#So many would happen in fractions of a second

[touchoffleece]

what came to me after watching the Kaela "adopting" ReGloss-but-mostly-Hajime arc on the Minecraft Hardcore Server

addendum: I had initially written the text in "normal" speech, but thought to commit to the bit and try my hand at decyphering Hajime's dialect?/accent? to properly replicate it. I ended up researching japanese dialects, slang, and pronunciation for about an hour or hour-and-a-half to make what was essentially those 3 sentences she uttered to replicate Terry. Localizing/Translating is hard. If my Oya/oYA pun, does not work please let me know, because I was confused and just took a shot at making the joke hoping it works based of some reddit post I found explaining the differences and meaning.

[kannady]

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 3.8k

a/n: HOLY SHIT! i did not expect that many people to read the prev part and actually like it???? thank you so much to all you lovely people. seeing everyone excited for the next part just lit me on fire. hope you'll like this one. lemme know your thoughts!

read rest of the chapters here!

II

The mug shattered on the floor.

The sound was too loud in the silence of the lab, ceramic shards skittering across the frosted glass tiles. Coffee pooled dark and bitter, seeping into the panels. You stood there, frozen, fingers still curled around the ghost of the handle, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your ribs.

Behind the observation window, Sylus didn’t move.

His crimson eyes stayed locked onto yours, unblinking, like a predator eyeing his prey. Even through the distortion of the reinforced glass, you could see the way his chest rose and fell. Too steady for a man strapped to a chair, electrodes burrowed into his skin, a veterinary-grade sedative no doubt pumping through his veins. His lips were parted just slightly, as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

"Dr. (Y/N)?"

Mara’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears. You hadn’t even noticed her approach, but now she was right beside you, her gloved hand hovering near your elbow like she wasn’t sure if you’d bolt or collapse.

"What happened?"

Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth. "It.. Um.. It was too hot," you murmured, the lie slipping out before you could stop it. "I dropped it."

Mara’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t press. Around you, the other researchers had paused in their work, some staring openly, others pretending not to notice the way your hands trembled as you bent to pick up the broken pieces.

"Leave it." A senior researcher, Dr. Voss, dismissed you with a flick of his clipboard. "I’ve called for someone."

A cleaner arrived within minutes, silent and efficient, sweeping up the evidence of your momentary lapse. You barely registered their presence. Your entire body was wound tight, every nerve was burdened with the weight of Sylus’s gaze.

Someone handed you fresh lab glasses, gloves, and the file. Thick, heavy, the words SUBJECT M-7 stamped across the front in bold black letters. You took it mechanically, flipping through the pages without really seeing them.

Evol Classification: Energy Manipulation (Class VIII, potentially IX). Containment Protocols: Electromagnetic shackles. Sedation drip. Two cranial failsafe implants.

Your stomach twisted. A cold chill slithered down your spine.

You tilted your head, just a fraction, just enough, and there he was. Still watching. Still waiting.

What the hell are you doing here?

The question screamed inside your skull, a frantic, looping mantra.

How did they catch you?

Sylus didn’t get caught. Sylus was the trap. Right?

Why are you here?

Your fingers tightened around the file, the edges digging into your palms. Was this a trick? A doppelgänger? Some sick game EVER was playing to test your loyalty?

But no. No, you knew those eyes. Knew the way they darkened when he was amused, knew the way they gleamed like fresh blood under sunlight. Knew the way they’d followed you, even when you thought you’d vanished completely.

He found you.

And now he was here, strapped to a chair in your lab, at your mercy, and the irony was so sharp it could have drawn blood.

You forced yourself to turn away, to focus on the vials in front of you. But your hands weren’t steady. The chemicals sloshed dangerously as you measured them out, your thoughts a hurricane of panic and disbelief.

Then Mara nudged you.

She leaned in, her voice a whisper against your ear. "Do you… know this guy or something?"

Your grip faltered. The vial slipped, just for a second, before you caught it, your breath hitching. "No," you said, too quickly. "Of course not. Why would you think that?"

Mara’s gaze flicked toward the window, then back to you. "I dunno. He keeps looking at you." A pause. "Like, only at you. He hasn’t looked anywhere else since you walked in."

Your heartbeat stuttered. You didn’t dare look again. But you could feel him.

The weight of his stare. The unspoken question in it. The accusation.

"Dr. (Y/N)?" Voss’s voice snapped you back. "We’re waiting on those samples."

You swallowed hard. "Right," you murmured. "Sorry."

But as you turned back to your work, your hands moving on autopilot, your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with crimson eyes and a voice that still haunted your dreams.

Somewhere you’d sworn you’d never return.

And yet here he was.

***

The lab was silent now, the usual hum of machinery and murmured conversations long faded into the night. You sat alone, bathed in the sterile glow of your computer screen, fingers stiff from hours of typing reports you barely registered. When you finally looked up to stretch, your eyes immediately darted to the observation window, only to find it empty. The reinforced glass reflected back your own tired expression, the chair beyond it now vacant, restraints dangling uselessly from its arms. A cold shiver traced your spine as you realized he was gone.

Fumbling for the tablet, your fingers left smudges on the screen as you pulled up the subject logs. The blue text glared back at you: SUBJECT M-7: TRANSPORTED TO SECURE HOLDING. Scheduled for observations and procedures only. 

Your breath left you in a slow, unsteady exhale. Of course they wouldn't keep him here overnight. EVER wasn't foolish enough to leave a Class VIII Evol subject unattended in a standard lab. But the realization did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. 

What were you even doing? 

Two years. Two full years you'd spent building this new life, carving out a place where no one knew your past, where you could finally breathe without calculating every word and gesture. And yet, the moment those crimson eyes had locked onto yours through the glass, it was as if no time had passed at all. 

You were right back where you started. Heart racing, palms sweating, that familiar ache settling deep in your bones.

The worst part was the ridiculous, traitorous thought that had flashed through your mind when you first saw him. Did he come here for me? 

The idea was laughable now. Sylus didn't chase. Sylus didn't get captured. If he was here, it was because he wanted to be. Part of some elaborate scheme you were never meant to understand until it was too late. 

Unless…

Your fingers stilled on the keyboard as the alternative occurred to you. What if he hadn't come willingly? The thought sent an entirely different kind of chill through you. You knew what EVER did to high-value subjects. You'd seen the files, signed off on procedures that had kept you awake at night. If they had truly captured him…

Your gaze dropped to your phone lying beside the keyboard. Two years since you'd last heard their voices. Two years since you'd walked away without looking back. Did you even have the right to call them now? Would they answer? Would they care? Your thumb hovered over Luke's contact, the number you'd never deleted, no matter how many times you told yourself you were done with that life.

The call didn't connect. Just a robotic voice informing you the number was switched off. 

Kieran's was the same. The hollow ache in your chest expanded, though you couldn't say whether it was from relief or disappointment. This was stupid. Completely, utterly stupid. He was the reason you'd left. The reason you'd spent nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if you'd ever be more than just another asset in his carefully calculated world.

And yet here you were, ready to throw away everything you'd built. Your career, your safety, your hard-won peace, all because of one look from those damned crimson eyes. You shoved the phone into your pocket with more force than necessary, pushing back from the desk so abruptly your chair nearly toppled. 

No. You weren't doing this. You weren't that person anymore.

Except if this wasn't part of his plan. If he really was trapped here, at the mercy of the same organization you'd seen tear subjects apart molecule by molecule. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. Damn it. You were going to regret this. 

The phone felt heavy in your hand as you stood frozen on the sidewalk outside your apartment building, your thumb hovering over Luke's contact for what must have been the twentieth time that night. The wind bit through your thin lab coat as you pressed call again, listening to the hollow ringing that seemed to echo in your bones. Two rings. Then silence. Just like before. Just like every other attempt you'd made since leaving the lab. 

Kieran's number didn’t even connect. That infuriating automated voice informing you the number was unavailable, the robotic tone doing nothing to mask the panic rising in your chest.

You shoved the phone back into your pocket with trembling fingers, your breath fogging in the cold air as you finally turned toward your apartment building. The walk up the stairs felt endless, each step heavier than the last. Some foolish, traitorous part of you kept expecting to see him. To turn a corner and find Sylus leaning against your doorframe with that infuriating smirk, crimson eyes glinting in the dim hallway light as if this were all some elaborate game. The thought made your pulse stutter, equal parts dread and something else you refused to name twisting in your gut.

But of course, he wasn't there.

You'd seen him with your own eyes just hours earlier. Strapped to that chair in the lab, electrodes buried in his skin, his silver hair matted with sweat and blood near his temple. The image burned behind your eyelids every time you blinked. 

Yet when your key finally clicked in the lock, you still hesitated, the door creaking open far too slowly as you peered inside like some frightened child checking for monsters.

The apartment was exactly as you'd left it, your half-finished coffee still sitting cold on the counter, the blanket you'd used last night draped haphazardly over the arm of the couch. Normal. Safe. Empty.

The breath left your lungs in a rush as you stepped inside, kicking off your heels with more force than necessary, watching them skid across the hardwood. You collapsed onto the couch without bothering to turn on the lights, the dim glow from the streetlights outside casting long shadows across the ceiling. The silence pressed in around you, heavy and suffocating.

What the hell were you doing?

Your fingers twitched toward your phone again before you could stop yourself. There was no one else to call. No one trustworthy, no one who wouldn't ask questions you couldn't answer. The realization settled like a stone in your stomach. Where were they? Luke and Kieran never turned their phones off. Never. Not unless something was very, very wrong.

The thought followed you into bed, clinging like a second skin as you tossed and turned beneath the sheets. When sleep finally came, it was fitful and haunted. Flashes of a too-familiar mansion, the scent of gun oil and expensive bourbon, the sound of her laughter ringing through the halls like wind chimes. 

***

You woke with a gasp, your body drenched in cold sweat, the digital clock on your bedside table blinking 4:47 AM in harsh red numbers.

For one disorienting moment, you didn't know where you were. The dream still clung to you, the weight of his gaze making your skin prickle even now. You fumbled for your phone with numb fingers, your heart hammering against your ribs as you checked for missed calls. 

Nothing. No messages. No signs that either of them had even seen your attempts to reach them.

The shower was ice-cold, the water biting at your skin until it was numb. You scrubbed at your arms until they were pink, as if you could wash away the memories, the doubt, the creeping sense that nothing had really changed at all. That no matter how far you ran or how well you hid, you were still tangled in the same web.

The morning passed in a blur of too-strong coffee and mechanical movements, brushing your teeth, pulling your hair back into a ponytail, buttoning your lab coat with fingers that refused to steady. Before you knew it, you were standing outside the lab doors, your hand frozen halfway to the access panel.

You didn't want to go in. Didn't want to see him again. Didn't want to know what they were doing to him. But the weight of your keycard in your pocket reminded you that you had no choice.

"Dr. (Y/N), authorization code Rose-9-White," you murmured, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

The locks disengaged with a hiss that seemed far too loud in the empty hallway. You stepped inside, your eyes immediately darting to the observation window before you could stop yourself, only to find it empty again. The chair stood vacant, the restraints hanging loose. Your stomach twisted.

Mara glanced up from her workstation, blinking at you over the rim of her glasses. "Oh, you didn't check the morning logs?" she asked, her fingers never pausing as they flew across her keyboard.

You forced your hands to stay still at your sides. "No. What happened?"

"We finished the preliminary assessments last night," she said, turning back to her screen. A few quick taps pulled up a file labeled SUBJECT M-7: PHASE TWO. "Today we're administering the first round of the Evol-transfer serum. We'll be monitoring his vitals closely, but we've got a stabilized backup dose prepped in case his system rejects it."

Your stomach dropped like a stone.

The words Evol-transfer serum echoed in your skull, each syllable sharper than the last. You knew exactly what that meant, you had helped design the protocols yourself. The process wasn't just painful, it was excruciating. Like having your very soul ripped out piece by piece. And if his body fought it? If the serum destabilized?

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped scars. The sterile air of the lab suddenly felt too thick, too warm, your lab coat constricting around your shoulders like a straitjacket. What had you gotten yourself into? More importantly, what had you allowed them to do to him?

What if you were standing on the wrong side of the glass this time?

 The thought made you sicker than anything EVER could have dreamed up in their labs.

The sterile hum of the lab equipment filled your ears as you mechanically sorted through data files, your fingers moving across the holographic display with practiced efficiency despite the storm raging inside your chest. Thirty minutes had passed since Mara's revelation about the serum, thirty minutes of forcing yourself to focus on anything but the empty observation chamber and what was coming. 

Then the doors hissed open, and your entire world narrowed to the sound of rolling wheels and the sharp, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

They brought him in, still strapped to that damned chair, his arms secured with reinforced electromagnetic cuffs, the electrodes embedded in his skin now surrounded by dried blood from yesterday's tests. 

The medical team moved with clinical precision, adjusting IV lines and checking readouts, but you barely registered them. Your breath caught painfully in your throat as your pulse skyrocketed, the sudden rush of blood in your ears nearly drowning out all other sound. It felt like your heart might actually tear through your ribcage.

And then he looked up.

Those crimson eyes found yours instantly, as if he'd known exactly where you'd be standing. But unlike yesterday's hollow stare, today his lips curved into that infuriating, knowing smile. The same smug smirk that had haunted your dreams for two years, the one that said he'd already calculated every possible outcome and yours wasn't the winning move. 

Your fingers spasmed around the tablet you were holding, the screen cracking slightly under the pressure before you forcibly turned away, shoulders rigid as you pretended to study a meaningless data stream.

Wait, no. The realization hit you like a bucket of ice water. This was your lab. Your workplace. Your life that you'd built painstakingly over two years of early mornings and late nights, of proving yourself again and again. 

He didn't get to waltz in here and ruin everything with one damn look. Squaring your shoulders, you inhaled deeply through your nose, the sharp scent of antiseptic helping ground you as you turned back to your workstation with renewed determination.

The next hour passed in a blur of hyper-focused activity. You moved between stations with uncharacteristic efficiency, running calculations faster than the system could typically process them, catching errors in the serum compound ratios that had slipped past three other researchers. Even Dr. Voss, the senior researcher whose narcissistic tendencies made him universally avoided, paused by your station with something resembling approval in his cold gaze. "Impressive work today, Dr. (Y/N)," he remarked, the rare praise making several nearby heads turn. "Your focus is... exceptional."

You barely registered the compliment, your entire being focused on the presence thirty feet away behind the observation glass. Every nerve in your body was aware of him, of the way his breathing changed minutely when someone approached with a new instrument, of the faint tension in his jawline that no one else would notice. You'd spent too many years studying those microexpressions, learning to read what he'd never say aloud.

"Alright," Voss's voice snapped you back to the present. "Now go and get the serum prepared. We'll begin phase one administration in five minutes."

The words sent a jolt of ice down your spine. Your feet carried you to the refrigeration unit on autopilot, your hands moving to retrieve the small vial of glowing blue liquid that represented months of your team's work. The serum felt unnaturally cold through your gloves, its faint luminescence pulsing almost like a living thing. You stood frozen for several heartbeats, staring at the vial as conflicting impulses warred in your chest.

Voss had to physically step into your line of sight before you reacted, his impatient "Well?" making you startle. When you still didn't move, he strode forward and practically snatched the serum from your grip, his sharp features twisting in displeasure. "Unusual hesitation from you today," he remarked coolly before turning away.

But you weren't looking at Voss. Your gaze had snapped back to the observation window, to the man strapped in that chair. And for just a fraction of a second, so brief you might have imagined it, you could have sworn something flickered across Sylus's face. Not anger. Not pain. But disappointment? 

The possibility sent an entirely different kind of ache through your chest, one you refused to examine too closely.

As the medical team prepared to administer the serum, you forced yourself to turn back to your workstation, your fingers flying across the controls to pull up his vital signs on your private screen. Every beep of the heart monitor, every fluctuation in brain activity would be recorded here. You told yourself it was professional curiosity. That you were simply monitoring a high-risk procedure. But when the first drops of serum entered his IV line and his body arched against the restraints with a silent scream, your nails dug into your palms hard enough to draw blood. 

And when his eyes, those damned crimson eyes, found yours through the glass once more, blazing with pain and something dangerously close to betrayal, you realized with dawning horror that you might have just made the biggest mistake of your life.

The serum's effects were worse than you'd imagined.

Each scream that tore from Sylus's throat felt like a blade twisting between your ribs. You'd never seen him like this, never heard him make a sound of pain, let alone this raw, ragged agony. His body strained against the restraints, muscles corded tight, veins standing out in beneath sweat-slicked skin. 

The monitors screamed alongside him, his heart rate spiking dangerously high as the serum worked its way through his system, attacking his Evol at the cellular level.

You stood frozen at your workstation, fingers clenched around the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles turned white. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to do something, to stop this, to rip the IV from his arm, to fix what you'd helped create. 

But you couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't tear your eyes away from the way his head finally dropped forward, his body going limp as the worst of the pain subsided into shuddering tremors.

That serum was designed to rip it out of him entirely, to transfer it to someone else. And by the time the process was complete, he'd be dead. 

Your stomach lurched. You'd known this. You'd helped develop this. But seeing it happen to him…

Your vision blurred.

Around you, the lab continued as if nothing were wrong. Researchers murmured notes to each other, adjusting dials, recording data. No one else seemed to hear the way his breath came in short, pained gasps. No one else flinched when his fingers twitched against the restraints like he was still trying to fight.

This couldn't be happening.

Sylus didn't lose. Sylus didn't scream.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look back at your screen, at the readings that confirmed what you already knew. His Evol levels were dropping. Fast.

A few hours later, the lab emptied for lunch.

Mara lingered by your station, nudging your shoulder. "Come on, let's go. You've been staring at that screen for ages."

You shook your head, not trusting your voice. "You go. I need to finish this report. I'll catch up in a minute." She hesitated, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if you take too long, I'm eating your share of the dumplings."

The second the door hissed shut behind her, your head snapped up. The lab was empty. Almost.

Your gaze darted to the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. You should have cared. Should have hesitated. But right now, you didn't give a damn.

"Fuck it," you muttered under your breath. You'd come up with a lie later.

In three quick strides, you were at the observation window. Sylus was slumped forward, his head hanging low, silver hair obscuring his face. You couldn't tell if he was unconscious.

You pressed your palm against the glass.

"Sylus."

No response.

Your chest tightened. You tapped the glass sharply, once, twice.

"Sylus, look at me."

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his head.

His crimson eyes were duller than you'd ever seen them, his pupils blown wide with pain, but they locked onto yours with terrifying focus.

And then, he smirked.

That damn, infuriating smirk, even now. Even like this.

Your breath left you in a rush.

"You idiot," you hissed, your voice barely above a whisper. "What the hell are you doing here?"

His lips parted like he might answer. But then the lab door hissed open behind you.

You whirled around.

Dr. Voss stood in the doorway, his cold eyes flicking from you to Sylus and back again.

"Dr. (Y/N)," he said slowly. "Care to explain why you're talking to the subject?"

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[cobaltperun]

Hi, i saw your post about taking requests. Can you write a natasha x fem reader were the reader is taller than her and after a difficult mission nat is just very clingy and doesn't want to let her gf qo so reader just picks her up and wak around like that? Just some cute, adorable natasha feeling bad about what happened at the mission and the reader being there for her, maybe talking about it? But overall fluff

Thanks, feel free to add whatever things you want

I'm right here

Natasha Romanoff x female Reader (Request)

Summary: Following a dangerous mission all Natasha needs right now is to be close to you, and you're more than happy to tend to her needs.

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4k

Set between The Avengers and CA: TWS

Static buzzing of your ruined comms forced you to open your eyes as you pulled the damn earpiece out. The stench of burning plastic and burnt skin and blood and suffocating smoke made you groan as you tried to roll onto your back and sit up. Your head felt like it was going to explode and the warm blood slowly trickling from your forehead down the side of your face wasn’t a good sign. Oh, Natasha was going to be so damn pissed off when she sees you. Assuming she even gets to see you again in the first place. “I got this,” you mockingly repeated as you sat up and leaned against the wall and looked around you. The lab was in ruins, computers blown up, equipment destroyed, enemy soldiers dead, some shot, some killed by the explosion.

You glanced at the USB stick, at least you accomplished what you were after. The data Fury wanted was safely in your hands and all things considered you were sure you bought enough time for Natasha and Clint to get the hostages out. All that was left to do was to get out alive.

Footsteps caught your attention, too many to be Nat and Clint, and the three of you didn’t bring any backup. “I need a vacation,” you sighed. Was there any chance you could convince your workaholic of a girlfriend to take more than three days off?

Probably not.

You tucked the USB stick away and checked your gun, you still had plenty of ammo left.

~X~

Years spent working for S.H.I.E.L.D. changed her, she dared to think she was trying to do something good, to make up for at least a tiny bit of suffering she caused. She grew to care for people, for Clint, his family… for you, and with that care she came to dread the sound of static coming through the comms more than nearly any sound.

Hearing you were in trouble would have been easier. At least then Natasha wouldn’t feel any uncertainty, she’d know where you were and that she needed to get to you. She’d know how much time she had.

Natasha Romanoff despised uncertainty.

She despised not knowing what happened.

She despised knowing the last thing she heard from your side was an explosion.

