#I only understood a fraction of the references so it’s like

[moni-logues]

What the cat dragged in

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

Genre: smut, angst, strangers-to-lovers (kinda); 5+1

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.

Content: reader is 16yo in the first section (nothing sexual or romantic happens but there are suggestions of it), couple of references to human/sex trafficking; the gang are useless crime idiots but this is only barely relevant; interrupted foreplay; attempted car sex; unprotected piv sex; fingering; a lot of kissing tbh

Word count: 13.5k

A/N: SO this whole thing actually started HERE in JUNE (jfc, I thought I'd been thinking about this since like, October or something but, no no, a full ten months!!!!). It has drifted from that somewhat but that was its beginning and, honestly, I'm kind of stoked about this fic. I really like how it came out and it's my FIRST MINHO. It's taken me SO long to get around to my bestest evil catdad.

Huge thanks to @violetsiren90 for beta-ing! and also for reading it half-finished when I really needed some encouragment. AND for the title

*~*~*

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 softer.  

“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, 2nd 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. 

[swallowerofdharma]

Wherever you buy the magazine or the tankōbon, I bet that each one of us is just eager to read the story and see what happens and the speed with which our eyes move forward through the panels might vary but it is usually fast and slows down only occasionally. It is usually just a fraction of a second that we stay on the same page in the middle of a tense situation and dialogue (…is it different when the characters are naked? Tell me what your subjective experience is lol). What I am trying to say is that this knowledge or intuition of the specific speed of the reading experience - of our eagerness even - is another thing to notice about the way Yoneda masters so skillfully the language of manga. Saezuru is an engaging story not only because of great characters and multilayered elements of conflict, but also because each chapter is just an accomplishment in delivering actions, words, feelings, tension, situations and the inner lives of the characters. Or the complex power dynamics like in these two examples.

If you look closely it is very clear how the proportions are a little off. Yashiro shouldn’t be so big compared to Doumeki, we have a clear understanding of them and how big Doumeki actually is from many other points of reference. So what is happening here? Yaoi hands? Not quite.

Yoneda may not have been through formal training in art school but she has demonstrated her skills plenty of times in mastering the specific language of manga. So I don’t think for a minute that she was rushing through the pages and accidentally overlooked the proportions in these two chapters. Her eyes are better trained than that and the decision to proceed with the inking process implies a conscious choice of how each page will look as a finished product. And these can’t be seen as mistakes because in these two panels Yashiro is meant to be conceptually towering over Doumeki. He might be the smallest person, shorter, less muscular and wounded, but in these instances Yoneda wanted to convey the power he had over Doumeki, the fact that he could and would regain control over his subordinate in circumstances where he felt it necessary. Yoneda knows how quickly our eyes would register these panels and move on the next page so she knows how effective toying with proportions is in terms of impressions registered: Yashiro isn’t weak after all, Yashiro has power over Doumeki. So in a way it is so much more dramatic when he loses it. But those dynamics are shifting and not predetermined and fixed. The emphasis on the changeable nature of people is of extreme importance to the story. So here is an example of specific use of the language that is to be understood in context. Imperfections can be powerfully deployed to make art more expressive and the specific style that Yoneda chose is so perfectly suited for the types of stories, settings and characters she develops, that again her accomplishments are well deserved and in a perfect world should not be undervalued because she draws bl manga.

[cryscendo]

For the fic ask, can I request one you wanted to write and weren't asked? Klaine, please! ♥

oooooh boy, you really opened up the floodgates with this one. I decided to go super angsty because i just really needed to get this out there. this takes place around the time of “the quarterback” and i went with the prompt “things you didn’t say at all”

i hope you enjoy and sorry in advance for the heartbreak :’(

Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson

Word Count: 1599

Rating: T

Prompt: 5 - things you didn’t say at all

Warning: mentions of canon character death as a main plot point (references to The Quarterback)

if you would like to request a prompt, you can do so here.

Fic can be read under the cut

Finn’s death was hard on Kurt.

Make no mistake, it was hard on everyone. After watching Santana break down in the middle of the choir room, Blaine was truly able to see just how much this was taking a toll on his friends. Grief was shared amongst everyone who knew Finn, and it made it difficult to even pretend to be okay.

But Kurt… Kurt was suffocating with it. Every moment since his arrival back in Ohio for the funeral had been filled with this poisonous cocktail of emotions.

Kurt didn’t discuss this situation, at least not directly. He more so just tiptoed around the issue, and his words were like a children’s game of telephone where the original words get completely altered and warped, but the overall message is understood.

Blaine watched Kurt as his fiancé tried on no less than twelve different outfits for the funeral. They ranged from black to gray to navy, and he even tried his hand at adding a bit of deep plum. He looked gorgeous in all of them. None of them were good enough for Finn's funeral.

“This isn’t right either,” Kurt said, already moving to undo his tie. It was a sleek thing with very subtle, barely there gold-stitched accents. “Too flashy.” It really, truly wasn’t, but Blaine wasn’t about to argue.

“Maybe do the black suit with the plum sweater? Just forgo the tie completely.” Blaine knew that the problem wasn’t a tie. But Kurt wasn’t talking about what the actual problem was. “I’ll match to you.”

Kurt gave himself a long, hard look in the mirror before him. Blaine didn’t think that he would respond at all. That was until he eventually sighed and turned back towards Blaine. “Let’s try it, then.”

And so it goes.

The funeral ended without incident. Kurt actually agreed to Blaine’s outfit suggestion, which only further proved to Blaine that Kurt was, definitively, not doing well. Because if he was, there would’ve been a bit more scrutiny on Blaine’s choice of textile combinations, as well as how it affected the overall silhouette. He looked great of course, but it was also clear that he wore it not because he was actually in love with the outfit, but because he needed to pick something and allowing Blaine to make the decision took some of the pressure off of him.

Kurt didn’t talk much during the service. He did stand up and give a brief speech, which Blaine was grateful for — even if it felt a bit like Kurt was saying only a fraction of what he wanted to say.

They sat in Kurt’s bedroom a day or two later. Burt and Carole weren’t home, having needed to take care of a few things. They offered for Kurt and Blaine to join them, but Kurt turned the offer down on both of their behalfs. This seemed to disappoint Burt, but Blaine wasn’t interested in going against the wishes of his clearly grief-stricken fiancé.

So they stayed home. And Kurt once again did not speak much.

Eventually though, dinner came around, and Blaine had to make an effort to at least get Kurt to eat something (he has always been on the smaller side, but ever since Kurt moved to New York, Blaine got the sense that he prioritized things like work and school over eating). He brought Kurt a bowl of pasta up to his room — it was left over from the reception catering; Blaine wasn’t exactly the cook in the relationship.

While Kurt accepted the food, he made no move to actually eat it. Instead, he wordlessly spun his fork around inside the bowl, picking up noodles only to let them slip back off the utensil uselessly. He repeated this motion for several minutes until Blaine finally stopped him.

“Not hungry, honey?” Blaine asked, dragging Kurt’s attention back to reality.

Kurt’s eyes flickered up to Blaine’s face for a moment before peering back down towards the pasta, which up to that point had been virtually untouched. “Oh, yeah, I guess not.”

“You really need to eat.” Kurt hadn’t hardly eaten anything since the reception, and even then he grazed more than actually ate. That wasn’t entirely his fault, though. It was hard for Kurt and his parents to get much time to eat when people kept approaching them to express their condolences directly. It was well-meaning each and every time, but Blaine could see that it was taking a lot for Kurt to not tell people to ‘please leave me the fuck alone’. He was wound so tight that one wrong word could’ve easily made him snap.

“I know,” he confirmed. But rather than actually take a bite of his food, he set the bowl down on the mattress between them. Okay. Food wasn’t going to happen right now. That’s fine.

“Kurt, are you going to be okay?” He asked even though he sensed that he already knew the answer. Kurt was strong, powerful, resilient. But beyond that, he was still human.

“Yep,” Kurt responded directly. “Gotta keep on keeping on, y’know? Work and school aren’t going to wait for me forever. So I have no choice but to be okay.”

It was a reasonable enough answer, but Blaine knew it wasn’t what Kurt was feeling. This brave face that Kurt was putting on wasn’t him being honest with himself. Kurt has dealt with more loss than someone his age has any right to. His mother was first, and now Finn. And all the while, his own father was still in a balancing act with his own health and Blaine knew how much that worried Kurt.

Blaine knew he should’ve just left well enough alone, but that wasn’t really his style.

“It’s okay to not be okay, Kurt,” Blaine gently reminded. Kurt clearly didn’t want the reminder.

“You’re not going to lecture me into discussing my feelings. I won’t. I’m fine. And even if I’m not, that’s not going to bring Finn back, now is it?” Kurt put in great effort to make his words come out collected, but his own emotions worked to betray him. “So I’d be wasting my time weeping over something like this when it’s not going to change a single thing.”

“I know that, but please just listen, okay?” Blaine didn’t hold Kurt’s emotions against him. Asking someone to be entirely pleasant after undergoing severe loss was an unreasonable request. All he wanted was for Kurt to hear him for a moment. And with the way that Kurt fell silent, it seemed like he was willing to try.

“Nobody’s asking you to be fine,” Blaine began, moving both of their bowls to Kurt’s nightstand so that he could sit closer to his partner. “All I’m asking is that you be honest with yourself. Everyone can see how hard this has been on you; it’s not exactly a secret.” In response to Blaine’s words, Kurt looked away from him, instead choosing to examine his fingernails. It was artificial distance, not making eye contact. Blaine continued on regardless. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on inside your head, but just know that whatever it is, you’re allowed to feel it.”

Kurt didn’t respond, but the way that he bit anxiously at his lower lip told Blaine that he was at least listening. That was good at least, that he was attentive to what Blaine was saying to him.

