R O T T E N

this is my first post on actual writing(requests are open and free!!) so pls consider reblogging or following ( ⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)

forcing chishiya to watch cringey sitcoms or romance tv shows with you... He'd say it was a waste of both your and especially his time, but with enough begging he'd begrudgingly sit down and watch one episode with you. Is analyzing every character and their motives. This man is obviously a diamond but jesus christ does he perform like a heart player He doesn't ever raise his voice but you hear so many audible sigh...'s come from him you occasionally ask if he genuinely doesn't wanna watch. To which he always says he doesn't care and continues watching. Eventually, he starts fully predicting the ends of episodes. "He's obviously voting for Red-headed-girl over here to leave, I mean, with his body language and how nonconfrontational he is—the only option is for him to quietly get her away from every one else." He's so on the mark with all of his predictions you start getting suspicious;

"Have you watched this?" "No, they're just all so painfully obvious with their intentions." He eventually chooses a random character you didn't even really notice was there and says they will win. "Her. The lady with the awkward demeanor and hunched shoulders. She'll figure this out eventually, given how much she's already been able to calculate the other's moves." "...Has she even said any lines?" "Two." So, you guys make this a habit, where everyday when he returns from the hospital, you'll make some udon noodles and watch your shitty reality show. He denies liking it—saying most of the episodes are repetitive and frankly bland—but he still can't hide the small tug at the corners of his mouth whenever one of his predictions turns out to be right.

part 1, part 2,

synopsis; waking up from the meteorite and finding 50 drawings of a man you just met is unsettling. What's even more unsettling is he some how ends up finding them. word count: 4,597 first requested fic!!! (˶>⩊<˶) thank you so much for the req and hope this meets your expectations!

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

The immediate response catches you off guard, not because of what he said, but because of how casually he said it, like it was a fact, like he'd known it already. For a brief moment, something flashes through your mind—a rooftop, a city skyline, white hair illuminated beneath neon lights—and you blink and it's gone. Your chest tightens again, always that same feeling, the same impossible familiarity, and you look away first.

"You still haven't explained why you wanted coffee."

"Ah."

He reaches into the messenger bag resting beside his chair, and your stomach drops immediately.

"No."

A folded piece of paper appears. Your folded piece of paper. You recognize it instantly: the sketch of him reading by a window, one of your better drawings, one you distinctly remember being inside your sketchbook.

"Chishiya."

"You drew this."

"I know."

"You signed it."

"I KNOW." A few stares from other people in the cafe make you take a long sip of your coffee, your voice dropping a few decibels.

"And drew a heart next to my name."

"Don’t make me say it again."

The corner of his mouth twitches, the smallest hint of amusement, and you want the floor to swallow you whole.

"You stole my drawing."

"I borrowed it."

"That's not better."

"It is."

"It really isn't."

His fingers smooth out the page carefully against the tabletop, and the movement catches your attention because for someone who supposedly found all of this weird, he's being surprisingly careful with it. Your embarrassment slowly gives way to curiosity.

"...Why do you have it?"

For the first time since this conversation started, Chishiya hesitates, only briefly, but enough for you to notice, his gaze lowering to the drawing. "I was curious."

"About?"

"You."

The answer comes unexpectedly, so unexpectedly that you almost think you imagined it. You blink. Chishiya looks mildly annoyed that he said it at all.

"You woke up in a hospital bed and immediately started staring at me."

"I didn't—"

"You did."

"...Okay, maybe a little."

"You then discovered an entire sketchbook full of drawings of me."

You cringe.

"You repeatedly forgot I could see you doing that."

You cringe harder.

"I get it." You seriously consider switching hospitals, hell, moving countries at this point. 

"Clearly not."

"Chishiya."

"You were acting strange."

You roll your eyes. "Oh wow, well thank you."

"You're welcome."

A groan escapes you, and across the table he looks entirely pleased with himself.

Then, after a moment, his expression shifts—not dramatically, just enough that the teasing disappears and something more thoughtful takes its place.

"You said something earlier."

You frown. "When?"

"During your appointment."

Your stomach sinks immediately, because there's only one thing you can think of—the memories, the dreams, the feeling that you'd known him before. Your fingers tighten slightly around your coffee cup.

"You heard that?"

"I wasn't trying to."

Which, somehow, means he absolutely was.