The worry etched on her face was easily noticeable, especially to Clint. “She’ll be fine,” he assured her, firing off another arrow and taking out a guard with a sniper rifle ready. As much as Natasha wanted to rush toward you, she still had hostages to lead to safety, and as much as she hated to admit it, the wound on her side was bothering her.  

“It should have been me,” and that was the initial plan. She was the best equipped to go in, retrieve the data and blow the whole place up before anyone even realized she was there. Natasha could have done it, she should have done it, and you should have been here with Clint, leading two hostages out. Instead, she got wounded and now you were the one in danger.

Clint took aim, noticing another guard a fraction of a second faster than she could. She really was worried, and it was affecting her more than she ever thought possible.

All Natasha could do was hope her worries and the bad feeling she had was just paranoia, and not her intuition telling her to drop everything and go back to get you. If she lost you here, she would never forgive herself.

~X~

You took several deep breaths as you looked around the room, it was over, you killed every single one of the criminals that came after you and you tossed aside and empty gun. It wasn’t even your own, you ran out of bullets about halfway into the fight, so you grabbed a gun one of the criminals had and just kept firing until there was no one else left to fire at.

The rush of adrenaline slowly passed, and your legs trembled, but you were alive. You held the side of your head, dizzy from the loss of blood and what was probably a concussion. Soon enough this mission would be over and you could rest. You just had to-

A gunshot echoed and a bullet missed your head by less than an inch, causing you to as quickly as possible take cover behind a table that was turned over. “Fuck,” you cursed under your breath. There was a gun close to you, you just had to take a bit of a risk and get it. And also get lucky and find a bullet in the gun.

All a part of the job, you figured.

A bullet went through the criminal’s head before you could even consider making a lunge for the gun and you saw Natasha rushing in, gun drawn and ready to fire. “Nat,” despite knowing you were still in a dangerous place you visibly relaxed.

“Couldn’t leave things to chance,” Clint’s voice echoed as through the room as he walked through the same hall Natasha did.

Natasha was tense, looking for any sign of an enemy, and in your current state all you could do was admire her. “Let’s get you out of here,” you knew her, she couldn’t truly relax until you were both out of here.

“Yes, Ma’am,” you smiled, hoping it would reassure her, even if only a tiny bit. “I’m right here, Nat, you got me,” and despite Natasha being on edge her eyes softened when she looked at you.

~X~

Natasha despised sitting in the S.H.I.E.L.D.’s hospital hall, waiting for you to get patched up. She was relieved that you were fine and basically just needed some bandages, but she was restless, constantly replaying the moments from the mission in her mind, specifically the sight of a man aiming his gun toward you and moving to close the distance so he wouldn’t miss this time. She moved purely on an instinct, firing before she could even consciously make that decision and blowing a hole through the side of the man’s head. Years of trying to wipe red off her ledger and still she took a life with ease, not even considering it, not even for a moment regretting it.

Now though, now she just needed to see you, just to be completely sure you were fine. Nothing else mattered. The doors opened and she jumped to her feet, seeing you walking out on your own, a bit bandaged up but otherwise fine. The bright look in your eyes made the restlessness go away and Natasha met you halfway.

“Saved me again,” you smiled at her as she looked up into your eyes. How many times has she saved you by now? You both lost count. She didn’t lose count of how many times you saved her, eleven times thus far, though she was certain you never counted them. She did, though. And she found relief in knowing that you were willing to go out of your way to save her, even when she herself used to think she wasn’t worth saving.

Instead of saying anything Natasha just threw her arms around you, clinging desperately to you. She wanted to kiss you, right here, right now, but it was too risky. Too many eyes around you, even if the hall itself was empty. Walls had eyes and ears, and she’d rather keep people guessing if these hugs were between friends or lovers. A keen eye might spot the difference, might see the way she wouldn’t let go, the way she’d lower her guard and try to close as much of the distance between you as possible, or the way you’d bury your face in her hair, taking comfort in her presence, especially after missions that end up being too close for comfort.

“What did the doctor say?” she asked as her fingers traced the bandages around your head.

“A concussion and a few wounds, nothing a bit of rest won’t fix,” you answered, prompting her to nod. She checked your injuries as Clint flew toward the hospital, and your answer matched her assessment, but she still appreciated hearing what the professional said. You’d be perfectly fine, you just needed a bit of rest.

Considering you were about as human as her and Clint were, and not a super soldier, or a billionaire with a suit of armor, and especially not near indestructible beings, Natasha considered herself lucky that you survived this many close calls with little more than rest needed to recover.

“Thanks,” it still should have been her, she should have been in danger, but she wouldn’t tell you that.

“We’re the same, I don’t want to lose you either,” not that she needed to tell you, you knew what was on her mind, you understood how much Natasha wanted you out of danger, in part because you wanted her out of danger just as much. So, you compromised, going together on missions hoping you would keep one another as safe as possible.

~X~

What restraint Natasha had while you were out in public vanished the moment you were back in your shared room as she straddled your lap and hugged you on the sofa, and you couldn’t help but smile at how clingy she was. For a deadly assassin she sometimes acted more like a koala, clinging onto you and not letting go.

Like an assassin not letting their target out of their sight for a single moment, only cuddly and soft, and very warm.

And you loved every second of it. “Nat,” you chuckled before she decided your mouth had more important tasks to do than let out sounds and kissed you, preventing chuckling or any form of light teasing that might have come out of your mouth. You’d never complain about that. You ran your fingers through her hair, she hasn’t cut it in a while now and Natasha hummed softly into the kiss, relaxing and just driving you insane with her touch. All you could feel was Natasha, her slightly swollen lips because of course she chewed on her lower lip while you were being patched up, her hands, so used to handling guns, gently holding you, pulling you closer to her, the sound of her soft, barely audible moans between kisses, the scent of the soap she used, and something uniquely her own, the weight of her body on top of your own… And when you separated for a brief moment, and you opened your eyes all you could see was Natasha. Everything else faded into the background and you were lost in her eyes. She looked like she was searching for something, a reassurance, or just another proof that you were just fine. “I’m right here,” you kept repeating those words to her, through dangerous missions and battles, through nights filled with nightmares, most importantly through all the moments when she’d get stuck in her head, thinking she’s not worthy of the redemption she was so desperately chasing. Just a simple reminder that you were with her, no matter what.

Natasha opened her mouth, only to change her mind and just close it before saying anything. Instead she just hugged you tightly, hiding her face in the crook of your neck and letting out a sigh of relief.

“That tickles,” you chuckled, prompting Natasha to huff and then purposely blow air against your neck. “Nat,” you would never complain, you could never. You cherished every single moment like this, when she would just drop every mask and be herself with you. Oh, she could be assertive, and tease, and confidently mess with anyone, but these playful moments free from caution were rare.

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, and you would have stayed like that a lot longer if you could stand being hungry. In your defense you came back home somewhat hungry, and that was hours ago. “Food. Now,” you would starve if this hunger prolonged any longer. Yet Natasha didn’t budge. “Nat?”

“I just got comfortable,” yeah, two hours ago. You rolled your eyes, even if you were smiling and got up with Natasha still clinging to you.

“You’re so lucky you’re cute,” you kissed her cheek and went to the kitchen, not even daring to consider letting Natasha go.

This time it was Natasha’s turn to roll her eyes. “Bitch, I’m adorable,” she was right, of course.

You grabbed some toast and some cream cheese, since that was the first thing you managed to grab with Natasha between you and the fridge. “Pickles or no pickles?” you asked before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

“Make me one as well,” Natasha blindly reached back into the fridge to grab peanut butter, and you were still amazed that she could just do it. No hesitation, no second thoughts, just reached into the fridge and pulled what she wanted out.

“Sure,” you made the sandwiches and went back to the sofa, eager to finally eat something. Natasha wasn’t as excited about eating, and while you absolutely slaughtered your sandwich like a woman starving for weeks would, she occasionally took a bit and instead just kept close to you. Your eyes softened and you once again began rubbing circles into Natasha’s back.

It wasn’t the first time she got like this. When you started dating it didn’t really happen, she showed you how much she cared, sure, but it was never like this, never this desperate to feel your heart beating. And then New York happened, and you both had some very close calls, and she spent the night just like this, not moving away from you unless it was absolutely necessary.

She needed to know this was real, to feel it was real. With everything she went through, how much she suffered through, she needed time. She needed you to be with her, so the thoughts of losing you would quiet down.

And you’d give it to her every single time. This and anything else she needed.

“I’m right here,” you whispered into her ear, soft and gentle as she closed her eyes.

“You’re with me,” she replied, slowly falling asleep in your arms, at peace and comfortable.

A/N: Thank you for the request! I really had fun writing it, and I'm sorry it took so long for me to write it 😁💙

[259kmvn]

shy

– scaramouche spends some time with his shy partner | scaramouche x f!reader, soft smut, fluff

the atmosphere in the room is nothing close to obscene. it is light, gentle, playful- one will only find two lovers innocently indulging in their desires. yet, with their kisses and caresses, even an angel would avert its eyes so as to not intrude.

you look up at scaramouche, who has you lying naked on the bed amidst a silk blanket that veils fractions of your body. he sees only your eyes as your forearm drapes over your face in profound embarrassment.

"we've gone through this, y/n," he demands, a soft smile contrasting his twitching eyebrows, "don't cover your face."

you shake your head underneath your arm. this isn't your first time being naked with him. you've done this many a times with your lover, yet each time your heart still flutters at the sight of his lean body.

his lean body. your partner is toned. a hazy line runs down the middle of his tummy, decorating a torso with a waist so small an hourglass would be jealous. his skin was neither too hairy nor bare, and you know that from the past times he's gone waist to waist with you. 'it's almost like cotton', you've thought once before, while his body rubbed against yours in a loving heat of motion.

the memory makes you blush and squirm.

scaramouche chuckles, a teasing lilt in his voice- "what are you thinking about, hmm?"

your eyes met his in a pleading gaze. "nothing," you whisper. and in another sentence, "please..." you beg.

the breath he lets out is shaky and it tickles the arm that hides your lips. he plants a kiss before shifting it from your face to your side. "please, hmm?" his tone is slow, "please what?" there's a genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he doesn't know what you want. but he does. he's done this so many times you could say he's become an expert of your desires. and yet he asks.

you're stubborn, however. with one hand pinned down by your lover, you use the other to gently pinch the skin of his shoulder. "you already know." your pout makes him think that you'll sulk if he pushes on further. part of him wants to see that happen. part of him, specifically the lower part, just wants to feel you already.

"you're lucky i do." and his lips meet yours. once, twice, thrice- slowly increasing in intensity. he weaves his voice into his kisses, humming against your lips. smoothly, he travels down. he kisses your jaw, then your neck, and he spends a lot of time working your neck. it takes a few wet seconds for you to notice his tongue sneaking past his lips to taste your skin.

scaramouche continues down your body and his hands roam about you- steadily losing patience as he approaches your thighs. the breath he lets out is warm, open-mouthed, and shaky. you're wet.

he greets your slit with a peck before sliding his finger up it. and, to tease you, he looks directly into your eyes as he licks it. and when you hastily turn away, he chuckles. "you're too pretty for me, y/n."

the way your body reacts to his words, his fingers and his tongue betrays the shy red of your cheeks- jerking, squirming, shivering. and just as he laps up the juices in between your thighs, he laps up the sight he's beholding of you.

"fuck," his voice is a mumble against your clit, "you're so fucking pretty." and against your will, you moan. he continues. sucking, kitten-licking, breathing in your heat.

your hand finds purchase on his hair- and you find in you the strength to resist pulling it. you just need to touch him. that's all. "scara-", you whimper, and he growls in response. his hand that held your thigh rests on top of your newly placed hand. you feel his tongue swipe up your slit as he guides you deeper into his hair- fingers intertwining with his soft strands.

when he feels you're comfortable where your hand is, he orders- "pull." you pause. hesitating on behalf of your shameful will. he plunges himself deeper into your heat, as if to override your will with desire- mouth open as his tongue thrusts into you. again he orders, "pull."

so you pull. the moan that he lets out is almost impure, shrouded by the sound of your flesh. "again," he orders, though his voice resembles more of a grunt. you pull again. his hips immediately buck into the bed in a falter. a few more licks, and he sits up, breathing heavily- just as heavily as you are. "i can't hold back anymore." he strokes himself and brings his waist closer to yours.

"y/n." you look up. his hand is gentle, shivering, when it cups your cheek. it smears wetness on your skin. "tell me what you want." you shake your head.

for a moment his heart stops. "you don't want..?" his hand withdraws from your face. sensing his fear, you say, "no, scara, i do," and your voice is gentle, "i just.. don't wanna say it." you bite your lip. his relieved sigh is followed by the return of his hand on your face, fingers warm and wet. "why not?" he decides to tease.

you pause, then decide to tease back. a sheepish, playful smile tugs at your lips, "because i'm too shy."

he pulls back entirely at this, head falling back so he can look up and ask god what he did to deserve this. "hah... fuck." he can't deny the wide smile on his face, "fuck," and he comes down to suckle on your neck. body against body, but not yet connected. "fuck," he mumbles into your skin, "i'm the happiest," a kiss, "fucking," a lick, "man in the world."

with his lips still attached to your neck, he guides himself against your slit. you share a shiver as his member slickly slides up and down the opening. "y/n," he gazes at you past your jaw. brings himself closer to your ear. a whisper- "i need you to tell me to put it in."

he sees your eyes widen, eyebrows turning up and still, he's rubbing himself against you. the both of you know- you need more.

"pl-please," you whisper, turning away from him. your soft voice goes softer, "put it in."

you feel the tip push in.

"look at me and say it."

you take the deepest breath you could take in such a situation and turn towards him. you expected him to be tense- just as needy as you are, perhaps, impatiently waiting for you to say the words.

but when your eyes meet, he's smirking. head tilted to the side as if to tell you that he can wait for hours (though the truth couldn't be farther from that). you can't hold back anymore. fuck it.

"scara, please... put it in, please," your lips quiver after delivering the pathetic plea.

"as you wish." and you're stretched with the full length of scaramouche's member. you moan in relief, and so does he, but the both of you are still tense. knots in your cores tight and waiting to unravel. "ready?" he asks, and you nod meekly. hoping he doesn't torture you any more.

a hand caresses your hair, "good girl." he starts moving. the motions are familiar. he's fluid, as he always is, gentle throughout yet firm when he reaches a deep spot inside you. but something feels different. not physically- his soft skin and silk sheets are all too familiar. but mentally. emotionally.

as he thrusts inside you, breaths hard and focused, you realise that it's the impact of actually mustering up the words to request your lover to fuck you. you've earned this. you've earned the grip of his hands on your hips as he moves vigorously inside you. you've earned the string of "fuck"s that mimic the rate of which he enters you. you've earned the build-up of tension, as both of you squirm and buck against each other, chasing your climaxes.

"y/n, fuck!" he calls out, leaning down to kiss you, "i'm close."

you nod and wrap your arms around his shoulders. "me too." breaths getting heavier.

his thrusts, from methodical, become haphazard. he's no longer fluid but rather fervently chasing his high- both of your highs.

"scara- scara, scara, 'm cummin- hah-" your eyes squeeze shut. if you can't see him, he can't see you, right?

it's not the first time he's witnessed you climax, but he can't get enough of how sweet and honey-like you sound; unrestricted by your self-proclaimed shyness that he also can't get enough of. how you avoid his gaze but become all the more vulnerable by closing your eyes. he can't help but moan.

with one last thrust he cums, sensitive to the way you tighten around him and cum as well. his weight falls entirely on you as he collapses, chest and ribs rising and falling together in your needs to catch your breaths.

he plants a kiss on your collarbone and sighs.

the waning of your lust gives way for your mind to regain control, and you comprehend the nakedness and the proximity of your partner to you. immediately you gasp and look away, covering your face as if that changes the fact that his exposed skin is kissing your exposed skin.

he chuckles, and you feel it resonate in your chest. your turned head exposes a part of your neck he hasn't kissed, and he kisses it- imprinting his smile onto your skin.

"how are you still this shy," his warm breath smears against you, "after everything we've done together?"

when you don't reply, he lifts himself up to see your runaway gaze.

"or did you forget how you begged me to put-" you yelp, smothering his sentence with a pillow, "my pshhhmmshfhfmh-!"

in a fit of laughter, he wrestles with you and your feather-filled weapon, tossing it out of reach. he pulls your waist from below and traps you in his arms. deep breaths. you're grinning, and so is he. you both release a long sigh.

"let's stay like this a while, hmm?"

[dpr-moni]

Pairing: Lee Know x reader (afab, she/her)

Genre: 5x1, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, smut

Summary: You followed Minho home because you had nowhere else to go. Then you kept following... all the way into his heart, but not his bed.

aka five times you and Minho don't fuck and one time you do.

Word count: 13.5k

Content: the gang do some light crime and then some less light crime (nothing specific), references to sex trafficking, reader is 16 in the first section (nothing romantic/sexual happens but there are refs/allusions to it), interrupted foreplay, attempted car sex, fingering, unprotected piv sex, [not actually] unrequited feelings

A/N: reposting this because it's one of the last things i wrote that i actually felt good about i think?? this hasn't been edited since it was originally posted; it seems like AO3 (where I copied this from) may have put in some random extra spaces so... cool..... originally beta'd by @violetsiren90

FIRST  

“Why don’t you fuck off?”  

The voice came from behind you. It was low and cold and threatening. It was directed at Shindong , the man in front of you, whom you were sure was this close to offering to take you home. You whipped around to see who had uttered it.  

Your immediate thought was that he was too short and too slight to be walking up with that level of aggression. Your second thought was interrupted by the spark that shot up your arm when he grabbed your hand. You’d have pulled it back, but his grip was solid and your arm didn’t budge.   

“What the fuck do you want, Minho?” your companion replied, all the charm sliding off his face, replaced with a loathing, arrogant sneer.   

“I want you to fuck off.”  

“She yours? Might want to keep a closer eye on her; she was just about to come home with me.”  

The stranger’s hand squeezed yours, so hard it started to hurt. He offered nothing in response.   

Both men continued to stare at each other. Shindong had inches on Minho – both height and breadth – and you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw him hesitating. He flicked his eyes between you and Minho.   

“What if I want to fight you for her?”  

“What if I told you she’s not legal?”  

Shindong hesitated, moved just a fraction backwards, no longer leaning in, looming over the two of you. He rolled his eyes and gave a heartless chuckle.  

“Not worth the fucking bother,” he muttered as he walked away.   

Minho, still a stranger to you, still holding your hand, who hadn’t even looked your way, pulled you sharply by said hand, storming off and taking you with him. You followed him into one of the warehouse’s many dark corners. He kicked out the couple who were two clothing items shy of a citation for public indecency, and only then did he let you go. Only then did he turn his dark, flaming eyes on you.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.   

Shindong had been your lifeline. What did this guy think he was playing at?  

Your vehemence took him off-guard, surprise flashing across his face, until his scowl returned, worse than before. You understood now why he made Shindong hesitate. His gaze was fierce, penetrating, his jaw set, his mouth a taut, grim line. You would never show your hand to anyone, but a cold droplet of fear slithered down your spine. You straightened it, rolled your shoulders back, lifted your head. You wouldn’t let him intimidate you.  

“Do you know him?” he asked, voice still low, still threatening.  

Not personally. Not until that evening. But people like him came with a reputation that preceded them. A reputation that you were relying upon being based in fact. A reputation that had spread all around your school and beyond, but that you had heard from a source close to the truth. It was close enough that you were able to find him here, in a part of town you’d never been to. It was close enough that you were able to pick Shindong out from this crowd. Close enough that when you approached him and he laughed at you – young, naïve, foolish, all of those things you were sure he thought – you were able to drop his cousin’s name and he suddenly took you seriously. That was what you had been hoping for. A connection was all you needed to keep you covered for a night, at least. Just one would be something.  

And then this guy showed up.  

“I was about to.”  

Minho’s top lip curled, just a fraction, his nose barely wrinkling with the movement, but you got his meaning. Disgust. He could be as disgusted as he liked; that wasn’t your problem. Your problem was that his disgust had led him to chase away your only lead.   

Or was he? Was Shindong your only option?  

You changed tack. Realised that maybe you had another now. Minho, whoever the fuck he was, had approached you as if he knew you and scared off the competition. That must have been it. Despite the way he glowered at you, absolutely no interest or desire lurking behind his dark eyes, you figured you had nothing left to lose.   

You relaxed a little, pouted your lips, played up to the damsel in distress he might have thought you were.  

“But if he’s so awful, I guess I can only thank you,” you said, making your voice soft, your eyes a little wider. You lifted your lips in a tiny, shy smile and then put a hand to them, your thumb and index finger tugging a little on your bottom lip, hoping it made you look small, nervous, sweet.   

He gave you no reaction. He continued to glare, his stance unchanged, unmoving. So you moved. You stepped towards him: shy, little bird steps, until you were so close that he moved backwards.  

“Thanks for looking out for me. Your name’s Minho, right?”  

His eyes tightened minutely. He didn’t reply.   

“I’d like to thank you properly,” you said, sliding your body into his, pressing just one finger against his chest. You fluttered your lashes up at him.  

His face changed immediately. Eyes wide, mouth dropping, and he was stumbling backwards, pressing himself against the wall.  

“What the fuck are you doing? What are you, fifteen?”  