Blaine continued, reaching down to hold Kurt’s hand in his, his thumb swiping instinctively over Kurt’s engagement ring. Kurt watched the motion and sucked in a shaky breath. Kurt didn’t need to say what he was thinking at that moment; Blaine already knew — Finn was never going to be able to see Kurt get married, or even be married himself.

“I don’t think you’ve let yourself feel much of anything since it happened. You didn’t even cry at the funeral.” Kurt tensed, but didn’t pull away. Blaine continued. “I’m not saying you have to talk about it. I’m not saying you have to pour your heart out to the first person who is willing to listen. All I’m saying is that you need to let yourself be not okay. If you go back to New York and pretend nothing’s wrong, I’m scared it’s going to eat you alive. I don’t want that for you.”

Blaine fell silent after that, now only watching Kurt’s face as he continued to stare down at their joined hands. Seconds bled into minutes of wordlessness, and Blaine was beginning to worry that everything he had just said was going to be discarded.

That is, until Kurt’s eyes turned glassy with tears.

“Kurt?” Blaine asked and was immediately followed by silent tears streaming in heavy drops down Kurt’s face. “Shit, Kurt…”

Blaine hugged Kurt close then and Kurt didn’t even try to turn it down. Kurt’s arms were tight around Blaine as if he was afraid that if he let Blaine go, he’d disappear. The room was silent save for the soft sounds of Kurt’s broken gasps as wept quietly into Blaine’s shoulder. It tore at Blaine’s heart, hearing those sounds come from Kurt, his one true love, who somehow unjustly is regularly the victim of tragedy.

Kurt never did end up saying all the things that he had locked up inside his head, but that was okay. He didn’t need to. His actions were loud enough that Blaine understood them as if he were reading them from a book. If Kurt never discussed this again, that would be okay too.

The message was already clear enough.

[bettsfic]

Hi Betts,

Thanks for continuously posting helpful advice.

I just wanted to know— how does someone go about getting to the point in their writing where they are not so precious with words in hopes of taking off the pressure when drafting?(in reference to a previous post)

i remember a few years ago, there was this very well known and popular fanartist whose name i won't give because they're no longer on tumblr or even going by their handle anymore. they received an ask much like this one in which they said something to the effect of, they could spend hundreds of hours on a piece of art and be willing to throw it away, because (and this is from memory because i can't find the original post) there will always be more art.

i remember being aghast about that. how could you spend so much time working on something and just...not do anything with it? scrap it and start over? maybe even delete the file?

and more importantly, i remember wondering how an artist could even reach that point.

maybe everyone gets there in a different way, but for me it was the emergence of a bigger picture, that i don't write to be read or seen or understood, but so i can explore things that can't otherwise be explored, and live experiences that can't be lived. for me, the value is in the process, not the product. and, to the artist's point, there will always be more words.

more concretely, it was also spending an entire year working on a novel, only to realize that what i wanted it to be was not what fit in the market, and that to make it marketable i would've had to have made revisions that would've changed the thing i wanted it to be. so i realized publication isn't endgame; it's happenstance. a few things i write may be marketable, but probably only a fraction of them, and only if what i write overlaps with what is being sold. a venn diagram of "stories that will be published" and "stories that i enjoy writing" are often two circles about a mile apart. whether or not a story is marketable doesn't affect my personal opinion of it.

the same is true for fanfic. if i finish a fic, i post it for the sake of archiving it. i don't pay much attention to traffic (but i do read comments), and it's been a long time since i've written consistently in a popular fandom. in fact the last fic i posted only had one other fic in the ship tag. the point of writing fic, for me, is to get it out of my brain and onto a page, and if someone eventually comes upon it and enjoys it, great.

i'm definitely not at the point where i can just straight-up delete work, but i can write something for a very long time and be satisfied even if no one ever looks at it. it does bum me out when i care about something so much and nobody else does or will, but that's the nature of writing, and art in general. nobody cares as much as you do, and even if you write something that's wildly successful, read and loved by millions, award-winning, adapted to screen--still, all those people will have their individual, private relationship with the thing you wrote, will perceive it in their own unique way, and even if it changes their life, the story can never give them what it gave you.

i don't mean for that to be depressing or deterring. what i hope you take from it is that your feelings toward your work are more important than anyone else's feelings toward it, and not everything has to be seen and admired in order to be worthy enough to exist. sometimes you have to take the risk of being unseen to create your best work.

[dizzycoffee]

Hello can you pls write headcanons for korekiyo shinguji x trans male reader (plus sized if comfortable) thxxxxx :3

— Korekiyo Shinguji / Reader; Headcanons

literally obsessed with kiyo ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･ HEADCANONS ･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

Korekiyo definitely isn't one to judge

When he firsts meets you, he's more so curious to find out who you are as a person

The day you decide to come out to him, he ends up having questions than anything else

"I do hope I'm not making you uncomfortable with my inquiries," Korekiyo broke away from this questions. You only laughed softly, "It's okay. I sort of expected you to ask and all." He took your hands into his, his eyes shining with tranquility. "Rest assured, I find you, as a person, a beautiful part of humanity. A flourishing part that I wish to understand more," he spoke. You half-understood his words, but something told you he was supportive!

Pretty sure that regardless of gender, he'll refer to you as his partner

Unless you'd rather be called something else, he just loves referring to you as his "darling partner" to others

Whenever the two of you are in private, he looooves to run his hands over your body

He usually never speaks of your body directly, but he'll compliment you with things like "Your body was surely blessed" or "Humanity grows beautiful each day with someone like you in it"

If it's the case that you don't often tell people of your gender, he'd feel special in a way

You chose to trust him with something that is very important to you?? He'll definitely feel a bit flustered at the thought

While it would take some time, I feel like he'll try to tell you a bit more of himself in return

You blinked, almost unsure of how to proceed with the information he just gave you. Even if it was just a fraction, learning more of Korekiyo always felt like a distant goal from how naturally closed-off he was. "Kiyo... I really appreciate you telling me this, but how come?" you asked him, voice softening out of hesitance. Korekiyo offered a smile behind his mask. "I only felt it appropriate to do so. You offered me insight on your character, so I chose to offer you the same." He stepped closer to you, his fingers brushing the side of your face as he spoke softly and slowly, "It feels quite intimate."

[tgrailwar-zero]

Please Miss Valkyrie, hear us out. One of your sisters back in the city asked us to help around here as some signals resembling those of Valkyries but noticeably off have been detected. Lady Brynhildr already set out this morning to start dealing with the issue and we wished to offer our aid given that the city’s defenses are still somewhat crippled by the Beast’s attack.

VALKYRIE: "…I see, so this place is jamming my signal. I should have been made aware of such an update. You received a request from Ortlinde out of a concern of Elder Sister Brynhildr. Understood."

She seemed quick on the uptake. It seemed as if the Valkyrie shared a database of some sorts. Also, apparently the dark-haired Valkyrie was named 'ORTLINDE'. Based on how she conducted herself, you could assume that the fact that she didn't state that formally was due to not seeing it as 'relevant information' rather than any sort of social rudeness.

THRUD: "Very well. My individual designation is 'Thrud'. And you are…"

She kept a stern, steady, silent gaze for a moment. It lingered for far, far, far too long. You could see the near imperceptible wrinkle of her nose for a fraction of a second, before her expression returned to cool neutrality.

THRUD: "Hm. You're the Interloper Masters who were wailing about the Avenger-class Servant within Hinderfjall Fortress. ...Greetings."

With the 'shared database' theory in mind for the Valkyrie, it seemed like they quite literally only had one major piece of reference material for you at the moment. It would probably be best to find a way to change that.

[ohdearlordspencerreid]

SPENCER REID IS DEAD.

My first Criminal Minds Fanfiction!!

Summary:

What would have happened if Spencer had relapsed after Maeve's death? How would he have coped with his new reality? How would the team pull him back from the brink?

'He knew that his one lifeline was getting shorter, as the immeasurably holy and extensively evil vials of poison that sat on his coffee table, atop a mocking copy of Great Expectations, ran out.'

I put this on Ao3 and didn't get much interaction, so here I am, desperate for validation. Please don't repost anywhere, I'm really proud of this ❤️

Warning:

This is a big sad. Please don't read this if you are not in the mood or in safe headspace to see our baby boy and the rest of the team suffer.

This work does not contain any graphic descriptions of drug use, it is all implied, however it does contain a lot of dark and sad ideas including multiple references to suicide and death. Please be careful and maybe read something happy after this <3

Notes:

In my fanon, as in real life, relapse is a part of recovery, I respect MGG not wanting to continue with Reid’s addiction storyline but it feels unrealistic for Spencer to have stayed sober through all his trauma and stress especially with Maeve's death.

Please be kind, this is my first piece of Criminal Minds fanfiction ever and my first time writing anything in several year, nevermind posting it.

Spencer Reid is Dead- OhDearLordSpencerReid

‐--------------------------------REID-------------------------

He felt like he might melt into the floor, a puddle of pain, anger and suicidal ideation. The world stood still but simultaneously ran past him, leaving him alone, bitter and inconsequential. She was dead.

Spencer’s vision swam as he knelt on the hard wooden floor of his apartment, his week old pajamas sticking to him uncomfortably, personal hygiene had become a thing of the past, so had sleep. The dark circles under his eyes made his face look like a skull, he had torn large chunks of his once soft, honey brown curls from his scalp, he didn’t remember doing it. His mouth was dry, he felt like he had been drinking bleach, maybe the misfiring synapses in his previously exceptional brain were on to something, was that a good idea? He just needed everything to stop.

He barely heard the knocking on his door, the rhythmic sound blending in with the constant and overwhelming pounding of his head. He heard voices outside his apartment, but he couldn't bring himself to care, nevermind open the door. He knew his friends would be worrying about him, he knew they loved him, or at least the part of his brain which wasn't currently tripping on a deadly combination of gut wrenching, life ending grief and dilaudid knew that. The active part of his brain however wanted to be left alone, wanted to sit here as he had for days and rot.