"You said you felt like you'd known someone longer than a week."

The café suddenly feels much quieter. Outside, people continue walking past the windows, cars move through intersections, life continues as normal, yet for some reason your heart begins beating faster.

Slowly, you nod. "I know it sounds stupid."

"It doesn't."

The answer comes so quickly that your head snaps upward. "What?"

Chishiya is looking at you now, really looking at you, not like a doctor observing a patient, not like a stranger, just... looking.

"It doesn't sound stupid."

His voice is quieter than before. "I've been having them too."

Your breath catches. "The dreams?" A small nod. "The memories."

The world seems to stop. For several long moments, neither of you speak.

"Playing cards?"

His eyes widened slightly, only slightly. "Yes."

Your pulse quickens. He speaks slowly. "Empty streets?"

"...Yep."

You nervously laugh. "A drug fillled Beach?"

The silence that follows says everything.

You stare at him. He stares back. Neither of you look away, because suddenly the impossible thing you've been carrying around for weeks doesn't feel impossible anymore. Someone else remembers. Someone else understands. Someone else has been just as confused as you.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, not because anything is funny, but because the relief hits all at once. "You remember."

"Apparently."

"You actually remember."

A smile tugs at your lips, small at first, then bigger, and bigger, until you're genuinely laughing.

Across the table, Chishiya watches you for a moment before shaking his head. "You look ridiculous."

"You remember too."

"I do."

"You remember me."

A pause.

Then: "I remember you drawing."

The answer comes immediately, no hesitation whatsoever, and you freeze.

"What?"

"You were always drawing."

A strange warmth spreads through your chest.

"You remember that?"

"Unfortunately."

You frown. "Unfortunately?"

"You drew me far too often."

The laugh that escapes you this time is loud enough to earn a few curious glances from nearby tables, but you don't even care, because for the first time since waking up in that hospital room, the strange ache inside your chest finally makes sense. You weren't crazy. You weren't imagining things. Those memories belonged to you. To both of you.

The realization settles between you like something warm, comfortable, familiar, the way home feels after being gone too long.

For a while, the two of you simply talk, about fragments, little pieces, bits of memories neither of you can fully explain. Some are funny, some are painful, some leave both of you sitting in stunned silence afterward, yet somehow none of it feels heavy anymore, not now, because you're no longer carrying it alone.

Hours pass without either of you noticing. Coffee turns into another coffee, then another, and at some point Chishiya stops pretending he has somewhere else to be, and at some point you stop pretending you aren't enjoying yourself.

By the time evening sunlight begins spilling through the café windows, painting everything gold, your cheeks hurt from smiling, which is embarrassing, and you decide not to mention it.

"You know," you say eventually, stirring the remains of your drink, "most people reconnect with old friends through social media."

"Hm."

"Not through shared trauma and memory loss."

"That does seem inefficient."

You laugh. Chishiya rolls his eyes, yet the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, and somehow, after everything, that's enough.

The memories still aren't complete. There are still gaps, still missing pieces, but now, sitting across from someone who remembers too, they don't seem quite as frightening.

You'll figure them out eventually, together.

And if that process happens to involve several more coffees, a few arguments, and 4 more sketchbooks littered with doodles of his face… Well.

Maybe some habits are worth keeping.

FINALLY. jesus christ I need to figure out how to make Tumblr fit my works I swear. anyways hope you enjoyed!!

PART TWOOOOOO go read part one here.

synopsis; waking up from the meteorite and finding 50 drawings of a man you just met is unsettling. What's even more unsettling is he some how ends up finding them. word count: 4,597 first requested fic!!! (˶>⩊<˶) thank you so much for the req and hope this meets your expectations!

