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hamsterclaw · 1 month

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Yoongi’s a murder detective fighting burnout when he’s assigned the case that you and your former partner fucked up.

Paring: Yoongi x f! Reader

Genre: Detectives!Yoongi and reader

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of murder, bloodshed and assault, sex, depression and burnout, mentions of guns

The flashing blue lights in Yoongi’s window are followed by the wail of sirens cutting through the early evening bustle.

Yoongi looks out the window. He’s three floors up from street level, there’s raindrops tracking along the dirty glass, the faint smell of mildew that accompanies any rainfall in this filthy city.

Under the table, his good leather shoes, the ones he saves for weddings and funerals, have rubbed a hole in the skin over his achilles. Yoongi had worn them for his disciplinary hearing today, the part of him that still wants to be a cop temporarily winning over the part of him that doesn’t.

He wonders if this is what burnout feels like.

His superior, Kim Namjoon, had called him into his office after the hearing to tell him he was on probation, to clean up his act because he wouldn’t be so lucky as to get off next time.

The truth is, Yoongi had known while he was pressing the suspect’s face into gravel with his booted foot that it would come back to bite him on the ass.

He’d done it anyway.

Yoongi’s never been kind to scum who exploit children, but his partner, Jung Hoseok, had seen something in Yoongi’s face that day that had made him report Yoongi.

Yoongi doesn’t blame him. Hoseok has been his partner on and off for five years and he’s as sterling as they come. His moral compass is as strong as it was the day they graduated from the academy, despite all the fucked up shit they’ve seen.

Unlike Yoongi.

Yoongi was never black and white to begin with and now he’s so far into the grey he scares himself sometimes. It’s never been his goal to be the kind of cop who metes out his own justice.

Only madness lies that way.

Anyway now Hoseok’s been reassigned temporarily to narcotics, supposedly a break from homicide, and Yoongi’s partnerless.

Probably not for long, there’s always some hungry rookie wanting the credibility of working homicide.

Yoongi sighs, closes the file he’d been skimming. It’s well past seven, there aren’t any open cases that need his immediate attention and he figures he might as well go home to his apartment and his cat, Kenzo.

The pavement’s slippery under the smooth soles of his good shoes, Yoongi pulls his coat tighter against the early autumn chill as he walks the five blocks to his apartment.

The smell of fried wontons fills his nostrils as he passes a conduit street in the back end of Little China, Yoongi’s tempted to stop and pick up dinner.

He’s tempted every time and succumbed yesterday so he soldiers on, not without a pang of regret. He regrets food choices because he’d rather that, than think about his actual regrets.

The bang of a gunshot when he’d been two minutes too late to what then became a crime scene.

Fucking some girl with a cute face because he hadn’t been man enough to treat Mara the way she deserved.

Choosing to stay in homicide even after it had become clear to him that he had plumbed the depths of human depravity. Scarring his psyche repeatedly because it’s easier than making the active choice to request a transfer.

Yoongi unlocks his door, toes his shoes off, hangs up his coat.

There’s a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, a flash of grey fur as Kenzo skitters across the entryway, close but not touching him.

It’s the kind of greeting Yoongi can get behind.

He pours out a serving of dry food into Kenzo’s dish, heads to the fridge to reheat yesterday’s wontons.

Eats standing at the tiny kitchen island, cracks open a beer to wash it all down.

He catches sight of his face, pinched in the scowl it seems to fall into more often than not these days.

Jesus, is he getting old?

Yoongi avoids looking at his reflection again as he showers. Changes into the same t-shirt he’s been wearing for weeks, contemplates watching porn just to take the edge off, but decides he can’t be bothered.

He falls into sleep, deep and dreamless, wakes up with an almighty crick in his neck just before dawn from the way he’d been huddled in a tight ball under the covers.

He knows he’s not right, but he’s been not right for so long Yoongi wouldn’t even know where to start putting himself together again.

***

Redemption comes in odd packages, Yoongi thinks, as he looks up a case he worked on six months ago, a shady businessman on the fringe of organised crime who’d got high as a kite and beat a sex worker to death.

He’d been killed on the way to serving out his sentence in the cushy prison in Busan his fancy lawyer had managed to negotiate, crushed in the back of the transport vehicle when it had been t-boned by a lorry.

Apparently a freak accident, Yoongi doubts it but he’s also not going to look too closely, it’s out of his jurisdiction and he’s too jaded to mourn the loss of another brutal asshole. They’d had to identify the sex worker by her dental records and DNA, her face had been unrecognisable.

There’s a knock on the frosted glass panel on his office door, Yoongi looks up as Kim Namjoon walks in, followed by the latest hungry rookie angling for a stint in homicide.

‘Min Yoongi, this is Y/N L/N,’ Namjoon says. ‘She’s a new transfer in from the Seoul branch.’

Yoongi doesn’t have to fake his disinterest as he nods politely at you.

‘What’s the case?’ he asks.

Namjoon looks pointedly at the crime scene photo blown up on Yoongi’s screen.

Yoongi waits.

He can feel your gaze on him, but he’ll get to that later.

The anticipation of a new case never gets old, he’s been in homicide since he graduated off the beat ten years ago and he no longer thinks it’s sick of him to get excited about another murder.

It’s the thrill of the hunt that he lives for, the translation of nebulous facts and witness statements into a puzzle that he can solve.

Yoongi’s damn good at his job. It almost makes the sacrifices in the rest of his so-called life worth it.

Namjoon hands Yoongi a case file, crisp, sharp edges waiting to razor his fingertips open. Flat.

Inside, the standard cover page, then a note that makes Yoongi sit up straight out of his slouch.

He looks at Namjoon to find Namjoon’s already looking at him.

‘The reaper of Seoul?’

Yoongi realises as he says the words out loud how it sounds.

The capture and subsequent conviction of the serial killer who’d terrorised the citizens of Seoul for three years had made headlines nationwide.

Last year.

‘Yeah,’ Namjoon says, the tension in his jaw evident now that Yoongi’s looking at him properly.

Namjoon glances at you. ‘It would seem he never left.’

You shift your weight and your eyes meet Yoongi’s.

‘My partner and I broke the case,’ you say. There’s a brittle smoothness to your voice that Yoongi recognises as a paper thin facade over the hauntedness underneath. ‘Turns out we didn’t.’

***

The note in the case file is a single sheet of letter paper, lined in blue.

The handwriting is precise, neat between the lines.

Oh dear.

Better luck this time?

Best regards from your neighbourhood Reaper.

Yoongi looks at you, sitting across the room at the desk Hoseok’s temporarily vacated.

You’re staring at your screen, face backlit in blue, expression unreadable. You’re in black, nondescript knitwear, your hair pushed back from your face, eyes narrowed.

He clears his throat. ‘You worked the case with your partner.’

It’s a statement you answer to like a question.

‘It was the first case I picked up when I joined homicide,’ you say, turning to Yoongi. ‘It started with -‘

‘Kim Seulgi,’ Yoongi says.

You nod, almost grimacing at the name of the Seoul Reaper’s first high profile victim.

‘Her family wanted answers.’

Kim Seulgi had been born of Seoul’s elite, an architect with her grandfather’s firm who had picked up a number of accolades for her work on the National Opera House.

She’d been engaged to an equally accomplished classical pianist, Jeong Minho, and had been the only offspring of her wealthy parents.

She’d disappeared three days before her wedding, only to turn up on her wedding day, floating in the Hangang, dressed in the clothes she’d disappeared in.

You say, ‘She was an ambitious first target.’

‘Was she the first?’ Yoongi asks.

The flicker in your eyes tells him this isn’t the first time you’ve considered this.

‘My partner Kiho.’ There’s strain in your voice. You start again. ‘My partner, Kiho, and I thought he’d killed before.’

You shrug. ‘The captain felt we were wasting time looking back into his early years.’

Yoongi says, neutral, ‘Budgets are limited, your case must have passed the thresholds for plausible deniability.’

‘It seemed to fit,’ you agree.

Your eyes meet again. ‘Not all of it, though.’

Yoongi knows, intimately, what it’s like to not be certain. Sometimes all you have is your instinct. It’s one thing to build a case no reasonable person would doubt, but you’re also betting on your gut. You’re betting on being a good enough detective to know that the pieces fit, without forcing them to fit.

You’re betting on being honest with yourself, and Yoongi knows more than anyone how tempting the lies can be.

Now you’re the one watching him, taking the measure of him.

His email pings.

‘That’s the link to the full case file,’ you say.

You get up, carry a stack of notebooks to his desk.

‘Our notebooks,’ you say.

Yoongi looks at the stack.

Every cop’s got their own collection of notebooks, raw data and impressions that don’t always make it into official reports.

The equivalent of dirty underwear when you’re not expecting company versus lingerie when you’re down to fuck.

This close, he can smell your shampoo, bright and faintly floral.

You blink at him.

‘I need to sort something with human resources,’ you say. ‘I’ll see you later.’

In actual fact it’s 36 hours later when he next sees you, at 4am, at a crime scene.

***

The rain falling is more than a drizzle, enough that the tent around the victim is the first priority.

There’s an imprint of violence in the air, Yoongi knows you feel it too by the way your lips tighten as you duck under the yellow tape to join him.

You nod at him in greeting, then there’s silence as you enter the tent.

The victim’s on her front, face turned to the right, hand tucked under her cheek.

She hasn’t been dead long enough for livedo to set in, she would almost look asleep if it weren’t for the purple of her lips, the greyness to her complexion.

The bath of blood she’s lying in.

Yoongi can just see the edge of the gaping wound on her neck.

You wait until forensics turns her body over.

The top three buttons of her silk blouse are undone, her chest slick with blood.

Yoongi’s reading the crime scene like he’s reading you, and he knows what you’re going to say before you say it.

‘It’s him,’ you breathe. The devastation in your eyes makes it difficult for him to look at you. ‘Fuck, it’s him.’

***

You’re shivering visibly despite the hot coffee Yoongi’s poured you, despite the fact that he’s turned the heating in his ancient Hyundai up as far as it’ll go.

There are droplets of water in your hair, sparkling incongruously in the gloom.

You’re waiting till first light to knock on neighbourhood doors, the victim was found in a quiet cul-de-sac.

Two minutes from her own front door.

Not much chills Yoongi these days but that fact does make him pause.

The audacity of it.

He says, ‘I have a blanket in the trunk.’

You’re protesting but Yoongi gets back out in the rain anyway, grabs the blanket and gets back in.

Hands it to you, takes your cup as you drape the blanket around yourself.

‘It gets colder here than Seoul,’ Yoongi offers, handing you your coffee back.

‘We fucked it up,’ you say, and Yoongi knows that’s what you’ve been thinking since you saw the body.

He’s just been waiting for you to be ready to say it.

‘So make it right,’ he says, simple.

‘An innocent man’s in prison because Kiho and I fucked up,’ you say.

Yoongi doesn’t want to minimise it but he doubts the man you put away was completely innocent.

‘I read your notebooks,’ he says. ‘Who’s Jeon Bogyeol?’

There had been twelve murders before the arrest. All women in their late twenties to mid thirties, all living alone.

They’d all lived in the same part of Seoul, but apart from that there was nothing to link them that he could find.

You look at him warily. ‘He was a night watchman at the apartments of seven of the women.’

Yoongi waits.

‘We cross-referenced staff at all the addresses, and his name kept coming up. Like Jang Daeseong.’

You flinch at the name of the man convicted of the murders, as though it didn’t fall from your own lips.

You keep talking, though, your voice never faltering. ‘We never found any links between Jeon Bogyeol and the other five women.’

‘Did he have a history?’ Yoongi asks. He’s looking out the window at the first rays of sunrise, muted orange through the rain. His shoulder aches, an old injury he doesn’t think about except when he’s tired, and cold.

‘There was a neighbour,’ you say. You’re chewing on your bottom lip, a tell Yoongi’s noticed for the first time tonight.

‘She called the police once saying she’d seen Bogyeol taking a woman into his apartment against her will.’

You’re frowning. ‘The beat cops who responded to the call out said there was no sign of anyone else in his apartment. The neighbour moved away.’

‘Moved away?’ Yoongi asks, and you glance at him, understanding the sharpness in his tone.

‘I was going to look into it when the Chief shut us down,’ you say. It’s stated simply, like a fact, no sign of defensiveness.

Yoongi offers you more coffee from his flask.

‘Where’s Bogyeol now?’

‘When the new letter came in I looked him up,’ you say. The steam rising from your cup obscures part of your expression for a moment, but Yoongi can hear the tremor in your voice.

‘He’s less than fifty miles east of here.’

Dawn’s breaking, the rain’s finally starting to peter out, but Yoongi’s chilled anyway.

***

The morning sun is high in the sky by the time Yoongi and you finish interviewing the neighbours and the new victim’s friends and family.

Yoongi’s phone rings. It’s Namjoon.

‘Can you talk?’ Namjoon asks.

Yoongi mouths ‘Namjoon’ in response to your inquiring expression, puts some distance between you and him.

‘Yeah,’ he answers.

‘The post-mortem results are back, and the preliminary tox screen is negative. The ME’s put the cause of death as exsanguination.’

Yoongi processes this. ‘It’s the same MO as the previous Seoul reaper victims,’ he says.

Namjoon sighs. ‘Has anything new come out of your interviews?’

‘No,’ Yoongi says. The victim had been well-liked, none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything, and on the surface of it there were no conflicts he could see. Her boyfriend of two years had been away on a work trip, his location confirmed around the window of the crime.

Yoongi’s looking at you as you wait against the car, and when your name comes out of Namjoon’s mouth he’s already got an inkling of what Namjoon wants to know.

‘I reviewed the case,’ Namjoon says. ‘There are no obvious flaws or errors in their investigation.’

Yoongi grunts. ‘There was a lead that they didn’t follow up on.’

He fills Namjoon in.

‘I’ll follow it up.’

Namjoon says, thoughtfully, ‘I wonder where her partner’s working now.’

Yoongi’s surprised Namjoon doesn’t already know, to be honest, he’s always two steps ahead of Yoongi.

He flicks his gaze to you again. You’re still waiting against the car, and there’s a loneliness to your posture, a fatigued downturn to your mouth that makes him say, ‘Hey Joon, I’ll call you back, ok?’

He ends the call, unlocks the car.

‘We should get back and compare notes,’ Yoongi says. His voice has dropped the way it does when he’s tired, and shit, he is tired. He hasn’t slept well for a while.

‘Let me drive,’ you offer. You take his keys, and your fingers brush his for an instant.

The contact, brief though it is, makes Yoongi’s skin tingle.

He wonders if you notice his reaction, but you’re already sliding in, adjusting the seat, starting up the car.

***

Yoongi wakes when you’re parking the car, sits up, a little embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, looking to gauge your reaction.

‘Don’t be,’ you reply. ‘I would have done the same if you’d driven.’

There’s a hint of mischief in the curve of your half-smile.

‘You mumble in your sleep.’

Yoongi rubs a hand over his face. ‘What’d I say?’

‘I couldn’t make out any words,’ you tell him, but there’s a twinkle in your eye that makes him wonder if that’s really true.

Mara is the only person who’s shared his bed in recent years, and she’d never mentioned anything.

You swipe your ID to get into the station, hit the lifts.

In the dire grey lighting you look almost as tired as he does.

‘Coffee?’ Yoongi offers, when you pass the vending machine on the way to the office.

‘Yeah,’ you say. You’re on your phone, frowning over a text.

Yoongi passes you a cup.

‘Problem?’ he asks.

‘Kiho,’ you say. You look at him. ‘My old partner. He wants to meet up.’

‘It’d be useful to talk through the case with him,’ Yoongi agrees.

Your expression is difficult to read. ‘He’s in a retreat a couple hours drive from here. He took time off after we closed the case.’

Yoongi gulps his coffee. ‘There isn’t anything else we can do here anyway, we’re waiting on leads.’

He reaches out his hand for the car keys. ‘I can drive.’

***

The retreat Kiho is staying in is set amongst the foothills of a mountain, rolling grounds all around, a view of the cliffs overlooking the sea.

It seems to Yoongi like a place only the very rich or the very damaged would live.

Unless you get better pay packets in Seoul he’s apprehensive about meeting Kiho.

You sign in at the front desk, the receptionist greets you warmly, like she��s met you a few times before.

You lead Yoongi through a huge lounge, through open patio doors and into a green. Yoongi’s looking around at the residents, scanning the area the way he does automatically whenever he’s in an unfamiliar place.

You’re waving a hand, and then you’re embracing a tall man tightly. Neither of you say anything but Yoongi can see the way your shoulders slump, like the tension’s draining out of you.

It’s only when the tall man looks up at Yoongi inquiringly that Yoongi notices the long scar running along his neck. Tracing the path of his jugular, vertical rather than horizontal.

