your eyes to focus on something else, anything else, and you refused to open them back up. “I can’t.” 

All you could see was Spencer’s face as Cyrus took you away from him. His wide eyes, full of terror for you and for him. You saw the smile on Cyrus’s face as he threw you to the floor. You saw Jessica take her daughter’s hand, ready to kill themselves just to fulfill Cyrus’s prophecy. And you saw the look in Jane’s face as they told her it was Jessica who didn’t survive. After you told her you would get her daughter out. 

“I can’t,” You felt the tears escape your eyes before you registered what was happening, your shoulders starting to shake in unison. 

But you felt two arms snake around your body, pulling you into a tight embrace. You tensed for a moment, acknowledging the blue and white dress shirt under your fingers as Hotch’s. Instead of saying anything, you tucked your chin on top of his shoulder, trying to find some purchase to rest your head. You focused on his breathing as he chose to stay silent, letting you settle the thoughts in your head. 

And after a couple minutes, it worked. You know that the baby was taken to an ambulance to get checked out before you. You saw Spencer walk out of the chapel thirty seconds before you. And you could feel yourself breathing in this hospital bed, having successfully matched your breathing to Hotch’s. 

Hotch. 

At the acknowledgement of his arms secured around your middle, your heart picked up a little.

In the six years you’d spent with him as your unit chief, you’d never embraced him like this before. At Haley’s funeral you gave him a quick, respectful hug. In close calls involving the team, you’d give each other a comforting pat on the shoulder. But nothing to this extent. There wasn’t an inch of space between the two of you. You could smell his cologne without even trying, and you could feel the muscles in his shoulders soften underneath his dress shirt. You were so close to him. 

Too close.

“Hotch,” You muttered out, your voice a little hoarse from the crying. His grip loosened on your waist, like he forgot what was happening and where you were. 

“Don’t call me Hotch while you’re lying in a hospital bed. It’s Aaron.”

You could feel a slight tug at the corner of your lips as you pulled away from him. You’d never called him by his first name, at least never to his face. It felt intimate in a way you’d never been with him before. The name was a key to his past, opening the gate to his life outside of the BAU. Into his life as Aaron Hotchner, father, brother, soccer coach, Jack’s best friend. A life you loved to catch snippets of.

“Are you okay?” He asked again, once you were settled back against your pillows. He’d only asked you a million times since you woke up. “Why do you need to apologize to Reid?”

You let out a sigh. “Because I left him alone in that compound. I split us up, I put fifty innocent lives in danger and a child died because of it.”

“If you didn’t fess up to Cyrus, you would both be dead right now. Reid got into his good graces and helped save those fifty innocent people. As for Jessica,” He sighed. “She made up her mind. And there was nothing you could’ve said that would’ve changed it.”

You nodded before closing your eyes, trying to let the truth seep into your bones. 

“You’re so much stronger than you think, y/n. You took a beating like that and still managed to assure us that you could take it. I was ready to move in once I heard him throw you to the ground.” He was picking at his fingernails and you looked over at him. “You don’t give yourself enough credit for all the shit you accomplish.”

“Thank you, Aaron.” He’d become deaf to the tenderness ever present in his voice, but he wouldn’t forget the sound of his name rolling off your tongue for as long as he lived. He didn’t know how he survived six years without hearing you say it. But it wasn’t the time or place to delve into how it made him feel. So, he settled for a smile. One that made his dimples shine. 

“Y/n?” You looked over to the door, your gauky doctor standing in the doorway. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” You motioned for him to come into the room, and he slowly made his way over to your side. You made space for him on the bed, but he didn’t move to sit next to you. “Spence, it’s okay. Take a seat.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was so quiet, and you knew he felt as much guilt for letting you go as you did for leaving him. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I should’ve stopped him.”

You heard Hotch stand up from his seat, but you were only focused on Spencer. You pulled his hands down, begging him to sit down next to you. He got the hint, trying to hide the miniscule amount of tears forming in his eyes. 

But you placed your arms around him instead, not wanting him to apologize over and over until you accepted. Because this wasn’t his fault. “I’m sorry for leaving you. But I didn’t want you to get hurt. This wasn’t your fault. I need you to know this wasn’t your fault.” You felt him nod his head against your shoulder, and let out a breath that sounded too similar to a laugh. It only got one out of Spencer in return.

You met Hotch’s eye over Spencer’s shoulder, giving you a nod before letting the two of you have your moment. 

You pulled away, both your faces dry despite the wavering voices. One small victory. 

“Next time, let me take the beating.” You smiled as you tried to stand up out of the bed, having a clear head making all the difference this time around.

“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. Now c'mon,” You pointed to your go bag and walked toward the bathroom. “Hand me that so we can get the hell out of this place.”

****

May 2012

The last thirty-six hours had been a whirlwind. You were exhausted, and the last thing you wanted to be doing was putting makeup and high heels on to go to a party. Your bed was calling you, ready for you to take refuge under the fluffy covers. But one of your best friends was getting married, and nothing was going to stop you from being there for JJ.

When she walked down the aisle in her mother’s wedding gown, she looked ethereal. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think weddings were made with the image of Jennifer Jareau looking like an angel in mind. With Spencer’s help, Henry gave his parents their wedding bands, a smile on his face as they shared their first kiss as husband and wife. And no matter how hard you and Garcia tried, you couldn’t keep the tears from flowing down your face. Weddings, like most everything, got you to cry.

Now an hour later, you were taking a rest at the round table Rossi had set up for the small occasion. His backyard was transformed with white canopies and flower petals, the small dance floor in full swing. You sat down once you reached your chair, letting out a sigh of relief. Dancing with Jack Hotchner had worn out your heel clad feet, making you regret the decision not to wear flats. 

Despite the events of the last few days, everyone seemed to be happy and enjoying a night free of anxiety. It was one of the few times you’d seen Erin Strauss crack a smile around your BAU team members, and you hoped it would last a little longer once you were back in the office. It was nice to see Anderson and Kevin outside of the bullpen, getting to talk about something other than serial killers and last known whereabouts. It felt like a normal family, celebrating two people that they all loved. 

Weddings always made you believe in the bigger picture. Despite all the evil in the world, the amount of love two people shared with one another would always conquer it all. And weddings like these, between two people who put their lives on the line everyday, made you believe that you could find this source of happiness, this lifetime commitment despite everything you’ve gone through. It had to give you hope.

But as you rested your sweater over your shoulders and looked out at the couples sharing a dance, you couldn’t help but notice the empty feeling in your heart. 

“Hey party pooper, you tired already?” Spencer took the seat to your left, a toothy grin resting on his face. He looked incredibly handsome tonight in his black suit and bowtie, a break from his sweaters and khakis. He had blushed red as a tomato when you and Penelope complemented his look, trying to boost his confidence. And maybe embarrass him a bit. “You’re the youngest one here minus the toddlers and you’re the first one to tap out. I had my money on Rossi.”

You laughed while skimming your feet against the tips of the grass. “I’m resting up for my turn with Derek. He told me I’m not leaving this place until he sees me, and I quote, ‘cut up a rug’ with him.” 

Morgan and Garcia were currently the life of the dance floor, moving in sync with one another as best friends do. Your smile always grew when you witnessed the two of them together. 

“You did a good job with your groomsmen duty. Didn’t lose the rings, made sure Henry knew his job. Maybe you’ll be number one on JJ’s babysitting speed dial.”

“And surpass you? That'll be the day that animals speak.” You nodded, a small smile gracing your lips. “Glad you know your place.”

The two of you looked up to see Rossi and Strauss dancing together, and you raised your brows toward Spencer. He informed you what him and Penelope witnessed a few mornings ago, and the three of you were determined to find out what the relationship was between the wise father figure and section chief. But as long as he was happy, you really couldn’t care less.

“Has Emily found you yet?” You asked, afraid to be the first to approach the subject. After her last disappearance, it took Spencer a while to forgive her and JJ. The grieving process was hard for him, it was hard for all of you. He spent weeks at JJ’s house, guilt consuming him for not putting together the link between Lauren Reynolds and Prentiss. He blamed himself just as much as Derek did. And he missed the one person who could see through him, and crush him at poker. 

“Yeah, she did.” 

“And are you okay?”

“I will be.” He looked over at me, a sad smile on his face. “At least we can call her this time.”

You were happy that Spencer could look back on Emily’s ‘death’ and laugh about it with you. There was a silver lining to every situation, every experience we go through. At least, that’s what you told yourself to help you get through the hard days.

“What about you?” You looked over at him, a wrinkle between your brows. 

“Hmm?”

He sighed and nudged his head to the dance floor. “You really expect me to believe you didn’t come over here to sit and sulk while watching Hotch and Beth dance the night away?”

Your eyes found their way to the couple, swaying back and forth with smiles that couldn’t help but be contagious. A smile that only you used to be able to get from Hotch. And that little reminder was all it took for your smile to fall.

Hotch had introduced you all to Beth three months ago at the triathlon. They’d been training together for a few months until Hotch got the nerve to ask her out the week before the big day, with a little push from Dave nonetheless. She was the first woman he’d seen after Haley, a little over two years since her death. You were proud of him for moving on, and you were happy that he’s enjoying his life guilt free. 

Beth was a beautiful woman, both inside and out. She was an art curator who ran triathlons and went to cute coffee shops in her free time. Anyone would be crazy not to be enamored by her. She kept Aaron on his toes, pushing him when he needed to go out of his comfort zone, an easy balance between the two of them. She was amazing with Jack, camping out and making forts with the two boys in the apartment. The little boy was more than okay with the new woman in his father's life.

But with the addition of Beth in Hotch’s life, your presence wasn’t as frequent as it used to be. Friday game nights had disappeared along with Saturday dinners, replaced by date night and movies with Jack. The worried phone calls about a cold, or the rush for a babysitter were now directed to Beth. The pictures of Jack playing with legos or running in the park now came from JJ when there was a scheduled playdate with Henry. You had been placed back into your spot as coworker, SSA y/n l/n of the BAU.

“I’m happy for him.” You settled on the vague truth, because you weren’t going to make tonight about you and your bruised feelings. “She’s a wonderful woman and he deserves to be happy.”