Embarrassment licked your cheeks like flames and your scowl returned.  

“I’m sixteen !”  

“Wow, big age. My mistake. By all means, let’s fuck, Sixteen .”  

His sarcasm was biting but you hadn’t given yourself up yet.  

“Don’t you want to?” you asked, innocently. “You must have sent Shindong away for a reason. If not this, then what?”  

He let out a sigh so aggrieved it was almost a shout. He rolled his eyes.   

“Jesus Christ, where are your parents?” he asked, but it was muttered, almost under his breath and you didn’t know if you were supposed to answer. You did anyway.  

“Dead.”  

His lack of reaction grated. He didn’t flinch. There was no surprise, no guilt on his face. He had robbed you of Shindong and now he had robbed you of your fun: getting a reaction out of people as a poor, orphaned, little Annie was as close as you got these days. Then again, he wasn’t a well-meaning aunt or nosy teacher. He knew what this place was; he knew, or at least knew of, Shindong. Maybe your hand-grenade was, here, little more than a snap.  

“And this is your great life plan? Offering sexual favours to predators?”   

He gestured widely to the room behind you, and you could only assume he did not mean to include himself in that group.   

Actually, it was your plan. Kind of… Insofar as you had any sort of plan at all. You would not be telling him that. You kept your mouth shut tight and jaw clenched, refusing to look down, to be the one to break the eye contact.   

“You know he’s a fucking bad guy,” he said, more softly than he had said anything so far but the hard edge remained.   

“And what are you, my hero ?”  

“Absolutely fucking not. I do not want to have anything to do with whatever mess you are making of your life, but I’m not about to let that cunt take off with a child .”  

“I am not a child!” you shouted, right in his face.   

He took it, impassive, unimpressed even.   

“That’s exactly what a child would say.”  

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to smash him in his beautifully sharp jaw, or break that perfect, delicate nose of his. You were just about not stupid enough to try. How did he even know you were young? You knew you didn’t look it; you were always getting told you looked older than you were. How did he know? Why did he care?  

“Go on then,” you said, darkly. “Leave. If I’m not your fucking problem, why don’t you fuck off?”  

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move.   

“Worried I’ll get murdered?”   

You lifted your hands to your open mouth, eyes widened, a mockery of fear.   

His face and tone were flat when he responded.   

“There are things worse than death.”  

Then he pushed past you and out of the door.   

You took one shaky breath and walked after him before you could talk yourself out of it. You decided that, one way or another, this guy owed you and it was time to collect.  

You followed him, not too closely, but not exactly hiding it, for over a mile. You wondered, at one point, if he was trying to lose you, if he was actually heading to his destination or just trying to outlast you. You’d show him. You were a long-distance runner at school; you were extremely confident you could keep up.  

So confident, in fact, so determined were you not to lose him, that you were too slow to notice him slowing, to notice him stopping, to very nearly not stop yourself walking into him.   

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, not turning to look at you.  

“I’m walking here.”  

“Stop following me.”  

“I’m not following you.”  

He raised his eyes skyward. He stood for a moment and you stood, too, waiting for him to continue – walking or talking, you didn’t know which. He finally turned around and looked at you, everything about him a little softer than before. Not soft , but soft er .   

“You can’t follow me,” he told you slowly, emphatically. “I am not looking after you. I am not your fath-“  

“I don’t have a fucking father.”  

He scoffed.  

“Yeah, that much is very clear, Sixteen .”  

“I’m not sixteen!”  

He frowned.  

“That’s what you told me.”  

“That’s not my fucking name ! Stop saying it like I’m a child. How old are you anyway?”  

“Old enough to know better.”   

“What does that mean?”  

“Go home, Sixteen.”  

“I don’t have a home.”  

“Well you can’t have mine.”  

He turned on his heel and continued walking, a little faster this time, increasing his pace to a jog as he crossed the road. You knew he hoped you wouldn’t be able to follow, that the flashing green man would disappear before you could make it, but you’d been underestimated before.   

After another mile or so, you saw him take his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. You couldn’t quite hear what he was saying but you thought it sounded like Japanese. Was he Japanese ?   

It hadn’t missed you, the knowledge that you had no knowledge of this man. You understood that you were, as far as you knew, in as much danger following him home as you had been going with Shindong. But you literally had no other options. It was follow this guy somewhere or wander around on the street all night; it was too cold to stay out. You hadn’t thought beyond that when you’d left your house earlier that day. Hadn’t thought much at all, except about getting out.   

Now you were out. Mission accomplished. And you had no idea what to do next.   

You almost missed him ducking into a narrow side street, but you caught the door he rushed through just before it shut. He disappeared from view through another door, off to the left of the dingy, dimly lit corridor you found yourself in. You stalked up to it – it wasn’t even fully closed – but something made you hesitate.   

Suddenly the fear that you had been suppressing all night raised its head. Was this a lion’s den? A serpents’ nest? Was Minho playing some kind of long game, saving you from Shindong so you would trust him, so you would follow him here, so he could…?  

“Are you going to fucking stand out there all night?” you heard a voice call from inside. It had to be Minho’s but you wouldn’t have bet on it.   

You fixed your face, your scowl reappearing, and kicked the door open with excessive force.  

It was just a bar. Just him, sitting on a stool with a beer in his hand, and one other guy, standing opposite, looking at you with his eyebrows raised in the way a parent does when they catch their child doing something naughty.  

“You break that door, I’m going to make you pay for it,” he said, in an accent that you knew wasn’t local.   

And, just like a defiant child, you slammed it shut without breaking eye contact. He turned to Minho.  

“Thanks, man. You had to bring home a fucking streetrat.”  

“I am not a streetrat,” you spat.  

“No?” Minho chimed in. “Then where’s your home?”  

“Fuck off.”  

“I really wish you would.”  

You sat down in a booth just off to your left and stared him down.   

“She can’t stay here,” the stranger said to Minho, as if you were no longer there.   

“I didn’t bring her; she just came .”  

He, the newest stranger, looked between you and Minho for several seconds. He was looking at Minho when he spoke again.  

“One night. That’s it. And she’s your responsibility.”   

He heaved a box full of empty glass bottles into his arms and wandered away, through a different door, mumbling something about ‘strays’.   

“Who was that?” you demanded as Minho continued to sip at his beer.   

You realised that you hadn’t actually been introduced to him either. And he hadn’t asked for your name. You wondered if he would now.  

“None of your fucking business,” he answered, finally moving from the stool to walk behind the bar.   

He opened the cash register and took bags from a cubby just below it. He produced a tiny pencil from his pocket and tore off a strip of the receipt roll. He took out the cash and started to count. You watched his lips move silently as he flicked quickly through the notes, pausing to drop a stack onto the bar and write a number down. He picked up the next stack and repeated.   

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, not looking up, not even, apparently, pausing in his counting. “Even if you got your urchin mitts on it, you wouldn’t make it to the door.”  

You believed him, but you weren’t planning some kind of move. You didn’t need his money. You were just watching.   

You watched until all the notes and all the coins were accounted for, until they had been put into bags and those bags into a box and Minho turned to follow his friend. You stood from your seat and went after him.    

There were two doors, you realised. Minho took the left. It led to an office. The other guy must’ve taken the right because the room was empty except for furniture and, in the corner, a safe. Minho dumped the box before it and turned to you.  

“Turn around.”  

“Worried I’ll crack the code?” you asked with your eyes rolling back in your head.  

“Just turn around.”  

You did as you were told without a fight because, at that point, there was nowhere else to go. You couldn’t admit defeat and walk out of there; you weren’t sure that Minho wouldn’t make you do just that. It was a knife-edge, being the obnoxious, vile brat that you were. You’d stormed past boundaries before but, well, look where it got you. You were tired and worried enough now to decide you would stop pushing your luck. It had been stretched far enough already.  

There was a second of silence before you heard the beeping of the buttons pressed and the shuffling of bags, the clink of coins, the thunk of a bigger, metallic something against the walls of the safe. He didn’t tell you when he was finished, didn’t say you could turn back around. He just walked past you, out of the office, turning the light off as he went. As soon as you were out of the door, he shut and locked it.   

You followed him back to the bar and he did the same thing: turned off the lights and held a door for you (not politely, not because he was being nice ), following you through it and locking this one behind him, too. You walked to the end of the corridor and he gestured you down some wooden stairs that creaked as if they would break under your weight. He turned the corridor light off, too, and locked the door at the top of the steps.   

This was it. You were locked in. There were at least two locks between you and escape. When Minho shoved past you to the left and opened yet another door, your stomach sank a little further. Three locked doors. He didn’t hold this one for you but he didn’t slam it in your face either, so you rolled your shoulders back, put on your game face and walked through.   

You almost regretted it when you saw where it led. It was possibly the worst place you had ever seen. It wasn’t messy, but there was something dirty about the room anyway. Outdoor furniture inside; everything vaguely brown in a way that you didn’t think it had been fresh out of the box; everything tired and worn and sagging; the naked lightbulb dim and humming as it shone; the fridge, scratched and dented and shoved into a corner, also hummed, managing to sound as well as look tired. It was bleak. It was grey. It made you feel like things were crawling on you and you’d only just stepped foot in it.   

You half expected your feet to stick to the floor when you took a few steps forward. They didn’t but the carpet was so old and worn that you had no idea what colour it was originally; in places, you could see the floorboards clearly through the threads.  

Minho pointed to the sofa.   

“There,” was all he said.   

Then he disappeared out of the room. You gingerly sat on the edge, wondering if you should be more concerned about your health or your safety. Maybe you were sheltered here, but you pictured a thousand and one diseases squirming on the cushions. It wasn’t fair to, because you could see that it was cleaned . The room wasn’t filthy; there were no crumbs or water rings on the coffee table; there was no rubbish littering the floor; the sink was empty and a stack of plates and bowls stood beside it, washed if not yet dried. Minho was clearly diligent.   

Minho and whoever else lived here. There were too many doors leading off this room for him to be here alone.   

Your curiosity was stopped in its tracks when he reappeared with a pillow and a towel. He threw the pillow wordlessly at one end of the sofa and then he raised the towel a little.  

“I don’t have any blankets. Don’t get cold.”  

You scoffed a laugh and were grateful that he ignored it. You weren’t indignant; you weren’t being a brat this time. You were dismayed. You couldn’t believe it. A house with no spare blankets. You were going to sleep under a towel . You glanced around you for a final time, tears pricking in your eyes, fingers at your lips, picking nervously. You weren’t going to die here, you told yourself. Probably. You were probably not going to die here and that was all you needed.   

You stood up, turned off the light, tested the door handle (not sure if you wanted it to be locked or unlocked), then returned to the sofa. You took off your shoes, took your bag from your back and hugged it tightly to your chest. You lay in the dark, in a stranger’s horrible house, alone, tired, more vulnerable than you would ever admit. You cried silently, reluctantly grateful for the towel, until you fell asleep.    

SECOND  

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to everyone! Happy birthday to you!”  

You only got one birthday a year. The whole group of you. There wasn’t enough to stretch to everyone getting an individual birthday, an individual cake, a day off. So the middle day of the year, 2 nd July, was chosen and you all had a birthday together.   

One cake, one candle each, six people blowing them out. Most unsanitary, but, by now, there wasn’t much you hadn’t shared so a little spit didn’t even register.   

You were too drunk by far, which was stupid really. It wasn’t even your first time drinking legally (because your real birthday wasn’t until later in the year), so there was no reason for you to behave as if you had never had a drink before. You should have learnt a little self-control.   

But it was your birthdays. So you kept having one more and one more and one more. As did everyone else.   

“Nineteen!” Minho called as he fell into the booth next to you.   

“I thought I was Sixteen?”  

He shrugged.  

“You do still act like it.”  

You shoved him, almost hard enough to push him off his seat completely. He shoved you back.  

“Shut up, Minnie.”  

He narrowed his eyes at you, plotting death for using the nickname he loathed above all others, and you sent a simpering smile back at him.   

“You’re a little squirt, anyone ever tell you that?”  

You rolled your eyes.  

“You, literally all the time, because you are for some reason desperate to sound like the oldest grandpa in the room.”  

He let out a growling sort of cry, dramatic because he’d also had too much to drink. Then he stood.  

“BYE, Sixteen !”  

If someone didn’t know the two of you, it would seem as if nothing had changed in the time since you met: both antagonistic, unlikable, as hard as you could make yourselves, forced together and barely tolerating it.   

Those who did know you, however, knew that things were very different now. Minho had, reluctantly, taken responsibility for you and, when you had grown up just enough to realise what that had meant, you felt all your hard resolve melt.   

They had very little, this ragtag bunch of kids (barely older than you) but they shared everything between them. Never quite enough to go around, money from legitimate enterprises never stretching far enough and having to be supported by money from less than legitimate means. You were a liability. In every sense. The only girl, a stranger, certainly not (at that time) a criminal. But Minho took responsibility and the others let you in.   

When you had learnt to see past your own nose, you saw the myriad ways in which they took care of each other. The silent, invisible way Minho cared for his friends. For you. You hadn’t forgotten the sting of electricity you’d felt when he held your hand way back when. Before you’d even seen him, before you knew his name, before any of this. You felt it all the time now. You were a live wire for him.   

No one in the group was stupid enough to refer to you as siblings or even joke that you acted like them. Your feelings for Minho were your most closely guarded secret but that didn’t mean everyone didn’t know. You were pretty sure even Minho himself knew. Not that he would ever act on it. He pretended not to notice, you thought. You had pushed close to the edge of being kicked out enough times to know that some things were still precarious. To know that he would never risk his weird family by acknowledging there was anything more than friendship between you. If it even was between you. He had given you very little reason to believe your feelings were reciprocated. So you did your best to ignore them.   

They became a fact of life. Like the fact that Minho was the only one Chan trusted to count the cash (not because the others weren’t trustworthy; they just weren’t accurate). Like the fact that Chan had the final say on everything. Like the fact that he would never abuse that authority and act for anything other than the wellbeing of the entire group. It just was.   

And it wasn’t like you were stupid enough to pine. You had some pride. Plenty, in fact.   

You stood from the booth and sauntered to the bar where your sometime-boyfriend, Johnny, was getting another drink.   

“Babe,” you whined, draping yourself over his back, hooking your chin over his shoulder.   

“Babe,” he whined back, copying, mocking.   

“Entertain me, I’m bored.”  

“It’s your party.”   

You pouted and forced him to join you on the makeshift dancefloor. You refused to notice that Minho left it as soon as you joined, his face dropping, looking only at Johnny and never once pleased about it.   

*  

Chan had cut off the booze supply hours ago and the sun was thinking about raising its head above the horizon, which meant that, far from being wasted and happy and giddy and passing out in your bed, your hangover was already crawling in and you were tired and irritable. Johnny had pissed you off sometime before the booze dried up and then pissed off entirely before you’d begun to sober up, so you’d spent the smallest hours of the morning making your bad mood everyone else’s problem.   

Everyone except Minho. Because whilst you were always determined, at these moments, to needle him, to want to get under his skin, to want to scrape it back and spit on it, he was never there. He managed to avoid your venom and, even when he didn’t, seemed immune. He would just slow-blink at you as if he were looking through you and turn away. It boiled your blood and he knew it.   

You stomped downstairs to the same shithole basement you’d walked into two years ago. Everyone else had either left or gone to bed already, you thought. You expected it to be empty. It wasn’t.  

“Fuck sake, Mouse,” you spat, using your usual nickname, his preferred one (… preferred being too strong a term; it was the one he allowed you to use without retaliation). “Why are you sitting on your own like a fucking loser?”  

“You know he treats you like a fucking loser?”  

He turned to lean over the back of the sofa, looking tired under his eyes but energetic within them.   

“Fuck off,” you returned. “As if you give a shit who I date.”  

“Date? That’s what you call it?” He scoffed, deliberately, exaggeratedly, as if you wouldn’t otherwise have recognised his scorn. “He treats you like dirt.”  

“You would know.”   

He was on his feet and in front of you before you could blink.   

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”   

You’d had about enough of it, you decided at that moment. Not enough sleep, too much alcohol, and just enough of this bullshit. You grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him with force towards you. You took him by the back of the neck and kissed him, hard and like you meant it. Because you did. It only took him a second to push you back, hands firm on your shoulders, holding you away from him. His face had lost his usual mask – the blank, passive, flat-eyed one that he used to stare people out with unnatural stillness – but he was still keeping you out; it was guarded, flashes in his eyes being stamped out with every blink, his jaw held tight and his mouth shut.   

“ That’s what I fucking mean, Minho ,” you hissed.   

“How dare you?” he hissed back, voice so low in his throat you almost couldn’t hear it. “You have no fucking idea.”   

His blinks weren’t quick enough this time to hide all the anger burning in his eyes.   

“No idea of what? What ?!”  

His lip curled and he let you go. He let his guard down around you more than he should have: shrugged you off and turned his back on you. You took both palms and pushed him. He tumbled forward, catching his foot on a side table, pulling it down with him as he hit the floor. Cat-like in his reflexes, he was on his feet before the table had stopped rocking. He charged straight at you and continued until you were pressed up against the door, until he was pressed up against you.   

“You want a kiss?” he asked and every part of you should have been screaming yes, because you did.   

You did want a kiss, but nothing about this was how you wanted it. It was a threat, not an offer. You’d been threatened with worse. You jutted your chin out a little, always standing up, never backing down.  

“You going to give me one?”  

His eyes flicked towards your lips, hovered there a second, like he was really thinking about it. They stayed there a little longer and doubt was picking up speed on its race to your consciousness. You thought he wouldn’t. You thought he would. You still couldn’t predict his behaviour. You thought you had him pinned and then he flipped you. You always thought you had him on the ropes, but you never really did.   

You were impatient, tiring of this, doubt and insecurity and embarrassment swelling up inside you and you opened your mouth to tell him to go away, to fuck off and die, to do something vile to himself. It was at that moment that his eyes met yours again, for a split second that sent a streak of ice through your blood, and then his mouth was on yours.   

You had never once looked a gift horse in the mouth, but even if you had wanted to, even if you had decided before he did it that you would push him off, return his rejection, you couldn’t possibly have done it now. His lips were soft, his hands still tight around your arms. He crowded you further against the door, your bodies pressing together as he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, asking for entry. You gave it to him. Your hands snaked up his chest and into his hair; it was softer than you’d expected, silky. For a moment, you were disarmed by it. Soft. He never let his softness show if he could help it. Only rarely. Only when he felt safe enough to let his guard down did it ever come creeping out from its hiding place. But here it was, sprouting from the top of his head. Here it was, pressed against your lips, brushing your tongue. You felt weak at the knees.  

As far as kisses go, it was the best you’d had. Fire and ice fighting: goosebumps erupting on your skin as it flushed hot, making you shiver. His mouth was warm and wet and sweet and you were desperate for more, knowing that he was kissing you just right and that you weren’t doing the same. You were too eager, too greedy, too needy. This wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. Just his lips on yours, his tongue rolling with yours, his hands still pinning your sides. You couldn’t stop here. You had to have him. All.   

You whined when he pulled back, when his grip on you loosened, and you opened your eyes expecting his to be soft and liquid, to be those sweet, round boba eyes he didn’t show enough of.   

They were hard and flat. He moved away from you in one, long step and back was that impassive blankness he loved so much.  

“Happy fucking birthday,” he said.  

He stalked off to his bedroom and shut the door.   

You stayed, glued to the front door, shaking. With anger, probably. With embarrassment, maybe. With something akin to heartbreak, but you would never admit it. The roaring in your ears, the screaming of invective at both yourself and Minho in your head so loud that you didn’t hear the sound of a key in the lock, weren’t aware that someone was trying to get in until they were shoving at the door, pushing you with it.  

“What the fuck?” came a quiet whine from the other side of it as he slowly pushed you away and got the door open. “Why were you trying to keep me out?”  

Jisung’s hamster cheeks were full of kimbap, the other half of the roll still in his hand, and his eyes were wide with that cute, pitiful look he carried off so perfectly.  

You ignored him. You stomped into your bedroom and slammed the door as hard as you could.  

THIRD  

Despite having your own bedroom (graciously offered up by Changbin and very ungraciously accepted by you), privacy in the small basement flat was an issue. Which is why you were huddled in the farthest corner of it, fists stuffed in your mouth, crying as quietly as you could in the dead of night.   

You lived with five men, but you had not yet found someone to date who would take the threat of them seriously. They did make threats, on occasion, when they had to. Because you had not yet found a man who could treat you as anything more than shit but you had, apparently, found the least bothered and most unfazed men in the city. The one before last had barely flinched when all five of them had battered down his door to come for you, when you had finally managed to get a message out that he was keeping you there.   

You never found out what happened to him. You didn’t ask and no one told you.   

This one hadn’t been that bad. That was the problem. You had thought he was nice. You had thought (as you had so many times before) that he might actually be the first to treat you right.   

You were wrong. So, you were crying in the corner of your room. You didn’t always cry. In fact, you didn’t often cry. Rarely, even. It meant that, when you did, the floodgates opened and you found it hard to stop. You found it almost impossible to breathe, desperately snatching air between sobs. Your head was already pounding, your face aching. It was total and complete the way it overtook you. So much so that you didn’t notice the presence of another person until they sat down beside you.  

You gasped, as much as you could amongst your shaking, shallow breaths, and were only slightly comforted that it was him . He said nothing. He pulled you towards him and held you like that until the storm had passed.  

