#I’ve been playing this game non stop i love them

[drizzledrawings]

They are my best friends

[studioeisa]

keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH. 

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do. 

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents. 

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.” 

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall. 

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother. 

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE. 

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life. 

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.” 

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs. 

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort. 

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech. 

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles. 

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?” 

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on. 

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.” 

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats. 

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu. 

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was. 

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy. 

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu. 

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off. 

The feeling was most definitely mutual. 

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply. 

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol. 

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together? 

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding. 

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does. 

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh. 

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills. 

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle. 

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR. 

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators. 

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax. 

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face. 

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff. 

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him. 

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though. 

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again. 

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine. 

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic. 

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back. 

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude. 

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way. 

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation. 

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT. 

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you. 

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it. 

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight. 

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself. 

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him. 

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights. 

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt. 

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend. 

It takes him all of three minutes to find you. 

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried. 

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick. 

He hates it. He hates you. 

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too. 

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump. 

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling. 

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most. 

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news. 

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you. 

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone. 

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—” 

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow. 

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?” 

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple. 

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you. 

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?” 

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same. 

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.” 

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this. 

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself. 

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth. 

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true. 

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’. 

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other. 

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement. 

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you— 

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger. 

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away. 

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss. 

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves. 

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car. 

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further. 

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.” 

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it. 

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle. 

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—” 

“I didn’t ask you to—” 

“Your mother asked me to—” 

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together. 

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.” 

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up. 

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night. 

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly. 

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—” 

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat. 

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago. 

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips. 

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground. 

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car. 

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER. 

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber. 

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab. 

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later. 

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens. 

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible. 

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing. 

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME. 

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section. 

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time. 

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.” 

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.” 

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job. 

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen. 

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory. 

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes? 

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing? 

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s. 

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo. 

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires. 

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell. 

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you. 

(In the other side of the mall—) 

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP. 

You love shopping. 

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders. 

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it. 

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. 

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in. 

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching. 

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today. 

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage. 

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches. 

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. 

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night. 

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here. 

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION. 

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive. 

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered. 

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor. 

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it. 

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer. 

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks. 

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in. 

The moment is bizarre. 

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours. 

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit. 

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it. 

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor. 

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH. 

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching. 

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges. 

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team. 

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough. 

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed. 

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.” 

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic. 

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon. 

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON. 

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately. 

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head. 

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you? 

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air. 

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you. 

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly. 

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs. 

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead— 

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful. 

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful. 

You hate it. 

You hate him. 

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players. 

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too. 

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option. 

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that. 

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse. 

He had pretended not to. 

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.” 

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut. 

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? 

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out. 

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant. 

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit. 

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away. 

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word. 

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause. 

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant. 

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called. 

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE. 

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days. 

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority. 

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest.  “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump. 

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing. 

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess. 

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate. 

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told. 

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel. 

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have. 

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked. 

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING. 

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes. 

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it. 

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return. 

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach. 

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating? 

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition. 

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted. 

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again. 

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead. 

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song. 

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?” 

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.” 

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas. 

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces. 

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered. 

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage. 

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women. 

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged. 

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like— 

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE. 

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is. 

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him. 

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom. 

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now. 

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter. 

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off. 

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself. 

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it. 

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE. 

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty. 

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated. 

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people— 

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim. 

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him— 

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter. 

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging 

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back. 

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe. 

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound. 

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.” 

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid. 

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.  

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.” 

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you. 

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.” 

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything. 

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—” 

“Let’s not go there.” 

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips. 

You take a deep breath, and then you follow. 

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes. 

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly? 

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red. 

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly. 

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’. 

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it. 

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant. 

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?” 

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet. 

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended? 

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung. 

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest. 

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—” 

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is. 

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

You wanted him to kiss you. 

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen. 

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you. 

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels. 

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe. 

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer. 

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years. 

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that. 

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there. 

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life. 

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE. 

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering. 

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask. 

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved. 

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it. 

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection. 

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking. 

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out. 

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now. 

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win. 

No. This is a game you no longer have to play. 

You lace your fingers through his. 

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

[alotofpockets]

Target practice | Vivianne Miedema x Reader

5k celebration prompt: "Is it broken?"

Warnings: broken nose, blood

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.2k

-----

When you walk through the door of your apartment, you find your girlfriend sitting on the floor. She leaned against the couch with her laptop on the coffee table. A match playing on her screen, but it sounds like she is replaying a certain moment in the match by the repetitive commentary. 

You take off your shoes, drop your back to the ground, and walk towards the couch. “Hi love.” You say as you sit down behind her and kiss the top of her head. “What are you watching?”

Viv takes a deep sigh, “The game from yesterday. I had too many off target shots, so I’ve been rewatching them.” You knew this process, she had done it over and over again. Not just for mistakes or things she wasn’t happy with, but also for good goals and moments in play. “Is it helping?” You ask gently, hearing the light frustration in her voice.

“Nope, I’m just frustrating myself. I want to do some target practice, but without someone in goal it won’t be as effective.” She closed the laptop with a sigh. You never liked seeing your girlfriend this way. She’s an incredible footballer, and a missed shot shouldn’t be something on her mind amongst all the amazing goals that she does score. You would do anything to not make her feel like this.

“I’m no goalkeeper, but I could stand in goal if you think that would help.” You offer. Viv looks at you like you’re crazy, but she sees nothing but sincerity in your eyes. “Are you sure?” You smile and nod your head, “Yeah, of course. After dinner?” 

And that is exactly what you did. Once dinner was all cleaned up, you both went to your room to get changed. Viv grabbed one of her City training kits, while your eyes lingered on her old Arsenal one. “Would it be too soon to suggest Man City vs Arsenal?” She followed your gaze and smiled to herself. “You can wear it.” She loved when you wore her clothes, so this was no exception. 

Along with borrowing a training kit from your girlfriend, you also wore a pair of her boots. Wearing the same shoe size was always so easy, you could always use one of the hundreds of pairs Viv had laying around.

You walked to the pitch together hand in hand, just chatting and enjoying the nice weather. While football was far from your thing, you loved being able to spend the time with her. 

Once on the pitch you thought it would be a great idea to warm up alongside her, but you quickly realised that as soon as she started her running drills, that you were not a professional footballer, and definitely did not have the same condition of one. So, you opted to watch her with your back leaned against the goalpost for the rest of her warm ups.

You watched with a smile plastered on your face. She looked entirely in her element, even if it was just a simple warm up. When she ran her last drill, she walked up to the goal. “Are you still sure you want to do this?” She asked with a little worry in her voice. You nod, “Yup, I will be the best non-goalie goalie ever.” Viv chuckled, “Alright, let’s go then.”

Viv started shooting while you were moving around in the goal, left to right, jumping around, you were honestly having a lot of fun with just being the most annoying goalkeeper you could be. 

At first you thought your girlfriend was just starting off slow to get into it, but when she kept it going, you started to realise what she was doing. “You can stop holding back, love. I’m not scared of the ball, so just shoot it like you normally would.”

She stayed a bit weary at first, but slowly started building up the power she was putting behind her shots now. One of her harder shots soared past you and went right into the top corner. “Top bins! That’s more like it.” You say proudly.

Viv’s confidence grew more and more with each shot that she took. Clearly noticing you were handling the fast balls flying around you just fine. 

“Is it helping?” You asked her as you went to collect the balls together. “Yeah, a lot actually." Thank you so much for doing this for me.” You smile and lean in to peck her lips, “Of course, anything for you.”

Another few shots hit the back of the net perfectly. Viv was starting to enjoy it more and more. Of course this still wasn’t the same as game play, but hitting ball after ball on target was doing her a lot of good.

Viv lined up her next shot, she looked up at you with a smile. Your moves were ridiculous, but she loved that you were doing the most for you, and she was enjoying every moment of your attempt to distract her from the goal.

She kicks the next ball. It came flying towards the goal with full power, so fast that you didn’t realise it was coming straight to you until it was too late. The ball hits your square in the face, and you fall back instantly. “Shit.” Viv says instantly. 

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” She rushed to your side, her eyes widening as she saw the blood gushing from your nose. Your hand reaches up to touch your nose, and you instantly flinch at the pain. Then you look at your hand, which was covered in blood. 

You look up to your girlfriend with worried eyes. “Is it broken?" Viv helps you sit up, and properly looks at your nose. “Well, I’m no doctor, but it’s definitely not straight anymore.” 

By now the adrenaline rush started to come down, and you were starting to feel the pain a lot more. Viv who noticed you getting more uncomfortable helped you up fully. “Come on, let’s get an ice pack at home and then head to urgent care.”

On the walk back home, Viv couldn’t stop apologising. She kept going until to the point you had to stop her. “Viv, I love you but you have to stop. It happened, and it’s fine. It will heal and my nose will go back to looking normal in no time.”

“I know it will, but I should have never asked you to be in goal.” You shake your head. “You didn’t ask, I offered.” She rolled her eyes, “Fine, then I shouldn’t have let you. It’s my fault, and I am really sorry.”

Your nose was indeed broken, and they had to set it. Back home Viv, who still felt very bad, took great care of you. She acted a little as if you couldn’t do anything anymore, but who were you to deny your girlfriend from doing all these kinds for you for a little while?

-----

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[kiwriteswords]

Of course I have to request something for the florist story, I love it too much to not take part of it 👀 and I wanted to see some jealous Hotch like maybe he comes to the shop and see some customers flirting with reader (like you said in your last story, men will be men) but I’m letting you work your magical words on this I trust you a 100% ✨💛

Flowers in the Darkest Parts of You [Jealous!Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 2k|| AN:  THANK YOU FOR THIS, LOVELY! I hope you enjoy xo! Requests are open for all things florsit!reader only right now! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, slight angst, reader has commitment issues, reader has trust issues, hotch is possessive, jealous!hotch, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, mentions of intimate moments, dating, flirtatious customer Summary:  Aaron Hotchner has no right to get jealous over your customers flirting with you, but when you're hesitant to put a label on things, he feels at a loss...a jealous loss.

The sheets were still warm.

The room smelled like you--

Your perfume lingering in the air, subtle and floral, mixed with candle wax and the crisp, expensive detergent Hotch insisted on using for every item in his pristine linen closet.

It had been another perfect night. Dinner at a quiet, hidden bistro tucked into a Georgetown alleyway. You wore that deep green silk dress he hadn’t stopped looking at all night. You smiled at him over wine glasses and teased him about his choice in appetizers, and he listened to you like the world didn’t exist beyond your voice.

And then this.

Back in his apartment, the rest of the night unfolding like it always did. Unrushed. Reverent. Magical.

Fairytale, even.

But fairytales ended. Always.

And you, like clockwork, were already sitting up in bed, hair messy and cheeks still flushed, reaching for your dress on the chair by the closet.

Hotch turned onto his side, resting his head in one hand, watching you with quiet confusion, an ache forming behind his ribs.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said softly.

You smiled over your shoulder, already stepping into your dress. “I know.”

He pushed himself up slightly, the sheets pooling at his waist. “So…don’t.”

You hesitated--only for a second--but it was long enough for him to catch it.

“We’ve done this, what…six, seven times now?” he asked. He wasn’t angry. Just tired. “You come back here, we spend these incredible nights together, and then you leave like none of it means anything.”

You paused by the mirror, smoothing the fabric of your dress. “It does mean something.”

“Then why won’t you stay?” His voice cracked, just a bit. “Why is it always my place, always your exit plan ready? You never let me into yours. You never let me wake up with you.”

You turned to face him, crossing your arms.

“Aaron--”

“No,” he said gently, but firmly. “I’m not asking for a key to your apartment or to meet your family or anything insane. I’m just asking…what are we doing? Because it feels real to me. It feels serious.”

Your expression shifted. Guarded. The playful sparkle he loved so much flickered out like a flame.

“I told you from the beginning I don’t do fairytales,” you said, voice low.

“This isn’t a fairytale,” he said quietly. “It’s us.”

You opened your mouth to respond, then shut it again. You picked up your purse instead.

“I should go.”

“Why?” His voice stopped you. “Because I care too much? Because I’m not playing games?”

You turned back around slowly. “Because I am.”

That stunned him into silence.

You exhaled, and the truth came tumbling out--not bitter, not angry, just...tired.

“I’ve seen men like you walk into my shop for years, Aaron. Gentlemen with wedding rings and lies. Men who say all the right things until you believe them, until you’re left holding the flowers you arranged for your own heartbreak. I know what it’s like to give someone everything and watch them turn it into nothing.”

“I’m not--”

“I know you’re not really like them,” you said, cutting him off, voice trembling. “That’s the problem.”

He stared at you, heart pounding.

“You’re good. You’re really good.” You looked down, then met his eyes again. “And if I let this become real...and you changed your mind later, or realized you weren’t ready, or that I wasn’t enough--” Your breath caught. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

Hotch swallowed hard, his own voice rough. “You think I’d do that to you?”

Whatever past you carried--

It was heavy. 

And confusing.

It was written all over your face and in every wall at that floral shop. 

“I don’t think,” you whispered. “I fear.”

Silence stretched between you like a thread, ready to snap.

You reached for the doorknob, your back to him now.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, voice soft. He wanted to badly to point out your hesitation. The profiler in him screaming to call you out. Call your bluff. Point out what may actually be pulling you away.

But…but--

Hotch didn’t stop you.

He looked around to his dresser, where a petite arrangement sat in a tall, skinny vase. A long delphinium peaked out the top. You’d given it to him the other day when he popped into your shop. 

The door clicked behind you.

And he lay back down in his bed, alone again, the empty side still warm with the ghost of you.

The next day?

Hotch’s phone rang just after lunch.

He saw your name flash across the screen and felt his stomach twist. Not from nerves exactly--

Just from the leftover ache of watching you slip out his door the night before, heels clicking against hardwood like punctuation.

He answered on the second ring.

“Hotchner.”

“Wow,” you teased, your voice bright and breezy like nothing had happened. “Very formal.”

He leaned back in his chair, already suspicious of the easy tone. “I’m at work.”

“Well, yeah. So am I,” you said, a little sing-songy. “Just thought I’d call and say...hi.”

His silence prompted a softer exhale from your end.

“And to say I’m sorry. For last night.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I have some things I need to work on,” you continued, quieter now. “And I know that’s not fair to you. But the men I’m usually surrounded by? They don’t tend to be great. You showing up in my life the way you did--it’s been a bit of a whirlwind. I’m still catching my breath.”