“So do you.” Yeah, you thought, I do.

“You know when I was a little girl, I used to dream about my future. It was the only thing that kept me going when I moved from home to home.” You admitted with a shallow laugh. “When you’re little, you have no perception of time, or any obstacles life throws in your way. And I think I wanted to believe more than anything, that life outside of the system was going to be magical. No matter what advantages or disadvantages I faced, I was going to make it magical.

“When I was fifteen, I thought I would be married and have popped out a baby by the time I was thirty. I told myself I would find my husband in college, a nice boy with big ambitions that loved me right. I would have a desk job, maybe be a secretary, something that gave me some interaction with people. We’d buy a house in the suburbs somewhere with window boxes and a big backyard. We’d have three or four kids by the time I was thirty five, and they would fill the house with their giggles and tiny footsteps. My job would be flexible enough so that they wouldn’t have to spend the whole day in daycare. I was going to be the perfect mother.

“I had it all planned out,” Your voice fell off as you looked back at Spencer. “But here I am at thirty one years old. Single, childless, pining over a man I can’t have, while trying not to get blown up by psychotic serial killers everyday.” 

You couldn’t help yourself, stealing another look at Hotch. It nearly broke your heart in two to see his dimple from across the lawn.

“And fifteen years later, I’m still putting other people’s happiness before my own.” You stood up, placing your sweater back on your chair. Spencer had scolded you time and time again that you were going to be destroyed if you kept up this caring charade. Hotch had even tried to warn you about your efforts early on, but you were a stubborn girl. Looking back at Spencer, you hated seeing the pity he held for you in his eyes. You never wanted to be this girl. “But I’m happy for him.”

So you put on your most convincing smile, and motioned for him to follow you to the dance floor. He was hesitant, but he knew better than to continue his interrogation after your round about explanation. This wasn’t the place to delve into your mind. And the two of you knew that.

As soon as you stepped onto the dance floor, you were calling out for Derek Morgan to show you his moves. You needed a distraction, and you needed to have some fun. He wrapped his arms around you lightly, implying that you would not be slowly swaying like the boring people surrounding you. 

He led you into what felt like a quickstep, bringing you up and down your side of the floor, leading you like a professional. You couldn’t stop the laughs from spilling out of your mouth as he spun you around and twirled you right back into his chest. Skipping around the dance floor with Derek was the last thing you expected to be doing at JJ’s wedding, but you were more than happy with the outcome. 

After a few songs with the next Fred Astaire, Emily dragged you over to JJ, attempting a trio sway. Garcia joined you after a moment, giggles being shared across the square of dancing women. These three ladies were the sisters you prayed for as a kid, and you were about to be one man down for the first time in six years. For real, this time. 

You leaned to your left and pressed a kiss to Emily’s cheek, and she smiled. “Are you making a move on me?” 

Penelope let out a laugh as you shook your head. “I’m just grateful to have had you in my life for this long.” The smirk on her face fell, and you swear there were tears in her eyes. 

“Nope! I was promised there would be no crying tonight,” Garcia stopped the moment from turning into a goodbye, and you laughed. “Sorry, you’re right. It was a move.”

JJ shook her head as Emily held your eyes for another second, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to you. You gave her a nod as JJ spun you under her arm.

“Alright, even though you're hitched, you can still come to ladies night with us, right?” Penelope asking the important questions here. 

You smiled as JJ nodded. “You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”

After a few more chords, there was a tap on your shoulder. You looked over your shoulder, finding Hotch’s warm brown eyes already looking at you. Your feet stopped as a shy smile rested across his lips. 

“Hey,” 

“Hey. Sorry to break up this party, but,” He extended his hand to you. “Would you like to dance?”

You looked down to his hand, one that you held so tight after Haley’s death, and took it in your own. Yours was swallowed in his, but you didn’t mind one bit.

“Of course.” He backed up, leading the two of you away from the laughing girls. 

Once you’d found your own space, he wrapped his free hand around your waist, bringing yours to rest on his shoulder. Always the gentleman, his hand made sure it was barely grazing your lower back as your heart ached for him to hold you closer.

“Dave did an amazing job with the place.” Hotch commented, trying to break the tension between you. It had never felt this awkward between the two of you, and it hurt to know how much had changed. 

“I think you mean Rossi found a great party planner to transform the place.”

A light chuckle from Hotch, and you felt butterflies in your stomach as his dimples showed up. You wanted to trace a check mark on his shoulder, but stopped when you realized he had someone else that was in first place now. The same person who was dancing with his son across the floor. 

“He really likes her.” You commented, nodding towards the pair. Beth twirled Jack under her arm once, twice, three times, before he broke into a fit of giggles. 

“He does. He claims she’s the best Uno player alive.”

You forced a smile out, not wanting to give the wrong impression. “High praise coming from the reigning champion.” He laughed and nodded along, knowing Jack did not accept defeat so easily. She must be really special. 

Being this close to Aaron felt like a dream, one that you never thought you would get to experience while you were awake. The only other time you got to enjoy his warmth was a year ago, when you’d evaded another explosion. You remembered the feeling of his arms looped around your waist, their grip holding you to his chest. Once you realized what was happening, you never wanted to leave his embrace. 

But right now you weren’t close enough. And selfishly, you needed to be closer, you needed to be held like that one more time. You took a step closer to him in between your swaying, your right foot in between his. Without missing a beat, he took another step closer to bridge the gap between you, pulling your joined hands to his opposite shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you knew ballroom dancing,” His voice was deeper than you ever heard, due to the miniscule distance between you. If you tilted your head to the left a few centimeters, you’d be leaning against his temple. Just the thought had your heart racing; this man was not yours. 

“I don’t. But Derek Morgan is a good teacher.”

You continued to sway back and forth to the music, a ballad playing in the background as you caught Beth dancing with Rossi now. She was a walking reminder that Aaron Hotchner was in a happy, committed relationship. And no matter how close you danced with him, how perfectly his arm curled tighter and tighter around your waist, this was not yours. 

All you wanted was to share your life with someone. You wanted someone to look at you the same way Will looked at JJ. You wanted someone to make you laugh so hard that you couldn’t breathe. Someone who cared for you, just as much as you cared for everyone else. You wanted, more than anything in your life, for Aaron to look at you the way you looked at him. 

“Are you okay?” He must have felt your grip tighten around his shoulder, and you quickly relented. 

Tears had started to form in your eyes, and you gently shook your head to keep them from falling. “Yeah, sorry.”

He pulled back the slightest bit, trying to look into your diverting eyes. You locked them on the canopied walkway, hoping they’d dry before he came into view. It wasn’t his responsibility to ease your worries.

“Y/n,” You bit the inside of your lip, moving to crack your index finger when he slowed the two of you down a little. He knew your tells better than anyone else. “You can tell me anything.”

You didn’t hesitate to meet his eyes, smiling when you saw the concern etched inside them. You knew how much he cared for you. How much he trusted you with his son, and with his own worries when he had no one to turn to. You knew that he would do anything to take away the pain you’re feeling right now. So that’s why you let your smile grow, to assure him that you were going to be okay. That he couldn’t know why you were falling apart. 

So you repeated the words you made yourself believe, leaving his gaze only to find Spencer’s a few feet away. 

“I’m just really happy for you, Aaron.” 

It was an ambidextrous statement, one that made your head spin with the different ways to approach the situation. But before he could respond, Spencer had made his way over to the two of you, perfectly reading the stare you threw his way. You needed an out.

“I think it’s my turn with the dancing queen.” 

You let go of Hotch without a second thought, never meeting his gaze again. Spencer took your hand without a fight, and led you to the far corner of the floor, away from everyone’s eyes. You felt your chest tightening as he wrapped his arms around you, knowing the tears you tried so hard to suppress would fall soon. 

The two of you started swaying, and you were quick to rest your head on his shoulder in an attempt to hide the first few tears that fell. You focused on the sound of heels meeting the floor, the silverware chiming against the plates, and the occasional laugh that escaped JJ’s mouth. You tried to ground yourself to the present, not to your thoughts.

“The life that you have may not be the one you dreamed of as a kid, but it’s pretty damn special. You don’t need kids or a husband to complete you. Because the y/n l/n right here,” he poked your waist, eliciting a small smile from you, “Is the best version of any day dream.”

You lifted your head from his shoulder so that you could meet his eyes. His smile never failed to reach his eyes, causing more tears to fall as you registered the sincerity in his voice.

“I’m going to be okay, right?” Your voice was small, afraid that you would never get used to this feeling.

“I don’t know,” He said before stepping back, just enough to spin you under his arm, and pull you back just like Derek had, before gently dipping you down. You couldn’t believe the laugh that escaped your lips, the salty tears ending their path down your face for good he hoped. He brought you back up carefully, a beautiful Spencer Reid smile adorning his face. “But I’ll be with you until you are.”

****

tags: @simplyprentiss @michaelahah @ssahotchner99 @svrgicalhands @hotchtopic @unionjackpillow @philcoolson @tommhollandzxhaz @kathleenjasmine @canimarrypizzaornah @reaperwalking @inlovewithaaronhotchner @shelbymm11 @mrshotchner23 @tropicalwrites @averyhotchner @dreamy-moments @softhxtch @crazymar15 @theinsanespaceship15 @wecouldbreakthedistance @jeor @funnycuteandannoying @andherestograce @thisisntjuliana @captwilson @kennedyblair @lovelysunflowerxoxo @rcompton @iifaequeenii @iwaizumiee @mrsaaronh0tchner @abbeyannsmith-blog @becausehello @rinacriedpower

#aaron hotchner x female! reader #aaron hotchner x female!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #jules writes shit ??

[jamestrmtx]

Fairytale Complex - [Undertale | Sans x Reader]

[Gender Neutral, Frisk's Parent Reader | Slow Burn]

Chapter Six | Dogbass (Part 1 of 2)

[First] | [Previous] | [Next]

Updates might be delayed/advanced occasionally due to the holidays from here on, meaning the usual schedule should go back to normal by mid January!

• • •

"Here ya go."

"Thank you."