Kiho extends a hand.

‘So you’re going to get our guy,’ he says.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

‘We’re going to get him,’ he says, finally.

Kiho turns to you. ‘You haven’t told him,’ he says to you.

You’re looking at Yoongi.

‘We can tell him now.’

***

‘I started getting notes after Jang Daeseong was convicted,’ you say. You’re sitting in a gazebo with Yoongi and Kiho, mugs of coffee in front of you.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

You flick your eyes to his, then look away, unlock your phone.

Yoongi takes your phone, scrolls through a gallery of pictures.

Lined paper, handwriting he’s seen before.

Yoongi reads through the content, then returns your phone to you.

‘The originals are with forensics,’ you tell him. ‘The paper and ink are generic, impossible to trace. There’s no trace of DNA, not so much as a partial print.’

‘The notes stopped coming last month,’ you say. ‘Right around the time I moved.’

Kiho’s scratching his neck absently, Yoongi catches how your gaze drops to his scar.

The length of it’s longer than a stab wound, he thinks the surgeons might have had to extend the scar to repair the vessels beneath.

You turn to Yoongi.

‘We have to stop him,’ you say. ‘Use me to lure him out.’

‘He nearly killed me,’ Kiho says. His expression is sober, his tone flat.

He stops there, but Yoongi can hear his next words, loud and clear.

What’s he going to do to you?

‘We can’t let him keep going like this,’ you say, very gently.

Kiho meets Yoongi’s gaze.

Yoongi doesn’t falter.

‘He has to be stopped,’ he agrees.

***

The drive back to the police station goes quicker - there’s something about seeing your old partner that’s given you a bump of energy.

Yoongi can practically feel the adrenaline fizzing in your blood, coming off you in waves.

He’s worried about the crash when the adrenaline ebbs.

He sure as fuck hopes you can cope with the lows better than he can.

He’d put in a call before you left the retreat, Namjoon’s fast tracking a last known address on the neighbour of Jeon Bogyeol who’d moved away.

You’re typing an address into the satnav yourself, face drawn, eyes serious.

Yoongi doesn’t have to ask whose address it is.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ he asks.

His voice is as neutral as he can make it but he already knows that you’ve made your decision.

It’s written all over you, in the way your shoulders are squared, in the tilt of your chin, in the way your hands are tensed into fists in your lap.

‘I need to see this through, Yoongi,’ you say.

Yoongi takes a moment.

‘What happened to Kiho?’ he asks.

‘He didn’t see who it was,’ you answer. Your eyes are fixed in front of you, jaw tensed.

‘He was heading home in between shifts and he got jumped in the car park under his apartment. If he hadn’t been found by the car park attendant —‘ you voice trails off, and you shiver.

‘He was lucky the car park attendant called for help right away. That his next door neighbour, fresh off a shift in the trauma department, arrived home when she did and was there to take over. That he lives five minutes on blue lights away from the best trauma centre in Seoul.’

You look at Yoongi. ‘Kiho’s damned lucky to be alive.’

‘It’s a different injury from the reaper’s usual MO,’ Yoongi says slowly.

You nod. ‘He was toying with us.’

‘You said you received notes from the Reaper,’ Yoongi says. He’s watching you carefully in the rearview. ‘What did they say?’

Your lips press together in a line, but your voice is steady when you answer.

‘He said he’d been watching me, and that he was coming for me. That I’d be his final kill.’

***

The address you’ve put in for Jeon Bogyeol is a house in a run down suburban neighbourhood, the type of place Yoongi grew up.

The houses are haphazardly arranged, like a careless scatter on a Monopoly board, connected by a warren of roads too narrow for more than one car to pass.

Yoongi can see you tensing up the closer you get to your destination, and after he parks and switches off the engine, he places his hand on your arm.

Your eyes are expressive, more so than your voice.

‘We haven’t got grounds yet for an arrest warrant,’ you say, flat.

‘We’re working the case,’ Yoongi replies. ‘And if it’s right, we’ll work it until it’s airtight.’

Your response is to stare at him a moment, then to push open the car door.

Yoongi notices that you’ve unzipped your jacket, making your holstered gun more visible.

His own gun presses against his hip, the weight of it reminding him that although he’s only drawn it a handful of times, each time has been with intent.

He sure as fuck hopes neither of you will have reason to draw your gun today.

***

The address is little more than a shack, a rickety door that looks like it’ll give under a strong kick, a boarded up window that’s visibly cracked.

Yoongi knocks, identifies you both.

Follows procedure because he’s determined to get it all right this time.

Get the monster locked up where he belongs.

You don’t have grounds to break down the door, at least not until you go round to the back and see the pink tricycle upended in the dirt, streamers splayed tendrils of pink and white.

There isn’t much that sends Yoongi into the grey as much as the suggestion that a child might be involved.

He doesn’t really recall looking at you to confirm, just knows that one minute he’s outside in the chill and the next he’s inside the shack, gun drawn, the metallic tang of blood in the back of his throat.

There’s nowhere to hide in the empty shack, Jeon Bogyeol is gone.

You do a cursory search but both of you know you aren’t going to find your answers here.

Then Yoongi must blank out, because the next thing he hears is your voice, firm, saying his name.

He’s panting, covered in sweat, back against a wall, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his jacket to keep him upright.

He blinks, and you snap into focus. There’s ringing in his ears.

Your mouth opens, and the ringing stops. He hears your voice.

‘Let’s go, Yoongi.’

He lets you lead him out, folds himself into the passenger seat of your car, notes distantly how you put your hand on the top of the doorframe like you’re worried he’s going to bang his head.

You start the engine and then you drive, and Yoongi’s grateful that you don’t say anything at all, don’t ask for an explanation of why a fucking tricycle sent him into a tailspin.

Yoongi looks down in his lap because he’s not ready to see if you’re looking at him differently now that you’ve seen him wig out.

You put the radio on after a few minutes, stop at a drive thru after an hour.

It’s only when you hand him a coffee, silently, that he’s moved to speak.

He clears his throat, and you’re the one who speaks, still looking straight ahead, out the windscreen.

‘You don’t have to tell me. I mean, I’ll listen if you do, but you don’t have to.’

Yoongi chews on that a moment.

‘Three years ago I worked what we thought was a murder in Busan. It turned out to be an abduction.’

Yoongi laughs. There’s no humour in it.

‘We found her. She was still warm. If we’d been ten minutes quicker at figuring it out, if her fucking dad had told us about the business deal he had that had gone sour sooner, if I’d even just tried harder…’

His voice trails off.

He risks a glance at you.

You’re still not looking at him.

‘I can’t speak to whether you could have prevented it, Yoongi. All I know is that none of us come to work to do a bad job.’

Your hand lands on his forearm briefly.

‘Some days are just bad days at the office.’

It’s not the first time Yoongi’s heard it, but it’s the first time it’s been said to him with no judgement that he can hear.

***

When you get back to the precinct, Namjoon’s waiting.

He hands Yoongi another case file.

‘I got Jimin to follow up on those leads we talked about,’ Namjoon says, no preamble.

‘We visited Jeon Bogyeol’s last known address,’ you say. ‘There’s no one there now, but it hasn’t been long since he moved out.’

Namjoon says, ‘Keep me informed.’

He nods to the case file. ‘There’s some interesting information in there.’

As Namjoon walks off, you turn to Yoongi.

‘I’m going down to visit someone I know in forensics, see if they can check the house.’

Yoongi heads for your joint office.

There’s a cleaning cart parked just outside the door, which opens just as Yoongi reaches for the doorknob.

The cleaner apologises and bows politely.

Yoongi steps aside to let her pass.

‘You forgot this,’ he says, spotting the dusting cloth left on your desk.

He hands it to her and places the file on his desk.

Outside, it’s raining again.

***

Yoongi wakes with a jolt.

You’re perched on the edge of his desk.

‘You should go home, get some sleep.’

‘In the middle of an active murder investigation?’ Yoongi mumbles.

‘I’m one of the potential targets, remember?’ you say, grimacing. ‘He might come to us.’

At Yoongi’s expression, you say, ‘We’ve been doing nothing but following up leads since the last murder. The last investigation took months, almost a year. What are you going to do, not sleep until he’s caught?’

‘I don’t sleep much anyway,’ Yoongi says, but he knows you’re right.

‘I know you don’t,’ you reply. There’s an empathy in your tone that reminds him you’re a homicide detective too.

You exchange a look, and then you both speak at the same time.

‘I should go —‘

‘Do you like wontons?’ Yoongi blurts out.

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Is this like inviting me in for ramen?’

‘What?’ Yoongi splutters. ‘No, not like that. There’s this place I go. They have—-‘

‘Wontons, I get it,’ you say. You get up. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

***

It’s been a while since Yoongi shared a meal with someone else, the last person was Hoseok, who could go straight from a crime scene to a steakhouse without turning a hair.

You’re chasing a wonton around your plate, fatigue lining the corners of your mouth.

Yoongi asks, ‘Where do you live?’

‘The other side of town,’ you tell him. ‘Near the financial district.’

‘Fancy,’ Yoongi muses.

‘More than I can afford,’ you say darkly. ‘If this case goes on for a while I’m going to need to move.’

You look up at him. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Close to here,’ Yoongi says.

‘Yeah?’

You put your chopsticks down. ‘I should —-‘

This time, Yoongi interrupts.

‘Do you want to come round for ramen?’

Your eyes meet, and there’s a beat of silence. Then a pulse of connection that sends heat through Yoongi’s veins.

Your knee brushes his under the table.

‘Yeah,’ you answer, deliberate. ‘Fuck, yeah.’

***

Yoongi’s always hated the preamble to a hookup, in his line of work uncertainty is a thing to be avoided.

You work the case until you get an explanation no reasonable person would doubt.

He finds himself waiting, though, now that you’re standing in his apartment.

You’re looking around, and he wonders if his existence seems as lonely on the outside as it feels on the inside.

He’s wondering if you’ve changed your mind, if you really did think he meant ramen, when you reach out and grasp the front of his shirt.

Slip the tips of your fingers just under, hold the placket as you use your other hand to unbutton. Start at his throat, work your way down, slowly.

His skin prickles under the warmth of your fingers.

You lean forward and press a kiss to the base of his neck.

Yoongi reaches up, slides a hand around the nape of your neck, and you tilt your face to his.

Close up, you’re soft.

Yoongi traces your bottom lip with his thumb, and your lips part.

You don’t say anything, though, and that’s ok, because Yoongi thinks you’re as talked out as he is.

It’s been a hell of a fucking day.

You’re kissing his neck again, instead of his mouth, and that’s ok, because this isn’t love, it’s comfort.

A human connection in a day filled with monsters.

Yoongi sighs as your hands slip over his bare chest, round to his back.

He helps you lift your top over your head, admires your breasts, nipples pressing against the fabric of your bra.

He cups the weight of them in his hands, and you moan.

Yoongi’s cock is filling out, and you’re undoing his belt like you want to see for yourself.

You drop to your knees in front of him, press your mouth onto the length of him over his boxer briefs, sigh with pleasure.

‘Not too much,’ Yoongi warns, ‘not if you want me to fuck you.’

You look up at him, hair mussed, a smile curving your lips.

You tug his boxer briefs down, and Yoongi curls a hand around himself so as not to hit you in the face.

‘Just let me —‘

You open your mouth to take him in, and Yoongi groans at the feel of your warmth.

When did he last —

His crown nudges the back of your throat, and you swallow, and he loses his train of thought.

He grabs your shoulder, tugs you up, kisses the smear of his own stickiness at the corner of your mouth.

The light slanting in through the window is hues of gold and orange, filling in the hollows of your face, outlining the curves of your body.

Yoongi has to stop looking at you because he doesn’t want to cry at how much he’s missed being close to someone like this.

‘Where do you want me?’ he asks, voice taut.

‘Anywhere,’ you say. ‘Just turn these fucking lights out.’

***

In the dark, Yoongi’s most enraptured by the warmth of you.

Your skin is smooth, so soft under his hands as he wraps his fingers around the curve of your hips.

His cock glides in and out of the heat between your legs, and your moans are beautiful but what really gets him are the hitches in your breathing as he moves.

He turns you over, onto your back, and you pull him to you. Your mouth opens on his shoulder in what would be a kiss if you weren’t biting down. Your tongue flicks over his bruised skin, an apology.

You haven’t spoken to each other in words in a while but Yoongi doesn’t think either of you need words right now.

At least he doesn’t.

You’re tightening around his cock now, your cries quickening until you gasp his name in a tone that makes him grunt and his hips jerk, taking him deep as he can go.

Even in his pleasure he makes sure not to crush you as he collapses next to you.

Then you’re up, walking over to the window, pulling up the sash, lighting a cigarette without asking if he’s ok with it.

Yoongi admires the outline of your profile against the glass.

‘I needed that,’ you say, taking a drag, hunching a little to blow smoke out of his window.

‘Me too,’ Yoongi says, honestly.

He ties off the condom, gets up to toss it in the trash on top of yesterday’s takeout.

Pours you a glass of water on his way back to bed.

He half expects you to be dressed, and you are, but in his clothes, not your own, an old t-shirt he’d tossed on the chair by the bed yesterday morning before he left for work.

He can’t see your face clearly in the dark. It makes it easy to find his voice.

‘You should stay,’ he says. ‘We can get coffee in the morning.’

You’re quiet. ‘I want to.’

Yoongi climbs into bed, and after a moment you slide in next to him.

Your bodies aren’t touching at all, but somehow having you there with him is enough.

Yoongi means to check on you, but he’s asleep so quickly he doesn’t get a chance to.

***

There’s a basketball hoop set into the wall in the back end of the station, a concrete square with a chain-link fence.

The building opposite is a block of offices, as is the building next to it.

Yoongi makes the shot, and you grab the ball on its first bounce.

You say, ‘Forensics got nothing from Jeon Bogyeol’s shack. He bleached the shit out of the place before he left.’

Yoongi grunts, watches you point and shoot.

He’d read through the file Namjoon gave him on the neighbour - it’s incomplete but she was last seen alive twelve weeks ago in a coastal town.

There’s something niggling at the back of his brain, he’d suggested shooting hoops in the hopes that the activity might shake the thought loose so his conscious mind can make the connection.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Namjoon.

‘I’m going up to see Namjoon,’ he says. ‘You coming?’

‘I’ll stay here for a bit,’ you say. ‘I’ll be up in a sec.’

Yoongi shrugs, lets himself back in.

Takes the stairs up to Namjoon’s office on the third floor.

There’s a cleaning cart parked next to the staff kitchen as he rounds the corner.

Yoongi’s about to knock on Namjoon’s door when his scattered thoughts crystallise.

The case file Namjoon had given him had a grainy photo of Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour, the one who’d reported him and then disappeared.

He’s seen her face before, and recently.

Coming out of your office.

‘Fuck,’ he swears.

He grabs his phone out of his pocket, dials your number.

Your phone rings, and rings.

Yoongi takes off, down the stairs, back the way he came.

By the time he bursts out of the back door of the station, gun drawn, his heart’s thumping triple speed, but his hand is steady as he aims it at the man with a knife standing over you.

His finger goes from trigger guard to trigger.

‘Fucking drop it,’ Yoongi warns.

He doesn’t, so Yoongi shoots.

***

Jeon Bogyeol’s neighbour who had reported him was called Seo Hyerin.

She was in her early forties, an ex-teacher who he’d coerced into helping him by turning up at her new place even after she’d moved to get away from him.

She’d been too scared to disobey him, but in forcing her to help him, Jeon Bogyeol had given her access to enough information to clinch the case against him.

Once she’d found out he’d been shot and was likely to go straight from hospital to prison, she’d shared all that information with Yoongi and you.

The pieces fell into place so easily there was no need to make any of it fit.

And now Yoongi’s sitting in the kitchen of your apartment, watching as you pack things up.

He’d been right. Your place was fancy.

You were being transferred back to Seoul to finish up, see things through with the case.

He realises you’re looking at him.

‘My new place is a couple hours drive from here,’ you say.

‘Yeah?’ Yoongi says, like he hadn’t already looked it up.

He’d also looked up timed automated cat food dispensers, just because it was one thing to have a neighbour drop in and feed Kenzo if he’s stuck with a case occasionally, but it’s another thing if he’s regularly going to be driving down to see you.

If he’s regularly going to be spending the night away.

It’s uncharacteristic, for him, but he’s hopeful.

‘I slept pretty well that time,’ you say, looking down into your box.

You look up at him, and the curve of your lips makes Yoongi think to himself that he’d like to kiss you, sometime.

‘In your apartment,’ you clarify, like he wouldn’t already know.

‘I make good ramen,’ Yoongi says. ‘I can make it again for you, you know.’

You laugh, and the sound makes Yoongi feel warm.

He realises that he’s smiling.