‐--------------------------------REID-------------------------

He didn't know what day it was anymore, he was only aware of two things, that the only person who had ever truly understood him, the woman he loved, was dead. And that his one lifeline was getting shorter, as the immeasurably holy and extensively evil vials of poison that sat on his coffee table, atop a mocking copy of great expectations, ran out. Eventually, he would hit withdrawal. He had two choices, his brain fought to use even a fraction of his usually infinite space and exceptional speed to process his options, feeling increasingly dizzy and hopeless.

Option one, call someone and ask for help.

Pros:

You won't have a seizure from withdrawals and choke on your own vomit and die.

Cons:

You won't have a seizure from withdrawals and choke on your own vomit and die. Let it end.

The team will know you’re being weak again, fucking weak!

You’ll lose your job! Who cares honestly..

Spencer shook his head, feeling his slowly frying brain slosh against his skull.

Option two, go outside and buy more dilaudid.

Pros:

More dilaudid.

No more feelings.

No more thoughts.

Cons:

Going outside.

Being a weak, drug addicted loser.

Spencer began to sob, crying so hard he began to wretch, wretching so hard he had to drag himself off of the floor, running as fast as his shaking legs could carry him to the bathroom and throwing up bile. When was the last time he had eaten? Did it matter? He’d always been too skinny, said his mother. His mother, who had put a goddamn genetic time bomb in his brain. Maybe schizophrenia would be easier than this.

After vomiting bile for several minutes, his nose burnt by the acid, his lungs burning with the effort it took him to keep breathing when he saw no point. He looked back up at the vials, they mocked him.

He couldn't go outside. Not like this. But going outside sober was an even more terrifying prospect, primarily due to the fact that he would be sober.

But he wasn't going to call anyone. As he lay down where he was on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor he made peace with the idea that what would be would be.

‐--------------------------------REID-------------------------

He must have fallen asleep or passed out because the next moment he heard a frantic banging on his front door, it sounded like someone was trying to break it down. He laughed bitterly, thinking of Derek, constantly having to use funding the FBI could use on better things instead, on reimbursing people for unnecessarily kicking down doors. The thought made Spencer laugh, high and manic, it made him cringe, the sounds coming from his own mouth. He hadn't used his voice in days, weeks? How long had he truly laid on the teak effect floor in front of his front door?

The pounding continued, it frustrated Spencer, scared him that he couldnt tell if the noise was real, or if it was a fiction created by his self destructive, drug addled, fucking Intolerable, all remembering, overdue for a bullet, genius brain. He stormed over to the door, on unstable legs, his knees covered in dark bruises from hours of kneeling, he looked through the peephole. And who did he see but said insufferable prick. Best friend? Unfeeling bastard? Brother?

All of the air was knocked out of Spencer's fragile body as he saw it was really him. It was Derek Morgan.

‐-----------------------------MORGAN---------------------

Derek Morgan paced the bullpen, his phone clasped to his ear, he sighed in frustration as Spencer’s phone went to voicemail, yet again. He resisted the urge to scream, to throw something. He knew Penelope was going to Spencer’s house this morning, to drop off her usual gift basket, she would surely call him if something was really wrong.

If she smelt the all too familiar stench of rotting flesh wafting from under the young genius's door.. Derek shook himself, trying to push away the dreadful thought. Spencer knew he was there, knew he loved him like a kid brother, an annoyingly smart and unsettlingly traumatised kid brother.. Oh god.

Were they going to carry the tall, spindly, blood splattered body of Spencer Reid out of his apartment on a gurney, would he have to see his ‘Pretty Boy’ in a body bag, would he be asked to identify him? Was he still Spencer’s emergency contact? The mental image was vivid, horrifying. Should he have taken Spencer’s gun? ‘No, because this was the ‘Boy Wonder’ he wouldn't need something as barbaric and neanderthal as a gun to end his painfully short and difficult life’, a voice that sounded distressingly like Spencer’s echoed in Derek’s mind. Derek began to lose control of his breathing, began to gulp air like he was trapped in the desert and he wanted to drown in the oasis he found there, mirage or no.

Derek’s head span as his breathing became erratic, he hadn't noticed before that his cheeks were wet with tears, his hands shook as he struggled to regain control of himself. He needed to be strong, he needed to continue to hold this team together. It was his job to chase away the monsters, it was his job to protect the little guy, to keep JJ and Penelope and Spencer safe. He’d failed in his big brother capacity before and he’d never forgive himself if he did it again. Derek desperately tried to center himself, but it was no use, the world was cracking like a Chicago sidewalk taken over by tree roots, his brain screamed like a gunshot heard from the footwell of a police car, his heart ached like it had that day and Spencer wasn't even dead, yet.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned, eyes wide to see Hotch.. Hotch, Aaron Hotchner, surely he would know what to do, what to say.

‐-----------------------------GARCIA------------------------

Penelope Garcia knocked on the door, softly at first as if worried the shock of a sudden noise alone would stop the broken heart of the cowering young man, unbeknownst to her, laying half unconscious behind the door. She waited a few moments and knocked again, this time louder. She heard a pitiful noise from inside, it broke her heart but as sad as it felt to think, at least it meant Spencer was still breathing in there. She called out, her lips inches from the door, when she was met with only a phrase she would not repeat in polite company, telling her to ‘go away’ she put down her basket of blueberries. ‘They are high in antioxidants and serotonin vitamins’ her internal Reid said, somewhat inaccurately as Penelope didn't know all the facts, as though trying desperately to drown out the broken and unpleasant memory of the real Reid only inches away.

Penelope wanted to help, she needed to be able to do something. This was Reid, this was the soft young man who brought her baked goods when she had a bad day. Here was Spencer, who could be surprisingly hilarious, even if it hadn’t been his intention. He was the ‘Pretty Boy’ to her ‘Babygirl’ and he was suffering, in a way Penelope couldn't fathom. There was no system she could hack, no phone to trace, no dirt to dig up, that would get Reid to let her in. Only the echoing distance between them, as extensive as the time, space and regenerations between the fourth and eleventh doctors…

Penelope didn’t want to leave, she was so scared for him, it was so hard to turn off her instinctual empathy and intrinsic sense of duty to fix things and make them all sunshine and rainbows… but she knew she couldn't fix this. Especially if Spencer wouldn't even open the door

‐------------------------------HOTCH------------------------

Aaron Hotchner has seen agents in distress. He had seen it many times. Hell he’d seen Reid in distress many times. The thought made him sad. He felt like a bad boss. A bad friend. A bad father? It was true he did see Spencer as a surrogate son, partially because he knew Spencer needed a father figure, desperately. But if he was being honest it was in large part to that fact that the kid was just so easy to fall in love with. He had endeared Aaron from the get go, the way he walked around as if everything and everyone was a potential threat, made him want to protect the young agent in the beginning. The way he lit up when he got to share a piece of extremely niche knowledge, the pride he felt when they solved a particularly difficult case.

Spencer was easy to fall in love with.

But now, that fear, that anxiety and self doubt Hotch had found endearing in the beginning when Spencer looked like a very tall child in a cardigan and obscenely large glasses, had transformed into something terrible. He had seen it, the ugliness that lingered inside Spencer Reid, he had seen it when he had returned from his break after the Tobias Hankel case, seen the anger and animalistic fear in the usually sweet mans eyes, he had seen the metaphorical foaming of the rabid dogs mouth.

He’d known he’d never have the strength to put that dog down.

It had eased and the dog had become a sweet little puppy again, following Gideon around, playing chess, devouring books, opening up emotionally. Hotch had been proud, in the years since he had only seen glimpses of that pain, of the Spencer that could go feral and rip out his throat, they had always faded. But this time, this time Spencer hadn’t screamed or lashed out or cursed the world. No, Spencer had seen the woman he loved murdered in front of him and shut himself away. Shut himself in a cage, biting and clawing only at himself, wounded and content to tear himself apart, by brain or by vein. Aaron’s dark train of thought was suddenly broken by Anderson, who knocked on his door and told him that he thought Derek Morgan was having a mental breakdown. ‘No, no more’ Aaron thought ‘Oh God please, let them be, let me take their pain’

‐---------------------------------JJ--------------------------

Jennifer Jareau walked into the bullpen and found a commotion unlike anything she had ever seen before. A small crowd was gathered seemingly centered around someone, a crying child? Who was sitting on the floor, JJ approached cautiously, not wanting to intrude if this was a family member of a victim. Her blood ran cold as she saw the shaking, sobbing form of Derek Morgan, the strongest man she knew, curled in a ball on the carpeted floor, clinging to Aaron Hotchner’s shirt like it was his last tether to this mortal plane. She stepped forward, the crowd parting slowly as she approached. She got immediately to her knees, gently placing her hands on either side of Derek’s face, trying to ask him what had happened. When she heard the name Spencer amongst Morgan’s apoplectic ramblings, she felt suddenly faint, the images she had been desperately repressing came crashing down, pinning her to her spot, to this singular breath with their gravity.

Spencer Reid was dead.

Her best friend wouldn’t make it to thirty, he would remain forever young. His photo would join the other ghostly faces lining the corridor outside the BAU office, the wall of those who had died because of this god awful job. He would join Roslyn in her mind as the cold corpse of a sibling, of a soulmate. Spencer Reid would never get his fourth doctorate, never see the return of David Blaine, never tell her another fact about enucleation, never be a father, the one job beyond behavioral profiler or exceptionally overqualified college lecturer, that he would be truly exceptional at.

Spencer Reid was dead…

Until he wasn't, a bright pink blur ripped through the room as Penelope Garcia descended on Derek, her face a mask of supposed ‘eternal and infallible optimism’.