You get yourself together the best you can and make a slow walk to your therapist’s office. A soft knock on the door indicates your entrance, and you sit down on one of the many soft, velvety chairs nearby. “So, we’ve reached the end of our physical phase, and we’re ready to move onto our second phase, regarding mental and physical health, which will last 8 weeks depending on what your progress tells us. You will be meeting with me once every Monday, and with your new doctor,” He squints and readjusts his glasses while staring at his monitor. “Ah, Doctor Chishiya. He is still in medical school but is a skilled surgeon and is finishing his studies by the end of next year I believe. You will see him each Friday. The color drains from your face. Surely not…Surely you won't be forced to be with him for the next 8 weeks…right? “Is something the matter?” A head tilt of your psychiatrist snaps you from your thoughts. “Oh, nothing, I've just been thinking of someone recently. Can’t get them off my mind.” He sets his laptop down and gives you his attention. “Like I said, this next phase will be dealing with your mental health, so this may take a toll on you. You’re sure theres nothing i should know about. Any visions, recurring dreams or night mares? A feeling of lost memories or deja-vu?” You hesitate. “Well, I know it’ll sound crazy but…I keep having memories that havent happened. Just brief flashes of things that have happened with me and this person, but the thing is…I’ve only technically met them a week ago. But it feels like ive known them for…more than that. Does that make sense?” He nods and starts typing on his computer before replying, pushing his laptop aside again. “What you’re experiencing is called Memory Misatribution, and it's fairly common among people dealing with truamas in near death experiences.” He studys my face looking for any discomfort in his words. “When  you face a near-death experience, your brain is so overwhelmed by panic, survival chemicals, or a lack of oxygen that it fails to record the event correctly, leaving massive blanks in your memory. Because the human mind hates missing information, it automatically tries to fill in those blanks to make sense of what happened.” He pauses. “If you meet a new person immediately after the crisis, your brain takes their face and mistakenly glues it backward into the missing pieces of the trauma. This creates a vivid but false memory where you genuinely believe they were part of the actual event, simply because your confused brain scrambled the timeline of who you met and when.” “Oh…alright.” You try your best to give a believing smile, but your eyes give you away. “I know it’s hard to understand right now, but this is a normal reaction your brain is doing.” He tries to reassure you. “No, it’s alright, I understand.” But you don’t. Why does his face show in your sketchbook that you haven't seen at all before this? Your therapy ends short after that, and before you know it, you're walking out to your car when a face you’ve seen one too many times appears. “Oh, Doctor Chishiya? Um…can I help you?” His sharp eyes bore into yours. “Is there any way I could get you a coffee?” The question baffles you. This cold, detached man, offering to buy you coffee? Surely you’ve gone fully crazy and just imagining things now. “Sorry, I uh…Did you just ask to get coffee with me?” You laugh nervously. “Yes. Are you busy at the moment?” Is this man seriously just asking you on a date?! “I um…well, I actually am.” You dart your eyes back and forth, not knowing how to process all this. “Good. Meet with me at Kyoto Kura, it’s a coffeehouse near here.” And again, he’s gone just as fast as he arrived. What a strange man.

Upon arriving at the coffeehouse your mind is swarming with questions. Why did he want to see me? Does he know i’m his new patient? Does he…remember that place too?. You see him sat at a small table, reading a book. It reminds you of something. Another memory. “You’re always reading, ‘Shiya.” “It’s a better way to spend time than turning to alcohol or partying." “I guess you're right. You know, you look so focused when you read. Can I draw you?”“Draw me? How…vain.”You’re staring at him, again. Lost in what you presume to be false memories, you make your way over to him and sit across from him. “Hey, sorry if i took a bit, traffic was awful with all the roads closed.” “No worries.” He seems as if he’s waiting to ask you a question. Thinking of how to phrase it, perhaps. Either way he’s looking at you. Again. You awkwardly bring up a subject to fill the silence. “Is there a reason you invited me here…?”

“Well, seeing one of my patients have a notebook littered with portraits of myself is a bit perplexing to me, so I thought I could invite you to discuss why that is.”

The question makes every muscle in your body lock up, and for a moment you can only stare at him from across the table while your brain desperately searches for a response that doesn't immediately result in you throwing yourself through the nearest window. Unfortunately, no such response exists.

"You...what?"

Chishiya calmly turns a page in his book. "The sketchbook."

You feel your soul leave your body. "The sketchbook?"

"Yes."

"The sketchbook that was closed?"

"Mostly."

"The sketchbook that I was very clearly trying to hide?"

"Poorly."

Your hands immediately fly to your face. "The sketchbook…."

A soft sigh leaves him. "You've said that several times now."

"Because this is horrifying., and i have no clue what i’ve done to deserve a fate like this."

"I disagree."

You slowly lower your hands. "You disagree?"

"Yes."

"How?"

He finally closes the book and sets it aside. "Because if I were in your position, I simply wouldn't carry around a notebook containing several hundred drawings of someone. That’s certainly a way to avoid this fate." He says, taking a sip of his coffee.