Fuck, it’s been a while.

#bts fanfiction #bts smut #yoongi x reader #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi smut

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iznsfw · 3 months

Text

Manic Robotic Dream Girl

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 4 - Choi Yena

IZ*ONE's Choi Yena x Male Reader Smut

8,311 words

Neon lights dance like flames around you. There’s no need to touch them when you’re already burning. Burning with something that’s not a fever but a kind of pain that never goes away.

Sweat pricks the sides of your face and you’re aware of the blots of perspiration running down your jawline. Nights at the Rogue are often hot, but then they surprise you with a sudden burst of windiness, so you never bother to take your coat off. Whatever and wherever, you’ll always be here yet you’ve not once been able to predict the temperature.

That’s what happened when WAKE12 took over.

Apparently, they decide if people are under the weather by controlling it by them-fucking-selves. Kwon feeling shitty? Looks like rain then. Maybe she’s feeling happy? Alright, let the clouds find balance. Angry? Take a fucking hailstorm. What a privilege, one bigger than the lives of the rich men in the North. But everyone forgets about that fact after she sends out minimal alms—canned goods, a Bible, something. Then it’s back to President Kwon is the best! President Kwon can never fail us! President—

“Vodka.”

“Same as yesterday?” asks Yuri, smiling a little bit.

“Same as yesterday.” For a hologram, Yuri can be quite the social butterfly.

Online wallets are all the rage nowadays. The AI voice in your head offers you said option to pay, and you can hear your balance privately spoken. Somehow your brow prevents from creasing as you hear it. You lack funds but somehow have a few extra bucks to drink.

Choose that. You want to save your Wizes for other things. Lock eyes with Yuri and your balance goes down. You’ve paid.

Online and digital wallets modified with embedded signals and readers were in use before you were even born. Of course, there were already such payment options in the twenty-first century, but how WAKE12 changed everything, not just ordering options with telepathic payment, can easily be read in a sixth grade history textbook.

In October of the year 2918, Kwon Eunbi rose in the ranks as a scientist and soldier for Kang Hyewon, former president, and ended up working her way into dictatorship. The textbooks and classrooms teach that she proposed a law to the court and got herself a position for her wit and intelligence. But early first accounts challenge that, saying that she caught the eye of Kang and had a sexual relationship with her. WAKE12 branded this as propaganda that sullies the name of not only the dictator but the one of the late president, who died mysteriously before Kwon rose to power.

Massive backstory for cashless payment, but you know there’s more to it than the government would like to let on. What happened to Kang? What made Kwon so evil the moment she sat in her presidential throne?

“Thank you, sir.” Holograms all have different voices; Yuri’s sounds like she’s singing. At least the bartender slash boss hired her instead of those with monotone, emotionless ones. It’s cheaper to have hologram workers than humans anyway. Less money, less emotional labor, less of feeling like a normal person.

A beggar curled up below the counter holds his hand out. Not an uncommon sight in the Auster, but it’s a pity to see. The world has advanced with its telepathic wallets and 3D holograms yet there will always be individuals who haven’t caught up with time. While the North Rogue leads worldly lifetimes, the Auster is a home for the rejects. The poorest of the poor. The somewhere-in-the-middles. It can never be truly a perfect world if advancement doesn’t include everyone.

Give him a Wize. Back then, that would have been worth a hundred or so dollars, a currency long gone. Not that you’d know of it; WAKE12 claimed leadership way before you were born so the cheap value of the coin studded with the bust of Kwon Eunbi is all you’re accustomed to.

Take your drink and thank Yuri.

The cobblestone is rough beneath your feet. You take your seat at your usual table. Float your fingers around your shotglass. Pour the contents down your chapped mouth almost all in one go. Anything to feel something. Anything to feel anything.

You’re not an alcoholic by any means, though that’s certainly up for debate. But there’s a need for the liquid that rages more than the need for oxygen (the fucking shortage of it) or food (the fucking expense of it). How else could you be less numb? You’re welcome to every feeling at this stage, just not this empty neutrality that slumbers your senses.

Pain? Your throat seizes up when you drink and brings tears to your eyes, so there's that.

Happiness? Hm, none. You’re barely smiling. You’ve no family, little friends, and no partner for the last few years. There’s nothing to be happy about.

Anger? The displays of people fined harshly for their crimes on the big as life advertising screens stir some defiance in you. WAKE12 doesn’t take kindly to hacktivists and young coders dabbling in creating their own AIs. You have your own anti-government opinions, but what’s a human mind against an artificial one? Plus, and probably a less serious reason (tell that to the thousands who flock to the hospitals because of asthma), the air is almost always polluted here in the Rogue. It’s dirtied by car smoke and factory remains. You’d think that robots taking over the labs would improve it. Perhaps they weren’t programmed that way.

Loneliness?

You look around. See the glitching phantoms of new world technology make the drinks breezily. Watch the light-studded train filled with commuters from the Auster. Kwon Eunbi managed to build an underside track for additional trains to run and still the commuters—young students, old grandparents, not young but not old workers whose jobs belong to WAKE12—wear the same tired look you saw yesterday. All you could hear are buzzes and uncanny valley voices from holograms.

The second chair paired with your table is empty. You’re suddenly lucid to the fact that it’ll always be like this. These nights of drinking and walking in the Auster Rogue will be endless, and just the same, you’ll be endlessly alone.

Sometimes mortality could be so depressing.

So depressing that it makes it all so meaningless.

A man stumbles over to the outside bar, breaking your thoughtless reverie. His clothes are as black as the night you spend but you can see blood on the fabric. The skyscrapers provide enough light for you to see his red face from anxious internal and worrying external blood. The pleading look grips his expression like a malfunctioning robot’s limb.

He’s looking back as if afraid of what might be there. The rain-soaked road is tread on roughly by his shaking knees as he crawls his way to the bar. “Please, help me!”

“Warning,” comes the voice in your head, and you know the other visitors hear it, too, “a criminal of the state is in your proximity. Proceed with caution.”

WAKE12 always keeps an eye on those who threaten them. They have goons everywhere. The kindly grandfather down the street could be a veteran waiting for the chance of a medal. They have ears everywhere as well. Undercover cops stay in both crowded and clear spaces to identify possible threats. When it all comes down to it, you’re not safe in your own head at all. The implants can detect when you dream up something terrible. That’s how millions lose their reputation. Their jobs. Their families.

Their lives.

He staggers to the counter, crashing glass that shards his palms, and lets out this wail you’d hear from an abused pup. “Please,” he croaks. “Don’t listen to them. I just need somewhere to hide. I did nothing wrong, nothing!”

The implanted voice in your brain says otherwise. Everyone was given one when the Cyber Age came. That’s what makes a tiny difference in seeing who’s human and who’s not: the tiny, diamond scar below their hairline from the operation. Close inspection can’t always be done, however. Nowadays, too many of these robots and holograms pass the Turing test. You can never truly trust someone.

“Offenses include: playing the role of an accomplice in theft of government data, distribution of terrorist propaganda—”

“Get the fuck out!” says the bartender, having burst out from the back. As a longtime visitor, you haven’t seen him this angry, but you know it stems from fear. No one wants to associate with a criminal. No one wants the association to lead to arrest and the arrest lead to god knows what. Hundreds of people go missing after they’re taken under custody. What Kwon does to them, you don’t know. “Leave or I’ll call the cops!”

Like you said, they lurk everywhere. You’re surprised they haven’t caught up to him.

The bloodied man shakes his head, like please, please, someone believe me. “No, I’m not a criminal! Listen to me, please, I don’t have enough time! They just wanna—cut down”

Rapid footsteps. Sigh and put your glass down. There they are.

The man reaches for him, but the bartender shoves the whole table into his face. He falls back on the ground and cries out for help that never comes. Men and women wearing tight black uniforms and vests pull him up. Their lit helmets that opposingly disallow a view of their faces make them look emotionless. Like robots.

Huh.

While resting your head against the metal chair, you listen to the struggling shuffles of the police and criminal, and see the glitching robots walking down the road. No real emotion, no real living.

He scratches and screams and sobs, but that doesn’t matter to them. They pull him along the rocky cement and recite his nonexistent rights to him. There’s the right to remain silent (he’s screaming), the right to an attorney (nobody in the Auster can afford a good lawyer much less an honest one), and the right to live freely if found innocent of the crime (someone getting convicted happens more often than being released).

Besides, it can’t be called living when it’s in a place so completely devoid of any humanity.

“In more ways than one,” you say. Fuck it, you’ll drink to that.

Like always, you take more than you should. You believe by now you’ve built some kind of immunity. That’s what they all think, you remind yourself, before an inevitable death that buries them in the ground one bricked shot at a time. You swear you’re not dizzy at all or feeling the acid build to your throat, so the sight gathering just a little away from you is real.

Stare at your glass. Space out if not for what you see: behind it, a shapely form of a woman in purple. The blue and violet lights make it difficult for you to distinguish it from her clothes so she actually looks naked. That shocks you more than the arrest. You’re sure she’s got a little modesty in her because why else is she making her way to a table?

Your table?

It’s like she teleported when she’s suddenly seated before you, filling the chair that’s been empty for the last more or so years. You don’t even get the chance to look up at the right time, but the moment you do, you think keeping your eyes on your glass would’ve been better for the sake of your heart.

YENA.

Her name appears in your mind and she hasn’t even introduced herself. But it’s right there, emblazoned in lights in all capitalized four letters: YENA. This girl is Yena. And this girl—this fucking guilty pleasure of a girl—is gorgeous.

The ends of her hair are tinged with blonde, and it’s hard not to give attention to that with how her locks are gathered into twin tails. She smoothes them before looking at you quite seriously, like she’s about to propose a challenge you’d lose.

Blue shining eyes. There’s something odd about the way they twinkle below her bangs—almost like something not human.

Yena dances her fingers around her jawline, elbow resting on the table, and tilts her pretty face. Lets her fingers play with her lips that are made for things the Auster’s known for providing (she can’t be from here though; those crocheted coordinates look costly). That’s how you notice that fine feature. Naturally thick and casually jutted out in a distinctive pout, your eyes are glued to them. Can’t take your prolonged stare away if someone helped you.

“Are you waiting for me to start talking?” Yena asks. She’s not angry, just amused—her voice is smooth and clear, with a tiny pitch that makes her all the more cute.

You shake your head. “Was just trying to figure something out.”

“And that is?”

“A lot of things,” you state. Things you’d keep a secret forever, lest you spill them out to a girl all for the payment of being beautiful. “But I’m not sure pretty girls like you would want to know.”

You try to keep your curious peering at her normal, but it’s difficult when she just attracts attention. She’s a glowing lightbulb in a flutter of moths. Yena doesn’t flicker weakly; she shines, and it’s honestly why everyone else is “subtly” looking at her, this gorgeous stranger who came in and somehow chose the alcoholic who came from places more rock bottom than the Auster.

She laughs. It’s sobering—you think you’ll get drunk on her rather than the cheap alcohol. “Is that what you think of me? Too beautiful to think too much?”

Look her up and down. Yeah, you want to say, that’s about it. It’s not out of offense but rather the instinct in you that wants to tell her you don’t want to put her in a worried state. She’s too… ah, she doesn’t know what you’d do for a girl like her—someone too unreal to be human but too genuine to be the “living” dolls lonely men purchase. Someone who can keep a conversation going without fearing a low blow. Someone who’s out of your league in the Rogue’s mixed pool but chooses you anyway.

“I’m just saying you might not want to hear a stranger boring you with his hard problems.”

“Oh please,” she says, waving it off with a flick of a pointed wrist. “You know my name. I know yours. We’re not strangers anymore.”

How did you—how did she—

Her eyes twinkle again. They’re… violet? You could have bet they were blue. But then you see the suspiciously smooth and clear skin, with the perfect lines of her eyelids, which curve as if manufactured in. She’s definitely not human.

“Besides,” adds Yena sweetly, “you’re really underestimating how good I can take certain hard things.”

Swallow. You opened the door, now you’re locked in.

Yena catches the bob of your Adam’s apple and smirks. Traces her fingers over yours. She can’t be human for sure yet you feel the softness of her hand, the only thing giving you doubt being how chilled her touch is. It's humid here, so where did that come from? Goosebumps pop up in masses across your skin—note how nothing shows up on hers.

Maybe she’s just a confident woman.

“Come on, I dare you.”

“Only if you go first.”

“Yes, sir,” she says. A cutesy saluted hand positions itself before her temple. Her hands are tiny, could be dainty, while her cheeks lift to support an adorable smile.

Your knees tremble. You don’t know where that came from either. Yena just knows what to say to get to a guy. Almost like she was made for it. There’s that question again, resurfacing in your altered brain: is she human or not?

You lean back. Cross your arms. Here you go, on your way to find out. “What’s your story?”

Yena shrugs, her shoulders bare and smooth. And you’re thinking of how you’d like to see the rest of them, the rest of her body naked by pulling down the crocheted strap of the purple coordinates. How you’d like to touch those puffed up cheeks and not care if they’re real or not when you pull her close to kiss her. How those lips—

“Don’t have one.”

“Sorry?”

She laughs. Even the way she giggles is attractive. “No, seriously,” she replies, licking her lips. “There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m the most normal girl there is.”

There is nothing normal about her. Everything she says is too prepared. The largeness of her eyes gives everything away. Her hair is combed too finely that you’re not unconvinced that it isn't human hair at all, though you can see them connect at the roots. It’s like someone drew a cute animated girl on a notepad one lonely night, sent the idea to a rich bastard, and brought her to life.

So no, you’re not buying it.

“So you’re saying you’re just a blank canvas.”

“If you put it like that, I guess.” Yena rolls her eyes. You’re a bit obsessed. “Guys want that, right? A blank piece of a girl they could shoot more than a shot at? Maybe paint her white?”

You’re thankful you didn’t continue drinking. Otherwise, your surprise would be visible and audible with the lodge of your throat as you wineboard yourself.

The side of her mouth raises. A soft dimple exceeding cuteness—it’s deeper, brighter, shinier. You imagine her as a college student, charming boys into submission just with a wink and a smile that can melt hearts and bring guilt to lust-addled minds.

That’s what she’s doing: Yena is melting you because of how adorable she is, but then you take a look at her body, note the fine curves it boasts, and feel the need to go to a confessional pastor. You’re not supposed to repeats in your mind, but you’re you—if you aren’t supposed to do it, then of course you’ll do it anyway.

“Woah,” you say with a nervous laugh. “Woah.”

“Look.” She rests her forearm on the table and talks so casually one would think she weren’t just talking about getting cumshots. “I‘m not taking that back, so do with that what you will.”

Under the table, behind the scenes, her leg is curled around one of yours. Her ankle glides along your skin teasingly. Not a speck of hair on all of those flawless legs, but you’re shivering anyway from the contact. Hence, make a show of closing your coat around yourself. You can’t fool her when it’s not even chilly.

Recover, piecing together the brokenness of your confidence she tore apart.

“My story is, uh, weird.”

“Tell me.”

“This might be too personal but—” You lift your shoulders awkwardly. “I used to date a girl who looks exactly like you.”

Kim Chaewon—short auburn hair, soft cheeks, and a tiny figure. She’s a memory you didn’t think of returning to today, but then Yena came here, and now you’re back to your youth.

“She was a cop. Cutest officer I’ve ever seen, but a real bitch, for the lack of a better word. Then she left me.”

“You broke her heart, didn’t you?”

Sputter. “No!” you immediately deny, shaking your head. “I—I didn’t hurt her, she was—”

A filthy lie. You became nonchalant, undeserving of a sweet woman who’d do anything for you, even give up her well-paying job. Again and again, Chaewon expressed her concerns: why were you talking to Minju? Where have you been? Why are you so mean? You disregarded them all the same. She deserved the ignorance; she was too fucking controlling, too fucking jealous.

Yena knows you’re lying. It’s like you’re a wound she can peel back to see all the ugliness, all the damage underneath. Her smile tells you everything.

“Oh, come on. I don’t care. Except for this.” Yena intertwines her fingers. Rests her chin on top of the formed platform. “Was she a good fuck?”

Your laugh is forced, trying to make a good deal out of this situation. A girl is flirting with you right after you saw someone disappear. Now you’re wondering if she’s a robot. Now, through some way, she knows you’re lying about your ex. Coincidences meet yet you refuse to connect them—parallel lines they shall stay, forever.

“Yena, what exactly is up with you?” you ask. “You just met me. And come on now, why me?”

It’s begun to be hotter in this space. Loosen your coat. Perspiration isn’t because of the atmosphere, so you find out (and what a surprise). It’s because of the woman across you, a midnight sun. If the painful sun was actually a symbol of good in the Rogue, Yena would play its role perfectly. She’d scorch through you and you’ll enjoy every second. Yeah, you’d get all sorts of tans and burns and cancers if you bask in her without protection, but my god, are you willing to take the risk.