Ah.

There it was.

The honesty he’d been craving, sitting right under that polished charm you always wore so well.

He closed his eyes for a second. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I mean it,” you added. “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be great at this…but if you have a little patience, I’d like to try.”

He smiled just slightly, something soft blooming in his chest. “I’ve got plenty of patience.”

And that should’ve been it--

One of those delicate, rare moments where you cracked open just enough for him to see inside.

But then…

“Hey there, flower queen,” a male voice called in the background, far too loud and way too flirtatious. “Am I interrupting something, or can I steal your attention for a sec?”

Hotch straightened in his chair.

You cupped the receiver slightly and called back, amused, “Just a second, Melvin.”

Melvin?

Hotch blinked. “Melvin?”

“Mhm,” you said, voice still casual. “Regular customer.”

There was a clatter on your end--probably a vase, maybe a shelf--and then a muffled, “You look stunning today, by the way. That color on you is criminal.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked.

You didn’t flirt back, but you didn’t shut it down, either. 

Just let it pass with a low chuckle and a, “You picking up or just passing through?”

“Placing an order to pick up later,” Melvin said cheerfully. “But if you’ve got time later, I’d love to buy you a coffee.”

“I’ll check my schedule.

Hotch cleared his throat. 

Loudly.

You came back to the line. “Sorry about that. Just Melvin being Melvin.”

Hotch’s voice was perfectly calm. “Sounds like a fan.”

“He’s harmless,” you said breezily. “Anyway--thank you for hearing me out. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, clipped. “Talk soon.”

He hung up first.

Then sat in silence for a long moment, staring down at his desk.

Fucking Melvin.

Jesus Christ.

So there he was hours later. 

Boy, would he have to answer to the team later on this one. A lunch break outside of the office? One he likely would be longer than thirty minutes for? The way he stormed out? 

He didn’t mean to show up.

Okay, maybe he did.

(He so did.) 

Hotch told himself he was just out for a break, clearing his head, getting some air--but his feet took him straight to your shop before his brain could make a better decision.

The bell chimed overhead.

You looked up instantly, the softest smile forming on your lips. “Twice in two days? You’re gonna ruin your mysterious FBI reputation.”

He opened his mouth to reply--

 --and then saw him.

Melvin.

Late thirties, tan, perfectly tousled hair, wearing a bomber jacket over a well-fitted shirt that screamed tech money and oat milk lattes.

“Oh,” you said, noticing the shift in Hotch’s expression. “Melvin just came to pick up his order.”

Melvin turned, gave Hotch a once-over. “Hey. Sorry, didn’t see you there. You her brother or…?”

Ouch.

Hotch’s expression didn’t flinch. “No.”

Melvin raised his brows. “Ah. Got it.”

You were trying not to laugh.

“I just stopped by,” Hotch said, voice sharp but polite. “Thought I’d see the final version of what you’ve been working on.”

You gave him a curious look. “You…don’t even know what I’m working on.”

He met your gaze. “Doesn’t matter. You always make it look good.”

Melvin cleared his throat. “Well, this is getting a little cozy. I’ll get out of your hair.” He turned back to you. “Thanks again, gorgeous. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Of course,” you said easily, moving to the counter with his wrapped bouquet.

Melvin winked at you--winked--and then turned toward the door with a confident wave. “Catch you soon.”

The bell chimed again.

The door shut behind him.

Hotch didn’t speak for a moment. He just stared at the empty doorway like it personally offended him.

You slid your hands into the front of your apron, head tilted. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he said, a little too fast. “Just…curious.”

“About?”

You asked like you didn’t already know.

“Melvin.”

You grinned. “He’s a loyal customer.”

“He’s also annoyingly confident.”

You smirked. “Is that your profiler read?”

“He seems very interested in being more than just a loyal customer.”

You leaned a hip against the counter, studying him. “He flirts with everyone.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

The silence that followed hung heavy, like pollen in thick air.

You arched a brow. “Jealous?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t brush it off.

He just looked at you with that quiet storm in his eyes, something raw barely kept under control.

He stepped closer--

Slowly, deliberately. 

Just enough that you had to tilt your chin up to hold his gaze. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low. 

Earnest. .

A little frayed at the edges.

“It’s hard,” he admitted. “Being with you like this. These perfect nights. The moments we almost feel like something real.”

You stayed still. Waiting.

“And then I see someone else walk in here,” he continued, “and I realize I have no right to be jealous. No right to feel possessive. Because you’re not...you’re not mine. Not officially.”

That hit harder than you expected.

Not because he was wrong--but because he was right.

“I don’t want to be the guy who tries to claim you,” he added, voice rough. “You’re your own person.You don’t belong to anyone. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish you were mine sometimes. That I didn’t feel it--all the time.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight.

He shook his head, stepping back an inch, like he’d said too much. “I’m sorry. I just…needed to say it.”

You reached across the counter slowly, brushing your fingers against his wrist.

“I never said I didn’t want to be yours,” you said softly. “I just said I’m scared of what happens when I am.”

Hotch looked at you like he was seeing you clearly for the first time.

Vulnerable. Real. Not the flirty, confident woman with a perfect bouquet and a quick joke--

But someone still deciding if she was allowed to believe in good men again.

You straightened, cleared your throat, bringing the moment back down to earth. “Besides,” you added, teasing just enough to ease the tension, “if you keep walking in here like this, glowering at Melvin, I might start charging you rent.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “I’d pay it.”

But before he could step away, you leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“For the record?” you said. “If I were…yours…Melvin wouldn’t stand a chance.”

His eyes darkened just a little.

And while he didn’t kiss you--not here, not now--he took your hand for a moment longer than he needed to.

Held it like a promise.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @superlegend216

[gb-patch]

Sorry to send another ask amongst the sea I'm sure you're receiving, but I find myself more concerned about Rose being a sensitivity reader as I find more information. One of Rose's friends continues to insist that the conversation about Tamarack and male MCs was part of a larger discussion about biphobia in the fandom. However, they claim that Rose's position is "people erase Tam's bi/pansexuality by refusing to portray [her] as being attracted to anything other than men." This explanation of Rose's belief is, in-and-of-itself, biphobic. It claims that portraying Tamarack as attracted to men erases her queerness. This is textbook biphobia and bi-erasure that I as a bisexual encounter every day. It is NOT a good-faith defense of a queer character. It reduces us down to our partners and makes the claim that if we end up in a relationship that's "straight-passing," we're erasing our queerness. Especially as a bi sapphic myself, it reduces my identity strictly to the perceived-man I'm dating, and not my inner or previous experiences, or those of my partner. It's very uncomfortable that Rose, a non-bisexual, was discussing this like they're defending Tamarack's queerness when they're doing the opposite.

This is a doubly strange position when Our Life is a game about the acceptance of love in all its forms. The conversation could be different, MAYBE, if Our Life was a TV show or a book or a comic. But this is a game where people are meant to play as characters of their own design. I do not feel confident about Rose being a sensitivity reader for a game with bi/pansexual love interests if these are their beliefs about bi/pansexuality, particularly if they're unable to adapt their opinions to be relevant to different formats of media; this shows they're lacking in skill in the areas of media literacy and critical thinking.

I’ve been trying to make a post that presents the concerns people have about this, but your ask touches on the points I was going to, and I’d say it’s better to have it said by a player than me deciding what people are thinking. So, this is something that I want to make clear- that I see this and other asks/comments about it. What you’ve said is something a lot of people are unsure and upset about. I am sorry that you feel so out of place in this community now. And I am also sorry to players of any sexuality who use a male MC. That comment dismissed players and Tamarack’s identity.

It did come from a longer discussion about bi-phobia issues. The overall feelings were “if people did only want Tamarack to be interested in men, I really wouldn’t like that and wouldn’t it be a funny concept if Tamarack then left them for a woman?”. The comment itself didn’t encompass that idea at all. It does not give a good impression about where they’re coming from. It was unkind.

The viewpoint Rose is trying to have isn’t that “Tamarack can never express an interest in men” which would be wrong, it’s “I stand by the fact that Tamarack is someone who wouldn’t only be interested in men and no one else”. If it’s true that Rose likes Tamarack being interested in all genders and doesn’t want her bi-ness to be forgotten, I’d say that’s an acceptable view. If the point actually is that Tamarack should only be with women and if she’s not than Tamarack is no longer bi or she’s a bad character, then you're right- that isn't acceptable and that is going to get someone removed from the project. I do believe Rose agrees with what you’re saying and means it when they say they want to stop bi-erasure, not participate in it for real. But they had a very harsh way of talking about it.

I understand that people don’t know Rose and this situation has made them believe they do seriously hold that first view. But from working with them, there’s never been any feedback that shows an opinion of the sort.

Right now, I think that comment was being edgy and making a quick, very poorly-worded quip to people they’d been chatting with about that topic already. Rose has left the GB Patch discord servers, they used to be a mod, and may or may not ever be back in there. Rose won’t make blog posts responding to players going forward. They’re going to take a break from this and then try to give helpful feedback. We’re going to see if things can be okay from here.

And with this coming up, we’re all really aware that it’s something to consider about the game. I’m going to be as conscious as I can for any advice that seems to go against the character’s identities and I’m going to question my own knee-jerk choices for how I handle things. Other sensitivity readers will be able to give their viewpoints as well, so will the players. If the game’s content isn’t welcoming or is biased people will notice, and I’ll be here to accept what I’ve done. I don’t want that to be the result of this, of course. I hope the game will be thoughtful and considerate, but I can’t fire Rose at this point to try doing that.

No one has to keep following the game, though. I’m sympathetic to anyone who is too uncomfortable with all this to stay around.

[eomayas]

his friends and his dad hate me • chs

pairing: non-idol!vernon x fuckgirl!reader, fwb

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!! angst

synopsis: you broke his little heart, he’s a cry baby. OR, reader excels in the male dominated field of being a female fuckboy! (based off ‘crybaby’ by megan thee stallion)

warnings: p in v, oral (m receiving), fingering, riding, vernon gets his heart broke, reader is not a good person

a/n: i’ve had this in my drafts for awhile and needed to finish it 😭 i love when readers are morally gray or just wrong & bad! pls remember this is just fiction ok thx!

despite the protests from his friends and the little (though extremely loud) voice in the back of his head telling him this is a horrible idea, vernon grabs his car keys and tries to slip out of his apartment. “dude, we didn’t even get to finish the game! get back here!” wonwoo shouts, frustration clear in his voice. it’s bible in their friend group to finish any smash tournament that’s started, and he’s breaking the one and only most important rule.

“later!” vernon says, hand on the door knob. he’s sort of stalling, sort of wants to be told that he has to stay behind. the thing is, he’s pathetic, especially when it comes to you. he’d cross all seven seas to get to you, if you asked.

“she doesn’t even like you!” soonyoung shouts. vernon sighs and rolls his eyes, walking down to the hallway and stopping at the entrance of the living room. five of his friends look at him with mild disappointment and he puts his hands up in surrender.

“first of all, she invited me over so you’re wrong—and secondly, you’d all do the same if you had prospects but you don’t,” vernon says, letting out a breath. it felt good for him to fight back like that, though soonyoungs comment does leave him feeling sort of doubtful. very doubtful, actually, because he knows there’s some truth in his statement whether he wants to acknowledge it or not.

minghao and joshua share a look and vernon sighs. “fuck you guys,” he says.

“yeah, whatever. but don’t come back here crying,” soonyoung says, a shit eating grin on his face. vernon flips him off, face flushing in embarrassment at the memory of him getting so drunk that he cried in mingyus arms at the club over you. they’ve never been able to let it go, bringing it up every time your name is mentioned. it’s mortifying, but a slight wake up call. except he’s not thinking with his head right now.

they all snicker, but minghao manages to give him a sympathetic shrug. it doesn’t do much to alleviate the doubt in his head, but the support is nice. simply put, his friends are not fans of you, and he doesn’t necessarily blame them. your relationship started out rocky and unserious—he was a late night booty call for you and a fill-in boyfriend without the title. he did boyfriend things with you—for you, thought you two were together until you dropped the bomb that you didn’t like him or want him like that. he was crushed, but he played it cool and told you that he wasn’t looking for a relationship anyway. that only made things worse, seeing that you only called him when you wanted some attention, and constantly made him feel like you wanted him.

the crying in the club bit was the straw that broke the camels back for his friends. they had a mock-intervention for him, urging him to delete your number and to find somebody else, but as if you were summoned at the mention of vernon moving on, you’d called him a few days later and got him back where you wanted him. he hasn’t been able to escape you since, caught in some spell or trap you put him under.

“whatever,” vernon mutters, pulling off his cap to run his fingers through his hair. “i’m leaving now.” he declares, urging himself to actually make the move to leave.

he’s halfway to the door when minghao calls out to him by saying, “my therapist would call this self-destructive behavior!”

vernon doesn’t have time to deeply evaluate his behavior as ‘self-destructive’, because he spends the twenty minute drive to your place psyching himself up. that alone should be indicative of the issue with seeing you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. instead, he bumps his music and drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

it’s not lost on him that he was able to make it to your place without directions, though he forgot how complicated the apartment parking lot was. by the time he finds a spot that he won’t get towed and/or fined in, he’s much later than when he said he’d be at your place.

vernon sends you a quick ‘here’ text before making his way towards the door to your apartment building. he presses the buzzer for your unit, and his pulse skyrockets. in the few seconds that it takes for you to answer, he spirals thinking of every negative possibility of your encounter. what if you really do hate him, like soonyoung said? and, if not, what if he sucks in bed? what if he says something stupid? what if you find out he’s a complete and utter loser?

“vernon?” your voice crackles through the intercom and shoots straight to fast beating heart, halting his mental spiral of doom, and putting him back in the moment. he’s nervous in a different way now. he’s so unsure of himself around you sometimes—which is definitely a sign that he should cut ties with you.