You stare. He stares back. The audacity.

unfortunately since Tumblr is being really slow w/ processing my fic, I had to split it into 3 parts .·°՞(っ-ᯅ-ς)՞°·. part two is obviously already written and can be found here. nonetheless, here's the fic!

synopsis; waking up from the meteorite and finding 50 drawings of a man you just met is unsettling. What's even more unsettling is he some how ends up finding them. word count: 4,597 first requested fic!!! (˶>⩊<˶) thank you so much for the req and hope this meets your expectations!

You suppose it's taken some time for this habit of yours to develop.

The realization comes to you one afternoon while you're sitting alone in an empty rehabilitation room, your sketchbook open across your lap and your pencil resting uselessly between your fingers. The page in front of you is only half-finished, but even from a glance you already know exactly how it'll end. The shape of a jaw, the curve of a shoulder, the beginnings of pale hair sketched in loose graphite strokes—it always ends the same way.

You draw him. You draw him constantly. And the strangest part is that you don't remember deciding to.

The first time you saw him was after waking up in the hospital. At least, you think it was the first time.

Memory has become an unreliable thing since the meteorite. There are entire stretches of your life that feel submerged beneath murky water, impossible to reach no matter how desperately you grasp for them. Faces blur together. Conversations vanish. Sometimes you'll catch the edge of a memory only for it to dissolve before you can fully recognize it.

But that morning remains strangely vivid.

You remember waking slowly to the rhythmic beeping of machines and the faint antiseptic scent that seemed embedded in every surface of the room. Your body felt impossibly heavy, as though someone had replaced your bones with concrete while you slept. Even opening your eyes had been an effort.

The ceiling above you was unfamiliar. White. Spotless.

Hospital lights hummed softly overhead.

For several long moments you simply stared upward, trying to understand where you were and why every muscle in your body ached.

Then you turned your head. There was another bed positioned across from yours.

And someone was already watching you.

The first thing you noticed was his hair. White. Not blond, Not silver, White.

It stood out sharply against the sterile hospital surroundings, almost unnatural beneath the fluorescent lighting. His posture was relaxed despite the bandages visible beneath his hospital gown, and his expression remained completely unreadable as he regarded you from across the room.

You stared. You couldn't help it. Something inside your chest tightened painfully at the sight of him. Was it fear? No, no this was…Recognition. But how, if you’ve just met this man? It felt strange, a feeling of deja-vu washing over you. Like hearing a familiar melody from another room and being unable to place where you've heard it before.

His face seemed important., from the the shape of his eyes to the slight tilt of his head.mEven the way his fingers rested against the blanket felt familiar in a way that made no sense.

You found yourself studying him without realizing it, searching his features for answers you couldn't quite name.

The silence stretched. Eventually one pale eyebrow lifted.

"Can I help you?"

His voice snapped you back to reality and heat immediately flooded your face. You looked away so quickly your neck hurt.

"No."

The response came out embarrassingly fast. After a moment you added a quiet, "Sorry."

You expected him to say something else.Instead, silence returned.

Yet somehow that made the situation worse.

You could still feel the weight of his gaze lingering for several seconds before he finally looked away.The strange pressure in your chest remained.

Hours later, after nurses had come and gone and doctors had explained things you could barely focus on, your attention landed on the sketchbook sitting atop your bedside table.

You weren't sure where it had come from. Maybe a family member had brought it, but who? You can’t think of anyone who would bring you a sketchbook of all things. Maybe you'd requested it yourself.

Either possibility seemed equally likely. You picked it up absentmindedly and began flipping through the pages.

At first everything looked normal, Landscapes, bedrooom windows, A vase of flowers.

Quick observational sketches clearly drawn during long periods of boredom.

Then, gradually, things changed. A reddish smear appeared across one corner of a page drew your attention.

You frowned. The next page contained more, the page becoming crunchy with what you could only assume to be dried blood. Your fingers paused. Where and when did you get blood on this thing? More importantly…who’s blood did you get on this thing.

Slowly, you turned another page, freezing at what was before you.

A portrait. A portrait of someone you were just staring at. White hair. Sharp eyes. A calm expression. The boy from the neighboring bed. There was even a little heart and kanji so messily written you couldn't read what it said.