“I just don’t like seeing pretty boys have problems,” she replies easily. “If they want, (and I know they do), I’ll take them all away. Soon, all you'll think of is me. Like I’m the sun peeking in your room and you just can’t get enough sleep because of it.”

You tense up. Millions of questions, a void empty of answers. Once again, how was she so spot on? You’re not breathing quite well, and your clothes are tighter tonight. “Yena, look, I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

Don’t be, not because you aren't, but because she said so.

She pouts. “You’re not gonna buy me a drink?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Nope. Remember what I said? I’m a blank canvas. So do whatever you want with me. Buy me a drink. Or not. Tell me to fuck off. Or not. Force me on my knees.”

Yena kneels.

There’s no mantle on the table to cover up what she’s about to do. You gasp, then try to mask it as a poor cough, but you’re distracted by how she pulls your pants down effortlessly. The button sealing your coat is busted open and gone.

So is your dignity.

Yena’s tongue sticks out at the side of her mouth as she looks up at you with excitement and mischief in her eyes.

“Or let me do the job. I’m a big girl after all.”

She seals her teeth around your zipper and tugs down. It’s embarrassing how hard you are for her. But Yena doesn’t care. Adoration is clear on her face as she stares at your shaft, the worshipful energy in her eyes so overwhelming that she has to do something about it.

“Yena—” What a way to go out: screaming a stranger’s name.

You knew those lips were up to no good the moment you saw them. She’s provided evidence, too. Her soft lips embrace your boner and suckle fervently while dragging themselves upwards. It’s a caress that tenses you up rather than comforts you. It works you up, tying you down with the little weight Yena has. You could kick her away right now and tell her to go away. File a case against her.

You don’t.

The joined duo of careful teeth and wild tongue gets you whimpering. Shivering. Begging. How is she so good at this?

Her mouth is perfectly wet. It’s not copiously soaked to have you cringing but the perfect balance of wet and ready, coating your rod again and again. She gives you too much and just right. It would be a cruel violation if you were asked to choose one and only one.

“Baby, what the fuck—” you stammer.

Her throat’s an expert in taking you because one push of her lips to your base welcomes you in its tight hole. Your knees shake; Yena places her hands on it, not to stop their trembles but for leverage during the dip of her head.

Close your eyes, look up, and stare at skies that provide no reprieving stars. Think of how she’s infinitely bett—

“Better than any pussy, huh?” Yena asks. The third time is no coincidence, so you’ve heard. “And it’s just my throat.”

At this stage, you don’t care if she’s a robot or not, because either way, that mouth is a fucking treasure.

You lift your hips and start slowly working yourself in Yena’s face. Her lips pucker and pout to allow you inside with pleasurable friction. Those eyes—there aren’t any planets in the sky because of the pollution but you think you can see their sparkle in them.

The amazing part is that Yena doesn’t choke. She endlessly takes you in, receiving every inch like a blessed gift, but you don’t hear her wheeze. No sounds of complaints escape her. You have a feeling it’s not because of your cock sliding in and out of it. She only gags on occasion, and those already sound fake. It’s like she’s doing it just so you can get worked up hearing her moans.

While others might be impressed, you’re dumbfounded. She tightens and loosens and pushes and pulls just for your pleasure.

“Yena, I– you’re doing so good,” you compliment her in gasped breaths.

Her cheeks hollow. The suction strengthens and it now feels like your soul’s being swallowed down her neck. She knows how to tease you with light pandering from her teeth, generous licking, and strengthened swallowing. Her mouth is warm but you are more so. She’s making you feel hot in all these layers, an additional one played by her perfect lips.

Perfect hair, too, you note.

Hungry impulses take over your body and now you’re pumping your core into the girl’s face with the help of her pigtails. Yena’s hair is thick and silky, and it’s another enjoyable factor: feeling how it slips between your fingers and how each pull directs her lips to press firmly to your crotch.

She doesn’t gag with that either. She must have had a lot of experience; she did say she can take hard things fine. That is, if she were human. If not, whoever built her had dirty ideas: the lack of gag reflex surely brings in the five star ratings.

Bright star-like eyes, cute ruinable face, mouth that can take the largest.

Yep, perfect.

“Good—fucking—girl.”

Your cock weeps white. Yena feels the first drop and immediately pulls away. She pumps your shaft with a strong, urgent fist. As she hinted, you blast all over her face. Your orgasm grips you and shakes you like never before, and of course, the little brat enjoys it. She’s nearly laughing.

“There,” says Yena after she drains you. Her duck-like lips are sticky with cum. “Canvas painted.”

What a pretty painting you’ve made. Here, shown to the public, is the manic pixie dream girl, semen on her chin to symbolize how each word she utters has you climaxing; hair disheveled to show your subtle but messy rule over her, because you own her although you weren’t there when her mechanical limbs were assembled and her face drawn; and a smile on her face to show that despite all this: she likes it.

You laugh, short blunt breaths wisping in the air. “There really is something wrong with you, Yena,” you say.

She’s a girl who’s extremely pretty, good at blowjobs, and likes public sex and oral. She can also read minds. Oh, and she might not be real.

“You could say that again.” She wipes her mouth. “Though I do think I could use a little fixing from you.”

You take her home. Your mother would have been disappointed in you if she knew you violated the first law you were ever taught: don’t talk to strangers. Most of all, don’t ever let them in. But Yena is no stranger—like she said, she knows your name and for some reason, you know her own. You’re not strangers. And your mother isn’t around to command you not to kneel for a pretty girl.

This home of yours isn’t fancy, but if people from 2024 saw it, they’d be mesmerized. You’re not rich enough to afford the penthouses the North offers; this one is alright for you. The stories of the building aren’t aligned with each other, separating a few yards with floating floors that defy gravity. That’s right; WAKE12 somehow found a way to disobey the rules of physics. The ends are lit up with bright lights that blind you from miles away. Wide windows encircle the areas along with al frescos and convenient malls. Back then, this would have been classified as the house of the wealthy—you can’t say you agree with the sentiment when you’re not at all rich.

“Hi,” says Yena brightly at the front desk. She’s so smiley, always grinning like she’s just told a really clever joke. “Where’s the elevator?”

“I, uh…”

The manager looks at her oddly. Your ears redden; she still hasn’t cleaned her face up. Evidence of your deed lies there on her nose and chin and cheeks, even in her perfect hair.

“Well?”

The manager lifts the phone immediately. Before he could dial a number, Yena sighs loudly.

“Look.” She silences the telephone with a slam of the device down on the keypad. The man’s hand cringes. “I’m about to fuck this guy’s brains out and I promise your little backup bosses can’t do anything about it.”

He stares at her.

“I’m gonna use his dick until it’s limp as a balloon, then ride him in bed, then bend over on the kitchen table so he could breed me like a common whore.”

You lift an index finger to apologize, but put it back down. Did she just say you can breed her?

His jaw tenses. The teeth behind those unsmiling thin lips grit, not in annoyance but in fear. Yena’s bouncy and sweet, but apparently she’s excluding people who cockblock from her cute attitude.

“So,” finishes Yena, lowering her gaze, “where is the fucking elevator?”

The elevator has no pulley or doors. It sits at the side of the uneven floors and rises with nothing but a sizable pod. You’ve had to watch your weight to be able to enjoy the freedom from staircases.

Yena steps on it with no worry. As you look at her, you realize how positively tiny she is. That’s why she isn’t doubtful about fitting in the claustrophobic space. Her violet clothes can slip off at any time at her pull of a waist and slim thighs. All the fullness goes to her cheeks, painted with fake tattooed stars and minimal doodles.

She’s the kind of girl you could just pick up and do whatever to. You’re the kind of guy who really, really likes the idea.

Holding your hand is a thing of the past. Yena clutches your cock over your jeans as the elevator lifts the two of you up.

The first thing she does the moment you enter your home is not kiss you, or slam you to the door, or whisper dirty nothings in the hollow of your ear. Yena looks around and says, simply, “Doable.”

You chuckle. You’re not offended. It’s a tidy, minimal apartment with glass that spans a viewing pleasure of the artificial forest and the hills. Glass lost its value but skyrocketed in purchases when Jo Yuri, first activist recorded in the history of WAKE12’s domination, was imprisoned. People compared her name to glass (yuri was 유리 and 유리 meant glass) and since then, it has been used everywhere. High demand, low price. Her symbol and namesake is used the way the public wants her to be used: cheap thing convenient only to the eye. They always said she was too pretty to talk too much.

“Here, doable is the best compliment,” you reply. You go to your bedroom to clean the place. If you want to fuck a rich girl, make sure the bedroom is at least up to her standards. “You have personal maids there in the North?”

Yena continues looking around. She’s mildly fascinated by everything, especially in the big window placed on the ceiling that lets stars peer down at you. For some reason, all the ejaculation on her face is gone. You don’t remember her bringing a washcloth.

“I’m not from the North, you know.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. I don’t come from anywhere.”

You come out, having cleared your bed from clothes and the floors of trash. You fed the trash to the connected chute that all apartments have, which leads down to the Southern Auster. The word may be Latin and is already defined as south, but there’s places poorer than the part you live in. You’re lucky to be here. The Southern Auster’s where it’s much more dangerous. The people there scavenge for food and money, and their cries go unheard in the night. It’s the biggest criminal capital of the Rogue.

You come out and Yena’s sitting on the kitchen table with a knife.

Stop in your tracks.

See the blood running down her arm.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says dismissively. “It doesn’t hurt.”

You still don’t know what to say. The wound on her skin’s dissolved to a scar that looks more like a scratch on metal. Why would she do that? Why would that do that?

“In fact, I think it’s kind of cool.” Yena slides the blade on the strap of her top. It falls apart, right down to her braless chest. A pink, perky nipple is clear in the moonlight shining from above. “When people see me, they usually want to hurt me, so I might as well do it myself, right? They want to slap me, pull my hair, choke me. They say that and figure I’m totally flattered.”

You want to say that you couldn’t blame them. Yena’s got this innocent but naughty aura about her that you want to completely ruin. There’s her hair, all dolled up and her quirky makeup that brings attention that eventually switches down to the body she doesn’t bother hiding.

But it looks like she’s doing the ruining. Aren’t those the best stories? Boy corrupts girl when it’s the other way around in reality?

To use the word “reality” when you’re with Yena is laughable. She can read your mind like a Rogue Times newspaper. You get that things you thought were impossible have a chance of happening in these days, but you don’t remember wounds healing that fast. The knife slices right through the fabric, revealing swoon-worthy curves of her waist and hips, making her bleed only not for too long. Who would want a scar-ridden skinny girl anyway?

“Well,” you say after a dutiful swallow, “are you?”

Yena examines the knife. Her crimson blood dripping from its edge is a worthwhile watch while she considers this.

She finally puts down the knife, much to your relief. “I don’t know. What about you, handsome? Do you want to hurt me or fuck me?”

“I… I’m not like them. I don’t wanna hit you or make you cry or anything. I want to fuck you, that’s completely different.”

First confession of the night that didn’t need saying when it’s clear. You let her blow you in public. You took her home. The intention is staring you in the face: you want to have sex with a girl you just met.

Yena smiles. “You’d be surprised how blurred the lines are.”

Yena‘s hands fall on your shoulders and make you fall to the kitchen chair and make your pants fall on the floor. Falling, falling, falling for her—it’s all you’re able to do provided that she’s stunning. She’s tiny with her thin arms and legs but her breasts are surprisingly supple. The cleavage her top subtly shows off hinted to that and you’re still shocked.

She’s a hot desert, and the only source you can drink of is her core. Her pussy is slick, making her thighs glue together only for them to part as she sits on your lap.

The first grind has you both breathless. The second renders a duet of moans. She’s so wet that it’s excessive enough for her to drip down your cock and completely cover it with her. Yena’s pussy lips splay and clasp your shaft with slippery friction.

She curses. “You’re so hard. Big, t-too.” She aims your cockhead at her clit and sighs at the toe-curling pleasure. “You think you can fit in me?”

“I guess we’ll have to see.”

Yena smirks. She continues soaking you with her wetness. Her juices pour from your head to your balls. Then, without warning, she sheathes your rod inside her.

You gasp. It’s so easy to slip yourself in and all too difficult to cope with how tight she is. Her walls, perfectly textured and sloppy, trap you and let you out, giving you false hope of escaping, only to imprison you again. It’s the best punishment you ever had.

Her throat was already better than the other cunts you’ve spent yourself in, so what does that make her pussy?

The best. Her overflowing waterfall lets her ride you easily. It seems like there’s a million spots inside her you can target for she quivers and cries with each bounce. Her hair flows photogenically while her chest does the same erotic motion.

“So fucking good, fuck,” Yena groans. Her round butt lands on your lap and you think you’d like it to stay there forever. Curl your hands around her cheeks. Draw a healthy moan from the throat you used.

Yena’s pussy curves and opens in every best way. She makes it so easy to mold her into the shape of your cock, to rearrange her insides. Was she made for dick? She’s so wet that you’d think she’s a nymphomaniac who won’t let you go, the same way her vagina won’t let you go as its grip curls around you and threatens to milk you to your wits’ end.

You wouldn’t mind that.

Her riding accelerates to an unbearable point the moment you start to spank her. She’s right about hurting and having sex being almost the same—you want to leave red handprints all over her jiggling ass. You want to pull her hair until she screams. You want to fuck this perfect cunt of hers right up to when she’s creaming all over you, flooding your sexes with her naturla nectar.

And the crazy thing is: she’ll actually let you.

“Fucking brat,” you say, hitting her butt again. She yelps coquettishly. “Are you really this thirsty for cock?”

“God, yes…” Her head throws back. Yena’s eyes shut and although her vision is blocked she sees stars. “Wanted to know how your dick would split me open. Fuck, keep doing that!”

Her core tightens with each blow you expel on her bouncing ass. Her hole’s already so enclosed so when she squeezes more, it’s close to having your cock tortured. You’re suffocating inside her. You’re waterboarded again and again with her waterfall of wetness.

You guide Yena’s motions with your hands on her behind. She’s so light that you’re practically using her as a doll, fucking her on your erection and letting yourself enjoy how her tits recoil. Her moans turn on a part of your brain that you don’t know, but it transmits to you these thoughts: fuck her senseless.

You raise her as high as you can, her weight nothing even to your long-untrained muscles, then slam her down. She sinks deeper into your lap and takes longer inches. Yena’s screams bounce off the soundproof walls that ensure only you can hear them. Those walls were fucking expensive, so of course you gotta let them have purpose. Slap Yena’s thighs down on yours and let her pussy envelop you right up to the point of bruises appearing on your skin.

How does she not sweat? Your hands wander all over her tight body and still you don’t find a drop of sweat. Her pigtails are still secured. You guess she was just made to be eternally pretty.

She is pretty, under any circumstance—her smooth skin possesses zero blemishes and her winged eyes remain lamp-bright. She’s pretty, even when she lets out the pitchiest sounds, even when Yena’s lips rise into a devilish smile before sealing on your neck. She nibbles on your skin and rakes up your sensitivity.

“Holy shit, Yena…”

“Yeah, that’s right.” She licks behind your ear and you nearly lose it. Maybe you already did. “Say my name. Because I’m all yours. This pussy is yours to use and abuse, so do it.”

Rub her tiny pulsing clit. Yena’s cries deafen you. If that’s not enough, she drowns you with her cum. There’s no raft to save you. You’re all alone. You’ll drown here and never see the light of day again.

Electricity runs through her body as the pleasure ramps up. Her fingers weaken on your shoulders. Her gasps are split off by larger, more surprised evolutions. Yena’s close.

“Fuck, no, I can’t!” Yena’s riding is furious and borderline abusive. The noises between your two crotches are louder than before.

“You can,” you insist. You throb inside her while her pussy becomes smaller despite the many thrusts you perform. “Take it like a good girl, Yena.”

“Fuck me, use me, I’m just your cute little helpless girl, fuck me!”

She couldn’t be more correct. She’s just a useless doll, thin and adorable and tight—so why not use her like one?

You’re surprised your limbs have any power in them, but they impress as you lift Yena up. During your walk to the counter, you don’t stop thrusting in her. She’s wet and ready, just waiting and begging for it to happen. Her pretty face is smudged with tears. There’s sick satisfaction in you from seeing how the confident girl at the bar is now just a fuckhole to use.

“Oh, oh, ah!” Cute little whines come out from those lips. Her mouth used its power to pick you up, make you cum, make you scared. In this second, all that is gone: she’ll only ever use it to wail in pleasure.

Knock her against the kitchen counter. Her thighs press to the curve. You spread them open and continue spending yourself to death in her. Her sides that slant to make the physique you love are perfect handles to thrust.