You continued to sit in silence as your tears dried on your face, as your heartrate settled and your breathing became even. He didn’t make a move to let you go and you didn’t make one either. You were tired. You were sad. You were, though you wouldn’t admit it, a little bit heartbroken. This bit of comfort was exactly what you wanted.   

You didn’t want him to say anything. You didn’t want to hear it. That you’d done it again. That you’d never learn. That, somehow, you were gullible and easy to fool despite the fact that you had been hardening yourself against vulnerability of every kind since you were a child. That men just found a way to get beyond your defences—that bad men found a way. The good ones didn’t find you at all.   

“His loss,” was what he said.  

You lifted your head, tears still clinging to your lashes, drying on your cheeks. He had that look on his face that he saved for you: the soft, sweet one he gave you when you’d earnt it or when you needed it. The one that made your insides curdle, that even now made your heart skip a beat, that you wanted to fall into forever, that had sealed your fate so many years ago now. He blinked slowly at you, cat-like as always, and brushed your hair from your face.   

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Your voice was trapped in your throat because he was still looking at you like that but his eyes kept flicking down, then back up, then down again at longer and longer intervals until he closed them completely and brought his lips to yours.   

You didn’t have to think twice. Didn’t have to think at all. Your body did the thinking for you. Your hands pushed into his hair and your legs pushed you up so you could slot them down either side of his hips. His hands found your waist and then the soft skin on the other side of your t-shirt.  

This was nothing like the first time. You remembered it all too well: the electricity, the anger, the volcano of feelings you’d tried to suppress rumbling and threatening to erupt, to blow the lid off the equilibrium you’d found. The hunger, the desperation, your own neediness spoiling it all.   

You weren’t desperate anymore, for his approval, for his love, for whatever he would give you. You wanted it all, would lay yourself on the floor and kiss his feet if he asked, with no hesitation, but you always knew he wouldn’t ask. You’d got used to that.   

Except now he was kissing you – he had kissed you – and his hands were squeezing at your waist and it was slow. Controlled. Deliberate. There was nothing accidental about the way his tongue rolled over yours, the way his teeth bit at your bottom lip, the way his hands pulled you lower on his lap, pulled you closer to him until there wasn’t so much as a breath of air between you.   

“Mouse,” you murmured, quietly into his mouth.  

He shook his head minutely, a tiny hum swallowed by you when he pressed your lips together again. No talking. Fine. You didn’t need to talk. If he kept kissing you, kept touching you, you wouldn’t need to utter another word again. But you couldn’t stop the little gasp when he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, the moan rising in your throat when he ran his tongue over the same spot, hurting then soothing. Like always.  

It made your brain turn fuzzy, static wavering in your mind, as all your conscious thoughts turned to liquid, melting into Minho’s mouth, swallowed down by him, eaten whole.   

Then the front door slammed hard.  

“Guys!” Chan shouted, in a way that he never did.   

You heard him pounding on doors, opening them, starting with Changbin and Hyunjin’s on the right.   

You sprang apart like two north magnets, instinctively repelled by one another, just in time for Chan to burst through the door and scan the room for you, too wired, too stressed to register that it might have been weird for you to be sitting on the floor like you were, certainly not noticing your kiss-bitten lips or heavy breathing or the way Minho’s hair was ruffled like it had just had a fist in it.   

“We’ve got to go,” Chan announced. “Like, right fucking now.”  

FOURTH  

No one wanted to up the ante. No one wanted to start getting involved with the organised crime lot. Your crime was… disorganised. It was local. It was just you doing the things you needed to, skirting around the law to survive. It wasn’t really crime, not if you squinted hard enough. Then the police raided the bar (which was illegal in pretty much every way that mattered) and you had nowhere left to go.   

There was just enough of the trust your parents left you (which you got access to at 21) to secure a new apartment (one that was not underground) and a small buy-in with a group of much larger, older, more experienced criminals. There was very little else you could’ve done at that point. Or so you all told yourselves.   

The apartment was an upgrade in every way but size. It was newer and above-ground which meant it stayed warm and didn’t get damp. It had windows which let the sun in. It had enough room for two sofas so everyone could sit comfortably. It had a gas hob which really only Chan and Minho cared about, but they cared a lot. It had two bathrooms with reliably hot water and good pressure. It did not get power cuts. It did not always smell musty. It was not brown and beige and grey. But it did have fewer rooms to be parcelled out between you all.   

The last one had four rooms that served as bedrooms. This had three. Between six. There had been furious arguments and endless straw-pulling and no one was happy with the results. It took a few weeks but eventually things shook out as they always should have.   

You shared with Minho because he was the only one who was willing. You both had reputations for being scary (in totally opposite ways: you the raging bull to his still, fathomless water); you loved to take your bad moods out on one another; he was the only one you ever willingly let see you when you were sad and small and vulnerable. Besides which, no one else would dare try to take the space at your side from him. So you shared a bedroom: two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, because Minho refused to sleep in a bunk bed and you refused to sleep together in a double. There was little room for anything else.   

You complained about the sleeping arrangements almost daily. You loved the hot water and the sunlight and the not-mouldiness of the apartment, but some days, you couldn’t bear the way you couldn’t get away from Minho.   

You’d thought you had it bad. This was even worse.  

Four days. Four days, so far, staying ( squatting ) in a vile, empty, dilapidated villa apartment, staring out of a window, waiting for something to happen. Just you and Minho and one room. For four days and counting.   

It was Minho’s turn to watch and he sat at the monitor, diligent, hard-working, as always, whilst you were supposed to be catching up on sleep. Instead, you were lying on what passed for a bed, tossing an apple into the air and catching it, over and over and-  

“You going to stop that?” Minho asked, with his trademark tone: both light and threatening.   

“Nope!”  

“Want me to make you?”  

You flicked your eyes over to him: he was studying the monitor seriously, but you were sure he had been looking at you.   

You hadn’t spoken about that night. Partly because you hadn’t had the time. You’d jumped up from the floor of your bedroom, grabbed as much stuff as you could fit in the first bag you could find and the six of you had legged it, making it out just in time to watch the police cars roll up and trash the place.   

“There was so much fucking money in that safe,” Chan had said, plaintively, staring at the sky. That was when you’d offered up yours. 

*

You had had to find somewhere to live, and fast. You’d all had to find jobs, something to do, some way to make money that wasn’t connected to the bar. You had been passing like ships in the night, meeting only to argue about shower time and sleeping arrangements. Then Changbin had come home with a suggestion. You’d argued about that, too, but in the end, it was unanimous. Go in with the bigger boys or – well, there was no ‘or’. That was the point.  

So you and Minho were working recon. You’d pulled the short straw in more ways than one. It was the longest you had spent together. Ever. Confined for days in this space.  

On the first day, he refused to talk to you at all.   

On the second, you made everything into an argument because at least you could get a rise out of him.   

On the third, he had seemed to thaw. Something had softened and you talked, like friends, like you used to. You laughed and joked and it wasn’t so bad.  

Now it was the fourth day and that ice had returned. He had frozen over, doubled-down on silence. No sooner had you had warmed up than he was giving you frostbite, chilblains. Whiplash. Those ten words were the first he’d spoken to you all day.   

“No,” you answered. “I don’t want you to make me.”   

You paused, wondering if the words you were considering were a sign that you were going mad, that being cooped up in this space had sent you a little doolally. The unbearable nothingness of your days passing like sludge forcing all those hidden thoughts forward, with nothing to distract you from them. The words were certainly risky, but Minho had shown his hand. He had kissed you. Like he meant it. And you knew he would’ve continued to kiss you had Chan not interrupted. He’d have continued to do a whole lot more than just kiss you.  

And you were bored.   

“I want you to fuck me,” you said plainly, catching the apple in front of your face and turning to look at him.   

He was still studying the monitor. Nothing on his face gave anything away: surprise, disgust, lust, laughter. Nothing. You were used to that.  

“We’re on a job.”   

“Yeah, and it’s boring and nothing is happening and who fucking cares? I would rather have sex.”  

He sighed and rolled his head to look at you.  

“Really, Sixteen? Now is the time you want to bring this up?”  

“Stop calling me Sixteen.”  

“I always call you Sixteen.”  

“You always call me Sixteen when you want to put me in my place or make me feel like a child. I’m not a fucking child anymore.”  

“I know you aren’t.”  

“Then why won’t you fuck me?”  

He laughed and your blood began to simmer.   

“There’s more that I look for than just ‘is not a child’.”  

“Don’t try to act like you don’t want to.”  

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”  

“Well then, shall we?”  

He smirked and the glint in his eye was new to you.   

“We’re on a job.”  

“Stop saying that!” you cried, stalking the three steps from your side of the room to his.   

You manoeuvred yourself into his lap, blocking the monitor from his view, and took his face in your hands.  

“We’re on a job and nothing is happening and nothing will continue to happen for ages yet, so why don’t we make it a little less fucking boring?”  

You knew he wanted to. Could see his pupils dilate. Watched his eyes flick to your lips and your chest and back up. This might have been all he wanted: sex and nothing more. You didn’t know. Weren’t interested in having that conversation. Were convinced that it didn’t matter either way. If he only wanted sex, you would give it. Give it until it was too late and he was in too deep to come back out. Hadn’t worked before but there was a first time for everything.  

But even that was beside the point. You were desperately bored and bored of being desperate for him and there was one stone that would kill both those birds.   

“Mouse,” you said quietly, keeping your voice low, as you placed a kiss on his jaw, as you spread your knees a little wider, sinking lower into his lap. “Come on.”  

His hands were on your thighs, neither encouraging nor discouraging, just holding tight. He didn’t respond as you continued to press kisses to his face, to his neck, grinding your hips over him slowly. You could feel his pulse beat fast, noticed the way his breathing was getting heavier, his fingers dipping deeper into your skin, until it hurt. Until he stopped pretending he was going to continue to work, stopped pretending that he could resist you.   

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice hoarse.  

He gripped the hair at the back of your head and pulled you from his neck, tumbling you both to the floor. You didn’t want it to be fast, but you’d take it any way he’d give it. So when his hands pulled at your t-shirt, you let him take it off as you unclasped your bra. He didn’t give you time to fumble with the hem of his top, to discard it for him; he dipped his head straight down, swirling your nipple with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth; he rested his weight on one elbow and his other hand descended. You were grateful you had no buttons, no zips to contend with, just the loose, elasticated band of a pair of leggings that had seen better days. Minho’s fingers slipped beneath it and he circled his fingers around your clit, the fabric of your underwear dulling the sensation only slightly.   

This was moving even faster than you’d expected but you’d been waiting so long already. Blood rushed to the surface of your skin and your breath began to shudder. Underwear now pushed to the side, you gasped when Minho ran a finger through your folds, shivered when he moaned at what he found there. He brought his lips back to yours but you turned away to let his name drop from your open mouth.  

“Mouse...”  

“Shut up,” he said firmly as he sank two fingers into your slick cunt and stole your breath with another kiss.   

You couldn’t talk but you could moan. Could whine. Could whimper as his fingers moved inside you, as he ground his palm against your clit, as he made your thighs twitch and walls spasm. You tried not to lose your mind completely, to stay grounded, to stay present now that this was finally, really, actually happening. You reached your own hands down to Minho’s trousers; he hadn’t got the no-buttons, no-zips memo and your fingers fumbled with both. They shook with adrenalin as you popped the button through the hole and dragged the metal zip down. You pushed them away from you, off his hips, and had one hand in his boxers when the crackle of the walkie-talkie cut through Minho’s moan.  

You both froze.   

“Minho? What’s happening? Chan said they’re on the move?”  

You glanced at each other, for one more frozen second, and then the world lurched into overdrive. Minho clambered to the monitor with his trousers around his ankles and, as soon as he saw the screen, started swearing viciously, tugging at his clothes and throwing your t-shirt back at you.   

“What’s happening?” you asked, breathless for all the wrong reasons now.   

“They’re clearing out,” Minho reported into the walkie-talkie, ignoring you but answering your question anyway. “Two loads have left, a third on its way.”  

“Shit! How did you miss it? What the fuck were you doing?”   

“Nothing! We lost the feed for a minute but it came back quickly and then they were already moving.”  

He shot you a glance, something between panicked plea and angry admonishment. It wasn’t often he was caught on the hop, wasn’t ever. You, however, were used to being on the wrong side of things, so you re-dressed quickly and had already started packing your shit up. No matter how sideways this went, you could take two positives from it. One, you wouldn’t have to stay locked up here with Minho any longer. Two, he definitely, definitely wanted to fuck you.  

FIFTH  

You still hadn’t talked about it. You continued to share a bedroom, sleep there every night, wake there every morning but you had not once discussed the twice now that you had almost had sex. You were waiting for him to bring it up, even though you knew he never would. He wasn’t a coward, not ever, but if there was one word to describe him it was loyal and you knew he would protect your group with his life. And that also meant not pursuing whatever it was that was between you. Because it was a risk. It could jeopardise the stability of what you had established—what Chan had established long before you ever came into the picture.   

But you were digging your heels in this time. You’d already come on too strong. Your pride was being wounded with each day that passed, with each day that he continued to pass you up. You’d crack first. You knew you would. You always did. Minho was unbreakable. You weren’t. But you wanted to pretend, for at least a little while, that you could be. That you could be impenetrable, too.   

*  

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Junho repeated as he slammed into the car, instructing Minho to drive before the door was even shut.   

Minho didn’t need telling twice.   

“Where to?”  

“Safe house,” he gasped, ragged breathing setting your teeth on edge.  

You didn’t ask what had happened. What had gone wrong. That didn’t matter as much as getting out. Getting Junho out. You were disposable, still. You knew that. Even Minho. You were runts; you also still had something to make up for given what happened on your last assignment. So you travelled in silence. Junho in the back, breathing heavily; you didn’t turn around to see if he was ok. You didn’t want to know. You assumed he wasn’t but as long as you could hear him breathing, you knew he was alive.   

Minho was facing forward, eyes scanning the roads ahead, reflexes allowing him to run red lights without accident – in this part of the city, no one would stop a flashy car like this for speeding, for driving recklessly. That was what they all did. His jaw was tense, eyes tight. He looked calm but you could see his little legs kicking under the water. You knew him well enough by now.   

You didn’t keep your eyes on the road. You kept them on him. Felt like someone needed to be watching out for him, too – not that there was anything you could have done to be helpful anyway. There were always two in the getaway car. That was the rule and you didn’t ask why because you didn’t want to know the answer.   

As a teen, you had thought you knew everything. You were old enough now to know not only that you knew nothing but also that you preferred it that way. Need to know basis. For everything. All the time.   

Minho slowed, driving more carefully as the car left the city, winding across hills, negotiating turns that you’d have driven straight over, plummeting you all to a miserable death. He turned the headlights off at the mile marker he’d been told about, one that you’d already forgotten, and crawled, slower still, up to the house, blanketed in darkness, hidden by an overgrown and untended garden.   

Junho grunted.  

“Thanks. Wait until I give the signal then get the fuck out of here. Do not go anywhere you’ve ever met with us. Ditch the car when you can; destroy the plates.”  

He didn’t wait for a response. You watched him stagger away and then waited until the light in the top right room flicked on and off and on and off again.   

Minho put the car in reverse and slowly backed out. At a further mile marker, he turned the lights on. He continued to climb, driving away from the city still, until the car reached the top of the hill. The lights from the city were so bright you almost didn’t need the headlights at all. It didn’t feel a safe place to stop. Too visible.   

Then Minho slowly and quietly backed the car into nook on the hillside. No doubt worn away from years of cars trying to pass each other on the narrow road, it barely contained the car, but it put it in some shadow and no one would hit you.   

He turned the engine off and let his hands fall to his lap. His head tipped back against the headrest and he sighed.   

“You ok?”  

You asked him all the time and he never gave a serious answer because he always was. And if he wasn’t, he certainly wasn’t going to talk about it. But you asked all the same.   

He nodded then turned to you.  

“You?”  

You laughed nervously, suddenly feeling the last twenty minutes as the adrenalin began to drain.  

“Kind of feel like I could hurl.”  

He laughed too and nodded again.   

“I feel like I want to sleep for a thousand years but also like I could run a marathon,” you continued.   

“I feel half-dead already but also fucking invincible.”  

He held his hand out and it trembled. You clasped it between yours and held it tight. He smiled; from where you were sitting, it looked like a smirk, but then he turned more fully towards you and it wasn’t. It was sweet. His eyes were gleaming. Your mouth dried.   

“Half-dead, huh?” And you knew you were going to say it. You always knew you would be the one with which it would raise its head. “How about a little dead? A little death , even?”  

“Sixteen…”  

His voice had that warning tone to it but the gleam in his eyes remained and you’d broken the seal now. Were going to push this as far as he’d let you.   

“Mouse…”  

You saw him waver. Absolutely, definitely, were certain that he was considering it. Until a car came over the crest of the hill and its headlights flashed in at you; at the same moment, Minho’s phone buzzed from the cup holder it had been thrown in. You jumped. He jumped. Whatever moment there had been was gone now.   

Minho took his hand from your grasp and checked his phone. Then he put the car in gear.   

“We’ve got to get out of here.”  

*  

You expected it to be quick. Expected it to be simple. It turned out to be neither. You had managed to destroy the plates and were very near clear of the car you’d now abandoned when you, once again, found trouble (‘why did it always have to be you?’ you had asked yourself fleetingly as Minho shoved you towards your own piece of shit car that had been waiting for your getaway; he had not waited for you to be fully seated or your door to be closed before he slammed a foot on the accelerator and squealed off). The two of you were screaming around corners, tearing out of the city in whichever direction provided the easiest escape. With the headlights off and the city lights streaming into the distance, you could barely see the road in front of you, had no idea how Minho was still driving straight. You trusted him with your life and it was just as well, because it was in his hands. His, yours, and potentially everyone else’s, too.  

The summer sun was minutes away from popping its head above the horizon when you were finally able to return home.  

You sat in silence for a few moments. You had moved beyond exhaustion into this kind of frayed, wired alertness. You felt your eyelids dropping even as your heart still hammered. Minho’s hand found yours.   

“Mouse,” you said, letting the rest of it fall away unspoken.   

“Yeah,” he replied but you didn’t know if that was his answer . “Just give me a minute.”  

You were too tired to argue so you let silence fall again. You were almost dropping off, head just beginning to nod, when he tugged on your hand.   

“Come here.”   

You turned. You leant. His other hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you closer. He kissed you. Electricity crackled and a surge of energy rushed through you. It was happening again. He was kissing you. You couldn’t let this time pass by.   

You scrambled in your chair, forgetting to undo your seatbelt, being pulled back by it and swearing coarsely when your lips broke from his. You clambered over the gearstick and the handbrake and fell with one foot heavily in the footwell as Minho slid his seat all the way back. You didn’t have time to care about the jarring in your knee or the bump on your head as it hit the roof. Could barely feel it. Didn’t matter.   

Well, it didn’t matter until it did. Until there wasn’t really room enough for you to straddle him. Until you were pressing yourself up against the roof so there would be room for him to get his hands to his belt. Until you lost your balance and fell backwards, landing with bump on the steering wheel, which blared out into the dark dawn street.   

“Fucking hell,” Minho muttered. “Get in the back.”  

More willingly than you ever had, you did as you were told. He moved his seat forward again, all the way, and you watched him climb through to you, hands reaching for him. It was no less awkward. Not enough room to lie down. Still not enough height to sit. Not space enough between the back and front to kneel. It was messy and uncoordinated, grabbing for anything, taking what you could get, knocking into the window and falling off the seat, kicking and elbowing each other in a tangle.   

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Minho roared, in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “No use. Not happening.”  

He sat back and sighed, trousers undone but still around his hips. He pushed his hands through his hair and you tried to settle demurely next to him, smoothing your own hair, zipping up your jeans, swallowing hard as you fought to accept that he was right. It was not happening. Not here. Not now.   

You stared through the car window and were sure you could’ve punched straight through it. You wanted to. It was the window, Minho, or yourself. Couldn’t effectively punch yourself. Knew you wouldn’t dare hit your mouse. Your fingernails pressed sharply into your palm as you squeezed your fists tightly.   

A hand covered yours. Gentle. You looked at Minho and there he was: your secret, soft guy. You unfurled your fingers and he linked them with his own.  

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s just go home.”  

FIRST  

You tramped into the apartment, bringing your bad mood with you. Everyone was sick of it by now – you were sick of it, but you couldn’t shake it.   

Minho was avoiding you. That much was clear. He had been avoiding you since you tried and failed to fuck in the car. You didn’t know why because you didn’t care. You had reached the end of your tether with the universe. Three times now. But still no cigar. You wondered – asked yourself a hundred times a day – what it was going to take to make this happen.   

Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover it. You could go out and hook up with whoever you liked. You could get yourself off just fine. But it ran so much deeper than that. If you pulled at the thread, it tugged on your heartstrings, all tangled up in knots. It hurt. It pulled at something so deeply interwoven with your very being; all anyone had to do was follow it to its source and they could destroy you. All anyone had to do was cut it and they’d cut you, too.   

You didn’t like that. Hated it, in fact. Hated that all this tugging and wiggling had opened up a hole and you could feel your vulnerability exposed. You could feel weakness leaking out of you, seeping from your pores, visible to the naked eye, for anyone to see.   