The consistent tremble of your hand complicates your ability to so much as open the can he's handed out to you. Regardless, you stay quiet and struggle with each attempt you make in opening it, though he offers to do that for you not long after your third try. You hand it over and take it back after it's open and after you've managed to calm yourself a little more through deep and silent breaths.

"We really shouldn't go today with the state you're in," Sans says, sitting next to you on the bench, although leaving enough space for a third person to sit right between you. Whether he's trying to keep distance due to your condition or the fact that you're still just acquaintances -- or both -- is unknown to you, but you're grateful for it. The space helps with your dizziness and the persistent feeling of having every little thing overwhelm you, from the heat of the sun to the loudness of the park and its crowds. "The tour's mostly walkin' for hours, so it's not the best idea if you're all dizzy and stuff." His irises fall on your drink as soon as you finish drinking it. "Need another one? There's also ice cream and donuts if you're up for it." 

"I'm fine." You smile and stand up to go throw the can away. Walking still feels like balancing yourself on an ever-thinning thread, but you have a little more coordination now, sufficient for you not to appear drunk, nor for you to cling onto a complete stranger like you had just a few moments ago when getting down from the bus. It's pathetic to think you had to use the monster for support while going down a few steps, when Frisk managed to travel all over the Underground all on their own and without your guidance. Still, you set those thoughts aside with the reminder that you're still weak and that your health's taken a toll large enough to last for a few more weeks before your full recovery. 

You sit back down with Sans and observe the dogs running around the park, some in groups with others of their kind, some playing fetch and tug-of-war with their owners, and some asking for belly rubs from strangers.

"About the envelope…" you say, trailing off mid-sentence.

"What about it?" Sans asks, looking at you again.

Reluctance causes a noticeable delay in what you want to say and an increase in the intensity of your symptoms, these dulled temporarily by the juice's high fructose and vitamin content. "What's… What's the money for, if it's not for fixing my phone?"

"For your health." His face nearly softens up as he says that, though it goes back to its usual, stoic self when he adds, "You must've taken a few days off just to deal with Frisk's situation, and you've hadda use your own sick days, too, so we all pitched in to help you with that."

"We?" You quirk a brow and frown as you think back on the envelope and all the notes you'd read. None of them hinted at the money being from any other person besides him, and it was the only item inside the envelope that didn't have an individual note attached to it. "Wasn't it all from you?"

The flicker of his irises already gives you the answer, surprise revealing itself with how his gaze widens. "Wasn't there a note stuck to it? It's supposed to be from Tori, Paps, and me."

Though knowing it's much more likely they all pitched in with one hundred each rather than it all being from him alone, you have no memory of any other notes, and even less one related to the money. Curiosity strikes, but you try not to jump to conclusions yet. "There wasn't any. Maybe... Maybe it got mixed up with the other notes?"

"The money was in a different envelope though. Did Paps give you just one letter only?"

"Yeah, but it had the notebook, permit, tickets, and all that."

"Then he must've done somethin' with it."

You both stay quiet as you contemplate the situation. 

So, long story short, his brother had taken both envelopes and smushed them into one. It makes sense thinking back on how the letter looked like it was about to burst, but the reason for him to do that and the missing note are two whole other anomalies you've left to find any answers for. It's possible the note could've simply fallen off while Papyrus passed all the items into one letter, but why would he even do that in the first place?

Those questions make rounds about your mind, until you remember the conversation you had with him on the train. Sans seems to realize something, too, and you both act in coordination to your epiphanies by looking away from each other in a subtle manner and scooting back to your side of the bench until reaching the edge, leaving even more space between you. The likelihood of his brother attempting to set you up is apparent, but neither of you acknowledge it to each other. If that hadn't been an innocent and honest mistake, then Papyrus really was trying to push his brother into dating by making him appear a lot more well-off and giving than he seemed. 

"Uh, I-

"Maybe-"

Whatever forced and awkward conversation you're both about to initiate is interrupted by a large Samoyed, big, fluffy, and full of energy. He throws himself on the bench space left between you and leaves his stomach out in display, likely waiting for attention like all the other dogs running after unsuspecting strangers without any pets of their own. His tail wags faster than lightning, and he barks until you give him what he requests, even more when the monster next to you gives him head scratches to go with your belly rubs. The dog's face is pure bliss throughout, and the tense atmosphere fades the longer you pet him.

When you both stop, the dogs stays in that position for a while, body left limp from all the pets. The tense atmosphere returns in an instant, and even more so when you both attempt to boop his snout. That only results in you brushing your hand with the monster's while the dog left underneath licks at both of them, once more helping end the awkwardness of the situation.

"Should we go back now?" you ask, finally capable of pushing through the tension. The ice breaks further as Sans nods, and you both stand up, leaving the dog at the bench, owner left unknown. It's strange to think you're so close yet so far away from the Underground. If it weren't for the state of your physical health, you would've only needed to walk a few more steps, past the dog park and through the gates. 

A high-pitched woof from behind makes you turn around and expect a Chihuahua to come running at you full speed, though it turns out to be the same dog from before. He's back to his energetic state, complete with his tail wagging faster than before and his tongue now stuck out. He follows even as you walk backwards and stares with a tilted head and confused expression when you stop moving. Sans notices you've fallen behind by the time he's a few feet away and turns back around to assess the situation, first with confusion and then with a chuckle. 

"Think this one's a stray?" Sans asks. He then approaches the dog and gets down on one knee to pat him on the head, gaining a few satisfied barks from him. His irises focus on the dog's neck when he adds, "There's no collar on him." He looks up at you next. "Maybe we could do somethin' about it next time we come back 'ere?" 

"Sure," you reply, smiling. "Looks like he's already interested in us, anyway."

"That, or he just wants more pets." The skeleton stands up and signals for the dog to keep himself firm in place, complementing his actions by talking to him directly. "Stay." He takes a few steps back to test the dog, who responds by taking a few forward, following the monster now. "Stay," he repeats, to no avail. "(Y/N) needs to go back home and rest." Sans points with his irises towards you when he says your name, breaking formalities to communicate with the dog. "Alright?"

As if leaving the job of dog whisperer unnamed in the information he'd given you, Sans's words seem to have an immediate effect on the Samoyed, who gives one sharp bark once and nods. He then turns around and walks off, leaving you be. Even the monster looks caught off guard by the results, though he laughs it off while you smile. Your gaze and his own draw themselves to the dog continuing to make his way back to the park, until he reaches the bench you'd both sat on. "Didn't think that'd work."

He slips his hands in his pockets and resumes the walk with you towards the bus stop, mood thankfully much lighter between you even as you both reach your destination and wait with no other people around besides him nearby. His irises narrow as he looks up at you, focusing on your face. "You allergic to dogs?" he asks, grinning. "Your face's all puffy."

Checking yourself through your phone's camera is more than necessary to know what he means by that, and when you do, you bite down on your lip to keep yourself from bursting out a laugh. "...Y- Yeah," you mutter, words followed by a sheepish smile. "I forgot."

"You forgot you're allergic to dogs?"

"They're too cute for me to worry about that." Your defense is quick and unfaltering as you grin down at him. "And it's only a mild allergy anyway. It's cats I'm more allergic to, but even then I can't help myself when it comes to being around animals -- specially big and fluffy ones!"

"Can't argue with that," he says, chuckling. "You bring a compelling statement." He looks towards the bus when it arrives and continues with, "Wanna stop by a pharmacy before we go?"

"It's alright," you reply, shaking your head. "I think I have some medicine with me."

"In that satchel you're always carryin' around?"

"It's in case anything happens while I'm out with Frisk."

"Even when they're not around?"

"Yes. What if someone else needs it?"

He grins and walks with you to the bus. "You really are a first-time (mom/dad), huh?" 

You settle down with him on the seats nearest to the door and place your bag over your lap to prevent occupying another seat. "...What makes you think that?"

"Tori and I go way back. Though we only saw each other in person just recently, we got to know each other long before that, and she told me all about how it was like, both with her biological son and her adoptive kid. She was just like you when she took care of the first fallen human. And even though she'd already had a son before that, she went back to first-time mom mode with the one she adopted, since she didn't really know how humans worked back then."

Though you're curious to know how they knew each other without seeing each other's faces, you imagine something similar to online friendships and pass it off as that for now. It'd be far too much to ask for any details on that, based on how wistful and melancholic his tone alone sounds. "So you're saying I'm worrying too much?" you ask, grounding your curiosity for the moment.

He nods. "But there's no problem with that so long as it ain't taken to extremes."

"Like overprotective and all that?"

"Yeah." He stands up when the bus fills itself to the brim, leaving a few people to stand and one person to sit down where he's just gotten up from. "I'd say you're fine, though."

"Oh, yeah?" you challenge, smile turning to a grin. "And what makes you say that?" 

"You've been willing to listen to me so far, and you're still wanting to understand us despite everythin' you know about us already. That's not really somethin' someone overprotective would do."

"Move over," a man says, interrupting your conversation with the monster. He stands right in the middle of Sans and you, and he directs a glare at you only, fueled by exasperation. Compared to the man Sans had given up his seat for, who'd been limping all the way with a bad leg to the hand-bars, he seems fine; tired, but able to stand firm even as the bus keeps moving on. "Being sick in the head's not a valid reason for you to take up a seat all for yourself."

"Excuse me?" you ask, narrowing your gaze at him. "Care to elaborate on that, sir?"

"You're (L/N) aren't you?" he asks back, scoffing. "Gotta be real screwed up to talk with a guy like him when your kid went missing and ended up in that same place he lived in." His anger's unforgiving, and he hardly cares to register how much attention he's drawing to himself and you. "Why couldn't they tell you about it? Ever question yourself that? If monsters are so advanced enough to build a whole damn robot more human than any android I've seen up here, they could've given you a call or somethin' to tell you your kid's alive and well. Ever stopped to think about it? Or do you care that little over your kid's well-being? Stop for a moment and think about why they didn't try to help your kid outta the Underground." He stops only to catch his breath and increase the intensity of his tone and words. "So what if there was a magic spell keeping them trapped? And so what if they couldn't do nothin' about it? I'd be damn happy if they'd at least try to tell me my kid was okay!"