You’re completely soaked, but she’s completely defiled. The dream girl is not just any dream but a wet dream. She’s the fantasy you never had but will constantly think of now. And you don’t care if WAKE12 knows you’re fucking her. They can read all the thoughts you have about Yena as much as they like, and you wouldn’t care.

Instead of giving a fuck, you twist her around, her smooth back in front of you, and fuck her harder while you’re at it. Admire the way your hips slap her ass and give her the spanking she deserves. One spank, that’s for being so tempting. Another for the price of her promiscuity. Three one-after-the-other’s because she’s too wild, too free for a girl with that face.

“God, please, harder!” Yena cries. “Make me your little cocksleeve cumslut!”

She does not take pain to heart, physically and mentally. In spite of your rapid pumps and the slap of your stomach to her bent and ready ass, no bruises or scratches appear on her skin. You say all these degrading words and rather than mope about it, she gets more turned on. She forces you to give all your might in railing her in this apartment where the open windows give you away rather than the sounds. And you’re nodding along, saying:

“Of course.”

Of course you’ll grab her tits and pinch their nipples as hard as you can. Yena’s skin might not be humanly warm but these boobs are real. They’re soft in your palms and plentiful. Is she a masochist? You tweak and slap and squeeze; in response, she’s… smiling?

Of course you’ll slip your touch all over her body. Appreciate every perfect curve, every fine fullness. After fondling her tits, you slide your hands over her smooth pits, then to her arms that struggle to remain stable. She’s sensitive all over; it’s evident in the way she babbles each time you caress her.

Of course you’ll take her hair and pull as hard as you can. She won’t get mad. Nothing ever gets to the cool girl.

“Oh my god!” Yena shouts.

Those pigtails are there for a reason. Thrusts become easier to do with her hair curled in between your digits. Her ass meets your crotch easily and you find yourself excavating her cavern, hitting her in all the good places. Yena hums and screeches and sobs.

“Bad girl.” Her hair plays the role of your reins. They’re convenient in spreading Yena apart with your shaft, tearing at her tightness. “You’re nothing but a filthy cocksucking slut.”

“M-mhm, yes, just for you, just for this perfect dick, ahh! I’m cumming!”

Yena’s core flexes and contracts. It holds you like it never wants you to go but you let go anyway. You can do nothing besides that especially if it’s her, someone who’s so cute but so seductive, so challenging but submissive. Each part of her—those blowjob lips, her blooming face, her cockiness—makes you wish this could never end.

The first sign of the end of this pornographic one-reeler is your semen raining inside her, setting a storm in her guts. You pant, legs weak, while Yena’s seem to go on forever although she’s smaller than you.

The second sign is the mess she made. Those aforementioned desirable legs are painted by obscenity. She squirted all over your floor and herself. Your cum coats her vulva plus spills down freely.

Yena looking back at you with a tired smile is the last one, along with her asking, through shattered breaths, “Better than your whore ex?”

Because that’s the thing about girls like Yena. They’ll do everything to please you. Perhaps she’s a good dresser, but really, this is your style, not hers. This type of fashion is what you like on women: modestly revealing. Girls like Yena will give you everything, make you discover yourself, and when all this happens, she’ll remain the thoughtless, forgiving girl. She won’t complain about things that will set you off and say coy, clever things, the kind men like to hear.

All just to be better.

She is.

“Yeah.”

Yena chuckles. For a moment, she looks like the sweetest girl in the world. The happiness overtakes her face and makes her smile reach her ears.

It disappears as fast as it arrived.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

Alarm sounds of every kind—natural disaster, fire, robbery, whistles—blare in your head. You can’t hear anything except the thin screeches of emergency. But for what?

Yena loses her brightness. Everything that made her shine shuts down. She smiles, that same one full of mischief, before she breaks, too. Her eyes turn pitch black, the ones you see in crows, the sign of bad luck. She disassembles part by part before you. The light girl is suddenly so heavy that she forces you down. Suddenly, her torso above yours feels colder than before.

What the fuck?

Escape is your first instinct. You push the remains of the girl away. Your feet kick the broken parts as if you’d break, too. You brush past the fringe of her bangs. Below it, no diamond scar rests on her forehead.

Stare down at her. Yena truly is not real. Your manic robotic dream girl is dead. She was never alive.

“You have been found guilty,” says the implant. You used to hear it when WAKE12 arrested people and now it talks to arrest you. The alarms are loud but you understand every fragment.

The implant’s emotionless voice now sounds a lot like—

“Chaewon?”

Bad luck comes just like the consequences of the law, personified by stilettos clicking on your floor, a shadow in the moonlight, and the face of the woman you swear you never wanted to see again.

And yet here she is.

Chaewon looks so much like Yena. Yena looks so much like Chaewon. Their chins, their eyes, their bangs—who is who? Their faces mingle and mix in your vision. You think you’re going crazy.

She puts away a remote control and places her hands on her hips. Her black bodysuit is all you see as she approaches. Her smiling lips don’t utter a word. You hear her voice, all in your head.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything you do shall be punished by WAKE12 accordingly. This is the price you pay for your crime.”

There’s a gun in front of you. It’s aimed at your chest, determined to crush what keeps it beating. Raise your hands, but not in surrender. You’ll die before you try to be Chaewon’s toy again.

“What crime? Being your ex-boyfriend?” you spit. This has got to be a joke. “Chaewon, I said, what crime?”

She can’t abuse her authority. She couldn’t have done all that just to get back at you. And for what? Being a bad boyfriend when you were younger and dumber?

You hear her speak. That striking smile looks more terrifying than beautiful. It dissolves into darkness to pronounce your wrongdoing.

“For the crime of fucking existing,” she snarls.

You hate Chaewon. You swore you never did yet now you do wholeheartedly. You tried to love her and reciprocate her efforts. She’s a busy woman so she should have understood you had other commitments.

This is the last time you ever want to hear from her.

A bullet you don’t see coming. It soars in the wind and finds its home sweet home in your skull.

She’s the last thing you ever heard.

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ystrike1 · 2 months

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My Beloved Oppressor - By 서사희 (8.5/10)

Having royal blood is a curse if you have no protection. A death sentence if the people are angry. Our protagonist isn't even a Princess. She is merely the daughter of a Marquis. She is also the only royal left, in a newly democratic nation. Her revolutionary husband is keeping her alive for some reason, even though he hates royal blood.

Annette Rosenberg was a pawn. A blushing bride. A pretty idiot. Her only real hobby and talent is useless. She was never strong academically. She was the perfect noble wife. Pretty, useless, and skilled at making pretty noises on the piano.

It was not her fault. She didn't know the men in power had pushed the people too far. She didn't know a revolution was brewing. Heiner Valdemar courted her and married her to spy on her father. Nothing more, nothing less. Now she is the last royal in the country, and people cry for her blood every single day.

Heiner Valdemar supported all of the death. He made the country better for the people, and he sacrificed her family to do it. He tells his stupid princess the truth. Her beloved father had child slaves. Child slave assassins and soldiers who died often. He was one of the only survivors, and he only survived because he was useful. A genius with a strong body.

His friends were fodder.

He did get revenge for them, and yet Annette Rosenberg is still alive.

He was a great actor too.

Annette Rosenberg truly loved him.

When the royals began to die out she trusted him wholly. She only, finally noticed his true loyalty when his love faded away. Yes, the second he stopped spoiling her. When he stopped drowning her in love she did two seconds of research.

She didn't randomly meet her husband.

He carefully planned their love and marriage in advance.

He's convincingly cruel.

He really is, but there's one problem.

She's not dead.

Everybody wants him to divorce her as well. Annette Rosenberg even asks for a divorce, right after the truth comes out. Anneli is another revolutionary. An inspiring political figure for the people. Annette Rosenberg is well aware that Anneli doesn't like her, but Anneli also doesn't love Heiner.

It's all politics.

She's tired.

She's tired of being afraid. Being the last royal makes her suspicious. Everybody thinks she's using blood money or spare child soldiers to stay alive.

The screwed up part is they're actually right. Heiner, a former child soldier, is protecting her as if she is his master. Not his wife. He doesn't even go near her most days, but he is personally in charge of her fragile security situation.

Other young nobles managed to escape tp foreign countries. A friend comes to pick Annette Rosenberg up, but Heiner won't even let her go then. This offer of freedom is a tipping point.

We see why she's not dead.

Little Annette Rosenberg was very cute. She played on her special pink piano with her special teachers, in her special dresses. She laughed in her ribbons, and she ran through the hallways.

She had an admirer.

Heiner Valdemar used to spy on her, in between deadly child soldier missions.

He wants to believe he's punishing her.

He wants to believe that torturing her with loneliness is his goal, but she's been his only love his entire life.

To him, the romantic part of marriage doesn't matter. Being her husband and fake lover was such a strange and twisted reward, after years of observation.

He doesn't want to let her go.

#yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon

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navybrat817 · 1 year

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Take You Higher

Summary: Most people don't have an assassin waiting for them in the backseat of their car, but it's your lucky day.

Pairing: Assassin!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Word Count: Almost 3.2k Warnings: E/xplicit s/exual content, unprotected s/ex, car s/ex, p/ossessive behavior, w/eapons, pet names, canon divergent, feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (yep, he's a warning) A/N: Nix provided me with a beautiful edit of Bucky and I began a new AU, A Different Call. This is for you, Nix, and I can't wait to share more of this world.❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was later than usual as you made your way toward your car, your gaze darting from left to right before you checked your phone. There was just enough light illuminating the lot where you could see where you were going, but not much else beyond your path. Everyone said it wasn't safe to walk alone at night, but you took your chances. The keys between your fingers made a quick weapon for anyone who got too close. If anyone was dumb enough to put their hands on you, the sting from the brass would be the least of their worries.

It’s almost fun when people underestimate me.

Your gaze moved to the ground before you got to the driver’s side, satisfied that no one was underneath your car as you tucked your phone in your bag. There were no vehicles on either side of yours for anyone to grab you and pull you in. If people had the chance to look inside your head, they might think you’re paranoid. You’d argue you had your own reasons to be. Danger lurked in the darkness, waiting to strike the moment anyone let their guard down.

What people didn't know was that shadows often lingered by the light and the most trustworthy of people wore masks in the form of smiles. You learned to live in the shade and make your own fragments of light. While trusting people didn’t come to you as easily, there were a few you let in. Those who didn’t mind living in the gray.

But according to the one you let in the most, you were the one who brought color into the world.

Glancing at the passenger side seat, you smiled to yourself as you got into the car and locked the door. Normally you reached right for the seatbelt. Tonight, you sat still and took a deep breath. A combination of a sweet and musky fragrance greeted you. It smelled like home.

It was why you didn’t flinch when you felt the muzzle of a gun against the side of your neck.

"Didn't anyone teach you to check the backseat before you get in a vehicle?"

The deep timbre of the voice behind you sent a chill down your spine that settled at the base. Daring to glance at the rearview mirror, you were met with a pair of cold blue eyes and a face framed by long brown hair. His lips were set in a grim line that accentuated the scruff surrounding them. Even with how spacious the back of your car was, he took up a good amount of space with his massive frame.

Death in the form of the most handsome man alive.

James “Bucky” Barnes. A former Army Sergeant turned assassin for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s STRIKE team. Most of the intelligence community referred to him as the Winter Soldier.

You simply called him yours, like he called you his.

"Maybe I’ve been waiting for an assassin to try and take me out. Only for me to flip the script and have him spare my life," you answered, smiling when he pressed the gun a bit harder against your neck. You wondered if he felt your pulse race through the metal. "Maybe even make him fall madly in love with me."

He didn't smile back at your reflection, but warmth filled his eyes in a familiar and tender gaze. "What if this assassin is already madly in love with you?"

You swallowed as he traced the barrel down to your shoulder. "Then I guess I win."

“We both win,” he whispered, sitting back in his seat and taking his gun with him. “Get back here.”

“You don’t want us to drive home?” you asked, though you made no move to put the key in the ignition.

“I said get back here,” he growled, your heart beating faster. You knew what that tone meant. You’d be lucky if you were able to walk tomorrow. “Now.”

Huffing playfully when you caught his narrowed eyes in the mirror again, you still decided to push just a little. “Bossy. Give me a second so I can- Bucky!”

You weren’t sure how he managed, but he moved your seat back far enough to grab and pull you beside him. And he managed to put his gun away before you collided with him. It didn’t surprise you though. Your man had multiple skills and was likely pent up from waiting in your car. You were pent up, too.

“Missed you,” he whispered, forcing you to straddle him.

When he framed your face with calloused hands, you expected him to pull you in for a kiss. But his eyes searched yours for a moment and you knew he was committing you to his memory once more. The love of your life had his head messed with a long time ago to the point where he lost control of his own actions and memories. While he was in a better place now, you never questioned when he needed to look at you for a second longer than usual.

If gazing at me grounds you, I’ll let you stare forever.

“I missed you, too,” you breathed, moaning when he finally brought his lips to yours and parted them with his tongue.

You didn’t realize how fast your heart was racing until Bucky slid a hand to your chest, teasing your breast through the fabric. Knowing he was back home with you was both a comfort and a sigh of relief. In the line of work the two of you were in, the promise of tomorrow was never one you could make. It made each moment that much more precious.

“Not gonna make it another minute without being inside you,” he warned you, shoving your dress up to your hips and careful to avoid the knife strapped to your thigh. You wore the garment, and the weapon he gave you, with the expectation he’d be home today. “Tell me you need me.”

“I always need you, Bucky,” you said, grinding your hips in a slow rhythm. Your barely clad pussy rubbed against the bulge in his jeans and it was enough to make his head fall back. “You need to be inside me? Need to feel my pussy around your big cock?”

“Yes. When we get home, I’ll make love to you,” Bucky snarled, making you gasp when he grasped your underwear and tore it from your body. “But I need to fuck you first, so be good and take my cock out.”

You rubbed yourself against the front of his jeans again to leave a wet spot before you raised your hips. “You better not be hurt,” you teased, but your eyes flashed in a warning as you unbuckled his belt.

“You’re free to check me when we get home. After we're in bed,” he offered, bringing a hand to your face again so you’d look into his eyes. No one ever looked at you with such devotion until he came into your life. “But I’m okay."

In a world full of lies, you trusted him completely.

"If you're okay, I'm okay," you whispered, wasting no more time as you unzipped his pants and reached inside his underwear. The size of him never ceased to amaze you. It also left you in awe how hard he felt in your hand when you wrapped your fingers around him. You might not make it another minute either without him inside you.

If anyone walked by and happened to look in the window, they’d get quite a show. At least before Bucky got his gun out and pointed it in their direction. The man would be able to find a way to shoot someone and fuck you at the same time.

"Take me in," he ordered, gripping your hips as you guided him to your waiting hole. "Please."

Bucky wasn't desperate or a man who begged. But the strain in his voice and the raw need that shone in his eyes, it told you how much he needed you. It was a heady feeling to bring the often cold assassin to the brink. It was also an honor that he trusted you when he let those walls down.

"God," you moaned as you sank down agonizingly slowly, locking eyes with him as you did as he ordered and took him into you inch by inch. It didn't matter that he didn't stretch you first. The sting was one you welcomed since you both asked for it. Who cared if you were a little sore tomorrow when you knew he'd take good care of you?

He exhaled as he allowed you a moment to adjust. It wouldn't be long until he rolled his hips up. "Only name I want you to speak is mine. Because if there is a god here tonight, it's me."

Bucky may not be a god in the literal sense, but he had been the beginning of your salvation. You walked beside him when he offered his hand. It was the path you were meant to take.

And you had almost forgotten how good it felt to have him inside you.

"Then fuck me properly, Bucky," you said, kissing him again because you could.

A low and dark grunt rumbled against your lips as he moved beneath you. Your body enveloped him in a tender and heated embrace, welcoming him home. He'd encourage you to ride him and match his pace shortly. For now, you savored every thrust of his cock, thick and bare, nothing separating you. Both of you preferred it that way.

"Ride it. Show me how much you missed me," he groaned after a minute, bringing a strong hand to the back of your neck. Your heart raced as you watched his eyes darken more. "Look at me. Don't you fucking look away."

A whimper fell from your lips, eager to please him as you braced yourself on his shoulders and raised your hips. The slow slide of his cock along your slick walls felt heavenly before you moved back down. You'd bounce on his cock all night if he let you. "So full," you moaned, never wanting to be empty again.

“Still tight no matter how many times I fuck you,” he said, licking his lips as he leaned back against the seat. The slight shift in the angle had him pushing deeper inside you and you weren’t ashamed of the loud cry you let out. “Perfect pussy and it’s all mine.”

You clenched around him at his words, your body tingling as you fucked yourself on his cock. He met you halfway, a subtle indication that you were equals and partners. Two halves of a whole. Living, breathing proof that soulmates existed in some capacity.

