Look. I didn't want to say anything because it's kind of a touchy subject, but the dragon doesn't actually take these "brides" back to its lair full of riches and add them to a harem. Okay? It's a big fucking lizard with a brain the size of an orange, it just roasts and eats them.
Now come on, get those chains off. Where did you even get these? Oh you made them? See that's the kind of craftsmanship the village needs you for. We'll have a big orgy after the ritual and if you want a bunch of us will dress up as dragons and take turns having a go at you. It'll be nice, you'll see.
Summary: After three years of treating convicted serial killer Ronin Beaufort, you, a prison therapist know exactly how dangerous he can be. One session is enough to prove that being prepared and being in control are very different things.
Word Count: 3494
Trigger warnings: dubcon kissing, power play, not canon compliant, blood, gagging mentioned one time, no outright smut but very intense kissing
Notes: I have no idea what possessed me to write this, but I did.
You were sitting inside your office, going over some paperwork before your next client. The last days had breezed past you, your memory reduced to a blur of faces and diagnoses. A breath entered your lungs, exhaled with a sigh when you realized who your next client was.
"Ronin Beaufort."
The dull sound of your voice was just loud enough to call the, no doubt waiting, man. You wished that you didn't have to. He marched into your office like he wasn't in a prison, letting himself fall into the chair across from you with a roll of those dark brown eyes that you've come to know in the three years that you had spent being his therapist. There were many more to come without a doubt.
"Well you look awfully excited to see me, don't ya?"
You had to actively try not to roll your eyes back at him, reminding yourself that he wasn't just a friend coming by to annoy you, but a convicted serial killer and you were his therapist, obligated to stay within your professional boundaries. Snapping back at him would not help the situation either way.
"Tea?"
You asked, standing as you made your way over to the water kettle. Tea was a privilege that you had to fight the warden for back when you first started working here. You found that it helped the people in your chair to open up if they felt more normal, and the tea did exactly that. It gave them a feeling of familiar warmth. Most of your clients needed that, to defrost, so to say. Ronin on the other hand had always been too eager to talk about anything at all. Well, aside from his actual issues.
"Course, darlin'."
For once you were glad to have your back to a criminal. The flicker of annoyance on your features was hidden from view. You were long past trying to teach him that those sorts of nicknames were inappropriate in this setting.
The water was hot by the time that you had poured it into the two mugs, another thing you had fought for. Dangerous, because of course it was, but most of the people here were not necessarily violent people. Dealers and people who had fallen on hard times and reacted the way a cornered animal would. Ronin was not one of those. Hurt? Of course he was, but not cornered. You had learned in those years that he was in control whenever he wanted to be.
"There you go."
You slid one of the mugs over to Ronin, the other placed in front of yourself. The warmth of the liquid soothed you as you took a sip of it, playing pretend that this was just a normal conversation. It was what worked best for him. These sessions resulted in nothing most of the time, unless deflection and switching subjects counted as something. In that case they were effective.
When he made no move to speak, you spoke once more, a practiced smile making its way onto your lips.
"What brings you in today? Anything in particular you want to talk about?"
The words were easy for you, nice and steady in the way that they should be. You had said them so many times that it felt like a habit by now. You were on edge though. Ronin wasn't your everyday client and with him, you always had to expect some quip or remark. He had a way of turning your words back to you, to pry for more information when the conversation was actually about him. It was delicate to navigate, but you had spent years learning and you were prepared to handle him.
"Just here to check in on ya."
Ronin's words were a harsh purr, but you didn't let it get to you. He had leaned back in his seat, swirling the tea in his mug, although his eyes never left yours. There was something different about him, a hint of something that you had not yet learned to place. Deciding to keep an eye on it for now, you turned the conversation back to him.
"There is no need for that, but how do you feel today? These sessions aren't mandatory, so there must be something."
The question was dry even to your own ears and Ronin looked, well, almost bored. That however did not matter, he was not supposed to like you, he was supposed to open up to you. Now that you thought about it, people usually opened up better in relationships that were mutual. This one was not, that much was obvious, yet you decided to give him an inch. After all, you had to make some progress with him somehow.
"Would you like to talk about something that is bothering you? You know that I am here to help."
Ronin's gaze remained on you as he took another sip of his tea, a glint in his eyes that reminded you just in time who you were talking to. He would make you regret that inch, that much was certain. The only question was if this time he would crack just a little. You prayed he would.
"Sure you are, but will ya be able to take honesty, darlin'? Think you're strong enough?"
You were ecstatic, an emotion you were thankfully careful not to betray to him. He was actually about to say something for once. A breakthrough, although it was one you could only achieve by playing his game. Some clients need that, someone to play into whatever their mind saw the world like. To Ronin, it was a twisted game that no one but him was allowed to win. In all your thinking, you had forgotten something crucial though. You were already three steps ahead in your thoughts; if you leaned into this just a bit more, maybe you could-
The mug hit the ground with a crack, porcelain shattering against concrete.
Time seemed to stand still as you watched it break, your eyes drawn to the sound on instinct.
Fuck.
A breath later, a measured one to make sure the surge of adrenaline in your body didn't show, you were crouching down to pick up the pieces of the now broken mug. It was fine. In three years, Ronin had never done anything to you. His attempts to turn therapy into casual conversation excluded, he'd been a model inmate. He wouldn't hurt you. Would he?
Now that you thought about it, you noticed that the room had fallen into silence. The only sound that reached your ears were your nails scraping against the floor as your hands picked up the pieces of your mishap.
You had done the one thing you were not supposed to do. You'd taken your eyes off of him. It was a mistake you hastened to correct, but when you looked up, you found his chair empty, his own mug discarded on the table, steam still rising from it.
Standing felt like the only logical thing. It would be easier to run that way, to press the button hidden on the bottom side of your desk that told the guards that there was an emergency, that you needed help. You only realized that it was too late when a hand landed on your shoulder.
Ronin turned you around with it, a motion that felt way too easy, like you were putty in his grasp. You felt your stomach drop, bile rising in your throat as if your body was protesting against the simple notion of it all. Not because he was hurting you. What unsettled you was that he had not done that. Not yet.
His free hand settled on your waist. His expression was so casual that you assumed that standing so close made perfect sense to him. Finally, you looked up far enough, into dark brown eyes that had caught your glance before you were given a single chance to grasp the situation.
"Careful, darlin'. Turning your back to a killer isn't smart, you know better."
He was scolding you. He was actually scolding you, the self-satisfied smirk on his lips too small for how much weight it carried. He looked. No? Did he? He looked disappointed. Like you had just committed a grave sin and he expected better of you. The irony of a serial killer scolding you about safety precautions was lost on you. His hands were warm, his hold on you gentle in a way that you had not accounted for.
You had a plan for violence, for force, but this? You did not know what to do with this. You shook your head, reminding yourself that you had to get out of this unharmed somehow. You had to get out of this without losing your job too, but that was a concern meant for a version of reality in which you survived this, which was still not certain.
"This- this is not appropriate. Let me go."
That earned you a chuckle, a deep sound that went straight through you, sending a chill down your body. Were you numb or feeling too much at once? You couldn't decide. Then again, you had time to figure it out later, or at least you hoped you did. You held his gaze, not backing down at the playful way he watched you. He was toying with you. Of course he was. He spoke before you had the chance to break free by yourself.
"You really think I'm going to let you down easy?
He paused. The silence stretching endlessly in the space of those few seconds.
"Say please."
Each word he said was a taunt, goosebumps rising on your skin with each syllable. When he kept on speaking, his tone dropped once more, turning into something you liked even less. You had read his file, knew how he was raised, knew what he had done. Your body was telling you to flee, to run, to call for help, but you knew better. It was a gamble, one you had to take to get out of this situation, one you would have liked to avoid.
Thinking was getting harder and harder, considering the fact that he was standing so close to you that each breath he took fanned over your face. Something he did on purpose, according to the way his eyebrows raised when you tried and failed to back away once more. You had no choice, that much was obvious, so you swallowed your pride, the word reluctantly slipping out of your mouth.
"Please."
He was laughing now, plain and bright as daylight itself. You were unsure if it was your tone, the slight delinquent hiss in it, or the mere fact that you had given in to him that delighted him so much. He took his time, but eventually he dropped his hands from you, fingertips grazing your hip and your neck in the process, resulting in a full-body shiver that you failed to conceal.
You started walking before your mind had thought the idea through. It was protocol, pure and unaltered autopilot. If there was anything out of the ordinary, press the button. The process drilled into your mind by hours upon hours of practice.
Your steps were uncertain at first, but when you were at a distance you deemed proper, they became quicker, fueled by the panic that lingered in the very marrow of your bones. You still allowed yourself a small sigh, relief flooding your system.
You had gotten out of one and, although you did not know that yet, navigated yourself right into the next crisis of the day. It was your second mistake of the day. Your hand pushed itself under the desk, fingers splaying on the wood, searching for purchase, for that godforsaken button. You couldn't find it.
Through all of it, you kept your eyes on Ronin, who was standing in the middle of the room. He had not moved an inch, hands resting in his pockets. His audacity never failed to unsettle you.
It allowed you to find it though, or at least it would have if you had been capable of doing so. Wood. Screws. Dust. You must have looked ridiculous, eyes wide as you realized that you could not reach it from where you were standing, and wider yet when you realized that Ronin had moved.
You took a step backwards, but the only thing your frail attempt to run did was bring forth pain as you backed yourself up directly into the desk.