You keep quiet as you contemplate his words. Even Sans seems struck by them, and simply one quick glance exchanged between you lets you know he's waiting for you to give your judgment on the situation. He doesn't intervene, though he keeps himself close enough to help out, most likely in case the situation were to escalate any further.

"I'm trying to listen to their side of the story before I make any accusations."

"And what does that help you with?" His grimace worsens and he takes a few steps closer, almost cornering you between him and your seat. "Are you dense, or do you not notice how they're tryin' to soften you up by being nice? Bet you a guy like him wouldn't give a damn over a limping human if he knew they were the key to getting outta the Underground." He glares at the skeleton when he says that and turns back to you afterwards. "Don't you see how he looks at you? He's-"

The man's argument drowns out with the rest of the bus's noises, now filled with loud murmurs from the crowd and their unrelenting stares, all of them directed at you. You want to say something, but panic overwhelms all other feelings and any possible, rational thoughts. Your breaths turn ragged and scarce, and the world around you begins to spin. All other words you can decipher from your mind are thoughts on how you're failing as a person and as a parent, more specifically -- on how each and every step you take's one huge mistake and a piece of evidence to prove you're not good enough.

If your best isn't good enough, then what's there left to do?

[First] | [Previous] | [Next]

• • •

Tag List (Comment or message me if you want to be added to it!)

@the-simp-express

#sans x reader #undertale x reader #lgbt #lgbt themes #gender neutral reader #male reader #female reader #mother reader #father reader #parent reader #chubby reader #long fic #romcom #adventure #mystery #platonic relationships #slow burn

[foreficfandom]

The Arcana - Cooking For MC (Headcanons)

-- Asra -- 

Life as a street orphan makes cooks of us all. If he wasn’t a child desperately stealing fruit, he was a teenage magician earning coppers to buy scraps from the butcher and bartering for old, bruised squash. He quickly had to learn how to stretch his meager rations as far as he could, and cooking was the way to do it.

He’s come a long way from the one single pot he and Muriel would squat over while hiding away in the docks. Now, he and you happily enjoy a consistent diet of fresh groceries, sometimes he cooks and sometimes you do. 

All his cookery he learned in Vesuvia - pasta, lentils, chickpeas, tomatoes, cumin, basil, ocean seafood. The both of you don’t quite earn enough to splurge on the good cuts of beef, but you never have to worry about going hungry. 

And you don’t have to worry about bland, burnt food, either. Asra can reliably hold his own in the kitchen. He doesn’t exactly follow recipes, just tosses together stuff according to what feels right in his heart. A holdover from the days where he had to improvise all his food. 

There’s more holdovers; he hates tossing away uneaten food, or groceries that have gone bad. He’ll keep the chicken bones to make into a broth for tomorrow. He never peel potatoes or fruit ‘cause the skins contain valuable nutrients. He cringes at people who throw away the heads of fish. The leftover fat in the pan is made into gravy, or pastry frosting, or soap. Occasionally, he and you give away your leftovers to the urchins that hang around the neighborhood. 

When it’s his turn to cook, expect traditional Vesuvian cuisine like flatbreads, hummus, and vegetable soup. Herbs used in the shop are sometimes thrown into the dish, like thyme or myrtle leaves. Asra’s cooking regularly gets to grace your stomach, and it’s very lovely and nice uwu

-- Julian -- 

Everybody who knows Julian holds vehemently that he can’t cook worth a damn. He’s not gonna poison you, but it’s true that he can’t do more than toss various things into a pot and pray that it comes out edible. 

So when he’s forced to cook, everything ends up tasting like the same sort of bland, unspiced mush. And it’s almost always boiled, never roasted or fried. He just seems incapable of not burning anything, so he avoids pancooking ingredients if he can avoid it. And even his soups tend to have burnt residue at the bottom.

Not only that, but traditional Nevevion cuisine ... can be an acquired taste in itself. Like pickled herring covered with beet mayonnaise, cold aspic on toast, and really, really salty fish roe. He grew up eating actually good food cooked by his adopted family, but it’s unfortunately easy to turn a cabbage and potato recipe into nasty gross mush, especially under Julian’s hands. 

He knows he’s shit at cooking, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. Ready-made takeout isn’t always available in their world, so if someone needs to eat, they usually gotta cook. Cue boiled chicken and carrots a-la Julian. At least he added some salt, this time. He blames his Nevevion heritage for lacking an affinity for spices.

With shitty cooking skills come an ability to eat anything. Julian doesn’t turn down a dish if he’s hungry, even if it’s some bullshit. Except for spicy stuff - it’s like the only pain he doesn’t get off on. Just a little jalapeno in his rice will turn his entire face red and give him hiccups.

So say you don’t have time to cook dinner for the both of them tonight, he’d much rather the two of you go eat at an inn than force your divine tongue to be sullied by his dreadful meals. However, he can be taught to cook if you two can find the time, and will eventually get the hang of it. You and Julian in the kitchen, warm and cozy, teaching him how to make a good macaroni? Now that’s an afternoon date in the making.

-- Nadia -- 

Growing up royal meant Nadia never had to cook for herself. To some, it’d be very improper for someone of Nadia’s standing to ever cook, especially in the same kitchen as the servants. But in-between her piano lessons and fencing training and literacy/history/mathematic/public speaking tutoring, she also devoted some personal time in reading up on skills she wouldn’t have been taught - like gardening, jewelry craft, and also cooking and baking.

She had this stint of candy-making when she was a teen, after seeing sugarspun candies in the market that were shaped into different, multi-colored animals and flowers. She would sneak into the kitchen and, with the help of particular cook friend, make candied nuts, meringues, taffies, marzipan. And with the skills she learned making candies, she also learned how to bake and cook various things.

Rarely did she ever get to exercise her cooking skills beyond a mere pastime. She had no one to cook for, nor enough spare time. So very few people knew she bakes a mean butter cashew cake.

One day, she just kinda absentmindedly mentions that she knows how to cook a few things, so you insist she show you, which kinda takes her off-guard and she’s a little nervous, because it’s been a long time since she busted out the ol’ apron, and what if you don’t like what she makes??

She goes to the kitchens and almost bails out, even briefly entertains the thought of passing off the chef’s cooking for her own, but chases that thought from her mind. The palace servants gets to witness the Countess roll up her sleeves with a determined grunt and go ham on some pistachios. 

You wait patiently in the solar (as she instructed), and Nadia brings up a beautiful tray of brightly colored nut-flour sweets with tea. Nadia herself is a little worse for wear, with a dusty face and tangled hair. But she’s thrilled to see you enjoy her cakes. They taste wonderful, doubly so because of the love she put into them.        

-- Muriel -- 

He almost always cooks for himself, ever since his street urchin childhood, and his skills have only improved while living in the woods. He’s no longer scraping mussels off of dock beams to boil in a thin cauldron, he’s hunting 8-feet-tall elk and using every inch of the animal, from boiling the hooves for aspic, to making sausages out of the intestines (the antlers are powdered for their magical properties).

It’s rarer that he ever wants for something he can’t produce himself. He boils his own sea salt, curdles his own cheese, presses his own oil. The problem is that he doesn’t make an effort to make delicious-tasting food. Unlike Julian, who cooks like shit but still enjoys the finer things in life, Muriel has access to super fresh and good-quality ingredients but is ruled by his practicality.

Living in the woods is tough. If the harvest was bad and all Muriel has is last autumn’s rice harvest, then its porridge for the next month. There’s nothing for it; hunting is unreliable even in an expert’s hands, fishing only a tad less so, and a simple wet season or early frost can ruin a garden quicker than a plague. 

Muriel may have said he didn’t need your help around the hut, but your help truly did make a difference when it came to food security. An extra set of hands made for less time and lighter work. Your influence also shined through his cooking; now, he actually does care if something tastes good, because you were eating it with him. Muriel could survive just fine on perpetual pottages, but you deserved better.

Hence, roasts that are actually seasoned, bread with jam and butter, and salt not just for preserving purposes. 

Cooking stopped becoming just a means, but a creative outlet for Muriel. He wanted to treat you, and in turn it became something special for himself, too. 

-- Portia --

The Devorak siblings have one collective braincell, and Portia’s got dibs on it. So she’s got the cooking skills that seemed to have eluded Julian, and she’s very good; the best out of the six. 

As a hand-maiden, cooking isn’t part of her duties, but to even get hired she had to prove she could hold her own in the kitchen on par with royal cuisine. It’s beyond simply being able to replicate a recipe, she knows how to carve game into the right cuts, memorize the seasonal harvests, estimate temperatures by touch, and other complicated kitchen sciences. 

Portia spent her life traveling on ships, so she’s witness many a worldly cuisine and it’s influenced her skills. Nothing impresses a table more than introducing some ‘exotic’ spice and using it right. Her own personal favorites are from all corners of the land. Her dinner spread can consist of Hjalle shrimp pancakes, Galbradian green bean broth, Prakran flatbread, and lamb roasted in an underground oven like they do in Firent.  

Once she has the opportunity to cook (or bake) for you, be prepared for a storm. You’re never gonna have to want for good cuisine again, not if Portia has anything to say about it. Even the little things she makes, like her strawberry jam or workhouse-style bread, taste great. You ask her why she doesn’t pursue a career in cuisine, and she replies that cooking is an outlet for her, not a job. Plus, she’s far from a ‘truly skilled cook’, according to her. That honor’d go to Mazelinka. 

A lot of her budget she’ll happily relinquish to cooking, such as imported spices or the expensive cuts of game. She knows that the smallest difference in quality - such as in the salt, or vinegar, used - can make or break a dish. Her kitchen is always fully stocked with groceries and ingredients. One of her big splurges was investing in an icebox, and before she had you, a magician, in the picture, she was indeed buying ice to keep her meats fresh.

Whether its a wrapped lunch or weekend roast dinner, Portia will always want to spoil you in the best way she knows how; through your stomach. Your waistline might be less happy, but like heck Portia’d take pudge as a negative.

-- Lucio --

He’s been Count for over two decades, but before that he was a rough-and-tumble mercenary. And before that, he grew up in the infamous Scourge Lands, where etching out a living was always a matter that teetered on the brink of a knife.