A reward for the hell you both went through.

“I need you to come in me,” you begged, shuddering when the head of his cock brushed your g-spot. Unduliated pleasure rippled from head to toe as he swore in Russian. His release dripping out of you later would serve as a beautiful reminder of his claim. He had every part of you. “Please. I've been so empty without you."

"I need you to come on it first,” he groaned, fucking up into with enough force that you had to grip his shirt to hold on. You weren't just heading toward your climax. He was going to catapult you there. “Give it to me and I’ll give it to you. Come. Make a mess all over me.”

Bucky gripped your chin before your head could fall back, making sure you stared in his eyes as you came. Your pleasure belonged to him and you accepted that as you shivered through your orgasm, unashamedly gushing around him. Your pussy was exceptionally greedy when it came to him and you weren’t ready to come down from the high just yet.

“That’s it. Give me everything,” he demanded, holding you still so he could thrust deep and chase his own release. Your walls twitched, the wet, sucking sound adding to the addition of your soft moans and his grunts. You gave it all and were ready to take everything he gave you in return.

“Give it to me, too, Bucky," you pleaded through the haze. "I can take it.”

He pressed his forehead to yours as he moaned your name, holding you close as he spilled inside you. Bringing a hand up to grip his hair as his hips stilled, you smiled as he let out another moan. You breathed heavily before giving him a peck on the lips, smiling wider as he began to catch his breath. His eyes always took on a gorgeous shade of blue when pleasure clouded them.

“Welcome home,” you exhaled, trying to move beside him.

“Wait,” he whispered, firmly bringing your hips back down and keeping him around his thick thighs. You gasped at the friction against your clit, your body wanting more already. “Just. Stay like this.”

He buried his face against the side of your neck, nosing along your skin as he evened out his breathing. It was almost a ritual when he came back from an assignment to hold you this way. If you weren’t in your car, your clothes would have been torn to shreds or thrown on the floor. Which you fully expected once he drove you home.

And you would make him drive since he decided to ambush you in the best possible way.

“You sure you’re okay?” you whispered after a minute, his arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace. "Nothing went wrong on your assignment?"

“It went off without a hitch,” he answered, mouthing at your pulse. “It's just getting harder to be away from home. Away from you.”

The slight vulnerability in his tone made you pause before your fingers gently combed through his hair, your heart still beating fast. You didn't have a home until the two of you made one together. “I get it,” you whispered.

Before you, Bucky didn’t mind most of his missions. That changed once he took you under his wing. It comforted him to have someone else watching his back. But the rare assignments he had to take alone, he liked them less and less as time went on. He hated being away from you.

It pained you, too.

You whined in surprise when he bit down hard on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. “You didn’t look in the backseat. Why not?"

The post orgasm bliss faded at the slight growl in his tone, yet aroused you all over again.

"Because Steve gave me a heads up that he saw you before I went into the parking lot and I checked the motion detector on my car through my phone,” you told him as his tongue soothed the sting. He could avoid being seen, so he likely wanted his best friend or you to spot him. You were all careful otherwise. "You also left me the all clear signal on the passenger seat."

Spotting the bouquet tied with a single blue ribbon before you got in the car, you knew it was safe to get in and that he was waiting for you. He bought Peruvian flowers for you on your first date and chose them because of the beauty and color. He said that you brought those things back into his life. It became a signal for the two of you, as well as a token of affection.

Maybe one day, I'll have his last name as the ultimate sign of devotion.

Bucky always had those specific flowers for you when he returned from a mission and often bought them for you just because he wanted to. And if a day ever went by that he didn’t have the flowers upon coming home, or if the flowers were out of the ordinary, you’d know something was wrong. You had your own signals for him, too.

“That punk,” he said, kissing back to your lips. “He's lucky he's my friend. I wanted to surprise you."

He could count on less than one hand how many people he loved and trusted. You and Steve were two of the very few. It was only natural that the S.T.R.I.K.E. member and former Captain kept an eye out for you and vice versa. Someone important to Bucky was important to you.

Not to mention, Steve was a good man. It seemed like there weren't many left in the world. You saw why your lover respected him and called him a friend.

“And just when have you managed to surprise me?" you asked.

"The first time we saw each other face to face," he replied.

The day he was supposed to kill you.

“That's true," you agreed after a beat. "You don’t regret choosing to save me?”

Bucky pulled back with the softest smile on his face as your heart swelled in your chest. The look of love in his eyes nearly stole the oxygen from your lungs. His thumb brushed your cheek and it shocked you when he wiped away a tear. You didn’t know it had fallen.

“I regret a lot of things in my life, but you will never be one of them,” he assured you, kissing the spot where he brushed away your tear. “I’ll never regret loving you, Kitten.”

You raked your fingers softly along his scalp. He called you that before the two of you fought and the nickname stuck. You didn’t mind it. Your stealth, flexibility, and reflexes were catlike at times. He picked up on those things immediately.

“And I’ll never regret being yours, Killer," you swore. He'd never let anyone else call him that. "Or loving you.”

You understood the assassin better than most. To some degree, you knew what it was like not to be in control. Choices were taken away from you. People used the two of you for their gain, but he helped put you on a path of hope.

All because he made a different call that fateful day.

“Put your claws away,” he groaned when you moved your nails along his head again, making him rock inside you. His stamina drove you wild. “Or we’ll have round two here instead of in our bed.”

“But you promised you’d take me home and make love to me.”

"And I will, but I may need to ruin you here one more time,” he smirked, slipping his tongue into your mouth before you could argue.

If he wants to use sex as a weapon, I’ll happily accept every wound.

Before the night was over, he took you home and made love to you as he promised. He held you so close against him that it was as if you shared one breath. He even watched you as you fell asleep, an unexpected fear gripping him. In the back of his mind, he sensed that someone was still out there waiting to take you away from him.

But if anyone ever tried, he'd burn the word down to save you all over again.

Let's hope no one is dumb enough to go after Kitten. Love and thanks! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ KoFi

#navybrat writes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes #assassin!bucky barnes x reader #assassin!bucky barnes #a different call au #killer and kitten #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #sebastian stan x female reader #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you

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cosmos-coma · 2 months

Text

My Sun, My Star- Epilogue

A/N: Hello! This is just a short little scene I thought would be sweet! Thank you all so much for the wonderful comments and reblogs and a BIG THANK YOU for the astounding 130+ followers I gained from this series alone! You guys are wonderful!!

Pairing: Bucky x Reader / Winter soldier!Bucky x Reader

Words: 665

Warnings: None! just fluff :)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Bucky Masterlist

Buy me a Coffee?

_____

“Come on- let us see..!” Sam urged as he tried to peer around the Soldier’s broad shoulders, only for your Star to turn his back on him again. Even Natasha was trying to get in on the fun and see her honorary niece. She had a mission to become the coolest aunt on the team and she had to start right away to get ahead of the others.

“No.” The Winter Soldier simply answered, easily side-stepping and maneuvering around their advances.

He was too busy staring down at your daughter Selene’s little sleeping face. He had barely wanted to give her up since she arrived a day ago and refused to let her go for anyone who was not yourself. You only smiled and shook your head. You knew he was just trying to soak up his time with her while he still could.

But this time you didn’t feel sad as you knew the end of his time was drawing near. Your eyes did not pool with tears and your voice did not quiver because in the short weeks before your pregnancy came to a close you and Bucky had been talking. You wanted to see how he felt about maybe letting the Winter Soldier out a little more often, or perhaps just not pushing back quite as hard when he needed him. It didn’t have to be for days or weeks on end, but something to make sure he didn’t get lost in the background again, to make sure he knew he had people waiting for him. And while you and Bucky hadn’t actually gotten around to making a firm agreement you’d like to see him try to deny you after today. Between giving birth in a safe house and the heroic actions of the former assassin, you don’t think he’d have the heart to say no to your request.

“Y/n, tell your boyfriend I want to see the newest member of the team…” Sam turned to you with defeat written in his frown as he failed to get a good look.

“And I need to become the cool aunt before Wanda gets a chance to show off her magic,” Natasha chimed in as she tried to fake him out- it didn’t work.

You held your hands up, “I’m afraid it’s out of my hands guys… You’ll just have to wait your turn like everyone else.”

“Wow… and here I thought we were friends,” Sam joked as he shook his head before going back in for a few more tries.

“And to think I made you my famous pancakes…”

You laughed as they were blocked at every turn, it honestly didn’t even look like the Soldier was trying too hard either. Still, Your heart shone rays of joy as you laid back in the comfy chair of the tower, enjoying the entertainment before you as you took your own time to soak up moments with your beloved star.

On the way back from the safe house you had told him about the talks that you and Bucky had. You could see before he even said a word that he was beyond excited to know he would see both of you again. The way his eyes widened ever so slightly, the way the corners of his mouth fought beyond their better judgment to crack a smack smile, his expression said it all. You reminded him that nothing had been settled yet, but he couldn’t care less about that, he just had only one request:

“Yes, my star?”

He smiled, a little less awkward now as he gained practice, “Promise me you’ll take photos when I’m not there, okay?” he looked down at her as he spoke, his hopeful smile shining down as she lay in your arms, “Promise me that I’ll still get to be a part of every single moment, okay?”

Your heart melted and you smiled softly, “Of course, My Star… You’ll be with us every step of the way.”

_______

Bucky Taglist:

@writingmysanity@simpxinnie@goldylions@mirtaqueen@blackhawkfanatic@mcira@aagn360@nialiuwanderlust@waywardhunter95 @hsllfirescoops

Thanks to everyone who wanted to be tagged this chapter! If you want to be added to the general Bucky taglist please DM me!

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br-disaster · 2 months

Text

CQL's crybaby Nie Mingjue appreciation post

I always see people talking about CQL's Nie Mingjue crying constantly, and they're right to do so, but I haven't seen those scenes compiled so I thought it would be a good idea to do it, since it's one of my favorite things about this version of NMJ.

*I'll consider the times he was tearing up too because I think they're important, but i'm only considering "full crying scenes" the ones where there are actual tears falling down his face.

*It's all in chronological order.

Episode 41 - defending Meng Yao

Why is NMJ crying? Crying is his response to everything, okay? NMJ is very emotionally invested in everything he does. He's very mad these men for saying terrible things about Meng Yao while benefiting from his labour. He's so emotionally invested in everything he does.

Is it a full crying scene? No, he tears up the entire time he's scolding the cultivators but those tears don't leave his eyes.

Episode 10 - being threatened by Wen Chao

Why is NMJ crying? Wen Chao is being very disrespectful, as he often is. And it's understandable, NMJ is hurt, his home was invaded, some of his soldiers are dead and it's overall a terrible time for everybody. To be honest, though, I think he's tearing up out of pure rage because Wen Chao just mentioned what Wen Xu did to the Cloud Recesses.

Is it a full crying scene? No. I almost didn't include this one because it's very subtle but his eyes look too shiny to be ignored.

Episode 10 - expelling Meng Yao from the Unclean Realm

Why is NMJ crying? It's a very emotional and conflicting moment on top of a terrible day, on top of a very stressful period of his life. He was betrayed by his friend who saved his life right afterwards; his home was invaded and they're at war! He has every right to cry as much as he did.

Is it a full crying scene? Hell yes, and it's glorious. They even end the episode with his miserable little crying face.

Episode 41 - Everything, really

Why is NMJ crying? Everything sucks, he's defeated and hurt in front of the man who killed his father. He didn't get his personal revenge and he didn't free the world from Wen Ruohan's tyranny either. Instead, he watched helplessly as his men were murdered and now he has to watch his former deputy mock his father's death and threaten to have Wen Ruohan damage Baxia like he did with his father's blade.

Is it a full crying scene? No, only because he's being very brave about it. I have no idea how those tears didn't fall.

Episode 41 - confrontation at Jinlintai

Why is NMJ crying? Very difficult topics being discussed here. People who are way better with words than I am have already written amazing meta on how having his worldview challenged like this affects NMJ emotionally, so I won't go there. But between the song of turmoil making him more emotionally unstable and the disdain with which JGY talks about the men he killed, evoking this very traumatic moment I just mentioned on the previous crying scene; I think it's very understandable.

Is it a full crying scene? Yes! Most of the time he's holding back tears, but you can see the one dramatic tear running down his nose (on the outside of it) on the second gif!

In conclusion: he has so much to cry about, it's surprising he didn't cry more, it must have taken so much strength (or he was just crying offscreen, which is plausible, because sadly this isn't The Nie Mingjue show and we don't see him all the time)

Anyway, I am not here to claim he's not a crybaby because he absolutely is, but on the actual show we only have 2 full crying scenes. They were so impactful it feels like much more crying happened. Fatal Journey is it's own thing so I made a separate post for those tearing up, crying and emotional breakdown lovely scenes <3

#nie mingjue #this isn't meta this is me discovering the joy of making decent gifs #cql #long post #kinda #despite often being at the crime scene i won't tag jgy or nieyao because i don't go there and i'm not a fan but yall do whatever you want #i just wanted to look at his pretty crying face and have more than just screenshots of it #like look at him!! how can you say mean things to him or in his general vicinity knowing it will make him cry?#monsters all of them #the zoom on the second to last gif makes it so funny though #anyway i hope my gifs aren't horrible to tumblr standards

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dawnofh · 1 year

Text

Getting saved by 141 [Headcannon]

Price

Disappointment but not surprised, how hard was it to stay put and don’t get kidnapped?

Made an entire rescue mission just to get you back.

Was the first face you saw when he came to your aid.

“I’ve got you Son.” Reassured you that you were alright and in safe hands.

“I’m sorry Sir, I told them about the team’s whereabouts…” could care less that you gave them information, more about the fact you were tortured for it.

Shines a flashlight in your eyes and tells you to follow it just to make sure you’re still functioning.

Is angry but not at you, likely at himself for allowing one of his own to be taken.

Will offer to carry you on his back if you can’t walk.

Patches up your wounds by himself, warns you in advance when disinfecting the wounds, “This is going to hurt like a bitch so suck it up.”

10/10, give this man father of the year. Don’t expect candy from this man, he will offer you a cigar though.

You’re on probation. Don’t even try change Price’s mind. He’ll just give you a pat on the back and apologise, “It’s for your own good, Kid.”

Checks up on your mental state daily and recommends you a military councillor.

Ghost

Knight in military uniform.

Sneaks into the warehouse you’re being held captive in.

Stealthy asf, no one ever sees this man coming and if they do then it’s already too late.

Jumpscare.

If he isn’t opening fire then he’s probably throwing knives into necks.

Throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes if you’re injured, doesn’t matter what injury, he’s just not patient.

Stabs adrenaline into you to keep you alive.

“You breathing, Soldier?” Gently slaps your face to keep you awake.

Will undress you from your uniform without second thought to patch up a wound so you don’t bleed out.

Sits next to you on the plane ride back to monitor your state. If you were unconscious when he found you then he’d allow you to lay on his shoulder but if you’re conscious he’ll make sure you stay that away until you’ve received medical attention.

If you’re the former then he’s probably not the best face to wake up to.

“Holy shit, am I dead?” “You nearly were.” “Because I’m seeing a Ghost.” “I still don’t find you funny.”

He definitely killed everyone in that warehouse for harming one of his own but will never admit that to you and simply just tells you, “Everything is taken care of, Kid. Go rest up.”

Puts you on probation and during that probation he’ll teach you some moves so that he doesn’t have to save you again.

Soap

*Panicked Scottish noises*

Radios you over and over to try get your location, when he finds out you’ve been taken he goes into Captain Mactavish mode.

Doesn’t really make a plan, runs straight into danger. Definitely blows something up just to live up to the demolition expert title.

Would quite literally NOT tackle someone out of a window onto a car but simply will throw them out of one. That Captain Mactavish mode has its limits.

Rushes to your side and cuts off your restraints. Cups your face with his gloved hand and tilts your head back and forth to check for any head injuries. You could be staring him dead in his eyes and he’d still check your pulse.

Will fireman carry you if you can’t walk or you’re unconscious.

Clicks his fingers in your face and then asks you how many fingers he’s holding up. You look at him dumbfounded, “5…?” “Fuckin hell you need medical treatment…”

If you’re falling off to sleep then he’ll keep you awake by teaching you some Scottish slang. “So you’re telling me that Elizabeth or Lizzie is slang for…coffin dodger?” “Or old cunt.” “I will be sure to use that more often now.” “Aye but do be careful of who you’re saying it around. You know how Brits get.” “……”

Gets Price to put you on probation even if the injuries aren’t serious. He’s just not taking any chances.

Gaz

“You broken?”

Panic mechanic Gaz.

Acts on his knee jerker responses to which needs Price to hold him back and keep him in check.

Threw tear gas through the vents and came through the roof opening fire. Couple of knives went through eyes, one of them nearly hit you. So much for a rescue mission.