No.
No, no, no.
You could still go around it. You tried to move once more, but your feet refused to oblige, planted on the floor with a force that mirrored glue. Freeze. Of course that had to be your survival state of choice right now. You almost wanted to laugh at your body's stupidity.
It would have been fruitless either way; his hands already planted themselves on the desk, caging you as he leaned in ever so slightly. His warmth surrounded you, although uninvited, and you were sure that you would have seen the satisfaction in his eyes if you had looked at him.
"Why are you doing this?"
You asked, eyes on the floor instead of him, your voice too shaky for your own good. Habits died hard, especially when they were your occupation. You weren't getting out of this for now, but you weren't ready to give up.
"Still so curious."
Ronin raised one of his hands to your chin, two fingers lifting it with the same gentleness they had used to hold you captive before. Although, if you were being honest to yourself, it did not feel gentle. It felt like a command. You were proven right when he was tired of waiting for a response from you.
"Look at me."
You did. What else could you have done? Risk actual violence? No, that wasn't an option. You raised your eyes to his face, your knees threatening to buckle. He was closer than before, so much so that you did not dare to breathe.
"Just tell me what you want."
You pleaded, your words tinged with fear that you no longer tried to hide. He did not like that. You could not find a trace of that dislike on his features, yet you felt it in the way his fingers twitched on your skin, gripping you harder before he stopped himself. It was strange. You thought he would have wanted to hurt you more instead of less.
Silence, you had noticed, was becoming your worst enemy in this situation. It gave you the illusion that you had time to think, just for him to break it like you had broken that cursed mug.
"Do you have to make thinking in the loudest possible way your whole personality?"
You were more insulted than scared, like your senses were slowly dropping survival as a concept, your limbs unlocking just enough for you to try a sidestep to get out of the cage he'd built for you with nothing but his body. It only resulted in his hand slipping from your chin to your throat. His fingers were wrapped around it, sinking into your skin just enough to sting. It pulled a gasp out of your mouth against your own will. Quiet, so quiet that it would have gone unnoticed to anyone but Ronin himself.
"Oh?"
Ronin was taunting you, tone dripping with mock surprise as he pushed himself closer to you. You had to bite your tongue or else you would have had trouble stifling the urge to kick him as his body pressed against yours, his eyes holding yours captive. It seemed like he did not know how to do anything but that.
"You like this, don't you, darlin'?"
You didn't. Of course you didn't. Did you? Your heart was racing, but that was a normal fear response. You stilled for a moment, remembering something. You had hands. You were trapped, yes, but your hands were not. Perhaps if you would do something, anything, he would let go for a moment?
You acted. It was a quick thing, a punch. A proper punch that you did not know you were capable of throwing. It landed on his nose, snapping the bone with an ugly cracking noise.
There was a pause, a small space that you used to recalibrate your mind, then a smile.
"See, the cat does have claws."
He wasn't smirking anymore. He was smiling, blood dripping from his nose and onto your face, looking every bit like the devil that he had once been, drawing the situation in hot streaks of red against your skin. It was a fracture in his usual demeanor. To him, this was all a game. One he intended on winning and then, in that small smile, you realized that if you wanted to leave this situation unharmed, you had to play it too.
He had been close the whole time, so it wasn't really an effort to do it, your hand rising once more, hesitantly threading into his hair. Waiting for him to react wasn't as time-consuming as you had anticipated, his lips twitching right back into a grin. You looked like you were entranced, that part was pretend, you had convinced yourself it was, high on adrenaline.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
A lie, a sweet lie that, to your surprise, sounded believable. You had taken acting classes in high school. Back then you were convinced it was a useless skill to pick up. Oh, how wrong you had been. His pupils were blown when he looked down at you, when he crossed that last inch of distance that separated the both of you.
Surprise ran through you almost immediately. There was no gentleness to it; he was all that he had not been before, pure, unaltered violence. When his teeth grazed your lip hard enough to draw blood, you learned that his previous gentleness was not by nature, but by restraint.
You felt the heat of his mouth before you had the time to register it properly, but it did not catch you quite as off guard this time; you were getting used to it. You allowed him to bite, allowed him to lick, to draw those strangled noises out of you that seemed to spur him on even more, your blood mixing with his on your tongue.
You swallowed the urge to gag at the taste. He drew back, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting over your lips, which were cold with the lingering reminder of blood and spit. If he looked for too long he would see it. You couldn't have that.
"Are you sure you don't know exactly what you're doing, darlin'?"
Panic rose in your chest once more, showing its ugly face, but you disguised it as something else. Shame, anticipation. You pushed yourself up, your ass planted on the desk, leaning back onto your now-free hands. The look in your eyes was not calculated; you could not show that, but daring. Curious, maybe a little helpless. It was designed to pull him in, and it did.
"I have an idea. That's true."
You were certain that he did not know what exactly your idea was. His hands grazed over the skin on your thighs, your lips parting as he slotted himself into the middle of them. He did not wait, his mouth already back on yours, your back hitting the desk with a dull thud. Perfect. You tried to keep your mind running; that alone was an effort you would have done well not to underestimate. You needed to keep it together now.
Still, you could not help but lean into him; apparently your instinct had decided that friction was more important than thinking for the moment. You sucked in a breath, the air in your lungs clearing the fog of heat that had encapsulated you. It was a slow movement, your hand bending painfully as it shifted to reach under the desk.
You could only hope that you would find it before Ronin found out what you were doing, and for this one time, your prayer was answered. Plastic, finally. A simple push was enough, the sound of the alarm sending Ronin backwards immediately.
You followed suit, your eyes on him, his own gaze meeting you in the middle. He was appraising you, like you were some sort of meat. A prized cut hanging in the butcherās store. He was proud.
It did not take a full minute for the guards to barge in. You weren't looking at them. You were looking at the broken porcelain in Ronin's hand. The rest of it was a blur to you, the memories fleeing from your grasp each and every time you tried to recall it.
The prison lost an inmate that day, two guards were gone, and the inmate had managed to escape.
Synopsis: what is a little crime enjoyer like you supposed to do when you accidentally catch the Butcher's eye?
Tags: female!reader, relatively fast paced, not beta read, graphic depictions of gore (at least I think so), mentions of dizziness and injuries on the reader, stalking (both by reader and by Ronin), slight yandere!ronin, mostly reader pov, Roni pov only once, around 6.1k words
Nighttime photography was a rather unconventional hobby for someone such as yourself, but you were never one to stick to what was predictable.
Uptown, specifically purgatory, was the Butcher's territory where gory masterpieces framed themselves on the brick walls of the alley. Even the toughest of forensics have to take breaks when it comes to performing an autopsy on the men and women who die there, and the faint smell of policemen's vomit wafted through the entryway. Everyone knew it was practically suicide to verge near that area at night, heck, even daytime, but who were you to care about self preservation instincts?
In any case, it's not as if you were unprepared. Despite the expensive digital camera hanging off of your neck, you were smart enough to at least wear dark, unassuming clothing and to carry pepper spray and a dagger with you. You studied enough of human anatomy to know how to dig your knife into a carotid artery if necessary, surely to take out the Butcher even with the crowbar digging into your temple.
But gods did you love the Butcher's work. The red staining the crevices of each brick, the implicitly artistic way he carved out the gore. Despite the carnage appearing to be messy, unappealing even when looked at from afar, it was hard not to appreciate good effort when you saw it. And, in every single body he desecrates, there was always a puncture in the ribcage where the heart would be, and you found yourself smiling even when you were met with the sight of a heart-less corpse.
You wonder if the two of you met, he would take your heart too.
It was around midnight now, and you were standing in front of a fresh corpse. Rough, jagged lacerations of flesh and bone met your eyes, and the squelch of the guy's eyeball under the sole of your sneakers did make you wince. A little, at least.
Again, the pointedly missing heart caught your eye, and you held back a smile. Always keeping his signature isn't he? No matter how bloody, gruesome, downright horrific his crime scenes got even to your standards, the sight of the empty ribcage always brought you back to clarity. You were photographing the Butcher's work, not caught by the police or the serial killer, or anyone.
It was strange in retrospect, but who were you to deny living another day despite its dreary tones?
Click. Flash. Click. Flash.
You had taken a few photos by now, and decided that returning home would be the best for now lest you wanted your co workers to question why you smelled like the bad kind of iron. Pulling your hood over your head, instead of walking out of the alley you used the railings of the shitty buildings to climb upwards, jumping across a few rooftops before deeming a safe enough distance to climb back down and take a long twisty road back to your house. Never wanted your nightly escapees to be all that obvious after all.
You sneaked in through the window, but oddly enough it was already unlocked. You typically unlock it from the outside when coming in. Maybe you just forgot the padlock? You shook your head, best not to overthink much right now, your exhaustion will not allow you to do any heavy thinking.
Your room was a sort of organized mess, various posters and clutter everywhere one could see. The laptop on your desk played a multiple hour documentary, giving the illusion of a lived in home or whatever. You were about to plug the USB into the port hole but we're instead met with the sight of a file that you never made.
And when you clicked on it, it only displayed a small message in a red font:
Nice photos- the Butcher
...
You hoped no one saw you jumping out of your seat in shock.
Your dream ever since you obtained your dingy apartment was to save enough money from your 9-5 to renovate one of the guest rooms into a dark room and to buy a film camera. The art of producing one's own photos was an enticing though to say the least. And yet, staring at the message displayed on your monitor really had you have second thoughts on whether or not you'd live to even obtain your wants.
The louder part of your brain told you if the Butcher didn't kill you the instant he found you, you'd be safe as long as you amused him or whatever. The quieter part containing your self preservation instincts told you to just leave before you end up like a bloody splat on the floor of an alleyway. A hopefully decent looking splat, but knowing yourself you'd probably find a way to make the art of dying look unappealing.
The logical part of your brain told you to encrypt your files more, and that's what you did first before listening to anything else. Your eyes kept darting back to the file on your hardware, mocking you in a way. Admiring the Butcher's work and yet being spooked by a cryptic message? Laughable even. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you even started this hobby of yours, but now that it's come to bite you in the ass you're scampering away like a stray puppy.
And yet, even with all the fail-safes and encryption you put upon your files, some childish part of you seemed to want your self preservation instincts be put on trial, and you typed in a message in one of your folders, the one containing your finest work yet.
It was a beautiful night at that time, moonlight glossing over coagulated blood on skin, the walls covered in a rusty layer. The white bones lay as a sort of decoration in the guts and gore displayed on the mud ground, and of course, light peared into the Butcher's heartless signature.
Using the liquify tool, you moved the picture around in the darker areas where change was almost imperceptible, even those with the greatest eye sight having to squint to even read the hidden message. If, hypothetically, the Butcher were to watch your work for hours on time, there was a small chance he would read this.
The message wrote short and concise, in any case.
Wanna see more of my work?
A practical invite to play. Or perhaps an incentive to beg for your life. Hey Butcher, you get to keep a fangirl and I get to keep my hobby. Sounds fair, right? Was the real hidden message here.
You went to sleep that night layering up with multiple blankets, if only in an attempt to cushion the knife/crowbar digging into your ribcage. Neck pillows stuffed around your, well, neck, and despite the uncomfortable heat you kept it on for your own protection. You didn't actually expect to survive, just stay awake long enough to catch sight of the Butcher himself.
When you woke up, all extra layers were neatly folded in the bed beside you, your neck pillow tossed to the floor. And when you frantically checked your laptop again, the folder was updated with another file that definitely wasn't there before.
Show me what ya got, dear photographer.
It was impossible to keep your sigh of relief to yourself.
Ronin never thought he'd get a full on stalker for all of the bloody bodies he leaves in purgatory.
He's seen detectives, forensics, heck even news reporters obsessed over his every trail. Every single body found, he always opened the news channel just to see what elaborate lie they spun about him next. Fun pastime, if he had to say, though Angel would vehemently call him out on his ego.
He didn't expect someone idiotic enough to directly visit Purgatory without any backup in sight.
The first time it happened, he was having a bit of a good day himself. Took extra time to carve out jagged messages over the man's torso, making sure to put the blood in all the appealing places for the news to show with the slight tremble in their voice at his new massacre. He had to roll his eyes at how squeamish they were sometimes, even if macabre, his work deserved at least some sort of appreciation! "Monster" "Devil", as much as he liked those nicknames he did end up a bit pouty when no one took note of his gory masterpieces.
He was walking away from the alley, crowbar over his shoulder and white mask smelling distinctly of rust, when he heard the landing of feet against the mud. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should go back and make two dead bodies, despite how tedious it was, but it was a new moon night anyway. He couldn't see them, they couldn't see him. And besides, as stated, he was in a good mood that night, so maybe he'd let that crazed reporter go.
Everyone rioted on his laxness, but he only languidly leaned back in his chair and released a hearty chuckle.
The next time it happened, well, the shock of their idiocy spared their life.
It was a particularly mediocre day, nothing exceptionally thrilling. Heck, his victim didn't even live long enough to scream, or perhaps their vocal cords were too enraptured by his glorious appearance. In any case, he lingered around the body for a while, grumbling about his disappointing kill under his breath while texting the GC. This time, he was close enough, but also enveloped in the shadows for nobody to take notice of the 6'2 butcher ready to bash someone's skull in with his weapon of choice.
When he saw you, outwardly unassuming and plain, laden in dark clothing like you were pretending to be a spy on a recon mission, he only barely managed to keep his scoff. However, his interest piqued when he actually took note of the camera wrapped around your neck.
Though he wasn't a camera connoisseur or whatever, he did recognize expensive shit when he saw it; there was, in no way, that a reporter could be seen carrying around such expensive equipment, especially in purgartory. He narrowed his eyes when you took the pictures from various angles, then left as soon as you came. He shoved the phone back into his jeans, his crowbar underneath the dumpster before beginning chase, quietly of course.
For the sake of his pride, he wouldn't admit it, but you were a difficult mouse to catch. Slippery in all the wrong ways, and he couldn't imagine the number of times he cursed simply because he lost track of you in the various rooftops. Didn't help that your clothing was dark either, and that your hood was up. He obtained absolutely nothing from you except for the camera around your neck and a mere estimation of your height and weight.
He wouldn't admit that it brought a twitch to his eye.
Finally, he manages to catch a glimpse of you sneaking into a dingy apartment window, the sound of a random documentary about a killer briefly escaping the glass before it was shut again. He snorted at the lock placed, as if he couldn't lockpick his way through. He could, technically just bust in and kill you on the spot, but eh. Might as well watch whatever you were on about.
And he was glad that he did. Even he couldn't follow your fast ass typing to a t when you came to typing your password. This level of encryption reminded him of those fuckass spy movies again, although he was surprised when the USB was plugged in and you went to Photoshop instead of the dark web to post your findings.
Then you began to edit the picture, and his disbelief grew by the second. Okay, maybe you were the type to make it all nice and pretty for whoever was receiving the pictures. Not like he could judge, with the amount of time he spends in the alley just to make his bodies look somewhat pleasing.
And then you encrypted your files, shut your laptop down and went back to sleep.
... What the actual fuck.
He would have just busted into the apartment, picked at the lock, maybe even smash the glass if he was particularly impatient, but the sun was rising by then. And well, wouldn't want the security guards to take note of him now would he? It wouldn't be so bad to allow you to live another day, no matter how many people protested. Besides, he'll get more time when he busts into your room later on.
... Wow that really does make him sound like a creep.
In any case, third time was the charm. He left his crime scene as quickly as he made it and instead went rushing over to your apartment, the less complicated way with fewer twists and turns. When the telltale sign of you leaving your window came into view, he himself prepared to enter too.
When inside, his eyes roamed over each and every crevice and space. Perhaps you were foolish enough to leave something noteworthy out? Well, aside from your laptop it seemed not. Careful to not jostle your belongings too much, he tiptoed his way towards the laptop, cursing at his memory when typing the password. Then came your files, which he happily decrypted, the clack clack of the pads of his fingers against the keys echoing throughout the room.
When your pictures came into view, against his better wishes he still found himself mesmerized.
Of course, in all matters of technicality it was still his work. His piece of art, his hands having done the lacerations presented present on the corpse. And yet, he couldn't help but feel somewhat, charmed, in a sense. It was his work, sure, but you were the one making look even better, lighting in all the proper places, touching up the background, adding a filter that fit the picture cohesively and all (though he'd grumble sometimes on how it doesn't fit the vibe he was going for).
By the time he realized that he had been staring for way too long, he only had the time to sneakily obtain one of your socials, lock your window again and walk away as if he didn't commit the oh so horrid crime of breaking and entering.
Well, in the meantime he may as well find as much as he can about you know? Besides, it's hardly stalking when you have followed him (his creations, his brain unhelpfully added), he'll just take a look.
And if he ends up far more infatuated than of what he intended to be? Well, a Butcher always needed their own assistant now didn't they? But maybe the word "partner" suited better in his tongue...
Today was a particularly shitty day.
You had meant to buy a brand new window lock, with how the last one ended up. Hopefully something sturdier that'll allow you to delay the butcher from breaking into your room again.
You're not exactly sure what went wrong.
Dragging the pads of your fingers along the bandage on your face, you could only sigh and then wince at jostling the gauze. You had meant to buy a lock, but you're not exactly sure why you ended up with a nasty bruise that required to be drained with how drastic the fluid accumulation was. It's just, the guy ogling creepily at the little girl the aisle over gave you such a an urge to punch him square in the face, and you were never one to have good control over your impulses. It was what led you to do your nighttime hobby after all.
But. The more important thing was to take your picture for the day.
Typically, you wouldn't have gone. Most assume the butcher's murder schedule to be randomized, without a precise time, and to that they might have been true, if it weren't for your creep behavior. So, a kill is happening tonight, and despite your newfound anxiety at finding a crowbar lodged into the muscles of your neck, the thrill of it all was too tempting to resist.
Exiting from the window and making sure to actually lock it, your hands locked down on the railings as you climbed up to the rooftop. And of course, the walls on the edge of the roof just had to be wet from some random liquid. You hoped to whatever entity that was able to hear your prayer that it was only water, else you might just start sobbing on the spot.
Reaching purgatory put you in all sorts of a bad mood, but oh well. You'll buy yourself an ice cream later, or something, for now you'll take your time to observe the desecrated body on the muddy, dirty ground.
And observe you did. Even you couldn't stop your gaping mouth at how utterly ruined the person was. The elbows, ankles, shoulder joint and knee were brutally smashed into pieces, to the point where nothing was attached to each other anymore; The eyelid showed signs of being scraped by a crowbar, for the eyeball itself hung loosely from its blood vessels. The ribcage, as usual, remained empty of its heart, but it was in no way as pretty as the others. Each individual rib showed signs of being cracked, likely by the heel of a boot from how relatively tame it was.
This was a much more gruesome sight than the usual art that you bear witness to.
For a moment, irritation flared up your spine, and the urge to give the butcher a lengthy note to not desecrate the bodies so badly that it won't appear nice on the pictures, but you held yourself back with a grumble.
Click. Click.
Despite the considerably less photos taken today, even you were curious about the victim. Who pissed off the Butcher so much that he'd leave such a mangled mess in the alleyway? You weren't wearing any gloves at the moment, and the thought of touching the coagulated blood without the cloth as your protection gave you grotesque shivers in and of itself, but as they say, curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought it back.
Rolling up your sleeves, you grimaced at the squelch of the bubbles building up in the sticky blood, but kept swiping the gore away from the man's face. Other than his eye color, obtained from his loose eyeball, there was no ultimate defining features for you to recognize. The man's hair, you assume used to be brown before all the red staining it, and the eyes were blue with a faint grayish tint. Though his pallor was now gray and pale from all the blood loss, you could tell that he had a somewhat cool undertone.
It reminded you of the man who gave you that bruise...
No. Nononono-
Frantically now, your hand practically slid off the man's face with how harshly you swiped at it, the blood doing nothing to help the friction. You had half a mind not to rub and wipe off the blood on your one good black jacket, especially after you already rolled up your sleeves just to prevent staining. But, then again your heart dropped to your gut in the same way.
It was him. The same man who attacked you back that morning.
No it had to be a coincidence, right? It had to be it had to be it had to-
But the wounds were too precise, the man too bloody and beaten for a usual Butcher work. It could have been someone the Butcher was particularly annoyed with, your mind helpfully reconciled, and for once you might believe your own repetitive delusions.
Then the tiny card of paper landed in your direct line of vision.
No.
You aren't sure if satisfaction would bring you back anymore. Slowly, tentatively, your crimson fingertips stained the white paper red, and it turned into mush in your palm. But, the text was still visible, in that scratchy pen ink that took you too long to read.
Sorry the carnage isn't as pretty to look at for this. Forgive me?
The card fully melted into the blood, and you resisted a scream from the deepest cesspit in your throat.
...
The fucking blood wasn't washing off-
Internally, you knew that you were being a bit of a hypocrite, getting all freaked out over a body when you've seen and photographed countless others before. But this one was just too close. If the Butcher decided to play Russian roulette or whatever and gun landed on your name, you would've been dead. You didn't even know this guy, but the butcher didn't know you either!
Or did he now? He did know where you lived, how to bypass your encryption, fucking, taunt you at your limits. You wished you could just pour high concentrated hydrogen peroxide on your hands, at least that way it wouldn't stick everywhere. It stained your basin a light red, your nails filled with brown, dried blood. It wasn't coming off-
Fuck it, you were going to cut your nails and scrape out the dried blood yourself, instead subjecting yourself to the torture known as hopelessly scrubbing your hands and hoping the blood would chill the fuck out.
Your phone decided to ring in that inopportune time, and you suppressed an exhausted groan. Of course, right when you were on the brink of a mental breakdown, just what you needed!
Walking over to your bed, you practically plopped onto it like dead weight, grabbing your phone and unlocking it. It was a message from an unknown number, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes. Seriously, a scam number? You were about to turn on do not disturb before a notification interrupted you, and your phone froze.
@ goreboy
come onn
I even took a photo of how miserable you looked!
Granted, not as good as your works of art but still
Cut me some slack darling
Sent an image
No fucking way the Butcher texted you after that whole fiasco. You suddenly felt the urge to hurl your phone across the room.
But you didn't! All because of your sanity, which was somehow still present, and yet dangling dangerously on a thread thinner than hair. Your phone finally unfroze, thank god, and you clicked on the notification faster than the flash.
The chatroom looked all sorts of suspicious, even if the layout was similar to that of discord. The image he was talking about was a low quality screenshot, static subtly overlaying the picture. The picture of you, in your bed, hands still a subtle pinkish red, holding your phone with a tight expression.
You whipped your head around your room. Unless the Butcher was in the fucking shadows of your house, he should have left a camera hidden somewhere. Based on the angle of the picture, the trajectory led you to your nightstand, where only your camera sat idly, a red light blinking from its lens.
How ironic.
You practically ripped off the bug and threw it out the window, which you still forgot to lock. The ping of a notification entered your ears, and your smile was nothing but mirth when you read the serial killer's message.
@ goreboy
:((((
How rude
You
That's what you get for placing cameras in my room
@ goreboy
So if you stalk me it's perfectly acceptable but if I do the same back it's suddenly a problem?
You
What do you want?
@ goreboy
Ah-ah darling
I asked the question first
You
...
Am I the one who was watching you in your own home like a creep?
At least I have the decency to not follow your trails
@ goreboy
Oh?
It would be so much better if you would though..
Watching your face from real life sounds much worthwhile
The camera can't seem to capture your charm
You
My charm?
Actually you know what
Just answer my question
Wtf do you want from me
@ goreboy
To see my fangirl in action!
You
.
That's it?
@ goreboy
I won't hurt you if that's what you're worried about darl'
I just wonder
How long will it take you to catch your muse in action?
Sent an image
Tentatively clicking on the picture, it was surprisingly dark. If it weren't for the moonlight illuminating the background you wouldn't have been able to see anything.
At least, you could tell that there was a pair of long legs, most likely the Butcher's in the foreground. His jacket's shiny zipper reflected the light back into someone's eye- where you now realized that he was holding a decapitated head in his hands. The man's vertebrae was still swinging around, about to come lose in a single dislocation.
Wait, that head looked vaguely familiar-
Your jaw dropped to the center of the earth itself. The Butcher was holding your shitty ex boyfriend's decapitated head, still with the nerve endings visible, and took a picture of himself and with it. You could still see the blood, a drop almost falling and only stopped by the camera capturing a moment in time and-
You clicked do not disturb. In no way were you going to think about that longer than five seconds when you were still reeling from the blood on your hands and bruise on your cheek. Butcher hunting you down be damned, you needed a fucking nap.
Against your better wishes, you still continued your nighttime photography.
It kept you on edge, constantly looking everywhere for the sight of another person. You've replaced your knife with a gun, and you spend more time just staring at the splat of blood rather than actually taking a picture, wondering when the time comes when you too will just be a body in purgatory.
You hated that your gut feeling told you that that likely wouldn't happen.
In any case, you're not sure whether to laugh or cry when you realize your skill has been getting better just by you lazing around instead of doing something. Maybe it's because you take pictures when it looks decent, not just take various pictures and hope that some turn out decent.
Most of all, using Photoshop has been more of a tedious task as of late. More often than not, you found yourself not even being able to control your mouse, your cursor controlled by the Butcher to choose some tacky filter that he swears looks fire. You threaten to delete your file and he already says he saved it in multiple devices.
So to say, you're at your limit.
You readjusted the lense again with a sigh, the flash of the camera making it known to everyone in the vicinity (which should be no one, unless they're as stupid as you are) and you hummed at the result. It would look better with some photoshoping, but overall not a bad picture.
You took a step back just to admire the work again, and then grimaced when you accidentally stepped on an eyeball again. You could practically feel the sticky, gooey squelch of the eye popping into a bajilion blood vessels or whatever, especially since the shoes you were wearing didn't have as high of a heel than the others.
Wait where did the eyeball come from?
The dead woman in front of you had every single body part intact. Her eyes, while loose, still remained dangling from its socket. Aside from the heart missing from the ribcage, there was no particular organ that you could see missing.
No fucking way.
"Yes way darling," and then the Butcher just waltzed in without a care in the world, snickering loud enough for you to hear. "Though I'm pretty sure you meant to keep that thought for yourself."
This was not happening to you right now. You were already being terrorized by the text messages and him taking control over your computer entirely, and now he decides to meet you out in the flesh. His white mask caused you to straighten up the posture for a bit, but the more important thing was-
You couldn't move. At all.
Maybe it was fear, maybe it was dread. But the fact that you couldn't move was a frightening prospect. Was he just going to keep on walking to you, smash his crowbar into your cranium and you would take it like a good little victim? You think that might just happen, with how your body refused to follow your commands.
"What's the matter?" His voice hit the shell of your ear, his head right next to yours, and suddenly every single alarm bell that could possibly exist flared in your head like a fucking mantra. His drawl brought the most violent of shivers crawling up your spine, and you practically whimpered when his chuckle followed soon after.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Alright that's it. Despite the feeling of tungsten weighing down your ankles, the adrenaline in and of itself gave you enough courage to at least start running the fuck out of there.
The heel of your boot kicked his shin, and he cursed right behind you, the sound of limping grating your ears. With a much needed huff, you ran. Like really ran. You nearly tripped over your own shoe, got your hoodie snagged by some random ass object in the road, a few tears evidently ended up in the comfy cloth, red blood covering the cut instead. Your blood, your mind helpfully provided, further spiralling into your own panic.
How great was it, that you managed to get chased down by the killer of your dreams (perhaps nightmares, with the recent turn of events). Instead of staying out of everyone's way, you just had to catch a serial killers eye! To think that you dreamt about meeting this man.
Well, death was always the endgame for you, you weren't going to lie about that. But something gives you the feeling that indulging in the Butcher's whims would be a fate far worse than death.
"Oh my god are you okay?!"
You blinked. Right, you're miles away from the alley, somehow the Butcher hadn't caught up with you with how long his legs were (was your kick really that powerful?), and you were right in front of a convenience store, a normal every day person right in front of you.
Your pants were torn, blood rapidly drying on its edges, cuts adorned your frame like rapid strokes, heck you yourself felt like you were going through a stroke. Not exactly the best sight to show a civilian. Normal typical civilian, not a clinically insane person like you.
As if your day couldn't get any worse than it already was.
You were absolutely exhausted from adrenaline crash, bandaging up your cuts and attempting to clean your bloodied clothes for the whole night.
Well, the last part is something you have to do regularly whenever you went out for your nightly excursions, but perhaps you could cut yourself some slack with whatever the fuck kind of night you had previously. You hadn't slept a wink, eyebags framing your face from your bottom lashes to just a millimeter above your cheekbone. Toppling over from exhaustion alone was a valid option here, but you weren't going to do so as long as you injected some caffeine into your veins.
... Which you had none of at the current moment. Seriously, no energy drinks, instant coffee, nothing! Just had to run out at the worst possible time.
Grumbling into your coat, you'll probably buy a shit ton of your caffeinated drinks in the grocery store later. For now, main goal is to maintain enough of a steady amount of energy to the nearest Starbucks, ask for enough shots of espresso to cause a heart attack, and get the fuck out of there. The urge to lay, rotting in your bed was too irresistible, but you weren't going to give in.
Walking out of the house felt like someone just dropped an anvil on your head. Getting to the Starbucks itself brought along a myriad of staticky, colorful vision, each vibrance blending into each other until you couldn't even tell where you were and where the hell were you going. Every time light entered your retina it felt like someone planted a dozen bullets in your brain, each bullet swirling and swooshing around like charms in slime and-
You really needed your coffee.
The line was impossibly long, and your foul mood grew fouler by the second. You're about 90% sure you're about two steps away from puking your guts out all over the floor, and fuck- there was a wet patch on your ankle. Did you forget to bandage a whole ass cut?
Now, you had two options. One, sit the fuck down, press a tissue into your ankle and watch as it dissolves into mush within your blood. Or two, you wait in the line and watch as the ground grows more distant by the second-
"Yo, are you okay?"
You blinked, multiple times actually, tilting your head to look who was behind you. Despite the dots lining your vision preventing you from clearly seeing his face, you got the odd feeling that you've met him somewhere before.
"Fine, actually. You-" you yawned for a moment, before averting your gaze sheepishly. "You don't gotta worry about me."
"Uh-huh, sure sweetheart. You look like you're one step away from just tumbling down onto the floors."
Darn it the man was sharp. Or maybe you were just that bad at hiding your misery. Also what did he just call-
"I could get ya order if you want?"
He subtly pushed you as the line moved forward, because apparently your mind chose the best possible moment to turn to mush. How great, fantastic even.
"What benefit do you have from helping a stranger?"
"Well," he grinned cheekily, at least you think he did. "We could be more than that, I'm Ronin by the way."
You snorted. "How smooth. I'm (Name). How about you get me a nice old coffee? Make sure to put a heck ton of caffeine."
He smiled back. "Will do. Now go take a seat darlin', you look like you need one."
Huh, his speaking pattern was somewhat familiar... Even so you still nodded and briefly waved, taking a seat in one of the more secluded chairs away from everyone. Did you just get yourself a possible date? Maybe, but really, who were you to complain? The guy was cute, with his magenta hair and enchanting voice.
Wait a minute...
In the meanwhile, you supposed you could take a look at your wound, which, yikes was it bad to look at. Luckily no pus build up present, but the gash across the thin skin was clearly on its way to make you retch. The fibres of your sock had stuck to the open wound like a fucking adhesive, and the more you tried to peel off the sock, the more you realized how on the verge of screaming you were.
Maybe you should've slept first instead of focusing all on bandaging your minor cuts, because sleep deprivation would not do any wonders for your hand to eye coordination.
Alas, you had nothing except for the old tissues in your coat pocket, and Ronin was probably going to return any minute now, best not to freak him out with your egregious injury.
"Tch, darlin', can't even take care of yourself now can you?"
You froze.
There Ronin stood in front of you, imposing height shielding you from the rest of the cafe, two cups of coffee in hand. His face was scrunched up in disappointment, rather than the confusion that you were expecting. He only placed the two of your orders on the table, crouching down to the floor and grabbing your ankle in hand.
You squirmed in his grip, he only pinched the skin above your joint.
"Seriously, you shouldn't have run so fast and that far the last time. I wanted to take my time with the introductions and all but-"
No fucking way-
"How could I ever resist the sight of you all so miserable and hunched over hm?" His voice drawled to mock sympathy, and your heart dropped to the deepest pit of your stomach.
"Y-you're-"
"Ah-ah darling, wouldn't want to say that out loud in front of so many people now would we?" He snickered, somehow pulling out a napkin out of nowhere and pressing it into your gash, ignoring your hiss of pain.
"Now, how about you drink up your coffee and I treat your little wound over here hm?"
You really were the fawn caught in the butcher's trap.
THIS IS SO ASS IM SORRY I spent too much effort on this. But. Ronin fic here it is!
1. Your Love Has Got Me Going Like You Couldn't Imagine
š£ š¤ š£ ronin beaufort x psychotic!devoted!reader
MASTERLIST
mature|F/M|archive warnings apply|in progress
tags: Killer Chat, Ronin Beaufort/Reader, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fluff and Smut, Gore, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Torture, Obsessive Love, Murder as a Romantic Metaphor, NSFW
The air fell cold and damp around your shoulders as you walked up the steps to your apartment. Normally, you avoided coming and going from anywhere but the fire escape, but it was three in the morning. You figured none of your neighbors would see you, covered in blood, and truthfully you wanted an excuse not to parkour up to your window. You were fucking exhausted. Fumbling with your keys, you clumsily managed to unlock the door and practically fell inside, the door slamming shut behind you and rattling the flimsy cabinets beside it. As you put your bag down, your computer started ringing like a motherfucker.Ā
Must be Ronin.Ā
Logging in to The Slaughterhouse, you see a video call request from your (recently!!) boyfriend. You grin at his cheesy status message (āapparently Quite the Fine shoulder Devilā), then debate accepting the call. You were covered in blood and absolutely disheveledā¦but also, it was Ronin. That sight alone would probably be his jerk material for the week. Sighing, you clicked accept.Ā
āDarlinā, I was worried you were leavinā me hangin there!ā
He blinks, taking in your post-murder-session look. A slight blush appears on his normally vampiric face as he shamelessly stares at the blood still pooling in your cleavage. Classic Ronin.Ā
āWasnāt leaving you hanging, Ro. I literally just fell into my apartment.āĀ
āClearlyā¦ yāknow, you oughta clean that up darlinā. Wouldnāt want you to stain your precious apartmentā¦ā
You scoff, yet another of Roninās attempts to make fun of your aesthetic.Ā
āRo, just because I am a serial killer on a knockoff discord doesnāt mean my house needs to look like it. Although you clearly wouldnāt know, Mr. Edgy.āĀ
He cackles out loud at this, and you canāt help but giggle. Youāre nearly delirious at this point, dying for a shower and a long nap. He notices your giggles fade and your eyes seem to grow even more tired, at which point he remembers that three in the morning is not a typical time to be up and on a videocall.Ā
āHow ābout you get some beauty sleep, huh? Need you energetic so you can hear about my latest project.āĀ
āGod, yes. Iām gonna go wash this assholeās blood off and then Iām hibernating for a month.āĀ
He chuckles at the image of you in a little nest, worn out from your crimes. āNight, darlinā.āĀ
āNight, Roā¦ wait, is that blood on your shi-ā
He hangs up. Typical. Of course he didnāt shower after his murder, he probably got distracted by the news or the server responses. Wonder who he killed todayā¦you decide to interrogate him in the morning, opting for your shower and crashing into bed as top priority.
The morning came far too soon, the blinding light of morning streaming through your apartment window.The light woke you up, but also a loud crash coming from what youāre pretty sure is inside your house. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes and grabbing the first heavy thing you see, you creep to the kitchenā¦
ā¦And almost kill your boyfriend.
āJesus Christ, Ronin!!āĀ
āYāknow, thatās not what they usually call me-ā
You smack him on the arm.Ā
āRonin, I almost cracked your skull with a lamp. What in the fresh fuck are you doing in my apartment at nine in the morning??ā
ā...was gonna make some breakfast, darlinā.ā
Thatās Ronin for ya. Showing his love in the most alarming ways. But damn if you didnāt love it. You stared at the man in front of you, jewelry shining against his coveralls. Damn, he had to go to work. Lucky you, stay-at-home writer. You look down at yourself, wearing a ginormous shirt you stole from Ro and fuzzy Spider-Man socks. Ronin stifles a laugh, but not enough. You glare up at him, yesterdayās mascara still smeared under your eyes.Ā
āI wasnāt expecting company, you bastard.āĀ
He grinned at you, turning back to the stove as he finished breakfast. Ronin wasnāt a great cook, so you were more than a little wary of the pancakes in front of you. Still, you appreciated it, so you took a bite. It was edible, sort of. The two of you ate in silence for a bit, until Ronin cleared his throat.Ā
āSo, darlinā...wanna hear about my kill last night?ā
Now THIS was what you lived for. Discussing both your latest kills over food. It was your favorite part of the day, watching as your loverās eyes sparkled with excitement as he reenacted his latest project.Ā
āUm, duh. Tell me EVERYTHING,ā you replied with a grin, eyes locked on the man before you. Ronin dissolved into the gory details of his murder, some deranged pedophile heād found on the internet and mauled down in Purgatory for the world to gawk at. You just munched on your pancakes, silent except for an occasional remark or exclamation. And if you blushed as he described swinging his crowbar through the unexpecting skull of that stain on humanity, so be it. However, your peaceful moment was interrupted by your computer lighting up with a sudden influx of messages. You glanced at Ronin, who nodded in approval, then opened the Slaughterhouse. And then-Ā
š£ š¤ š£ ronin beaufort x psychotic!devoted!reader
MASTERLIST
mature|F/M|archive warnings apply|in progress
tags: Killer Chat, Ronin Beaufort/Reader, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fluff and Smut, Gore, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Torture, Obsessive Love, Murder as a Romantic Metaphor, NSFW
nsfw marked in red
š£ š¤ š£ 1: Your Love Has Got Me Going Like You Wouldn't Imagine
š£ š¤ š£ 2: Youāve Seen the Butcher
š£ š¤ š£ 3: This, The Tale of Reckless Love
š£ š¤ š£ 4: My Love, My Alibi
š£ š¤ š£ 5: Baby Likes it Messy, and She Likes To Cause A Scene
š£ š¤ š£ 6: He May Contain The Urge to Run Away
š£ š¤ š£ 7: Punch Your Lights Out, Hit The Pavement
š£ š¤ š£ 8: So Why Doesnāt That Make Me Feel Better?
š£ š¤ š£ 9: No Regrets, Straight to Hell
š£ š¤ š£ 10: And Her Kiss The Color of a Constellation Falling Into Place
š£ š¤ š£ 11: What do you Expect of Me
š£ š¤ š£ 12: My whole Existence is flawed, you Keep me Closer To god
š£ š¤ š£ 13: Call me Crazy, but damn iād like to Get inside Of Your Mind
I was thinking...what different ways the KC characters say "I love you" to MC? Like we know all of their love languages, but still
I was about to go play EVE online but god I adore this
How each Killer Chat LI says āI love youā
Ronin
āItās just usā the world kind of fades away between the two of you, like those corny edgy teenage relationships where they smoke at the roof and skip school together, but itās that togetherness. A love that kills you both.
āYou mean hell and back to meā he would travel hell and back to see you, basically. How can I help it though? When you just eat up all his thoughts and he lets you sit pretty there, the sweet parasite you are.
āOh, Iām infatuatedā he gets giddy in the most unsettling ways at the thought of you, blush on the back of his neck and so much intensity in his eyes, itās a magnet. Roninās in love.
āHowās your obsession with me going?ā AKA āIām very obsessed with you and I take flattery in the fact I can tell youāre just crazy about me tooā.
Angel
āIām the luckiest girl in the world with youā she is so grateful, a bit too grateful even, that you make her feel like her life actually belongs to her. The beauty of you relationship, just yours. The two of you. You really have something beautiful together.
āOh youāre preciousā this is really the only way she can get herself not to say āI want to swallow you upā.
āMy flowers grow better/ac feels better/sunlight is better when youāre around, I donāt know whyā she loves your time spent together more than anything the world has to offer, but she feels selfish when she asks for it. So she has to rely on the fact her flowers bloom more when youāre there (itās the rose tinted, heart shaped sunglasses alright).
āYou flatter meā sheās blushing up such a sweet storm and has no idea how the hell to respond.
V
āTake my hand, my love.ā Just mumbled while heās doing nothing. Itās an honor to him youāre able to rest your soft hand in his, he always wants to be the place your fingers, your soft heart, rests.
āYou will always be so dear to meā consistency. He knows how little closure youāve gotten, and he never wants to see your pretty eyes falter from it again. On top of that, he feels just loving you isnāt enough. He wants to make up for how amazing and beautiful your mere existence is, he holds you so dearly to his chest, to his heart.
āI would give my whole life for youā love has a terms and conditions of duty to him, he wants you to know that whenever you lean back a bit youāre always gonna fall on his chest, heād turn himself into cement to hold you up.
Misaki
āI actually adore you, holy shitā itās a bit intimidating knowing how much they hold someone so close to their heart, the sensitive parts. And sometimes it just comes back to them that holy shit, theyāre infatuated.
Iā¦donāt know when Iām gonna stop falling for youā like she said in the Christmas DLC, you always just go above and beyond in leaving her so starstruck.
āYouāreā¦ you remind me of acanthusā isnāt she a floriography nerd? She wanted to say āyouāre acanthusā, acanthus in the way youāre art.
āMy sweet boy/girl/loveā just mumbled under her breath.
a/n: sick fic anon requested this ages ago and I saw the perfect opportunity to do less work... sorry it took so long nonny and I hope you love it
You ignored Ronin's call. Before you could finish sending him your explanation he was calling again. Your mouse hovered over the red X to hang up and a message went through.
playing Hard to get darlin?
You rolled your eyes as you shifted your mouse to pick up the call.
"Oh fuck, you look awful," Ronin's laugh crackled through your shitty laptop speakers.
"Thanks," you grit out through a swollen throat. "Preciate that. Can I die in peace now?"
"Didn't think you'd be so boring, darlin. Letting a little thing like a cold get you down. C'mon if any thing's gonna kill you, it's gonna be your very own devil."
You started a scoff that turned into a cough, your lungs having a race to see which could grate the other into a pile of shredded Parmesan first. Your voice rattled when you finally drew in a breath again, rubbing a tissue across your face.
"I can't deal with this, Ronin, everything hurts. I just want to lie in the dark."
His face took a turn for the annoyed and serious.
"Suit yourself. Don't come whining to me when you're bored."
The call ended. You laid back in bed, the blanket you'd wrapped around your shuddering shoulders falling over your head as you curled in on yourself. A cough rattled your ribcage until you were certain that your lungs were going to vibrate through their enclosures.
You weren't sure when you fell asleep. Only that you were cold and hot and sweating and shivering. And someone was sitting on your bed. You nearly headbutt yourself on their arm as you jerked up.
"Shut up and lay back down, darling."
"Devil's come calling for my soul? Trying to race the grim reaper?" You whispered hoarsly at him.
"Nah, I've already won that race. I'll fight him off for a little though. Lean back, chin up, swallow," he said.
"Not the time," you groaned until you felt the soothing cold of cough syrup down your throat.
You'd run out on day three of this bullshit. And you weren't going to the store like this. You didn't even like leaving your bed. You'd eaten a sleeve of saltines over the past day without leaving your bed.
"You sure, darling? I'd let you gag on it if you begged me. But you'd have to beg really good to make up for how gross your face is right now."
You grumbled something incoherent, willing the medicine to settle somewhere other than your sternum with its icy pool of curing properties.
"Can't have you meeting the grim reaper before I'm done with you. Go back to sleep, darling. Devil's here to watch over you."
warnings: inappropriate patient/doctor relationship, smut, choking, unprotected sex, theft of personal belongings, not fully beta read.
thank you discord group chat and dkill server.
This week has been hell. Emily wonāt stop making weird comments about...well, everything. Jose wonāt stop flirting with you, no matter how many times you try to politely turn him down. Finals are beating your ass, and every professor is suddenly extra strict. Not to mention the fact that you most definitely have inappropriate feelings for your psychiatrist, but is that even really your fault? Florian Seth is genuinely one of the most attractive men you have ever met, and from the interactions youāve had with him out of sessions, heās absolutely delightful. He also hasnāt been the most professional. You need to ask for a different psychiatrist.
You push open the door to Florianās office after knocking, closing it behind you as you step inside. You find him sitting on the couch, glasses sitting low on his nose as he reads a book, and you genuinely freeze in place. The sun is peeking through the blinds, light reflecting on his graceful figure, making his hair and pale eyelashes seem as though they were glowing. The golden hue of the sun almost made him look like an angel, gilded light reflecting off his glasses. You find yourself very quickly coming to the conclusion that you need him. Now.
āFlorian, I need you to listen to what Iām about to say.ā You practically blurt out the words, one hand resting on the doorknob behind you as you stare at the man. He looks up at you from his place on the couch, one eyebrow raised as he closes the book in his hands.
āGo onā¦ā He offers the words patiently, giving you the space to speak.
You take a deep breath, avoiding his eyes for a moment before you begin speaking. āI...Iām going to request a different therapist. I no longer wish to be your patient because Iā¦ā Your words trail off slightly, muttering a small āJesus Christā mostly to yourself before you continue. āI want you.ā You force the words out, letting your gaze find its way to his magenta eyes. āAnd if you donāt have any objections, then I am going to lock this door and kiss you.ā
āSo, you are no longer my patient, correct?ā Florian asked, standing from his place on the couch and stepping toward you. You nod in reply, biting your bottom lip as you step backward, and your back hits the door. He invades your space, hand meeting your cheek as he tilts your gaze upwards to his. His cheeks are flushed, pupils wide as he stares down at you. His other hand reaches for yours on the doorknob, and he turns the lock, āGood, because Iāve been dying to do thisā¦ā
His lips meet yours, and all the restraint you had left cracks, your arms wrapping around his neck as your fingers tangle into his soft white hair. You press yourself against him, whining when his fingers dig into your hips, and he pushes your back flush against the door to his office. His hand trails up your body, ending up with his fingers tugging your hair back as his tongue slips into your mouth. His other hand slides under the fabric of your shirt, fingers dancing across your ribs before he cups your breast and moans into your mouth.
You have to pull away to breathe, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths as you pant. Florian licks it up, fingers moving to your jaw to tilt your head as his lips meet the skin of your neck. āYouāre gorgeousā¦ā He whispers against your skin, teeth grazing your neck. He tugs down your bra, fingers pressing into your hot skin before he leans down and lifts your shirt so his lips can capture your nipple. Head falling back against the door, you cover your mouth with your hand to muffle the moan that comes out as his tongue circles the peak of your breast.
He pulls away, and the cold air makes you whine, eyelids heavy with lust as you stare into his eyes. āFlorianā¦ā You pant, fingers curling into his hair, ā...we shouldnāt do this hereā¦ā
Itās late in the day, the sun is setting on the campus, and most students have already left. But you are still in Florianās office on campus, pinned against the door with your shirt pulled up past your bra and Florianās saliva still on your skin.Ā
āYouāre right, against the door probably isnāt the most comfortable for you.ā Florian smirks, one arm going under your knees and the other across your back as he lifts you up. Your arms wrap around his neck as you shake your head, laughing a little at his antics.
Florian sets you on the couch in the office, pressing your back into the cushions of the backrest as he kisses you again. One hand grips the cushions behind your head as his other hand rests on your thigh. His knee slips between yours, forcing up the fabric of your skirt as he bites your lip. He pulls away and cups your cheek in his hand, brows furrowed slightly as he looks into your eyes. His glasses are crooked and smudged but he doesnāt seem to notice. āAre you sure about this?ā The concern in his tone is clear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone.
You hum for a moment, pretending to think about his question as you take his glasses from his face and put them on. You look past the rim of the glasses at him, hands cupping his face. āIām very sure that I want you, Florian.ā You watch something in Florianās eyes shift at your words, almost as if heās been waiting a lifetime to hear those words. He pulls away and kneels before the couch, hand guiding your knee over his shoulder as he stares up at you. He turns his head slightly to kiss the skin of your knee, trailing his lips upward as he sucks and bites at your thigh.
His hands slide underneath your skirt, fingers hooking the fabric of your panties and tugging them down. He stuffs the fabric into his back pocket before his hands find their place on your hips once again, shifting you forward slightly so that you are spread right in front of his face. His hot breath hits your sex, arousal evident in the slick pooling from your core. He clicks his tongue at the sight, smirk playing at his lips as he looks up at you through his lashes. āYouāre perfectā¦ā He purrs, head resting against your thigh as he moves his fingers to gather your wetness before he circles your clit and draws a gasp from your lips. āLook at you, already so wet for me, baby.ā
The sound you make at his words can only be described as pathetic, your nails digging into the fabric of the couch as you stare down at the man between your thighs. Florianās looking up at you like youāre the only thing in the world that matters to him and it has your cheeks burning, heart pounding in your ears. His fingers circle your clit again and you mewl, pushing your hips forward. āFuckā¦Florian, pleaseā¦stop teasing..ā You whine, desperate for him to finally touch you.
Florian smiles at your words and hums in response before kissing your inner thigh and trailing up. He blows air onto your clit, chuckling when you squirm and whine in response before he gives you what you want. He presses a kiss to your clit before his tongue peaks out from between his lips, lapping at your warmth and you hear him groan when he finally tastes you. Your head falls back against the couch, fingers tangling into his hair as you moan.Ā
The sounds of your moaning and Florianās mouth against your heat fill the room. You should be worried that someone will hear the two of you but, when you feel Florian suck your clit into his mouth, you canāt be bothered to care. āO-Oh my godā¦Florianā¦ā You choke out the words as your thighs clench around his head, fingers tugging his hair as he draws an orgasm out of you.
Florian takes his time licking up your arousal before he pulls away, laying you down on the couch and hovering over you. He presses his stiffness against your sex, the friction from the fabric making you whimper. He captures your lips in another kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth and forcing you to taste yourself as he grinds against you. You drag your hand down his chest, tugging at the waistband of his pants slightly before you palm at his hardness.
āFlorian pleaseā¦fuck meā¦ā You beg, lips finding his neck as your fingers dip past the waistband of his pants and boxers. Your fingers meet trimmed hair first before hitting hot rigid flesh and wrapping around it, making Florian moan above you. His head falls to your shoulder as you stroke him, tongue licking a long stripe up his neck as your other hand fumbles with the buttons of his pants. He pulls away and sits back on his knees, fingers quickly unbuttoning his pants and tugging them down just enough to free himself of the fabric.
You let your eyes trail along his length, jaw slightly agape as you stare. Your gaze returns to his eyes when you hear him chuckle, a smug expression painted on his face. āDonāt worry, Iāll make sure it fits.ā He coos, pining you to the couch with one hand beside your head. His other hand wraps around his cock as he guides it to your warmth, tip gathering wetness before nudging your clit. āYouāre so good for meā¦ā He hums, tip poking at your entrance before slowly sliding in. His thumb presses your clit, rubbing circles as he continues slipping into your warmth. You gasp at the intrusion, eyebrows knit together in pleasure and pain as you wrap your fingers around his wrist by your head. Florian moans as he bottoms out, hips pressed to yours while he stares into your eyes. He presses his lips to yours as he slowly pulls out before slamming back into you, forcing you to break the kiss as you moan out. āF-fuck Florian!ā You force yourself to bite your lip, hand covering your mouth as he sets a brutal pace.Ā
The noises coming from the room are obscene, skin slapping and muffled moans bleeding through the door. Each thrust hits perfectly into your heat, forcing you to feel every movement Florian makes. You barely even think about it before you grab his hand and place it on your throat, staring up at him through fluttering lashes. His eyes widen and hip stutter for just a moment before he growls, fingers tightening around your neck as he picks up the pace again. āY-you feel soā¦fuckā¦fucking good.ā He groans, hot breath hitting your ear before he trails his lips down your neck. You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, every thrust pushing you closer and closer. You know Florian is close as well when his movements falter, each thrust growing sloppier and his moans growing closer together.
You bring your hands to his head, fingers curling into his hair as you pull his lips to yours. āIām soā¦Iām so close, Florian pleaseā¦ā You mumble against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist as you pull him even closer. He hums in reply, eagerly kissing you again as his fingers tangle into your hair. His other hand moves between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as his tongue slides into your mouth. You feel the tension building in your core, pleasure bleeding through every nerve in your body as you cum with a muffled scream into Florianās mouth. He follows along not long after, the feeling of your walls squeezing him forcing him over the edge. Hot liquid fills you as his hips stutter, breath ragged above you.
You both lay there for a moment, clinging to each other as you gasp for air. Florian lifts himself from you, slowly pulling out before tucking himself away. He pulls a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and carefully wipes away some of the mess from your sex. He offers his hand to you, helping you stand when you take it and he adjusts the fabric of your skirt. His hand rests on your cheek, thumb caressing the skin there as he stares down at you. āYou did wonderful.ā He praises, lips meeting your forehead before he glances out the window.
The sun has set, darkness blanketing the campus. āWould you like me to drive you home?ā He asks, stepping away from you to gather some of his belongings.Ā
āI would really appreciate that.ā You reply, grabbing your bag before you realize that youāre missing something. āUmā¦where did my underwear go?ā You ask, looking over at Florian. He leans against the desk, keys in his hand as he looks at you with an eyebrow raised.
āIām not sure you were wearing any.ā He shrugs easily and walks over to you, taking your hand and walking you to the office door. Weirdā¦you couldāve sworn you wore underwear under your skirt. You both walk out of the building in silence, fingers intertwined as you reach Florianās car. He opens the door for you before walking to the other side and getting in, starting the car. You spend the car ride to your house talking about your plans for the weekend, or rather the lack thereof. Florian parks in front of your home and looks over at you. āWould you like to see each other this weekend?ā He asks carefully, a very faint flush painting his cheeks.Ā
āI would love to, Florian.ā You reply, leaning over the middle console to place a kiss to his cheek before getting out of the car. As you adjust your skirt and close the car door, it slips your mind that you leaked onto Florianās car seat. You donāt notice the way he glances down at the spot where you sat and hums to himself, satisfied.
warnings: inappropriate patient/doctor relationship, smut, choking, unprotected sex, theft of personal belongings, not fully beta read.
thank you discord group chat and dkill server.
This week has been hell. Emily wonāt stop making weird comments about...well, everything. Jose wonāt stop flirting with you, no matter how many times you try to politely turn him down. Finals are beating your ass, and every professor is suddenly extra strict. Not to mention the fact that you most definitely have inappropriate feelings for your psychiatrist, but is that even really your fault? Florian Seth is genuinely one of the most attractive men you have ever met, and from the interactions youāve had with him out of sessions, heās absolutely delightful. He also hasnāt been the most professional. You need to ask for a different psychiatrist.
You push open the door to Florianās office after knocking, closing it behind you as you step inside. You find him sitting on the couch, glasses sitting low on his nose as he reads a book, and you genuinely freeze in place. The sun is peeking through the blinds, light reflecting on his graceful figure, making his hair and pale eyelashes seem as though they were glowing. The golden hue of the sun almost made him look like an angel, gilded light reflecting off his glasses. You find yourself very quickly coming to the conclusion that you need him. Now.
āFlorian, I need you to listen to what Iām about to say.ā You practically blurt out the words, one hand resting on the doorknob behind you as you stare at the man. He looks up at you from his place on the couch, one eyebrow raised as he closes the book in his hands.
āGo onā¦ā He offers the words patiently, giving you the space to speak.
You take a deep breath, avoiding his eyes for a moment before you begin speaking. āI...Iām going to request a different therapist. I no longer wish to be your patient because Iā¦ā Your words trail off slightly, muttering a small āJesus Christā mostly to yourself before you continue. āI want you.ā You force the words out, letting your gaze find its way to his magenta eyes. āAnd if you donāt have any objections, then I am going to lock this door and kiss you.ā
āSo, you are no longer my patient, correct?ā Florian asked, standing from his place on the couch and stepping toward you. You nod in reply, biting your bottom lip as you step backward, and your back hits the door. He invades your space, hand meeting your cheek as he tilts your gaze upwards to his. His cheeks are flushed, pupils wide as he stares down at you. His other hand reaches for yours on the doorknob, and he turns the lock, āGood, because Iāve been dying to do thisā¦ā
His lips meet yours, and all the restraint you had left cracks, your arms wrapping around his neck as your fingers tangle into his soft white hair. You press yourself against him, whining when his fingers dig into your hips, and he pushes your back flush against the door to his office. His hand trails up your body, ending up with his fingers tugging your hair back as his tongue slips into your mouth. His other hand slides under the fabric of your shirt, fingers dancing across your ribs before he cups your breast and moans into your mouth.
You have to pull away to breathe, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths as you pant. Florian licks it up, fingers moving to your jaw to tilt your head as his lips meet the skin of your neck. āYouāre gorgeousā¦ā He whispers against your skin, teeth grazing your neck. He tugs down your bra, fingers pressing into your hot skin before he leans down and lifts your shirt so his lips can capture your nipple. Head falling back against the door, you cover your mouth with your hand to muffle the moan that comes out as his tongue circles the peak of your breast.
He pulls away, and the cold air makes you whine, eyelids heavy with lust as you stare into his eyes. āFlorianā¦ā You pant, fingers curling into his hair, ā...we shouldnāt do this hereā¦ā
Itās late in the day, the sun is setting on the campus, and most students have already left. But you are still in Florianās office on campus, pinned against the door with your shirt pulled up past your bra and Florianās saliva still on your skin.Ā
āYouāre right, against the door probably isnāt the most comfortable for you.ā Florian smirks, one arm going under your knees and the other across your back as he lifts you up. Your arms wrap around his neck as you shake your head, laughing a little at his antics.
Florian sets you on the couch in the office, pressing your back into the cushions of the backrest as he kisses you again. One hand grips the cushions behind your head as his other hand rests on your thigh. His knee slips between yours, forcing up the fabric of your skirt as he bites your lip. He pulls away and cups your cheek in his hand, brows furrowed slightly as he looks into your eyes. His glasses are crooked and smudged but he doesnāt seem to notice. āAre you sure about this?ā The concern in his tone is clear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone.
You hum for a moment, pretending to think about his question as you take his glasses from his face and put them on. You look past the rim of the glasses at him, hands cupping his face. āIām very sure that I want you, Florian.ā You watch something in Florianās eyes shift at your words, almost as if heās been waiting a lifetime to hear those words. He pulls away and kneels before the couch, hand guiding your knee over his shoulder as he stares up at you. He turns his head slightly to kiss the skin of your knee, trailing his lips upward as he sucks and bites at your thigh.
His hands slide underneath your skirt, fingers hooking the fabric of your panties and tugging them down. He stuffs the fabric into his back pocket before his hands find their place on your hips once again, shifting you forward slightly so that you are spread right in front of his face. His hot breath hits your sex, arousal evident in the slick pooling from your core. He clicks his tongue at the sight, smirk playing at his lips as he looks up at you through his lashes. āYouāre perfectā¦ā He purrs, head resting against your thigh as he moves his fingers to gather your wetness before he circles your clit and draws a gasp from your lips. āLook at you, already so wet for me, baby.ā
The sound you make at his words can only be described as pathetic, your nails digging into the fabric of the couch as you stare down at the man between your thighs. Florianās looking up at you like youāre the only thing in the world that matters to him and it has your cheeks burning, heart pounding in your ears. His fingers circle your clit again and you mewl, pushing your hips forward. āFuckā¦Florian, pleaseā¦stop teasing..ā You whine, desperate for him to finally touch you.
Florian smiles at your words and hums in response before kissing your inner thigh and trailing up. He blows air onto your clit, chuckling when you squirm and whine in response before he gives you what you want. He presses a kiss to your clit before his tongue peaks out from between his lips, lapping at your warmth and you hear him groan when he finally tastes you. Your head falls back against the couch, fingers tangling into his hair as you moan.Ā
The sounds of your moaning and Florianās mouth against your heat fill the room. You should be worried that someone will hear the two of you but, when you feel Florian suck your clit into his mouth, you canāt be bothered to care. āO-Oh my godā¦Florianā¦ā You choke out the words as your thighs clench around his head, fingers tugging his hair as he draws an orgasm out of you.
Florian takes his time licking up your arousal before he pulls away, laying you down on the couch and hovering over you. He presses his stiffness against your sex, the friction from the fabric making you whimper. He captures your lips in another kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth and forcing you to taste yourself as he grinds against you. You drag your hand down his chest, tugging at the waistband of his pants slightly before you palm at his hardness.
āFlorian pleaseā¦fuck meā¦ā You beg, lips finding his neck as your fingers dip past the waistband of his pants and boxers. Your fingers meet trimmed hair first before hitting hot rigid flesh and wrapping around it, making Florian moan above you. His head falls to your shoulder as you stroke him, tongue licking a long stripe up his neck as your other hand fumbles with the buttons of his pants. He pulls away and sits back on his knees, fingers quickly unbuttoning his pants and tugging them down just enough to free himself of the fabric.
You let your eyes trail along his length, jaw slightly agape as you stare. Your gaze returns to his eyes when you hear him chuckle, a smug expression painted on his face. āDonāt worry, Iāll make sure it fits.ā He coos, pining you to the couch with one hand beside your head. His other hand wraps around his cock as he guides it to your warmth, tip gathering wetness before nudging your clit. āYouāre so good for meā¦ā He hums, tip poking at your entrance before slowly sliding in. His thumb presses your clit, rubbing circles as he continues slipping into your warmth. You gasp at the intrusion, eyebrows knit together in pleasure and pain as you wrap your fingers around his wrist by your head. Florian moans as he bottoms out, hips pressed to yours while he stares into your eyes. He presses his lips to yours as he slowly pulls out before slamming back into you, forcing you to break the kiss as you moan out. āF-fuck Florian!ā You force yourself to bite your lip, hand covering your mouth as he sets a brutal pace.Ā
The noises coming from the room are obscene, skin slapping and muffled moans bleeding through the door. Each thrust hits perfectly into your heat, forcing you to feel every movement Florian makes. You barely even think about it before you grab his hand and place it on your throat, staring up at him through fluttering lashes. His eyes widen and hip stutter for just a moment before he growls, fingers tightening around your neck as he picks up the pace again. āY-you feel soā¦fuckā¦fucking good.ā He groans, hot breath hitting your ear before he trails his lips down your neck. You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, every thrust pushing you closer and closer. You know Florian is close as well when his movements falter, each thrust growing sloppier and his moans growing closer together.
You bring your hands to his head, fingers curling into his hair as you pull his lips to yours. āIām soā¦Iām so close, Florian pleaseā¦ā You mumble against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist as you pull him even closer. He hums in reply, eagerly kissing you again as his fingers tangle into your hair. His other hand moves between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as his tongue slides into your mouth. You feel the tension building in your core, pleasure bleeding through every nerve in your body as you cum with a muffled scream into Florianās mouth. He follows along not long after, the feeling of your walls squeezing him forcing him over the edge. Hot liquid fills you as his hips stutter, breath ragged above you.
You both lay there for a moment, clinging to each other as you gasp for air. Florian lifts himself from you, slowly pulling out before tucking himself away. He pulls a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and carefully wipes away some of the mess from your sex. He offers his hand to you, helping you stand when you take it and he adjusts the fabric of your skirt. His hand rests on your cheek, thumb caressing the skin there as he stares down at you. āYou did wonderful.ā He praises, lips meeting your forehead before he glances out the window.
The sun has set, darkness blanketing the campus. āWould you like me to drive you home?ā He asks, stepping away from you to gather some of his belongings.Ā
āI would really appreciate that.ā You reply, grabbing your bag before you realize that youāre missing something. āUmā¦where did my underwear go?ā You ask, looking over at Florian. He leans against the desk, keys in his hand as he looks at you with an eyebrow raised.
āIām not sure you were wearing any.ā He shrugs easily and walks over to you, taking your hand and walking you to the office door. Weirdā¦you couldāve sworn you wore underwear under your skirt. You both walk out of the building in silence, fingers intertwined as you reach Florianās car. He opens the door for you before walking to the other side and getting in, starting the car. You spend the car ride to your house talking about your plans for the weekend, or rather the lack thereof. Florian parks in front of your home and looks over at you. āWould you like to see each other this weekend?ā He asks carefully, a very faint flush painting his cheeks.Ā
āI would love to, Florian.ā You reply, leaning over the middle console to place a kiss to his cheek before getting out of the car. As you adjust your skirt and close the car door, it slips your mind that you leaked onto Florianās car seat. You donāt notice the way he glances down at the spot where you sat and hums to himself, satisfied.
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