You blinked, a familiar rush of blood going to your cheeks. This….was something. Why do you have drawings of a man you haven't met up until now? Surely this is someone else's notebook, and you’re just mistaken in thinking it is. But one glance at the bottom of the page tell you it’s yours. Your signature. You turn the page and find more drawings. Side Profiles. Quick doodles. Your pulse began to quicken as you flipped through them.

Some were rough sketches completed in only a few lines. Others were painstakingly detailed, capturing individual strands of hair and subtle shifts in expression. One showed him sleeping. Another appeared to have been drawn from across a room. Some looked unfinished while others were so carefully rendered they could have taken hours. Every single one depicted the same person.

The boy across the room.

The boy whose name you didn't even know.

You stared down at the pages in disbelief. There were dozens of them,maybe hundreds. Entire sections of the sketchbook dedicated exclusively to him.

Your stomach twisted. You drew these. You knew you had.

And yet you couldn't remember drawing a single one.

Almost instinctively, your gaze lifted toward the neighboring bed. He was reading now, seemingly unaware of the crisis unfolding on your side of the room. Or maybe he was pretending not to notice.

You quickly shut the sketchbook, the sound echoing far louder than it should have.

For reasons you couldn't explain, you suddenly felt guilty.As though you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to.The feeling only worsened when fragments of something unfamiliar flashed briefly through your mind.

Playing cards, a white hood, empty streets. His face.

Always his face.

The images disappeared before you could examine them, leaving only a dull ache behind your eyes. You didn't open the sketchbook again for the rest of the day.

The next morning, however, you found yourself drawing him anyway.

- A week later, the hospital had become familiar enough that you no longer felt the same knot of anxiety every time you walked through its doors.

Mostly.

The doctors had finally discharged you a few days prior, deciding that your physical condition had improved enough to continue recovery from home. You still had mandatory physical therapy appointments several times a week, however, which meant making the trip back to the hospital regardless. The walk wasn't particularly long. In fact, it was one of the few parts of your day you actually enjoyed. The morning air was cool against your skin as you followed the sidewalk toward the rehabilitation center, hands tucked into your jacket pockets while birdsong drifted from the trees overhead. The sounds came from every direction at once—sparrows hidden among branches, robins hopping across patches of grass, distant calls you couldn't identify but found comforting nonetheless.

The city was slowly waking up around you. Cars passed occasionally. People hurried toward work. A cyclist rolled past on the opposite side of the street. Everything felt normal. Strangely normal. Almost enough to convince yourself that the meteorite disaster had never happened.

Almost.

Your fingers brushed against the edge of the sketchbook tucked beneath your arm.

Not quite.

The memory gaps were still there. The strange flashes of impossible places. The overwhelming sense that you had forgotten something important. Someone important. A familiar frustration settled in your chest, but you ignored it and continued walking until the hospital eventually came into view. The large glass doors slid open as you approached, allowing the familiar scent of antiseptic and disinfectant to greet you immediately.

You checked in at the front desk, exchanged a brief greeting with the receptionist, and made your way toward the rehabilitation wing. The waiting area was mostly empty. A television mounted in one corner played quietly while a woman flipped through a magazine several chairs away. Otherwise, there was no one. You glanced toward the clock.

Ten minutes early.

Of course.

You sighed. Ten minutes wasn't long enough to justify doing anything productive, but it was just long enough to become annoying.

Without thinking much about it, you settled into one of the chairs and pulled your sketchbook onto your lap. Drawing had become a habit lately. A coping mechanism, maybe. Whenever your thoughts became too loud, sketching gave your hands something to do. Something simple. Something familiar.

You flipped to a blank page. The paper crackled softly beneath your fingertips as your pencil met graphite. At first, you weren't drawing anything specific. Just lines. Shapes. Curves. Mindless doodles. Your thoughts wandered elsewhere while your hand moved automatically. You thought about physical therapy, about lunch afterward, about whether your memory would ever return completely. You thought about the strange dreams that occasionally woke you in the middle of the night.

The pencil continued moving.

You barely paid attention.

A few minutes passed.

Then your gaze drifted downward.

You froze.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Staring back from the page was a half-finished portrait.

Not just any portrait.

His portrait.

The shape of the eyes had already given him away. The hair. The jawline. The expression. Even unfinished, there was no mistaking who it was.

Chishiya.

Again.