He had to learn how to live tough. The Scourge Lands are no lush forest like Muriel’s backyard, it’s a flat tundra with limited vegetation and even lesser animals that aren’t more likely to kill you before you kill them. The entire clan’s been living off of bitter turnips for weeks, but finally a family of boars are scouted. Now you just have to take down a bear-sized boar while circling around five others who all want to gore you. 

Even cooking can be a struggle. Life as a mercenary meant trying to strike fires on cold, damp wood in a freezing drizzle, and keeping it lit long enough to roast the skinny fish you managed to spear. It meant knowing which plants were edible and which caused three nights of stomach pains, and also being willing to resort to digging up grubs when you’re really on the brink of starvation.

So does he know how to cook? Yeah, he can roast meat over a fire and know when its safe from pathogens, but other than that he’s lost. He was so happy to finally have cooks and servants to serve him entire banquets. Never did he learn (nor want to learn) how to bake bread, or fry potatoes, nevermind suckling pig or creme brulee. 

If come a time where you and Lucio are away from the precious palace kitchens, he’ll rely on his wallet to buy the two of you a nice meal. If the two of you are lost in the wilderness, don’t worry, Lucio to the rescue and you can trust him to forage something, and grill it on a hot rock. No salt, though. Not even water to wash it down, if you’re really unlucky.

Still, it’s kinda a surprise to eat Lucio’s emergency field cooking, because it’s not awful. The best anyone can do in the circumstance, even. Make sure to tell him that, he’s always fishing for compliments. 

#the arcana #the arcana imagines #the arcana headcanons #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel the arcana #portia devorak #count lucio

[justfandomwritings]

Like a Human (Erik Lensherr - Part One)

Pairing: Magneto/Erik Lensherr x Mutant!Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: none yet.... spoilers maybe? Do you have to warn for spoilers for movies that are old? This takes place entirely inside Days of Future Past

Summary: “Our roles are nothing more than how the times choose to cast us.” -Magneto

Notes: The summary is just an epigraph of a Magneto comics quote, but it does more to explain the inspiration of this fic than a proper summary would. This one goes out to some of the 38 Magneto fic requests I got when I put up a post asking for some.

Charles had wanted to go himself.

Charles knew the world Logan was going back to. He knew what he himself was going through, where Erik was, how Mystique thought. Had Charles gone, he needn’t worry about Logan convincing him of the future, pulling him from his despair, reuniting him with his abilities. Had Charles gone, he would have been in control of his own body. Breaking Erik out and stopping Mystique would have been far easier. 

It was with a heavy heart he admitted that Logan was best suited for the task at hand. The task before Logan was more monumental than he knew. 

The three of them, Charles, Erik, Logan, they were all very different men at the time.

There was no telling where Logan would wake up, what situation he was in, how far he would have to travel. He was no one to Charles, and Charles may as well have been no one to him. Logan would have to convince a total stranger he was time travelling to save the universe. Not to mention if the link broke too soon, they would be throwing a wild, unpredictable man into the heart of the action and could leave the situation far worse than they’d found it.

Charles was without his abilities, and he was a long way from getting them back. He was weak, depressed, and alone; even with Hank around, he was alone. He would need to be rescued from the brink in a way Charles wasn’t sure Logan would be capable of, not because Charles doubted Logan but because he doubted himself. Logan would turn up on his doorstep, and Charles wouldn’t know if he was lying or not. Charles would need to be convinced of everything, and even if Logan managed that Charles would be of almost no help whatsoever unless he stopped his treatment months before he ever had in this timeline. 

And Erik? Erik was miles away from Charles. He wasn’t just miles underground; they were miles apart emotionally. They blamed each other, hated each other. 

It had taken a miracle to get them speaking again. 

A miracle with a name.

“You’ll need help,” Charles voiced the thought before he could stop himself. “You can’t do this alone.”

Kitty sat up in her seat, back rigid as a board. “Charles,” her tone was warning again, “I can’t send you back. Even if I could send two people…”

“You won’t need to.” 

Charles wheeled his chair around to face the corner. Bedecked in all but his helmet, Magneto sat on the sill of one of the window, looking out into the blizzard without really seeing anything past the glass. “Erik,” Charles called to his friend.

Magneto didn’t turn at the name. He didn’t break the glaze that seemed to have washed over his face. Wherever he was, it wasn’t in the room. 

“June 1973.” 

The rest of the room was silent. They’d been bustling around. Iceman had been barricading the other entrances for what good it would do. Storm had been agitating the sky, bringing in mountains of snow for some kind of cover from the approaching army. Warpath sat at the doors, watching for anything that might be coming, and Kitty and Bishop had been explaining the process to an unflappable Wolverine. 

There was something about the way Charles spoke. Whenever he opened his mouth, they all stopped to listen. His words were for Magneto, but for some reason everyone felt the need to hear them.

Magneto turned his head, meeting Charles’s gaze. They sat like that for a moment, watching each other. Those who didn’t know them, would be forgiven for thinking that was all they were doing, but the subtle nods and gentle shakes of Charles’s head told the rest of the room that they were talking amongst themselves. 

Whatever they were discussing, it seemed to be frustrating the older mutant. Magneto’s face contorted in further discomfort at every hint of movement Charles made. They spoke without words, and Magneto clearly didn’t like where the conversation was heading.

Only Magneto seemed to know what Charles meant by telling Kitty, ‘You won’t need to.’ All the rest were baffled, not only at what Charles could be implying but at how Magneto had understood it instantly from nothing. 

They argued in silence, and it was unmistakably an argument. Magneto was more on edge with every moment that Charles stared. 

“She could help, Erik.” Charles pleaded quietly. “June 1973.”

There was another long pause as the men squared off, the other occupants waiting to see whose will would bend first. 

Magneto sighed and pushed to his feet. It seemed a sign of resignation. The desperation still touched his brow, but he was done debating. 

“After you find me,” Magneto addressed Wolverine, even though he still faced Charles, “Stop in London, on your way to Mystique.” 

“What’s in London?” Wolverine asked.

“A girl.” 

Not a very helpful explanation. There were many girls in London; Logan would even wager there were many mutant girls in London. “How will I find her?”

“You won’t.” Charles rolled back to Logan’s side with a sad smile. “She’ll find you.” 

“Why does he need her?” The question came from Kitty. It was probably one Logan should have asked, but in truth it hadn’t occurred to him. 

Magneto walked over and shared a long side-eyed look with Charles, as if they hadn’t whispered in front everyone enough that night.

Charles answered, hedging on how to explain without giving Logan too much. “She may well be one of the greatest mutants to ever live. If you find her, she could save you all.”  

Magneto’s lips twitched up, only slightly, into a sneer. “She’s more than that,” he argued before turning to Logan. “She’s my wife, or at least she will be.” 

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“Are you Logan?” 

The man came running up to their group while they exited the plane. 

Logan paused on the steps as the man approached Hank at the bottom of the stairs. 

Hank glanced back up the steps towards the rest of the group, clearly pleading for help, for how to respond.

“I’m Logan,” Logan pushed by Magneto and made his way down to join the worried Hank.

“Of course you are. I should’ve known.” 

The frazzled young man, clad in a jacket that labelled him ‘landing crew’, was clearly flustered. He fumbled around, patting over his chest and down to the pockets of his jeans. 

“Here,” He tucked two fingers into his back pocket and produced a piece of paper. “She told me to give you this message.”

“She?” Logan snatched the paper from the man’s hand and unfolded it quickly.

‘It’s rude to yank things from another person’s hand, Logan. Do apologize to Tim, but make it quick. You need to meet me at the address on the back as soon as you can.” 

“How did she…” Logan froze. He read the words twice, mumbling them under his breath to make sure he got them right. “I-I’m sorry,” Logan half-heartedly said to the man, side stepping past him onto the tarmac, “but we have to go.”

“Yes, she said that too,” The younger man pointed into the distance where a black van was speeding off the road towards their chosen hangar. “That’s for you.” 

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The van pulled to a stop in front of a block apartments not far from the airport.

“Third floor,” The driver didn’t bother to turn around but instead pointed up at the building just behind his parking spot. 

“Do we even know who this woman is?” Magneto growled as he slipped out of the car.

Logan eyed the peeling yellow facade of the apartment complex. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide the claws that were slowly beginning to push out of his skin. “I think I have an idea,” or at least he had the start of one, and it was not at all an idea he liked.

Charles, Hank, and Magneto filed along after Logan through a heavy metal door, which the metal wielder pulled closed behind the group.

They slogged up to the third floor where Logan glanced down at the paper the airport employee had handed him. “317.” 

“This way,” Charles pointed out a sign and headed off away from the landing. 

Apartment 317 was six doors down on the left. It was the only number placard that hadn’t been defaced with some form of graffiti or stolen all together. The otherwise dingy hallway was slightly brighter in front of the door, underneath the only bulb that was actually shining as opposed to flickering out its last burst light. 

This was the sort of place Logan was used to before he met Charles Xavier. Shady tennants, dirty floors, questionable facilities. This was the sort of place most mutants were used to outside of the school. Even, apparently, the incredibly powerful ones.

Charles lifted his hand, but before he could knock a voice inside shouted, “It’s open!” He hesitated for a moment before he tested the knob.

The door swung wide on an incredibly bare apartment that looked just as old and lackluster as the hall outside, albeit far cleaner. 

There was nothing more to the room than an oversized couch shoved against the opposite side of the room and two doorways, both open, on the right-hand wall.

The old wooden floorboards squeaked in protest when the men stepped over them to enter the living room. 

“In here,” A voice called from one of the open doors.

Logan caught Charles by the shoulder as he made for the voice. “Behind me,” Logan whispered, stepping ahead of his would-be mentor.

Logan led Magneto followed by Hank and Charles into the room from which the voice had come. 

Instantly, the smell of food overwhelmed them.

The kitchen was similarly bare to the living room. A stove, an oven, a fridge, and a hodgepodge of mismatched counters took up most of the tiny room. There was only just enough space for the rickety round table and the five chairs shoved under its lip. A door against the back wall, no doubt, couldn’t be opened without entirely removing the nearest seat from the room.