“y-yeah,” he clears his throat quickly, trying to cover up his shaky voice. “it’s me.” his finger nearly throbs in pain from how much pressure he’s putting on the buzzer.

with a loud pop, the door unlocks and vernon enters. he hikes the two stories to your apartment, and by the time he’s at your door he’s mildly winded from how fast he got up there. vernon stalls a few feet from your door to regain his breath (and confidence). he chews on his bottom lip for a second and glances down the hallway and considers making a run for it.

there isn’t much thought put into that, though, because his feet take him in the other direction towards your front door, and he’s raising his fist to send three soft knocks your way. vernon shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighs, dropping his shoulders and rolling them back.

you pull the door open and his eyes snap down to you, and he swears his hearing goes out for a split second, because his face feels like it’s on fire and his muscles feel heavy. and then you smile at him, and he thinks he may melt into a puddle in front of your door. “vernon!” you squeal, laughing yourself onto him, legs wrapping around his waist and arms encircling around his neck. “you took forever.” you mumble, capturing his lips in a kiss that he’s been dreaming of for weeks.

vernon silently thanks the universe that he didn’t collapse when you attached yourself to him, and that he had enough sense to hold onto the bottoms of your thighs for support. “traffic,” he lies, walking the two of you into your apartment and kicking the door closed behind him.

he stops walking and the two of you make out for a few minutes. his nerves disappeared the moment you latched onto him. granted, hes a bit nervous, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out, or like he wants to make a run for it. “you look good, baby,” you purr once you pull back from his lips to really look at him. you run your hands through his short, brown hair and smile at him, and he decides right then and there that all of the pain and suffering you’ve put him through might be worth it, if you keep smiling at him like that.

untangling you legs from his waist, vernon helps set you down and lets his hands drag up your bare legs. your skin is soft like he remembers, and he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of his life rubbing and touching it. but your hands make use of pulling down his jacket zipper and subsequently helping him out of his coat, so he unfortunately has to pull his hands away from your thighs.

“have you been working out?” you question, setting his jacket on the back of one of your bar stools. vernon looks down at his own biceps and shrugs. “i lift sometimes, yeah,” he says. you walk back over to him and shamelessly feel him up. he’s still skinny, but there’s muscle in places you don’t necessarily remember him having.

“hmm,” is all you reply—it does a lot to cover up how badly you want to tear him out of his clothes. you grab his hand and lead him down the hallway to your bedroom.

“how’ve you been?” vernon asks. you giggle at his awkwardness and give him a look over you shoulder as you pull him into your bedroom.

“really great,” you push him lightly towards your bed, and crawl onto his lap, lips finding purchase on his neck. you grind down onto him as you suck a purple mark onto his neck. “what about you?” you ask in between kisses, voice slightly breathless.

“uh, fine,” vernon spits out, mind a bit hazy when you slip off of his lap and onto your knees between his legs. “better.” you smile at him sweetly, but your hands make quick work of unbuttoning his jeans. he helps you pull them down to his ankles, along with his underwear.

a soft whimper leaves you mouth at the sight of his semi-hard dick. you press your thighs together and reach forward to grab ahold of his member and start stroking his shaft. vernon looks down at you with parted lips; he feels like he’s in a dream, watching you on your knees below him. you’ve given him head before, but it was conditional. usually, when you felt guilty for something, or knew you made him upset you would suck him off. he tries to push the thoughts away, and succeeds when you wrap you lips around the tip and attempt to take all of him. “fuuuck,” he groans, gripping onto the edge of the bed.

vernon is embarrassed at how quickly you draw out loud moans from him just by massaging his balls as you work your mouth on him. he hasn’t been with anybody else in awhile—and he’s too embarrassed to ever admit that he’s good with just having you, even if he has to wait for you to call him.

“oh, fuck, y/n,” he whines, thighs tensing. he lets go of the mattress to gather your hair and wraps it around one of his hands. you moan against his crotch when he pulls, watery eyes flicking up to meet his own. spit gathers at the corners of your mouth and vernon knows this is an image he’ll never, ever forget. “shitshitshit!” his hips buck upwards and he expects you to pull your mouth off of him to use your hands to get him to his release, but you stay put.

it drives vernon crazy. he comes fast, and he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed because you swallow, and then keep sucking after the fact. he’s never seen you act like this, and you’re a bit shocked at your own behavior—you hadn’t realized you missed him that much.

“y/n,” he whimpers, chin falling against his chest. you take that as a sign that he’s about to pass out, and reluctantly pull your mouth off of him with a pop. a trail of spit mixed with cum follows his cock to your mouth, and it makes you want to give him another blow job, but he looks too spent.

“vernon,” you start, getting off of your knees. he manages to sit upright before falling backwards onto your bed.

“give me a minute,” he croaks. you smile and take a few seconds of your own to catch your breath before you undress completely and crawl onto the bed next to him. vernon opens his eyes and looks over at you. “i wanted to do that.” he whines, referring to getting you naked, and reaches out for you.

you crawl on top of him and settle on his abdomen. his hands moves to your waist and his eyes stray trained on your breasts. you lean down a bit, practically putting your boobs in his face. vernon leans forward and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. he shifts the two of you so he’s sitting up straight, thus shifting you down onto his crotch.

you can’t help but grind yourself against him as he plays with your breasts. he fondles the own that’s not in his mouth, and keeps his eyes on you. you moan softly above him, light little pants leaving your mouth that only encourage him. “nonie,” you whine, running your hands through his hair and gently tugging on the strands. “touch me. i want you to touch me.”

vernon pulls his mouth off of your breast and slides his hand that was on your waist up your spine. he grabs the back of your neck and pulls your mouth down to his own in a messy, heated kiss. he manages to flip the two of you over, propping himself up on an elbow and slipping his other hand between your legs.

“all for you,” you purr when he drags his fingers up your slit, a look of disbelief on his face at how wet you are. “need you, nonie. your fingers, mouth, all of it.” you whine, spreading your legs open for him. vernon liked how vocal you were about what you wanted from him. he wished you were as vocal about other aspects of your guys’ relationship, but he’ll take what he can get.

vernon dips two fingers inside of you, your arousal acting as a perfect lubricant. vernon kisses your neck and chest as he fucks his fingers in and out of you. his thumb presses on your clit and you moan out his name. “more, vernon,” you breathe, gripping onto his hair tightly. “fuck, i want you to fuck me vernon. can you fuck me?” you ask, clenching around his fingers.

his cock jumps at your tone of voice and request. “i can fuck you,” he rasps. he’d rather make you cum on his fingers first, but you wish is his command. he lifts up from you and pulls his shirt off. you rake your nails along his exposed abdomen, applying light pressure. you smirk up at him and he grabs your hand and kisses your palm. it’s much too intimate, but you can’t deny the butterflies it gives you.

“grab a condom,” you remind him, pointing to your nightstand when he grabs onto the base of his dick. he quickly moves to open the drawer, and he tries to ignore the photobooth strip of photos of you and some guy he’s never met is the first thing he sees. he pushes it out of the way and grabs a stray condom, and slams the drawer shut.

he rips open the package and rolls the condom on before grabbing your leg and throwing it over his shoulder and lining himself up. vernon pushes his hips forward and sinks the tip in. “ah!” you gasp at the delicious stretch. quiet as it’s kept, vernon has a big dick and he knows how to use it. it’s unfortunate that he’s hung and is so shy about it—sometimes you wish he’d call you to fuck, rather than you doing it all the time. “fuck, vernon, you’re so big.” his body flushes with heat and he keeps pushing forward.

you suck him in welcomingly. he fits inside of you like you were made to be stuffed by him. he fucks into with a steady rhythm, and each time he pushes inside a moan is pushed form your lungs. vernon can’t keep his own moans contained, moaning our curses with each thrust. it’s dizzying, how turned on he is by you. he feels like he can’t think about anything other than fucking you and staying like this until eternity. he gets the morbid thought that he’d be okay if he died like this, buried inside of you.

“fuck, right there baby! you’re so good to me, fuck!” you shriek, mouth falling open as you look at there the two of you connect. you get lost in watching him disappear inside of you, by the white ring that’s formed at the base of his dick. the sounds vibrate off of the walls; squelching and skin on skin nearly deafening. “fuck me, vernon!” you cry, hips raising to meet his own.

tears brim in your eyes when he pulls your leg from his shoulder and shoves it up to your chest, spreading you open wider and fucking into you at a different angle. “i m-missed you,” he chokes out, shifting his weight to a single arm so he can grope your chest.

“me too,” you pant, chest arching up into his. you chase his lips with your own, wanting to feel as close to him as possible. your mouths press together, but not in a kiss. you pant and moan harshly against each other, his hips rutting into you at a faster, less rhythmic pace.

“i-im close,” he whimpers, placing an open mouthed kiss on the corner of your lips. you whine out his name as he speeds up his pace, your arms sliding up his back. you dig your nails into his skin, definitely leaving scratches. “fuck, you’re perfect.” he whispers, eyes looking into yours.

you whimper and squeeze around him before your release comes crashing over you. “nonie!” you cry, clutching onto him like a life raft as he fucks you through your orgasm. his strokes lose rhythm completely and moments later he’s coming into the condom, stilling inside of you as he does. you almost wish he wasn’t wearing a condom, so you could feel him.

vernon drops on top of you, his arms too weak to hold himself up. you cling to him, hands running through his hair absentmindedly. you don’t mind the weight of him on you, and you especially don’t mind the fact that he’s still inside of you. you have a soft spot for vernon, even though it may not seem like it. he’s the nicest guy you’ve ever been with—much nicer than the guys you’re typically acquainted with—and he’s sweet to you, even when you don’t deserve it. you know you should probably let him go, free him of your games, but something in you won’t let you. and that same something won’t let you like him—love him—how he deserves.

“vernon,” you murmur, rubbing his back.

“hmm.”

“im hot, and you’re heavy,” you say with a soft giggle. he smiles into the sheets and lifts himself up and pulls himself out of you. both of you whimper pathetically at the loss of contact, and laugh at each other seconds later. he drops down beside you on the bed, rolling onto his back. you roll onto your stomach and rest your chin on his chest before resting on your cheek, and he wraps an arm around your waist.

vernon strokes your hair and keeps his eyes on you. if he was a cartoon, his heart would be beating out of his chest and hearts would be shooting out of his eyes.

“you’re staring,” you mutter, rubbing his side.

“because you’re pretty,” he says, hand sliding from your waist to your ass. you roll your eyes and sit up onto your knees and look down at him. you can’t contain the urge to smile or kiss him, so you do both. “you should go pee.” he mumbles, breaking the kiss.

“right,” you say, quickly getting off the bed. no other guy would remind you to pee after sex, but of course vernon does. every single time, too. you wish you could leave him alone.

vernon sits up and grabs his boxers. he pulls them on and stretches his arms above his head, sighing when he feels a pop in his shoulders. somewhere behind him, a phone buzzes once, then twice, then incessantly. he doesn’t know where his phone is, so he digs around in the bed until he finds the source, pulling out the phone from under a pillow. it’s definitely not his, so he feels sort of strange holding it as the name ‘seungcheol’ flashes across the screen.

“what are you doing with my phone?” you ask with an accusatory tone, eyebrows furrowed as you tie your robe.

“i couldn’t find mine, and it was ringing,” vernon says, holding it out to you. you snatch it out of his hand unnecessarily, ready to tell him to mind his business until you look down at the screen and see three texts and a missed call from a guy you’re seeing. it’s not super serious, but you feel bad for vernon having to see it.

“sorry,” you mutter, quickly typing out a response to seungcheol. you try to shove the guilt down as you set your phone down on your dresser. it’s awkward and tense, and you can feel him watching you as you mess around with things on your dresser.

glancing up, you catch his eyes in the mirror and sigh before turning around to face him. you crawl onto the bed next to him and sit on your knees. he won’t meet your eyes, so you try the only thing to bring him back to you.

you kiss his neck and run your hands across his chest. he doesn’t react so you pull your robe open and grab his hand, placing it on your chest and squeezing. “vernon,” you murmur, crawling into his lap. you kiss up his neck, to his jaw, and when you get to his mouth he pulls back.

it’s not his business at all, but he can’t hold back when he asks, “who was that?”

you bite your bottom lip and encircle your arms around your neck. you press your weight into his crotch and bite back a smile when he covers a groan with a throat clear. “he’s just a friend, nonie,” you lie, kissing his cheek. “you have me. all of me.”

he looks up at you with wide eyes, and you feel his cock twitch under your ass. he’s pathetic, and it’s never been more clear to him because he kisses you and palms your breast, pinching your nipple lightly and shoving off your robe. he knows he’s reaches new lows because he lets you push him flat onto the bed and pull his underwear down. when you sink down onto him—with no condom this time—he knows he’s fucked.

you ride him like your life depends on it, like him forgetting that seungcheol ever called is imperative to keeping this thing going between the two of you, because it is. you bring out all the stops, riding him on your toes and telling him things he definitely wants to hear, like how nobody feels better than him, and he’s the best you’ve ever had.

vernon leaves your apartment with clarity on one thing: he understands why his friends can’t stand you.

[foreingersgod]

need need need something about Caitlin being obsessed with her girlfriend and talking about her non stop in interviews, insta ect

Obsessed . CC

pairing: caitlin clark x reader

synopsis: caitlin always finds a way to talk about you

A/N: NOT PROOF READ

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

1. interviews

it was the end of an amazing game, not just for iowa, but especially for caitlin. she hadn’t played a game that well in her entire career, scoring more than her average and making shots from deeper than ever before. she had everyone on their feet the entire night cheering for her as she completely annihilated the other team.

you were there to watch her, as you were every other game. watching caitlin play had to be one of your favorite, most rewarding things to watch as a girlfriend. she’s worked for hard for long and she was finally getting the recognition she deserves.

after the post-game excitement had worn off, the team prepared for the following interviews. typically, you didn’t stick around for them, opting to head home and wait for caitlin so you could congratulate her in your own special way. but with such an amazing game for caitlin, you decided to stick around and watch.

it was like she was a natural, surrounded by all the microphones and flashing cameras. she looked proud and confident, ready for any and all questions. they asked her the usual questions and she answered assertively. but one particular question caught your attention.

“the effort you’ve put into basketball has been apparent throughout your career, but your fans want to know more. who do you credit for keeping you so motivated and successful off the court?”

she bit back a smile, lip tugged between her teeth as she listened to the interviewer. caitlin looked out into the sea of people, eyes finding yours somewhere in the back before answering.

“yea, no there’s a lot of people i could think of that have been absolutely incredible,” she said “you know obviously my parents and bothers, my teammates and friends. they’ve all been really supportive of me. but i do also want to credit my girlfriend, YN. i mean she’s been there for me day after day, she’s really the reason i’m able to keep going and i definitely wouldn’t be where i’m at now if it weren’t for her. so yea, i have a truly amazing support group behind me, it’s wild.”

you couldn’t help but blush hearing her mention your name up there. she was so sweet and so modest when it came to things like this and she always made sure you knew how much she really needed you.

after the interview, she came up to you, sweaty and exhausted. a big goofy grin still glued to her face as she gravitated into you.

“i love you so much” she said to you “i meant what i said in there, i really don’t know what i’d do without you”

you pulled her into you tighter, so close you could feel her pulse as your lips met the back of her ear.

“i love you more”

2. social media

caitlin posted you on a regular basis at this point (and you posted her just as much). she was so whipped, always posting photos of you to her instagram to show you off.

caitlinclark22

♡ liked by its.yn, katemartin03, and 799,403 others

caitlinclark22 obsessed with you @its.yn

view all 25,234 comments

its.yn baby :’)

⤷ caitlinclark22 it’s true <3

gabbie.marshall my moms actually

ur.sister the cutest couple everrrr

user7838 brb crying right now

caitandynfan PARENTS

katemartin03 this is making me tear up i’ll be honest

⤷ its.yn stawppp

caitlinclark22

♡ liked by its.yn, caitlinfan180, and 876,221 more

caitlinclark22 i’m in love with you in every universe, happy anniversary @its.yn

view all 36,479 comments

its.yn i’m actually so in love with you it’s insane

bueckersgirl52 this is the cutest thing i’ve ever seen

jadagyamfi soulmates fr

ynsbiggestfan i love them guys omg

3. around your friends

she honestly didn’t even know she did it because if she did, it would be way worse. the amount of times you got brought up in conversation was starting to get a bit ridiculous. yours and caitlin’s friends love the both of you, thought you were perfect for each other, but if they had to hear ‘YN said’ or ‘you know what happened with YN the other day?’ one. more. time. they were gonna lose it.

caitlin just loved talking about you. she spent every waking moment with you anyways so it was especially hard to not bring up in some sort of way. she really couldn’t care if her friends got sick of it or not.

“hey caitlin” kate asked as the team sat around the living room of your apartment. caitlin had invited the girls over to chill for the night, catch up without the weight of basketball hanging over their shoulders “i had meant to ask how that new restaurant downtown was?”

“oh man it was awesome” she responded “if you get the chance, definitely go. the food was incredible, you know me and YN actually wen-”

“caitlin i love you, but i swear to god please spare us from whatever mushy gushy relationship stuff you’re about to tell us” hannah chimed in from the seat next to caitlin. the girls laughed, glad she spoke up before caitlin began rambling about you again.

“whatever, you guys are just jealous” she rolled her eyes, playfully shoving hannah’s shoulder.

she didn’t mind how the team grew tired of her rambling, she probably would be too if she were them. but you were the soul thing that occupied her mind and she wouldn’t give that up for anything.

[smoooothoperator]

What Was I Made For?

13: This Side Of Paradise

childhood enemies, forced proximity, accidental pregnancy, enemies to lovers (👀)

Warnings: them being them :)

a/n: hi loooooovessssss I hope everyone is dping fine!! LEt's see if someone remembers what other chapter started like this one ;) (btw, jsut to give a hint, the pictures of all the headers are a hint of how their relationship improves)

if you want to play a game and ask things about Dafne

Masterlist

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If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!

Every way of feedback is very welcomed

Something heavy was wrapping my waist. And the duvet is not that heavy.

And it feels warm… So warm… My whole body feels warm.

A hand was rubbing my belly, drawing soft circles with the fingers on the places the tiny baby inside of me kicked. His breathing was hitting my shoulder and his leg tangled with mine.

I opened my eyes slowly, looking down at the hand of my belly and following with my eyes the arm, turning my head to find Charles' body on top of the pillow wall.

“Morning” he whispered, looking at me with a smile.

“Morning” I whispered, closing my eyes and smiling when his hand didn't stop rubbing my belly. “The baby seems happy to feel your hand”

“Yeah, right? I’ve been awake for a while, feeling the little kicks non-stop,” he said, pressing gently against a particularly active spot. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“What? The kicks? They are not too harsh at the moment” I sighed. 

He smiled and nodded, closing his eyes too and moving slowly closer to me. This feels… Good, somehow. So good that it actually scares me.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked softly, his breath warm against my shoulder as his lips brushed my skin.

“Actually? I'm craving avocado toast” I smiled.

“Then avocado toast for two” he smiled, getting up from the bed, making me sigh.

Why did I sigh? Was it because I already missed his touch, his lips brushing my skin but never quite kissing me? Just a month ago, I couldn't stand the sight of him. Now, I crave his touch. How did we get here?

I followed him with my eyes, watching how jumped out of the bed and rushed to open his wardrobe, grabbing clean clothes before he went to the bathroom, turning on the shower after some seconds. I heard some soft groans and things falling to the floor, making me laugh softly.

 He stayed in the bathroom for some minutes before walking out again, dressed with the clothes he had grabbed and his hair dry. What? He took a shower, why is his hair dry?

I looked at him, watching how his cheek had a slight red color and he tried to avoid my gaze. Did he…?

“I'm going to the kitchen” he said after clearing his throat. “I don't have tea… Is coffee allowed during pregnancy?”

“Yeah” I sighed. “But only once a day”

“Oh, that must be hard” he tried to joke, making me roll my eyes. “I mean, you are Italian, an espresso lover”

“And also a Brit, a tea lover” I pointed. “But yeah, I can't have a lot of those drinks… I read somewhere on the internet that it is good if I have tea twice a day and coffee once…”

“Yeah…” he sighed. “Remind me to make an appointment for you”

“We talked about it, Charles…” I sighed, shaking my head. 

“I know, you want privacy and keep a lower profile with the pregnancy” he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed close to me. “But you need to do check ups to see how our baby is going. Don't you want to know the gender?”

“I mean… I would love to” I sighed, looking at him, watching how his hand flew again to my belly, rubbing it on top of the shirt. 

“Do you want a gender reveal party?” he chuckled.

“Only if our family is there” I smiled weakly. “Do you… Do you want to tell the other drivers?”

“I mean… I would probably tell Pierre” he nodded. “If that's okay with you. And ask him if he wants to come to the gender reveal in case we make one”

“You really want to turn finding out the baby’s gender into a show, huh?” I laughed, shaking my head at the idea.

“It's funny!” he defended himself, hitting my thigh softly. “Its just an excuse to make our families meet again after everything that happened, to give them what they wanted since a lot of time…”

“Yeah…” I sighed. “Okay, let's do it”

“What, really?” he said, surprised. “I was joking!”

“No, no. I think you were right” I sighed, sitting on the bed and looking at him. “We need to give them what they want. They wanted us to stop fighting, then let's show them that”

He nodded and smiled, his hand rubbing my belly and moving to my waist, leaving it there for a few seconds. I looked into his eyes and then at his lips, but then I just looked away, clearing my throat.

“Well, I'll help you make breakfast” I nodded, moving the bed clothes and standing up.

I stretched, wincing at the familiar ache in my back. As I moved around the room to grab clothes from my backpack, I felt Charles’ eyes on me, a silent, comforting presence.

“What?” I frowned, looking at him.

“Nothing” he smiled. “You just… You look beautiful”

“Oh, shut up” I mumbled, looking away and blushing slightly.

How will I survive if he keeps acting like this? He keeps looking at me like that, standing close to me whenever he can, looking at me with those green eyes.

“Will you leave that beard?” I asked, looking at him.

“Why? You like it?” he chuckled. 

I bite my lip and look away, grabbing my jeans and putting them on, sighing when I feel they don't fit again. I just ignored him, walking out of the room and heading to the kitchen, opening the fridge and sighing.

We made breakfast in silence, helping each other, like a team, finally.

While we ate he grabbed his laptop and started searching things about pregnancy, about what he should know, what reads he’ll buy to know more about what will happen until the baby arrives. And somehow, watching him read everything fully focused made the tinglings on my stomach get more notorious.

Maybe it's the baby, knowing that Charles is interested.

I helped him take the last things he needed to take to the villa. But he only let me carry his coat and scarf.

“I think I'm going to take the bigger car” he sighed, looking at the keys he has on the entry of his apartment. “You were uncomfortable during the trip, right?”

“Don't worry, really” I smiled, shaking my head. “But… Can you let me drive at the start?” 

“What? Why?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Come on, I might be pregnant, but I still can drive” I said, rolling my eyes. “And there's a place I need to go before we leave”

“Okay” he sighed, grabbing the keys of his SUV.

I bit my lip, smiling nervously at the thought of our destination.

Charles and I walked to the elevator and this time I stood close to him, feeling how his hand reached mine and his pinky finger tangled with mine, making me try to hide a smile by looking to the side.

“I never saw you with this car” I said, walking to the bigger car he owns, not like the other Ferrari he has. 

“I normally use it when I go to train somewhere away” he sighed. “But… I think this will be a good car for us… You know, like… We can buy a baby chair and put it on the backseats and it has enough space to put the baby carrier on the back”

I looked at him and then at the car, and somehow the images of him opening the door of the backseats and picking up a baby started to show in my mind. Images of him folding and I folding the baby carrier. Images of him holding our baby.

I shook my head slightly, trying to dispel the images from my mind.

“Oh, nice” I nodded, looking away and walking to the driver seat.

I took a deep breath, adjusting the seat and looking at him sitting on the passenger seat next to me. He sighed, trying to not look nervous while I drove the car out of the garage. 

“Where are we going?” he asked curious.

“You'll see, be patient” I smiled looking at him.

I drove around the streets, doing the same route I do whenever I come to Monaco.

I saw people turning their heads and looking at the car, some people surprised to see who was driving and others to see both of us in the car. When I stopped the car at a red traffic light, I saw people grabbing their phones and taking pictures of the car and the inside of it.

“I guess the rumors will start now” I sighed. 

“Yeah…” Charles sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m really sorry… I know this isn't what you wanted.”

“It's okay” I smiled weakly, looking at him. “We started it yesterday by walking hand in hand inside of that restaurant”

I heard him sigh heavily, grabbing his sunglasses and putting them on. I smiled weakly, my gaze lingering on his hand. My fingers twitched with the urge to hold it, to place it on my belly.

The red light changed to green and I started the car again, driving through the streets and soon parking the car.

“What are we doing here?” Charles mumbled, already knowing where we were.

“I think we owe them something” I sighed, opening the door and walking towards him, standing next to him.

He took a deep breath and nodded, holding my hand tightly while we walked inside the cemetery. It was quiet, the only thing you could hear was the sound of our feet walking through the gravel, the trees moving with the soft breeze and some birds chirping melodies on top of our heads.

The first grave we found was Jules', since he was one of the celebrities buried in this cemetery and some Ferrari followers came here to place flowers for him.

I felt a shiver running down my spine, making me take a deep breath and bite my lip.

Jules knew Charles was only teasing me when we were kids. He always told me to not take things seriously, that I had to think that Charles was only a silly kid. And now, thinking about it, thinking that maybe he knew how Charles felt, just made me realize that he was another one who wished we ended up together.

“Jules…” I heard Charles sigh, squeezing my hand softly and letting it go, only to wrap his arm around my shoulders and pulling me even closer to him. “I miss him so much”

“Me too” I whispered..

“I wish he was here to look at us” I sighed, placing my hand on top of the one has on my shoulder. 

“He's up there” he said. “Jules is looking at us from above, he always did”

I smiled weakly and nodded, wrapping my arm around his waist and walking with him to the other grave. Somehow, having him this close to me feels good. Breathing his scent, feeling his warm body against mine, his hand on my shoulder. I felt his breathing start to get heavier and his hand over my shoulder moving to intertwine his fingers with mines.

“Hey dad” he whispered.

I looked at him, smiling weakly. His eyes were looking at the grave with the name of his father engraved. I took a deep breath and leaned closer to him..

We stayed in silence but I could hear what he was thinking about. I could feel all his fear, his sadness, his doubts. He had many questions, all those questions written on his face.

“Charles…” I whispered, seeing the tears well up in his eyes.

“What am I going to do?” he whispered. “I can't have him here, Dafne. He's not here, he won't meet our baby. He couldn't even see us not hating each other”

“I know, Charles. I know” I sighed, facing him and placing my hand on his cheek, feeling his beard against my skin. 

“I just… I forgot about him” he mumbled looking at the grave.. “I didn't think about him. And I feel so disappointed with myself. When I found out about the pregnancy I only focused on you and stopped thinking about me. I'm a terrible son, how can I be a good father?”

“Hey, don't think that” I sighed. 

“But it's true, Dafne” he sighed, placing his hands on my waist. 

“You are not a terrible son” I whispered. “You were the best. You stayed next to him during all his life, even when he was sick. And you are going to be an amazing father too, okay? You hear me? You are just overwhelmed”

He nodded slowly trying to not look at me, his eyes moving everywhere. I sighed and let go of his cheek, taking a step back.

“We should go,” I sighed. “We still have a stop in Maranello before heading home.”

“Yeah” he sighed, holding my hand again and walking out of the cemetery towards the car.

He stayed silent all the time.

His hand was on top of my belly, rubbing it softly while hisnother hand held the steering wheel. The music was playing soft on the speakers.

But he didn't say anything since we got out of Monaco.

And somehow it made me feel bad.

Did I do something bad by bringing him to the cemetery? Or by hugging him? Is it bad?

I thought we were okay, kinda. Last night I told him that I wanted us to work. And this morning I didn't push him away when I woke up with him next to me.

At our rest stops, Charles stayed in the car while I went to buy food and drinks. He didn't even smile when I handed him his favorite snacks.

And it was enough for me.

“Okay, what the hell is going on with you?” I frowned. 

He looked at me with confusion in his eyes, making me scoff and raise my hands.

“You've been ignoring me since we left the cemetery” I pointed. “You are making me feel bad! Was it a mistake? Well, I'm sorry!”

“It's not that” he sighed.

“Then what is it? Just say it! I can't read your mind” I frowned, moving on the seat to face him.

“I…” he sighed, taking a deep breath and resting his head on his seat. “I'm scared, I guess. Of disappointing everyone, disappointing the baby. Disappointing you”

“Charles…” I sighed.

“I don't want to get high hopes” he said. “Since you hugged me in the cemetery, I kept repeating in my mind that you are doing this because of the baby. That you are letting me touch you because of the baby and nothing else. Yes, you said last night that you were tired of pushing me away, but somehow I got scared of this just being an illusion”

I looked at him, surprised. He's always the one that tries to put some sense in my mind since he decided to stay with me. Always trying to talk with me and making me realize that he wouldn't run away. He didn't even flinch when he confessed that he was in love with me.

But now, seeing him like this, so insecure, so… 

“It's not an illusion” I sighed. “Charles, I… I want this, I really do. I know I did everything to push you away, I even ran away from you in the middle of the cold night. But… The way you took care of me while I was sick, the way you touch my belly… I don't know. I'm confused and scared too”

He looked at me, somehow his eyes were sad. I sighed, holding his hand between mine, feeling his warm skin against my cold one.

“I'm scared” I whisper. “I'm so scared of giving up and falling for you. I'm so scared of putting my walls down for you. But God, everytime you touch me it makes me want to stop fighting. But I keep repeating in my mind everything we did, everything we went through. And I try to convince myself that that is not us anymore”

I watched as his throat bobbed and his jaw tightened. His hand found mine, slowly warming my cold skin

“I'm scared of what people would say about us” he whispered. “You saw what happened yesterday with my friends. I don't even want to think about what people that don't know us will say…”

“We can't control that” I mumbled. 

“I know” he nodded. “But I want to protect you. You and the baby. And I'm so scared of failing you, of disappointing you again”

“You won't…”

“I will” he insisted, looking into my eyes. “Again and again, like the previous years. Because the only thing I do is mess things up and make them even worse. I crossed a line, Dafne. And I'm so scared of crossing more and actually hurt you”

Taking a deep breath, I brought his hands to my lips, softly kissing his fingers. I then placed his hand on my cheek, leaning into his touch for the first time.

“I crossed a line myself” I said. “One of the lines I draw for you”

“What…?” he mumbled, confused.

“And you crossed another line when you touched my belly for the first time” I whispered. “And did I argue?”

“No” he whispered, his eyes following my movements, watching how my fingers played with his fingers.

“I'm letting you in, can't you see?” I sighed. “No illusions, no fake hopes. I'm letting you in,, and not because you are related to this baby. I'm letting you in because I want to believe that we can change, that we can be a family”

“But why I keep feeling that you are just a step away from me?” he whispered.

“Give me time” I smiled weakly. “Give me time to get used to this. To you. To us. Because there will be an us, Charles. Really. I'm in. I'm really in”

As the words left my lips, I watched a warm smile slowly spread across his face, reaching his eyes.

“Can we just skip going to Maranello today and go back home?” I smiled weakly. “I just need my bed”

“Mine wasn't that bad” he laughed softly, making me smile after hearing his laugh.

“It wasn't, the problem was that I had half of the bed, not all of it” I teased.

He laughed again and sighed, looking at me. He moved my hands with him until his lips touched my fingers, kissing them softly while he held my gaze.

“Is this okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah” I nodded.

His smile made me smile too. And the tinglings in my stomach started to be more frenetic.

“Let's go home” he smiled, holding my hand and turning on the engine of the car, driving to that house that is a refuge for me, my baby and Charles.

taglist

@racinggirl @elisysd @alltoomaples @ssprayberrythings @rach3164 @yvonne-dump @deliciousfestsalad @janeh22 @hc-dutch @ninifee1802 @kakorrhaphiphobia @ssararuffoni @itsjustkhaos @scaramou @tapedeck-hearts @apollosfavkiddo @sltwins @glitterquadricorn @ladystardust05 @theseerbetweenus @vizzzashley @auawdo @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp @leptitlu @green-thots @caterinemirandax_ @mid5nights

[delulugirlulu]

Unraveled | Chapter 1: Tension and Tease

Characters - Sylus x Reader, Sylus x Y/N

Word Count - 680

A/N - I'm so sorry if the word count is short, I swear Chapter 2 and 3 are longer ;-; Anyway, thank you to everyone who read, noted and reblogged the Prologue - I wasn't expecting to get that much traction and it warms my delulu heart that other delulus enjoyed the story somehow (◡ ‿ ◡ .)

And now, the story...

Y/N walked out of her home office, rolling her shoulders as she stretched, trying to work out the knots of tension from a long day of typing and clicking away in front of a computer. The familiar weight of fatigue clung to her, but when her eyes landed on Sylus sprawled out on the couch, her exhaustion seemed to disappear. There he was, lounging as if he owned the room, his tall, muscular frame taking up more space than what was fair. His silver hair, messy and tousled, caught the dim light, making him look even more alluring than usual.

Her gaze wandered over him, from the sharp line of his jaw to the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. He was watching her—of course, he was. He always watched her with that same intensity, a mix of amusement and something darker, something deeper that sent a thrill down her spine.

“Hey, love,” she said softly, plopping down beside him. She pressed herself against his warm body, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry I’ve been so busy. I’ve been working non-stop and I—”

“—fell asleep?” Sylus finished for her, raising an eyebrow while looking at her.

She nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, fell asleep. I didn’t mean to…”

His chuckle was a low, rich sound that vibrated in her chest. “No need to apologize, kitten. I know you’ve got your own thing going on. I’m just glad you’re awake now.” His eyes gleamed with mischief as his hand slid up her thigh, his fingers brushing over her skin in a way that made her breath catch. “Though, I hope you’re not planning on falling asleep again.”

Her body reacted to his touch, a shiver running down her spine as she turned her face toward him, lips curling into a playful smile. “Maybe? I’m still a little tired,” she yawned.

His grip on her thigh tightened, and she felt the heat of his body pressing against hers. “Oh, I think I can wake you up.” His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, the kind of sound that made her core tighten in response.

She let out a breathless laugh, pretending to be unaffected. “What do you mean by that, mister?”

“You tell me.” His lips were suddenly at her neck, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His breath was warm against her skin, and every gentle touch sent sparks of desire racing through her. “I think you need a different kind of energy,” he murmured, his lips moving lower, his tongue tracing the curve of her collarbone. “Something to get your heart racing.”

Her heart was already racing, each beat a reminder of how close he was, how much she wanted him. She could feel the tension building between them, an electric current that had been simmering beneath the surface all night. She tried to play it cool, to keep some semblance of control, but the truth was, she was at his mercy. She always had been.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, feigning innocence as she tilted her head to give him better access. “You’ll have to demonstrate.”

His chuckle was a dark, dangerous sound as his hand slid higher up her thigh, fingers brushing the edge of her shorts. “Oh, I’ll demonstrate, alright.” He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his red gaze burning into hers. “But you need to be honest with me about what you want, kitten. No games.”

Her breath hitched as his thumb brushed over her skin, a soft but deliberate touch that made her pulse quicken. She swallowed hard, her body trembling beneath his touch. “I... I want you, Sylus,” she whispered, the words barely audible but thick with desire. “I want all of you.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the air between them felt too thick to breathe. “Good girl,” he growled, his hand sliding under the fabric of her shorts, fingers teasing her already sensitive skin. “Now, let’s see how honest you can really be.”

__________________________________________

Read this in order >>> [Prologue] [This] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3]

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Feedbacks and comments are welcome! Just don’t be mean/rude or nasty in general because why the fuck would you ૮(˶╥︿╥)ა

[hgfictionwriter]

Reunited

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie moves away when she transfers to a new team. You’ve been apart for far too long.

Warning: The usual smut. And language.

When Jessie received an offer from Bayern, she couldn’t turn it down. She’d finally be able to play more minutes and she’d have the comfort of being reunited with old friends and mentors.

The crowd cheered as the final whistle blew. You stood up in your seat and cheered, clapping your hands enthusiastically.

Jessie played nearly the full 90 minutes and she’d gotten one assist - and it was only her first game with the new team.

You were able to secure a transfer out there, but it was going to take a bit for time for it to take effect. Until then, you and Jessie were going to have to be long distance and travel to see each other whenever possible.

The flight was short enough, the trouble was your schedules. Between Jessie’s back to back international duty, pre-season camp, and your work, it’d been over a month since you’d seen her.

You watched as Jessie and the team walked the field, thanking fans and signing autographs. She clapped and chitchatted with teammates, but her eyes were searching the stands. You purposely stood back until she was starting to pass your section and you headed down to stand alongside the other fans.

“Jessie!”

She stopped dead in her tracks, now standing erect as her head scanned back and forth across the crowd until her gaze landed on yours. You grinned at her and gave a wave. A look of shock was quickly replaced by elation and excitement.

“Y/n!” She yelled as she sprinted over.

She nearly skidded to a stop right before the barrier, giving you a watery smile before rushing forward again and pulling you into a tight hug. She pulled back a few moments later to grab you by your jacket and into a kiss. You felt her both grin and sink into you as her teammates erupted in catcalls and teasing. When she broke off your kiss her cheeks were bright red, but her smile said that she wasn’t giving the teasing much mind.

“I didn’t think you could make it.” She said in wonder. Her eyes glistened and she quickly swiped at them, trying to hide the emotion. “I’ve missed you so much. You have no idea.”

“I missed you too, baby,” you echoed with a kiss. “I couldn’t miss my girl’s first game with her new team.”

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" Jessie asked, disbelief still in her voice. You gave a small shrug with a crooked smile.

"What would be the fun in that?"

She was about to offer you a quip when she saw your gaze flick over her shoulder to the rest of her team who was now walking away. You gestured with a nod their direction.

“You better catch up and go greet the rest of your fans,” you said with a wink.

“I’ll meet you after?” She asked, eyes big and hopeful, as if there was any doubt. You had to laugh.

“No. I’m going to go visit my other girlfriend.” You ribbed and quickly kissed her as soon as you saw a pout begin to form. “Of course, love.”

Afterwards, you were with Jessie and the squad at one the team's favourite hangouts as they celebrated their first win of the season. You'd finally gotten the chance to meet the famous Magda and Pernille that Jessie had praised endlessly. And, surprising to you, they were thrilled to finally meet you.

"Jessie is just over the moon," Magda had said as Jessie got up from your table to get you another drink, eager to wait on you. Pernille laughed as they both watched Jessie walk away, but still glance over her shoulder back at you with a bright and endearing smile.

"Truly. She's been talking non-stop about you since she got to Munich, Y/n. And I didn't think she could be more smitten, but here we are," Pernille had joked.

"Our baby's all grown up," Magda said with a wink.

They'd teasingly warned you that if you ever hurt Jessie, you'd have to answer to them. You took it in stride and told them between them and the entirety of Chelsea, you'd be a goner if anything went south. Despite the joking though, you earnestly told them that you'd never intentionally hurt Jessie. You felt so grateful to have her in your life, and honestly, you couldn't picture anyone more perfect for you. You'd never do anything to jeopardize your relationship with Jessie or hurt her.

After drinks with the team wrapped, you went back to Jessie's new flat. It was crazy to think that you'd only seen it via Facetime. You chuckled to yourself as she excitedly pulled you down the hallway to her door, your bag and hers slung over her shoulders - she insisted on carrying yours too - and let you inside.

She eagerly gave you the tour and your heart fluttered at the touches she'd arranged for you not even knowing you were coming. Drawers left empty for your stuff, a space for you to work, and she beamed as she handed you the extra key already on a keychain designed after your favourite show.

"You are so good to me," you said with a tender smile as you took the keychain and cupped her face gently to kiss her. "How did I get so lucky?"

She smirked at you, though very satisfied with herself that you were happy with the place. "Well, you work with Julia, who's friends with Niamh, and Niamh introduced us, and we hit it off, so..."

"Yeah, alright," you laughed and kissed her again. "I love you." You stayed close, your forehead resting against hers as you looked into her eyes. "And I've really, really missed you." She tilted her head to kiss you, the kiss a bit rushed and hard, her hands coming up around your waist and pulling you tight before she pulled back a bit.

"I've missed you, too." Her gaze was both sad and determined. She took the the keys from you and tossed them onto the table a few feet away before pulling you tight to her once more. "I don't ever want to go this long without each other again." You nodded wordlessly, feeling she had more to say. She inhaled deeply, her sculpted shoulders rising as the breath filled her lungs. "I've never missed anyone like this," she expressed. "I don't want to be without you."

"I don't want to be apart either," you reciprocated, your hands now caressing the back of her neck. Your hips subconsciously rocked against her as you took a deep breath of your own in an attempt to ease the feeling that was starting to build inside of you.

"It feels so good to have you in my arms again," she said, her voice holding a slight rasp in it as her gaze wandered down your neck and back up as she kissed you. You hardened the kiss and you felt her stiffen in your embrace before exhaling into your touch. "Did you miss me, too, baby?" She asked.

"So much." Your voice was breathy and you couldn't help a small whimper from escaping your throat. Your hands began to roam into her hair and soon her hands pressed into the small of your back.

"How much did you miss me?" She asked, now dipping her head to trail kisses down the side of your neck. You chewed your lip as you let your head fall back.

"Why don't you find out?" You challenged and suppressed a shiver when she exhaled against your neck, tucking her head against you further.

"Tell me," she whispered as her fingers dug slightly into your back.

"Mm. This much," you said as you grasped one of her hands and guided it between your bodies. With your other hand you coaxed her head back up so you could kiss her while you pushed her hand inside your underwear and straight to your heat.

"Fuck, baby," she shuddered, her knees giving out oh so slightly for a second as her fingers were immersed in your wetness. "Oh God, I missed you," she said as she began gliding her fingers through your folds.

You gasped at the contact you'd been craving for weeks upon weeks now and you ground yourself down against her fingers.

"Oh God, I love you so fucking much," Jessie's voice now strong as she removed her hand and collided into you with a kiss as she ushered you to the couch, you both falling into the cushions as you continued to kiss.

She guided you so you were fully laying down. Her hands roamed under your shirt, massaging your breasts before she pulled your shirt off along with your bra. She leaned down to take one of your breasts into her mouth, her teeth grazing your nipple before circling it with her tongue. You were engrossed in the feeling, your back lifting off the couch to meet her mouth.

She sat up, causing you to open your eyes at the sudden lack of contact. You looked down your body to see her sitting up and giving you a hungry look. She placed her hands at the waist of your pants and removed them swiftly. She reached down and ran a couple of fingers along your lips through your underwear.

"This brand new couch has just been begging for me to fuck you on it." She leaned in and kissed you slowly, her fingers pushing your panties aside as she caressed you further. A moan rumbled in your throat. "I picture it every day."

"Jess, please. I need you inside me. It’s been so long," you pleaded. Your hips were rocking up against her fingers shamelessly.

She ran her free hand up your neck to the back of your head, her fingers splayed through hair. Your eyes were closed, but you could feel her breath shudder as she watched you. Her gaze didn’t waver as she pulled your underwear down your legs and dropped them to the ground. She ran her hand back up the inside of your leg.

“Jessie!” Her name filled the room as she entered you, her fingers easily sinking to her knuckles with how wet you were. You winced in pleasure as the nails of her other hand dug into your scalp. You didn't have to see her to know how much slipping inside of you did for her.

"Y/n," she rasped. She curled against your body, using her strong legs to press higher up into you as she began kissing down your chest and taking one of your breasts in her mouth once more.

"Oh God," you whimpered as you dragged your nails along her back, her shirt bunching beneath your fingers. You tugged sharply on the fabric and she huffed before giving you a kiss and quickly discarding the shirt. You sat up, hooking a hand behind her neck and pulling her down with you into another kiss as she sunk back inside of you.

"Fuck, Y/n," she breathed as she expertly curled her fingers inside of you. "You feel even more amazing than before." She gave a pleased moan. "Right between your legs is where I belong."

"Oh, Jess, I missed you so much. You make me feel so fucking good," you moaned as you wrapped your legs around her waist and pulled her further into you. She kissed you hard in response.

"You're so gorgeous. I feel like I can't get close enough to you."

That was the thing with Jess. The sex could be primal, physical in its rawest form, but it was always emotional. It truly felt like you couldn't get close enough to each other. There was so much emotion, so much magnetic force between you, that fucking the life out of each other was the closest you could come to expressing how much you loved and wanted one another.

"Oh God, Jess," you clutched at her, pulling her impossibly tighter to you. "I'm gonna cum already."

"Yeah," she said, a smile crossing her lips at how quickly you were coming undone for her. "Let go, baby. Cum for me."

"Oh fuck, yeah," she nearly hissed as you tightened like a vice around her fingers and she felt a rush of your arousal pool in her palm. She subconsciously ground her hips into the back of her hand and your thighs, her own arousal becoming nearly unbearable. "I've been dreaming of this. I missed you so much."

You had barely come down from your high when Jessie pulled her fingers from your sopping pussy and hoisted you into her arms. A small squeal escaped you as she chuckled and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed.

"I'm not done with you yet," she told you, her eyes shining as she looked down at you before reaching into her side table and retrieving her strap.

The sight of Jessie putting on her strap and crawling up your body had you pulsing in need all over again.

"Is this okay?" She asked as she settled over you, but sure not to go too far.

"Jessie, you better fuck me and keep showing you how much you've missed me," you whispered as you pulled her to you.

A grin crossed Jessie’s face as she grabbed the strap and rubbed it up and down your folds, getting it slick.

She placed the tip at your entrance and gradually pressed her hips forward, wanting to give you time to adjust.

The fulsome moan you released as she bottomed out in you nearly caused her to start bucking her hips into you, but she steeled herself and slowly drew back before smoothly sinking back in again. This time she moaned with you as the friction heightened her arousal.

She slowly began picking up her speed and steadily the sounds of her fucking you filled the room. Between the wet sounds of her pumping in and out of you, your panting mixed with needy groans, and her name falling off your tongue, Jessie’s eyes grew nearly black with lust.

“Nothing could be better than this,” she declared. Her eyes were trained on you as she adjusted her position, moving one hand up to the headboard to brace herself as she began sinking herself even deeper into you. You let out a particularly wanton moan as you dragged your nails down her sides and drew a hiss from her. She still didn’t skip a beat.

You noticed as she glanced down to where your fingers now anchored themselves by her hips. Immediately, you saw the red marks they’d left in their wake. Before you could even contemplate feeling bad, she spoke.

“Wish I could get your marks tattooed on me. Have you with me all the time.”

“Jessie,” you panted. You reached down and grabbed her ass with both hands and started pulling her into you in time with her thrusts. She growled in approval before picking up her pace and rolling her hips with each thrust to really hit your sweet spot.

It wouldn’t have been uncommon for her to flip you onto your hands and knees and fuck you with such need and intensity, that you’d need to bury your face in the sheets and scream her name. It’s not like she wasn’t fucking you with overwhelming passion and ferocity right now - the shockwaves of pleasure shooting through every time her hips slammed home into you, and certainly the way you knew you’d barely be able to walk after were proof enough. However, it seemed today you both needed something more intimate. When she wasn’t kissing you, her eyes were locked on you, her gaze so intense and as if she were memorizing every angle of you. You relished in the feeling of her body on top of you, her trained muscles flexing and moving so exquisitely as your hands rediscovered her.

She placed both hands on the bed, threading under your arms and she moved her powerful legs up, pushing your own up and back so you were in a full press. She kissed you deeply as she began rocking deeply and furiously into you. Soon the sounds of the bed knocking against the wall echoed through the room, only partially drowned out by your growing cries of pleasure. From Jessie’s hitched breathing and her whimpers in your ear, you could tell she was just as close as you were to her high.

“I want to make sure every time you're wanting, anytime you're wet - you think of me. And nobody else can satisfy you. The only things that can truly give you what you need are my fingers, my cock, my tongue. Me,” she panted in your ear. “Cum with me, baby. I need you.”

“Jess!”

Your legs tightened around her and your nails dug deeper into her back as you screamed her name. You convulsed as she slammed into you with a cry of her own, her body tensing in your embrace. Her breath came out in ragged, shuddering gasps as her own orgasm ripped through her.

You were still in a haze when you felt her grow limp in your arms, collapsing on top of you as her back rose and fell as she worked to catch her breath, you only just now really noticing the sweat that was dripping down her. You kissed her tenderly.

“Jessie,” you smiled, running your fingers into her hair and caressing her. “That was beyond incredible. You are way too good at fucking me.”

Jessie let out a tired chuckle, but lifted her head to give you a slow smirk.

"I have to make sure you don't forget me when you go back to London." Her tone was only half joking and you shot her a frown.

“I could never. In any sense.” You leaned forward to kiss her. "And for the record, I love you for far more than your fingers, your cock and your tongue."

She buried her head in your neck, you still spying the beginnings of a blush on her cheeks.

“You better,” she said, her voice muffled against your skin. You kissed the side of her head and laced your fingers together with hers.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

[serenescribe]

I’ve been infected with the fever of Lilia’s bats adopting Silver as their non-bat pup, and it’s adorable! I suppose this is just me asking to see Lilia seeing his bats chitter and nuzzle Silver as a child or as a teenager. Whichever you prefer~!

[✐] ficlet frenzy

“Silver? Siiilver?”

No response. Lilia sighs, hands resting on his hips. Now where could his son be at this time of the day?

He’d just returned home after a trip to the market, and had called out Silver’s name in hopes of hearing a sleepy response and the soft pattering of feet before his son emerged at the front door. But today, he heard nothing.

And so Lilia had glanced around the house, leaving the groceries in the kitchen in favour of checking every nook and cranny of their little cottage. At the very least, he can still sense Silver’s presence somewhere, even if he can’t find him. Perhaps he’s playing a game of hide and seek? It’s a distinct possibility, Lilia supposes.

He comes up empty-handed until he tries the one room he had saved for last, for no reason outside of the fact that he can’t think of any explanation why Silver would be in there. With a flick of his wrist, the door to Lilia’s bedroom creaks open, the doorknob turning with the help of magic, and…

“Ah,” Lilia says, as he looks into his room.

He understands now why Silver couldn’t reply. Because Silver had been preoccupied.

Dozens of his bats — those sneaky little rascals! — surround Silver, chittering and flapping their wings at Lilia as he steps into the room. Lilia scoffs, rolling his eyes as he approaches the bed his son lays on. “Don’t give me that attitude,” he lectures, even as the bats huddle closer to the slumbering human boy, pressing against his neck and shoulders, clinging to his clothes and hair. Lilia squints, peering closer. “Did you cover his ears?!”

One of his bats — the largest of the group, and the boldest one, who always makes a habit of clinging to Silver even when Lilia chases the others off — squeaks out a response. Lilia folds his arms, lips twisting into a pout. “I told you, you cannot hoard him for yourself!” Another protesting whine. “‘Why not?’” Lilia echoes. “Oh, for the love of— we’ve been over this already! You can have your quality time with Silver, but you cannot hoard him like this! How heavy do you think you all are, hm, crowding him like that?”

The bats do not seem to care. Bastards, Lilia sulks, tapping his foot against the ground as they nuzzle into Silver, continuing to strategically cover his ears with the thin membrane of their wings in order to stop him from waking at the sound of his father’s voice.

Of course his pesky familiars don’t give a damn. They know the real reason why Lilia keeps fending them off — a deep-rooted jealousy that feels pathetically childish to admit, hidden under the guise of whatever excuse Lilia can think of on the spot.

“You win this time,” Lilia grumbles, throwing his hands up in defeat. “But mark my words, if you make Silver miss dinnertime again, I swear—”

The bats chirp back their protests, and Lilia’s voice pitches.

“You have no RIGHT to criticise my culinary skills when you can’t even COOK!”

[jesterfairy]

.♠︎.💜𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.

Chapter 5: The Edge of Oblivion

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter Word Count: 3,983

Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.

As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.

A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.

Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance

Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat

A/N: I think this chapter might be my favorite thing I’ve written so far. There’s just something so fascinating about the Joker’s dark charm and the way he exerts control—it honestly gave me chills while imagining it. I really hope you enjoy it too! 🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter 5: The Edge of Oblivion

Alina stood by the window, staring out at the fading skyline of Gotham as the last traces of sunlight crept toward the horizon. Her hands rested on the cold glass, trembling slightly, but it wasn’t just the chill of the air that unsettled her—it was the weight of indecision that had lingered since the night she found the Joker’s mark on her canvas.

That night, she had spent hours pacing, his card clutched in her hand, torn between calling the police and staying silent. But in the end, no decision came. Exhaustion had taken over, and she’d drifted into uneasy dreams, still unsure of what to do.

Now, the morning after had slipped into late afternoon, and she was no closer to a solution. She could end this. She needed to. But every option felt wrong, like stepping off the edge of a cliff without knowing if there was solid ground below.

If she called the police and they couldn’t stop him, would he retaliate? But if she did nothing... was she just waiting for the inevitable?

What if this time, the Joker wasn’t just playing with her, but setting her up for something far more dangerous? And worse yet-- what if more people ended up hurt because of her?

She felt utterly helpless, trapped in the web he had spun around her—and so very alone.

Alone.

That word stung. It always had. Since her parents' accident, that’s how she’d felt—isolated, responsible, and now… now she would never forget the screeching tires, the crumpling metal, or the terrible silence that followed.

She swallowed hard, pressing her hand to her forehead. No. Not now. She couldn’t fall apart now. She had to keep it together. But the guilt gnawed at her, the same way it had gnawed at her all these years.

The same way her fear was gnawing at her now.

Her eyes fell on the small silver locket resting on her dresser. It had been a gift from her parents—the last Christmas before everything changed. Now, it was all she had left of them—a reminder of everything she had lost.

She picked it up and opened it, their loving faces staring back at her. A wave of sorrow crashed over her, heavy and relentless. If only she hadn’t pushed them, begged to go that night, made that decision... Maybe they’d still be here. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so helpless.

And now, here she was again—frozen in the face of another decision that felt just as life-altering, just as dangerous.

The locket clicked shut in her hand, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She closed her eyes, her breath shaky, before placing it around her neck. The cool metal settled below her collarbone, grounding her. But no amount of grounding could erase the tightness in her chest—the red grin on the canvas still mocked her, a reminder that even here, she wasn’t safe.

She needed to get out, to breathe, to escape the suffocating fear and indecision pressing down on her. Her sanctuary—it was all she had left. And today, her day off, was the perfect chance to retreat. No diner shifts, no Eddie lurking, just silence.

Leaving wasn’t just a retreat—it was a small act of defiance against the fear tightening its grip on her.

Grabbing her sketchbook, she stepped into a long, mauve skirt and combat boots, wrapping herself in her favorite cardigan as if the soft fabric could shield her. She released her messy bun, her long, wavy hair falling freely down her back like a quiet act of rebellion. But when her gaze flicked to the Joker’s grin one last time, her stomach churned.

This place wasn’t hers anymore. Not really.

...

Alina buttoned her coat and stepped outside, her fingers brushing the edges of the locket as she made her way to the subway. The bustling energy of Gotham surrounded her, but as the train carried her farther from downtown, the city’s pulse shifted. Sleek buildings gave way to crumbling warehouses and silent streets, the forgotten corners of Gotham unfolding before her like a shadowed memory.

Few ventured this far, and that was exactly what she liked. Here, in the decay of abandoned neighborhoods, she could breathe—she could escape.

When the train stopped, she walked toward the churchyard, her boots scuffing against cracked pavement as rusted fences and overgrown vines came into view.

She slipped through the gap in the worn iron gate, the creak of metal echoing softly. The graveyard lay in eerie silence as the approaching fog slithered in, curling around the graffitied gravestones like a veil. The weathered headstones stood like sentinels, their silent presence as familiar to her as her own reflection.

Here, Gotham’s usual din was muffled, a distant hum that didn’t quite reach this forgotten corner.

But tonight, the quiet felt wrong.

Alina's steps faltered as unease curled in her stomach. The usual calm she found here was absent, replaced by an oppressive tension she couldn’t shake. She tightened her grip on the locket around her neck, but the small, familiar weight offered little solace.

Still, she didn’t leave. The abandoned church had always been her refuge. Maybe inside, the weight pressing on her would ease—maybe it would feel better than out here. She needed that comfort now more than ever.

The church loomed ahead, its brick walls crumbling at the edges—barely a shadow of its former glory. Shattered windows lined the front, their jagged remains catching the last fading light of day like broken teeth.

She pushed open the heavy wooden door, which groaned in protest. Inside, the air was damp and stale, thick with mildew and dirt. The pews sat in disarray, buried beneath layers of dust and decay. Some were overturned, others splintered, long ago abandoned to ruin.

Ivy snaked through the cracked walls, clawing its way toward the ceiling in defiant bursts of green. It was a place caught between decay and resilience.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the dirt-covered floor as she moved down the aisle. She once found comfort in this brokenness, in the way it stood untouched by Gotham’s relentless march forward. But tonight, it felt like the walls were closing in, heavy with years of forgotten memories.

She couldn’t bare the suffocating unease. Pushing through a side door, she emerged back into the graveyard.

The cold air hit her like a jolt, sharp and biting against her skin.

The vacant city loomed just beyond the graveyard’s edges—darkened buildings casting long shadows over the small plot. Their empty windows watching her like hollow eyes.

She lowered herself onto the ground by an old headstone, her usual sketching spot, but everything felt wrong.

Nearby, an angel statue loomed, its once serene expression now contorted into silent judgment. Alina shifted uneasily beneath its shadowed gaze, a sharp pang of guilt tightening her chest.

The Joker had tainted everything.

Her fingers clasped the silver locket resting against her neck—the last tangible piece of her parents. Their faces flashed through her mind, vivid and aching. How she wished she could speak to them now, ask them what she should do—

Suddenly, a soft rustling cut through the silence.

Alina froze, her fingers clenching around her sketchbook.

Something had moved in the mist—just a flicker, barely there.

Her gaze darted across the graveyard, straining to see through the gathering mist.

But there was nothing. Only the murmur of the wind and the headstones disappearing into the approaching darkness.

She stood, her breath shallow and unsteady, her eyes scanning the shadows. The fog curled around the surrounding statues, transforming them into ghostly figures. Their presence, once grounding, now charged with unspoken foreboding, as though the graveyard itself had come alive to bear witness.

And then she saw it.

A figure, standing perfectly still in the shadows, half obscured by overgrown ivy and broken headstones.

The air around her seemed to chill as her eyes locked onto the intruder.

It was him.

The Joker.

He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His silhouette lingered, his face barely touched by the dim light of the rising moon. That grin—jagged, fractured—gleamed beneath the shadows, flickering like a phantom in the mist.

For a heartbeat, Alina thought it couldn’t be real, that her mind was playing cruel tricks. But the icy dread twisting in her chest told her otherwise.

Her sanctuary—her last refuge—had been poisoned.

Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee before it was too late. But she couldn’t move, her legs rooted to the ground as if the cold had frozen her in place.

Even in the shadows, his eyes flickered with something wild, something untamed, and despite the panic surging inside her, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

A shiver ran through her, her pulse quickening as a strange, unwanted thrill threaded through the terror. It wasn’t attraction, not in any rational way. It was something darker, something that left her feeling raw and exposed. Vulnerable.

Her fingers instinctively found the knife in her coat pocket, trembling as she pulled it free.

The air between them felt alive, humming with a dangerous energy that made her veins buzz and her thoughts scatter.

Focus, Alina. Focus on the fear. Focus on him.

She tightened her grip on the knife, willing herself to remember who he was. What he was.

"Stay away from me," she said, her voice unsteady but edged with defiance. She raised the knife, her heart hammering so hard it felt as though it might burst. Useless against him, she knew. And yet, she clung to it as though it could keep the world from shattering.

The corners of his mouth twisted, stretching into something far more sinister. Then he laughed—low, throaty, unhinged. The sound rippled through the graveyard, bouncing off the gravestones—slicing through the frigid air.

“A knife?” His voice was dark, mocking, as he took a slow step forward. The shadows peeled away with each deliberate movement, revealing him in fragmented glimpses: the ragged stretch of his scars, the sharp glint of his teeth, the ghostly kiss of moonlight on his face. He looked like something unearthed from one of the graves at their feet—half man, half nightmare.

“You really think you have the stomach for that, doll?”

Alina said nothing, her fingers curling tighter around the knife. The sharp edge bit into her palm, grounding her as he advanced.

"What’s the plan, hmm?" His voice rasped low, though his amusement never wavered. "You’re gonna cut me? Make me bleed? Right here, in the middle of all these dead folks?" His gaze flicked over the tombstones surrounding them, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. "I think they’d find that funny. I know I would.'”

He inched closer—too close. Her heart stuttered, each beat a frantic warning.

His eyes, dark and hungry, roamed over her with a wicked fascination that sent an unwanted flutter through her chest.

“But let’s be honest... a knife isn't really your style.” His voice slid into her veins like venom, each word cutting deeper than the last. “Too personal, too messy.”

Alina’s breath hitched. She didn’t move, but her chest tightened as she felt the blade grow heavier in her hand.

The fog swirled around them, wrapping tighter as the darkness crept in, and for a moment, he stood still.

Too still.

Then, his grin widened, slow and sharp, like he knew something she didn’t.

Suddenly, his hand darted into his coat. In an instant, a gun—dark, cold, and gleaming in the moonlight—appeared in his grasp. He twirled it lazily, like it was no more than a child’s toy. His face was eerily calm, his gaze pinning her in place.

“Here,” he whispered, his voice a mocking lullaby. “This is more your speed.”

He closed the gap between them and shoved the gun into her hands, forcing her to feel its weight.

Her knife slipped from her trembling grasp, but his hand shot out, catching it with chilling precision. Tucking it into his coat, he stepped back, leaving her holding the weapon—his eyes never leaving hers.

“No need to get your pretty little hands dirty,” he purred, his voice smooth as silk. “Just a little squeeze... and it’s all over. Easy, right?”

The gun felt impossibly heavy, as if the weight of the decision it carried had taken on physical form. Her throat tightened, every breath shallow, the air thick with dread.

Is he serious? What kind of sick game is this?

Her thoughts spiraled, panic swelling like a rising tide.

She willed herself to steady, but her fingers shook uncontrollably, betraying the terror coursing through her veins.

She despised it—hated that her fear was laid bare for him to savor. Mortification burned beneath her skin, hot and unrelenting.

He stepped back, his dark gaze smoldering with anticipation, like a hunter prolonging the inevitable.

“Go ahead,” he drawled, his voice quiet, deceptively smooth. “Pull the trigger. Think of all the suffering you'd be preventing.” His arms spread wide in mock surrender, the misty night swirling around him like a shroud.

“Be the hero.”

The words twisted inside her, seeping into her mind like poison. Her finger hovered over the trigger, her hands shaking so violently the gun felt as though it might slip from her grip.

“Come on, dollface,” he crooned, his scars stretching into something grotesque, his voice thick with teasing disdain. “What are you waiting for?”

Slowly, he advanced with unhurried steps and stopped before her, arms still outstretched and chest bared, his movements exuding a sinister satisfaction that made her skin crawl.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, dark and controlled, cutting through the suffocating silence like a blade. His gaze remained locked onto hers, heavy with a power more dangerous than any weapon.

She could end this. She should end this.

But her hands remained frozen, the moment stretching unbearably, her resolve slipping further away with every passing second.

Defending herself was one thing. But he was—simply standing there...grinning.

Could she actually pull the trigger?

This felt too much like an execution—final, irreversible.

And he knew it.

The Joker’s smile faltered, the amusement in his eyes dimming as disappointment swept across his face like a shadow.

“What’s wrong?” His voice dipped, soft and venomous, the mockery laced with disdain. “Can’t do it?” He tsked, shaking his head slowly, the sound grating in the suffocating stillness. “Weak. Predictable. Just like the rest of them.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t. To speak—to give him anything—would be to lose. Her silence was all she had left, but it was enough.

He smiled. Not the wide, chaotic grin she expected, but something worse—smaller, sharper, like a blade slipping between her ribs. It cut deeper than his words ever could.

He moved closer, the air between them narrowing to nothing, his voice a dark rasp. “You’ve got a little defiant streak in you, don’t you?” His head tilted, his gaze creeping over her as though she were a mystery—one he couldn’t wait to unravel.

A dangerous light flickered in his eyes, wild and unhinged. “I like that.”

Alina’s heart thundered, each surge a frantic drumbeat. He was unbearably close, his presence overwhelming. But she held his gaze, refusing to look away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.

His expression shifted, pupils dilating as he studied her like a predator sizing up its prey—no rush, no hesitation, only the certainty of the kill.

"I love that you’ve still got some fight left in you, doll," he murmured, his mouth curving into a slow, wicked smirk. He paused, dragging his tongue across his lower lip, his eyes never straying from hers. Each word dripped like thick honey, deliberate and unrelenting.

"It’s going to make breaking you... so much sweeter."

Alina’s stomach churned, but she forced herself not to flinch. Instead, her nails dug deeper into her palms, grounding her. She refused to look away, meeting his gaze with a determination that belied the quiver in her limbs. She wanted to spit something back at him, to break the silence he clearly relished, but her throat tightened, betraying her

"Ah, there it is—that quiet defiance." His voice dropped to a sinister whisper as he leaned towards her, the warmth of his body mingling with hers in the chilly air. “That’s what makes you interesting. You’ve got this...silent little flame inside you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just waiting to catch.” His eyes darkened. “And I’m going to enjoy watching it flicker, just before I snuff it out.”

His words sent a searing flash of dread through her chest, sinking deeper as his hand clamped around her wrist and yanked her sharply towards him.

The sudden closeness jolted through her like a live wire—his chest brushing against her breasts, his breath skimming her ear, warm and wrong.

A shiver raced down her spine, sharp with fear... and something else she couldn’t bear to examine.

“I’ve decided something” he said, his voice quiet, almost gentle, though his grip on her was iron. “You and me? We’re gonna spend some time together.”

She struggled against him, horror surging through her veins, but the Joker’s grip tightened. “This time, you don’t get to walk away.”

He leaned closer, the jagged edge of his scars grazing her ear, rough and unnervingly intimate against her skin. She froze, every nerve screaming to pull away, but his voice slid in, low and smooth, wrapping around her like a serpents hold.

“I wanna see what makes you tick, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Her pulse quickened, each frantic beat a betrayal. She should have felt only terror at his words—yet her heart raced, her skin prickling with an unwelcome awareness of his tall, solid frame pressing against hers, and the soft, warm brush of his breath grazing her neck.

What’s wrong with me? The thought cut through her, sharp and unforgiving

Her thoughts blurred, a suffocating mix of fear and something darker she couldn’t name. His scent—dangerous and uniquely his—coiled around her like a snare, tightening with every shallow breath she took. For a heartbeat, all she could feel was the oppressive heat of him, so close it stole the air from her lungs.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to tear herself away from this twisted proximity. But her body stayed frozen, every muscle betraying her.

Move, Alina. MOVE.

She sucked in a shaky breath, forcing her voice to rise over the chaos swirling inside her.

"Let me go!" she demanded, her tone sharp but trembling, as though it, too, was on the verge of breaking.

The Joker tilted his head, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips as he looked down at her, his eyes flickering with perverse delight.

“Let you go?” He whispered. His voice was low, mocking, as if the idea was laughable. “Oh, sweetheart... you’re not going anywhere.”

His grip on her wrist tightened, unyielding, as his other hand tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze. His thumb lingered on her jawline, tracing it as if testing her limits.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured, his gloved fingers trailing down her neck. “Your pulse racing... your breath hitching...” His smirk deepened, predatory and sharp. “I think you like this. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

“Go to hell,” she hissed, her voice shaky but laced with as much venom as she could muster. She jerked against his grip, the movement weak and desperate, her eyes locked on his with a mix of fear and defiance.

But the Joker only laughed softly, the sinister glint in his eyes intensifying, as if her resistance only fueled him more.

“Hell, huh? You know a lot about that place, don’t you?” He said, the cruel intensity of his expression never wavering. “Sweetheart, you've been swimming in it long before I came along. Drowning in your own misery, pretending you're not already buried in darkness.”

He chuckled low, savoring the mixture of fear and defiance flickering in her eyes, his grip on her tightening just enough to remind her who was in control. “But here I am, offering you a way out. The question is—do you want it?”

She took a shaky breath, trying to summon some semblance of control.

"I don't want anything from you," she snapped, her eyes narrowing with as much conviction as she could manage, but the trembling in her hands betrayed her, every muscle coiled with fear, every nerve thrumming with something far more dangerous.

That pull—the one that had started in the bank, sizzled like a snare between them. It was stronger now, a growing shadow she couldn’t escape.

The Joker leaned in closer, his voice dark and filled with a sadistic satisfaction.

“You don’t want anything from me?” he mused, his tone soft and teasing, as if savoring the words. “That’s the funniest thing I've heard all day, dollface.”

He chuckled, his grin twisted into something darker. “You could’ve run, could’ve screamed, could’ve pulled that trigger. But you didn’t. You stayed. And you know why?”

He reached for her face, dragging his thumb against her cheek with a touch that was almost gentle, almost cruel. “Because deep down, you know I’m already under your skin. I’ve seen the cracks—the ones you work so hard to hide. And maybe... just maybe... you like that someone finally sees them.”

Her breath caught, the air around them thickening like a storm about to break. The weight of his words pressed into her, twisting with something sharp and unwanted. She couldn’t look away, the dark intensity of his gaze rooting her to the spot.

Then, without warning, he struck.

A cold, damp cloth smothered her mouth and nose, the sharp chemical sting flooding her senses.

Panic flared, white-hot and all-consuming. Her surroundings swirled, the edges of her vision distorting as her hands clawed frantically at his wrist. Her nails scraped against skin, but his grip was relentless, like a vice dragging her closer to the shadows.

Her strength ebbed, her limbs growing heavier with each passing second—every motion slower, like sinking into thick, unyielding quicksand.

The world tilted, spinning wildly, as darkness crept in at the edges. She was losing the battle to stay upright.

Her legs buckled, and just as she felt herself begin to fall, strong arms caught her, pulling her close.

This can't be happening—not now, not with him.

She willed herself to fight, to scream, to resist in any way she could, but her body betrayed her. Her lips parted in a feeble attempt to protest, but no sound came. She was fading fast, teetering on the edge of consciousness and oblivion.

A fleeting image of her parents’ faces flickered in her mind—their warmth, their smiles. The locket’s cold weight against her chest anchored her for one desperate second. But the memory dissolved too quickly, leaving her acutely aware of how alone she truly was… and utterly in his control.

Finally, her body collapsed against him, paralyzed, her breath shallow and ragged as the darkness closed in, threatening to consume her.

Through the haze, her vision swimming, she could see him—his wild, unrelenting eyes locked onto hers, watching with a dark fascination.

“Don’t fight it, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice soft and strangely tender as he gazed down at her face.

With unnerving care, he cradled her head, his touch disturbingly gentle—a chilling contrast to the violence he had just unleashed.

Her vision blurred, her senses dulling, as his fingers softy brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. It was wrong—deeply, unsettlingly wrong—yet there was something about his touch that was... reassuring, a dark comfort in this twisted moment.

A gentle laugh wove through her awareness, winding around her like a dark, soothing lullaby. The steady sound guided her deeper toward nothingness as the abyss grew closer.

And the last thing she saw—those eyes, watching her, unblinking, as she sank into oblivion.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N: Thank you so much for reading—I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts if you feel like sharing ☺️

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[jennshiro]

Can we talk about the kite flying competition please?

Bleach anime, Episode 355.

This episode is just 😘 perfection.

I’ve been in this fandom for literally one minute and I think the reason this fandom feels familiar is because of this: Fandom to me is fun and appreciation and fiction. We celebrate playing with the characters through the art of writing and value of imagination. I believe that the creators of Bleach itself are almost encouraging this playful behaviour because they play with the characters and let us all in on the game when they make episodes like this. 

Maybe this is just a romantic notion. But maybe there isn’t anything wrong with that. 

This is a two part episode. Read below for part one.

Here's part two.

This episode is fucking ridiculous! And I love every second of it. 

As if Izuru doesn’t have enough to do, basically running the squad by himself while the 3rd division is still devoid of a captain, that fucking Hisagi beautiful motherfucker assigns him a job he never agreed to. Lolz 

This is supposed to be a “non-competitive” event to promote togetherness among the squads. Okay. Sure. 

Ikkaku starts with flying a stringed kite with multiple images of Kenpachi’s face on them and, later, a gigantic kite in the shape and likeness of Zaraki Kenpachi. I mean. Come on. 

How amazing?!

He naturally takes offense at the accusation that the “[kite] string is weak” and needs to defend his squad and prove that they’re not weak. 

Yumichika is right on his heels. 

They come back with this giant-ass motherfucking kite that looks like Kenpachi. The only thing that could make this better is if the artists had added a lil Yachiru on kite-Kenpachi's shoulder.

Soifon enters the sky with her giant-ass Yoruichi kite.

And they...kite-battle? It's so absurd. They just start smashing into each other in the sky strapped to their kites.

This, of course, escalates.

Nanao says that she and Kyoraku are not getting involved in the toxic competitive behaviour of the others but then she produces an explosive defensive reaction at the statement of women being easy to beat at kite flying.

How the fuck do you even win at kite flying?

I guess Shakkaho, that’s how.

And that’s when I realize most of our “competitors” are flying a kite that looks like their squad’s captain, and even Soifon - who is a captain - is flying one that is the captain to her. 

Soifon’s captain will always be Yoruichi. She is devoted to: Yoruichi. 

Of course my 'lil shipper heart wanted the kite of Ukitake to be flown by Kyoraku. If you squint you can believe it really was.

Hisagi is flying a kite with his trademark 69 decorating it, which of course, is his everlasting tribute to Kensei.

How the fuck did Hinamori get stuck all the way up on the kite string?! This is no time to be explaining, Hisagi! 

Then, out of nowhere - because he hasn’t been seen on screen up to this point - Toshiro calls Bankai to try and save Hinamori, but they both get caught up in the whirlwind of Rangiku and Nanao’s hado blast, trying to take down Ikkaku’s kite.

And there’s Yachiru cheering for literally everybody. 

Hisagi tells Izuru to “raise [his] head” which is the same command Izuru has for his zanpakuto. I feel perfectly normal about this. 

He makes a valiant attempt to stop the Kenpachi- and Yoruichi-kite flyers but fails spectacularly and falls from the sky… right into the private quarters of old man Yama-ji. 

What was supposed to be an afternoon of camaraderie and well meaning, turned into a competitive kite flying tournament.

But hey, at least Hisagi got his headline. 

[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓂𝒶𝓇𝑒 ༻

This recurring nightmare of Raphaels death haunts you each night, now you find yourself question Haarlep and believe they have something to do with it all. Tav is a sorceress with royal red draconic bloodline.

Angst - Death - Comfort - slight NSFW

You’ve been having the same nightmare over and over the past month… A vision of Mephistopheles holding a bloodied Raphael by a broken wing, ready to consume him. It haunts your very existence, each night you stir in your sleep only to awake to clammy skin and a bead of sweat descending from your temple. Your breath always ragged as if you’ve been running for hours non stop… Your body twisting hastily to see that Raphael is still next to you in your shared bed. During the nights he chooses to not be at your side at night your anxiety looms until you’re finally forced out of bed to go looking for him around his house of hope.

Whenever you come to find him he’s usually reading or writing in his diary, and when you see him sitting there quietly, his face at ease… That’s when it dwells in your soul, the deepest longing for him. You can’t help but to crawl in his lap, can’t help but to flick your tongue against his neck, to grind yourself into him; wanting nothing more than for both your bodies to become one and to make sure he is very much still alive.

“This little mouse of yours, she feels your claws within her heart, and when you’re away it only tears apart.” Your voice soft like a sweet whisper, Raphael can’t help but to hum in response as he closes his eyes to listen.

“If only I could make you feel the pain you cause me when you aren’t around, then maybe you would begin to see-.” You lean back in his lap, your eye’s glassed over as you put one of his stray hairs back in place, “That this 'Cat and Mouse' is not a game for those in love should play.”

Raphael’s chocolate eyes bore into yours, with a voice ever so amused before it becomes stern, “Love, my delight? …My torture.” His face scrunches, his brows creasing in disapproval. Yet you can see you satisfy a need he has despite trying to hide it.

He never questions why you seek him out looking so dejected at night. Raphael only thinks that it’s because you’ve become desperate for his touch once more. He enjoys how you come crawling to him, enjoys the way you ride him until he’s rutting into you.

Walking into the boudoir, you spot Haarlep staring out at the red world from the balcony, watching the hells with that oh so famous smirk of theirs playing on their face. You didn’t trust them, never had and never will. There’s something about Haarlep, you know for a fact they loathe Raphael. Every time they have spoken to you about him only malice comes from their tongue. They would constantly question your sanity as to why you would willingly choose to stay here.

Standing a few feet behind Haarlep, you decide it’s time to speak your mind, “You were a gift from his father, Mephistopheles, right?”

“Oh my my, what do we have here? A little lost pet seeking answers that they already know, but alas I will tell you what you wish to know once more. Yes, I was a gift. Bound to Raphael as a distraction.”

Your eyes say it all but your lips move so that Haarlep truly knows how you feel, “That’s what worries me.”

Haarlep laughs, striding over to you, “You’ve been having nightmares, haven’t you? I’ve heard you at night, moans escaping you as you toss and turn, not out of pleasure but agony.” Their thumb strokes under your left eye, “The bags under your eyes prove it, mouse.”

You move your head to the side in disgust to shake his fingers from your skin. Hells you couldn’t stand the way Haarlep calls you mouse, mockingly. Your lip curls under, your eyes hard as you look up at the incubus. All you want is to tell them to stay away from Raphael, that you fear Haarlep has been feeding Mephistopheles intel on the both of you… and that it would lead to the nightmare you’ve been having.

The incubus’s smugness grows, his violating eyes reading you as if you were an open book, “It bothers you, doesn’t it? That you can’t tell me to stay away. Not out of jealousy, but love and protection. You can’t order me around and that angers you. Hahaha, oh if only he would make you the lady of this house, then maybe?”

You bite your lip in vexation, but a wave of calmness takes over you. You are no sheep, you are a dragon. Not just any dragon either, you are the ancient red dragon's daughter and you will not let a mere incubus laugh in your face.

All it takes is one step forward for you to be in their face, you can feel Haarleps breath on your face, feel the heat radiate from them, “I will not hesitate to burn you to ash. Test me slave and it will be your fall.” The fire in your eyes burns bright, your breath controlled and your form daring Haarlep to say something smart. You love Raphael, support his goals and wish to see them through. You’ll help him get the crown of Karsuss, and you’ll stand by him even if it costs you your own throne.

Turning on your heels you make your way out of the boudoir, unbeknownst to you that a certain devil named Raphael was listening the whole time…

[rogueddie]

Steddie Sick Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 😷

Fever

addweetoo

Steve is sick and Robin's out of town. So she calls Eddie to take care of Steve, not knowing that Steve hasn't talked to Eddie since Eddie woke up in the hospital.

Words : 11,359 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

Larkspur and Lily of the Valley

DarkWitchOfErie

Steve has a cough and thinks it's allergies, until a blue petal comes up.

Words : 4,540 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Gently,

TheDeathsWish

In which Eddie wants nothing more than to give Steve the gentle kindness he deserves.

Words : 12,905 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

The Labyrinth

wayfarers0

“I think you’re just not feeling good, kiddo,” she says quietly. “Do you feel nauseous?”

“No. No, I don’t.” fuck, is all he can think; fuck. “No.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Steve told me once you’re not good with that sort of thing.”

“M’not nauseous,” he says, but he has to swallow down saliva as he says this. “I’m just anxious.”

Words : 2,422 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

medicinal

peaktotheocean

“I’ve got a friend who is having a ton of migraine issues," Robin blurted out. Eddie's head rose to look at her. That was a new one. "We heard weed helps. Any truth to it?” She asked hopefully.

Uncle Wayne always used to joke that Eddie was too curious for his own good. Eddie just never thought he'd agree with the assessment while selling weed to Robin Buckley of all people.

Words : 2,233 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

greening out

llovebug

When Eddie accidentally takes too many edibles, he finds himself greening out and wandering the streets of Hawkins. Steve spots him and takes it upon himself to nurse Eddie back to soberness and get him somewhere safe and warm.

Words : 2,702 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Not Rated

AO3 : x

Take Your Silver Spoon, Dig Your Grave

fangirlandtheories

“Shit Harrington,” Eddie smiled, pulling the thread tightly. “Let’s play a game.” Steve rolled his head on his shoulder, looking at him with fever bright eyes. “2 truths and a lie?”

“I sleep with the light on, I haven’t seen my parents in a month, and I like men and women.” Steve watched as Eddie froze in place.

“That’s not cool, Steve.” Eddie continued stitching, a little less gently this time. “Robin said you’re a bit dense, but fucking mocking me af-”

“4 months.” Steve interrupted.

“What?” “It’s been 4 months since the last time I saw them.”

Words : 6,020 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

I’ll be there for you

Battered_child

After the nightmare spring break in which they had gone to fight a monster in the crazy Hellscape version of their hometown, the weeks that followed had been non-stop for Steve.

First there were the hospital visits, though he’s not sure it counts as visiting when one spends more of their time there than away. The first week had been the worst.

After they had dragged Eddie’s lifeless body from the Upside Down, Steve had been so worried that someone would come after him that he’d refused to leave the other boy’s side for the first few days. This of course meant he didn’t get his own injuries seen to, and he then spent his own painful recovery either at Eddie or Max’s bedsides, working, or ferrying kids (and Robin) around town for various reasons.

Words : 6,545 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Can I Still Call?

theswampnugget

Steve doesn't like being taken care of. More specifically, he doesn't like to feel like a burden. He really can't avoid it when a migraine wipes him out in the middle of a shift, and none other than Eddie Munson comes to drag him home.

Words : 4,130 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

[junniieesbby]

My Pretty Ginger Boy 🧡 |Choi Yeonjun

Pairing: Yeonjun x F!reader

Genre: Established Relationship, Idol Yeonjun x non idol reader, Fluff, crack, A little bit suggestive.

WC: 1k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Summary: Your boyfriend bleaches his hair for an upcoming comeback and you slightly mention he would look good with Ginger hair…only to see him with ginger hair two days later

Warning: There is swearing, Ass smacking, kissing, biting mentions of food. (Let me know If I missed anything”

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Nothing mentioned in this fiction represents any of the characters.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this little fluff I came up with last minute

Dedication: I would like to dedicate this to my amazing friends tagged below. Please if there is anyone at all you would like to show your love and support to it is them. They have made me feel loved and appreciated more times than I could count. My love for them will run forever. To my Besties this is it. Thank you for playing the game. Until Next time…Love Anon 🧡

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

You rolled on your boyfriend's side of the bed only to find it empty once again. It has been a week now that he goes to work early and comes really late. He had promised you some quality time today, and he wasn’t even here. Not that you were complaining; he is an idol with a comeback, and this wasn’t anything new. You just happened to miss him extra hard that morning.

You stayed in bed for around 15 minutes, then decided to get up and get ready for the day. You went in the shower and did your shower routine. As you got out, you heard the front door being opened and closed, and you ran as fast as you could to greet your boyfriend.

Only to stop in your tracks when you lay your eyes on him. He is standing there with a bouquet of sunflowers in his left hand and a bag in his right hand, which appears to be from your favorite breakfast place.

That isn’t at all what surprises you. What caught you off guard was his hair color. Last night, he came to bed with bleached blonde hair. Now…now he has ginger hair. Just two days ago, you told him how much you wanted to see him with ginger hair and how much he would rock the color.

Now you're standing there looking like a deer caught in headlights. You can’t move, you can’t speak, and you sure as hell can’t process what is going on.

"Good morning, beautiful", he tells you with an innocent smile. He acts like nothing is new or has changed. That gets you fuming.

"Good morning? Good Morning? CHOI FUCKING YEONJUN, ARE YOU SERIOUS?" you say, walking closer to him.

“Baby, what's wrong?" He puts down the items he got on the kitchen island and walks closer to you.

"Don’t ‘baby’ me, LOOK at your hair. Are you kidding me!!!"

"Do you like it? I did it just for you, baby," he said, planting his hands on your hips.

You were mesmerized by his beauty. He truly could rock any hair color. He knew he looked good, but every time you told him he looked good, he just felt this boost of confidence. He loved when you complimented him. It always meant so much to him when it came from you.

"Like? Like? No, baby, I don’t like it; I love it. Are you serious? I mentioned one time that I wanted to see you with ginger hair, and you convinced your hair stylist to dye it ginger. Oh my god, baby, you look so handsome and so pretty; it suits you so fucking well. I think I just fell in love all over again," you tell him while running a hand through it.

You could not help yourself. You grabbed his face, lowered it to you, and peppered his face with kisses. You kissed his eyelids, his nose, his forehead, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, and his lips maybe 10 times. All he did was giggle and let you kiss him.

"That is the cutest reaction I’ve ever seen, baby," he says while peppering your face the same way you did to him.

Once he finished, you gave him the tightest hug and whispered how much you had missed him, which led to him rocking you back and forth and telling you how much he missed you.

"What are the flowers and food for baby?" You let go of the hug, turning around and facing the food and flowers.

"What is it illegal now to get pretty flowers for a pretty girl? I can’t spoil my baby with food now?" He questions you.

"It’s not that, you idiot," you slightly smack his shoulder. "How about you change while I plate up the food mmh?"

He nods, sends you a wink, and goes to your shared bedroom to get changed. As you are plating the food, you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you. He also nozzled his face into the crook of your neck and took a deep breath.

Once you finished plating your breakfast, which was one of your favorite Toasted waffles with nutella, you turned around in his arms only to notice he was wearing a sleeveless shirt, which caused you to hyperventilate for a second time this morning.

Your instinctive reaction was to lean on his bicep and bite him. “Ow, what was that for? You little shit," he tells you while letting you go.

"For always looking sexy" that's when he leaned and also bit your upper arm, which caused you to shriek.

"YEONJUN Ow, that hurts you ass," He just laughed, grabbed you closer to him, and started smacking your ass.

“Yeah, well, I like your ass, baby." You guys both started to laugh.

"When we finish breakfast, can we have a marathon of High School Musical?" you asked, fully knowing the answer would be yes.

"Anything for my pretty girl," he says, taking your hand and leading you to sit on the island and eat breakfast.

You spent the rest of the day in his arms, watching and singing along to High School Musical. You both even got up and danced to "Can I have this dance".

He truly was a dream come true.

Thank you guys so much for reading 🥺🧡

Tagging the loveliest people I know: @kookthief @boba-beom @lovejoshua @robin-obsessed @baljinciaga @choistick @hanniejie @txt-yaomi @writingmochi