Gaz would probably stare at you if you’re unconscious to see if you’re breathing or not. Gets up real close to your face, “Okay good, you’re still alive.” He was just afraid to be the one to collect your dog tag so he didn’t want to check your pulse.

Doesn’t have enough muscle mass to pick you up so would either drag you out of danger or let you lean on his shoulder.

Gaz is definitely the type to over bandage you, “Can never be to safe than sorry.” You looked mummified after he’s done with you.

Will let you sleep on his lap if he found you unconscious, after every 5 minutes he put a finger below your nose to check if you’re still breathing.

If he found you awake he tries his best to keep you awake, “Hey buddy, keep your eyes open or else you’re going to die.”

Doesn’t sugarcoat, tells you exactly what injuries you have, “I think your knee is dislocated, do you want me to relocate it now?” “Sergeant, please don’t.” Will relocate it anyway.

Tells you about his life story and how he got recruited into 141, “I was born at a very young age.” He really tries to lighten the mood.

Threatens to shatter your kneecaps if you don’t take at least 5 weeks off.

#task force 141 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty #cod mw22 #cod headcanons #cod x male reader #cod x reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain price #captain price headcanons #gaz headcanons #ghost headcanons #soap headcanons

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yourlocaltreesimp · 9 days

Note

Covering BOTW!Link in kisses pretty please (> <)

Yeah, I can do that!

I made this surprisingly angsty (though if you’re not new around here that may be less shocking) so be warned.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

For someone with such an utterly distinct lack of memory, Wild often found himself drowning within them. Fleeting snippets of vision or audio cut in and out, warped and distorted beyond anything he can truly grasp at. One second he’d be laughing alongside his brothers, but when his eyes blinked he’d be a century in the last. Oftentimes after the phantom arms of his previous life embraced him, he felt less than who he was before. his smiles dulled and heart weighed down. As if knowing more about who he was then made him less of who he was now. As if the two sentiences couldn’t coexist.

It was a quiet night, humid with the onset of summer. The fireflies —lightning bugs as Twilight called them— dancing lofty paths amidst the air. Sat side by side, the champion absorbed the fable. At first it seemed rather childish, the idea of two wolves within oneself fighting to make the forefront. But the longer he went on the more it resonated. The mental image as one sneers and snaps, barring its ugly teeth in unwavering violent truth. All while the other dodges and uses the violent’s strength against itself, all while denying its own violent nature.

Allegorically it was good versus bad, overindulgence against suppression. The idea that to overindulge, to snap, to be reckless would lead to being taken advantage of. Wild knew why Twilight thought the story relevant to him. He knew that whenever he’d turn his back on his enemies to support that it wasn’t viewed as loyalty. He knew that there was lots to lose, and they couldn’t afford another injury. He knew Twi didn’t want to see him fall into a similar circumstance. But he knew he couldn’t afford to fail again. He couldn’t fall short. He can’t lose someone close again.

Where externally he was viewed as the former, he internally found himself in the latter of cases. He fought the battle between the whispers of the others in contrast to his own thoughts of himself. Left with the residual pressure to be nothing short of perfect, to be The Hero of Time, to be worthy of the title and the land and the fate and the soul. The yearning to simply live and be without the burden of his own guilt, to be Link, to be your lover and accept the love without feeling indebted.

He didn’t realise Twilight had left.

His head swims and he feels clammy as he curls up, deciding aimlessly that it’s time to sleep. His feet lead him inside his house and he can hardly even stumble up the loft. Someone else can sort dinner.

Any sense of sensibility is muddled and mixed. Time does not matter, nor the relevancy if his mind.

He stares back at the shards of his past life, his chipped reflection in each mirror, and can’t help but wonder who he’d be if he were just Link.

Or would he be even anything at all if not a hero?

What was it that he truly was?

Mipha had written that he was a rather rowdy child, eager to take on the world with nothing more than a stick in hand. Then, he held no care for being proper. Wide grin and leaves in his hair, he was happy. Perhaps that was the most of himself he could ever be. Perhaps that was the reason he finds himself wandering aimlessly now. Perhaps that is his nature.

The records of many soldiers he fought alongside depicted him as the prime standard of the military. Those days were cold, and he just remembered how much he hurt. The ache of every muscle and bruise, every drill, every spar, every battle, every day spent alive that was spent suffering. His ability to cut down any monster or man with any weapon. His instinct and ability to hurt was primed until he now questions if that little boy who splashed around in rivers and threw handfuls of mud had retreated into the cold hands of death. The soldiers’ mirage of him is idyllic, but holds distressingly true to his own memory.

Perhaps that is why his mind is clear and quiet with weapon in hand and a body beneath his feet.

He dreams of musty stables and bare campgrounds, both places the since passed versions of himself would’ve spent a night at. The smell of dirt and dust is accompanied by the crackle of a fire as drunken men sing out of tune.

The littlest curled up as his teeth chattered, the chipped tooth whistling as he exhaled. A warm hand settles on his shoulders as his father drapes another thin blanket over him. He does not yet know this means his father will go without warmth.

The soldier tossing and turning, unable to relax even long enough to sleep. He too his tormented by the potential of falling. He does not yet know what’s to come. He does not yet know there’s nothing to be done.

The scene shifts and he is at the castle. It’s his first time and his eyes shine as he follows his father closely, following hot on his feet with a giddy grin.

It is his home. His work. His life. He follows the princess closely, just far enough to not make himself overbearing. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not fail.

The colours fade and mix and blur, the dreamscape shifting oncemore. It’s raining. It pitters across his shoulders as he kicks up the puddles, scaring the stray cuccos from the stable not too far away. His father fusses over the sword he’d found, and he can hardly muster the strength to swing it against the base of the apple tree. He results in climbing up the twisted limbs, collecting extra ripe apples to ease his father’s worries. The wet bark gives no grip to his feet and he falls to the ground, winded next to the funny blue sword. It glints and chirps and when he catches his breath he laughs back.

It’s storming. The grass smells wet and irony. The bloody mud cakes his boots as his foot falls brace against the ground. His arms lock as he flings his shield to the side, the guardian falling to disrepair. His shield lay broken. He can see his strained face in the dirty reflection. He doesn’t like the man staring back. The rain pelts across his back and the lightning shakes the ground. His muffled ears pick up Zelda’s distress as another guardian climbs up the mound of soul. He draws his sword. He didn’t even know if it were possible to deflect a guardian laser with a blade. But he can’t fail now. Not after everything. A flash of blue light overtakes his vision as his limbs slacken.

He shoots awake with a familiar tightness in his chest, his scars itching and burning. He writhes beneath his own skin as he kicks the covers off, the cold air seizing him. His lungs struggle to draw breath as he wheezes. His vision tunnels and it feels as if he’s dying again.

Why can’t it just be over.

When will he finally be enough— if not for the sake of the world then to at least save himself?

Or maybe he doesn’t deserve to be saved. He couldn’t save all those innocent people. Castle town, Deya, Lon Lon? Who was he to demand he was worth saving?

He hacks and coughs before even trying to look at his surroundings. Through the mixed screaming within his mind he gathers a few realisations. He’s alive. He’s home. You’re curled up beside him, reaching for his warmth. His hands tremble as they reach towards his uneven hairline, grabbing a fistful and tugging. The pain stings, he feels more than awake as his heart races.

“Mm- Link?” You mumbled against his side, awoken by the cold lack of covers. Guilt fills his throat again until he can’t breathe. He’s supposed to help you, to love you, to be of use. Not be such a burden. But here he is again, making it about him. Making your life worse and demanding comfort like a child.

“Heyheyhey- It’s ok, you’re safe” Your voice was as soft and gentle as your touch as you cradled his cheek. He didn’t even realise he was crying. Why was he crying? Who’d want a hero who cries like a coward in the face of a danger that isn’t even real? You collect his hands together, loosening his grip from his hair and running your thumbs across his knuckles. His head stirs as you speak, and he can’t make out anything of what you are saying. His ears ring, more than usual, drowning out any sound.

“Breathe with me, ok?” He nods weakly after you repeat yourself for the third or fourth time. He tries his best, his ribs shuddering before he could fully breathe in, but no longer deprived of oxygen, his head stops swimming as much.

It’s a while of sitting there, hands in your lap as you calm him down in whatever way he quietly requests. It’s so odd. Being raised to serve and to give and being taught through experience that your worth lies in your deeds… to suddenly being the one catered to. It still feels as if asking to be loved is forbidden. That his purpose comes before all requirement and survival. Somedays it still feels like death would come before he would be comfortable. But it took many long nights and longer days spent having uncomfortable conversations before he realised he still had a chance, only if he chose to make one for himself.

At some point he lets himself settle. He sinks into the now cool mattress as you stare into his eyes. He feels a flicker of shame before your hands are back on his jaw and you're pressing light kisses to his skin. Both temples, forehead, each freckle on the apple of his cheeks, crooked nose, the tip of his burn scar, the cut in his chin. You pull back for a moment to admire what you’ve made of him through the years. He smiles, lopsided and as giddy as he was in childhood. You press an eager kiss to his lips, giggling throughout.

He may be lost within the maze of his own mind, a man held hostage to himself, but despite being a failure by his own previous standards, it doesn’t matter so long as he’s enough for you.

#firreplies #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #x reader #lu wildxreader #lu wild #yes i got inspo for his panic attack by my own #no i’m not ok #yes they do hurt #no i’m not in therapy #do any of you read these?#if you do you get a gold star #⭐️

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avelera · 5 months

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I think the term, “flaws” as a necessity for writing well-rounded fictional characters is often misunderstood. It can lead to new writers thinking these flaws should be in a laundry list alongside their OCs hobbies, eye color, and favorite food.

All of the above traits shouldn’t exist in a vacuum. They all need to serve the story in some way, usually by illustrating plot, character, or themes in a way that enhances the story.

Saying a character’s flaw is that they’re “clumsy” isn’t really a flaw unless this trait stands between them and what they want in a meaningful way. Being clumsy is an obstacle for a dancer, or for a teenager who will be socially judged and derided in a meaningful way to the story. Even still, it’s a somewhat shallow and overused flaw.

What got me thinking about this is the fanfic characters I tend to enjoy writing are flawed people. The more flawed, the better.

I struggled to write Nicky and Joe in The Old Guard because they don’t really have any flaws. They’re never stupid, or selfish, or awkward, or mean. I couldn’t really write them until I wrote a story where the plot is that one of them gets returned by amnesia to his pre-character development Crusader self, back when he was prejudiced, quick to anger, and provincial in his world view. Then I had somewhere to go with them.

By contrast, Newt and Hermann from Pacific Rim are riddled with flaws, and it made them not only popular characters, but a blast to write. They’re rude, loud, snarky, selfish, self-involved, self-important, arrogant, and mean. They’re also both sincerely trying to save the world and willing to sacrifice themselves to do it if necessary. It makes them a wonderful mass of contradictions and it makes them feel like real people.

And recently I wrote about my desire to write Dream and Hob from Sandman as more like their comic selves, with all the rough edges and taciturn misanthropy and selfishness and rudeness that implies. I don’t want to write perfect people.

I saw a post that imagined Hob as passionate about returning artifacts stolen by the English to their country of origin. It was a very sweet post and fun, don’t get me wrong. But as a perverse creature, my first thought was, “Ok, but what if he wasn’t? What if he, as a former bandit and soldier for the Crown, wasn’t in favor of the artifacts being returned? What if he was the opposite?”

Now to be clear, I think it’s more in character for the brief glimpse of the Teacher Hob we see for him to be more worldly, more in favor of repatriation. I genuinely think that take is probably more accurate to the character.

That’s not the point.

The point is that I think one way to avoid creating these sort of perfect shiny soft characters with all the rough edges sawed off is to ask, “Ok but what if they didn’t do the right thing here?”

What if they don’t have perfect, up to date progressive political views on all possible topics? What if they weren’t always altruistic? What if they don’t always say just the right thing to their lover when that person is feeling down? What if they have moments where they’re stupid, selfish, insensitive, prejudiced, rude, awkward, or off-putting?

Personally, I think that’s how you get more interesting characters, who are more like real people and, more importantly, have room to grow or sometimes not grow in a way that better serves your story.

#Maggie rambles #writing #sandman meta #tog meta #pacific rim meta

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cemeterything · 7 months

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This sounds like an amazing scene. Please tell me more.

so Valentine and Reaver (tentative names, i'm still not sure i like them) are both extremely damaged people living utterly miserable lives in a pre-apocalyptic world. Valentine is a celebrity, a star soldier, a former no-name nobody orphan of the apocalypse who gained fame and fortune and success through apparent sheer good fortune, hard work, and innate charisma. but she has no identity outside of piloting. they lost their entire world as a kid when her town was destroyed, and as a result of that traumatic experience developed the belief that the only way she can ever hope to matter or be worth anything is by making a name for themself, making herself impossible to ignore, for fear of dying alone and forgotten. so they've dedicated their whole life to piloting, and sustain themself on the praise and adoration of the masses and her superiors, and have virtually no life outside of that, let alone plans or dreams for the future. she doesn't often let herself entertain her own personal desires, believing it's pointless; doesn't form connections with other people outside of the professional and transactional because they feel they have nothing else to offer. they're a shell of a person, a pretty face for the propaganda posters and a brilliant smile and shiny medal-laden uniform for the press and a machine of war to inspire the troops. and because of her single-minded total dedication to piloting, she's always first to volunteer for combat and last to accept any assistance or admit to any perceived weakness; their body is literally falling apart from pushing it too hard and hidden beneath their clothes is a patchwork of skin grafts and wounds that refuse to heal held together by glue and stitches and infection that's slowly spreading and killing them. but Valentine is determined to keep going until she drops or dies in combat, to be a martyr for the cause and for public opinion. she has nothing else.

Reaver is more or less the opposite. he's washed-up, a failure, out of time; a good soldier and a good man but a bitter, lonely, cynical wreck of a person. he was never recognized for his efforts like his peers, possessed too much candor and not enough charisma to ingratiate himself with his superiors, was well-liked but always secondary at best to those who burned brighter and were willing to compromise their principles and ethics in exchange for opportunities for advancement and promotion. he drinks too much, cares for himself too little, treats every opportunity to save lives like an obligation and every failure like an inevitability, pushes everyone away before they even get close out of fear of being hurt or abandoned again, and has generally made himself hard to love. at the same time, he's resentful, aloof and unapproachable, sneering with contempt at everyone around him and taking a certain grim satisfaction in self-sabotage and lashing out because it allows him to justify his misery. he and Valentine hate each other because he pities Valentine more than he resents them; he sees Valentine as naive, overconfident and shallow, a bright young thing that will be used til it burns, so he's cruel to her. and Valentine, in turn, is furious at Reaver for his selfish attitude, for allowing himself to descend into despair and self-loathing at the expense of potentially the entire rest of the world, for giving up the opportunity to do good and childishly railing against everyone who comes near him because he didn't get patted on the head enough for his efforts.

they absolutely loathe each other at first, because they see their worst fears in each other, their worst selves, who they could have been if things had just been a little different, and the brutal truth that they would be no better off or happier in the other's place. however, they're forced to work together and regularly be in close proximity to one another by the inexorably advancing apocalypse and budget cuts in military spending, and their bitter conflict helps to peel back the layers and walls they've built up around themselves and get them to confront how badly they've been failed and hurt by the rest of the world and begin to find solace in each other, in their shared experiences and pain and the love and comfort and hope and meaning they can offer each other.

#oc: valentine #oc: reaver #reval #you can probably see both the nge and terror influences lol

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yawnderu · 5 months

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📂Military Personnel Profile — Stray

File #28907

Name: Katharina Müller

Citizenship: Austria

Status: Active

Affiliations:

KorTac (Former)

SpecGru

Task Force 141

Katharina, callsign ''Stray'' is protected by a redacted past. Little to nothing is known about her early life, remaining a mystery even to those who get their hands on her file.

After volunteering for the Austrian army at an early age, she successfully completed training with the ISTC Sniper Branch, remaining the first female to complete the course.

In 2022, her affiliation with KorTac ended due to unknown reasons. By 2023, her affiliation with SpecGru as a member of the Task Force 141 was announced.

Growing up with a single parent is never something easy— especially when the same person supposed to protect you is clinically insane. Often beaten like a dog by her mother and left alone for extended periods of time, Katharina learnt how to be extremely independent at the ripe age of eight. More emotionally mature than her peers, she grew up with a feeling of never belonging anywhere, oftentimes hanging out with much older people to drink, smoke and party.

By age fourteen, Katharina had seven failed suicide attempts, most of them caused by high stress, hopelessness regarding her living situation and undiagnosed mental health issues. It wasn't until her last attempt that she was forced to attend mandatory psychology sessions. She quit attending after three sessions, dealing with her issues in the way she knew better: destroying herself.

Katharina found shelter in someone just as troubled— König. The socially anxious giant was her rock growing up, often taking her to his fights and house just to prevent her putting herself in danger by going out with questionable ''friends.'' He was always there for her, finding comfort in their friendship to the point she became a second family to him; the only person who never judged him for his appearance, personality, or side. König's family welcomed her as one of their own, his mum and nana taking in the small girl as if she was a daughter to them, unknowingly helping to heal the internal wounds her own mother left.

Many first times were shared together between them; first kiss, first time cuddling, first time making love, simply enforcing their bond ever further, making them even more inseparable than before. While they never defined their relationship, they were mutually exclusive and never held any physical or romantic interest in anyone else during their time together.

Oftentimes skipping class to smoke behind school, Katharina and König shared many conversations about their future together. At age fifteen, they wanted to live in apartments next to each other in Vienna. By age sixteen, they wanted to live together. By age seventeen, they volunteered for the army, putting any conversations about their life together aside and focusing on staying alive during the hard training that pushed them both physically and mentally.

Given the callsign ''Stray'' by her teasing teammates after getting lost in the forest for a hot minute during training— she carried it with pride and humor, rather than humiliation and shame. It became a fitting name for her, more used to people calling her that rather than Katharina, taking Stray as a new beginning of her life as a soldier, leaving her past behind.

Following rules was the biggest challenge for the two outcasts, not used to people yelling in their face without being able to do something about it yet like with anything life threw at them; they adapted. Their sole focus was becoming the best soldiers, often staying behind at the gym and sparring. What Katharina lacked in height, she made up for in drive, being able to take down the 208cm behemoth of a man a few times during their sessions.

At age 19, after superiors evaluated her marksmanship and height advantage, Katharina was chosen for a training course with the ISTC Sniper Branch. While König grew slight resentment over his best friend being able to live his dream while he was rejected, he pushed those feelings aside, focusing on his training as a foot soldier. Tensions grew in their friendship for the first time ever, with Katharina often feeling unable to tell him much about her sniper training in fear of his resentment growing, and König always too busy in the field.

For the first time ever since they met, they both lost their only support, feeling lost yet being too prideful to apologize first. They spent two long years this way until the team went to a pub to celebrate a successful deployment. Drunk feelings were shared in the privacy of a nearby forest, sloppy kisses and the need to hold each other again, shared promises and words of praise coming out of each other, tear-stained cheeks hurting from smiling so much by the time the team decided to go back to base.

By January 2022, König received an offer he couldn't refuse— the chance to join a PMC named KorTac with a salary in the low six figures, yet he was still indecisive, not wanting to let go of his best friend after years of becoming inseparable again. Letting the Colonel know he was a package deal with the small sniper, Katharina received a matching contract shortly after.

Excited for this new opportunity they signed together, nervous yet looking forward to what the future has to offer for both of them. Joining KorTac was... an experience, plenty of different people together in a fancier base than the army provided for them. The masked soldier fit right in with other men who kept their identity a secret, while she drifted towards the rowdier soldiers— the feeling of belonging being there for the first time ever. Horangi and Nikto quickly became some of the closest soldiers to her, despite the latter being rough around the edges. She took it as a personal challenge to break down his walls enough to become his friend.

In early 2023, Katharina was contacted by Station Chief Kate Laswell, offering her a contract with a new fraction, a salary in the high six figures and the promise of redacting her early life from her file, making sure no sign of her past could ever be found by enemies or allies. While the decision took her months and late-night conversations with König, a much more mature and older version of him did nothing but encourage her to accept the offer, knowing how important a brand-new beginning without people knowing about her past was for her.

By May 2023, her contract with KorTac was cancelled and a new one with SpecGru as a member of the Task Force 141 was signed. Saying goodbye to her peers was one of the hardest things— letting go of the first group where she felt like she belonged, and the goodbye was just as tough despite being encouraged by all of them, some even teasing her about joining ''the enemy'', though it was all in friendly banter.

The first member she met was John ''Soap'' MacTavish, a rowdy and capable Sargeant. The pair instantly clicked, dropping together with the marines to greet the L.T, Ghost. A masked soldier whose identity remained a secret for his own safety, having a redacted past just as her own. While they didn't immediately get along and rarely had time to get to know each other unlike Soap and her up until Las Almas. After Grave's betrayal, she saw a side of Ghost she never even knew existed after he put a protective arm in front of her and shielded her with his burly body.

They both navigated Las Almas together, taking down any shadows they saw with great synch, as if it was meant to be that way despite Ghost being a lone wolf for most of his career. Ghost never told her, but he was left impressed with her skills the most after they waited for Johnny in the church and took down enemies with their snipers.

Her paranoia went off the charts the one time she tried to get off her medication, still needing it heavily to function despite the great help she gets from the provided psychologist. Even with medication, she often wakes up to nightmares about her early life, looking around her quarters as if her mother could be hiding in any corner or furniture no matter how tiny it is. She holds herself together despite the C-PTSD and disclosed mental health issues, always passing her psych evals and attending weekly therapy sessions.

While Stray is not overall an unpleasant person, she can be too difficult for people with more dominant personalities, often clashing with people who act condescending or look down on her for being a woman in the army, despite her being a member of the 141 saying enough about her skills as a soldier.

She's oftentimes seen exchanging awful jokes with Simon, much to the dismay of anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot. The pair is practically joined at the hip, unknowingly trauma bonding and finding comfort in each other's company. It became a habit for both of them to drink tea at late hours of the night, either staying in silence or talking about their experiences as soldiers. They very rarely talk about their families, often leaving details behind or being vague about it on purpose.

Stray bonded with the whole team very quick, knowing they see her as a soldier worthy enough of being in the Task Force, the best of the best, fills her with pride. John Price is the father figure she never had and he recognizes that easily, giving her the guidance she may need and having long conversations with her. Besides Laswell, Price is the only person in the Task Force she talks about her past with.

While she still has a long way to go, Stray has a strong support system and knows she can go to any of them for help if she ever needs it, including her peers back at KorTac and the army.

Trivia:

Stray has plenty of tattoos, with most of her limbs, especially her legs and torso, decorated with black ink. She has a shitty stick and poke tattoo on her ankle that she got done with König when they were sixteen, a small crown and a K next to it.

Unknowingly to both of them, Ghost and Stray have tattoos in remembrance of each other. Ghost's is a small black cat on his thigh, while hers is a skull on her hip.

She quit smoking after turning 21, though she drinks quite a lot when she's off duty. She avoids beer like the plague, much to König's annoyance since he loves it.

She likes to dye her hair a subtle shade of dark red whenever she's off duty for extended periods of time, though her natural hair color is dark brown.

Stray and König remain best friends to this day, talking to each other whenever they get the chance to have their phones with them and their schedules match. If they have the chance to request time off, they meet up as much as possible.

If they're not deployed, they spend the holidays with König's mum and nana, enjoying the feeling of having a place to call home and being welcomed with delicious homemade food.

She cut contact with her mother after joining the army and has never looked back. Whether her mum is alive or not remains none of her business. She deleted all social media and accounts linked to her past, creating new ones with different aliases so she cannot be found by her.

Stray's body is defined by strong muscles, working out five to six times a week to maintain her physique, her more defined muscles being her upper body and legs.

While she struggled to build connections in her early life, she opened up more easily after joining the army, often being teased about being brooding and quiet by her platoon until she started letting loose.

She listens to music together with Simon back in their quarters, and while he never told her, he enjoys listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees the most with her, seeing her dance and sing along, as his mum used to listen to them. She sometimes forces Simon to dance Spellbound with her, holding his hands while she jumps around and sings. While he doesn't dance, the way he looks down at her while she does shows just how much he values moments like these.

Stray has elvish features accompanied with light brown skin, as her father has indigenous blood.

Her hair is a curly c3 and long, though she always keeps it braided or tied up in a neat bun during deployments to avoid it getting in the way.

She's crazy good at cutting hair, coming from the habit she had her whole early life; chopping all her hair off whenever she was too stressed or depressed and didn't know how to cope. Sometimes cuts the hair of the 141 boys whenever they don't have access to the barber.

Friendly reminder that all my fics are x Reader, and the only thing used from this OC is the callsign and parts of her past. No physical description will ever be used in my fanfics.

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five-miles-over · 6 months

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Please, baby! Jonathan Pine + kisses that start out passionate but grows more delicate + brushing lips together, lingering for a moment, catching your breath

Thank you so much for sending in this request, and thank you even more for your patience :) I hope you enjoy this.

My Dearest Diamond

Summary: After nearly two years of working for MI-6, Jonathan tried to get in touch with you, the girl who stole his heart when he worked at Hotel Meister. For three weeks, the two of you rekindled your love via handwritten letters, until you booked a five-day trip to London to see him.

As he prepares to make this holiday special for you, Jonathan reflects on his relationship with you...and carries out one last errand before you land.

Warnings: Mentions of past smut (nothing explicit), kissing. References to characters like Roper, Sophie, Angela, and Freddie from the tv show

Jonathan glanced at his watch. Your flight to London was set to land in exactly three hours. It would be your first flight to London from Zurich, and the first time he would be seeing you after three weeks of exchanging handwritten letters and twenty months of separation.

Twenty months since the last time he held you in his arms and stroked your hair. Twenty months since your last goodbye in the lobby of Hotel Meister, when he caressed your soft cheeks and wiped your tears to no avail. Twenty months since he heard the sound of your voice.

The closest that Jonathan had gotten to "hearing" you was through the letters you wrote to the British Foreign Office. Three weeks ago, he'd decided to get in touch with you once Operation Limpet came to a semi-steady conclusion, and discretely had a letter delivered to the university of Zurich, where he remembered you were enrolled as a student of history and political science. Should any of Roper's cronies choose to track down Jonathan's contacts, his letters to you were each addressed with a different pseudonym.

Your letters to him were often simple, filled with trivial anecdotes about your life - the plays you'd seen, the books you'd read, the cakes you tasted. But to Jonathan, they were anything except trivial. They reminded him that there was more to life than a blind attachment to duty. That it was innocent civilians like you for whom a man like Roper needed to be stopped. That for Jonathan, a life with true companionship and simple pleasures was possible. And for those reasons and more, Jonathan Pine, ex-soldier and former hotelier, a once self-exiled creature of the night, was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with you.

He loved you since the night you first met. In that same lobby where he welcomed Roper and many other distinguished guests, Jonathan introduced himself to you. Even as he passed through the crowded streets of London, all Jonathan had to do was close his eyes, and in the blink of an eye, he would be transported back to Zurich, back to that fateful night two years ago.

You sat by yourself in the lobby, your nose buried in a copy of Shakespeare's Henry V. Eleven-thirty on a winter's night, Jonathan made his way to the sofa where you were sitting and began conversation. You talked about your childhoods, his military boarding school past and your history of always being the "good girl" who never broke rules. And from that moment followed one of the most intimate nights of your lives. In one of the hotel's hidden rooms, you and Jonathan played a game of strip poker ,fueled by glasses of champagne, that led to you losing your virginity to the night manager.

The morning after, Jonathan woke you up with sweet kisses all over your neck and shoulder while you were entangled in his bedsheets. Over a breakfast of Parisian-style hot chocolate and croissants, you bonded became your doting sweetheart.

The next three months were the most comfortable ones of Jonathan's life. In his mind, those months were like the kind of time he could have shared with Sophie if she weren't tied up in Freddie Hamid's dangerous games. If her life weren't as precarious as Jonathan's own life.

No, Jonathan silently chastised himself. Sophie was not you. Jed was not you. None of them could ever hold a candle to you.

Yes, they were beautiful. Always put together and dressed head-to-toe in designer wear found in expensive boutiques, knowing the right things to say at the right time. But you…you were everything he truly wanted. Kind, endearing, loyal, and filled with a rosy outlook that contrasted the cynicism that Jonathan had built to shield himself from a ruthless world.

And yes, Jonathan remembered with a smile, you always had your own form of seduction: holding his hand and stealing kisses while you walked through the city on holidays; playing with his hair after sleeping together, and teasing him with your toes while he answered tedious calls on the hotel phone. Usually those little games of yours ended with you laughing without restraint as soon as he hung up the phone, and him silencing you with his lips on yours.

It was drug-like, the effect you had on him during those three months of romance. Every time you were near, he simply had to hold you close, touching you and kissing you. And those needs stemmed beyond mere lust - he also wanted to listen to you speak about your favorite things, even if that involved you rambling for thirty minutes about how King Henry V courted Catherine Valois. He wanted to see you laugh at the most awful jokes, and to witness your face light up at the sight of snowflakes. But most of all, he wanted you to live. He wanted you to life a life filled to the brim with joy, peace, and comfort.

When he parted ways with you to join Agent Burr in Operation Limpet, he'd expected you to move on. To fall in love with another - someone who could give you that beautiful life you deserved without burdening you with a baggage-filled past. It would indeed break his heart, but not as much as his heart broke when he watched you sob the day he informed you of his resignation from Meister. Yet here you were, over a year later, going out of your way to keep in touch with him despite every possible risk.

So when you booked a five-day long holiday in London during Easter just to see him again, Jonathan took it upon himself to make it as perfect for you as possible.

He'd already told Agent Burr at the Foreign Office to hold all calls and files until next week if possible.

"Goodness, Pine. Always so quick to risk everything for a girl," Burr tutted him.

"She's not just any girl. She's my girl."

The first thing Jonathan had in mind for you was a home-cooked dinner, knowing you would be quite tired from your journey. You would stay in his flat, of course. He could never allow you to sleep anywhere else. Then, he booked two tickets for the Donmar theater to witness a performance of Shakespeare's Coriolanus, led by some actor named Tom whatever-his-last-name-was. After that, Jonathan compiled a list of everything else that a visitor to London would want to see: Big Ben, the London Eye, the British museum, and the Rose Gardens in Hyde Park. And as a footnote to his itinerary, Jonathan added a trip to Primrose Bakery - just for the girl who described her favorite cakes in detail.

Two more hours. Jonathan glanced at his watch again. There was one more thing that he needed to do before going to Heathrow airport in time for your flight.

"Hello," Jonathan opened the black ornate door of a Harry Winston store on New Bond street, and approached a member of staff. "I'm looking to buy an engagement ring."

He cursed himself momentarily for not having done this sooner, the moment he received word about your trip to London. To his luck, however, Jonathan found an elegant round-cut ring, three-quarters of a carat. It was the best thing that he could give someone so loving and devoted. A diamond for his most precious diamond.

Paying for the ring with a stack of cash that led to some raised eyebrows, Jonathan then hailed a taxi. At the sight of him leaving the Harry Winston store with the small box containing the ring, the driver couldn't help but chuckle.

"Wife or girlfriend?" The cabbie asked after hearing Jonathan's destination.

"Yes." Jonathan laughed for the first time in weeks, perhaps months.

The taxi eventually reached the perimeter of the airport, and Jonathan handsomely tipped the driver. On his way to the terminal, he shoved the small box into one of his pockets. He didn't bother top sit down as he waited for your flight, pacing up and down.

He needed to decide the right moment to give you the ring. Obviously he couldn't present the ring as soon as you landed; it would be too hasty. Perhaps he could surprise you with it at Primrose Bakery, after sharing a slice of tiramisu and some tea. He could gently take you by the hand, look you in the eye, and simply…ask the question that would make you his for the rest of his life. Or, the moment might be better in Hyde Park surrounded by the flower beds, a setting that you would surely find romantic. Wherever it was, Jonathan needed to do it at some point during these next five days. He just needed to do it, or risk -

"Pine?"

Jonathan turned around to find you outside the gate with a rolling suitcase next to you. There you were, standing there with that perfect smile he would never stop adoring. Even with a hint of maturity on your face painted by the passage of those months, it was still as if nothing changed after all this time. And the best part of it all? You were really there, not just part of a dream that floated into his mind on a sleepless night.

He sensed that same, familiar perfume of yours when you threw your arms around him. Right now, there was nowhere else he'd rather be than here in this moment, embracing you. Your lips found his, and his fingers rested in your hair. God, he could never forget the way you felt, how soft and comforting your lips were He placed his other arm around your waist and pulled you closer, deepening the kiss. For Jonathan, this wasn't just any kiss. This was the first of many kisses needed to make up for the tears he made you shed, and for the pain of separation that he made you sure.

You broke the kiss after what felt like several moments, gasping. "I missed you so much…' Your forehead rested against his for a moment before Jonathan pecked you on your forehead, on both of your cheeks, and on the corner of your mouth.

"I missed you more," Jonathan murmured between kisses. "I missed everything about you…,I…I love you, my dearest diamond."

As soon as you could catch your breath, you pressed your lips against his one last time. "I love you too, Pine."

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