It made you bitter. Made you angry. Made you lash out even when you shouldn’t have. Because you were always on the defensive. Even now. Especially now.  

You knew the others were talking about you. About Minho. About the two of you. Knew it from the awkward silences when you walked in a room and the furtive glances and the group chat that had grown curiously quiet, leaving you to assume that there was a separate one you weren’t a part of.   

You were beginning to lose your patience and you were not starting with a plentiful supply.   

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm your rage. You had woken with it, just like every other day this week, and it would not leave you. You breathed slowly and carefully and tried to think of difficult and boring things.   

You thought only of Minho.   

Then he opened the door. He hesitated – you could feel him standing there, assessing – and then shut it, leaving you alone. As the door clicked, you felt that tug. You felt the knots tighten, so impossibly tight now that the joins weren’t even visible. You jumped up and threw yourself through the door.  

“Stop fucking ignoring me!”  

You hadn’t meant to shout.   

Minho turned and looked at you. His stillness enraged you further. He didn’t say anything.  

“Are you going to fucking say anything?!”  

“What do you want me to say?”  

“ANYTHING! You haven’t spoken to me for weeks! You literally walk out of rooms if I’m in them! What the fuck is wrong with you?”   

“You think this is easy?”   

His voice was cold and sharp as steel. His head cocked lightly to the side and his eyes narrowed, peering at you, looking inside you.   

“You think I want it to be like this?-”  

“I don’t know what you fucking want!”  

His nostrils flared. This delighted you. He was annoyed and you loved it.  

“Not once,” you continued, still shouting because you couldn’t rein it in, “have you ever fucking told me. Not once have you ever actually said what you want! That you want me. Do you? Fucking do you? Because I don’t fucking know anymore! Every time we get close, you get further away from me! I’m not a fucking yo-yo, Minho. You can’t play with me-”  

“Play with you? You think I’m playing? What part of this is a game?”

His voice was rising now, too, his perfectly blank mask slipping.  

“It’s never been a game, Sixteen! Not once in the entire time since we met has it been a game! How are you still not getting it? Junho almost fucking died and if he had, it would have been our fault! We all almost ended up in prison because of the fucking bar. The night we met you almost got yourself trafficked! It’s not a game! You act like life is so fucking simple! It’s not!”  

“IT IS! It can be that fucking simple! Stop overthinking! Stop taking everything so fucking seriously!-”  

“It is serious! That’s what you don’t get!”  

He was close now, had been inching closer and closer, and he was looking down at you, his eyes black as pitch, his jaw tight, his breath struggling through clenched teeth.   

“You don’t get it and you never have.”   

His voice was quiet, back to that steel that sent a chill down your spine.   

“Everywhere you go, I look out for you. Everywhere you are, I am responsible for you. It’s been nine fucking years, Sixteen, and you are everywhere I go.”  

Your vision tunnelled, stomach fell to your feet. You had to look away and hated yourself for it. You never flinched. You never backed down. You were never the first to retreat. Except for him. You couldn’t bear to look in his eyes, to see what loathing and disdain they held for you. Your embarrassment was on your cheeks already and pricking in your eyes.   

Then his nose nudged yours and he took more steps forward. He pushed you slowly against the wall and you cursed yourself for retreating to it.  

“You are in my life and in my bedroom and in my fucking head,” he whispered. “All the time. All the fucking time. And I haven’t been able to do shit about it because you are my job . You are mine to protect. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows I would burn this place to the ground for you. I would scorch the earth. I would drain the sea. For you . Don’t you get it? When it comes to you, I’m a fucking liability.”   

You risked it. A glance. Lifted your eyes for less than a second but you had to do it again. Had to stop there, be sure you were really seeing what you thought you were.   

Soft, round, liquid eyes. An openness in his face that he hadn’t let you into before. His mouth was still a grim line, turned down at the corners so slightly, had it been anyone but you, it would have gone unnoticed.   

“Mouse...”   

You tried to whisper but could barely manage that, his name creeping out on a hoarse gasp.   

He moved his face closer to yours, lips almost touching.   

“Don’t you get it?” he repeated.   

You got it. Because everything he said was true for you, too. You’d started out as a liability, for sure, but you had continued to be one because Minho was your north star. Not Chan. Not the group. Not whatever sense of purpose you might have derived from the life you had cobbled together. If he said jump, you wouldn’t ask a thing. You would jump. You’d been following him since day one and, then, it might have been desperation, a lack of options. Now... well, there was still desperation: a desperate need for him, a desperate desire to be wanted by him, kissed by him, touched by him. You had other options. Options you would never take, not as long as he existed. You would stop existing before you ever thought of leaving him.   

You nodded, feeling more like a foolish, vulnerable 16-year-old than you had when you were foolish and vulnerable and 16.   

He sighed, breath sweet with the pudding he could never resist, and you were closing your eyes, tilting your chin up, expecting him to give in.   

He turned away. You watched him, mouth agape in disbelief, as he pushed his hands through his hair.   

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” you screamed, bringing your hands down on his back in something that was half-shove, half-slap.   

He had whipped around before you could lower your arms and you found your wrists caught in his hands.   

“You don’t fucking stop, do you?” he hissed.   

“Why would I stop?! I don’t want to stop, Minho! And nor do you! You can’t say you don’t! Because I KNOW. I KNOW you want it. I know you want me. And I’m fucking throwing myself at you. Take me! TAKE ME!”  

His eyes were hard and dark. His fingers pushed so tightly into your wrists that you could feel your pulse against them. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring but lips shut tight, pressed together in a thin line.   

“Take. Me,” you repeated, level and firm, not sure if he would, but sure that, if he didn’t, things would never be the same again.   

You couldn’t do this a fourth time. Couldn’t put yourself in his hands, have him take you, and then... Not. And then stop. And then act as if you didn’t exist. That thread between you, tied up in your heartstrings, was taut, stretched, at its limit. And so were you.  

The pause was painful. Excruciatingly long. Adrenalin coursed through you, making you hot, making you shake, making your heart beat so hard against your ribs you thought they might break. Thought your heart might break. Hadn’t been willing to admit how fragile it was but it felt like venetian glass now. You could already feel the cracks forming, the web extending, the shards-  

He kissed you. Pulled you roughly towards him by your wrists and kissed you. Put his hands on your hips, then slid them under your top, and still kissed you. He was kissing you. It took a few seconds to slip back into your body, to feel it, the soft petal of his lips against yours, the sharp bite of his teeth, the wet warmth of his tongue. You forgot your shattering heart and grabbed his T-shirt, using it to pull him closer, to drag him into your shared bedroom.  

Not that he needed dragging. You stumbled over each other’s feet as you tried to kiss and walk and grope all at once. You tumbled backwards onto his bed and took the brief separation as an opportunity to lose your top, to unclasp your bra. Your hands were in the waistband of your joggers when Minho climbed over you, topless now too, breathless as he mirrored your actions, pushing his trousers and his boxers over his hips. He huffed a frustrated sigh as you giggled, as he stood back up to take them all the way off, to kick them off his ankles and take yours away, too.   

He didn’t give you time for admiration, for appraisal. He lay his body over you and his lips pressed against yours, quickly, firmly, before trailing them across your jaw and down your neck. He was every bit as vicious as you thought he would be, teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, sinking into your soft flesh. You wanted him to mark you, wanted the proof of it to last. You scraped your nails down his back and he hissed when you broke the skin. Hissed but didn’t complain. Hissed and moved his mouth lower, swirling his tongue around your nipple, sinking his teeth into that, too.   

When you tugged on his hair, he pulled off, looked at you, his face an open question. You shook your head.  

“It’s fine,” you panted. “I like it. I just want to pull your hair.”  

He laughed and clamped his teeth over your breast again, harder this time, so you keened and your back arched into him. You twisted his roots in your fist and he moaned, eyes flicking up to yours as he kissed across the valley of your chest.   

“Do that again.”  

“Fuck,” you gasped, tipping your head back, doing as he had asked and tugging hard.   

The ache you felt for him had ballooned inside you, taken up all your hollow spaces. There was your flushed skin and your fluttering heart, your rushing blood and your deep, persistent ache for Minho. Nothing more. Nothing less.   

“Mouse,” you whispered, voice tight with desire. “Touch me, please.”

You never asked. You didn’t beg. If you liked a guy, you let them do what they wanted with you, and if you didn’t, you took what you wanted. It was always one-sided.   

But this wasn’t. It was Minho. It was the fathomless depth in his eyes as he lay his mouth all over you. It was the slip of his fingers through your soaked folds as he sucked sweet bruises against your neck. It was the sound of a moan caught in his throat when you wrapped your fingers around his hard, leaking length. It was mutual. It was reciprocated.   

It was burning you up, hotter and sweeter than you’d ever felt before. His fingers sinking into your core made you shudder with delight. The twitch in his cock as you brushed your thumb over his head made your mouth water. The sound of his mumbled sweet nothings pressed against your skin, whispered in your ear, licked straight into your mouth, made you dizzy.   

“So soft,” he said. “So wet... Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful... I’ve wanted this for so long... Wanted you...”   

He used your name, your real one, the one he didn’t learn (didn’t ask for) for months after you met. You returned the favour, ‘Minho’ tripping from your lips, until he shook his head.  

“Mouse,” he murmured, mouth still pressed against yours. “‘Mouse’ is yours.”   

“Mouse,” you echoed and he nodded before kissing you so that you could say nothing at all.  

*  

You barely spoke, couldn’t catch your breath enough to form the words, couldn’t engage your faculties to find any to say. Minho spoke, though, more than you had ever heard him speak: praise and exclamation and remembrance and, yes, even admonition, but it was all so sweet, syrupy, dripping from his tongue like honey. You’d never heard him speak like this before, never had him melt in your hands or in your mouth, never felt him as easy and pliable as this.   

It wasn’t just his body. It wasn’t just the perfect smoothness of his warm, soft skin. It wasn’t just the stretch, the fullness, he made inside you, the insistent rhythm of his hips thrusting his cock tightly into your slick, waiting warmth. It wasn’t just his wet, sugary mouth, at your lips, at your jaw, at your clavicle. It wasn’t just all these things he was doing to you, all the things you were doing to him.  

It was his open eyes, round and shining and fluttering closed as your walls clenched around him. It was the tenderness in them, the depth he was letting you see, for more than just seconds at a time. It was the gentle tracing of your face with his fingers, even as he fucked into you, even as his teeth drew blood beneath your skin. It was Minho, the entirety of him. Yours. Finally yours. Finally giving in to you, giving himself to you.   

You got it. You had said you did and you had, but now, beneath him in his bed as he loved you, you actually understood the magnitude of it. His feelings for you. Yours for him. Held back behind a dam for so many years and now, the dam had broken. Now came the deluge that would flood the world, could drown everyone in it.   

To hell with them, you thought. To hell with anyone else. You found what you needed almost a decade ago. He found you. You found each other, somehow, by some miracle.   

When the pleasure swelled up in your core, toes curling, back breaking, you cried out with all the breath you had in your lungs, felt tears sting in your eyes, and the following inhale wobbled and shook. Minho paused, pressed his forehead against yours, kissed you lightly, didn’t have to ask the question out loud.   

You nodded and kissed him again, then again, each time hungrier than the last. You didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to feel anything but this, but him. He moved slower now, though, hips rolling smoothly, lips not leaving yours, even when he spoke, even when he murmured how fucking good you felt, how much better than he’d imagined, how hard he was trying not to come, how he didn’t want this to end.   

You couldn’t take it. Thought you really would cry, thought you would collapse entirely under his weight, under the weight of everything you’d been carrying around, all these feelings: all this love and fear and frustration. He pushed you to the edge again without even trying, your red thread thoroughly tangled, inseparable now, and pulling a greater ecstasy from you than you had ever known.   

He couldn’t hold out either, his final, sharp thrusts filling you with his sticky release. You held him there, as close as he could be. He kissed you, so light it was barely there, his fingers grazing your face as he pushed the hair from your brow.  

“Mouse,” you choked, tears threatening your waterline.   

He kissed you again, that little butterfly kiss; you’d never seen him be this gentle.   

“Sixteen,” he whispered and, for possibly the first time, it didn’t sound like disdain, didn’t come accompanied by a smirk or an eye-roll; it was hushed and secret and just for you.   

As it had always been.   

*  

You lay on his chest, bodies pressed together in the small, single bed, as they would have been even if the bed were bigger.   

“I want some water,” he said, lips against your forehead before he manoeuvred himself out from underneath you. “Want a drink?”  

You nodded and he smiled down at you as he fetched clean underwear and pulled a T-shirt over his head.   

You watched him go, watched him open the door, and then heard the sound of party poppers, whoops, and applause.   

The apartment was empty. Had been empty when you entered your bedroom. In the midst of everything, you had failed to notice the gang return home. They had not failed to notice you and Minho.   

“Fucking finally!”   

“You mean, they finally fucked?”  

Laughter resounded from the living room. Minho turned around, closed the door, and climbed back into bed without a word.  

[ssahotchnerr]

An idea for Nanny!reader

R hurting themself (something small) and Jack telling on them to Hotch and after knowing r is fine some playfulness - you know the stuff you’re amazing at

wounds

hehe thank you <3 cw; fem nanny!reader, blood/small injury mentions, small talk of food, mutual pining 🥰🥰

The apartment was warm and inviting as Aaron returned home. The furnace humming, the living room brightly lit, the faint aroma from dinner still lingering. He instantly regretted his choice of staying a bit later at the BAU.

He also wasn't surprised; this is how the apartment always felt whenever you were here. Warm and inviting was who you were as a person. He couldn't remember the last time, prior to your addition in the Hotchners' lives, he had come home to such a calm and cozy atmosphere.

He found the two of you in the dining room; Jack and yourself were huddled over the table, conversing softly as Jack practiced the utter joys of fractions.

"Hey," Aaron greeted you both, shrugging his suit jacket off his shoulders, loosening his tie.

"Hi Dad," Jack kept his head low, continuing on his current problem while your gaze lifted, offering him a welcoming smile.

Aaron rustled his Jack's gently. "Whatcha up to?"

"Homework."

Aaron nodded slowly. And as he did so, his eyes began to study the spread across the surface: a math book, multiple worksheets, a few new-to-Jack books - the two of you must've visited the library this afternoon.

However, something stuck out; his attention fell to your hand, which you were attempting to subtly conceal. You were keeping it close to your body, leaning over the tabletop a little more than usual.

Just as he noticed it, and the initial alarm began going off in his head, it was as if Jack read his mind. He dutifully spoke up, telling his father how you unfortunately managed to cut your finger.

You shot Jack a playful glare, a humorous, 'really?' As a laugh escaped Jack, your eyes connected with Aaron's, your mouth dropping momentarily as you came up with a response. They were full of concern, his eyebrows drawn over his eyes.

By the look on his face, you were convinced he was ready to whisk you away to the closest urgent care.

"It's fine, really." You insisted, waving it off and hoping he would do the same. You weren't one for attention, especially when it came to your highly attractive boss.

But naturally, he didn't. "Let me see."

It was a question; a strained expression pulled onto your face, a do I have to? before Aaron reached out, holding his hand out in the air until you offered your own in defeat.

The second your hand connected with his, a jolt of electricity shot up your arm. You bit down onto your lip, your heart beginning to race and hoping you hadn't visually reacted the way you internally did.

As you expected, (and guilty of thinking many times) his hands were rough, similar to the demeanor an FBI agent would uphold (and to your mild understanding, he was on the authoritative side).

But they also had a softness to them, which made perfect sense as he has displayed nothing but respect and kindness to you. Aaron Hotchner was hard on the exterior, but gentle underneath.

Not only that, your hand fit perfectly into his.

He cradled your hand, carefully observing the bandage you had hastily wrapped around your left index finger. A deep blush developed quickly in your cheeks.

"How did this happen?" His brown eyes lifted to yours. The glint in them so sweet and genuine it caused you to flush more.

Pull it together. "Cutting up some veggies." You managed, taking a small, but very flustered, gulp.

"We had pizza." Jack chimed in, his pencil pausing amidst his worksheet. "To help me with my math."

"Oh," Aaron pointed a soft smile in your direction. Could he quit it before you turned into a puddle? "That's a smart idea."

At the compliment, as small as it was, you felt the heat rising in your cheeks even more. "The perfect way to visually learn."

He was still clutching onto your hand, holding it firmly enough to not cause you any more potential harm, and giving no signs of releasing. You may have been imagining it - your brain fuzzy beyond belief - but you could've sworn the pad of his thumb was brushing back and forth lightly on your palm.

"How long ago was this?"

"Hm, maybe an hour and a half, two hours ago?" You thought back, shrugging lightly.

He seemed pleased with your answer; the bleeding wasn't lasting, nor was it seeping into your bandage. A good sign. "And did you clean it?"

"Who do you think I am?" You teased, but nodded in confirmation. "Thoroughly, yes."

"Well, before you leave tonight, I want to take a better look at it. Change your bandage, apply more Neosporin, all that."

You weren't one to argue, so you nodded as he finally released your hand, mourning the loss of his contact right away.

But at least, a guaranteed moment alone with Aaron was in your near future.

You flashed him a small yet grateful smile, which he returned before his attention switched over to Jack. "Back to work bud. Those fractions aren't going to solve themselves."

"Can we practice with ice cream next?"

[cherrybomb107]

I literally wouldn’t have cared if they decided to pull a Cyberpunk Edgerunners and kill off our entire main cast save for one or two characters and let the bad guys(the establishment) win. Tragedy isn’t the problem. The problem is the way they went about it. The show had so many plot threads to tie up, there was never any time to truly reckon with all the tragedies that were occurring.

Ekko losing his tree because of Arcane poisoning would be tragic. Notice I said “would be” because that plot line is literally never addressed again. It gets brought up, and then forgotten about. Vi being hit by her girlfriend after she makes the decision to put on the uniform of her oppressors and contribute to oppressing her own people in pursuit of a little sister who she can’t accept has changed is tragic on multiple levels! That’s some compelling shit! But the show never meaningfully addresses these issues or lets Vi react to them without throwing her into a new situation where she has to fight and lose something again. All Vi has ever done her entire life is try and fail to protect her loved ones. She gets punished for trying. It’s almost like the universe itself is out to get her! But we never see Vi break down and pick herself back up. We never see her make any choices to do what’s best for her. The plot decided for her and that’s the problem!

Vi and Jinx deciding to go their separate ways after all that they’ve been through would’ve been tragic. These two sister who love each other more than anything having to break apart for who knows how long and holding onto the hope that maybe they can reunite and be sisters again is gut wrenching…or at least it WOULD be if they actually decided to separate! Vi didn’t decide to leave her sister, Jinx didn’t decide to leave Vi, the narrative forced them apart! The narrative keeps ripping them away from each other and it’s starting to feel intentional. Trying to tell the audience that the only way Vi can truly be happy and choose herself is by having her baby sister die and being forced to live with her girlfriend in a city that will be extremely discriminatory towards her is not it. I’m not saying that Vi and Jinx have to ride off into the sunset together. But I am saying that if going their separate ways really was for the best, the show wouldn’t spend so much time trying to convince us of that. It would just happen organically. Which, to me, it didn’t

Jinx losing Isha was yet another tragedy! But the show doesn’t really show Jinx grieving and then deciding to fight for what she believes in after Ekko convinces her to try. She tried to kill herself five times. FIVE TIMES!!! How on Earth did she go from that to a badass piloting an airship, dripped out with her new outfit and steeled sense of resolve? We don’t know because it happened offscreen! I understand the show had time constraints, but come on. This plot line deserved more time to shine. Sevika being on the Council is a tragedy. It’s an empty gesture for one, and majority rules for two. That means Sevika will be forced to try to barter for Zaun’s freedom while being surrounded by a bunch of classist Piltie pricks who despise her and everything she stands for. She will be talked over and talked down to. That’s not a happy ending! But the show frames it like it is! And I’m sorry but if you can’t watch interviews of the writers saying their thoughts on the show and you genuinely believe that they have the range to write Sevika being on the Council as thoughtful commentary? No comment😭😭😭

Caitlyn’s corruption arc is yet another tragedy! Both because of what happened to her AND the fact that the arc wasn’t done! Caitlyn’s arc was supposed to show how no matter how “good” and “kind” a privileged person believes them self to be, their unconscious bias and prejudice against the out group will rear its ugly head the second they experience a fraction of what the marginalized group has been experiencing for centuries. It was so easy for Caitlyn to say “I understand now. How easy it is to hate them.” “Those animals!” “I thought you were different, but you’re not. It’s her blood in your veins!” How easy it was for her to weaponize The Gray. How easy it was for her to work with Ambessa and co sign martial law despite knowing better. How easy it was for her to risk killing a child just to get to Jinx. That’s super compelling! But the problem is we never see Caitlyn wrestle with her decisions. Guilt should be eating her ALIVE and all we get is a complete 180 from her after a time skip! Then she does nothing to redeem herself! And once again, no the writers absolutely did not intend that to be commentary on how the privileged are able to get away with things the lower class would be imprisoned/killed for. If they did then Caitlyn could’ve had a confrontation with someone from Zaun, whether that be Sevika, Ekko, Jinx, Vi or someone else, where they call her out on her hypocrisy. Then we would see her wrestle with that and realize the monster that she’s become.