You dropped your head back against the chair dramatically.

"What is wrong with me?"

An elderly man passing nearby shot you a concerned look. You ignored him. The frustration had become familiar by now. No matter what you intended to draw, your pencil always seemed to arrive at the same destination. You'd tried landscapes. Animals. Flowers. Buildings. Once you'd attempted drawing a bowl of fruit.

The fruit had somehow ended up looking like Chishiya.

You still didn't know how that had happened.

Groaning quietly, you flipped to another blank page, but your attention immediately snagged on the drawings already there. Another sketch. You flipped again. Another. Again. Another.

Your irritation rapidly grew.

Page after page revealed more drawings of him. Some recent. Some older. Some so detailed that they must have taken hours. One showed him sleeping. Another showed him sitting beneath a window. Several focused entirely on his face. Others captured tiny details—the shape of his hands, the curve of his eyes when he was thinking, the way his hair fell across his forehead.

You didn't even realize you'd been studying those things.

Yet apparently your subconscious had.

"You have got to stop."

You flipped faster. The pages blurred together. Chishiya. Chishiya. Chishiya. An entire sketchbook's worth of evidence proving that you were either deeply obsessed with a near stranger or completely losing your mind.

Possibly both.

The thought made you slam the book shut with enough force to earn another glance from the woman reading the magazine nearby.

You immediately pretended nothing had happened.

A few moments later, a finger tapped your shoulder.

You nearly launched out of the chair.

Your entire body jerked. The sketchbook slipped from your grasp and almost tumbled onto the floor.

"Oh my God—"

Your heart leapt into your throat.

Had your therapist called your name? Had you somehow missed your appointment? Were they trying to get your attention because you'd been sitting there aggressively fighting with a sketchbook for ten straight minutes?

Mortified, you whipped around, the apology already forming.

Instead, every coherent thought immediately abandoned you.

Because standing behind you wasn't a therapist.

It wasn't a nurse.

It wasn't anyone you expected.

It was Chishiya.

For a second, you genuinely wondered whether your brain had become so obsessed with drawing him that it had started hallucinating. Then he blinked.

Definitely real.

Your stomach promptly dropped.

You hadn't seen him since leaving the hospital. Not properly, anyway. Yet now that he was standing directly in front of you, you couldn't help noticing all the little differences. He looked healthier. The lingering bruises and cuts you'd first seen in the hospital had mostly disappeared. He’s now dressed in hospital robes and carrying a clip board in his left arm. His posture seemed less guarded than before, though there was still something deceptively relaxed about the way he carried himself. His white hair had grown slightly longer, soft strands brushing against his forehead, and he wore the same detached expression you remembered from across the room.

The expression that somehow managed to look bored and curious at the same time.

Brown eyes shifted briefly toward the sketchbook currently clutched against your chest.

Then back to your face.

You never usually feel so embarrassed that the metaphor of “the ground wanting to open up and swallow” felt accurate, but this was definitely one of those times.

Please don't ask about the sketchbook. Please don't ask what's inside. Please don't ask why seventy percent of it is dedicated to your face.

His head tilted slightly.

"I've been saying your name for about thirty seconds."

Your mouth opened, but it seemed that in this moment, all words were eluding you.

Wonderful.

Now you look insane.

A faint pause followed. Then, somehow making everything infinitely worse, his gaze flicked downward once more.

"Drawing?"The single word hit like a gunshot. You practically white knuckle the sketchbook.

“Y-YEah.” Your voice cracks so bad you consider not talking until you leave this hospital.

His gaze reverts back to his clipboard as he does a once over on a section of the page.

“You’re _____, right?”

Him saying your name in such a clinical tone makes you sit up straighter, nodding nervously.

“Doctor Hakaru is ready for you.”

And with that, he simply walks off, leaving you…underwhelmed? Maybe in the back of your head you were hoping for a scene to play out where you accidentally drop your notebook, and he kindly pick it up for you and when he sees one of the pages he starts praising your artwor-

Yeah that’s not gonna happen. He’d probably think you’re an absolute weirdo and report you to his higherups until they ban you from the hospital and…wait, what were you supposed to be doing? Ah. Walking.

(Ronin Beaufort X GN Reader)

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.

THE MUMMY 1999

amalia:

alternative:

abel:

alternative:

jocelyn:

alternative:

lincoln:

alternative: