#fandom writing

They’re all named stupid English shit he can barely translate or pronounce in the small text on the bottle, like Tropical Oasis or Sandalwood Breeze or Mountain Escape, so he doesn’t even know what’s in the shit that makes him so miserable. He just knows that, at any given hotel, there’s about a 25% chance that whatever tiny little bottles they have innocently sitting in the shower are going to set him off like crazy. (Alright. 33%.)

And, hey. A 25% 33% chance isn’t all that bad considering how badly he feels the need to wash the sweat and grime of the game off his body. And, honestly, it hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign that his luck was running out. 

About 45 seconds after Ilya pops the small cap open and starts rubbing the bubbly body wash across his skin, he feels that tell-tale prickle high in his left nostril. The sensation is so sudden, it forces a suprised cough from his lungs as his eyes start to squint shut and his nose scrunches up of it’s own accord. 

“Ah, mohhtherfuck--khih! iH! ihH’dDZSSHH!--hEH! eEH’DJZSHHhuu! hh’dyISHHhuu!”

Somehow, though the echoing sound of himself bouncing around the ceramic walls of the shower, he hears muffled rustling outside the bathroom door. 

“Fucking hell, again, Roz?”

Ilya has the sense through this fit to roll his eyes at this. (And then promptly sneeze again.) Cliff has, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) been there for many of Ilya’s nose’s tantrums, especially considering they’re always rooming together on the road. 

As mortifying as it can be (like in this moment), Ilya’s grateful it’s him. Marlow’s always been kind to him, seeking him out to start conversation, and always seeming to have a sense of when Ilya’s not quite understanding something. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, which Ilya appreciates. With Marlow’s boisterous, loud kindness, they’ve started a friendship fairly quickly. 

“Ah, yes, SehhH?! H’JYSZZCHH! Serenity Mist. Of c-course, I know I am ahH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! snf! allergic to thing named Serenity Mist. How could I forget?” Ilya yells out sarcastically, his accent reverberating across the bathroom. Well, he hoped the sarcasm came across through the non-stop sneezing. 

“That’s why you look at the ingredients on the back, rook!” 

Ilya does not have the time, energy, or breath at this moment to explain to Cliff that one, he was not thinking hard enough to remember that; two, he’d be lucky if he knew one English word on that ingredient list; and three, he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in this shit that he’s allergic to. So, he just sneezes in response. 

A knock at the bathroom door cuts through the noise of his sneezing and the running water. He hears the door crack open and blinks his tears away to see Marlow’s large arm sticking through, holding a white bar of soap. 

They’ve done this exact music and dance (he knows he’s not using that one right) so many times, it’s routine. Ilya thinks at this point, Marlow probably brings an extra bar of soap just for him. He’s not going to think too deeply into the warmth that idea spreads through his chest. 

Scrubbing roughly at his nose with one hand, his other hand opens the shower door, letting a fresh, cool breeze of air in to scatter goosebumps across his skin. Ilya steps out carefully, droplets of water skittering down his body, leaving little puddles as he pads towards the door. 

His nose just can’t help itself, though, especially with the new addition of cold air making his sinuses shiver. “ehH? hiH’JZZSHHuU! hh! DSHHhU!--ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu!” His head snaps down as he shudders through a desperate trio of sneezes, pointedly directed away from Marlow’s arm outstretched in front of him. 

“If that was your snot on my arm, Roz, I’m going to kill you,” 

“Fuck off. Is not snot. Just water. And Serenity Mist soap, maybe”

He hears Marlow’s deep, booming laugh over the sound of the still-running water. “Fuckin’ Serenity Mist. I’m starting a list so you don’t forget, that’s goin’ at the top,” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. Marlow himself will forget to even start said list, he’s sure. “snf! Thanks,” Ilya lets out, grabbing the bar from his hand. 

“Gotcha, man. Got Claritin, medicine out here for you, too, once you’re done,” 

“I do not--”

“--Take pills, I know. It’s the liquid kind. Figured I should find some after the last time you decided to suffer through a 12-hour allergy attack instead of taking any meds,” 

Ilya doesn’t know how to respond in a way that doesn’t reveal that Marlow’s simple gesture is just about the nicest thing someone other than Svetlana’s done for him in a long time. Good thing his nose takes over for him. 

“EH! yYISSHHhhUU!”

“Jeeesus, rook, I get it. Go wash all that stuff off, quick, you’re hogging the good water,”

What Marlow means by ‘the good water’, Ilya’s got no idea. And he doesn’t think this is an weird English thing, he thinks it’s a weird Marlow thing. 

“Yes, fine, going,” He huffs out, shutting the door and shuffling back in the shower. And, if he’s not as much bothered by all the sneezing after that, well, maybe he’s learned he just needs a good Marlow to take care of him help him out during these reactions to make him feel a tiny bit better. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

2. Sochi, 2014

He’d really tried to be alone. Really, really tried his best. He was pissed, in the worst mood, and just wanted to wallow. Because, really, Latvia? His father was right, it was a disgrace. 

Oh, and on top of everything? Losing to Latvia, being a disgrace to his country, yelling at Shane Hollander, and being berated by his father? Ilya was sick. Of course. Maybe it was karma. For failing his country. For being an asshole. He did start to feel that congestion seeping in only one day after their loss. 

But, for some reason, Svetlana didn’t want to let him be alone. He tried to tell her not to come around him, that he’d get her sick, that he didn’t want any company. Tried to be an asshole (he felt like he was getting pretty good at that recently). Considering his pounding head was propped up against her side, both of their legs stretched out across her hotel bed…He definitely wasn’t enough of an asshole. Or, he was, and Sveta just didn’t care. Probably that one. 

“Damn, Canada is on fire. They’re about to get another power play. No way the U.S. gets through it without Hollander scoring. Maybe twice.”

Ilya groans against her side, muffled by the cotton of her shirt, eyes still squeezed shut. “Sveta, stop talking about-” Shane fucking Hollander. “-hockey. Do we have to watch this?” The Russian consonants fall easily from his lips, even muddled by his congestion. 

“Your eyes have been closed the whole time, you’re not even watching.”

“I feel like I am with your constant announcing,”

“I deserve to watch some beautiful hockey when you’re laying there sniffling your germs all over my bed,”

Ilya’s jaw and eyes pop open, squinting against the glow of the TV, shocked expression pointing up at his best friend. “You must be kidding. You practically forced me over here, and now you’re complaining about it?” He can’t help but to sniffle against the congestion building, even knowing he’s proving her point.

A laugh that reminds Ilya of wind chimes falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you actually watched with me. You’re my favorite person to watch hockey with,”

The compliment makes chest feel warm. Or, maybe that’s a fever. “Sveta, take two seconds and imagine why I wouldn’t want to watch Olympic hockey right now,” 

“Ilyusha, you’re sick. We always watch hockey when you’re sick,” She points out. And while she’s not wrong…

“Well, I’ve never been sick and lost to the worst fucking country in the Olympics at the same time. This is new territory,” 

“Exactly. I figured you’d want to watch some good hockey, since you hadn’t seen any yourself in the past few days,” 

The grin across her lips, reserved for when she’s purposefully pushing his buttons, catches his eye. And, he is sick, but hasn’t lost all his reflexes yet. 

He swiftly pushes up, rolling himself over her and capturing her wrists in his hands. He shakes her with each word he says, and that wind-chime laugh is already in his ears. “Too far, Sveta, too far! You know I am the best hockey player in the world, admit it!”

“You are, factually, not the best hockey player in the world! Once this game is over, we are going to see which country the best hockey player in the world is from, but he is not from Russia,” Svetlana nods at the television, which Ilya just knows is showing Shane Hollander right now, so he can not turn around. Again, karma is not on his side.

And he knows this for absolute certain because now is when his nose decides it has had enough quiet time. 

“Hh? heEH! nNGgtt!--nnGgkT! hh! nNGT’tshh!” He ducks off to the side, stifling three sneezes in quick succession as best he can hands-free. Ilya rolls off Svetlana, scrubbing at his nose in the aftermath, and pointedly not looking at her. 

“Ilya,” Fuck, he knows that tone. “Don’t do that,” 

He rolls his eyes, grumbling softly. “You were right there. What, you wanted me to sneeze all over y- hhn! nGKT’Chh! -snf! you?”

She swiftly ignores his excuse. “I thought we stopped doing that.”

A scoff leaves the back of his throat, and he ignores how just that slight vibration felt sore on the way up. “We? I did not know you, too, had a nose that was broken a million times and can not stop sneezing at every little thing,”

His attempts at distracting and baiting her are obviously not working. “I have not heard you do that in a long time, Ilyusha. Since you were a teenager, around your father,” 

He groans, obviously not escaping this conversation. And, she is trying to be sweet. He knows this, even if his melting-fever-brain is telling him that she’s simply being annoying and overreacting about holding in his sneezing of all things. “It’s just…Being back here. You know. Around everything. I guess just makes me think I have to…go back to that,” 

She hums softly, and he can feel her eyes on him, even though he’s deliberately avoiding hers. “You know you do not ever. Have to go back to that, yes?”

And, with his nose and brain already clogged, he can not start to release everything right now, that he does have to be tied here in some way, in some way, because of his mother’s grave, his father’s illness, his Russian passport and citizenship, his niece…He already feels pressure behind his eyes just at the thought of it all. 

So, instead, he goes with: “Yes, I know. I know, Sveta,” Finally, his eyes meet hers.

Another set of wide eyes scan across his face, full lips pressed together. With a soft breath, she hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down to lay in her lap. He maneuvers his body with her, his head instinctively nuzzling deeper into the comfort of her warm legs as her lithe fingers tangle in his hair. 

Of course, the change of direction has his sinuses protesting yet again. His swimming brain doesn’t notice until he’s hitched a few times, the bridge of his nose crinkling tight. His instinct is to bring two fingers up to his nose, but he only makes it a few inches before he feels a soft, warm hand against his arm. 

“Ilya,” And it’s all she has to say. 

“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! ehH’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!” He still brings his elbow up, but more to try to save Sveta’s legs from the spray than to try to hold in the expulsions.  

“Bless you,” She hums. And, maybe as a little reward for letting go (of more things than just his sneezes, she thinks), she hands him the remote for the TV. 

He’ll be asleep in minutes anyway, and then she can go back to watching her hockey. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

3. Ottawa, 2018

He blames Shane not being here. If Shane had been here, he’d be the one insisting to man the sauce pan and stir. Ilya’s been told one too many times he over-mixes. Or, at the very least, he’d have had some brain to maybe inch Ilya away while adding the spices. 

Maybe he’s just pissy because he knows if Shane were here watching this all go down, he’d get to see those sprinkled freckled cheeks turn adorably red. And, if he was lucky, see Shane’s little eyebrows do their little motion as he tried to think of a valid excuse to drag Ilya back to his room and kiss the shit out of him. 

Either way, definitely not Shane’s fault. He does wish he was here to see it, though. 

“ehH?! eHH’DJJSHHhuU!”

It’s really Ilya’s obliviousness’ fault at this point. He knows his nose well enough, he should’ve known to make himself scarce when Yuna had mentioned she was adding the spices. But, to be fair, it usually wasn’t this bad. Or, was it? And he was just remembering wrong? 

He was 75% sure it wasn’t usually this bad. 

“heH! hH’DZZSHH! ehH’TSZHHhuU!!”

Blinking through streaming eyes, he tries to pull himself back together. But, his lashes are fluttering shut again within a few moments. Whatever steam that was rising from the pan, mixing all those spice particles and throwing them up at him had his nostrils prickling and his eyes squinting in irritation. Fuck, he hates that this had to happen around…

“God, sweetheart, you sound like you’re going for the record! Come on, sit, sit,” 

Yuna. 

He absently feels a small hand against his back, gentle pressure urging him towards what he can only imagine is the kitchen table. His eyes are apparently just as irritated as his nose. 

The hands move to his shoulders, pushing him down against a hard chair in the kitchen. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be so close, that he’s really fine, but, again. 

“I-- iiH! yyIZZSSHhhU!”

Hard to do while your immune system is attacking itself. He coughs irritatedly when he finally gets a damn breath that doesn’t immediately feel like an incoming sneeze, wincing as he feels Yuna’s presence still hovering. Two fingers instinctively raise, and he pauses half-way to his face with a roll of his red, watering eyes. 

And that, that, is something he can actually blame Shane for. And Svetlana. Making him feel all safe, all comfortable to be imperfect, to show his ‘emotions’ and ‘feelings’. Insisting he just ‘lets it all out’ - sneezes included. 

Assholes, the both of them. He was pretty sure even if he wanted to hold in his sneezes like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to. Without significant effort. Those motherfuckers Pavloved him. (He’d been proud using that term for the first time to Shane). 

“Bless you, honey,”

Fuck, he’d forgotten about Yuna. His frame twitches with surprise as he feels paper in his free hand. Thankfully, the one not attached to the elbow he’s been sneezing into for dear life. 

Blindly, he fumbles to press the bundle of tissues to his nose, mopping up moisture he doesn’t want to think about the origins of…Eyes or nose…? Just pretending it’s all from the eyes.

“Yuna, I’m so- soHH! ahH’DJJSSHhuU! snf!“

“No need to apologize, Ilya, I promise,” Magic mom intuition apparently knew where he was going with that one. “Just blow when you can to get all that stuff out,”

At this point, Ilya isn’t sure if the flush high on his cheekbones is from the embarrassment of this happening in front of Shane’s mother of all people, or from exertion from sneezing so much. He starts feeling that itch in his chest, that he needs to hold it in, needs to just not be so fucking disgusting--

“No, no, I cannoht--eHG’TZSHHhhU! I shhhould just go outside for a s-sehH! second, clean--”

She cuts him off swiftly with a hand on his shoulder. “Ilya, honey, I don’t trust you could make it outside with your eyes watering like that. It’s not going to get better unless you blow,” 

In the end, it’s not really fully his choice. A particularly desperate double has him crunching down into the tissues tented over two hands, burying his overactive nose in the folds. The sneezes have him him sniffling frantically in the aftermath, feeling wetness snaking through every part of his sinuses. He feels the need to blow just to clear that sensation, immediately. 

And, loathe as he was to do that with Yuna right there (close enough she was touching his back, by the way), the next breath he takes in post-nose blow is the clearest breath he’s taken in minutes. Shit, did the Hollander genetics just have it written in that they had to be right all the time? 

After double, triple checking that he was sufficiently clean, he finally lowered the tissues from his nose with a sniffle, chancing a watery glance up at Yuna. And with that soft, fond smile she was giving him, well, no one could blame him if he saw a glimmer of Irina. Or if he had some water in his eyes having nothing to do with the spices. 

Yuna chuckled gently, dragging her hand across the side of his cheek, smoothing down the curls by his ear. “Maybe we find a new kitchen job for you, huh? At least while I’m finishing up this part,” She suggests, kindness and a little amusement in her tone. 

“Or, maybe…You know, because I am so helpful and I do the worst job that you do not want to do…snff! I go help David finish his puzzle,”

A bright laugh escapes her lips. “God, yes please. He’s too close, you know he’s not going to want to come until he’s finished--”

“--And, then we will be having dinner at 9:30pm. Yes, yes, I will go save family dinner from puzzle master,” Ilya stands, shoving a few clean tissues in his pocket, just in case, as he begins walking to the other room. 

“This is why you’re my favorite son!” Yuna calls out after him.

“I am telling your least favorite son you said this!” He calls back, over his shoulder. At the domesticity of it all, feels a sofy, mushy feeling in his chest, something he’s come to learn almost feels like healing. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

4. Ottawa, 2021

“So, it’s already recording, we’ll edit down all the content later, all you’ve gotta worry about is making sure the guys are in frame, audible, and making good content. Which, really, is never much of a problem with this grou--”

“Hey, what’s going on with them?”

Harris looked up and blinked, obviously too engrossed in his explanation. Or, maybe he was just too good at drowning the sound of his idiots out, at this point. It was his new social media assistant’s first day, hired to help take the load off of him with all the content and PR needs the Centaurs had. Well, it looked like she’d be starting off with a bang. 

“That’s two! And, looks like we’re headed for--”

“hiEH?! ehH’TSZHHUU! hUH! DJjjSHH--EH’YISHhhUU!”

“Three! Fou--Five!”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harris muttered, unable to keep a lick of fond exasperation out of his tone. “They have this thing--”

“snf!! oh- aH! dyY’ISHHhhuU! kH! hh’TZSHHUUu!”

“Oh, and boys, the gloves are coming off! If we’ve learned anything this season, if the gloves come off, it’s at least another four to go!” Wyatt’s voice rung out, obviously emulating one of the many announcers they’d heard throughout their years in the league. 

“ShhuuH! uH’DJJZHH-uu! Shut the hell uuHP’IISCHHhU!, ugh--Hazy,”

And, sure enough, at the middle of the ice, was Ilya Rozanov, shaking out his hands to send his gloves flying. All the while, sneezing his fucking head off, bringing his newly freed fingers to scrub viciously at his nose. 

Harris shook his head, glancing back at his new partner-in-crime. “They’ve got this thing, with Ilya and his sneezing. Something about being out in the cold on the ice for this long sets him off, and every time he starts going off like this, they start counting to see if he’ll beat the record,” 

He receives a raised brow. “And, what’s the record?”

“hh! ehH’YIZZSCHHUU! Hh, ублю́док! hUH! uuH’TSSHHhhU!”

Harris sighs. “Too high,” 

“Ladies and gentleman, the Russian cursing has emerged! We’re in the home stretch! Will tonight be the night Mr. Rozanov beats his previously set record?” 

“djJ’SHHhhH--ehH’DJJZSHHU! snf! oh, отъебись, hhIH! yyISHHhuuh!”

“Who’s keeping count?” Bood asks, glancing around before clapping Luca on the back, watching the rookie tick one more finger up each time Roz--

“ehH’JJSHhhhuh! snff! Ohh, and you all like to have biih! iH’TShhhUU!-ngh, big ego about being kindest team in the league, so-called ‘good guys’, what will f-ahH! hH’ATTSHhh! fuck! What will fans do -snf! When they know their team is full of ahhAH! adD’JJSHhhUU! assholes?”

The players are all huddled around laughing, but Harris’s eyes drift to Troy (maybe they’ve been on him the whole time, unconsciously). He watches on as Luca, still diligently counting on his fingers, leans over and mutters something to Troy, which promptly makes him cackle so hard, Harris thinks he might double over. He isn’t surprised, Luca is sneaky-funny.

The group's collective attention splits to Troy for the moment, a few eyes still glancing back at Ilya as he continues sneezing and sniffling. It takes Troy a few moments to spit out what’s making him laugh so hard, Luca innocently standing beside him with a knowing smile. 

“He’s mic’d up today--!” 

The realization that this whole interaction is being recorded with the little microphone attached to Ilya’s jersey causes the guys to fall into hysterics, all thoughts of counting for the record tabled. 

Harris can’t help but to chuckle himself, watching as, of course, Rozanov’s watery, blinking eyes flit around to land on him.

Skating, sneezing, and ripping off a hot mic all at the same time was pretty impressive, in Harris’ book, even if said hot mic was getting shoved back into his hand by a very large, very sneezy hockey player. 

“Harris, I promise, if I see that shihH!--shit on Instagram...hhUH! uH’DJJSHhUU! --or Twitter or whatever Centaur page, I will make your PR life living hell. I will Tweet about favorite sex position, and comment on stupid American political posts I don’t uhh!--understand… ehH’JJZSHHuUU! and post not-classy ‘thirst trap’ of me with ‘too much skin’ and ‘too low angle’--”

Now, that last part, was a direct quote from Harris. He really didn’t think he’d be at a point in his life where he was vetting hockey player thirst traps. “You already do half of those things!”

“I can make it worse,” Ilya threatened, with not too much success considering the sniffling and the pawing at his red nose was cutting through his intimidation. It was making the Russian look, for lack of a better term, adorable. 

“I saw extra tissues in the supply cabinet if you’re out in your locker,” Harris sighed, ignoring the captain’s empty threats, switching off the tiny mic in his hands and sitting it on the table. He’d seen this happen enough times to know how to handle Ilya in the aftermath. 

As if he wasn’t still recovering from an all-intensive sneeze-attack, Ilya gave an enthusiastic nod at Harris, pounding him on the back thankfully before ducking forwards with another sneeze. “snff--Thank you!” 

Harris shook his head fondly, glancing back out at the guys still on the ice, still laughing and shoving each other around. And, if some clips of that video made it into Ilya’s birthday post that year, well…It was Troy’s idea. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

+1. Montreal, 2016

Shane stumbles into the bathroom, feeling all-too lightheaded to do anything more than just go through the motions. Grab paper towels, turn sink on, run towels under cold water, press on face…

A shaky breath escapes his chest. The cloud in his mind is slowly dispersing, allowing more thoughts in full sentences. God, he thinks, flipping the paper towels and pressing the cool side to the back of his neck, of course this would happen. He’s either severely angered some god looking down on him, or he’s their favorite human on the planet. He really can’t tell which one, because--

“hyEH! EH’DJJZHHhhU!! hh! TSHHhhhyUUU!”

Because that. Shane shifts his eyes up to look through the mirror, the door behind him swinging open to reveal a familiar blonde Russian. Of course.

“hh-hiH! yyYIZSSHHUUu!”

A sneezing, familiar blonde Russian. 

Shane feels that same stream of heat he’s been trying so hard to ignore for the length of the shoot trickle low in his stomach. He sighs out a flustered frustrated breath.   

Maybe Shane should be Ilya’s manager, because he’s positive that he could’ve told the man this would be a bad idea. Even in his fairly limited in-person interactions with Ilya in the past seven years, Shane had quickly picked up on the fact that the man’s nose was overly sensitive. To seemingly everything. 

The cold air of the rink, the pollen in Canada, the cleaning products used in hotels, and yes, what seemed like anything scented. So, why Ilya thought doing a cologne ad with 3 other hockey players was a good idea, Shane had no clue. He must’ve known it would end up like this. With him sneezing his head off throughout the shoot, and Shane attempting to not look like he was getting harder and harder with each and every sneeze. 

Well, hopefully he didn’t know that second part. But, that first part, Ilya must’ve known. 

“snf! I do not think you are so much of a polite Canadian, after all,” Shane blinks in surprise, glancing up at Ilya though the mirror as he spoke his first true words since entering the bathroom. Even through the reflection in the mirror, he must see the confusion written across Shane’s expression, because Ilya takes his pause to continue. 

“I have sneeze attack for whole shoot, sneeze ten, twenty, thirty times, and do not hear one bless you from Shane Hollander,” Big, brown eyes can’t help but to track large Ilya’s hand as he brings it up to scrub at his nose, sniffling uselessly before he continues. “Heard from all the other players, from nice producers and camera people…Is polite for at least one ‘bless you’, if you did not want to bless for the other twenty-nine,” 

Shane’s breath hitches deep in his throat, cheekbones rosy as he turns around to face his ‘rival’, the marble countertop of the sink cool against his back. It’s about the only part of him that feels cool right now. Since he can’t think straight, instinctive words he never has to think about fall out of his mouth without permission: “Fuck off, Rozanov,” 

And, right on time, Ilya ducks forwards with another triplet of sneezes, aiming towards his arm. Shane is decidedly not noticing that he half-misses his arm, and can see the evidence of that in the air between them…Fuck, he’s noticing, he’s definitely noticing, and he feels a pulse of energy between his legs. And a matching prickle high in his sinuses. No, no, they were not about to do this here. 

Ilya is sniffling wetly, blinking through irritation, his eyes falling on Shane again, flitting across his expression. God, is it possible that this allergic irritation makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing? “What, you are…What is it called? When you are scared of germs?”

“...Germaphobic?”

Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, you are germaphobic?” The way he says it, all stretched out and broken up, makes it sound like he’s pronouncing each sound alone, making sure he’s repeating it just as Shane told him. 

“Wha-no!” He’s getting whiplash from this conversation, more to do with the incessant sneezing from the Russian than any type of language barrier. 

Shane’s gaze trails from Ilya’s eyes to his nose, twitching and flaring seemingly of its own accord, definitely without Ilya’s permission. Shane takes a short sniffle in himself, wrenching his nose to the side instinctively. 

“So, then, if you are not germaphobic,” his accent sounds smoother this time across the unfamiliar word, “thehh…thEH! eEH’DJJZHHHUUuu! snf! Hoo…‘bless me’,” Ilya blesses himself in an expecting tone, brows raised and gazing over at Shane like he was waiting for him to do the same. Of course, leave it to Ilya Rozanov to turn this into some kind of power-play dynamic. He didn’t even know what he was getting himself into. 

At Rozanov’s low words, Shane gives another sharp, irritated sniffle before answering. He could do this, he could get a handle on it and do it without setting off that godforsaken reflex. “hh! Bl…Bless you--hh’TSHh--iIH’HTSHhh! oh--ehh’SHhh!--uhh…”

Fuck. 

Slowly straightening up from where he had ducked into his wrist, Shane’s eyes rise to meet Rozanov’s face. Hell, and of course Rozanov’s looking at him all confused, because the only times the man has heard him sneeze like that were when…

“...What, you are coming now? Untouched?” The ‘again’ is unspoken, but implied. 

Cheeks dusted pink, thumbing shyly at his nose, Shane replies with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. He can feel the pink turning into red, fast, and promptly ignores it. “No! Fuck off,” How eloquent, Shane.

Ilya raises a brow. “Well, you are not feeling scared or phobic, that is for sure. Opposite, maybe,” He’s looking curious now, which isn’t a good thing for either of them. For Shane, mostly. A large frame and blonde curls move closer into Shane’s space, bright eyes boring into his. Shane can feel warm breath against his skin, and he shakes his head needlessly.

“We can’t. Not here,” Shane insists. 

“Hollander. Shoot is over. Everyone is leaving,” Shane can feel his skin vibrating where Ilya’s body is ghosting over his skin, seemingly just getting closer and closer. 

“N-Not everyone, half the crew is probably still here!” He watches Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane knows he’s probably about to call him boring again--

“Half the c-crew is ehh! exaggeration, and anyway, I locked the bathroom d…door on my my! iIH! iiH’DJJZHHUU! hHEH’EHHJJZZHuU!”

Shane tries. He really tries not to, but with Ilya so close he can practically feel the sneezes reverberating through his frame, Shane’s really got no choice in the matter. He feels his cock twitch, and his nose twitch in tandem. 

“hhN! nN’TSCHh!--iiHTSHh! iiH! ih’TSHhhh!!--ngh…”

Ilya blinks up at Shane with a sniffle, straightening back to full height in the aftermath of his own sneezes. Understanding smooths out his features, and Shane mutters a curse under his breath. 

“...Oh, it is this! Is my sneezing that is making you…Well. Sneezy, too,”

Fuck. Within their first two times together, Ilya had quickly put together that Shane couldn’t help but to sneeze when he was turned on. To be fair, it was a little hard not to put that together when he was a sneezy mess every time he came in front of Ilya. 

What Shane was carefully sure that Ilya hadn’t put together in all of their rendezvous was…The other part. The…kink of it all. And, he’d been doing a fine job at it so far, he thought! But, with Rozanov sneezing so desperately like that, inches away from him…Shane’s own nose obviously felt the need to betray his true feelings on the matter. 

Shane scrunches his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and dropping his forehead to clunk against his blonde counterpart’s shoulder. “Oh god…” Aaand, the lightheadedness is back. 

His reaction is apparently enough to confirm Ilya’s thoughts, and to his credit, he really only takes what feels like a few moments to blink in surprise down at Shane before he springs into action. 

“No, no, do not overthink, is perfect, actually,” Large, callused hands grip at Shane’s face, gently guiding him out from his hiding spot against Ilya’s own shoulder. “This is probably easiest way I could ever turn you on. Is adorable, really,” 

Shane blinks, cheeks blazing. “I-It is not adorable,” And, because he can’t help himself, “And you doing it over and over again is not helping,”

His lips twitch up with a soft shrug, as if to say ‘I can’t help it!’, his smirk dangerously attractive. “It is adorable, Hollander. And, you know, kind of works out. snf! I was going to throw all these stupid cologne samples away after the shoot, but…” The Russian trails off with a tilt of his head, eyes boring into Shane’s. 

“I think I will keep them around. The scent is kind of growing on me,”

Before you could even answer, Keeho jumped in. “She’s been craving pickles like it’s a full-time job,” he said, voice light and teasing. “I think we might need to start investing in a pickle company.”

You sighed, shooting him a glare. “Keeho.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but there was a nervous quiver in his grin. “What? I’m contributing.”

The doctor chuckled softly, typing notes into the computer. “First-time parents?”

Keeho nodded. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” she said, amused. “Let’s take a look at your baby, shall we?”

Keeho’s face instantly went serious — for about two seconds. Then he turned to you, eyes wide with mock concern. “Wait, do you have to, like… strip down for this?”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

The doctor smiled patiently. “Just the belly. Nothing more.”

“Oh, good,” Keeho said, pretending to wipe sweat from his forehead. “I wasn’t prepared for a full cinematic experience.”

You smacked his arm lightly, but he only grinned again — a nervous tic dressed up as confidence.

When the gel touched your skin, the coolness made you flinch, and Keeho immediately tensed beside you. His hand hovered awkwardly before resting gently on your arm. The doctor pressed the probe against your belly, eyes focused on the monitor.

A grainy image flickered to life — black, white, and gray shadows swirling until they shaped into something small, precious, and alive.

“See right there,” the doctor said softly, pointing to a tiny pulsing spot on the screen, “that’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

Keeho froze.

The room, so full of his jokes and nervous laughter a moment ago, fell utterly silent. His fingers tightened around yours. The joking smile slipped away, replaced by something raw — awe, disbelief, maybe even a touch of fear.

He leaned forward, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “That’s… that’s really…?”

The doctor nodded. “That’s your baby. Everything looks healthy and perfect for this stage.”

Keeho swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. “Wow,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “That’s—wow.”

You turned your head to look at him, and your heart softened. The man who’d been joking his way through every ounce of tension was suddenly undone by a tiny heartbeat on a glowing screen.

He didn’t speak again for the rest of the scan. He just stared, silent and still, his thumb tracing circles over your hand.

When the doctor printed out the photo, Keeho took it like it was made of glass. He stared down at it, expression unreadable, then finally exhaled a shaky laugh.

“She’s really in there,” he said quietly, eyes misty. “Or he. Or… they.” He looked up at you, a small, disbelieving smile curving his lips. “We made that. We actually made that.”

For once, there was no joke — just pure, trembling wonder.

Theo

Theo had spent the entire morning reading articles, blogs, and medical studies — half of which you suspected were written for doctors, not expectant fathers. He’d muttered things like “week twelve fetal development” under his breath as if he were cramming for an exam. By the time you reached the clinic, he looked calm on the surface, but the tension in his jaw told a different story.

When the doctor finally entered the room, Theo’s whole body straightened. His eyes locked onto the man like a detective observing a suspect. Every movement, every word — analyzed.

The doctor smiled politely. “You must be Theo and—”

“Yes,” Theo said quickly, his tone polite but firm. “You’re Dr. Kim, right? Residency at Seoul Hospital? You’ve been practicing for, what, twelve years?”

You blinked. “Theo stop it”

He didn’t look away from the doctor. “Just… confirming.”

The doctor laughed softly. “I see you’ve done your homework.”

Theo gave a tight-lipped smile, as if that were a compliment and a warning at the same time. You leaned toward him and whispered, “You seriously need to calm down.”

“I am calm,” he muttered back, though the way his foot tapped against the floor said otherwise.

The doctor began preparing the ultrasound machine, humming quietly as he applied gel to your belly. Theo’s gaze followed every move like he was watching a delicate operation.

“Is that… normal gel?” he asked suddenly.

The doctor nodded, amused. “Completely normal.”

Theo nodded back, slow and cautious, as if he were granting permission.

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re going to interrogate him the whole appointment, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer — just reached over and grabbed your hand, thumb rubbing the back of it like he was trying to ground himself.

Then the monitor flickered to life. The grainy swirl of light and shadow shifted until a small shape appeared in the middle of the screen. The doctor moved the probe slightly, and the sound filled the room — a soft, rhythmic thump.

Your breath caught. Theo’s grip on your hand tightened instantly. His eyes widened, his usual composed expression dissolving into awe.

“That…” he whispered, voice cracking. “That’s—”

“Your baby,” the doctor said with a smile.

Theo leaned in closer, his other hand instinctively finding your shoulder as if to steady both of you. The sight had silenced his skepticism for the first time all day. He blinked, hard, his lips parting in a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

Then the questions began.

“Is that heartbeat rate okay? It sounds fast. Is fast good? The size — is it within range for this week? And that shadow there, is that—?”

The doctor chuckled, calm as ever. “All good signs. The heartbeat is perfect, the measurements are right on track, and that shadow is just part of the placenta developing. Completely normal.”

Theo nodded slowly, trying to absorb every word. You could almost see him mentally cross-referencing it with every article he’d read.

After a moment, he exhaled — a shaky, relieved breath. “Okay. Okay… that’s good.”

He looked at you then, his expression softening completely. “They’re really there,” he murmured. “Our baby.”

You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “Told you the doctor knew what he was doing.”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, still staring at the screen. “Guess I can trust him,” he admitted. “But only because he’s taking care of both of you.”

The doctor printed the image, handed it to you, and stepped out to give you a moment. Theo stayed where he was, eyes tracing the little outline on the photo like it was sacred.

He finally looked up, voice barely above a whisper. “I read so many things… but nothing said it would feel like this.”

You squeezed his hand. “Feels real now, doesn’t it?”

He smiled softly, the worry finally ebbing away. “Yeah,” he said, staring at the picture again. “Real — and perfect.”

Jiung

You should have known something was up when Jiung started poking the plastic uterus model in the waiting room like it was a puzzle cube he was trying to solve.

“So… wait,” he murmured, furrowing his brows. “That’s… the baby room? But then where does—”

“Jiung,” you hissed under your breath, glancing around.

He ignored you, pointing to the detachable model parts with the fascination of someone lost in a science exhibit. “Is this the—no, that can’t be right. Is that—?”

“Jiung!” you whisper-yelled, grabbing his wrist. “Leave the model alone and sit your ass down."

He blinked, startled, then laughed nervously and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, I just… wanted to understand. This whole thing still feels unreal, you know?”

You sighed, though your lips twitched with amusement. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t try to reassemble female anatomy in a doctor’s office.”

Before he could reply, the door opened, and the doctor stepped in, smiling warmly. “Ah, Jiung and…” —he glanced at the clipboard— “Y/N. First check-up, right?”

Jiung nodded quickly, then nodded again for good measure. “Yes. First time. Very first. Definitely first.”

The doctor chuckled softly, already sensing the nervous energy radiating off him. “First-time parents?”

You nodded, sharing a small smile. “Yeah. I don’t think it’s fully hit us yet.”

The doctor gestured toward the bed. “Don’t worry, that’s completely normal. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Jiung’s face went pale the moment you lay back. He hovered awkwardly beside you, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, watching every move like it might be a test he wasn’t ready for.

The gel touched your belly, and Jiung winced on instinct. “Is that cold? That looks cold. Are you okay? Do you—”

“I’m fine,” you said, laughing softly. “Chill, Jiung.”

He tried, inhaling sharply and exhaling slower, but his hands still twitched at his sides. Then the monitor came to life, and suddenly, everything stopped.

The faint outline of your baby appeared — tiny, flickering, almost abstract — but there. So very there.

“Here it is,” the doctor said gently, moving the probe slightly. “Right there. See that small movement? That’s the heartbeat.”

A soft, rhythmic pulse filled the room, steady and alive.

Jiung froze. His mouth parted, but no sound came out. His hand, which had been restless just moments ago, reached for yours slowly, almost hesitantly — like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch something sacred.

He stared at the screen, eyes wide and unblinking, the flicker of the heartbeat reflected in his gaze.

“That’s…” he whispered, voice trembling. “That’s them.”

You turned your head to look at him, and your chest tightened. He wasn’t confused anymore. The panic, the nervous questions, the uncertainty — all of it melted away, leaving only wonder.

He leaned closer, eyes glistening as he whispered, “I’m… I’m really going to be a dad.”

You smiled softly. “You are.”

Jiung blinked rapidly, then looked at you — really looked at you. His lips curved into a shaky smile before he bent down and kissed you, gentle and full of awe, his thumb brushing your cheek.

The doctor gave you both a discreet moment, stepping back and smiling quietly to himself.

When Jiung finally pulled away, he looked at the screen again, that same small heartbeat still dancing. “I didn’t think I’d know what to feel,” he admitted quietly. “But I think… I get it now.”

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah?”

He nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek, though he didn’t bother wiping it away. “Yeah,” he said, eyes still fixed on the monitor. “I love them already.”

Intak

The air in the doctor’s office felt too still — like even the walls were holding their breath. You sat on the edge of the examination bed, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Intak sat beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it could offer answers. Neither of you had said much since arriving.

It hadn’t been planned — any of this. The pregnancy had hit like a lightning bolt, stunning and electrifying all at once. You’d both been together for only a short while, still learning each other’s rhythms, still figuring out what “us” even meant. And now, here you were — hearts racing faster than reason could keep up.

When the doctor entered, the sound of the door closing made you both flinch. He greeted you warmly, his voice kind, practiced in the art of soothing nervous parents.

“So,” he said, settling onto his stool, “how have you been feeling?”

You forced a smile that felt too tight. “Oh, amazing,” you lied quickly. “Really good. Couldn’t be better.”

Intak glanced at you, one brow raised, but said nothing. The doctor tilted his head, studying you gently. “You sure about that?”

The silence that followed was short but heavy. Your shoulders slumped. “Okay,” you admitted softly. “No. Not really. We’re both… terrified. And nervous. We haven’t been together long, and this just… well it just happened.”

The doctor nodded, his expression full of understanding. “That’s completely normal. This is a big change — but you’re here, and that’s what matters. Let’s take a look and see how your baby’s doing, alright?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Intak exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath for days.

The doctor prepped the ultrasound, and you lay back, staring at the ceiling. The cold gel hit your skin, and you flinched slightly. Intak’s hand twitched beside you, then hovered uncertainly before he decided to rest it on your arm.

When the monitor flickered on, it took a moment for the image to appear — a blur of gray and light shifting like fog. Then, there it was — a small, rounded shape in the middle of the screen.

Intak squinted, leaning forward. “Uh… sorry, but what exactly are we looking at?”

The doctor chuckled softly. “Well that,” he said, moving the probe slightly, “is your baby.”

Intak froze, his eyes going wide. He blinked at the screen, then at you, then back again, as if the doctor had just told him the universe was folding in half.

“That’s— that’s really…?” he stammered.

The doctor smiled, pointing. “Right there. And that flicker you see? That’s the heartbeat.”

The sound filled the room — a soft, quick rhythm that seemed impossibly alive. The noise seemed to reach right through the tension in your chest, steadying something deep inside you.

Intak didn’t move for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. His grip was firm, grounding, as if he’d finally found something solid in all the chaos.

He leaned closer to the monitor, eyes shining. “That’s…we...we did that” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s our baby.”

You looked at him then, really looked — and saw every flicker of fear shift into wonder. His expression softened, and for the first time in weeks, he smiled. Not a nervous, unsure smile — a real one.

You squeezed his hand. “Guess we’re doing this,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “We’re doing this.”

The doctor printed the image and handed it to you both. Intak stared down at it, thumb brushing gently over the tiny shadow of your child. “I didn’t think I’d be ready,” he admitted quietly. “But now… I think I want to be.”

You smiled, tears blurring your vision. “Me too.”

And in that small, dimly lit room, fear and love finally found balance — beating together in time with that tiny, perfect heart.

Soul

Soul hadn’t said much since you’d walked into the clinic. His hands were shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor tiles, and his jaw tight enough to draw a line. You’d tried to make small talk in the waiting room, but every answer came out clipped, polite, and distant — the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

“You okay?” you asked softly, turning toward him.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Mm.” He didn’t meet your eyes.

You could tell he wasn’t fine. His leg bounced restlessly, and his fingers twitched against the fabric of his jeans. But you didn’t press — you knew Soul well enough to understand that he needed space to untangle his own thoughts before letting anyone in.

When the nurse called your name, he stood immediately, his movements sharp but hesitant, as if he didn’t quite trust the ground beneath him. The doctor greeted you both warmly and gestured for you to sit.

“So,” the doctor began, turning toward you, “how have you been feeling lately? Any nausea, dizziness, or unusual fatigue?”

You answered carefully, describing your symptoms, and Soul listened intently — almost too intently. His eyes followed every word from the doctor’s mouth, as though he were memorizing a script he might be tested on later.

After jotting down a few notes, the doctor glanced at him. “And you? How are you holding up?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

You couldn’t help but jump in before he found an answer. “He’s a nervous wreck,” you said, smiling softly.

Soul turned to glare at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not—”

The doctor chuckled before he could finish. “That’s perfectly normal. Believe me, I’ve seen far worse reactions. You’re doing great.”

Soul’s shoulders dropped slightly, a reluctant breath leaving his chest. “Okay,” he muttered.

“Let’s take a look at your baby,” the doctor said, moving to set up the ultrasound.

You lay back on the bed, and Soul moved closer, his nervous energy still radiating off him. The room filled with the low hum of machinery. The cold gel touched your skin, and Soul flinched almost as much as you did. His hand hovered awkwardly before settling on the edge of the bed, fingers twitching with restraint.

The monitor came to life — black and white shapes swirling into something more distinct. The doctor smiled. “There’s your baby.”

Soul leaned forward, his eyes wide, all his tension momentarily forgotten. “That’s them…?”

“Of course,” the doctor said warmly. “Everything looks perfectly healthy — nice development for this stage.”

Soul stared, his expression softening into pure fascination. “That’s… so small,” he murmured. His voice had changed — quiet still, but gentler, awed. He reached out and found your hand, holding it tight, as if anchoring himself to the moment.

He asked a few careful questions — about the shapes on the screen, about what the flicker meant, about how the baby grew. The doctor answered each one patiently, smiling as Soul absorbed every word like it was gold.

Finally, the doctor looked at him. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

Soul blinked, surprised. “You can… already hear it?”

The doctor nodded, pressing a few buttons. A second later, the room filled with a rhythmic sound — fast, steady, alive.

Soul froze, eyes widening, his lips parting in disbelief. The sound seemed to fill every corner of the room, every inch of him. His face lit up slowly, a bright, unguarded smile spreading across it — the kind that broke right through his quiet exterior.

He turned to you, his eyes shining. “Do you see this,” he whispered, a hint of laughter in his voice. “That’s...our baby.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling your own heart race to match the tiny one echoing through the speakers. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Our baby."

Soul didn’t look away from the screen for the rest of the appointment. He just stood there, smiling — quiet still, but no longer nervous. Only proud.

Jongseob

Jongseob had been quiet on the drive over, but the restless tapping of his leg gave him away. The car’s rhythm had been nothing but the steady tap-tap-tap of nerves. Even now, sitting in the doctor’s office, he couldn’t stop. His knee bounced like it had a mind of its own, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

You watched him with a small, amused smile. “You’re going to drill a hole in the floor at this rate.”

He looked up, startled. “What? Oh—sorry. I just… I don’t know. What if something’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you said softly. “You’ll see.”

He nodded, but his lips pressed together, betraying the storm still brewing in his head.

When the doctor entered, Jongseob immediately straightened in his chair, shoulders pulled back, face carefully composed. He even tried for a smile — though it came out more like a grimace.

“Good morning,” the doctor greeted, cheerful and calm. “You must be our first-timers.”

“Yeah,” Jongseob said quickly, his voice a little too loud. “We’re… uh, yeah. First-timers.”

The doctor chuckled as he set up his notes. “Well, congratulations. How have you been feeling?” he asked, glancing toward you.

Before you could even open your mouth, Jongseob jumped in. “She’s been fine! I mean, a little tired, and she had a bit of nausea last week, but it wasn’t too bad, right? Oh, and she’s been eating a lot more fruit, which I think is a good sign—”

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Are you giving my medical report now?”

His ears flushed pink. “I just—wanted to make sure you didn’t forget anything important.”

The doctor laughed softly, clearly entertained. “You’re very attentive, Jongseob.”

Jongseob scratched the back of his neck, muttering, “Just… trying to be prepared.”

The doctor nodded with understanding. “How about I show you how your baby’s doing? That might calm you down a little.”

Jongseob blinked. “I—I’m calm.”

Both you and the doctor gave him the same knowing look, and he sighed. “Okay. Maybe not entirely.”

The doctor smiled and started preparing the ultrasound. You lay back, your breath catching when the cool gel touched your skin. Jongseob’s hand twitched beside you before he finally held onto yours, his grip a little too tight but full of silent reassurance — for both of you.

The screen flickered to life. Shapes appeared, fuzzy at first, then clearer. The doctor pointed. “There it is.”

Jongseob leaned forward instantly, his eyes wide. “Wait, really?"

The doctor nodded, moving the probe slightly. “Right there. Everything looks healthy — size, placement, development. Perfect for this stage.”

Jongseob stared, mouth slightly open. “Oh my god,” he whispered, a shaky laugh slipping out. “That’s...holy- is this real?”

Then came the sound — a soft, rhythmic heartbeat that filled the quiet room.

Jongseob froze. The tension drained from his face, replaced by awe. The corners of his lips lifted into a disbelieving smile, and suddenly he laughed — a breathy, emotional sound that cracked halfway through.

“That’s really…” he murmured, eyes glistening. “That tiny thing is our baby.”

You squeezed his hand, smiling through your own tears. “Yeah."

When the doctor printed out the ultrasound photo and handed it over, Jongseob took it gingerly, like it was something fragile. He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes tracing the little shape that would soon change everything.

Finally, he looked at you — his grin wide, a little teary, completely real. “I don’t even know how, but I’m already so proud,” he said softly. “They’re so small… but they’re ours.”

You felt your chest tighten with warmth. “You’re going to be amazing, you know.”

He laughed again, shaking his head, still staring at the photo. “Guess I just have to keep up with them now.”

It was another dull day for Ronin, not much drama on the server, nor in life. Work was mid, he did get to fix this cool looking motorcycle though. Besides that, a whole lot of nothing happened. Good news, it was slash season…meaning he could go kill as much as he pleased. He got on the server, asking the people what their thoughts were.

<goreboy>

yo Guys

feeling bored. should I go Kill someone?

find some unsuspecting passerby?

<hitmeuppp>

for SURE!

i mean find someone who seems boring or something

don’t go killing a baddie or somethin

or do, if they look snobby, i fucking hate snobby people

they’re always so annoying and uptight, that’s why people pay me to kill em

aaaaa i’m ranting again

<V>

I think it is inappropriate.

Do not go killing random strangers unless they have done wrong.

<hitmeuppp>

V SIGHTING! I REPEAT! V SIGHTING

<goreboy>

i think ill Agree with Misaki on this One.

i’ll send Pics

He then shuts off his PC and finds his killing clothes, which were to nobody’s surprise, on his dresser. He used them way too frequently this time of year, but luckily he had actually cleaned them. He threw them on, his favorite killing hoodie as well, then his gloves. Obviously couldn’t forget those, what type of serial killer would he be if he left evidence? Well, a fried one. He didn’t like the idea of the electric chair, because that meant getting caught and having no fun killing around, and instead spending time in a metal and stone cage. He then grabbed his crowbar, putting it in his instrument case He then grabbed his smaller knife, sheathing it then shoving it in his pocket. He double checked his beanie, then put the hood up. Last thing he needed was to leave any hair behind. But damn, he looked good to go. And hot. Maybe he’d go pick some girl up who thought he was hot, or maybe just drag someone into Purgatory, he’d figure it out. But first, he had to get out of the house, so he fed his pets, then walked out. At first, he strolled about, finding his way to the side entrance that led to Purgatory, maybe he’d light a cigarette and see if anyone joined him. That sounds good, dragging an innocent smoker trying to ease themselves in the alley.

He eventually stood there, putting his crowbar case down and took a pack out of his pocket, and then his lighter. He lit the cigarette, taking a long drag before tapping some of the ash onto the floor. He stood there alone for a while, leaving him to ponder his murder. He was thinking: wait til someone comes into the alley, chat them up a bit, then hold 'em at knifepoint, play with them for a little, then kill. He was feeling mean tonight, he was too bored to play quick and easy, no, he wanted to draw it out. He wanted to cut their voice box and hear their feeble attempts at screaming, slowly ripping them open and apart, falling into his signature. And as if the universe heard him, a person stepped into the alleyway. They looked at him for a second, acknowledging his presence before taking a cigarette out and lighting it; well, trying. Their lighter didn’t seem to work, and he heard a gentle “fuck.” It was the perfect opportunity.

“Wanna use mine?” He offered, holding it out to them.

“Could I? Sorry, mine died.” They muttered, lighting their cigarette with his lighter, and it lit. They inhaled, then exhaled. They then handed his lighter back, muttering a “thanks.”

“So. What’s a gorgeous individual like yourself doing in an alleyway smoking at 10pm on a Tuesday night?” He asked casually

“Got off my shift, needed a break. Was kinda a shitshow tonight.” They laughed softly, putting the cigarette to their lips.

“Where do you work?” Ronin asked nonchalantly, keeping the friendly appearance up.

“Vauhn’s on Orchard.” They responded, it was a club and restaurant nearby, and from the looks of the uniform, he’d guess the bartender.

“You look like a bartender.”

“You are correct. I legally poison people for a living.” They joked

He chuckled at that, the way they put it was unique. Ironic for the situation they were about to be in. He walked closer to them, bringing his cigarette to theirs before relighting. “They were going out, stupid rain.” He explained, but the pink on their cheeks showed he did exactly what he intended. He was ready to hit, he chatted, he charmed, now it was time to attack. They were charming, he’d admit. Maybe too much so, they had to die. Once they had their back turned, he snuck behind and wrapped his arm around their neck, holding the knife firm.

“Scream and you’re dead.” He warned, his tone much colder than before.

“Alright alright, chill bud. I don’t plan on screaming.” They raised their hands in surrender, a half laugh escaping from their lips.

“How many inches is that?”

Ronin choked on air as he heard the words escaping their lips, sure the friction got him a little hard, but not nearly enough to warrant the question.

“Excuse me?”

“The knife genius, not your dick.”

“Oh, shit uh.”

“7?” They guessed, and right they were.

“Yeah, how’d you know.” He asked, a little confused on how they guessed it so easily.

“I got one myself…right here.” They spun, shoving him against the wall with the knife to his throat. They pressed hard, not gentle at all, he winced slightly.

“Try anything funny and i’ll slice your goddamn head off.”

“Damn, alright, you got me, sweetheart.” He teased, putting the knife away.

“Who are you?” They asked.

“The devil, baby.” He responded, chuckling slightly. Then, he shut up as they pressed harder.

“You don’t know who I am, or what i’ve done. You made the wrong pick to hit out on, bud.”

“Yeah, who are you then?”

“Y'know that killer whose been on the rise?”

“Nah, no way.”

“And you’re The Butcher, huh? Crowbar case, lurking in Purgatory?”

“Only I call it that. How do you know that?”

“Misaki. I'm sure you know ‘em.” They responded.

“Fuck. Damnit Misaki.”

“Don’t worry baby, i’m not gonna kill you…you’re too pretty and important to die.” They cooed, and he hated it.

“Don’t baby me. And if you aren’t gonna kill me, get off.” He growled angrily, this brat was starting to get on his nerves.

“Or what, Ronin?” They sneered.

“Misaki told you my name too, huh? Who are you?”

“Y/N. And i’ll get off, but from the way your body is reacting, it seems you don’t want me to. I can see your hand reaching out to touch me.” Fuck, they were observant, maybe too observant.

“Fuck off, just because you give me a bit of a boner doesn’t mean shit.” He grumbled embarrassedly.

“Mhm, sure. I see they way you looked at me back there…you wanted to eat me alive.” They ran their finger up his chest.

“Flirting with the devil…it’s like you wanna end up in hell.” He scowled.

“I’m ending up there either way, why not have fun before I do?”

“just shut up before I do something stupid.” He responded, grabbing their shirt and pulling them closer. His eyes dropped to their lips…fuck they looked so pretty and plump…he could ruin them with his teeth. Their neck too, another thing he could ruin. He could ruin them and their entire being then build it up from fucking scratch. He wanted to, they were hot, feisty, not afraid…he liked that.

“Like what? You gonna kill me? or are you going to kiss me?” They sneered, their hand on his jaw.

“Little bit of A, little bit of B…I could fucking ruin you.” He caved.

“Why don’t you, hm? You're scared?”