Unfortunately, all these tragedies are not given the proper narrative weight they deserve. Or they’re not treated as tragedies when they so clearly are! THAT’S the problem! It’s not tragedy, it’s the framing! And it’s the way y’all are so condescending whenever someone criticizes the show. Why is every single critique met with “You didn’t watch/understand the show”? Why is it always “What were you expecting?” “You’re just mad it didn’t go your way.” “You’re just a hater.” “You have no idea how hard writing a script is.” “They planned the story from the beginning, this is how it was supposed to be.” And on and on and on. It’s exhausting! Why is it so hard for y’all to understand that it is possible to understand and have love for something but still have gripes with it? It doesn’t mean I love the show any less! It just means I’d love it even more if not for these certain aspects of it. That’s it, that’s all🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️

[xichilie]

Mydei x (fem) reader (3)

Mydei’s secret friend

Part1 Part2 Part3

Y/N moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, setting out ingredients and lighting the stove. The warm glow of the flames flickered against the walls, casting a cozy light over the small home. As she worked, the scent of sizzling meat, fresh herbs, and fragrant spices gradually filled the air, wrapping around them like an inviting embrace.

Phainon sat at the table at first, lazily leaning back in his chair. Mydei, meanwhile, remained as he always did—silent and observing, arms crossed as if he had no interest in anything happening around him.

But after a few minutes, Phainon’s fingers started tapping against the table. Then his legs bounced a little. He glanced around, looked at the food, looked at Mydei, then back at the food. Finally, with a groan of impatience, he stood up.

“Alright, I cannot just sit here doing nothing,” he declared, rolling up his sleeves. “Let me help.”

Y/N raised an amused eyebrow. “You cook?”

Phainon scoffed, placing a hand on his chest as if deeply offended. “Of course I do! I’m a man of many talents.”

Mydei snorted. “I’ve seen you cook. It was a disaster.”

Phainon shot him an unamused look. “That was one time.”

“You nearly burned down the barracks.”

“The fire wasn’t my fault,” Phainon huffed. “It was the stove! Clearly defective.”

Y/N chuckled, handing him a knife and a bundle of vegetables. “Alright, let’s see if you’re as good as you claim.”

Phainon grinned and got to work, chopping away with enthusiasm. His technique was... passable at best. His slices were uneven, and his movements a little reckless, but at least he wasn’t entirely useless.

“So,” he started, casually sliding some diced onions into a bowl, “since Mydei is acting all mysterious about you, maybe you can tell me—what’s your story?”

Y/N stirred the pot on the stove, adding spices as she considered her answer. “That’s a broad question.”

“Fine, I’ll make it simpler,” Phainon said, pausing to dramatically wipe his imaginary sweat. “Where are you from?”

Y/N hesitated for only a fraction of a second before replying, “Here and there.”

Phainon stopped chopping. Squinted at her. “That’s not an answer.”

She smirked. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes! It’s exactly the kind of vague nonsense Mydei would say.” He groaned, running a hand through his white hair. “You two really are alike.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re friends.”

Phainon gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “You admit it!”

“I never denied it.”

Mydei, still seated, smirked slightly. Finally, someone who could match Phainon’s energy.

Phainon, recovering quickly, grinned. “Alright, fine. If you won’t tell me that, then how about—”

“Don’t,” Mydei cut in, already seeing where this was headed.

Phainon turned to him with an innocent look. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t start prying into things that aren’t your business.”

“Oh, please, Mydei.” Phainon rolled his eyes. “I’m just trying to get to know our dear new friend.”

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to interrogate her.”

Phainon smirked but didn’t deny it. He turned back to Y/N and leaned against the counter. “I mean, you do have this whole ‘mysterious traveler’ thing going on. You can’t blame me for being curious.”

Y/N chuckled, flipping a piece of meat in the pan. “I don’t mind a little curiosity.”

Phainon shot Mydei a smug look. “See? She’s fine with it.”

“But I mind,” Mydei muttered.

Phainon sighed dramatically but didn’t push further—for now. Instead, he focused on helping with the cooking, sneaking in smaller, more casual questions whenever he could.

“So, what are we making?” he asked, watching as Y/N mixed ingredients together.

“A little of everything,” she replied. “Braised meat, some roasted vegetables, stew on the side.”

Phainon whistled. “You really know how to cook.”

Y/N shrugged, stirring the stew pot. “I like good food.”

Phainon nodded approvingly. “I respect that.”

The meal came together quickly, the flavors blending into something rich and savory. Mydei had remained mostly quiet, watching from his seat. But even he had to admit—the smell of the food was tempting.

Eventually, Y/N turned around, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Alright. Let’s eat.”

Phainon grinned. “Best thing I’ve heard all day.”

And as they sat down to share the meal,

The meal was nothing short of a success.

The rich aroma of the braised meat mixed with the savory warmth of the stew, perfectly complemented by the crisp, roasted vegetables. The food was flavorful, well-seasoned, and filling—something Phainon had no problem voicing.

“This—” Phainon took another bite, nearly humming in satisfaction, “—this is amazing. Y/N, you might just be my new favorite person.”

Y/N chuckled, sipping from her bowl. “Glad you like it.”

Phainon turned to Mydei, jabbing his spoon at him. “How come you never told me she could cook like this?”

Mydei sighed. “Because it’s not relevant.”

Phainon gaped. “Not relevant? Mydei, this is incredibly relevant.” He turned back to Y/N with a pleading expression. “If you ever need someone to taste-test your dishes, I volunteer.”

Y/N smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Phainon took another bite, visibly savoring it before looking at Y/N again. “Alright, alright, I’ll admit defeat. You’ve won me over with food.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Now, let’s get back to the important part—you and Mydei.”

Mydei groaned, already regretting staying.

Phainon grinned. “Come on, Y/N. You can’t keep dodging forever. You’ve already fed us, so why not throw in a little storytelling?”

Y/N tapped her fingers against her bowl, pretending to consider it. Mydei, sitting across from her, narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew she was enjoying this more than she let on.

After a few moments, she sighed in mock defeat. “Fine. Since you’re so curious.”

Phainon beamed, leaning in. “I am.”

Y/N placed her bowl down, glancing between the two men. “It happened at the ruins of Kremnos.”

Silence settled over the table as she began.

“I was exploring the area out of curiosity,” she explained. “The ruins are fascinating—old, crumbling, but still standing. I wanted to see what secrets they held.”

Mydei huffed. “Reckless.”

Y/N smirked. “Says the man who practically lives in battle.”

Phainon snickered. “She’s got a point.”

Y/N continued. “Along the way, I ran into some Titankin. Nothing I couldn’t handle. A few fights here and there.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “You took on Titankin alone?”

Y/N shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time.”

Phainon let out a low whistle. “Alright, impressive.”

Y/N nodded. “But then I spotted him.” She tilted her head toward Mydei. “At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. He was moving through the ruins like a ghost—silent, purposeful. He didn’t seem like the usual treasure hunters or ruin explorers. There was something… different about the way he carried himself.”

Phainon grinned. “Creepy.”

“Focused,” Mydei corrected, rolling his eyes.

Y/N smirked. “Creepy and focused.”

Phainon burst out laughing. “I like you.”

Y/N chuckled before continuing. “I didn’t approach him at first. Instead, I watched from the shadows, keeping my distance. I wasn’t sure if he was a threat or not. But then…” She glanced at Mydei. “He noticed me.”

Mydei crossed his arms. “Of course I did.”

Y/N hummed. “But you didn’t know who I was. I had my hood and mask on, after all.”

Phainon’s eyes widened with amusement. “Wait, so Mydei was paranoid?”

“Agitated, more like,” Y/N corrected. “Neither of us knew who the other was, but we both assumed the worst. One wrong move, and suddenly—”

“A fight broke out,” Mydei finished, smirking slightly.

Y/N nodded. “And it wasn’t a small one, either.”

Phainon leaned forward, very invested now. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N took a sip of water before speaking again. “He was fast. Strong. He fought like he owned the battlefield, like nothing could stop him. I held my own, matching his attacks, dodging when I could. But Mydei…” She exhaled. “He doesn’t go down easily.”

Phainon grinned. “Trust me, I know.”

Mydei remained silent, simply listening.

“I realized something was off about him as the fight dragged on,” Y/N continued. “Most people—no matter how skilled—slow down eventually. Their stamina wears out. They make mistakes.”

“But he didn’t.”

She turned to Mydei. “You didn’t falter. Not even once. You just kept going.”

Phainon smirked. “Yeah, that’s the annoying part.”

Mydei rolled his eyes. “You sound bitter.”

“I am bitter.”

Y/N chuckled. “Eventually, I reached my limit. I wasn’t exhausted yet, but I could tell if the fight kept going, I’d lose. And then—” She glanced at Mydei again. “You won.”

Phainon clicked his tongue. “Of course he did.”

Y/N smirked. “You say that like it bothers you.”

“It does.”

Y/N laughed softly before continuing. “After that, I expected him to finish me off. Or demand to know who I was. But instead… he just stood there, looking at me. Studying me.”

Phainon turned to Mydei. “So? What were you thinking?”

Mydei shrugged. “I was curious.”

Phainon blinked. “That’s it?”

“There aren’t many who can match my strength,” Mydei said simply. “Besides the Chrysos heirs, most people don’t last long against me.” He glanced at Y/N. “But she did.”

Y/N smirked. “And so, instead of enemies, we became…”

“Rivals?” Phainon suggested.

“Friends,” Y/N corrected.

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird way to make friends.”

Y/N chuckled. “Maybe. But it worked.”

Phainon leaned back, arms crossed, clearly intrigued. “Huh. And here I thought Mydei was incapable of making friends on his own.”

Mydei groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“I try.”

Y/N laughed softly, enjoying the banter between them. The conversation continued, shifting between jokes, light teasing, and small stories.

For once, Mydei didn’t mind the company.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind sharing this story either.

The meal was nearly finished, but the conversation carried on, the air warm with lingering laughter and the scent of spices still thick in the air. Phainon, still savoring the last bites of his meal, leaned forward with his usual mischievous grin.

“So,” he drawled, tapping his fingers against the table, “you and Mydei. Fighting, exploring, being all mysterious together. That’s nice and all—but surely, surely there’s more.”

Y/N tilted her head. “More?”

“Oh, don’t play coy now,” Phainon said, grinning. “You must have some good stories about our ever-serious prince here.”

Mydei sighed, already regretting not leaving earlier.

Y/N tapped her chin, as if considering it. “Well… there is one thing.”

Phainon perked up immediately. “Yes. Spill.”

Y/N smirked, casting Mydei a glance. “Did you know he likes baking?”

The room fell silent.

Phainon stared. Then he slowly turned to Mydei. “What?”

Mydei, who had been drinking water, exhaled sharply through his nose and set his cup down hard. “Y/N.” His voice held a clear warning.

But Y/N only smiled, resting her chin in her hand. “Oh, did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

Phainon blinked, as if trying to process what he just heard. Then, a slow, delighted grin spread across his face. “No. No way.”

Y/N nodded. “It’s true.”

Phainon pointed at Mydei, barely holding back his laughter. “You—you bake?”

Mydei scowled. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Phainon let out a short laugh. “You, the Mydei, Crown Prince of Kremnos, warrior of Okhema, immortal being rejected by death itself—stand in a kitchen and bake?”

Y/N chuckled. “And he’s good at it too, i love his honey cakes.”

Phainon gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated shock. “I—I don’t even know what to say.” He turned to Mydei, eyes practically sparkling. “Why have you never told me this?”

“Because it’s not your business,” Mydei grumbled, shooting Y/N a look.

Y/N just smiled innocently. “You never told me to not mention it.”

Phainon was clearly enjoying this revelation far too much. “What do you even bake?”

“Does it matter?” Mydei snapped.

Y/N, still unbothered, answered for him. “Mostly cake. Sometimes pastries or bread.”

Phainon’s mouth fell open. “You bake pastries?”

“… Occasionally.”

Phainon nearly collapsed in his seat. “This is the best thing I’ve ever learned.”

Mydei groaned, rubbing his temples. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

"can I try some...." phainon ask but mydei cut him off "NO!"

Phainon ignored him, still grinning. “So, what else? What other hidden talents does our dear prince have?”

Y/N hummed. “Let’s see… Oh, sometimes we go on walks together.”

Phainon blinked. “Walks.”

“Mmhm.”

“You mean like, patrolling ruins? Training?”

“No,” Y/N said casually, “just strolling around.”

Phainon looked between the two of them. Then, with an absolutely incredulous expression, he burst into laughter. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Y/N replied, still amused.

Phainon turned to Mydei, who looked deeply, deeply (very deeply) unamused. “You—you take walks?”

Mydei scowled. “I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue is that you don’t even like talking to most people, let alone casually strolling with them!” Phainon exclaimed, still grinning. “Yet here you are, taking relaxing little walks like you don’t have the reputation of a battle-hardened warrior prince.”

Mydei exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to contain his irritation. “Are you done?”

Phainon smirked. “Not even close.”

Y/N chuckled, continuing, “Sometimes he even accompanies me when I explore ruins.”

Phainon shook his head, feigning shock. “Mydei? Voluntarily exploring with someone else?”

Y/N nodded. “He’s surprisingly good company.”

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?”

“Well, he still complains sometimes,” Y/N admitted.

Mydei huffed. “Because you get distracted.”

“It’s called curiosity,” Y/N said with a smirk.

“It’s called reckless wandering.”

Phainon was absolutely thriving in this conversation. “Wow, this is so much better than I expected.” He grinned at Mydei. “And you always act like you prefer being alone.”

Mydei shot him a glare. “I still do.”

Phainon just grinned wider. “Sure, buddy.”

Y/N, watching the exchange, only smiled. She had no regrets about letting a few things slip.

If anything, she was enjoying it as much as Phainon was.

Phainon sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples dramatically, as if he were trying to process something impossible. He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief before turning his sharp blue eyes back to Y/N.

“I just… I don’t get it,” he said, voice laced with genuine confusion. “You. Friends. With him.” He gestured toward Mydei like he was pointing at a wild animal rather than a person.

Mydei narrowed his eyes. “Watch it.”

Phainon ignored him completely, leaning toward Y/N. “You do know who you’re talking about, right? Mydei? Crown Prince of Kremnos? The guy who treats most people like an inconvenience? The same Mydei who barely tolerates me—and I’m fantastic!”

Y/N simply chuckled, amused by his reaction. “And?”

Phainon threw up his hands. “And—how did this happen? How are you still here? Why haven’t you run off like every other sane person he’s scared away?”

Y/N only smiled before turning toward Mydei, her expression warm. Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a gentle, familiar embrace.

Mydei froze.

Phainon’s jaw dropped.

Y/N didn’t seem to notice their reactions—or if she did, she didn’t care. She rested her head lightly against Mydei’s shoulder, speaking softly. “Because Mydei is an amazing friend.”

Mydei remained stiff, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. His mind immediately jumped to retreating—he wasn’t used to people being this open with him. But Y/N’s embrace was warm, steady, completely unafraid.

Phainon, meanwhile, looked like he had just witnessed a divine revelation. He pointed at Mydei in stunned disbelief. “What. The. Hell.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet Mydei’s gaze, her eyes filled with warmth. “I mean it,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

Phainon gawked. Mydei stared.

The room was completely silent.

Y/N, as if unaware of the sheer shock she had just sent through them, continued smiling. “Sure, he can be a little grumpy, and he acts like he doesn’t care—but he does.” Her voice was soft but firm. “He always has my back. He listens, even when he pretends not to. He’s reliable, strong, and even if he won’t say it outright… he’s someone you can always count on.”

Mydei swallowed, his jaw tightening slightly. There was something unfamiliar twisting in his chest—something he didn’t quite know how to handle.

Phainon finally found his voice, pointing at Mydei in absolute astonishment. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Mydei?”

Y/N laughed. “Oh, he’s still the same Mydei.”

Phainon shook his head, still completely thrown. “I refuse to believe this. You like him?”

“Of course.” Y/N gave Mydei a small squeeze before pulling away fully. “He’s my friend.”

Phainon dragged a hand down his face, muttering to himself, “This is insane.”

Y/N chuckled, watching as Mydei exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to shake off whatever strange emotions had settled over him.

“…You’re both insufferable,” Mydei muttered at last.

Y/N just smiled, her expression knowing. “Sure, Mydei.”

Phainon slumped in his chair, still staring at them like he had seen a ghost. “I think I need to lie down.”

Y/N laughed again, and just for a brief moment—so brief it was almost imperceptible—Mydei’s lips twitched upward, barely a ghost of a smirk.

For once, he didn’t entirely mind the company. (Except for phainons)

Phainon stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at Mydei like he was trying to solve some impossible puzzle. His blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting between him and Y/N.

“I’m leaving,” he finally announced, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself that this was real life.

“Good,” Mydei muttered.

Phainon ignored him. Instead, he pointed dramatically at Y/N. “But you. You’re strange.”

She simply smiled. “I’ve been told.”

Phainon exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his white hair. “I need—” he paused, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what I need. To think maybe. To lie down. To question reality.” He took a step back. “This isn’t over.”

And with that, he finally left, muttering something under his breath about "needing a drink" and "Mydei being secretly replaced by a doppelgänger."

Silence filled the room.

Mydei let out a deep exhale, rubbing his temple. “Finally.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “You say that, but you know he’s going to be losing his mind over this for weeks.”

Mydei just grunted. “Not my problem.”

They sat in a comfortable quiet, the golden evening light filtering through the window, casting a warm glow over them. For a while, there was nothing but the soft sounds of the city outside, the occasional distant chatter from passersby.

Then, Mydei spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“…You meant all of that?”

Y/N turned her head slightly to look at him. “Of course.”

His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. He stared at the floor, his fingers idly tapping against his knee. “…Even the part where you said you wouldn’t trade me for anything?”

She smiled. “Especially that part.”

His jaw tightened slightly, as if the words were settling somewhere deep in his chest, somewhere unfamiliar.

Y/N shifted closer, resting her head gently on his shoulder.

Mydei immediately stiffened. His entire body went rigid, like someone had just dropped a battleaxe in his lap. His first instinct was to move away—space, he always needed space—but… he didn’t.

He let out a slow breath.

“You don’t have to overthink it,” Y/N murmured, voice soft and reassuring. “I like you just the way you are, Mydei.”

His breath hitched.

“I adore you,” she added. “Grumpiness, sharp edges, and all.”

Heat crawled up his neck. He knew it. He felt it. His entire face was burning.

“…You say ridiculous things,” he muttered.

“And yet,” Y/N teased, “you’re still listening.”

He huffed, scowling slightly. But he didn’t move.

He let her stay, resting against him, her warmth a quiet comfort.

For once, he didn’t feel the need to push it away.

Meanwhile, outside, Phainon had barely made it five steps before stopping in his tracks. He placed his hands on his head, eyes wide, staring at nothing in particular.

“This—this doesn’t make sense.” His voice was hoarse, as if the very fabric of reality had just been torn apart before him.

He turned toward the nearest street vendor. “Hey, hey, quick question—what do you do when you see something so impossible, so unbelievable that your brain refuses to accept it?”

The vendor blinked. “…Uh.”

Phainon grabbed his shoulders. “Do you—do you just pretend it didn’t happen? Do you try to rationalize it? Or do you just—accept it?”

The vendor nervously handed him a roasted skewer of meat. “Uh… here. Have this. You seem… unwell.”

Phainon took it but barely noticed. He turned back toward Y/N’s house, eyes still wide in disbelief.

“I need to sit down.”

And with that, he promptly collapsed onto a bench, skewer still in hand, questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.

_______________________________________

Well here's the 3rd part XD

If u have any wishes or scenarios u wanna see, feel free to ask XD

[evilminji]

You ever fuck up so bad, you accidentally kidnap someone?

Imagine, if you will, the players of our scene. Young Justice. Perhaps the Teen Titans. It matters not, really, only that they are young. Too young, in fact, for the booze they have smuggled in, to celebrate still being ALIVE.

They didn't think they would be, approximately seven hours ago.

They didn't think ANYONE would be, by this time, seven hours later.

The world celebrates. Families hug, children cry and laugh, lovers desperately reunite. They did it. They saved the day. Survived.

With new wounds and some fresh new trauma to show for it, too. Perhaps... Perhaps it is that. And the looseness of alcohols effect on the tounge. Combined with their new closeness... that gets them talking. Sharing.

Talking of skills. Training. Histories normally not mentioned. Perhaps even bitching about this mentor or that old teacher, and OH, weren't they a NAG! "Fundamentals~!" The magic user mocks in drunkin parody of their old teacher. "it's all about the FUNDAMENTALS! Practice circles until you puke!"

But...

Oh? Oh DEAR~

Drunks have such POOR impulse control, don't they? The Speedster scoffs. He doesn't mean harm. Truely, he doesn't. But to him? It is a constant irritant against sore skin, that his team mates have access to such powerful and strange powers... yet choose not too study them at ALL! Ask questions. That they haven't considered the advancements humanity could make if they just TRIED.

Everything has an answer.

Just because you don't know what it IS yet, doesn't mean it doesn't EXSIST out there.

But this is an old argument. They ALSO a sore spot for the magic user and (by the many gods they know better then to swear by) they are SICK of it! You- *urk!* You think you can do BETTER? Explain it then, Mr. "Magic isn't real"!

And oh dear, oh dear~

The usual mitigator has already fallen asleep. Passed out, really, having amongst other things, texted their Ex and decided they NEEDED to dye their hair. Which leaves no one to stop what about to unfold. As the Speedster slams down his drink, his hyper accelerated metabolism leaving him, ironically, one of the LEAST drunk in the room.

But... sometimes all you NEED to royally fuck up?

Is to be just buzzed enough to ignore your better instincts.

And the argument kicks up. Again. Heats up. Again. But this time? Goes further. They are standing, yelling, in each other's faces. The Speedster certain they are just "making things up". The magic user hissing that the arcane is a field of STUDY. A SCIENCE and ART. Just because YOU don't-

But?

Well... One must ask. Have you ever FOUGHT a Speedster? Can you even conceive of what a pico-second FEELS like? What the Speedforce, once active, makes the world LOOK like? It is like statues. Silence. Calling a timeout on reality itself.

You can walk away.

No one can really stop you.

You can walk out the door, up the stairs, to your friends room, and grab books from their shelf. Sit and read them. ALL of them. The whole shelving unit. In the time it took a fraction of a second to pass. Then get up, put everything back, go back down stairs, search for supplies, find them, and return to your conversation. Having studied everything they have in the building.

And for them? It's like blinking. You just... have the supplies now. Air is displaced.

And you're ready to fuckin PROVE it.

You looked up all the symbols they used. So NOW? You can use nonsense. No chance that ANYTHING will happen, right? It's not "official magic"! He says, talking over a buzzed magic user. Who's staring at him blankly, mind churning as they try figure out why... why it sounds like he's saying he's about to do the One Thing they were... told.. to never...

Oh God.

WAIT!

DONT!

But it's too late. Our dear Speedster has made his "gibberish" circle. Chanted randomly strung together magically charged NONSENSE. Then? Let her rip! See? Nothing happ-

The world seems to suck in it's breath and wind up, as though preparing to PERSONALLY punish such hubris. The magic user us screaming. Back! Every GET BACK! Move, move, MOVE! Green hisses and crackles from the circle.

As.

Reality.

CRACKS.

!!!BOOM!!!

Glass shatters and electronics are beyond salvation. The couchs many dove behind are shredded, but hold. Sections of the ceiling and floor collapsing. The Radiation alarm deeper in the base kicks in with a clicking wail. There is SOMETHING casting a looming shadow... and it has a CROWN.

The air burns like arctic winter wind and ozone.

Before anyone can think of what to DO, a harsh golden light rips open reality and out steps most of JLA Dark. The are standing in front of the now completely trashed Zeta-tube. Which they could not USE. They do not look amused.

"What. Did you. DO!?" Snarls an exhausted John Constantine from the front of the line up, his normal rougish face is still half bruises and the cigarette he's holding looks like it's the only thing keeping him from strangling someone. "We could feel that from FUCKIN SPACE! We're you trying to blow up the PLANET?!"

"Good QUESTION!" snarls another voice, from the direction of where the circle should be "Here's another one! Where the HELL am I and who are you people?!"

Every spins to look.

There, floating above the green glowing circle, is a teen in a crown.

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @hdgnj @dcxdpdabbles @lolottes @mutable-manifestation @hdgnj @nerdpoe

[kaayyyys]

how daryl dixon would react to you calling him your "current boyfriend"

The Georgia sun beat down on your back as you helped Carol hang laundry. It was a mundane task, one of the many that filled your days in Alexandria, but you found a quiet satisfaction in it. A sense of normalcy in a world that had gone mad. Daryl was out on a run with Rick, a routine supply search that never failed to make you a little anxious until he walked back through those gates.

"He's good for you, you know," Carol said, her voice soft as she pinned a shirt to the line.

You knew exactly who she meant. A blush crept up your neck, and you busied yourself with a wet sheet, avoiding her knowing gaze. "He's… different," you admitted, the word feeling inadequate to describe the complex man that Daryl Dixon was.

"Different good," Carol clarified, a smile playing on her lips. "He looks at you like you hung the damn moon."

You laughed, a light, airy sound that was still somewhat foreign after everything that had happened. "Don't let him hear you say that. He'd probably skin us both alive."

Carol chuckled, then sobered slightly. "Just… don't take him for granted, (Y/N). He's a good man, a rare one. And he cares about you more than he lets on."

The conversation faded as you finished the laundry, but Carol's words lingered in your mind. Daryl was good, a force of nature wrapped in a gruff exterior. He wasn't one for grand gestures or flowery words, but his actions spoke volumes. The way he always made sure you had the best watch, the quiet comfort he offered after a nightmare, the possessive glint in his eyes when another man lingered too long in your presence. He was yours, and you were his, a bond forged in the fires of a brutal world.

Later that evening, a group of you were gathered on the porch of one of the houses, enjoying the relative peace of Alexandria. You, Carol, Rosita, and a few others were swapping stories and jokes, the easy camaraderie a balm to your weary souls. Daryl sat beside you, leaning back against the railing, his usual stoic expression in place. He was listening, but not participating, his presence a quiet reassurance at your side.

A new group approached, led by a man named Marcus, one of the newer residents of Alexandria. He was friendly enough, if a little overeager to impress. He stopped in front of your group, a wide smile on his face.

"Hey, everyone," he said, his gaze lingering on you for a beat too long. "Just wanted to see what everyone was up to tonight."

"Just chatting," Rosita replied, her tone polite but firm.

Marcus shifted his weight, then turned his attention to you. "(Y/N), right? I don't think we've officially met. I'm Marcus." He extended a hand.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, then took his hand and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Marcus."

"So, (Y/N)," Marcus continued, his voice dropping slightly. "Are you seeing anyone?"

A collective silence fell over the porch. You could feel Daryl tense beside you, his eyes narrowing. Before you could formulate a polite, yet firm, rejection, a mischievous idea sparked in your mind. A way to both deflect Marcus's advances and tease your possessive boyfriend.

"Oh, you know," you said, batting your eyelashes playfully. "I'm currently seeing someone. It's still pretty new, though."

Marcus's face fell slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Oh, really? Anyone I know?"

You leaned closer to Daryl, resting your hand casually on his thigh. He stiffened at the contact, his eyes fixed on Marcus, but he didn't pull away. "You might," you said, a sly smile playing on your lips. "His name is… Daryl."

The silence that followed was deafening. Marcus's jaw dropped, and he stared at Daryl with a mixture of disbelief and apprehension. Daryl, for his part, remained impassive, his gaze unwavering, but you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Daryl?" Marcus stammered, turning back to you. "You're… you're dating Daryl Dixon?"

You squeezed Daryl's thigh reassuringly, your smile widening. "He's my current boyfriend, yes."

The look on Marcus's face was priceless. He sputtered for a moment, then mumbled something about needing to check on something and quickly retreated, his entourage trailing behind him.

As soon as he was out of earshot, the porch erupted in laughter. Carol was practically doubled over, tears streaming down her face. Rosita was shaking her head, a wide grin on her face. You turned to Daryl, your heart pounding with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.

He was still staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists. You could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

"Daryl?" you said softly, nudging him playfully. "You okay?"

He turned to you slowly, his eyes dark and intense. "Boyfriend?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

You bit back a nervous laugh. "Well, I had to say something, didn't I? He was being so persistent."

"Could've said you weren't interested," Daryl muttered, avoiding your gaze.

"Where's the fun in that?" you teased, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "Besides, you didn't seem to mind too much."

He finally met your eyes, a flicker of something akin to amusement dancing within them. "Didn't say nothin'," he mumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"No, you didn't," you agreed, leaning in closer. "You just sat there, looking all possessive and territorial."

He scoffed, but the corners of his lips twitched upward. "Wasn't doin' nothin'."

"Sure you weren't," you said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "You're so cute when you're jealous."

He pulled back slightly, a genuine smile finally gracing his face. "Cute?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I ain't cute."

"Oh, but you are," you insisted, nuzzling your face into his neck. "My big, scary, cute boyfriend."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close. "You're gonna pay for that later," he murmured against your ear, his voice husky.

You shivered at his words, a thrill coursing through you. "I'm counting on it, boyfriend," you whispered back.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your body. "Damn right, you are." He tightened his grip on you, his eyes scanning the porch, daring anyone to challenge his claim. You were his, and everyone in Alexandria, including you, was now firmly aware of that fact. And as the laughter subsided around you, and the Georgia night settled in, you knew you wouldn't have it any other way.

[fellominaarcher]

UNTIL YOU LOVE ME — KARINA

01. FAULT LINES

SYNOPSIS

» » After a humiliating wardrobe malfunction goes viral, movie star Karina becomes the target of ruthless media and online hate. But behind the scenes, an obsessed fan decides to protect her—by any means necessary. As stylists vanish, stalkers go missing, and hate commenters face harsh lawsuits, Karina begins to suspect that someone is watching over her. Someone dangerous.

» » movie star!Karina x stalker!protector!femreader + g!p fem!reader

» » warning: public humiliations, hate comments, parasocial relationship & mental instability

The first mistake: Karina’s bra strap snapped while she was on stage, mid-speech, accepting her award with a luminous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The cameras caught her grace, her poise but not the tremble in her fingers as she clutched the mic, the rigid tension in her shoulders. She didn’t falter. Not once. Even in discomfort, even while something betrayed her beneath that custom couture gown.

The moment she stepped off stage, Karina rushed backstage, the smile dissolving from her face like mist under harsh lights.

That mistake didn’t go unnoticed. Her fanbase erupted online within minutes, outraged whispers turning into hashtags. The stylist was blamed—rightfully so, they said. How could they let a star of her caliber walk out like that? Where was the professionalism? Where was the care?

The second mistake: her left heel snapped just before she descended the stage stairs. She stumbled. A hand shot out to steady her, but the damage had been done. She could have fallen. She could have been injured.

Did her stylist check the shoes thoroughly? Probably not. Probably too lazy. Or too confident that nothing would go wrong.

They were wrong.

The third mistake—the fatal one: tearing along the seam of her dress. Jagged, ugly lines where the delicate fabric gave way. Skin flashed under flashing lights. Cameras did what they always do—clicked mercilessly, greedily. There was no delay. No grace. Within the hour, pictures and videos saturated social media feeds and news sites, dissected by thousands of anonymous fingers.

Zoomed-in. Cropped. Shared. Mocked.

Karina—Yoo Jimin—darling of the red carpet, favorite of directors and fans alike, was now a spectacle.

Poor, poor everyone's favorite rising star. They offered her no mercy.

The netizens, once devoted, turned their backs with the speed of a guillotine. They fed off humiliation like parasites, leaving Karina no time to respond, no time to breathe. Her Instagram went silent. Her agency gave no statement.

Karina disappeared.

The agency, SM Entertainment, was livid. Jimin herself was tired, humiliated, and raw—had reached her limit. The stylist who had failed her would be made an example of. Fired. Sued. Their name scrubbed clean from future projects. There would be stricter protocols. Quality checks. New contracts.

Too late. The damage was done.

Online Forum Comments

“LMAO her whole tit almost popped out. SM really fumbled.” “This is what happens when you give actresses idol treatment. Can’t even wear a dress right.” “What’s next? Her wig falling off on live TV?” “Her team is obviously sabotaging her on purpose. No way this many wardrobe 'malfunctions' happen by accident. What did she do to make them hate her so much? 👀☕”

She could feel the dissatisfaction and anger rising like bile in her throat. These faceless cowards hiding behind usernames, tearing apart someone they'd never even met. Someone who didn't deserve a fraction of this venom.

For a moment, Y/N allowed herself to think about Karina's feelings. How much had this affected her? How was she coping right now, alone in whatever penthouse or safe house her agency had stashed her in? Had she cried herself to sleep? Was she angry, or had the hurt consumed everything else?

Y/N hoped she cried.

Y/N's phone screen reflected her face in its black surface as she finally set it down. In that distorted reflection, something cold and determined crystallized behind her eyes.

She had money. She had intelligence. She had resources that most people could only dream of.

And she had a very clear idea of who was responsible for Karina's suffering.

The stylist had been identified, of course. Kang Minseo. Social media had done Y/N's preliminary work for her, complete with photos, workplace information, and personal details that people had no business knowing. A careless woman, posting selfies at a café just days after Karina’s humiliation. Did she feel no shame?

But Y/N wasn't like those other obsessed fans. She wasn't going to send death threats or spam the woman's Instagram.

No, Y/N believed in a more... permanent solution to problems.

She opened her laptop and began to type, her fingers moving with the precision of someone who had done this kind of research before. Background checks, financial records, daily routines, family members, weaknesses.

Everyone had something to lose. Everyone had pressure points.

And Y/N? Y/N was very, very good at finding them.

The cursor blinked steadily on her screen as she worked, the only sound in her apartment the soft clicking of keys and the distant hum of the city below. Somewhere out there, Karina was hurting. Hiding. Probably questioning everything about her career, her choices, her worth.

That was unacceptable.

Y/N had been watching Karina for years—not in the creepy, invasive way that made her skin crawl when she thought about those disgusting sasaengs. She maintained her distance, respected boundaries, never tried to break into hotels or follow her home or hide under her bed. She wasn't that kind of fan.

Almost like a normal fan.

But protection? Ensuring that the people who hurt Karina faced consequences?

That was different. That was justice.

And Y/N had always been very good at delivering justice.

──────────────────────

One Week Later

Nearly eight days had passed since the humiliating incident that sent Jimin into hiding. Eight days of silence after her manager's explosive confrontation with the stylist—Minseo. Eight days of SM Entertainment scrambling for damage control while sensible fans fought back against the tide of ridiculous hatred flooding social media.

No woman should become a feast for people's cruelty and growing apathy.

After extensive discussions with her agency, today was supposed to be the reckoning. They had summoned Minseo for contract settlement, questioning, and finally, the lawsuit that would serve as both justice and warning. Minseo would be held accountable for damages, for the harm she'd inflicted on their rising star, for the defamation that had nearly destroyed Jimin's carefully built reputation.

Arriving at SM's conference room, several staff members were already seated around the polished table, and a lawyer sat prepared with documents spread before him. The tension was suffocating. Jimin felt a weight pressing against her chest, making each breath deliberate.

Life had been unbearably difficult since the incident. Wearing only lipstick, sunscreen, and moisturizer—the bare minimum she could manage—Jimin wished for this nightmare to end quickly so she could return to the public eye without guilt and shame crushing her shoulders.

Then came the waiting. And waiting.

What should have been a fifteen-minute delay stretched into forty minutes. Even the representatives from Minseo's styling company looked increasingly bewildered by their employee's absence.

"I'm sorry, I'll try calling her again," a woman in her thirties pressed her phone to her ear, her body bowed in embarrassment as she spoke to someone who clearly wasn't picking up.

Jimin sighed, eyes sliding shut as she leaned back against the headrest. Her chair spun slightly from the movement. "I'm usually patient, but for this situation, I'm making an exception." Her voice carried an edge that made the room feel even more tense.

Two sharp knocks echoed against the glass door. A staff member verbally granted entrance, and in walked another employee holding a pristine white envelope.

"This just arrived. A delivery person said it was urgent correspondence for Karina," he announced, extending the envelope toward Jimin's manager.

The manager reached for it, beginning to unfold the letter, but Jimin was quicker. She snatched it from his hands, her eyes immediately scanning the Korean characters written in surprisingly messy handwriting. There were several words crossed out and rewritten, spelling mistakes covered with hasty corrections. It took her a moment to decipher the chaotic penmanship.

"Too Miss Karina,

Or formally, Yoo Jimin, I apologize deeply for the damage I have caused and for defaming you, for embarrassing you through my carelessness regarding your well-being. I should have been more thorough, more careful with your wardrobe. Clearly, I failed to show the proper care and attention you deserved. I apologize again, sincerely.

Please give me some time to arrange my affairs, and then I will come to apologize in person and discuss my settlement appropriately.

From, Minseo"

A new kind of tension descended upon the room like a heavy curtain. Stressed sighs filled the air as everyone processed this unexpected development. Questions about Minseo's sudden disappearance began circulating in hushed tones.

Of course she would run from her mistakes, they reasoned. It was only natural for someone to flee when faced with consequences.

They remained completely oblivious to the divine intervention that had orchestrated this outcome. Minseo was alive, nothing too dangerous had happened to her.

──────────────────────

Two Days Earlier

Kang Minseo had been buzzing with excitement as she prepared for her date. After hours of chatting and exchanging jokes on the dating app, she'd finally matched with someone who seemed perfect—tall, funny, attractive, with an easy charm that made her heart flutter. Their conversation had flowed effortlessly, leading to plans for cake and coffee at a cozy café near her apartment.

She'd spent extra time on her appearance that evening, sitting by the large window of the café while touching up her hair and makeup. Her outfit was carefully chosen and well-fitted—ironically, much more attention than she'd ever paid to the garments she'd provided for Yoo Jimin.

"You're Kang Minseo?"

The voice made her look up expectantly. A tall, strikingly attractive woman stood beside her table, radiating the kind of confidence that made Minseo's pulse quicken.

"I'm Cho Haejin. From Tinder—remember my face?" Y/N asked with a warm, teasing smile that perfectly matched the persona she'd crafted.

Creating the fake identity had required meticulous planning. Setting up the Tinder profile, curating photos, developing a believable backstory, then carefully orchestrating their match—it had taken weeks of patient manipulation. But for Jimin, Y/N could go to any lengths.

"Oh! Yes, Cho Haejin! Please, have a seat," Minseo gestured enthusiastically, her head dipping in a small bow of respect—a traditional courtesy that felt almost mockingly polite given what Y/N had planned.

Everything about "Haejin" exceeded Minseo's expectations. Tall, witty, beautiful smile, impeccable fashion sense—Minseo found herself completely captivated. They talked for hours over red velvet cake and iced drinks, but Minseo's desire was building with each laugh they shared.

She wasn't this enthusiastic about Karina's well-being, Y/N noted with cold amusement.

After more flirtatious conversation, Minseo leaned forward with barely contained want. "Do you want to come to my place?"

──────────────────────

The apartment door closed behind them with a soft click. Within moments, they were pressed against each other, Minseo's arms looping around Y/N's neck as their lips met. The stylist tilted her head, deepening the kiss with desperate hunger, while Y/N's strong arms held her close. They stumbled toward the bedroom between breathless laughs, Minseo leading the way with growing urgency.

Heat consumed Minseo's thoughts. She needed skin against skin, needed to strip away the barriers between them. Her fingers fumbled with Y/N's shirt, tugging impatiently at the fabric until a firm hand covered hers, stopping her movements. Their kiss broke.

Minseo looked up into Y/N's eyes, both their lips slightly swollen and parted. "I need you, Haejin," she whispered, breathing heavily, heart racing. "Come on, make me feel good."

Y/N hummed softly, shaking her head while studying Minseo's eager hands. "I could make you feel good in ways you've never experienced, Minseo," she said quietly, reaching into her pocket. Her eyes met Minseo's again. "Like this."

Y/N's hand wrapped around Minseo's throat.

The world shifted violently. Y/N pushed Minseo against the wall, her grip tightening—not enough to kill, but enough to control. A cloth appeared in her other hand, already covering her fingers. She couldn't risk leaving fingerprints when Minseo inevitably went to the police.

"If you make a sound, you won't survive this," Y/N's voice transformed completely, all warmth draining into something venomous and dead. "I need you alive for when Karina and her agency drag you to court. You're going to watch your own fate unfold."

Minseo bit her inner cheek to stifle a sob, panic flooding her system. "Did... did Karina send you?" she managed to whisper, unable to meet Y/N's eyes.

"No."

"Then who are you?"

"Someone who understands that careless, ignorant actions have consequences." Y/N's tone was almost robotic now, completely devoid of emotion.

Tears streamed down Minseo's face as she pressed her eyes shut, trying to block out the terror. Her body shook with the effort of not screaming. "What are you going to do to me?" Her voice cracked. She was too weak to break free from Y/N's hold—the woman was surprisingly strong.

Y/N stepped back slowly, releasing her grip. A flicker of something that might have been sympathy crossed her features. "You're going to write something for me. Maybe learn a lesson and take some time to reflect on your mistakes. Hmm?" She pocketed the cloth and pulled out latex gloves, snapping them on with practiced efficiency.

"Please don't hurt me..." Minseo was seconds away from collapsing, trembling with bone-deep fear.

Suddenly, Y/N's expression shifted completely. The warm, charming smile returned—the same one that had captivated Minseo at the café. "No, I'm not going to hurt you, Minseo! Relax, I can promise this will still be a memorable date!"

The whiplash between personas was more terrifying than any threat.

──────────────────────

Minseo sat on her living room floor, pen trembling in her hand as she carefully wrote each word of the apology letter. Y/N sat across from her in a dining chair, casually holding a pair of fabric scissors—the same ones Minseo used for Karina's costumes.

The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

Y/N supervised every word, ensuring the apology sounded sincere, authentic. The shaking in Minseo's hand created the perfect touch of desperation, the crossed-out words and messy penmanship adding believability.

"Good," Y/N said when Minseo finally set down the pen. "I'm proud of you."

The praise, delivered in that same warm tone she'd used during their "date," made Minseo's skin crawl.

──────────────────────

Night After Failure

The failed meeting had left everyone at SM Entertainment in a state of tense uncertainty. With Minseo's mysterious absence and cryptic apology letter, they could only assume the stylist was on the run, too cowardly to face the consequences of her negligence. If she didn't surface soon, they'd have no choice but to involve the police in finding her.

Jimin sat curled on her couch, legs tucked beneath her, drowning in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. The television played some mindless reality show that she wasn't really watching—just noise to fill the oppressive silence of her apartment.

"So your stylist ran away, the public is split between ridiculing and defending you..." Aeri's voice drifted from the other end of the couch where she'd sunk deep into the cushions. She was staying the night, having flown into Seoul for the week. "I hope things get better for you soon."

Jimin released a heavy, exhausted sigh, pressing her fingers to her temples. "This is literally the worst month of my life. I've had bad days before, but this is definitely in the top three," she said, her voice hollow with fatigue.

Who wouldn't be exhausted? When your stylist's ignorance and recklessness had humiliated you in front of the entire world, when every mistake felt like another nail in the coffin of your carefully built career.

"I didn't know you ranked your worst life moments," Aeri commented absently, her eyes glued to her phone screen as she scrolled through feeds that undoubtedly contained coverage of Jimin's latest scandal.

A bitter laugh escaped Jimin's lips as she let her head fall back against the couch. "With that whole messy letter showing up too... I guess I'll take it as a sign that she'll eventually come back." Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, blinking slowly as exhaustion weighed down her eyelids.

"Hopefully," Aeri murmured.

Jimin closed her eyes and exhaled deeply, her mind churning through possible solutions. How could she navigate this disaster? How could she return to the public eye without this scandal following her forever? The uncertainty gnawed at her, making sleep feel impossible despite her bone-deep weariness.

──────────────────────

aespa m.list | UYLM m.list | main m.list

[mysteryshoptls]

Quick Interlude/PSA

Hello, all! I'm still away for headache-inducing IRL things for another week, but I thought I should reach out.

It was brought to my attention while I was away that my Trouble Lines translation zipped around on the internet. I'm glad everyone was excited for them, but I did notice that there were many uncredited reposts. I'm sure even the posts that I did see were only a fraction of those that spread.

Fan translations happen because we're passionate about the game, but it still takes a chunk of my personal time that I've chosen to dedicate to typing these up. To see people unable to take one second to say where they got it from is a little disheartening.

I usually do text posts, so I hadn't realized how quickly an image post would spread like wildfire. Going forth, whenever I do have another image post, I do plan on watermarking them.

I genuinely appreciate those who either credited my translations on their posts, or alerted others as to where the translations came from. Thanks for all your support, and for everyone who let me know of the reposts. While I do have a twitter account for this blog, I stopped using it a while ago because I didn't have the bandwidth to juggle posting things both here and there, so I'm afraid I don't have a presence there (or any other social media) to see these things as soon as they happen. (I do plan on posting this on that account, however, as soon as I remember the password)

I'll see everyone when I get back! I've been translating the full songs in what little downtime I've had these past two weeks, so those'll be my priority for when I get back into it.

[writeriguess]

Will you write a soulmate AU with Toya but hes going through therapy and is finally deemed stable enough to be back in society abd he becomes a sidekick and works with shoto abd 4 years have pasted since he’s been back aloud in society and he meets reader and falls in love with her at first glance and he peruses her

Flame-Touched

Toya Todoroki had never believed in soulmates.

It wasn't that he thought they didn’t exist—he knew better than to dismiss something so many people swore by. The universe had a twisted sense of humour, after all. But for someone like him, someone who had spent years consumed by vengeance, trauma, and the weight of his own destruction, the idea of a perfect match felt like a cruel joke.

And yet, the universe had given him a second chance.

Four years had passed since he was deemed stable enough to rejoin society. It hadn’t been easy. Therapy had been a battle all its own, forcing him to confront the wreckage he’d left behind. But he had fought, clawed his way toward redemption, and in the end, they let him come back. Not as a hero—he wasn’t sure he’d ever deserve that title—but as a sidekick. Working under Endeavor had been out of the question, but when Shoto offered him a place at his own agency, Toya had surprised everyone—including himself—by accepting.

Now, at twenty-six, Toya was still figuring it all out. He had a job, a routine, a somewhat functional relationship with his siblings. He had stability.

What he didn’t have was love.

And he’d convinced himself that was fine.

Until he met you.

It happened in the most ordinary way possible.

A slow evening patrol. Cool air. The city humming around him, a far cry from the chaos he used to revel in. Toya wasn’t even thinking about anything in particular when he saw you—just another civilian walking down the street, lost in your own world.

But then you looked up.

And the second your eyes met his, something inside him shifted.

It was a strange sensation, like a fire sparking in his chest. Not the painful, destructive kind he was used to, but something warmer. Softer. His feet stopped moving before he could even think about it.

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly in surprise. And then, as if you felt it too, you smiled.

Toya felt something in him crack wide open.

Holy shit.

"Hey," you said casually, as if greeting some random stranger on the street.

But Toya had been around long enough to recognise the way your pupils dilated slightly, the way your breath caught just a fraction. You felt it too.

The bond.

Shit, shit, shit.

He had never been good at emotions, and this? This was a lot. Too much. So, of course, his brilliant response was to stare at you like he’d been struck by lightning.

Your smile faltered just a bit. "Uh… you okay?"

Say something, dumbass.

"Yeah," Toya finally managed, voice rougher than he intended. "You just… look familiar."

It was a lie. He’d never seen you before in his life. But it was better than blurting out I think you might be my soulmate, because that would probably get him slapped.

You tilted your head, studying him. "I don’t think we’ve met before. But you’re… Shoto’s partner, right? The blue flames gave it away."

Toya nodded, trying to remember how to act like a normal person. "Yeah. That’s me."

You smiled again, and damn it, it made his stomach flip.

"I’m (Y/N)," you introduced yourself, sticking out your hand.

Toya hesitated for a split second before taking it. The moment your skin touched his, a pleasant warmth spread through him—not the burning heat he was used to, but something soothing.

Shit. Yeah. He was done for.

The problem with falling in love at first sight was that it made Toya absolutely, hopelessly pathetic.

Shoto noticed immediately.

"You met someone," his younger brother stated one morning, watching Toya with narrowed eyes.

Toya, who had been absently staring at his phone with an uncharacteristically soft look, nearly dropped the damn thing. "No, I didn’t."

Shoto arched an eyebrow. "Right. And that stupid look on your face is just because you love morning briefings so much?"

"Shut up."

Shoto smirked. "You like someone."

Toya sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "It’s… complicated."

Shoto, to his credit, didn’t push. Instead, he just said, "If they make you happy, don’t let them slip away."

And that was the thing.

Toya had never pursued anyone before. He’d had flings, meaningless encounters that never lasted more than a night. He had never wanted more.

But with you, he did.

And that scared the hell out of him.

You made it easy.

That was what threw him off the most.

Toya expected awkwardness, hesitation, maybe even rejection. Instead, you welcomed him into your life like he belonged there. You started meeting up for coffee (he stuck to tea), bumping into each other “coincidentally” when you were totally in the same place on purpose.

And when he finally worked up the nerve to ask you out, you just laughed and said, "I was wondering when you’d get around to it."

Toya stared. "You knew?"

You grinned. "You’re not exactly subtle."

Fair enough.

Dating you was… easy. Natural. You weren’t intimidated by him, didn’t flinch at his past. You saw him—really saw him—and still chose to stay.

"You’re different," you told him once, curled up next to him on the couch. "Not just from how people think you are, but from how you think you are."

Toya swallowed hard, looking away. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You took his hand, tracing absent circles against his palm. "You’re good, Toya."

He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just squeezed your hand a little tighter.

The first time he kissed you, he was a goddamn mess.

It had been an impulse, a moment of weakness after you laughed at something he said, and before he could stop himself, he just leaned in.

And you kissed him back.

And suddenly, Toya understood why people wrote poetry about this shit.

Afterward, you pulled back just enough to whisper, "I knew you’d do that eventually."

Toya groaned, burying his face in your neck. "You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. "Nope."

And for the first time in his life, Toya realised he didn’t mind.

Because if soulmates were real, if the universe really had given him one—

He was never letting you go.

[insomniumstella]

baby, she's all yours

bucky x fem!reader

warnings: free use (consent to be "used" anytime & anywhere), explicit language, fingering, oral (m! and f! receiving), a sprinkle of degradation, a sprinkle of breeding kink, dom!bucky, public sex, light spanking, daddy kink (i should be stopped). this one is bad, so it goes without saying, but MDI

word count: 1,240

author's note: this is a lil' story in celebration of kinktober, which time won't permit me to participate in, but my thoughts always wanted to. ➼ sharp, but oh so gentle

James was hesitant to explore the concept you described as free use at first, and maybe a fraction scared. The two of you had been dating for close to three years, and though things were great, the idea of you introducing free use into the bedroom days after knife play troubled him. His heart has always been heavy with the notion of being too difficult to love and too bothersome to deal with, but you made him feel enough; more than. Special in public when you would proudly hold his hand, and special in the comfort of plush sheets when you would let him cherish you — use and mould you into a drooling mess, obeying every demand. Was proposing a fresh kink a silent plead to advise him you have gotten bored? 

As it turned out, it was. Kind of. The itch beneath your skin urging you to explore foreign waters wasn’t boredom but rather lust. Fiery hot and addicting type of lust that ignited every nerve ending in your body around him. Still does. Introducing Bucky to free use was the best—and the most deliciously infuriating—thing to soothe your constant yearning for his touch. 

It caught you off guard, the first time he complied with the request. Steve had recently purchased an apartment in Brooklyn and organised a small housewarming celebration. You slipped out of the living room and into the kitchen once your glass turned empty, oblivious to the very needy pair of eyes studying you. The music muffled your soft moans then, as James fingered you against the blonde’s new refrigerator, suffocating the whines his thick fingers caused with passionate kisses. 

The second time it happened, it was winter. Powdery layers of snow covered the entirety of New York City, and, as the sun laid to rest for the evening, the streets seemed magical. James and you were rushing to Natasha’s birthday dinner, stopping by Bergdorf Goodman for a last-minute gift. Time around holidays is always strenuous, but the missions almost doubled last year, rustles of a deadly biochemical weapon dampening the joy of Christmas and stealing your attention away from getting Natasha a gift early. Bucky tackled the three bottom floors whilst you handled the other three, scouring the variety of fine jewelry and designer clothing. As fate would have it, a gorgeous sequinned dress piqued your interest, the colour of it overly harsh for the redhead’s complexion but perfectly complimenting to yours. James practically pleaded for you to model it, assuring nobody would notice you being late a minute or two. Desire waltzed in his eyes when you agreed at last, twirling around to present the garment and flaunt how well it flattered your curves. He shoved the two of you into the private dressing room once the sales associate disappeared to bring out a pair of matching heels, closing the curtains and hiking the dress up to your waist. “Be good for me,” he spoke, undoing his zipper and slipping the tip of his cock into your dripping heat, “you wouldn’t want employees to hear us, would you, doll?” You couldn’t think of the gift you ended up buying Natasha, but you can still remember sobbing into Bucky’s hand as his hips feverishly snapped into yours.  

Sometimes, that particular memory makes you wonder if introducing James to free use was a mistake — you’d be lying if you said it was because the thrill of being played with at times you least expect is exhilarating. The agreement caused many risky scenarios, though. There was that instance of Bucky between your legs, lapping at your core during a video call with your sister. The wooden desk shielded him from view as he relished you, but the grimaces on your features were a smidge more difficult to camouflage. “You taste incredible, baby,” Bucky mumbled, flesh and metal hands gripping the softness of your exposed thighs, before eagerly licking your clit. “Couldn’t ever get enough of this pussy.” You inadvertently moaned thrice during the call, disguising the sinful sounds by feigning coughs and attributing your strange demeanour to a common cold. “Tell her the truth,” James teased then, slipping a metal digit inside your needy hole, and you sneakily slapped his shoulder. The unsuspecting woman on screen continued to babble about her upcoming visit as you hit the mute button on your computer because the man below you had zero intentions of easing up. “Can feel you squeezin’,” he groaned, slipping a couple more of his metal digits inside. “Please end the call, peach, so I could fuck you atop this desk already.” 

There was also the time he got annoyed on a road trip, freeing his cock and guiding your head downward to silence your complaints about his driving on unpaved roads. “Be a good girl and put that mouth to better use,” he grunted as you licked drops of pre-cum off his skin. “Na uh, doll,” with his left arm on the steering wheel, James forced the entirety of his length into your mouth, “we ain’t got time for any foreplay shit right now.” 

Furthermore, introducing him to free use is the reason for your current predicament — being bent over the sink at a local bar with Bucky balls deep inside you. 

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart.” James praises, catching your gaze in the grimy mirror before spanking your velvety hips. “My girl’s such a slut for me, letting me play with her in a random pub’s bathroom.” It’s more of an observation than dirty talk, and you bite back a moan, nodding. “Bet you’re always thinking about daddy’s big cock, wishing you could be bursting full of me forever, aren’t you?” A harsh spank lands on your scorching skin when you don’t immediately answer. “I asked you a question, peach.”

“Yes,” you sob, digging your manicured nails into the base of your palm. “Love it—,” another wail slips past your swollen lips, “love it when you use me, daddy.” 

The pace of his hips slamming into yours remains brutal as he studies your expression in the mirror. “Look at you,” he clutches your chin, the slight pain of it forcing you to peel your eyes open, “my baby’s so fucked out, she’s having trouble speaking.” The steady pulse of your approaching orgasm heightens as Bucky admires the whimpering mess that is you, leaning lower until the slight stubble on his jaw tickles your ear. “Should I let you finish, or should I leave you all desperate and stuffed full of my cum until happy hour’s over?” 

“Please,” you plead, “I’m so close.” 

“That’s too—,” James chuckles through a groan as his own orgasm bursts in syrupy waves, “—bad.” The rhythm of his movements falters and then stops, and if tears weren’t streaming down your face already, you would’ve cried at the loss of contact, feeling terribly empty without Bucky to keep you warm. Though you don’t say a word to him, he can sense your frustration, the weight of your emotions lingering in the atmosphere around you. Slithering his metal hands between your legs, he pushes the cum that leaked out back inside you, thrusting a couple times to soothe your disappointment before withdrawing his touch and shoving your discarded panties into the pocket of his jacket. “Don’t let it drip out if you want a reward when we get home.” A lazy grin stretches across his features. “I promise to make it worth your while.” 

[fangirlfuel]

Ready to be a Father

Kimi Antonelli was in the middle of an intense testing session in Bahrain, his focus razor-sharp as he navigated the track, gathering valuable data for the team. The mechanics and engineers monitored his every move, analyzing every fraction of a second, every minor adjustment. The pressure was immense, after all, this was his first year in Formula 1, and expectations were already sky-high.

During a short break, he sat in the garage, helmet resting on his knee as he grabbed a water bottle. His phone buzzed on the table next to him. He wasn’t one to check his messages during testing, but something made him glance at the screen. The moment his eyes landed on the picture you had sent, his entire world tilted.

A tiny, pink baby onesie.

With the caption: You're going to be a daddy! 🩷

His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled slightly as he re-read the message, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. Pregnant? You were pregnant? His mind short-circuited. He was only eighteen. You were only seventeen. He had just started his career, barely getting used to the chaos of F1. And now… a baby?

A mix of emotions crashed over him like a tidal wave. Panic. Shock. Fear. And then, something else, something warm and overwhelming. Love. The idea of having a family with you, of holding a tiny baby in his arms, made his heart swell. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Could he do this? Would he be a good father? Would you be okay? He had so many questions, so many worries, but one thing was certain—he loved you, and he would do anything to make this work.

With shaking hands, he took a deep breath and, without really thinking, forwarded the picture to his parents with a voice note , his voice trembling. "Mom, Dad… I have to tell you something important......Y/N is pregnant".

Immediately, his phone exploded with notifications. His mother was calling him nonstop, and his father sent a string of panicked texts.

Kimi Lorenzo Antonelli, ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW!

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

You’re EIGHTEEN, Kimi!

KIMI, WE ARE GETTING ON A PLANE.

Kimi felt like he was going to pass out. His hands were sweating, and his helmet slipped off his knee onto the floor with a loud clatter. His engineer, noticing his pale face, frowned. “Kimi, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I just did,” Kimi muttered.

He barely made it through the rest of the testing session. His engineers kept asking if everything was alright, and he brushed them off with forced smiles. The second he was done for the day, he bolted to the nearest store, heart pounding in his chest. He found a small, soft teddy bear, something perfect for a newborn to cuddle. Holding it in his hands, he made a silent vow to be the best father he could be.

When he finally arrived home, his hands were shaking as he unlocked the door. You barely had time to turn around before he was wrapping you up in a tight embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured against your skin. “I–I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but I swear, I’m going to be the best dad. I’ll do anything for you, for our baby.”

You froze. “Our… baby?”

He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with the softest expression you had ever seen. “I know it’s unexpected, but I swear, I’ll be there for everything. Doctor’s appointments, late nights, everything. I’ll make sure you and the baby have everything you need.”

Your mind reeled, trying to piece together what was happening. Then, a small bark broke the silence.

Your eyes flickered towards the couch, where a tiny golden retriever puppy sat, its tail wagging. And there, draped over its tiny frame, was the pink baby onesie.

Realization hit you like a lightning bolt.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth. Your shoulders started shaking with laughter. “Kimi, no! The onesie wasn’t because I’m pregnant, it was for the puppy! I was trying to surprise you with our new pet!”

His face turned a deep shade of red. “Wait… what?”

Tears of laughter streamed down your face as you clutched his arm. “Kimi, you actually thought I was pregnant?”

Kimi groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I just had an entire existential crisis for nothing.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “A very cute crisis, though.”

Just as Kimi was about to respond, the apartment door burst open with a loud BANG.

“KIMI LORENZO ANTONELLI!”

Kimi jumped, nearly dropping the teddy bear as his parents stormed inside, looking completely frazzled. His mother, eyes blazing with fury, marched up to him and smacked his arm. “You thought you could just TEXT US something like this and NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE?!”

His father, though slightly calmer, was running a hand through his hair, looking at you with wide eyes. “Kimi, what were you thinking?! You’re both so young! We are about to rearrange our whole lives for this!”

You were doubled over in laughter at this point, tears streaming down your face. Kimi held up his hands. “Mom! Dad! It was a misunderstanding! Y/N isn’t pregnant!”

His mother stopped mid-rant, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Kimi pointed to the couch, where the tiny puppy was now chewing on the onesie’s sleeve. “The onesie was for the puppy! Y/N was surprising me, and I misunderstood!”

Silence.

Then, his mother smacked his arm again. “IDIOTA! Do you know what you just put us through?! We nearly had a heart attack on the way here!”

His father let out a deep sigh of relief before shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you, Kimi.”

You wiped at your tears, still giggling. “I think this is the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Kimi groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

His mother crossed her arms. “Not from me.”

His father smirked. “Or from me.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around Kimi’s waist. “And definitely not from me.”

Kimi let out a dramatic sigh. “Great. Just great.”

But despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile. Because even though this wasn’t the life-changing moment he thought it was, he still had you, and now, a tiny puppy that you would raise together. And maybe, just maybe, one day, the real onesie moment would happen.

Just… not today.

----

[meganegatari]

read part two here! series masterlist here!

currently thinking about how modern!ellie would be such a like “hallway crush” type…OKAY WAIT i have an idea, picture this: it's the first day of classes, and you're on your way to your university's astrophysics lecture hall and see her, walking briskly to her destination, with big black headphones (listening to divorced dad rock, of course) seemingly in her own world, not even aware of how cool she is in the moment. she passes you, walking only a little faster than you are, but it gives you time to check her out a bit. she's wearing some dark wash jeans and a flannel with a chunky jacket over top, her beat up bag slung over one shoulder(because shes just too kewl for skewl), and her signature worn black converse. as you follow her into the hall, (not being creepy, you're just on the same path. oh, seems like you're classmates too…oop!), she enters first, then holds the door for you as you file in behind her, looking back, meeting your eyes, and giving you a small nod as a greeting. (one of those that guys do, like when they tilt their chin up for a split-second as a bro greeting, UGH THE ENGLISH EXPLANATIONS ARE ESCAPING ME i do not know the ways of the men but yall have seen that nod thing they do, right?) that would happen in a fraction of a moment and you'd go to smile back at this beautiful stranger, but by the time you collect yourself she's already looking forward again. oh and then the two of you would part ways and sit on opposite sides of the room, however she'd still be on your mind…and whenever you cast glances her way, she'd seem interested in what the professor is talking about, but you'd then realize you're staring and bring your eyes back to your own laptop....

☆: hi, i have SO many ideas for drabbles and stuff but they rarely translate onto paper how I imagine them to go, but I'm sure that comes with time and practice, but for now take this silly idea I jotted down as it crossed my mind...I need her so bad, wish she was real 😔 (half hoping a situation like this happens to me LMAO...but crushes are too much stress....) BUTTTTT this drabble thingy got them creative juices flowing, and now im highly tempted to make a series or more parts to hallway crush ellie ...I say that every time but this idea's bouncing around in my skull and won't leave so who knows...