Spencer was alive.

He wouldn't open the door and she’d barely gotten a word out of him. But Spencer Walter Reid was still breathing and suddenly, Jennifer could too.

‐--------------------------------ROSSI-----------------------

David Rossi, didn’t have any children, hell he wasn’t sure if he would even want any. But he enjoyed his role as the fun uncle to Aaron Hotchner’s strict father immensely. He loved seeing the program he and Jason Gideon had built flourish into an exceptional team, a life saving and justice affording safe haven, a real family. Family had always been complicated for Dave, he hadn't felt this close to a group of people, trusted anyone so much since leaving the marines. He knew that he could give his still beating heart to any one of the BAU members and they would treasure it, nurture it, protect it at any cost. That was why he felt so helpless as he sent lavish gifts to Spencer Reid’s apartment, sent him texts offering to pay for him to take time off, to pay for therapy, they all felt like hollow gestures. The fickle attempts at support by a man who was yet to realise that money doesn't buy you happiness. Dave knew this practically of course, but he felt trapped, paralised by his inability to read Reid, the way he had encouraged him to pursue his relationship with the woman who was now being prepared for her funeral, a woman Spencer had loved with such intensity and innocence, far beyond Rossi’s comprehension.

It was then as he stood in the lobby of Spencer’s apartment, trying to gather the courage to go up and see him that Dave realised one thing Spencer had that he had never been able to grasp, besides a comprehensive knowledge of string theory, quantum theory and the difference therein, vulnerability. Spencer was able to be truly vulnerable with those he loved.. That vulnerability usually lent itself to him as compassion, as a strong sense of justice and as an infinite capacity to love others, to fight for them. But right now? That vulnerability was slowly sucking every happy memory in his seemingly limitless mind, right now that vulnerability was a weakness. And so, too, David was weak. He walked back to his car, silently begging any god or holy being that would listen to give him even a tenth of the strength Spencer had, even a moment to be truly vulnerable, to show the kid he loved him that he would fight for him.

For the first time in many years, Rossi doubted the existence of god.

The strength didn't come.

‐------------------------------BLAKE------------------------

Alex Blake was new. It had taken a while for the team to warm up to her. But not Spencer. He had met her where she lived, where she was comfortable, in a joining of intellects, a tête-à-tête, a friendly competition of defining obscure words. She had instantly felt a kinship with the boy, she knew he hated being called a boy, a kid, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Not out of malice, but out of a motherly instinct, that had laid dormant for several years. He was sweet and smart, she had often wondered what Ethan would be like, she hoped he would be like Spencer.

She had greatly enjoyed seeing him sneaking around, making mysterious phone calls, after learning that he was calling a girl he liked and not under the thumb of some kind of MENSA mafia that is. Alex smiled at the memory of Reid’s blushing face when he had talked about her, the memory tasted sour now, given the dreadful results of Spencer’s first meeting with his mystery woman. She was dead, and Spencer it seemed was content to let himself be buried with her. She knew that pain, the feeling of wanting to drop dead when the person you love is gone…

Alex slowly sipped her coffee, trying to focus on her morning crossword, dreading the phone ringing, signaling another case, but also desperately wanting a distraction. She felt like an intruder, watching Spencer and his loved ones, his REAL family, grieve and worry. She felt like an aunt's new exceptionally dull boyfriend that you have to endure attending your wedding because he's a plus one. She felt she had no right to be as sad as she was, no right to compound her grief for her son with her newfound worry for Spencer. He never asked for that. But she cared, god she cared. She wanted to help him, to help them all, but she feared she would just be a hindrance, an ill fitting cog, ‘the new guy’. She visited Spencer’s house several times, leaving sudoku and crossword puzzles.

She never knocked.

He never opened the door, even if he saw her.

It was like they had a silent agreement, no one was entitled to their pain.

They simply remained, lonely parallels. Broken hearts.

‐-----------------------------SPENCER--------------------

Spencer reeled as he saw Derek Morgan, the real Derek Morgan outside his door, kicking, flailing desperately trying to break down his front door. Derek’s eyes looked hollow, he looked like he hadn't been sleeping. Derek Morgan, the man who could practically sleep standing up during a fire drill. Spencer felt awful, the slimy self loathing he had been feeling since that fateful night, since his teens honestly, slithered up his throat like a giant, blood filled leach. Full of his friends worry, full of wasted potential, full of things that would never be.

Things he had wanted so desperately with Maeve.

Maeve.

It was as if her name broke through to him, he hadn't even allowed himself to think the word, scared he would completely lose his mind. With shaking hands Spencer removed the chain from his door, unlocking it just as Derek kicked it again. Tears streaming down his face, the door hit Spencer hard in the chest, knocking him sprawling to the floor. A small, sweaty, pale, skeleton-esque mess, his arm littered with needle marks, his aura exuding pure shame and grief.

It was then as Derek stood in the doorway, his heart slowly shattering that Spencer noticed he wasn't alone.

The whole team stood behind him in the corridor, full of love and full of fear.

Penelope looked drained of all hope, her skin grey, her pink glasses doing nothing to hide her red rimmed eyes.

Aaron Hotchner’s face was blank, not in the usual serious way he had. In a way that scared him.

Jennifer was shaking clutching a soft purple cashmere scarf, the one from Spencer's desk. It was wrapped around her neck, right next to her sister's locket.

Rossi hovered near the back, clutching his rosary, caught in a muffled prayer, tears freely falling down his face.

Blake was smiling softly, trying to keep it together, physically supporting JJ.

“Help me” Spencer sobbed, falling as he tried to stand, his voice breaking harshly “please, please help me. I need you”

-------------------------FIN------------------------

[polyamzeal]

Hey I'm struggling with how to come out as polyamorous to people including my parents. Do you have any tips?

That is going to depend on so many factors. But before getting into how to actually come out I think it is important to evaluate why you want to come out. Being "out" can be awesome and relieving. But of course it does have plenty of downsides including a lot of uncertain risk. It is a gamble to stay closeted and a gamble to be out so it is important to decide which risks you are more comfortable with. Next, it is important to remember that you don't owe anyone outside of your partners to being out. If a friend or family member is not going to handle you being out well then you have no loyalty to be out to them. I see it as privileged information that needs to be earned via respect. So please don't come out if you aren't ready or just because you feel obligated to.

Alright. It really sucks but it is easier to define polyamory by what it is not. It would be lovely if we could just give the definition of what it is and be understood. But sadly there is a lot of misinformation and bad stereotypes out there. Get a feel for if they are going to jump to any of the common references like Sister Wives or Mormons or anything like that. The 2 biggest mistakes that people will make will think it is Polygamy so be sure to clarify that this does NOT involve marriage, just relationships/dating. The second is Polygyny or more accurately that it is always one man with multiple women. Depending on your gender you might need to phrase it differently but be sure to be clear that all sorts of configurations exist. Yes the media's most popular scapegoat is the married heteronormative couple that gets a bisexual third. But reassure them that often a woman has 2 boyfriends or everybody is the same gender. Also clarify that it is not limited to just 3 and more people could be involved in the polycule. Finally the last misconception is that it is all about sex. Again depending on who you are coming out to they might not bring this up but they are probably thinking about it. So you will probably need to use the narrative that gay people have had to use for decades to find acceptance by saying "It is not about sex, it is about love" so often that it sounds like they never have sex ever. Even if this might be a lie for you and maybe you do care more about the sex it would still be best to tell this white lie to ease people into accepting it.

Honestly past all the misconceptions of what polyamory is NOT, you could probably use just about any definition you find to explain what polyamory is. Because unfortunately they are only going to hear a fraction of it before their mind jumps to conclusions that you need to clear up.

Good luck

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Tw: s/h, abusive/toxic relationship, manipulation, suicide mentions

Mainly seeking support

A little bit ago, my ex broke up with me. It wasn't unexpected, I knew the relationship wasn't good, but I can't stop thinking about it. It keeps replaying in my mind. During the relationship many things happened- neither of us where innocent. I apologized for the things I did wrong and made sure not to repeat them, but I know that didn't make what I did okay. But for a lot of things, they never did apologize. They tried to justify it with saying that, basically, I deserved their abuse, because I abused them too. They said this even after admitting that what they did to me was far worse than anything I ever did on purpose. That they where purposefully worse than me. And that they had no plans of ever changing that, because I hurt them and they wanted to make sure I understood how they felt. They didn't care when I said I understood, or how much work I put in to be the best person I could be, I still deserved every bit of it in their eyes.

And because I hurt them too, I feel like I'm not allowed to feel hurt, even though I know what they did was intentionally worse. It feels like I'm just having a pity party. And I know objectively, that isn't true- pretty much anyone I opened up to about everything that happened (including what I did, because I didn't want to make myself look better than I was), thought I was being too harsh on myself or even outright thought they are an abuser. But it feels wrong to call them that, because I hurt them too.

And how it ended made it so much harder. They broke up with me by telling me how they could never get over/forgive what I did, and they found someone better and deserved better. I wished them well, but it felt so horrible. It felt awful how they made it purely about them, their feelings and what they deserved. They didn't seem to acknowledge or care about the damage they did. I had tried to break up with them so many times because it was hurting both of us, or because they where hurting me, and every time it was either "not the time yet" or they'd tell me how much more it would hurt them if I left- how I'd be leaving them completely alone and that was worse than being with me. It hurt so much that it was all based on their convenience and what they wanted- only their pain mattered until the very end.

Hi anon,

Abuse is dependent on a power imbalance - you cannot both simultaneously have the upper hand. DARVO is a manipulation tactic that abusers claim is mutual abuse. It stands for deny, attack, reverse, and reverse victim and offender. This is when an abuser "flips the script" and accuses the victim of being the "true abuser" and paints themselves as the "true victim". For example, an abuser will gaslight you into believing you did something to hurt them and antagonizes you, despite them hurting you more overall. Part of the reason for doing this is to make the victim feel guilty and indebted to rectifying their perceived wrongs, instead of leaving the abusive situation. Abusers also do this to get you to depend on their warped version of reality, instead of building confidence in your own truth and recollection (which would also be likely to end in the victim leaving the relationship).

Maybe you did genuinely do something wrong that hurt their feelings, and you did what you could to take ownership and rectify the situation. But for your ex to harbor resentment and retaliating to "get even", is immature and unhealthy on their part. Nobody deserves abuse. It sounds like your ex made little to no effort to show the same humility and accountability that you did. There are mature ways to communicate the damage done without perpetuating it.

Because the harm that you caused isn't even a fraction of the harm done to you, it's still okay to be hurt, to reference this person as your abuser, and to call what was done to you as abuse, etc.

If anyone has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Otherwise, I hope I could help and please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[mrs-maximoff-barnes-smith]

Stay With Me

Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

what to expect: angst lmao, slight allusion to smut but it’s pretty small

A/N: this came to me while listening to Ghost’s cover of “Stay” with Patrick Wilson (they use it in the credits of the last ‘Insidious’ movie), i heard it and could picture Eddie and Steve so clearly with it. highly recommend you give it a listen!! this whole thing was a bit of an escape for me since i’ve been so busy lately. and while we all know how things go in the Upside Down, i decided to leave the ending as ambiguous otherwise i would’ve cried a bunch. AND gif credit goes to @acecroft​

word count: 1.4k

If this world is wearing thin

And you’re thinking of escape

I’ll go anywhere with you

Just wrap me up in chains

        Eddie couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re telling me the most sought-out ladies’ man of Hawkins High is lonely? I don’t see it.” Steve’s shoulders fell as he grumbled. “I’ve never…connected with any of them, ya know? Why do you think I haven’t actually stayed with anyone?” Eddie thought about what he said. Really, he understood. Eddie never truly felt a pull to anyone either. He had some nice hookups here and there, but no one was worth seeing another time. 

       “Well if it helps, our dear little town probably isn’t the best place to find love, or whatever, anyways.” He grinned at Steve, happy to see a small smile breaking out on his face. “You’re not wrong. I might have better luck somewhere else. Somewhere with less close minded people.” Two instances of common ground with Steve Harrington in the span of five minutes? Not a chance. “When have you dealt with close minded people? You’re not a so-called freak.” Eddie noticed Steve’s gaze stick to the ground. “I mean, not that it’s impossible. Like we agreed, there’s plenty of shitty people here.” Steve quirked a brow and nodded. “I just meant cause you were, ya know, before graduating.” 

        Steve looked up at Eddie, a secret swimming in his eyes, not yet ready to come out of hiding. “I also hated who I was. I was a dick. I wasn’t myself. It was all…bullshit. Everyone just ate it up because it didn’t make them uncomfortable.” 

Uncomfortable. 

         Eddie felt the unspoken truth behind Steve’s words. He also felt how nervous Steve was to even say such an ambiguous statement.

        “I understand.” Steve’s eyes brightened just a fraction. Was he hopeful? Was he relieved? Did he really realize what was being said? Eddie had no idea, but he knew he needed to keep that light in Steve’s eyes. “Tell ya what, after all this is said and done, we can just go. Anywhere you want. We’ll find a place for you.” For both of us. “I-yeah, yeah okay. That sounds nice.” 

In the silence of your room

In the darkness of your dreams

You must only think of me

There can be no in between

         Steve tossed and turned on the couch next to Eddie’s room all night. His mind was plagued with visions of Eddie disappearing. He wasn’t a stranger to calling the Munson boy “Freak” in the past, thinking he was an outcast for a reason. In a way, Steve was right. Eddie was an outcast, just not in the way he perceived. Getting to know him over the last few days, Steve grew to understand that Eddie was one of few people who truly saw him. Someone he connected with. Someone he didn’t want to lose. 

         Eddie held himself in a bed that wasn’t his own, wishing he could just sleep. He didn’t know if he’d get to go back to his trailer again but he was finally out of the boatshack. And yet, his eyes wouldn’t close. He stared at the wall, deep in thought. The conversations between him and the Harrington boy played over and over in his brain. He was a clueless asshole in school, Eddie taunted him more than once for being referred to as “King”. Apparently he actually had a heart, a fragile one. But he’s still just as clueless. Eddie laughed to himself, the sound echoing in the otherwise empty space.

When your pride is on the floor

I’ll make you beg for more

      “Damnit, Harrington. This would go a lot smoother if you sat still.” Steve winced. “It would go a lot smoother if you were actually being gentle, Munson.” Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Wanna patch yourself up?” Steve kept his mouth shut. “That’s what I thought.” 

       Steve winced a few more times, trying his best not to move too much. Eddie focused on wrapping Steve up after his wounds were clean. “Is everyone else okay?” Eddie nodded. “We were scared out of our minds, still kinda are, but we’re alright.” “...Thank you.” Eddie adjusted the final wrapping and nodded. “Of course. I mean, we can’t have our dear king Steve dying on us before the real battle starts.” If Steve didn’t know Eddie was joking, his glare could have very well killed him. The tiny smile underneath betrayed his fake annoyance at the title.

      “I can’t believe you went headfirst like that without thinking of any threats on the other side.” Steve could tell it was a compliment of sorts. He knew Eddie meant that he was brave, the Munson boy having told him more than once before that he was always one to run away. But he couldn’t let go of the words “without thinking”. He wasn’t thinking. Again. He made a stupid choice. Again. 

      “Do you think it was a dumb move?” Do you think I’m dumb? Eddie frowned. He knew what Steve really meant. He knew how Steve felt about himself. “Honestly? If I had the courage you do, I would’ve done the same thing.” Steve tilted his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Ya know, I’m not as brave as you seem to think I am.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “And you’re not a coward like you claim to be.” Eddie looked up and blinked. “W-what?” “You talk about running from your problems, but you forget to acknowledge the part where you continue going back, facing them again and again. You could’ve dropped out, but you’re still going to school, you’re still working towards graduating. You could’ve left town, finding an escape elsewhere, away from Jason and all the other players who hurt you. But you go back every day with your head high and live your life. You’ve chosen to stick it out in a place you’ve never really felt you belonged and made it your own. You–” Steve didn’t get to finish his sentence. Eddie’s lips covered his with a kiss that filled his very soul. 

       Steve started to kiss him back just as Eddie pulled away, leaning his forehead against Steve’s. “Please tell me I haven’t been reading this all wrong.” Steve’s only response was to pull Eddie in for another kiss. The two felt each other’s smiles on their lips. 

       Steve broke away first for air. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Eddie’s lips maneuvered down to his neck, speaking between kisses, ���I think I have a pretty good idea.” Steve used one hand to hold himself up against the table from before and the other ran through Eddie’s hair. Eddie left one more kiss on his shoulder before leaning back just enough so he could see Steve’s face again. Thank God. The light in Steve’s eyes was brighter than ever. 

       “I told you you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.” Eddie rolled his eyes and laughed at Steve’s words. His eyes flicked down Steve’s body, making sure the wrapping was still intact and there wasn’t any blood seeping through. “Hey, I’m okay.” His eyes flicked down a second time and noticed Steve’s pants. “You sure, Stevie? Cause I can think of at least one part of you that could use more of my attention.” He grinned when Steve’s face turned pink. He didn’t expect anything, but he enjoyed teasing the Harrington boy.

        Steve surprised Eddie when he leaned in to kiss him again, whispering “please” against his lips.

You’d better hope and pray 

That you’ll make it safe back to your own world

You’d better hope and pray

That you’ll wake one day in your own world

        The boys trailed after Dustin and the girls through the Upside Down, keeping their eyes out for anything that might swoop down or sneak underneath them. “You still wanna get out of here after this is over?” With me. Eddie looked at Steve, reading his face. “Of course I do. There’s nothing I’d rather do more.” They exchanged soft smiles and kept walking. 

        The party reached its destination to split up, everyone looking between each other with worry. They went over the plan and nodded at each other. Nancy and Robin exchanged glances, Dustin hugged Steve harder than he probably should have in his recovering state and saluted the girls. 

         Steve Harrington looked into Eddie Munson’s eyes, full of hope and fear at the same time. Not caring what any of the other party members may say, the two held each other’s faces and met with a kiss. Short but filled with words that both were afraid to say out loud, “You better come back to me,” “I promise I’ll be okay.” They pulled back at the same time, each taking their own deep breaths.

  “Don’t be a hero.”

Stay with me

[ladylilithprime]

Knit The Raveled Sleeve

Series: Fluffy Faerie Tales

Fandom: Supernatural

Tags/Warnings: Half-Fae Sam Winchester, Jimmy and Castiel Are Twins, Selkie Jack Kline, Sam Winchester Is Jack Kline's Adopted Father, Brief Allusions to Canon-Typical Violence, Injury Recovery, Knitting, References to Faerie Society and the Balance of Debt, Gifts Are Hard Among Faeries

Pairing: Sastimmy/Jamstiel (Jimmy Novak/Sam Winchester/Castiel)

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: Convalescence sometimes leads to picking up new hobbies. In fulfilling a recpriocal promise to his cousin, Sam picks up a hobby that leads to comissioning his cousin's help in making a very special gift for his boyfriends.

For: @fluffyfebruary challenge!

Prompt: Day 10: Care

Read on AO3

THERE ARE OCCASIONALLY times in one's life when the Universe at large conspires to force one to slow down and take a mandatory break, whether one desires such a break or not. These times also tend to happen more frequently, comparatively speaking, when one is prone to measuring one's lifespan in a few dozen centuries rather than merely years. There is also no rhyme or reason to it. For instance, one might attempt to argue that settling in one place with intent to stay there for at least half a dozen decades in order to raise the selkie child one adopted and taking up with a couple of adorable humans counted perfectly well as a break.

And yet, one might still be impaled by an alicorn while protecting your human lovers because the term lover referred only to feelings and a pair of magic-touched technical virgins smelled tasty to the one-horned flesh-eating menaces. One might also then decapitate the alicorn impaling one, break the horn from the decapitated head, and proceed to fight and kill six more alicorns with the horn of the first still shoved through one's right side just below the ribs until the incursion was fully dealt with and the drifting portal closed and sealed. One might also ensure one's lovers were alright (mostly, some shock) and could handle collecting one's adopted son before one consented to being taken to the hospital, where one would be obliged to sit through a lecture from an unhappy dragon who has known one for most of her life and does not wish to see her mostly-immortal friend die before her.

One might be stuck on mandatory bed rest while one heals from the magically-complicated impalement.

Serendderch, second-born half-human son of Muireann, the Cerulean Princess of the Summer Court, known to the Seelie and Unseelie Courts as the Steel Prince, and now going by the name Sam Winchester in the mortal realm, did not like bed rest. He understood the necessity of allowing his body to heal, and even agreed with the need not to push himself too far too quickly and risk setting himself back. This did not mean he was happy about it, especially since he had quickly exhausted the fraction of his personal library that he kept in his apartment and trips to the mainland to visit the public library for more books were limited by his injury to "send either Cas or Jimmy with a list from the online catalogue and hope they're still available".

"You brought this one on yourself, what with trying to run that cafe of yours alone for so long on top of raising your son and only ever taking one day off a year," his mother had scolded him when she had called and he had dared complain about being stuck in a nest on the couch while his son and lovers fussed over him. "Maybe think about actually hiring more staff so you can take a couple days off a month with your boys and go do more of those little family outings. Go on dates, for Summer's sake! And don't worry about your brother, he'll get his head out of his backside eventually, I swear he gets it from your father...."

She must have talked to Sam's cousin in DC shortly thereafter, though, because Cadi sent him a box via portal that contained a full set of wooden knitting needles and far more yarn than should have fit into a box of that size. Cadi included a fairly basic instruction booklet on beginner knitting and a note admonishing him, You didn't break your arm or hand or dislocate your shoulder this time, and you promised after making me learn leatherworking. He sent most of the yarn back after asking Jack, Jimmy, and Cas to touch-test it and finding far too many of the skeins provoked sensory issues. To her credit, Cadi paid attention, and the yarn she packed up and sent to him in the second box was all acceptable blends of alpaca, silk, cotton, and bamboo fiber.

After some back and forth with Cadi - if he was going to give in and do this, he was going to do it right - Sam picked a skein of 100% cotton to practice with. It wasn't as stretchy as the other yarns, which worked in Sam's favor as far as getting the tension on the stitches right, and was easier to unravel whenever he made a mistake than the more wool-like alpaca would have been. And he did end up ripping out his work several times from accidental increases or dropped stitches or miscounting before a knit or a purl switchover. Calming and meditative, my ass, he thought more than once that week, but gradually he got the hang of it and even started to enjoy it some, at least once Jimmy brought him some audiobooks to listen to while he knit and Jimmy, Cas, and Jack took turns cuddling with him. At the end of the first week, when he finally could not take another day stuck sitting at home on the couch no matter how pleasant the company, he had a handful of reasonably serviceable knitted cotton dishrags to use in the cafe.

"Cadi won you over?" Charlie said knowingly when he brought them in.

"I did promise," Sam sighed.

To nobody's surprise, except perhaps Gabriel's when he noticed, Sam kept up the knitting. He appropriated one of the official Lighthouse CommodiTeas tote bags to be his knitting bag and began bringing in various small projects to work on during his breaks which Charlie, Jimmy, and Cas all conspired to ensure he took regularly. This had the effect of drawing in other knitters who came by the cafe, and soon there was a twice-a-week stitch'n'bitch group meeting up to share patterns and project help and trade yarns across their respective stashes. Sam ended up learning a lot of extra tips and tricks from the group, and he paid them back with knitters' circle discounts on meeting days and doing the legwork for organizing a donation drive of knitted baby hats and tiny socks to the maternity ward at the hospital where Meg worked. Other people who saw them knitting and talking came over to see if they offered lessons and were quickly drawn into the group as well.

Sam had a more personal project in the works, however, and it was also a bit more complicated. It involved more private conversations with Cadi and another portal delivery followed by a slower ground-shipping package to DC thanks to the limitations of shipping magical items. His own part of the project was carried out casually in the midst of the knitting circle every third meeting, working with pale blue alpaca and silk yarn as he knit with increases and decreases to match the shapes of the paper pattern Cadi sent him. He played it off as rotating his projects so as not to get bored or forget what he was doing and end up with fifteen projects going and no spare needles. The joke got him plenty of laughs and sheepish looks from the rest of the group.

"I should preface that this is not a holiday or anniversary and there is no expectation of reciprocation," Sam began as his boyfriends eyed the packages. "I did consider waiting until a more traditional gifting holiday, but there are nuances to faerie gift exchanges and equivalencies that makes these unsuitable for such a thing. Therefore, I am choosing to be very human about gifting these to you now."

It still took months, which meant it was well past the alicorn attack and well past Sam being fully healed and completely done with Dean refusing to apologize to the twins for being an ass. With Cas and Jimmy's birthday (and the more personal Separation Day) behind them, it was almost tempting to wait until Yule when an exchange of gifts was to be expected. Practicality won out over patience in the end, the desire to see his mortal boyfriends better protected overriding his faerie instincts regarding balancing debts, and so Sam waited only until the next time Jimmy and Cas came over to spend the evening with him and Jack, biding his time through the after dinner ritual of Jack's bedtime stories which Jimmy and Cas both listened in on, before bringing out the matching packages wrapped in brown paper and placing them on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Jimmy and Cas exchanged one of their speaking looks, the kind not even Sam could parse unless they wanted him to, and then reached for the packages. For his own part, Sam tried not to hold his breath or appear obviously nervous as he watched them. Jimmy tended to start at the middle of the tape and rip, whereas Cas preferred to peel open one end and slide the contents out like the wrapping was a bag, but they both got the packages open about the same time.

The packages contained two nearly identical long jackets made from dark blue dyed leather. There were protective runes nestled among traditional Seelie filigree motifs in navy, cerulean, and sky blue embroidery with silver accents at the lapels and cuffs, and the buttons were hand-carved bone with the same filigree.

"Is this...?" Jimmy started, then faltered, glancing at Cas.

"Alicorn hide," Sam confirmed.

"And the buttons?" Cas asked.

"Carved alicorn bone."

"These embroidery patterns?"

"Traditional Seelie motifs from the Summer Court and runes of protection."

Jimmy unfolded the jacket and opened it, his eyes widening as his fingers brushed over the pale blue knit lining. "This is..."

"That alpaca silk blend you both liked best."

"You knit the lining," Cas stated. "And it's reinforced."

"Canvas interfacing woven with alicorn mane and tail hairs on the crossgrain. I did have most of the materials already," Sam added with a slight shrug.

Jimmy and Cas glanced at each other again with another of those speaking looks. "Jack knows?" Jimmy asked. "He approves?"

"He chose the colors," Sam said, trying not to fidget. He didn't think their reaction was negative, exactly, but there seemed to be a weight to the moment that he hadn't fully intended but couldn't seem to deny as they pinned him with twin piercing looks.

"Marry us." 

What?

"The value of these jackets far exceeds anything we could hope to afford, so you chose to give them to us outside the bounds of expected reciprocal gifting," Cas began when Sam could only stare.

"The motifs are distinctly Seelie in nature and the colors are of your family, which would mark us as under your family's banner to anyone who knows what to look for," Jimmy picked up, his thumb brushing along the embroidery on the lapel of his jacket with a near reverent care.

"And you personally knit the lining, which could be construed as you knitting us sweaters," Cas finished. "By the lore of knitting, we must now either break up with you or marry you. If Jack approves of these gifts, we can assume you do not wish us to break up."

"Please don't," Sam blurted out, his face heating from embarrassment. "But you don't have to... to propose marriage just because... I mean, unless you really want...." To his floundering relief, the twins smiled at him and reached out to take his hands in theirs.

"We would be honored to be a part of your family and have you be a part of ours," Jimmy told him, lifting the hand he held to brush a kiss across Sam's knuckles.

"Mom might take a while to come around," Cas admitted as he lifted Sam's other hand in mirror to Jimmy, "but then, Mom's the reason you can have us both. And we already know your mother likes us."

"So will you?"

"...Yes."

[readwing]

It has occurred to me that aside from off-handed tags, vague references, and the occasional poll result that I don’t really share-share stuff about me online.

So allow me to break that streak for a moment to gush about my job:

I am, without being too specific, a Fancy Data Accountant. Let me explain.

I am not a CPA and I did not go to school for this, but I did take a variety of loosely related classes when I was in college. These classes + the slow grind of being An Employee During the Recession + a general thirst for knowledge + good organizational skills = a solid understanding of business fundamentals and a willingness to learn Accounts Receivable (A/R) and Accounts Payable (A/P) without fucking it up.

If any of you younguns don’t know - A/R and A/P are positions that are always in desperate need of smart people willing to learn. If you add to this even a basic knowledge of General Ledger accounting then congratulations you are 95% more competent than most of the people currently doing that job. The reason for this being that for small businesses, it’s usually a filler job. It’s usually passed on to like, whoever seems to have the most time leftover to do it.

Receptionists and owner’s wives. Lots of times it’s those people. And lots of times, they do not want to being doing that job either.

And since accountants tend to want to actually make good money and pay off their degrees, they also do not want those jobs! They’re mostly decently paying jobs, higher than entry level for sure, but they’re not CPA-paying jobs.

So there ends up being a knowledge gap between the people who are inputting all the financial data and the actual accountants who really really would prefer it if the data was better organized. Accountant and Tax Prep people, in fact, tend to need this so much that they sometimes hire people to work for them internally who can help business owners pretty things up so the data is fucking usable.

Enter me.

So I bounce around for a bit doing my thing - which is Easy, it’s so Easy that the only challenge I get is coming into a Messed Up set of books and fixing it. But then at a certain point…they are fixed. So what now?

Well my what now was ‘you know, this business (that I was working for at the time) has a stupid amount of manual input data. Not only that, but the data that’s being input is only a fraction of what we could be using to analyze and make decisions, and that’s because the industry relies on third party software for its A/R but a completely different software for its A/P. Since the two don’t talk to each other, we’re stuck relying on truncated reports out of our A/R that are somehow both watered down and crowded with unnecessary noise. No bueno!’

So bored little me signed up for a free library class on coding. I’m kind of shit at it, but that’s okay because that was the first time in my life I actually understood what syntax was in programming.

By the end of the class what I realized was that while I was too lazy to ever properly code something, it didn’t matter. What I really needed to know was:

1) what raw data I had available from System A

2) what the simplest, bare minimum amount of functions / formulas I needed to manipulate that data-

3) -so that I could then package it and download it into System B, preferably with minimal typing!

So that’s what I did. That was my new challenge. When I had a free moment at work - and boy did I find lots of those - I would play around with my little spreadsheets and these clunky programs. There needed to be checks and balances, you see. Whatever the output numbers said had to equal the new input numbers, or the accounting would be off. If Karen down the hall accidentally fat-thumbed in a new product or department, I needed it to 1) not break the formulas, and 2) be easily identified as an anomaly. Whatever happened between export/import needed to be cleaned, checked, and verified for the integrity of both systems.

So that’s what I built. Between doing my job and browsing Reddit at work. I built this whole system that would take this very boring part of my job and make it easy.

And yeah the place I worked for sucked, and I had plenty of issues happening personally, but this I was good at!

And the results kind of made me look like a god, which is always nice. And it got me a raise.

The pay bump was almost worth the mind-numbing boredom of the variety of other tasks I usually had to do to get to the fun bit. Almost.

Then last year in a moment of fed-up-ness I applied for a slew of jobs. Just slinging rezzies into the void on Indeed like a pizza maker flinging ‘za. Mostly for the same positions, just with better perks and pay. I wasn’t hoping for much. One of them called me back. Scheduled an interview. Did the interview. The next morning I had a job offer.

Y’all. I lucked in so fucking hard.

Not only were their books a mess, not only were they running a separate A/R and A/P system PLUS ANOTHER TWO INDUSTRY-SPECIFIC SOFTWARES, but they were actually excited to hear my ideas on how to fix it.

(And they were fucking soluble as all get out, which was a first for me.)

They were so excited, in fact, that it’s gone from being maybe 15% of my job to being about 80-90% of my job to just slowly fix and maintain everything they’ve got going on. Why the investment on their side? Because they’re looking to enter a potential partnership with X-number of other companies, all of whom have messy books that I could potentially end up fixing. Also the company has just started to open up a new location. Also the main owners are looking to start X-number of ancillary companies spinning out of the current one. All of these companies, of course, will have slews of data that need analyzed, with multiple Point-of-Sales systems that need to talk to each other, and good gosh golly, they know just the kind of person who likes to do that kind of shit now don’t they?

Then there’s little old me, sitting at my computer with my chunky spreadsheets and my limited amount of Visual Basic, somehow producing goddamn magic. Because programmers don’t understand generally accepted accounting practices, and accountants care even less about best data practices and management.

I have somehow waded through mires of bad decisions and late stage capitalism to find myself an oasis. I feel like I have somehow tricked the people around me into paying me good money to let me have fun at work. This in spite of the fact that I know that no one can do or even wants my job. Even AI can’t touch me, because that would require the robot be capable of standing up and asking a room full of otherwise intelligent people ‘what the fuck is this? Why did you enter it this way. Yes, I know it was easier for you and yes it’s technically accurate but you are going to accidentally break the law if we leave it like this Kenneth’

I am a cog, yes; but I am a well-paid cog, who gets to learn and feel challenged and buy ridiculous toys for my cats and fund Patreons now. And books. And sushi. And paints. I even splurged on a gym membership.

And y’all - it’s nice. It’s really really nice. And I really hope it keeps going like this, ‘cause I’m really happy with how things are going.

[lindajenni]

sep 7

living horizontal with a vertical view

"while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen." 2 cor 4:18

even now my body is aging and breaking down. it was not built for eternity. that will necessitate this corruptible putting on incorruption; this mortal putting on immortality. sound familiar to anyone?

i have had my share of pain and suffering, more than some and much less than others. the why of it all remains in the safe hands of He who knows best. but this one thing i do know. "as you are partakers of the sufferings, so also you will partake of the consolation." 2 cor 1:7 if you are not "feeling" that consolation, perhaps one needs to move closer to the Lord. consolation is not deliverance. instead, the balm of gilead applied.

"that i may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death." phil 3:10 no one enjoys suffering, but like it or not, there are times it has a purpose to fulfill. trust and obedience will lead you through it. bitterness and rejection will only prolong it. "if this plan or this work is of men, it will come to nothing; but if it is of God, you cannot overthrow it — lest you even be found to fight against God." acts 5:38-39

along with printing, i have had a hand in the graphic arts for most of my life. do you have any idea how many individual pixel it takes to make up a high resolution picture. depending on the size, it could take millions.

now let that single pixel - no, a tiny fraction of that pixel - represent our lifespan here on earth laid on the timeline of eternity. yet how immeasurably significant that time is in God's eyes. the investment we spend is so minuscule compared to the reward we shall reap. the trials, temptations and pains we endure here are indeed not worthy to be compared. "for i consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us." rom 8:18

"we are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed — always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body." 2 cor 4:8-10 our Lord said we would have tribulation in this world, but not to worry. "I have overcome the world." john 16:33

we live horizontally but we need to be viewing things vertically. "the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal." 2 cor 4:18 life must be lived forward, but it can only be understood backwards. the things we cannot understand the "why" of, we must commit into His loving hands.

"trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths." prov 3:5-6

He shall direct your paths in your horizontal living if your vertical view is upwards and not forwards. a worldly view can only see that mountain before you or that army of obstacles coming against you. "who are you, o great mountain? before Zerubbabel you shall become a plain! and he shall bring forth the capstone with shouts of 'grace, grace to it!'" zech 4:7

a vertical view will reveal the truth, just as elisha's did. "and elisha prayed, and said, 'Lord, i pray, open his eyes that he may see.' then the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw. and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around elisha." 2 kings 6:17

if i might, i would make another reference to my experience in the graphic arts. colors are composed of either cmyk or rgb, depending on printed material or whatever. all other colors and shades are created from them. red and blue combined make up the color purple; the color of royalty. when one combines the purity and beauty of the blue heavens with the red blood of Jesus, that is exactly what they get. they get to be kings and priests; children of the almighty God. "behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed on us, that we should be called children of God!" 1 john 3:1

we are given a multitude of helps to accomplish the purpose for which we are sent. "for He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways." psa 91:11 just keep your eyes on the prize. keep your eyes on Jesus! we cannot, but He can!

[julianrchandlerx]

Julian thought for a moment if he knew of any ‘unique flowers’ but he really only knew flowers by their colors and shapes, and the drug store bouquets he would grab last second for ex girlfriends when he lost their favor for being, well, him. “The only unique flower coming to mind is an edible arrangement, which I realize isn’t a real flower anyway so I can’t imagine that working for you — but, hey! Once they’re eaten, they’re gone, so easy to forget, maybe?” His good humor was running out, it seemed. His features softened as he glanced at the most identifiable flowers — roses — and then around at the others. “Did she not have a favorite?” He asked after a brief moment of thought. “Maybe you should take reference from you and your siblings’ names? She must have liked poppies and roses, enough to name her two daughters after them.” He wasn’t sure if there was some sort of special tradition behind the floral names, or if it was even their mom’s idea. For one, Jasmine also had a nature name and she was related through their father… Plus, last he checked Alyssa wasn’t a floral name either. “No, no cats, just a really old golden retriever.” He jokingly leaned far back from the lily being offered, bouncing back toward her when she pulled it away. “If she likes what we pick, I’ll give you the credit so you earn that casserole. If not, I’ll take the fall and we’ll both be decidedly casserole-less.” Julian shrugged in response, “If you say it’s sweet then I guess it must be so.”

His whole body shifted in her direction, cautiously reading her reaction to his words. He’d never lost someone in such an extreme and public way — not unless he himself counted, anyway. He didn’t know what she was going through, not even to a fraction, but he knew pain. He understood that. Even if she was doing her best to keep grace and save face, he could only imagine what could be lurking beneath the surface. Her words almost made him frown. Strength. It was the route many would take in her place, but it only made him feel for her and her family more. To feel like they needed to be strong despite what happened to them. Despite the consequences she pointed out they knew about when choices were made. “True,” he said as he let out a soft breath. Even he knew the consequences of bringing someone back from the dead — the penance that needed to be paid. A life for a life. But it was strange, he thought the price was supposed to be someone Jasmine cared for. Not someone she clearly had no warm feelings for… it was almost random. But who was he to question the ‘laws of magic’. There was just one fact that knowing those consequences didn’t change, which was the pain of losing someone. “That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt, though.” He gave her a small, warm smile, but said no more.

“Thank you!” He laughed, “Sometimes I can make smart observations. Gotta put that Ivy League education to work somehow.” His eyes crinkled from a humored smile. “Or maybe you should lend your name to one of the world’s most beloved fairytales. I mean to be named after a beautiful flower that has been a common subject of famous painters like Fantin-Latour and Redouté, a universal symbol of love and elegance, and a princess literally called the Sleeping Beauty? No offense to your siblings, but you got it best in the name department. And it’s fitting.” His brow furrowed, “But seriously, is a briar actually a bush?” And then after another beat, “Flowers have meanings?” Without thought, Julian followed after Briar, hands in his pockets as he looked around at the florals they were passing. “Now I wonder how many times I’ve given a girl a flower without realizing I was saying, ‘I hate your stinkin’ guts’. Gratitude is a great place to start, though. What flowers express gratitude but also say, ‘I’m sorry for spilling gesso on the basement carpet?’” He gently picked up a random flower — one he didn’t know by name, having been more drawn by the warm orange tones of it — and showed it to Briar with a questioning look in his eyes. Silently seeking her superior flower wisdom and approval. “Have you thought about using those meanings to guide your choice in arrangements? There’s gotta be a grouping of flowers that say whatever you want your final message to your mom to be.” A light suggestion as he fell into step beside her.

She laughed, plucking a gold rose pendant she wore around her neck as if to say she knew the irony. "It's like the name comes with the imagery." The truth was she was sure Alyssa would throw a fit over her using such a typical flower for her funeral services. "If only there was a unique flower I'd never heard of that I could use and then forget exists." Briar sighed and trailed her fingers over the delicate pink petals of chrysanthemums before smelling some lilies. Her nose twitched at the smell. "She sounds lovely." Briar admitted, "Does she have cats?" She extended a lily towards Julian, "Lilies are toxic to cats, so if they have cats, lilies are a terrible option, and I won't make it. Kinda hoping you'll put in a good word for me, and I'll get my own casserole." Briar shook her head, a flickering smile, "It's not sad. It's sweet."

Briar's easy smile subtly shifted into one heavy with grief and perfected by pretenses. Her stomach flopped with the ever-present reminder she couldn't escape. The sentiments were kind, but the bitterest part of Briar wondered if anyone cared that Alyssa was gone. The alternative was all the sympathy was for her, and the thought sent her stomach into somersaults. She opened her mouth, hoping something elegant and true would form by the time she exhaled, but only a stuttering breath passed her lips. Briar closed her lips, and her shoulders dropped, "There was no choice." She said after a beat, "We knew the consequences of bringing Poppy back. We voted." Briar spoke quietly but steadily, "Thank you." She added belatedly, politely. The words were sincere, yet Briar wanted something more profound that meant more than anything else she could come up with in any language she recognized. Words didn't feel like enough, not from her- or anyone. They couldn't convey the depth of what she wanted, of what they meant.

"It's an educated guess." Briar chuckled, "I'm technically named after a bush." Briar soothed with a shrug, tucking the lily back into the display, "You're right. Lilies are pungent." Briar shifted, "Blue hydrangeas symbolize gratitude." She said, rounding a corner rather into the idea of selecting flowers for an old lady who made casseroles than her mother's funeral.

[ghastmaskzombie]

there's a bit in pratchett's going postal where someone accuses the protagonist of indirectly causing 2.338 statistical deaths. recently it’s made me wonder, did pterry ever think about the lives he saved, himself? the people pulled out of the dark by his writing, in the same kind of fractions and possibilities? the people who survived by kindness that was only offered because he made each of us a little bit better?

he saved a piece of my life. without discworld, i would have been a little less likely to have made it this far. we talk about how he’s not really dead while his name’s still spoken, and a lot of the time we reference that same book when we do. but he’s alive in so much more than that. there's a bit of his voice in every breath i take, because i don’t know for certain i’d be taking it if not for him.

and i think... don’t we all have that power? maybe the world would be a better place if we all understood that one well-placed kindness is all it takes to save a piece of a life.

[ramblingandwritings]

Sick, Sick, Sick

18+ for filth. I haven't written proper full length smut in months and I realized why while writing this. It's because it's so difficult to do. God help me I have two more of these in my drafts and my eye is twitching

Content warnings for cheap grimy motels, references to blood, rough sex and facials. Reader has a vagina but is never referred to with any pronouns

The latest mission had the four of you cramped inside Nico's van over the course of several days. Being in a cramped space with everyone with no real personal space was obnoxious on it's own, trying to find places for everyone to sleep was brutal. The lucky one would get the couch and everyone else had to figure it out. Usually that put you and V both on the cramped floor, trying to make a passable bed out of pillows and blankets. On top of that, everything between you and V had to be chaste, leaving you to sneak a few kisses when no one was paying attention

Or when everyone else was sleeping, and light goodnight kisses would slip into V's face buried in your neck, hands wandering each other's bodies, both desperately wanting more then what you could get. Only stopping when things started getting too heated, leaving you to try to sleep with V's erect cock pressing into your ass. Though he wanted to shove his hand over your mouth and push himself into you, he didn't want to get caught. The very thought of it plagued his dreams at night

The only blessing to the mission coming to a close was being able to stop at a motel for a night just before heading back to the shop. You and V stood around casually chatting while Nero talked to the shifty man at the front desk. You didn't like the look of the place and you could tell by the look on V's face that he didn't either, but you could tolerate it for one night

The second Nero handed a room key over to V, you both were out the door with just a quick thank you. Leaving Nero trying to stifle a laugh in the lobby. He felt pity for whoever was stuck next door, thankful it wasn't him

V gripped your hand, leading you behind him as he walked, passing broken vending machines and the room of an arguing couple before you got to the room. Still a gentleman, letting you inside first even when you could see the outline of his cock pressing hard against his pants.

The door slammed shut, harder than he probably intended to. But that didn't matter, what did matter was his grip on your hips as he pushed your back to the wall, sure to leave bruises in the morning.

His plush lips crashed into yours almost hard enough to knock teeth, his tongue pressing for entrance into your mouth. He moaned as you reached down to palm his dick through his pants, the last fraction of self control in his brain snapped. He quickly broke your kiss to strip both of you as fast as he could, damn near ripping off the filmsy fabric of your shirt in the process. He pulled your naked form from the wall and guided you to the bed. The mattress wasn't the most comfortable thing against your back but that'd be a concern for tomorrow when both of you woke up in pain. Assuming you slept anyway

He moved from your lips to mark your neck, leaving kisses and light bruises everywhere he could. V let out a soft sigh as your hand slipped between your bodies to stroke him, his eyes fluttered shut as he allowed himself to enjoy the touches. Feeling emboldened by his response, you pushed his cockhead against your clit, he understood exactly what you were asking for.

He rutted his cock in between your wet pussy lips, making sure every stroke rubbed the slick bundle of nerves. Your moans were music to his ears, but they weren't loud enough. He needed you to cry out for him, beg and plead for him

He pressed against your hole, slowly spearing you on him as he pushed more in and more of himself in. He let out a deep moan as he finally bottomed out, he had been wanting nothing but this for days. He kept his face buried in your neck, trying to focus on not cumming too early. He could feel your hands trailing down his back, pushing on his ass in an effort to make him move. He wasn't having it, he quickly had your hands pinned above your head "You've been patient for days, what's another minute?" V was scolding you, though clearly amused by your effort

After a few more seconds, he started to move. He wasn't gentle with you, he put enough power behind his thrusts to knock the cheap headboard against the wall, forcing choked moans from you. It didn't matter how rough he was, you'd take it and still ask for more and he was always happy to provide

The sloppy sound of his cock pushing in and out of your cunt only got louder as he forced your legs into your chest, letting him get that much deeper as he used to weight to pin you to the bed. Your fingers slipped to rub your clit, it wouldn't take much to make you cum. You were painfully close, already starting to twitch around him. V groaned into your neck, you knew he wouldn't last long either with the way he was breathing. Abruptly, he pulled out of you to rest on his knees, leaving you empty and so close to cumming

You recognized what he wanted from you and crawled towards him until you were faced with his cock, precum dripping from the swollen tip like a faucet. You stuck your tongue out to lick some of it up, earning a throaty chuckle from him. "Keep your mouth open, beloved." You did as he asked, while he stroked his cock like a man possessed in front of you

It didn't take long for him to find his release, moaning shamefully loud as ropes of thick cum painted your face and fell into your mouth. V watched enraptured as you swallowed his cum, rubbing yourself as your orgasm built and built, finally toppling over as you cried out his name. Pussy clinching around nothing, dripping onto the worn duvet that had certainly seen better days

He took some time to admire the state you were in, before gently moving off the bed to get a wet rag to clean you up with, leaving you to look around the room. Between the bedside lamp that'd been stripped of copper, the suspicious red stains on the carpet and the door hinges that look like they'd been kicked in before, atleast you didn't have to stay for too long

V came back into the room looking amused and mildly horrified, but he got to work cleaning your face. "It's a bloodbath in there." He motioned his head towards the bathroom, "It looks like the last residents moved a body and barely attempted to clean up after themselves." Well, that'd certainly explan the stains on the floor

You were gonna say something about it probably being a good idea to just sleep in the van for the night, but you didn't even have to open your mouth, V beat you to the punch. Calmly suggesting it'd be good to leave as soon as possible. And with one last wipe of the rag, he kissed your forehead and you both started getting redressed

Even though it was disappointing that the fun ended a bit earlier than anticipated, you weren't gonna miss that room or the uncomfortable bed. Getting back to the van, V gently knocked on the door before entering, wanting to give Nico a heads-up. Shockingly or maybe not so shockingly given the state of the motel, Nero had decided on the same thing. The three of you shared knowing nods, a mutual understanding of the situation. Nero would likely tell you about the horrors of his room when you got back on the road

"Could you two quit standing there and shower? Y'all fucking reek!" Nico was right, if a bit blunt. Well, if she wanted you and V to shower, then she'd get exactly what she asked for. You pulled an embarrassed V into the van's shower with you, to hell with subtlety