In amongst the shabby appliances was the back of a young woman. She moved busily between two burners on the stove and the plates and utensils cluttering the table. As they entered, she turned and deposited a healthy portion of eggs on each of the four plates. 

Her eyes didn’t even look up at their approach. It wasn’t like she could’ve missed them. The floor groaned and creaked with every move made by any of the men, a built in alarm against intruders if there ever was one.

“That really wasn’t necessary Logan,” The woman didn’t bother to check who was in the doorway and continued cooking. “I don’t bare Charles any ill will.”

Seeing there wasn’t an immediate or hostile threat, Charles took an uncertain step around his new found bodyguard and asked, rather skeptically, “Then do you mind telling us what we’re doing here?”

“Well,” The woman picked up a pan and began dispensing bacon onto three of the plates, “You’re in London because Charlie wanted Logan to come and find me, and Erik told him where to look.” She dropped the empty pan back on the stove. “And you’re in my apartment,” speaking absently, she fiddled with the knobs to turn off the burner, “because I know none of you have eaten since you broke Erik here out of his cell.” 

The woman in question wiped her hands clean on a dish rag before finally turning to properly face the group of men for the first time.

She was pretty. Most people would even call her beautiful. Though, she was by no means otherworldly as Logan had been expecting; there was nothing about her appearance that conveyed to him that she was a mutant of any real power. 

Logan wasn’t particularly enchanted by her voice or drawn in by any of her features. Sure, she had a kind smile and an even complexion, lips colored a shade of red that could go from sophisticated to sinful in a heartbeat. But she was just a woman, a beautiful young woman, a seemingly normal one at that. She looked human.

“Telepath?” Charles asked, moving cautiously towards the nearest chair. “How else could you know where we just came from?”

The woman laughed, though it wasn’t a very hearty sound. It tinkled half-heartedly then died in the air. “If I was a telepath, I would’ve had to read your mind across the Atlantic for Tim to be waiting for your plane to land.” 

“Then what are you?” Hank asked.

He and Erik both moved to join Charles at the table. Their steps were both slow, cautious. Neither of them trusted this woman, and while Hank’s expression seemed worried and concerned, Erik’s was deadly.

“A mutant, like all of you.” She chirped. 

“And do you have a name?” Erik stood behind the seat he’d claimed. 

Something told Logan he was waiting for everyone else to sit down, waiting for everyone to be well within range of the metal knives their host had placed on the table. 

“(Y/n),” The woman slumped into the chair without a plate in front of it and motioned to the empty chair. “Do join us Logan. You’re not actually worried about me killing you. We both know poison couldn’t do the trick.”

“No,” Logan agreed, taking one deliberate step after another, “But I’m pretty sure you can.” 

A smirk tugged the edge of (Y/n)’s lip, but it was gone as quick as it appeared, and Logan took his seat. 

“Bold assumption,” She mused, “Would it settle you at all to know I have no intention of hurting any of you?” 

“No, not even if I believed you.”

“Fair enough,” She shrugged.

With the rest of the table occupied, Erik took the final chair at the woman’s side and an uncomfortable silence settled over them.

No one made a move to eat, and no one seemed to know what to say to fill the silence.

No one except (Y/n), perhaps. She lounged comfortably in her chair, pushing it up on the back two legs. There was a content grin on her face, and she was inspecting her nails with a deep interest that Logan was fairly sure was fake. Something in her expression told Logan that she was amused by all of this. A glint in her eyes as they scanned over her fingers, an arch of her brow. 

Over the years, Logan had, out of necessity, gotten good at reading people, and he didn’t need any powers to do it. She was enjoying this, he could tell. How uncomfortable she made Erik and Charles, she was revelling in it. 

“I know who you are.” Logan pressed her. They didn’t have the time for these games, or at least he didn’t think they did.

Her eyes flitted up to him quickly. “Well obviously,” she hummed, “you wouldn’t be here if they didn’t send you.” 

Logan leaned in, hovering over his plate on the table, as if getting closer would help get his point across. “I know who you are, what you did. Erik told me everything.” 

There was a loud bang as the front two legs of her chair came crashing to the floor. Even as she brought herself crashing back to earth, (Y/n)’s expression didn’t change. Her features froze as they were before. The life didn’t leave her eyes, but it seemed, for a moment, to pause its merriment. 

“Then he really must be in dire straits.” Her tone had cooled off, slipped into an emotionless droan of words. 

“Would you mind,” Charles cut in, “explaining it to the rest of us?”

(Y/n) trailed her eyes over Charles, “It’s sad you have to ask.” (Y/n) let her sentence hang in the air with genuine grief before she pushed to her feet.

Charles, likewise, looked down, pained.  

“Eat while I talk. This will take some time, and we don’t want to waste a moment.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Y/n) returned to the table with a paper and pen and set it out before the men who were hesitantly chewing down breakfast. 

“So,” She drew two parallel lines coming up from the bottom of the paper, “Think of time as a road, and we, the universe, are a car.” A boxlike shape joined her sketch between the lines. “The road is one way, and while we’re on it, we have to be moving forward.”

As she talked, (Y/n) began to add roads, branches coming off every inch on both sides of her original path. “Everyone, young and old, is inside the car and has a hand on the wheel.” Some took steep angles away from her first road; others ran virtually parallel to it; others still branched off from the branches she was adding. She was, slowly but surely, making a web of lines across the page. “And every time any of us make a decision, we turn the wheel.” 

She traced an arrow from the car up one of the roads running parallel to it. “Most decisions have little effect on the world beyond the person who’s made them. We’re so close to where we were before that when we look out the window the scenery and direction haven’t changed, and none of us can tell the difference.”

(Y/n) continued  arrow, this time following a branch off the parallel that took a far steeper angle. “Other decisions, turns of the wheel, change the world so emphatically that everyone feels the effects, and our course is forever altered.”

(Y/n) went back to doodling in lines, slowly filling up the bottom of the page as she carried on. “Every turn off the first road is a decision someone made, and every decision someone makes results in a turn. The only question is how drastically it removes us from where we began.”

Ceasing her doodles for a moment, (Y/n) drew their attention by circling three times around a section of road she had just added, two parallel roads in the bottom corner, both taking a sharp curve away and off the edge of the page. 

“There are, however, some things that are beyond decision. Bends in the road, as it were. Things that, by virtue of being on the road we are on, will happen; things no one decided and no decision can avoid. Call it karma or fate, whatever suits you, but they’re there. Some of them are small, only happening on a few paths we create. Others are so colossal,” (Y/n) vigorously shaded in a strip of paper an inch above the end of her highest road, “that by virtue of moving forward in time, we will encounter them, and they will happen. The difference between a bend around a hill, only taken by roads that come at it from a certain angle, or the inevitable need of a bridge crossing over a river.” 

(Y/n) drew in a road, a bridge presumably, going over the shaded strip and continuing up to the end of the page. 

Her pen ran off the top of the page, and with it she went silent, and a long moment passed as she stared at it, unseeing.

She hadn’t looked up or ceased once during her entire explanation, not as they ate, not even when Hank let out an audible huff.

“This is an interesting theory of time, but what does it have to do with why the future sent us here?” Hank pressed. There was a subtle inflection to the way he said the word theory. He was far too kind to call anyone wrong to their face, but Hank was a scientist in heart and in mind. He didn’t generally stand for rambling misinformation. 

(Y/n) returned his expectant look with an equally expectant smile, as if she’d already known the answer to his question before he even thought to ask it. “Darling, I’m the map.”

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Next Time on Part Two…. Coming Soon

Taglist

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse /  @geeksareunique / @deathbyarabbit​ / @spilltheearlgrey / @ryanbarnesrogers / @bloodorangemoonlight​

Marvel Taglist:

@the-high-queen / @iamverity / @darktownairspeed / @radicalstars​ / @hermione-is-my-queen 

#erik lensherr x reader #erik lehnsherr x reader #magneto x reader #x men #x men imagines #xmen imagines #marvel imagines #marvel fanfiction #xmen fanfiction #x men fanfiction #erik lensherr imagine #erik lehnsherr imagine #magneto imagine #magneto fanfiction #magneto x you #erik lensherr fanfiction #erik lensherr x you #erik lehnsherr x you

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Genji Heavy Industries (Part 3) Rolling Twenties

I don’t think anyone likes Mingfei Lu who just plays the game and doesn’t understand his background. So it makes sense that the MC would get irritated by him too.

The rumbling sound of the subway came from directly above, and ahead was the giant water turbine with a diameter of more than three meters. The sewer had become as wide as an underground river by this point, and the still water became turbulent. Rolling white waves bounced between the paddles with a thunderous sound. The water turbine was pumping a huge amount of water into the Iron Dome Shrine. 

"How do we get past?" Lu Mingfei looked up at the sharp paddles, each almost two meters long and cast in fine steel, which could easily cut off floating objects such as aquatic plants. 

"The water turbine doesn't always turn, and when it stops we'll get through between the holes in the grate." Chu Zihang said. 

"But when will it stop?" 

"It's already starting to slow down." 

The turbine was really slowing down, and it took a few minutes before it slowly stopped, water clattering down from the paddles. 

"Go now!" Caesar bellowed. 

You all climbed up the iron ladder on the side of the turbine and ran through the stainless steel grate. You hold on tight to Caesar and press your head down to make yourself as small as possible. You squeeze your eyes shut, trusting in his speed to get you through.

You slide down the smooth walls of the ducts and look up at the emptiness overhead. You couldn’t help but feel that the Iron Dome Temple was really a miracle in the history of engineering. This is probably the most advanced sewer system in the world, fully automated, with layers of cleaning nets intercepting the dirt in the water, giant mechanical arms shoveling up the sediment and dirt that has settled to the bottom of the pipe and sending it to the drainage tank high above, and intelligent robots sliding along the grooves in the pipe wall to maintain the machinery inside the pipe. Although there are iron ladders and walkways for maintenance on the walls of the pipes, the Iron Dome Shrine will not require manual maintenance for twenty years according to the design standards of the Maruyama Construction Institute. 

The familiar sound of electric welding echoed through the pipes. 

"Did you hear that? Over there is the underground dock of the Iwarui Institute. The sound of welding indicates that someone is repairing the equipment.” Caesar lowered his voice, "There are at least twenty people over there, twenty heavily armed men, so no one can speak loudly from now on. Our voices will echo and amplified in the pipes and can travel a long way."

You notice the gold tint of Caesar’s pupils. Without a word he had already sent out his Spirit Word, Scythe Itachi, and was listening far down into the channel. 

"I'm really a little afraid I can't control myself," whispered Lu Mingfei, "I want to talk when I'm nervous, like I'll be suffocated if I don't." 

"Use this," Caesar fished out four lollipops from his trench coat pocket, giving one to Lu Mingfei and one to Chu Zihang, "Put it in your mouth so you don't subconsciously shout out, but also to replenish your blood sugar." 

He hands one to you and you take it. Being quiet was never an  issue with you. The nurses at Black Swan Bay gave vicious glares to children who so much as whimpered in pain. So if Caesar asked you to be quiet, your strict training in obedience in this regard subconsciously came into play and you wouldn’t speak again unless given express permission to do so.

"Boss, can I exchange the mint flavored one with you?" 

"You're too late," Caesar threw the green lollipop into his mouth, "and start shutting up now, someone is coming this way!" 

A dozen seconds later, there were footsteps from high above. It was a black-clad guard, whose bony hands could be seen through his transparent raincoat pressing down on his sidearm. He was obviously not a policeman. No policeman would use a Colt "King Cobra". This large caliber revolver is expensive and deadly. It's the kind of gun that mobsters like. They see people as prey, and they're all about killing them in one shot. The four of you hid in the shadows against the wall of the tube and looked up through the iron grille as the beating feet of the guards in their leather shoes stepped over your heads and faded away. 

"Those twenty heavily armed guards are all of this mob killer level, right?" Lu Mingfei mumbled.

You catch his gaze with your wide eyed stare. What about ‘Shut up’ did he not understand? Channeled through you is the fury of the nurses of Black Swan Bay. You pierced Mingfei Lu with a silent threat so certain that the young man visibly paled. You raise a shaking finger to your lips and silently mouth the word, “Quiet!”

 Chu Zihang glanced at Caesar, who shook his head, meaning that this level of security was difficult to break through by force.  

"What about fire suppression? You have enough bullets now. How many targets can you take care of at once?" Chu Zihang asked. Since you were still riding Caesar, you could be privy to their whispered conversation even over the sound of the water.

"Three to five targets would not be a problem. At most you can solve six, even if you add your two Uzis, the three of us would be five guns against twenty guns. And we still do not know how many are hybrids here." Caesar said, "It's not as simple as dealing with gangsters." 

"Uh did you count me?" Lu Mingfei said. 

Caesar gave him a brief dismissive glance. "You don't count. You said so yourself, you’re a civilian." 

You’re so annoyed with him you can’t even laugh.

All three men were silent. Just approaching the door of Genji Heavy Industry, the way forward was completely blocked. In Black Swan Bay you faced similar odds. Renata raised her machine gun to the sky and blasted away nearly a dozen people. But in the end, she was killed and only managed to save one person. Twenty is too many.

"Maybe we should go back to the store. We ordered so much champagne. We can drink champagne while ordering some late night snacks to eat, and think about whether there is another way to get in here." Lu Mingfei cautiously proposed. 

“MC,” Caesar’s whisper was extremely quiet. “Your nails.”

You were so annoyed with Mingfei that you didn’t notice that you were digging your nails into Caesar’s collarbone.  You relax your hands. “We should have left him.” You breathe out into his ear.

“It’s okay.” You don’t even hear the whisper, you only see his mouth move.

 Chu Zihang pointed to the front of the pipe. 

The stream suddenly parted in the middle, and something cigar-shaped floated up on the water about six or seven meters in length and no more than two meters in diameter. It left a white wake as it sailed towards the Iwarui Institute's shipyard. 

"A miniature submarine of the Hydra!" Lu Mingfei remembered that Chisei had admitted that the Hydra family used the pipes to transport contraband. The cargo ship placed the contraband on the unmanned mini-submarine before entering the port, and the submarine arrived below the Genji Heavy Industries along the sewer. 

"Come closer and be careful not to make a sound." Caesar tiptoed ahead. 

Beeps shook the section of pipe, guards blew their whistles and called out to run to the dock from all sides. The submarine slid into the dock and a crane lifted it up in the air. The mechanical arm raised the huge thick metal tank from the hold, which was about two meters long and looked like an elongated barrel of crude oil. Chu Zihang and Caesar looked at each other and both shook their heads. Even with their experience, they couldn't see what cargo was there. This golden passage was obviously not for smuggling oil. 

The heavy airtight door on the wall of the tube suddenly opened and out stepped a man in a white lab coat who hurried past the guards to the metal tank and disinfected it with an alcohol spray. Apparently, this cargo was important and dangerous and he couldn't let the guards touch it first. In his haste, he forgot to close the airtight door that was the only way through Genji Heavy Industries. 

"Chance!" Caesar whispered. 

"The guards are concentrated over at the dock, and their attention is on the metal tanks. “We'll take the yellow spiral ladder over there and go up to the airtight door. Be quick, but don't run, any echoes will be clear in this enclosed space!" Chu Zihang said in a low voice. 

Before Lu Mingfei could raise an objection, Chu Zihang walked out seven or eight meters. He rarely stopped to discuss with people once he made a decision, so the Executive Department all agreed that Chu Zihang is a lone wolf. Caesar silently followed. This muscle-bound man actually can be as light as a cat when walking even with you on his back. Lu Mingfei had no choice but to tiptoe behind. The maintenance tunnel is overhead. They can only step on the iron frame supporting the grated path. It would take at least a few dozen seconds to get from the starting position to the mouth of the passage. If within these few dozen seconds any one of those guards turned back to look, there would be a gun battle.

You think of Z, silent, protecting you. 

Caesar and Chu Zihang's speed is extremely fast. In the twinkling of an eye, you go from the yellow ladder to the maintenance channel, and then a few meters into the airtight door. Lu Mingfei jumped a step in his rush. The crisp sound of metal hitting metal echoed in the pipe, like someone ringing a small bell. 

Chu Zihang's reminder was right. When Lu Mingfei started to run, a nut was shaken off and smashed on the wall of the pipe below. The guards pulled out their guns at the same time, all of them with laser sights on them, red beams scanning in all directions. Someone turned on a powerful flashlight. 

Your nails dig into Caesar again. Your heart drops.

He’s dead.

In Black Swan Bay, such errors were intolerable in training. In group training, you moved as a unit and you were careful to follow the instructions by the leaders. Any insubordination would be met with severe retraining if you were lucky. People who kept making mistakes tended to just disappear. So even though no one had fired a shot, it was as if Lu Mingfei’s mistake had marked him as dead in your mind.

Caesar and Chu Zihang quickly flashed into the airtight door. 

The guards did not find anything on the maintenance channel, and turned to scan their flashlights further down. The beam gradually approaches Lu Mingfei's hiding place and Caesar lets you off his back. You back away, knowing he was about to try and rescue him. But with all that firepower you’re not sure how he was going to survive the attempt.

"There it is!" One guard yelled. 

Several beams of light pointed to the water at the same time, where a long, slender black shadow was swimming! Originally, the shadow’s target was Lu Mingfei walking by the water's edge, but the bright flashlight startled it, and it immediately turned around and swam into the darkness. 

Gunshots burst out, and the guards fired one after another. Whoever supplied Genji heavy industry with guards must originally have been the vicious thugs in the underworld. They have no scruples nor are they stingy with bullets. Their goal is to smash resistance with overwhelming deadly force. 

Caesar’s arm came down from above and pulled Lu Mingfei up to the entrance. As soon as he’s inside, you round on him, teeth bared, and spit "You fucking idiot!” in Russian. In a moment, you raise your hand to slap him in the face, but Caesar’s arm cuts you off. 

“Hey!” He hisses sharply. “Calm down.”

Cheeks red and eyes blazing, you turn back around and move next to Chu Zihang, who glances briefly at you.

"You must have undergone very strict training." He murmured

You nod. 

"He hasn't. You can stay close to me. Let Caesar handle Mingfei."

The water in the pipe turned blood red and a four or five meter long white shark slowly floated up, riddled with bullet holes. You and Chu Zihang exchange glances. This is too incredible. This is the main channel of the Iron Dome Temple. The water in the pipe is five or six meters deep, and connected to the sea. The shark would have no problem moving in it, but this fierce large predator should be in open waters. What attracts it to swim into the spider web of sewers? 

"You were in a leadership position before… weren't you?" Chu Zihang whispers.

You were one of the oldest in the orphanage so it was leadership by default. You bounce your head back and forth and shrug.

"Makes sense. It's why you clash with Caesar so much. And why you get along. You probably had the most powerful Speech Spirit."

You shake your head and hold up three fingers. You mouth the word, 'Third'.

Chu Zihang doesn't respond immediately. "Renata?"

You smile and hold up two fingers but then you hold a finger to your lips and slice a hand across your throat.  The conversation was enough to calm you down the rest of the way.

"Let's go. While they’re not looking." Chu Zihang said. 

Caesar patted Lu Mingfei's shoulder to keep him from looking back. The white shark just now actually took Lu Mingfei as prey, but it's better not to tell Lu Mingfei about this. If he knew he was once seen as a fresh seal pup, he would probably be too scared to walk. 

"Holy shit, good fucking luck, good fucking luck, good luck, good luck." When he got on the elevator Lu Mingfei was still patting his chest in celebration as well as trying to calm his extreme panic. He was shaking so much, his teeth chattered. 

"No doubt. If you keep your good luck, we can rely on your luck to live." Caesar continued patting him on the shoulder and exchanged quiet glances with Chu Zihang. It was clear to everyone but Lu Mingfei that such luck could not be relied on to ever come again.

#Dragon Raja

[indigowallbreaker]

!!! grabbing hand to show them something !!! with Ashe and Balthus! O: (please platonic asdfasdf)

(at last! I can start on the hand holding prompts guilt free! I’ll still take kiss and soft prompts, but these are good for a change of pace)

One thing Balthus liked about living underground was that he never got sunburned or bugs flying up his nose or thorny bushed rubbing against his legs every over step. But, since joining the Blue Lions and giving himself over to the whims of the Professor, such things happened on a near-weekly basis. 

Currently the class was marching back to Garreg Mach. The battle they had marched out to was pretty fun-- what had started as a routine bandit brawl had turned into fighting off two waves of reinforcements and a beast. Balthus had actually punched the beast right in the face. It was glorious.

But now they had to head back the way they came. No one else in the class seemed to be struggling as much as Balthus. Even Felix, who usually complained about everything, it seemed, didn’t say much as they pressed onward. Balthus staggered over a tree stump and cursed. “Are we there yet?” He asked Ashe.

There was no answer. Balthus sighed. Ashe was his only friend in the Blue Lions so far. Though he knew Ashe and Prince Dimitri both from their time in Abyss, Ashe had been the more approachable. Talking with Ashe had made the march almost bearable, and his silence now made Balthus sad.

“If you don’t know you can just...”

Balthus did a slow turn. He checked behind him. Stood on tip toes to look ahead. Even checked under his boots. No Ashe. 

“Pal? Ashe? Where are yah, bud?!”

“Here!”

Relief rushed through him as Ashe popped out of the undergrowth. “Don’t do that! This place is enough of a death trap without you goin’ off on your own!”

Ashe grabbed his hand. “You have got to come see this!”

“Are you listening?!”

“Yes, and I’m sorry, but follow me!”

Though Ashe was over a foot shorter than Balthus, he was still able to drag the King of Grappling off the path before Balthus could get his feet under him.  Balthus followed, confused, a little worried about losing the class. Though, Balthus reasoned to himself as he let Ashe guide them, he could probably take on anything that might pop up. Or yell loud enough to get attention.

Ashe pulled him through the trees until they came to a clearing. Or, more accurately Balthus noticed quickly, an overlook. The scenery was nice but Balthus didn’t see anything worth running here over.

Then he realized Ashe wasn’t looking at the scenery. He had let go of Balthus and was crouched down over a flower. Balthus crouched with him. “Look,” Ashe whispered, pointing.

On one leaf was the smallest snail Balthus had ever seen. No bigger than his pinkie nail. It was a marvel-- to Balthus, who was over six foot-- that something so small hadn’t been smooshed yet in this wild forest. The snail seemed content enough. It traveled across the leaf at a single-minded pace, slowly making its way towards the stem of the flower. 

“Whoa,” Balthus breathed. 

Ashe nodded reverently, smiling down at the snail.

Balthus could have sat there forever watching the snail’s progress. It was a nice break from tripping through the forest. And besides, Ashe looked thoroughly enraptured. Balthus had rarely seen him look at anything other than a book with such focus. 

Eventually, Balthus grew antsy about how far the class was likely getting. “We should go,” he whispered. Likely the snail didn’t care it had an audience but he didn’t want to risk startling it. 

Ashe nodded again. When he didn’t move, Balthus stood and simply picked him up. “I mean it, pal, let’s go!” Ignoring Ashe’s protests, Balthus marched back into the woods. It didn’t take long for Ashe to just accept his fate. In fact, he began talking about the little creatures he used to find in the gardens of Castle Gaspard. 

Balthus was all of a sudden glad Ashe had dropped down into Abyss that day. If they haven’t been such good friends already, Balthus might have missed an absolutely amazing snail today. 

It felt like all the sunburn and scratches had been worth it; for Ashe and a snail.  

(send me a ship or platonic pair and a type of hand hold!)

#ashe ubert #Balthus von Albrecht #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #ashen wolves #dlc #moeblob #hand prompts #have you ever looked at a small snail and felt peace #i recommend it #banana slugs are my personal fave but snails are. good.

[fellulahh]

Hey! I love your imagines^^. For my own request, how would the demons bro’s feel about an MC who’s, like, a total bimbo—maybe even Mammon-level of dumb in which hijinks ensue. The difference between Mammon and the MC however is that the MC means well and makes up for their stupidity with their big heart! You can make up the hijinks if you please, but I’m curious about your take on it! :D

I felt so mean writing this! I adore Mammon - I hate how mean the brothers are to him. I hope this is somewhat what you had in mind, I wasn’t really sure what to write as this is different to what I’m used to - that’s why I’ve done HCs and a little imagine. Let me know your thoughts and if it’s not what you imagined, I’ll try and do it again!

~

How the brothers are with a MC who’s a total bimbo (or Mammon 2.0)

HCs:

Lucifer:

- facepalms the MINUTE he realised he has a female Mammon staying in the house

- After seeing what a gentle heart she has, he struggles to be angry with her whenever she does one of her infamous hijinks

- Blames Mammon wherever possible even if he knows something was MC’s doing

- Turns a blind eye a lot when it comes to MC

Mammon:

- In his absolute ELEMENT after discovering MC

- Lowkey (high key) in love with the girl

- Doesn’t think twice when she does something a lil stupid

- Is super impressed whenever she thinks of a new prank ‘why didn’t I think of that?!’

- Always invites her to join him when he gets up to mischief

- Constantly looking at her with pure admiration

Levi:

- dumbfounded the first time he hears/sees MC doing something that can only be described as ‘something Mammon would do’

- Jealous of the friendship MC develops with Mammon

- Happy to ignore her ‘Mammon-ness’ once he realises what a genuine, sweet person she is

- Always invites her to play games with him

Satan:

- despite her quirks, he still thinks MC is cute

- Actually finds her mildly amusing, despite her being the female version of Mammon

- That is until she pulls a prank on him

- Goes to scold her but he can see she didn’t mean to upset him, it was just a little fun

- Ruffles her hair every time she does something adorable (which is a lot in his eyes)

Asmo:

- rolls his eyes a lot

- ‘It’s always the pretty ones’

- Constant sighing

- Thinks MC is wasted, spending her time with the likes of Mammon so much

- Still super close with her regardless

- Points out when she’s done something ‘stupid’ but doesn’t belittle her for it

- Despite how annoying she is, he absolutely adores her

Beel:

- he loves her

- She’s the most precious thing to ever step foot in Devildom

- Thinks nothing of her ‘stupidity’ or hijinks

- Really admires her friendship with Mammon

- Actually asks to join in sometimes when he sees she’s plotting something

Belphie:

- at first he loathed her

- As if her being a human wasn’t bad enough, the fact that she’s Mammon 2.0 is enough to put him off her

- Sees how well she gets on with Beel and gives her a chance

- Ends up adoring her too

- Smiles to himself whenever she says something dumb (but if Mammon were to say it he’d find it hilarious)

Scenario:

MC and Mammon were too similar for the brothers liking, particularly Lucifer’s. Whenever there was mischief in the house, it was always traced back to one of the pair - if not both. The two of them loved to pull pranks on the household and get up to the most idiotic antics.

Despite being so similar to the second eldest, the brothers all loved MC. Even though she was constantly led astray by Mammon, none of them could stay mad at her. She was always apologetic if a prank went too far and none of them could find it in their hearts to scold her (much to Mammon’s dismay ‘why does she get special treatment?!’). They all had a soft spot for the frivolous woman.

Their latest crazy idea - after failing to get a photo of Lucifer asleep - was to get a picture with Cerberus sleeping. In other words, they both had a death wish. Mammon promised MC it’d be funny and that Lucifer would find the photo sweet (if they made it out alive). Sniggering to each other, they both descended down the back staircase that spiralled deep underground. They tried to suppress their giggles as they made their way to the dungeons.

When they crept into the room where Cerberus slept, it didn’t occur to them just how dangerous this joke could be. Mammon urged MC to step forward as he whipped out his D.D.D, trying to hide his smile. MC tiptoed over to the sleeping beast, feeling his hot breaths blow through her hair. Approaching the great dog’s sleeping form, she posed with a thumbs up beside its head. Mammon snapped up a photo, grinning at the result.

“Did you get it?!” MC asked a little too loud. In the corner of her vision she saw two big eyes shoot open. “Uh oh” she mumbled to herself before sprinting toward Mammon. “RUN” she shouted.

Eyes widening, Mammon quickly grabbed MC in his arms as he turned into his demon form - spreading his wings and shooting into the air, away from Cerberus. The large dog snarled at them both as they travelled across the room as quickly as Mammon’s wings would take them. As soon as their feet hit the floor, they threw themselves through the door, locking Cerberus behind them. They ran up the stairs like their lives depended on it. When they reached the top, they both fell through the door back into the House of Lamentation.

Mammon landed on his stomach before MC fell on top of him with an ‘oomf’. As the pair looked up they were met with six pairs of eyes staring down at them.

“I should have known the noise was you two.” Lucifer spoke seriously before noticing MC looked frightened. His furious face was then replaced with concern. “MC are you okay?” He asked helping her up.

The other brothers stepped forward. Beel pulled MC into his arms and held her close. Satan rubbed her back with a hand, turning his attention to Mammon who was still on the floor “You could have got her killed!” He scolded.

“I’m sorry.” MC whimpered.

“Shh it’s okay.” Beel soothed as Belphie came over to check on her too, followed by Asmo.

“What were you thinking?” Levi asked Mammon. “Taking MC down there with you.”

Mammon looked at everyone puzzled. “I’m sorry?” He questioned.

“Oh and now he has the audacity to APOLOGISE.” Asmo exclaimed.

Meanwhile MC was being suffocating by the affections of the brothers - she really didn’t mean to concern them. “It wasn’t Mammon’s fault, it’s my fault too.” She admitted.

“And I bet you got her to say that too, didn’t you?” Satan shook his head at the white haired demon.

“Wha—?!” He exclaimed baffled.

Getting annoyed with their accusations and seeing them smother MC, he stood up from his spot on the floor before leaving the room, making sure to take his human with him.

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me beelzebub #obey me satan #obey me one shot #obey me mammon #obey me fanart #obey me imagines #obey me shall we date #obey me levi #obey me leviathan #obey me beel #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus