#March Flash Fiction

[anonymousdandelion]

Long, long ago (almost exactly a year ago, in fact), it was March 2022 and I wrote a bunch of daily Good Omens fics for @kedreeva's March Flash Fiction prompts.

...And then, as seems to be a habit of mine, I did not get around to posting them all.

But I'm diving back into the posting now! And so, originally written for the prompt "I was following you!" have a post-canon scene with the Them. 700 words, rated G.

Just Walk Beside Me (And Be My Friends)

Pepper had a weird dream last night, she tells the Them...

"That’s all? Just us following Adam somewhere?” Brian was unimpressed. “That’s not weird.” “Yeah,” Wensley agreed. “It’s just normal, actually. We follow Adam to places all the time.” “I know we do,” Pepper snapped. “Of course we do.” She bit moodily into the core of her apple, chewed, and spit out the seeds. When her mouth was eventually available for other usage again, she said slowly, uneasily, “But… but in the dream, we didn’t want to.”

[the-broken-pen]

“Hey,” the hero panted. “At least I’ll make a pretty dead body?”

The villain hissed at them beneath their breath.

“I don’t want this. You know that, right?”

The hero stilled. The chanting of the crowd grew louder.

“I know.”

The villain looked down over the edge of the stage, eyes cold and calculating as ever.

Their eyes caught on something.

When they turned to the hero, they smiled.

“Hold your breath.”

The square erupted in smoke, and everything was lost to the blur of unconsciousness.

“You’re an idiot.”

The hero blinked, half asleep.

“What?”

The villain made a low noise of irritation, and behind them, someone laughed.

“I told you not to breathe.”

The hero half smiled, vision blurry.

“Next time, say something sooner.”

“God, why did I save you—“

The hero shifted to laugh, and felt bandages wrapping around their wrists. They frowned, pulling it up to their face.

The villain watched them, carefully.

“Bandages?”

The villain nodded.

“You were bleeding.”

“I don’t remember—“

“Suppressants affect the ability to feel pain. A mercy, if you were to be executed, but a curse if you get wounded.”

The hero made to unwrap one, see the damage, and the villains cool fingers closed around their wrist.

“Stop it.”

“You didn’t tell me they were reckless,” the same laughing voice as before said, and the hero snapped their gaze to them.

They grinned.

“Hello, there.”

The hero’s power sputtered to life, as if pushing past the final dregs of the suppressors, and slammed out into the room, exploring every nook and cranny. It slid along the skin of the newcomer, testing, as if figuring out what power they held.

A moment later, the hero gagged, retching.

The villain simply watched them, unconcerned, hand still on their wrist, but the newcomer frowned.

“Are you—“

“I hate fire wielders,” the hero gasped, covering their mouth. “You taste like smoke and feel like suffocation.”

The newcomer stilled, and their power told them with no shortage of glee that their name was Alex, and it the hero wanted the flames wreathed within their skin, they could have them.

Alex glanced to the villain. “How did they…”

The villain examined the hero’s hand, before pressing a nail into their skin.

The hero’s power practically purred, sliding back into their skin. When the villain smiled, it was feral.

“Their power is a loathsome little thing. Just too far on this side of sentient. A curious thief and magic rolled into one.”

The hero made to yank their hand away, and their power protested.

The hero left their wrist in the villains grasp.

Alex’s eyebrows pinched. “So why aren’t you affecting them?”

The villain’s smile, if anything, grew sharper.

“Could be the gas, from when we saved their life,” With their free hand, the tipped the hero’s chin up to examine their eyes. “Or, could be that they like me, and their power likes me too.”

The hero flushed.

“It does not—“

The villain swiped a finger on their forearm, and the hero’s power glowed at the contact.

They didn’t even realize they’d copied the villain’s powers until they tasted the stardust and wind that came with telepathy and teleportation.

Right. Suppressors.

If the hero hadn’t been so hopped up on suppressors earlier, teleportation would have gotten them out much easier than gas. From the look on the villain’s face, they knew that too.

People had learned the hard way not to teleport those who have been suppressed. Magic didn’t like it.

The villain snorted.

“You’re an asshole,” the hero bit out, and their power curled around their newfound toy like a baby dragon, hoarding it in their chest. Alex’s thoughts were unimaginably load.

“God, how can you be around anyone, ever?”

The villain cocked their head. It wasn’t the first time the hero had asked that question.

Behind them, Alex left. Blessedly, it got quiet.

“Practice,” the villain admitted. “A lot of it.”

The hero wanted to shove the telepathy out of them, but their power simply held on tighter.

“It won’t let go.”

“Mm. Quite the noxious creature.”

“I’m the one living with it.”

The villain hummed, hand tracing along the edges of the bandages.

“I would never have let you die.”

The hero simply thought, I know.

The villain smiled.

I love you, the villain’s eyes bore into them, thought flung across the void between their brain and the hero’s.

The hero took their hand. The villain let them. “I know.”

In their chest, their power finally, finally settled, as if it had been waiting for this all along.

[flashfictionfridayofficial]

✨ Quarterly Masterlist of Antique Prompts ✨

We're back! Life got very busy between school, family, and all the like and made things a bit difficult to keep up with this. For this we apologize for the fall behind on all the antique prompts that were written.

But now each and every beautiful piece of flash fiction won't go amiss! We cherish these beautiful works you have written and shared with us over the past months. Please check out these amazing flash fiction pieces and show them some love! <3

New to Flash Fiction Friday and wondering what is an Antique Prompt? Well Here is a quick blurb to what it is, and Here is a list of all the past prompts, so let your creativity run free!

If you have written an old prompt outside of its deadline and are missing from this list, please let us know and we’ll add you! If you wrote it months ago and tagged us then but are especially proud of it, still feel free to send it our way!

The next masterlist will come July 1st!

Deceiving Fragrance by @betweenthetimeandsound

But a Whimper by @borealwrites

Morning Glories by @annikchase

How It Ends by @starkraivennemad

Roll Of The Dice by @writingamongther0ses

The Cafe and the Storm by @goblin-writer

The Fools Quest by @darkhorse-javert

To The Victor by @starkraivennemad

Take My Hand by @alexthefly

Haunted Classroom by @lost-khione

Seal It Tight by @landofspaceandrainbows

Those Who Don't Care by @darkhorse-javert

Quiet Hours by @seagull-energy

Soaring Above by @betweenthetimeandsound

Glitter And Blue by @mtnikolle

Turn Back Time by @xviruserrorx

Critical Ice Cream by @imsoveryveryconfusedatlife

Sugar Honey ice and Tea by @cocoamoonmalfoy

Critical Ice Cream by @tamiveldura

You never cared by @tamiveldura

In Conversation by @words-after-midnight

Feral Pinpricks by @baubeautyandthegeek

[justagirlinafandomworld]

Rose-Colored

Pairing: Marc Spector x Reader

Song Prompt from Unclaimed Love Songs: La vie en rose by Michael Bublé & Cécile McLorin Salvant

Word Count: 100

Warnings: fluff

You never had to say it.

He felt it in the linger of your gaze, the warmth of your smile, for him, always for him.

He felt it in your touch as you fussed over his bruises, pushed the hair away from his eyes and pressed your forehead to his with chiding words that only set his heart aflutter.

You never had to say it, because even he could take a hint.

But you said it anyway.

Repeatedly, daily.

I love you, whispered into his lips.

I love you, pressed onto his skin.

I love you, seared into his heart.

[adreamingskin]

Poetry Competitions, Submissions & Opportunities – MARCH 2024

Spring is here and with it (finally) over 150 poetry competitions, writing submissions and opportunities open or with deadlines in March 2024.​For the first half of this month I was in autistic shutdown due to a very difficult personal situation that is coming to a head this week after 16 years. I am hopeful that this release will remove significant stress from my life and allow me to give time,…

[elainaroberts]

Flash Fiction Friday -March

Time for a new monthly flash fiction piece, this one for the month of March. Since March is best as a surname, I’ve chosen to focus on the birthstone. Mostly bloodstone with a bit of aquamarine thrown in for good luck. A type of chalcedony, bloodstones were once believed to have healing powers and often used to make seals or amulets. All sorts of goodies, right? Let’s go! (more…) “”

[sailorrlino]

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns. 

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.” 

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo. 

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

[virtualvault]

Skip to Dessert

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

Summary: Having gotten into an argument with Miguel before dinner, you both find a way to let out your frustration.

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+ ONLY, afab reader, mentions of previous argument/ bickering, teasing, flirting with a stranger, flashing a stranger( he sees your underwear, waiter is kind of a perv/creep, exhibitionism(kind of), getting caught in the act, oral (f and m receiving) spanking, begging, dirt talk, rough sex ( let me know if I missed anything)

WC: 3.8K

A/N: Completely stopped writing for over a month. Oops. But I got the inspiration to write again so I decided to finish this Miguel fic that's been sitting half-finished for months. Enjoy!! Also, PSA, don't flash strangers or involve them in your sexual escapades unless you have their consent. Tried to write the waiter character like he was a creep who enjoyed it and this is fiction so no harm done, but please don't do that irl.

The tension in the car is palpable, but not the good kind of tension. Not the kind where lust and desire hang heavy in the air, where you can't bear to be apart even though you're right next to each other. Not the kind where you can't keep your hands off of each other and the temptation to pull over and submit to your desires right then and there feels impossible to resist.

On any other date night, this would be the norm, but tonight, a different tension is felt between you and Miguel. Residual feelings of frustration and annoyance brought on by the argument you two had back at the apartment. The disagreement was petty. Nothing that a little healthy communication couldn't resolve. But the incredibly stressful and tiring day you two had had both of your patience hanging on by a thread, and it was just a matter of time before one of you snapped. This time it just so happened to be you. 

You were both looking forward to finally spending some quality time together, considering both yours and Miguel's schedules are so hectic. But any bit of excitement you had vanished as you walked into your shared bathroom and tripped over the pile of clothes he left in the middle of the floor. You came to find out about this little habit of his when you first moved in together. You had brought it up to him, expressing your annoyance, and asked him to try and be mindful about it. He made a genuine effort to stop, only reverting to his old ways when he was in a rush or had a million things on his mind. Today seemed to be one of those days.

You growled annoyedly, and the second he walks through the bedroom door, you get on him about it. Was it right to take your frustration out on him? No. But you couldn't help it. He clearly wasn't in the best mood either, as he marched after you when you stormed off and started arguing right back. You two spent the next ten minutes bickering and even continued to mumble angrily to yourselves and throw around passive-aggressive comments as you got ready to go to dinner. 

It was a terrible way to start date night, but as you sat side by side in the car and the negative emotions started to dissipate, you both realized how silly it had all been, and you didn't want to let it ruin your night, not knowing the next time you'd be able to go out like this.

Although the irritation you were feeling earlier had subsided, you couldn't resist messing with him. Usually, when you get into petty disagreements, you both end up in bed, letting out your frustrations and subsequently making up by fucking each other silly. But you had reservations that had been made months in advance that you did not want to miss, leaving you with pent-up frustration, so you decide to find other means of letting it out. 

You plan to do that by pushing his buttons in hopes that he'll drag you off somewhere to fuck the attitude right out of you. As you peruse the menu, you begin contemplating different ways you could rile him up until you realize the perfect opportunity to do so is standing at the table, filling your water glass.

Conveniently, the waiter has been flirting with you from the very first moment he walked up to the table, something both you and Miguel picked up on, and it's safe to say your boyfriend is not thrilled about it. Normally, you wouldn't be either, but in this case, it's working to your advantage.

As he fills your glass, he doesn't even look you in the eyes, opting instead to stare directly at your chest. Any other time, you’d tell him off for being a creep, but you see Miguel staring daggers at him, and that makes you want to egg him on further. You notice his reaction out of the corner of your eye, but the waiter doesn't seem to. Now that you think about it, he hasn't acknowledged Miguel once, his gaze only straying from you long enough for him to fill the other glass before he's looking back at you.

You proceed to ask him a question about the menu, all while pushing your tits up on the table and giving him a full view down your blouse. He doesn’t try to hide the fact that he's shamelessly ogling your cleavage and, again, neglects to make eye contact with you as he answers your question. You giggle at everything he says, and you can see Miguel roll his eyes as you do so. After chatting with you longer than your boyfriend, or you presume even management, would deem necessary, he quickly jots down your orders and walks away. 

When he's out of earshot, Miguel asks, “What are you doing?”, looking unimpressed and letting you know he’s on to your little game. But you don’t care.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m being polite to our waiter. You should try it,” you answer, feigning ignorance.

He scoffs, “Polite? Yeah. Polite means saying please and thank you, not giving him a good look down your shirt and letting him fuck you with his eyes.”

“I can’t control what he does. It's not my fault he can’t resist sneaking a peek. You do the same thing,” you respond, raising one brow as you see his eyes fall to your chest, proving your point.

His eyes move back up quickly, and he says, "Well, I also fuck you till you can’t walk. You want to let him do that too?” 

His question has your mind conjuring up the memory of just last weekend when he gave it to you so good that you spent the next day recovering in bed. You remember the delicious ache he left you with, and you press your thighs together at the thought. 

“Maybe I should. If he’s capable of picking up after himself, I’d get down on my knees for him right now,” you sass. Knowing he won't let that slide, you wait for his reaction. He slams his hand on the table, not hard enough to draw the attention of the other patrons, but it got yours. 

“I said I'm sorry, ok? I was rushing out of the house this morning and I wasn't thinking. Will you just let it go?” He asks, the frustration clear in his voice. 

You playfully roll your eyes and try not to smile. You’re not upset anymore, and honestly, you weren't to begin with. You were just agitated because you had a particularly hard day at work. You just can’t help but push his buttons. You wouldn't taunt him like this if it wasn't something he does to you all the time. He's even admitted that he likes messing with you, riling you up just to see you wear that cute little annoyed pout on your face. So, you’re just giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Fine. I shouldn’t be giving him a show. But how about you?” You ask in a sultry tone as you run your foot up his leg and lean forward, giving him the same view you gave the waiter just moments ago. 

He licks his lips at the sight. “Fuck, you look so good in that dress. Too bad I'm going to have to rip it off you,” he says, reaching down to your foot that has made its way to the inside of his thigh, and he softly caresses your ankle.

“You tear it, you die,” you warn. This dress was expensive, and you’d like to wear it more than once. You've lost more clothes than you can count to his lack of patience.

He chuckles. “Ok. Pull it off of you,” he corrects himself.

“I don’t know if I can wait,” you whine and glance over at the bathroom, mentally calculating if you'd have enough time to sneak off without anyone noticing.

“No, not after last time,” he replies, shaking his head and smiling at the memory. You two had been just a little too loud, and as you walked out, you were met with a very concerned hostess who came to make sure everything was alright.

You pout but agree; you’d like to save yourself from that embarrassment again. You decide to give him a view of what he's missing out on and spread your legs and pull up your dress, prompting Miguel to glance under the table. He spots the bright red mesh panties he had recently bought you but has yet to see you wear. 

“Naughty, naughty,” he says, shaking his head, but it takes everything in him to pull his eyes away as the waiter comes back, carrying your food. 

“Here you go.” He sets your plates down, Miguel’s first and then yours, and he smiles down at you, this time hungrily eyeing your lips.

You can see the anger on Miguel's face, and the brattiness bubbles up inside you again. You move your hand and knock your fork under the table, feigning an “oops.” 

“I’ve got it, miss.” Your waiter quickly offers and squats, moving to reach under the table. Legs still spread, he’s met with your clothed mound, and he stops in his tracks, lingering under the table.

Realizing what’s happening, Miguel uses his foot to push your knees together, blocking the waiter's view, and he retreats from under the table. The guy must not sense Miguel's anger, or he simply doesn’t care, because when you thank him for picking it up, he replies, “No problem, beautiful, I'll go get you another one.” He then places his hand on your arm while shooting you a wink. 

Miguel, having had enough of this little display, stands up, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a wad of cash. He proceeds to shove it into the waiter's chest, and the guy almost topples over. 

“Keep the change,” he grumbles and pulls you from your seat, guiding you out of the restaurant with his hand placed firmly on your lower back. 

“Decided to push your luck, huh?” He says as he opens the door to the back seat and pushes you inside. “Big mistake.” 

After shutting the door behind himself, he cages you in against the seat and begins grinding himself against you. Even through the layers of clothing, the friction feels divine, and your breath hitches.

“I can’t keep people from looking,” you try to reason, hoping you haven't genuinely upset Miguel. But judging by the way his hands run up and down your body, grabbing every slope and curve, it seems like you've garnered the reaction you'd been hoping for.

He kisses your neck and chest, moving down your body at a maddeningly slow pace, and continues to speak as he does so. 

“I’m not jealous because I know he wants to get with you. I love when you show your body off and all the looks you get. I get to see people crave so desperately for something they can’t have, for something only I can have.”

You feel your skin warming up, not only under his touch but at his confession. You know deep down he's never genuinely jealous. You've made it abundantly clear that you are his and that he is yours, and nothing and no one would ever come between the two of you. But knowing a part of him gets off on seeing other people staring at you or hitting on you all while knowing they'd never have a chance turns you on even more.

He finally gets down between your legs and slowly starts lifting your dress. He begins kissing and nipping at the newly exposed flesh of your thighs.

“What I didn’t like was the way he disrespected you by acting like a little perv. He’s at work for god's sake, and he has the nerve to be staring down your shirt and touching you. He’s lucky I didn’t reach over and break his wrists,” he says through gritted teeth as the image of the stranger touching you flashes in his mind and rekindles his anger.

The sentiment that he was more upset at the fact that the man was being touchy with you, which did make you uncomfortable and was unprofessional to say the least, was what upset him rather than a territorial thing did warm your heart. But the warmth blooming in your chest quickly relocates to your core as he places kisses across your panty-clad center.

"I'm not thrilled he got a glimpse of these," he comments as he massages you through the fabric. You hum at his touch.

"Maybe he wanted a taste," you tease and angle your hips closer to his face.

"If he tried that, he would’ve come out from under the table without any teeth," he threatens, and you know he isn't kidding.

“And a heel in his eye,” you add, disgusted at the thought of that creep trying anything on you.

He chuckles and slips your underwear off, and you hear a soft hum as he's faced with the sight he's been longing for. He momentarily drags his fingers through your folds, saying, “I can’t say I blame him for wanting a peek, though,” and then he dives in.

His skilled tongue has you cumming on his face quicker than you'd thought possible. As you come down, he's lifting his head, and you see your arousal dripping down his chin. The sight has you grabbing for him, and you pull him up to you. You lick up his chin and then capture his lips in a kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his tongue. 

You take advantage, as he's left a bit dazed by the heated kiss, and push him into a seated position with his back against the door. You hurriedly place yourself between his thighs, mirroring his position between yours. You undo his belt and pull him out. Always impressed with his size, you eye his length hungrily.

“Think he’s as big as you?” you ask, already knowing the answer, and begin stroking him slowly.

 He lets out a dry laugh, then says, “Not a chance.” 

The cocky tone with which he says it and the smirk on his face would make you cringe if it were anybody else, but you know he can back it up.

“He'd leave you disappointed, I know it. You can tell just by the way the little weasel carries himself,” he says, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s right.

Not able to resist any longer, you take him in your mouth. You grab him at the base and start moving your hand in tandem with your mouth, stroking up and down his dick while dragging your tongue on the underside of his length.

His head falls back and rests against the window as he gets lost in the feeling, bucking his hips every time you come up and swirl your tongue around his tip. His breathing starts getting ragged, and he gently pulls you off him. He holds you by your hair and brings your mouth to his; the kiss isn't too rough but is still filled with need.

You pull away and quickly shuffle onto all fours, facing the opposite window. He sits back, allowing you to position yourself comfortably, and appreciates the view as your ass sticks in the air. As you sink down onto your elbows, you teasingly wiggle your hips, and he smiles and grabs at the jiggling flesh before giving your ass a quick slap.

He positions himself behind you and begins rubbing his tip through your folds, repeatedly catching on your entrance, but doesn’t enter you like you desperately want him to. You whine, so he begins pushing his thick cock into you, but doesn’t get any further than his tip before he’s pulling out and rubbing his length through your folds once more.

He does this repeatedly, and not being able to take his teasing any longer, you whine, “Give it to me. Or should I go get what’s-his-name to do it for you?“

You suck in a harsh breath as he fully sheaths himself in you in one quick motion, and you feel your walls stretch around him. “Is that what you want?” he asks. 

“Mmhmm,” you reply, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he begins moving slowly, allowing you to adjust to his size. When you begin reaching for him to get him to move faster, he knows you’re ready. He grips your hips and gives you faster, deeper thrusts that pull moans from both of you each time he bottoms out.

You both begin feeling the stress of the day melt away, adding to the mix of pleasure. The fatigue from the long day, and the never-ending problems and drama at work, and even the tension from the argument fade away as the pleasure overtakes both of you.

Your quick, shallow breaths and the way your toes curl let him know you’re getting close, and he reaches underneath you to start toying with your clit. This pushes you over the edge, and Miguel groans as he feels you pulsing around him.

He continues swirling his fingers around your clit to help you ride out your high, and you already feel your next climax building. You feel him begin to slow down and fuck into you at a gentler pace. Needing those deep thrusts back, you find yourself begging him to go faster.

“No, don’t stop! More, please. Please!” You plead as you reach behind you to grab the back of his thigh, urging him on.

He chuckles at the desperate tone in your voice. He pushes you down by your shoulders until your body is flush against the seat and then hikes your right leg up. As he’s shifting you into position, he says, “That boy wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like you. Look at you; you’re insatiable.”

You let out a sigh at the new position, his dick reaching deeper and his tip dragging along that spot inside you that has you squirming. Heeding your request, his pace quickens. His breathing quickens as well, making his impending release evident, and he tries to hold off, wanting to give you one more. 

“He looked like he was about to cum in his pants when he came up from under the table. No way he’d last long enough to give you what you need,” he continues.

“Think you can?” You tease as you look behind you and smirk, all while intentionally squeezing your walls. He lets out a low, throaty moan.

You continue clamping down on him intermittently, and his harsh grip on your hips and the deep furrow in his brow let you know he’s struggling to hold on. So naturally, you decide to tease him further. 

“Oh, I don’t think you can. I guess I’ll just have to get waiter boy to come and finish me off. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to.” You feel him place a firm grip on the back of your neck, and he uses the leverage to pull you to him and meet each of his thrusts.

Your mouth falls open and your eyes close at the feeling, but they fly open as you feel a harsh slap against your ass. You moan as he grips your stinging flesh and squeezes it in his hand.

“In. his. fucking. dreams.” He punctuates each word with a deliciously hard thrust. 

He begins rubbing your sensitive nub again, and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You barely muster the strength to lift your head as you hear Miguel mutter, “Speak of the devil.”

Confused, you attempt to focus your eyes and you see a shadowy figure rounding the side of the car. Miguel grabs the back of your head and smooshes it against the glass. As the person comes into full view, you see the familiar face of your waiter as he stands in front of the window. The fog that has formed on the glass makes it impossible for him to see anything but your face, but he definitely sees you. You know you should try to hide, but in the moment, you don’t care. It all feels so good, and you’re too cock-drunk to think or act with any reason.

The waiter looks confused, and then you see his face redden as he realizes what’s going on. He stands there for a minute, listening to your muffled moans through the window.

“Tell him who gets to fuck you,” Miguel commands.

You barely hear what he says as you feel the pressure building in your core. You babble out some incoherent response, so he repeats himself.

“Tell him. Tell him who gets to fuck you.” He’s rubbing at your clit even faster now, and you squeal at the almost overwhelming sensation.

“You, Miguel! Only you get to fuck me like this!” You finally answer. You’re not sure if the waiter heard what you said, but the way his eyes widen makes you think he does. Having the creep hear what he wanted him to hear, Miguel leans over and bangs on the glass, effectively startling the guy. He jumps at the sound and when he quickly tears his eyes away from you and shuffles away hurriedly.

As he steps away, you finally let go, and you topple over the edge once again. You shake underneath Miguel as he holds you to him, reaching his release as well. He kisses down the back of our neck before pulling out and flipping you over, so you’re face to face.

“Think he got the message?” Miguel asks, his face flushed as he attempts to catch his breath.

You cradle his face and push his hair back, admiring the view of him hovering above you. You pull his lips yours and kiss him deeply before pulling away to place a few soft kisses on his face, and he does the same to you in return.

“Yeah, I think he heard you loud and clear,” you respond.

"No, I think he heard you loud and clear,” he counters and laughs when you playfully smack his chest. You cover your eyes with your hand and groan as the reality of what you just did sets in.

“Well, I guess we can never come back here,” you say dejectedly as you mentally add this restaurant to the list of places you can no longer go because of you and Miguel’s collective lack of control.

He chuckles, and you pull your hand away and look him in the eyes. “It’s not funny! If we’re not careful, we won’t be able to show our face anywhere in this town,” you say playfully.

“Eh, worth it,” he responds, kissing your forehead.

[theguyinthemathexamples]

Silly idea me and my friend had with sagau, sahsrau and possibly sawuwaau(??)

But like, what if, due to your consciousness essentially merging/being connected to the MC more, sometimes stuff gets a lil funky and you start seeing things you shouldn't

Like yk, ghosts 😇🙏

I recommend strapping in because these are gonna be three flash fictions into one + having lots of talking lol

(more utc‼️)

For example, in a fic style:

"Hey, are you gonna eat your food, Traveler?" Paimon asked, looking worriedly at the distracted visage of her friend. "Something on your mind? You can always tell Paimon what's on your mind!"

They shook their head, eyes looking at the person who stared at them and their companion. Eyes unblinking, appearance overall disheveled and aged.

"That guy's been staring at us the whole time we've been eating," they replied, eyes switching over to Paimon in a barely contained distressed fashion. "It's almost worrying me."

"What guy?"

Paimon silently asked again, "What?" when her friend looked at her so incredulously.

"You don't see him?" they asked again, now worried beyond belief. The last time Paimon saw them like this was when they fought Arlecchino.

"Traveler, I think that's a ghost we're both seeing," the voice inside his mind pointed out, trying to calm their mental state. Right, they forgot the Creator was a part of their mind now.

And as the voice just predicted, one blink and that figure was gone, the Traveler seeing its shadow scurry into a corner of the restaurant.

The door chime rang out and in a cyan and a blue haired boy entered the restaurant, another blue haired girl following right after. Right, Chongyun, Xingqiu and Xiangling.

The ghost must've scurried off when it sensed Chongyun nearby. Well, at least that put an end to their distress.

——————

LIKE THE AMOUNT OF DISTRESS WHEN THE MCS SEE A GHOST FOR THE FIRST TIME

it'd be so chaotic, especially hsr's mcs bc good god they're already so adhd coded

You could think of them going through it like:

"Woah woah, what's got you all terrified, Trailblazer?" March 7th asked, a worried Dan Heng embracing them when they accidentally bumped into him trying to run away from something.

The Astral Express were quickly informed by them personally that they've been seeing ghosts and all sorts of spiritual apparitions that don't normally appear physically like heliobi, but seemingly living people that were doing normal things or otherwise.

It all started around the time they also figured out that the Creation's consciousness had somehow taken an interest in the Trailblazer, latching onto their body and making the Stellaron inside them a bit restless, unstable.

"It's... I saw Cocolia at the Administrative District," they said, panting from exhaustion. The story sounded so unreal, with how impossible it sounded, but with how broad the Creation works nothing was truly impossible.

"She was looking at Bronya shopping and talking to the people, always un-staring." March patted their back in assurance, joining Dan Heng in sitting them down onto the red couches in the Parlour Car.

"When I came closer to see if she was real, she whipped her head around so fast with the scariest look on her face!—"

"It's okay, Caelus Stelle Trailblazer, she can't reach you here," the choir of voices erupted in their mind, the chirping of birds and clinking machinery in their tone momentarily calming them down by a substantial amount.

"Well, it's a good thing ghosts can't get into the Express because that means she can't hurt you here!" March exclaimed, Dan Heng having to resist rolling his eyes at the obvious but letting her reassure them nonetheless. Dumb, dumber and dumbest— the trio wouldn't be complete with one of them missing.

Then, the cabin's speakers erupted in an all too familiar voice. "Attention, all Astral Express crew members! Dinner is ready, so please hurry over to the kitchen cabin and join me and Welt to eat here!" The Astral Express's Conductor excitedly exclaimed over the mic, never failing to make the three smile from their infectious enthusiasm.

"Well, we were supposed to find you and Himeko for dinner but it looks like Pom Pom beat us to it again," March said, jumping up from her seat with her hands on her hips.

"Last one to reach the kitchen cabin is a rotten egg!"

"Hey, no fair, you got a head start!"

Dan Heng sighed at the two's shenanigans yet again, slowly getting up from his own seat as the two raced over to the cabin. That Aeon truly knew how to control and manipulate the emotions of a being to THEIR liking, and he even felt it wash over him earlier.

He'll need to observe it more before adding another entry into THEIR dedicated part of the Archives.

———————

This one was a little confusing to make into a scenario but it's what my eepy mind came up with on the spot :p

Now for our dearest Rover, it's a bit difficult to make it make sense, yk? Mostly because Tacet Discords shapeshifting into people is canon (if people actually paid attention to the lore), much less actually fitting the lore of this seemingly interplanetary eldritch being into the world of Wuthering Waves in the first place lmao

Maybe we could be the galaxy eye we see in the first cutscene, as well as the one when Abby (the lil echo that appeared after the Dreamless fight) and Rover being together

But this is all me yapping about a whole other subject— related, but not the one we're diving into right now

Getting back into the subject though, this is how i think it'd go:

It was another bright, sunny day at Panhua's Restaurant, the scent of delicious food wafting through the air as always. Rover, Yangyang, Chixia and Jiyan all sat around a table, with Abby floating around all plump and full.

"Say, Rover, didn't you say you had something to say for us today?" Chixia inquired, stacking and overall making the empty dishes look cleaner and neater.

"Yeah, just a strange sighting I saw near Desorock Highlands," they replied, putting a deft hand on their chin as if to think back on the memory.

"Me, Jiyan and The Black Sun were conversing like usual when we came across groups of people near the Tacet Field where the Thundering Memphis usually dwelled," Rover recounted, unconsciously pulling the leash that was attached to Abby's collar closer. "Some were laughing with eachother, acting as if most groups weren't crying out in agony."

"Aren't those just Tacet Discords that have absorbed lots of human frequencies?"

"No, there was something more... alive to them, besides the fact that the General himself couldn't see them," they replied to Yangyang, letting the leash go as Abby went back in their Tacet Mark with one last burp.

"Even when I went closer to them, they didn't attack me, more or less ignoring me entirely."

"Wait, who's this 'The Black Sun' you're talking about Rover? Is there another echo inside of you?" Chixia jumped up to ask, startling both Jiyan and Rover.

"The Black Sun is what you may have seen when you first found Rover and ventured back to Jinzhou, just as I did so as well," the General explained, waving over to Rover's direction in an attempt to explain this name to both ladies. Yangyang nodded and Chixia let out an "Oh," in understanding.

"I will admit, seeing them not react to us at all looked a lil' unnerving," the voice inside their mind stated in a breathy voice, unclear like a cloud of smoke.

Though the voice had no body and claimed that they weren't an echo like Abby, only really being able to be heard clearly when they're dreaming, it often provided support whenever it could— unlike a certain someone.

"I've already sent the proper human resources over to investigate the matter, the only thing left to do is to wait for results," Jiyan said, already standing up when he saw the bill arriving.

The three simply nodded in thanks to the General, knowing full well he'd insist on it till his last breath. And when he came back to the table the subject had already changed into another, more or less silly one.

Well, at least everyone was enjoying themselves.

———————

I didn't have much for the last part like i said, and it's more filled with dialogue, but it's better than nothing

Please do tell me if I missed anything or said something totally wrong!!

Now, is this an excuse to push my sahsrau fic more? ... mmmmaayyybbeee 😇

[alexfromjersey]

𝓝𝓨𝓒 & 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂𝔀𝓸𝓸𝓭

jenna ortega x g!poc

summary: nine months ago, your best friend Davis took you to an afterparty for a movie premiere. nine months ago, you hooked up with Hollywood's newest "IT" girl...

warnings: semi-famous!reader, smut, mature language

a/n: honestly I just started writing whatever came to mind. so enjoy 👍🏾. Never in my whole fanfiction writing time have I written 5.1K words...NEVER! Also, the stuff Jenna does here does not reflect her actual character, this is just fiction and is for fanfic entertainment purposes.

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist

MARCH 2023

"Back the fuck up, move the fuck back, back the fuck up, move the fuck back” Your best friend, Davis shouted the lyrics at the top of his lungs. You were sitting next to him recording him for your YouTube channel trying to contain your laughter.

The two of you were on your way to the red carpet premiere of a new movie Davis was in, Scream 6. Usually, you tend to stay away from red-carpet premieres because it ain’t your thing but you wanted to support Davis. The two of you have been friends since the 1st grade. Through thick and thin, you’ve been through it all with each other.

He begged you to come with him to the red carpet, at first you declined but then he used puppy dog eyes and told you a vlog of the event will get you views. You caved in. He offered to get you a stylist and everything but you declined. You wanted to do it yourself and you don’t think you did that bad.

( ^ your outfit )

“Don’t come to Bronx with that shit ‘cause we ain’t fuckin’ with that shit” Davis shouted into the camera just as the video stopped recording. You looked up and saw the driver kept glancing at y’all in the rearview mirror with a scowl on his face.

I guess you were to ghetto for him…ANYWAY.

Soon y’all pulled up to the place and immediately was hit with bright camera flashes and semi-screaming fans. Security got out first then Davis, then you, and then his manager Jerry. They led y'all to the carpet where fans were behind a barrier. You stayed next to Jerry while Davis went to take pictures with the fans.

“Damn these lights bright as fuck” You mumbled under your breath. You took out a pair of sunglasses you stole from Davis’ closet and put them on to shade your eyes from the light.

A few minutes later, Davis had to take pictures down the red carpet and do some interviews. But he motioned you over to come take pictures with him. Y’all did different poses, some serious and some funny. He also dragged you to an interview with The Hollywood Reporter.

“Davis, congratulations on your first-ever major movie role. I have to ask, how did it feel being in a movie and with a cast like that?” The interviewer asked.

“It was such a blessing. I’m so blessed to have been around talented people like them. I learned so much from them and being in the movie was such a privilege and amazing learning experience” Davis flawlessly answered.

That media training coming in handy.

“Now I can’t help but notice the guest you brought. They look fly, who is that?” The interviewer asked.

Davis placed his arm around you and pulled you in next to him. “This is my best friend since 1st grade, Jahaziel. I’ve brought her here today so she can get out of the house and step into my world for a little. She even dressed herself.”

You took a step back and did a little pose but when you took a step back, you bumped into someone. You quickly turned around to see a slightly familiar face. You only see her on the poster for the movie. You think her name started with a G or J?

“My fault” You apologized.

“Jenna!” Davis shouted and hugged his co-star who returned his hug but she kept glancing at you.

“Jenna, this is my best friend Jahaziel. Jah this is Jenna” Davis introduced the two of you.

“How you doing” You greeted her and shook her hand.

“Hi, nice to meet you” Jenna replied politely.

Suddenly, Davis and Jenna had to take group pictures with the rest of the cast. Which meant you were stuck next to Jerry again at the other end waiting for Davis.

While you were waiting though, you took pictures and videos yourself of the cast for Davis on his phone and for the vlog on your camera. But as you were doing it, you kept catching Jenna glancing at you. At first, you thought she was looking for someone or something behind you so you moved out of the way out of respect. But that theory went out the window when her eyes followed you to your new spot.

It was time for everyone to head inside for the premiere. Jerry guided you to where you’ll be sitting and handed you a menu.

“Oh, you get five stars meals too? I might have to come to more premieres with him” You said to the camera with a wink. You picked something simple and waited for Davis.

While waiting, you decided to go over the footage you gathered already to give yourself an idea of how you gonna edit it.

“Let me guess, you’re a YouTuber?” A voice in front of you said. You looked up from your camera and saw Jenna standing there.

"I guess you could call me that. I’ve just recently started doing videos. I stream on Twitch a lot though" You answered.

"Twitch? Oh that live stream platform. My younger brother likes to watch that stuff. He watches that Kay Seenat or something, do you do the same things he does?" Jenna asked intrigued.

“Kay Seenat is crazy" You laughed.

“Oh my god, did I say it wrong? I’m so sorry” Jenna gasped.

You chuckled, “Nah you good but it’s Kai Cenat for future references and I sort of do the same thing. I mostly play games like Call of Duty, Fortnite, and horror games.”

Jenna hummed in response before sitting down next to you.

“Where are you from? I detect an accent" Jenna asked.

"Bronx-born and raised baby" You smirked at her. Jenna also smiled at you but before she could reply, her manager came up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. They spoke in a whisper and Jenna turned towards you with a slight frown on her.

"I have to go but I'll see you at the Afterparty right?" Jenna asked, hopeful.

"Nah yeah fo'sho, I'll see you there Hollywood" You nodded. A blush formed on Jenna's cheeks at the nickname as she got up from her seat and followed her manager. You may or may not stare at her backside while she walked away...respectfully though.

"Not you acting thirsty for my co-star" Davis plopped down in the seat Jenna was in.

"What? I ain't acting thirsty, you buggin'" You sucked your teeth and leaned back in the chair.

"Lying is sinful. I saw those eyes. That's not a path you want to go down B, I'm telling you" Davis said.

"What you mean? She got a stalker boyfriend or some shit?" You questioned. Your food was then placed down in front of you.

"Nah, Jenna is the good girl in Hollywood, despite the movies she's been in. Plus, her fans are mad crazy, her team is mad strict, and you don't exactly fit their expectations of someone she would mess with" Davis shrugged and stole some food off your plate. You hummed in response before looking at your food.

"Yo, why they give me prison portions?"

🤰🏻🩵

It was now time for the Afterparty. The food was shit at the premiere, it had no flavor, looked pale as hell, and the portion was small as hell. Mad was an understatement of how you felt.

"I still had to pay for that shit like are you fucking kidding me? I wanted to smack the shit out of the waiter but he ain’t do nothing wrong” You grumbled while spraying some cologne on your neck and wrists.

“No one ever orders the food at the premieres because 9/10 shit sucks” Davis chuckled.

“Yo fat ass could’ve told me that BEFORE I ordered it” You rolled your eyes.

“At least someone ate it, technically your money didn’t go to waste” Davis shrugged and grabbed his phone and wallet.

“Yeah, you right…I want my $72.65 back WITH interest” You said and held out your hand towards him.

“How about I pay you back in coochie? The number of women that’s gon be at this after party…man somebody is leaving that party pregnant” Davis smirked.

“Pregnant? Lord help us all if either one of us becomes parents” You joked. Davis laughed and the two of you exited the hotel.

( ^ your after-party outfit )

The two of you quickly arrived at the lounge because it was a 10-minute walk from the hotel. It was a decent amount of people there and the music…was horrid but what you expect from a Manhattan lounge party.

You and Davis ordered some drinks and smoked some hookah before Davis went off to mingle with some girls. You, however, stayed in the booth and continued smoking hookah and scrolling through Instagram.

“Excuse me, mind if we sit here?” A voice said. You looked up from your phone and saw Davis’ other co-star Mason and a beautiful girl next to him.

“Go for it” You replied and scooted over a bit to make room for them.

“You look familiar…do you stream on Twitch?” Mason asked.

“Yeah, I do. I just started making mini vlogs of the Bronx” You answered.

“I knew it! I saw a few clips of you on TikTok. You’re hilarious. You did something for another YouTube channel…TalkNYC or something like that” Mason questioned.

“SideTalkNYC. No lie you watch that shit?” You asked with a smile.

“Honestly, I saw your clip and I just fell down a rabbit hole” Mason laughed.

You laughed with him.

Mason then looked to his girl who was paying no mind respectfully, “I’m sorry, how rude of me. This is my girlfriend Amenah” he introduced.

“Nice to meet you Amenah, I’m Jahaziel” You politely responded and waved at her.

“Jahaziel. That’s a strong name” Mason complimented.

“It’s Dominican. My dad is from Punta Cana and my mom is from Jamaica. Got Caribbean blood all through me” You smiled.

“Me too. But my great-grandfather was from Barbados” Mason responded.

“Nice. I got a brother living there” You replied.

“Sweet. Maybe your brother can hook us up with a trip there” Mason said.

“Oh, he’ll love that. He love showing people around the island” You nodded and took another hit of the hookah.

The two started to converse more and his girl even joined in a conversation. The three exchanged socials and the couple left to go dance. Davis didn’t return to the table because he was too busy rizzing up a nice-looking woman in the corner.

You were hungry. You needed food. Now.

You shot a quick text to Davis about heading out to get some food. He replied with a thumbs up. You head out of the lounge and start to make your way down the street. But a soft voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Where are you going?” Jenna asked.

You smiled when you saw her, “Gon’ get some food. I’m starving. That food at the premiere was trash. Y’all gotta step y’all game up.”

“Do we? I’ll be sure to let the event planners know next time” Jenna smirked.

“Bet” You smiled.

You contemplated asking her to join you in your adventure. But you quickly gather up the courage to ask.

“Do you wanna join me?”

“Mind if I tag along?”

You both asked at the same time. The both of you laughed at the interaction.

“Come on, I know a good spot around here,” You said. She starts to walk but stops when she sees that you weren’t walking either.

“What happened?” She asked.

“You should tell your people where you going. I don’t feel like going to jail on kidnapping charges” You replied.

She chuckled but you were dead serious. She told her friends and manager where she was going. They insist on her bringing her security guard which you understood and had no problem with.

“How you doing? I’m Jahaziel, you can call me Jah if you want” You introduced yourself to the security guard. He shook your hand and told you his name, Big L.

The three of you started the adventure to the restaurant which was about a couple blocks away. You took Jenna to a little Mexican restaurant that sold some banging ass food.

You got a table and Big L decided to sit at a table beside the two of you to give you some privacy.

“I recommend getting their grilled veggie enchiladas. The enchiladas here are fire” You said while looking at the menu.

“You know I’m vegan?” Jenna questioned, impressed.

“Yeah…I may have looked you up while I was at the lounge. All I know is that you’re vegan and you’re from Cali. Which makes a lot of sense” You laughed.

Jenna laughed, “Yeah it does.”

You go back to looking at the menu while Jenna just stared at you. She was taking in your features. The way your hair was into a short curly afro, the way your glasses sat on your face enhanced your beauty. The way you occasionally licked your lips while zeroed in on something. She even noticed the tattoos under your hoodie. Her thoughts quickly turned into sinful thoughts and she had to tear her eyes away from you before she did something she regret.

Thankfully, the waiter came and took our orders for everything.

“So, Ms. Hollywood, tell me something I can’t find on Google,” You asked.

“Pretty hard question. My entire life is on Google truly.” Jenna said with a hint of sadness.

“Hmm…ion believe that. I believe that you want the world to think that they know everything about you but there are some things you keep to yourself” You replied.

Jenna smirked, “You think I’ll just willingly tell you right now? We barely know each other.”

“Duh, that’s why we’re having a conversation to get to know each other” You stated.

“Touchè” Jenna nodded.

You still can sense her hesitation so you decided to go first.

“I used to be in the military” You blurted out.

“Wait what? Seriously?” Jenna questioned.

“Yeah, I enlisted in the Marines right out of high school. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The options I had was garbage. I didn’t want to go college, I didn’t want to get a regular 9-5, and I just came from the streets I ain’t wanna end up back there. So the military was a decent option. Good benefits, the pay was good, and I was occupied” You explained.

"What made you get into Twitch?" Jenna asked.

"Well I started off with music but it quickly went nowhere so I turned to doing little comedy skits on Instagram. That gradually got me some followers then I was scrolling through Twitch one day and I stumbled upon this Twitch streamer who was making mad money off of gaming. I was like I can make bands off of just playing games say less. I got myself a PC and PS5 and I started grinding out streams but they weren't hitting like I thought they would. So I got discouraged and I went back into the military for another year, said fuck this shit, got honorable discharged, and went back to streaming." You explained.

The whole time you were talking, Jenna was engaged the entire time. She realized how much she loved how you explained things and told a story. It was entertaining as hell but also interesting.

“Wow” Was all Jenna could say. It wasn’t a bad wow either and you picked up on that. But you wanted to tease her a bit.

“Bad or good wow?” You teased.

“Good wow. Your story is inspiring. I have to watch your content now” Jenna smiled.

“Thank you I appreciate it” You replied.

The waiter brought your drinks and appetizers which you both devoured.

“Oh my god, that was so good. Best food I’ve had in a long time. I don’t think I even have room for my entrée” Jenna commented.

You chuckled, “We can always take it with us.”

Out of the blue, both of you hear a loud gasp. “Oh my god, it’s Jenna Ortega. Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you but can I get a picture real fast?” The fan asked excitedly.

You see her guard instantly go up around the fan. She glanced at you with apologetic eyes before standing up and taking a quick picture with the fan. The fan bid her goodbyes and ran off smiling hard.

“You okay?” You asked.

“Huh?” Jenna absentmindedly said.

“You okay? I saw how tense you got when she came up to you” You pointed out.

“Oh…yeah I’m fine just caught me off guard” Jenna lightly chuckled.

You saw it was a sensitive topic so you didn’t push further out of respect. The food came next and you saw how Jenna was a completely different person now. She was a lot more quiet and not flirtatious like before. The rest of the meal was only one-sided small talk. You got to go containers and paid for the meal even though Jenna insisted on paying.

You wanted to take her mind off whatever it was so you decided to bring her to the roof of a building that looked onto the Manhattan Bridge.

You both sat on the ledge, taking in the view.

“Um…are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you but I just want to let you know that I’m a good listener if you wanted to like vent” You comforted her.

“Thanks…” She muttered quietly.

You nodded in response and looked back at the view.

“I felt…normal again. I felt like a normal human being again with you back at the restaurant. I haven’t felt like that lately especially, since the success of Wednesday, my new show, and Scream. Then a fan came up and reality snuck back in. I’m not even upset at the fan because she doesn’t know what I’m going through and it’s not her fault but I just wanted to cherish that feeling a little more” Jenna explained.

“I get it. I seen how hard the fame life can be. I saw it through Davis at one point. That shit can break you in ways that you didn’t know it could. I don’t wish it on my worse enemy” You empathized.

Jenna scooted closer to you and laid her head on your shoulder. You made the bold decision to interlock your fingers with hers.

“Even though we literally just met earlier this evening. I feel comfortable with you like we’ve known each other for years” Jenna said.

“Well, you can keep getting to know me more. You a cool girl Hollywood” You smirked.

Jenna rolled her eyes with a smile on her face. Before she looked up at you, her brown eyes piercing into your hazel ones. Neither acknowledges how your getting closer until the gap between you disappears and lips interlock. At first, the kiss started slow before Jenna placed her left hand on your neck and pulled you closer to deepen the kiss.

The kiss started to heat up rapidly, tongues were now involved and Jenna gripped your neck hairs tightly. Her body heated up at the intense make-out session.

Jenna pulled away, “My hotel is not that far from here.”

You nodded and the two of you rushed off the roof in a hurry to get to her hotel. You got a cab and the ride was only 10 minutes but it felt like forever. Neither of you wanted to touch each other inappropriately out of respect for everyone else. But the cab stopped in front of the hotel and the two of you quickly got out and ran inside. Big L was stuck with our food, unfortunately.

The two of you got in the elevator and once the doors closed. Jenna pounced on you, her lips locked onto yours feverishly. You pushed her up against the elevator wall. Your hands were on her waist, gripping her hips while her hands were on the back of your neck gripping the hair.

Your lips then made their way down to her neck. Nipping and sucking on the flesh until you found the sweet spot under her jaw. A low moan escaped her lips and it egged you to continue but the elevator doors dinged. The two of you pulled away quickly in case there were people but luckily there wasn’t. So you exited onto her floor and sped walk to her room. Your lips were together again before the door fully closed.

Jenna dropped her phone and the hotel key onto the floor. You pulled off your flannel shirt and hoodie and threw it somewhere. Jenna kicked off her shoes and so did you. You then hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around your hips.

You blindly led the two of you to the bed and laid Jenna on it. You sat up quickly and peeled off your white T-shirt showcasing the many tattoos on your body. You trailed kisses down her body, from her lips to her jaw, to her neck, and to the top of her breasts. A quiet whine escaped her lips while she worked to her top off.

Suddenly, she flipped the two of you over. She was now straddling your waist. The pressure of her body was now your crotch which was painfully restricted due to your jeans.

“Shit” You mumbled as she finally got her top off to reveal her perfect breasts. Instantly, you sat up and took one in your mouth. You started to suck softly as your tongue ran across her nipple. She twitched from the pleasure and you internally patted yourself on the back.

You flipped the two of you over again. You gave attention to the other breast while also unbuttoning her pants. The noises she was letting out were making your jeans tighter than ever. You kiss down her stomach while pushing her pants down her legs. You threw her pants behind you and kissed her bikini line.

“Take it off” She whined impatiently. You chuckled before she pulled off her underwear leaving completely nude to you.

You admired her body for a hot second before you settled in between her thighs. You were on your knees and you pulled her to the edge of the bed. You kissed both her inner thighs, teasing her a little more before you dove right in for the prize.

A loud gasp left her mouth and she slightly arched her back. Her hands quickly found their place tangled in your hair and the sheets. You licked up her slit slowly before wrapping your lips around her clit. You swiped your tongue over it a couple of times before sucking.

Damn, she tastes good.

“Oh, my god…” Jenna moaned, her grip on your head tightening. Her thighs also tightened around your head keeping you in place. You moved down and inserted your tongue into her hole. Your tongue was long and it brushed against certain spots pleasurable inside her.

Her breathing was starting to pick up and her moans increasing in volume. Knowing that hotel room walls are paper thin, you reached up and placed your hand over her mouth. Her right hand gripped your forearm, her nails were making indents in your skin.

You felt her tighten around your tongue before she arched her back high. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head while she orgasmed hard. Her screams of intense pleasure are muffled by your hand. Her body shook as she let go and wave off juices that splashed against your mouth and dripped down your chin. You lapped up as much as you could.

Even though she orgasmed, you continued your assault on her golden area. She hissed and pushed your head from her area, feeling overstimulated. You sat on your knees in front of her with a drenched mouth and chin. You kissed up her body once more before you collided your lips together.

She moaned into your mouth as she can taste herself on your tongue. She grabbed your chain around your neck and pulled you even closer. You used one hand to reach down and unbuckle your belt, throwing it somewhere. You undid the button and pushed your pants off.

Jenna pulled away from your lips and pushed your black boxer briefs off your hips. You watched as she gathered some saliva in her hand before wrapping her fingers around your length. All while never losing eye contact with you.

She’s a super freak, super freak, she’s super freaky…

You groaned as she started rubbing your length sensually. Her thumb brushed over your tip and precum leaked out, giving her extra lubricant. She started pumping you faster. You didn’t want to finish just yet so you grabbed her arms and placed them above her head. You took off the rest of your underwear and positioned yourself. You were leaning on your knuckles that were by her hips and you lined yourself up at her entrance.

Slowly, you pushed in. Her legs automatically wrapped around your waist.

“Mierda nena (Shit baby girl)” You moaned as you watched yourself disappeared inside her. At the sound of you speaking Spanish, you felt her slightly clench around you.

More Spanish speaking it is then.

Once you were fully inside, you paused for a second to let her get used to your size. After a moment, you started with some slow strokes.

“Faster…” She moaned out.

Obeying her request, you started to speed up. You found a suitable rhythm for both of you. It felt so good, you’ve been with your fair share of women but nothing compares to right now. You leaned down on your elbows close to her ear. Her fingernails scratched down your back and the heels of her feet digged into your cheeks.

Her moans and heavy panting were going straight through your ears and sending chills down your spine.

“Te sientes tan bien apretado a mi alrededor (You feel so good clenched around me)” You whispered into her ear. The low tone you spoke in brought out your accent more and it sent vibrations throughout her body straight to her core.

Even though she didn’t know what you said, it still turned her on massively.

You buried your face into her neck as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten. But suddenly, you were pushed away and flipped onto your back. Jenna was on top of you again but this time she had a new game plan in mind.

You slipped out of her while in the process of being flipped on your back. You watched as she undid her ponytail and let her hair flow, which was the sexiest thing ever. She then reached down and positioned herself over you before slowly sinking down.

“Oh my god…fuck” She moaned. She placed her hand on your lower stomach and began to ride you expertly.

You cursed out in pleasure and threw your head back against the pillows. Jenna grabbed your hands and interlocked your fingers for a minute before she placed them on her breasts. You massaged them rolling her hardened nipples in between your fingers.

“Te ves bien encima de mí (You look so good on top of me)” You licked your lips before pulling her down to you. You connected your lips with hers while bending her legs to get stable and wrapping an arm around her waist. You then started plowing into her.

The sound of slapping skin echoed through the room along with Jenna’s heavy breathing. The knot in your stomach got tighter and she clenched around you, letting you know that you were both close.

More profanities spilled out of Jenna’s mouth and her nails dug into your shoulders. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she stilled in your arms. You heard her suck in a breath and her nails dug deeper into your skin. She was cumming hard. Her body started convulsing. You felt the hot liquid around your stick and that sent you over the edge.

The knot in your stomach finally exploded. A deep groan left your body as you felt your member twitch inside of Jenna as you emptied out into her. Your hands gripped her hips aggressively until you felt you had nothing else left.

Jenna fell against you, completely exhausted but highly satisfied. The sweat made her baby hairs stick to her glistening forehead.

“God damn girl, I ain’t know you were like that” You complimented while trying to catch your breath.

Jenna laughed and slowly lifted herself off you and plopped next to you. She was exhausted, the recent activity draining her completely. The two of you were still catching your breaths before a phone ringing interrupted your blissful silence.

Neither of you acknowledged the phone, too tired to move. But whoever was calling, called again and the ringing was starting to get on your nerves. You got up and found whose phone it was. It was Jenna’s, you tossed it to her before you went into the bathroom and emptied out your bladder.

You cleaned yourself properly and headed out back into the room.

“Yeah, I’m back in my room…I know…okay bye” Jenna finished the conversation on the phone. She groaned and rubbed her hands down her face.

“You good?” You asked.

“Yeah…my friends are heading back here right now. I wanted you to stay and cuddle” She pouted.

You chuckled and started putting your clothes on, “You can always fly me out Hollywood. I never had a woman fly me out before.”

Jenna smiled and rolled her eyes playfully, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You grabbed her open phone and she watched as you as you entered your number in her contacts.

“Text me whenever you’re back in The City” You smirked at her.

“I definitely will” She blushed. You went to put your flannel shirt on but she stopped you.

“Wait…I hope this isn’t weird but can I have that?” She shyly asked while pointing to your flannel shirt.

You shrugged and handed it to her. She stood up, with shaking legs which you noticed.

“Shut up” She mumbled. Jenna placed the flannel shirt over her naked body. It was hella big on her. You stood at 6’1 so the flannel was down to her knees. She looked sexy.

“I don’t want you to leave” She whined and wrapped her arms around your waist.

“Oh no I got you dickmitized. I gotta make my escape ASAP” You joked. You heard her suck her teeth and slap your arm. You bend down and placed a soft kiss on her lips. This kiss was slow and full of unacknowledged passion. You hate to admit it but you felt butterflies in your stomach and so did Jenna but neither of you addressed it.

“If you don’t leave now, I don’t think I can fully restrain myself to throw you on this bed again” Jenna whispered against your lips.

You laughed, “Ight Imma go.” You stole another kiss before leaving the hotel room.

“Best work trip ever” Jenna smirked.

Meanwhile, you make it to the elevator doors. They opened and three girls stepped out. But they were staring at you as they knew you. Now usually, you would’ve said something about the staring but you were too tired so you just ignored them and stepped onto the elevator.

“White people…” You mumbled and shook your head. 

[chleem]

Flashing Lights #3

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers(?, slow burn, angst, smut,

Warning: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping,

⋆.˚ please dont copy my work, if inspired please tag me

⋆.˚ this is entirely fictional, if uncomfortable then don't read

♡⸝⸝ chapter2 | index | chapter4

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Early March 2024

Okay. Maybe Drew was a little attractive. 

Or was he always attractive? Or was it because you haven’t seen him in weeks, and you just forgot about how he looked like? Either way, the man sitting next to you in the car was not the same guy that you met with weeks ago. 

He cleaned himself up good, dressed in a nice white button up and jeans, styled his short hair a bit, and sunglasses that he was sponsored for. The watch adds a richer vibe to it, and several rings on his hand. 

Nah. It’s his outfit that makes him look so attractive right now. Definitely not how he looks. 

Worse of all, you were matching with him. Wearing a classy white dress with white heels, and accessories that you sponsored. You visibly cringe at your outfit choice, hating how well it went with his. 

But what bothered you more was your first public appearance with him, as a couple. A few weeks ago, the pictures of you two together on set was leaked out, and the company immediately confirmed that you two were currently dating. The comments online were mostly negative, with some wondering about the woman he ‘impregnated’ and wondering how you ended up with this guy. 

Now, you had to prove to the whole world that you like this guy, that you are in a committed relationship. This is harder than trying to act for dark films. But you had faith that you could wing it, just like how you always wing auditions and films. 

You reach for your purse, opening it and grabbing a pack of cigarettes. You get ready to smoke one, but he takes it out of your hands. “The fuck?” You curse, glaring at him. His sunglasses make it hard to read his expression, but he was chewing gum, with no smile apparent. “Give it back.”

“No; you’ll smell,” he says. 

You roll your eyes. Well, you needed something to calm your nerves down, so you just grab another one. But Drew grabs both the cigarette and the pack out of your hands, and out of your reach. “Hey!” You yell, reaching for it. “Give it back! Seriously.”

“And I’m being serious too,” he replies, before throwing it to the back trunk. 

You gasp at the audacity, anger running through your veins right now. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I needed that!”

He reaches into his pocket, before grabbing a pack of gum out. “Eat this instead. It’s better and doesn’t smell.”

“You think I’m a fucking idiot? I’m not eating that.”

“It’s all I got,” Drew shrugs. “You want or not?”

You glance behind him at the window, and see the thousands of fans outside, all here to watch the Bahrain Grand Prix. Multiple paparazzi are also pulling up. 

Fuck it. You take the pack from his hands, and eat three at a time. The gum is lemon flavored, and minty too. Somehow, it does relax you. You chew on it, focusing on the minty scent of it instead of how much people were outside. 

“Thanks would be nice,” he murmurs, but you heard him. 

“Hey, you threw my shit back there. You owe me,” you say, slapping the bag of gum against his chest. 

Then, the car comes to a stop, and the driver turns around. “We’ve arrived.” You look outside at the entrance of the F1 paddock, a few paparazzi already standing there.  

The bodyguard at the entrance hurries out, and opens the door at Drew’s side. 

He steps out, and stands in front of you. His hand reaches out for you, and you take it reluctantly, knowing that many people are staring. Flashes go off, and you adjust your dress with Drew’s body big enough to cover. 

“Good?” He asks, and you nod. He lets go of your hand after, walking ahead of you. 

Do tall people genuinely walk faster? Plus, why isn’t he holding your hand or walking beside you? The both of you have an image to sell, and thirty seconds in, he’s not selling anything. 

You slightly run to catch up, and when you do, you lock your hands with his. 

He stops and looks back at you, and you just give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hand is warm, big, and also, very stiff. Has he never held hands with anyone before? “Hey, you’re my boyfriend. Did you forget that?” You tug him down to whisper in his ear. 

His red ear doesn’t go unnoticed, and his grip on you tightens. “Right.”

You pat his shoulder away, and walk towards the gate. Paparazzi aren’t allowed in the paddock, so once the staff gives you your passes, you hurry in. But even in the paddock, you attract attention. Cameras turn over to the both of you, and fans glance over. 

You ignore them, just chewing on your gum. You feel very tempted when you pass by the smoking area, but get reminded by your pack of cigarettes disregarded in the back truck. 

Eventually, some photographer comes up to the both of you. You obviously want to keep walking, but Drew stops to listen to what he has to say. “Y/n, a photo for Vogue magazine?”

You open your mouth to say no, but Drew answers instead. “Sure.”

You mentally roll your eyes, smiling for the camera. But the photographer frowns at the man beside you. “Sorry, just Y/n.”

Drew nods, wanting to let go of your hand but you pull him closer. “No; my man stays in the picture,” you confidently say, to which the photographer just nods. You smile for the camera, and the flash goes off. The photographer thanks the both of you, and walks off. 

“What was that for?” Drew asks you as you two continue walking down the paddock. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face as the two of you walk hand in hand. 

But you turn to face him, wanting to see his blue eyes but his sunglasses cover them. “Don’t do that shit ever again. I hate it,” you say instead. 

“Do what?”

“Responding to randoms. I don’t like that, okay?”

“Why not?” 

Can’t he respond properly? What’s with the questions. “None of your fucking business. Just, just don’t answer anyone, or even acknowledge them.”

“Well that’s just rude.”

“And you’re the nicest person alive?” You snicker, once you reach the VIP building, that leads to the observatory and bar upstairs. “Trust me. Your rookie ass has no idea.”

“‘Rookie ass’?” Drew mocks, once you’re in the building. He presses the elevator button, and takes off his sunglasses, hanging them by his button up. “I debuted ten years ago.”

“Not the fucking point,” you say, and see that no reporters or paparazzi were around. You immediately drop his hand and cross your arms, looking away. “And I only did that to sell this stunt.”

The elevator door opens, and you step in quickly, Drew following in. He presses the third floor, the door closing. 

You don’t say a word in the elevator, part of you angry and annoyed. The door opens, and you hurry in. The staff asks for your names, and you give it to her. You ignore the spark in her eyes as she sees the two of you walking together, and leads you to your seats. 

There was a bar area with seats around them, dining tables, and an outdoor balcony area that gave a perfect view of the racetrack and garages. She leads you to the dining area, but Drew buts in. “Could we sit outside?”

You raise an eyebrow at Drew wondering what he's thinking of, and he just ignores your look. “of course,” the staff smiles, taking you to the balcony. 

The two of you sit across each other once you get to your table, and the staff leaves to give you some time to look through the menu. You don’t; instead, you pull your phone out and start scrolling on it. 

Drew, however, looks through the menu and keeps looking around down at the racetrack. Drivers getting ready, and staff rolling the gear out. You’ve been at these races for countless of times, so you’ve gotten used to what goes on here. But Drew? This is definitely his first time here. You chuckle at his widened eyes, as if widening his eyes could get him a better view of downstairs. 

“What?” He turns to you, his expression mean. 

“So obvious that you’ve never been here,” you chuckle.

“And it’s funny?”

“Yes. I’m sober as shit right now, so anything might as well trigger me,” you give him a fake smile, signaling the staff over. She hurries over, and asks for what you would like. “Um, give me five cups of your strongest alcohol drink.”

She nods, and looks over at Drew. “Uh, two lobster and bison ribeyes, and one red wine.”

“Will be right up,” the staff chirps, walking off.

“Two? What, you got a family of four living in there?”

“No; one’s for you,” Drew says. “It would be weird if you didn’t eat and just drank.”

“No one cares,” you say, crossing your arms. 

“I do; can’t have people saying I’m dating an alcoholic.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” you argue, feeling offended. Yeah you drink, but only because it calms your nerves down. And who is he to judge? He ordered a drink too.

“Really? So people normally wake up and drink what, four five bottles of whiskey? People show up to places smelling like they lived in a basement all their lives? You’re a fucking alcoholic, Y/n,” Drew confronts you. 

You scoff, brushing your hair off your shoulder. “Hey, you’ve only met me for three times. Those three times you just happen to bump into a drunk me. So, don’t accuse people of what they aren’t.”

“The first time we met and you called me a cunt.”

“Because that’s who you are,” you say. “you’re a cunt, and I’m not an alcoholic.”

Drew pokes his tongue against his cheek; your argument sucks. 

“Why are you denying your drinking problem, Y/n? And it’s not just you, but the whole industry. You sure they don’t know a single thing? The people you worked with?”

You look away. Why was he lecturing you right now? Its annoying and it’s getting on your nerves. The last thing you needed was a stranger telling you how to live your life. And while he goes to say something else, you snap at him. “Hey! I didn’t sign up for therapy here. Shut the fuck up. No one knows, okay? Plus, the whole industry knows I’ve been through worse.”

You don’t elaborate; but you’re ninety percent sure he knows. The hell, everyone in this whole world knows. 

The drinks arrive, five pink drinks that you’re sure is yours, and Drew’s red wine. 

You spit the gum into a tissue, then immediately gulping down the first one. You’ve gotten used to the burning feeling that alcohol has, so it was like drinking water. Drew just watches you with his blue eyes, slowly sipping his drink. 

You look over at the paddock. The race is starting, five red lights showing. “Its starting,” you comment to Drew, and he puts his drink down, walking over and leaning against the railing. You look at him with amusement, how he’s watching the race with anticipation. 

You gulp down your second drink, and relax, letting the alcohol slowly take over you. After a few minutes, you feel a bit tipsy, but you get up, standing next to him. “Who do you think will win?” You ask, the alcohol getting you friendly. 

“Max,” Drew replies, looking at the big screen across. “You?”

“Sainz,” you say, since he is your favorite driver and driving the car of the brand you ambassador for. 

“Do you even watch the sport?” He teases, his eyes on the racetrack.

You cross your arms, looking at his side profile, “Ferrari never disappoints.”

“So does Max.”

“Its a new season; anyone can win.”

“Not if you’re in Ferrari.”

“Then let’s bet on it.”

He stays silent, still staring at the racetrack.

“Didn’t take you as a gambler as well,” he says after a few seconds. 

“Well, are you scared to lose?” You tease, shrugging your shoulders. 

Drew turns and looks at you amused, his blue eyes staring deeply into yours. Gosh, why does he have to have the most gorgeous shade of blue to be his eye color? He shrugs too, smirking. “No; just scared that you’ll turn into a vicious bitch when you lose.”

You roll your eyes, before looking around for something to bet on. But your eyes land on his phone on the table. Then, you thought of an idea. “Loser, has to post a picture on their instagram of the winner. Caption and photo of the winner’s choice.”

Drew’s eyes widen, but he nods, holding his hand out. You take it, and you shake on it. You walk over and drown the third drink down your throat. The alcohol was definitely working, because you feel friendlier next to Drew. See? Alcohol does help one’s mental, and in your case, it makes you an entirely different person. One that’s nice and less moody. Of course, Drew notices it. But he doesn’t comment on it, knowing sober you would bash at him like crazy. 

You spot his phone, and you hand it over to him. “Since you’re going to lose, why don’t you take some pictures of me?”

Drew raises an eyebrow at you in amusement, taking the phone. You just smile at him, leaning against the railing, getting some poses ready. Drew reluctantly walks across from you, and does the craziest pose in order to get a photo of you. It actually causes you to laugh, and you cover it with your mouth. 

And that gets Drew smiling too. Feeling tipsy, you definitely thought you were seeing things. You calm yourself down, continuing to serve face for the photos he’s taking right now. 

Aw. The image of a perfect couple? Completely sold.

——

The internet goes crazy once again.

First was Drew’s visit to your set. Second was the confirmation of the relationship. Third? The hard launch that you posted. 

A picture of Drew, who’s hugging you from the back, his arms wrapped around your neck. His face is pressed besides yours, and he’s making the most lovestruck face to the camera. And so are you. Well, with the help of alcohol, you’re smiling as if Drew’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. 

With the caption, “Mine.”

Drew smiles proudly while staring at the instagram post, your first post in five years. He glances over at you in the car, only to see that you’ve fallen asleep, your head resting against the window. He reaches over and carefully moves your head to lay on his shoulder, thinking it would be more comfortable. 

You’re deep in sleep that you don’t even care, and Drew just stiffens his posture, to make sure even his smallest movements won’t wake you up. 

While you sleep, Drew just continues to stare at the photos he took of you today, an unexpected smile on his face. Which was just weird, so fucking weird. 

-------------------------------

word count: 2.5k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: does the ending look familiar? 😚 hoped you enjoyed the first date with Drew! i saw new photos of him at loewe he looked tooooo good. edited till late last night bc i was so excited for you guys to read this one! (also, i'm a big fan of f1, and wondering if there's any sainz fans here other than me.) anyways, like/share/comment to show support! thanks for reading babes <3

[familiarscars]

Lost In Control | Bad Omens | CHAPTER 07

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X ex-girlfriend and singer!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Noah had a difficult ending but you still need to support each other for the band.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, ex-boyfriends, difficult relationships, alcohol abuse, swearing, drug addiction, violence.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Richmond, Virginia, March 20, 2015

“Thank you so much for being here once again!” Gratitude seemed to pour from her voice and adorn her smile. Everyone at Pearl’s bar cheered whenever you stepped on stage and sighed in disappointment when you announced the last song.

It felt almost too surreal.

Gradually, a certain confidence began to settle, and the small stage of that bar—bathed in cozy, colorful lights, walls adorned with posters of '90s bands, and a warm audience—felt more and more like home. Maybe it was a bit arrogant to think you were born for this, but what if you were?

“Did I tell you how good you are today?” His voice reached you just as your hand slid over the zipper after storing the guitar away. You didn’t even need to turn around to recognize the presence that filled the space.

He’d been here. Every single day. For a month.

With the uncanny ability to make the blood vessels in your face dilate, painting your skin crimson, and sending chills up your arms just by hearing the timbre of his voice. Turning around and meeting his brown eyes, sparkling like a precious gem every time they met yours, sent your body into an involuntary reaction.

There was absolutely no way you could stop yourself from smiling when he was by your side, even if the swarm of butterflies nesting in your stomach caused a slight discomfort.

“You say that every time, Noah…” you muttered so softly you thought he hadn’t heard.

“That’s because I’m your biggest fan.”

After flashing a wavering smile and shaking your head to mask the flustered feeling creeping in, you went back to rolling up the sound cables. After every performance, it was your duty to tidy up the place and clean the empty bar before heading home.

Pearl had offered you a spot in the small house she shared with her son in the back of the bar. There weren’t separate bedrooms or many rooms to keep you from bumping into one another, but to you, it was perfect—a place to sleep, eat, and shower.

“Uh…” Noah seemed to rehearse his words, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched as he followed you around the stage. “It’s not that late, and I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me?”

Your body froze in place for a few seconds, cables coiled around your fingers.

“I mean…” he rushed to correct himself. “Don’t get me wrong, please. It’s just an invitation to grab a drink or some food. I promise I’ll get you home before your parents notice you’re gone, or I can talk to them if you’d like, and…”

“I’ll go.”

Finally, he fell silent, his rapid string of words nearly robbing him of breath. Noah slumped his shoulders, and it was hard to tell whether he was surprised you’d agreed or just catching his breath after pulling an Eminem stunt.

“Cool!” was all he managed to say, still looking dazed.

“I just need to finish organizing the sound equipment and cleaning up the bar. If you don’t mind waiting.”

“No. No. No! Of course, I don’t mind waiting.” Noah assured, already glancing at the rest of the disorganized bar. “Actually, I’ve got a better idea.”

It didn’t take long for the place to become a true mess, thanks to Noah’s enthusiasm and the old jukebox in the corner with the help of a coin. Chairs atop tables, soapy water covering the floor, while you both wielded brooms, belting out a metal version of Love Story by Taylor Swift that you’d created. Noah handled the growls, and you performed the melodic verses, sliding across the slippery floor.

For the second time, it struck you how your voices complemented each other, even if it was just a silly game while cleaning a bar that reeked of stale drinks and cigarettes. He seemed to enjoy himself so much that, while pushing water across the floor, you couldn’t help but steal glances at his perfectly aligned smile—a masterpiece framed in laughter.

With unsteady steps dodging the puddles of soap, your body suddenly lost balance. Noah’s quick reflexes allowed him to drop his broom and catch you just in time before you hit the ground.

If there was music still playing, you couldn’t tell what it was anymore. A faint ringing buzzed in your ears as your eyes locked with his.

There wasn’t a single scientific explanation as to why his eyes gleamed so brightly in your presence, and even after seeing him every day for a month at the back of the audience, it still felt like the first time.

“Easy there, little storm!” His voice was soft, carrying a breath of mint as strands of his hair fell across his face. “A hospital date isn’t exactly on my agenda.”

Slowly, Noah helped you back to your feet, his laughter mingling with yours as you both steadied yourselves. Returning to your brooms, you remembered what you were supposed to be doing.

Pearl’s bar was finally back in order—chairs down, floor spotless, stage organized, dishes washed. The strong scent of disinfectant made Noah sneeze, drawing a laugh from you when you saw his reddened nose from the allergy. He kindly helped you gather your belongings, but as you were about to leave, heavy rain poured outside, making him groan in disappointment.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” he grumbled, gazing at the downpour with a less-than-pleased expression. Somehow, he looked adorable, pouting like that.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the rain?” you teased, shrugging off your jacket and tossing it to the floor by the door along with your bag and phone.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Noah asked, furrowing his brows in a mix of concern, trailing after your mischievous smile as you walked backward into the rain. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get soaked for no reason. We could wait it out or reschedule, and…”

“Boy, you’re so…”

“Boring?” he offered.

“Methodical,” you corrected, raising a finger in the air for emphasis. “You’re afraid of making mistakes, turning it into a constant competition with yourself to make everything perfect. But I have a question for you: When was the last time you felt free?”

The words seemed to strike him, and for a moment, you hesitated, fearing you’d overstepped, noticing how he froze in place. Life had always been a sea of opportunities to you, no matter what they were. You’d always felt alone, even in a crowd, and nothing had stopped you from living.

Nothing had cared enough to cage you, and that made you free.

The trance broke. Noah shook his head, banishing his inner doubts. A smile formed on his lips as he shed his jacket, tossing his phone alongside your things, and sprinted into the rain, squinting against the droplets.

You instinctively began running down the long, empty road, your laughter tangling with his, filling the air. Noah made it a race; taller than you, his long strides were worth two of yours.

Rain clung to your skin, hair plastered to your face, strands obscuring your vision as you desperately glanced over your shoulder, afraid of being caught. With a playful grin, he bit his lip, struggling to see through the downpour.

His laughter was the best song you’d ever heard, and your heart longed to play it on repeat until it soothed the storm raging inside.

When your legs gave out, surrendering, Noah caught you in a surprise move, hoisting you over his shoulder. Your laughter spilled freely, your stomach aching from the joy. Spinning together in the rain, the cold seemed insignificant as adrenaline warmed your bodies.

A dance without music moved you both as Noah clasped your hand, twirling you, your toes barely touching the ground. Every time you lifted your face to the sky, feeling the raindrops and cool breeze, your lips and his curved upward simultaneously.

Attempting another spin, Noah’s foot slipped, sending you both tumbling to the ground. He softened your fall with his arm, and once again, your eyes locked, separated only by the strange-tasting water falling from the sky and dripping from your chins.

Every detail of his face was perfectly sculpted, a maze where you could easily lose yourself—his deep, hopeful, and fiercely brown eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that, boy,” you whispered, almost breathless, as he propped himself up on one arm. “I’m still going to break your heart.”

“I dare you, little storm,” Noah said, his gaze fixed on you as though spellbound, his free hand brushing away a stray lock from your face to study it closely before claiming your lips in one swift motion.

Every ounce of turmoil that had knotted your insides over the past weeks washed away with the rain, as if a new sensation took over your body. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at his nape. There was no other choice for him but to stay. You wanted him to stay.

Noah’s long fingers pressed into your back, gathering the soaked fabric of your shirt, pulling your bodies together with deliberate slowness. He cupped your face, deepening the kiss with an urgency that mirrored the moment he’d first crossed your path.

Noses brushing gently, you both smiled softly, his lips returning to yours. Tilting his head skyward, eyes closed as he murmured something unintelligible. Noah laughed softly, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead and the curve of his nose.

"Please, little storm, tell me I'll see you tomorrow," he whispered, almost like a plea, as his lips brushed against your skin, refusing to open his eyes.

"Absolutely, yes," your voice confirmed as you slowly lifted his face, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair.

A second meeting in a dark basement isn’t exactly what you imagined.

Noah had come down with a terrible cold after last night’s adventure, and in an attempt to stop you from risking his life again, he suggested you come watch his band rehearse. His friends and bandmates were introduced as Folio, Jolly, and Ruffilo. The guys welcomed you with enthusiasm, and for a moment, you felt like you’d known them for years, so naturally did they make you feel part of their group.

“What’s with that face?” Ruffilo asked as soon as the first song ended, slinging his instrument off his shoulder. “Don’t tell me it’s that bad.”

“You have the privilege of seeing us play a private show, and that’s the face you make? Noah, your friend here is kind of rude!” The guy behind the drums joked in an easygoing tone, and you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, you nibbled on your lip while munching on a bag of chips. It wasn’t like you were a music expert, though you’d been breathing it in like air for as long as you could remember, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

“I think it was badass!” As soon as you spoke, everyone slumped their shoulders in relief.

“I take back everything I said about her.”

“But something’s missing…” you added, standing up from the couch and brushing your fingers together.

“I take back everything I just said about her.” The guy on the drums simply couldn’t stay quiet.

“Folio, let the girl speak!” Jolly interrupted, and Folio quickly mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “What exactly do you think is missing? I’ve had that same feeling and would love to know I’m not going crazy.”

You began pacing back and forth, your steps deliberate, your fingers curling inside your jeans pockets. Jolly’s question made you reflect on the current metal scene. All their references seemed focused on hardcore, where every song followed a single rhythm.

“How about taking advantage of the fact that the band doesn’t have a set direction yet and trying something different? Like metalcore—it allows for a mix of guttural and melodic vocals, low tunings, and fast riffs. It keeps the sound fresh and avoids the songs blending into each other when the tracks change.” You finished your thought, and the guys exchanged looks as though a divine light had suddenly shone upon them. “Did I say something dumb?”

“Actually, you said something interesting…” Jolly seemed lost in thought for a few seconds, tapping his fingers on a wooden surface.

“Noah said you sing rock and punk at the bar where you work,” the guy holding an energy drink offered you some, but you politely declined. “Why not try doing the melodic vocals on one of our songs? I promise it’s just a test, and we’ll leave you alone afterward. But seriously, look at our desperate faces!”

Ruffilo made a dramatic pout, clasping his hands together like a kid begging for a new pet. Your body tensed at the idea of meddling where you didn’t belong, and you regretted even opening your mouth. Your gaze met Noah’s, who simply winked and nodded, his lips silently mouthing, “You’re good” over and over.

Suddenly, his hand appeared next to yours, holding a microphone. As much as you wanted to refuse, the words stuck in your throat as Noah took your hand and placed the mic in it.

There was no turning back.

“THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME!” Folio yelled as he struck the final cymbal.

“You were absolutely right! We needed to combine guttural and melodic vocals!” Jolly, almost talking to himself, continued tapping his fingers on a wooden surface. He gave what looked like the shadow of a smile, and that seemed like a good sign.

“So it seems my plan worked…”

Noah surprised you by wrapping his arms around you from behind, planting a kiss on your temple and lingering as he inhaled the scent of your hair.

“Plan?” You turned abruptly to face him.

“I brought you here because ever since I first saw you at the bar and we sang together, I knew I wanted you to sing with me in my band—now our band—and I won’t take no for an answer!” he declared, pinching the tip of your nose. “You’re good. You’re really good!”

Your shocked gaze flicked from him to the other band members, who looked just as excited as he was.

“Welcome to Bad Omens, little storm.”

After saying goodbye to the boys, Noah promised to drive you home. While he finished grabbing his things from the garage, you decided to step outside for some air and take the opportunity to smoke a cigarette.

Becoming the vocalist of a band at this point in your life wasn’t exactly on your bingo card for the year, and you had no idea how you’d balance it with your job at the bar, especially since saving money was still your top priority. But everything had felt so simple down there. There was no trace of her voice in your head telling you that your voice was as cursed as the abomination you were. There was absolutely nothing capable of stealing the feeling that coursed through you every time your voice and Noah’s harmonized.

It was impossible to predict where this would lead in the future, but for the first time, you felt happy. You belonged to something where you could be yourself without it costing you your freedom.

You were finally you.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the screech of tires on asphalt. Startled, you turned to see a car speeding toward you from the other side of the road, threatening to mount the sidewalk where you stood. In an impulsive move, you threw yourself to the side, landing hard on the rough, gravel-strewn ground, a gasp of pain escaping your lips.

When you looked at the car—one you knew all too well—your entire body tensed, frozen on the ground. For a moment, you forgot about the scrape on your arm as your eyes locked on the driver.

“Found you, little girl,” Seth announced, grinning beneath his scruffy beard.

“Hey, what’s going on out here?” Noah’s voice, muffled by his hurried footsteps, cut through the tension. As he approached, Seth rolled up the window and shifted into reverse, speeding away down the wrong side of the road.

When Noah got closer, his brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation. He quickly crouched down, and you threw yourself into his arms. Without saying a single word, you clung to him so tightly that your fingers dug deep into his skin, your legs trembling uncontrollably.

“Shhh,” he whispered, wrapping his arms even tighter around you to hold you securely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But everything seemed to hit your mind all at once. In seconds, you weren’t in Noah’s arms anymore—you were somewhere else, a filthy place as vile as your skin felt and as repulsive as the stench surrounding you. Your arms and legs turned immobile, locking up like a cramp, as the sensation of him closing in grew stronger and stronger. You wanted to scream, but nothing came out. He had severed your vocal cords because he enjoyed watching you cry.

Seth had stolen everything from you. And no matter where you tried to rebuild yourself, their shadow would always be there.

⭑ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ; @anarchydomainglory ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @foliosgirl

[the-broken-pen]

“We’re going to die,” the hero murmured, and the villain slammed their hand onto their mouth.

“If you keep talking, yes.”

The hero glared at them out of the side of their eye, and hissed against their palm.

“Let go of me—“

The super villain laughed, and it echoed through the warehouse; a place they had turned into a sprawling labyrinth of death traps and riddles.

“Little birds,” they sang, and in that moment, the hero hated their chosen profession.

Behind their back, the villain fiddled with the lock to the door.

Their other hand remained firmly fixed upon the hero’s mouth.

The super villain began to hum.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

The villain began to move faster.

“Please,” the hero mouthed against the villains palm, sweat and desperation coating them. There was blood cooling on their abdomen.

The villain simply clutched their face tighter.

The super villain turned the corner, gun propped on their shoulder, and smiled.

“Found you.”

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and together, they tumbled into freedom.

Two hours later, the hero was swaddled in a fluffy blanket on the villains couch. There were so many safe guards on the villains house that they should have felt trapped. The hero just felt safe.

The villain carefully taped a piece of cloth over their wound, a pristine white bandage covering a neat row of stitches, put there by the villain.

“Thank you,” the hero’s mouth was dry. “For. You know.”

The villain looked up at them, and by god, if they didn’t look like a fallen Angel.

They smiled.

“I couldn’t let you die, now could I,” they said. They tipped the hero’s chin up, and when they spoke next, it was a whisper over their lips. “I’d miss you.”

The hero shivered, and the villain’s smile curled wider.

A moment later, the settled onto the couch beside the hero. The hero stiffened.

“Oh, come now.”

The villains arm fell, lightly, around their shoulders, and then they were pulled, blanket and all, onto the villain’s shoulder.

“You—“

“Hush, hero. That’s the blood loss talking.”

The hero did not nuzzle further into the villain’s chest, and the villain did not tuck them closer.

Absolutely not.

The news report flicked on, and they watched it idly, together.

“We’ll kill them together, yes?” The hero said, voice small.

The villain hummed, then laughed, voice tinged with something dangerous.

If the hero had looked up, they would have seen something akin to murderous. The villain tucked a careful hand over the wound, as if to make sure it was safe, and protected, and no longer bleeding out.

The hero did not look up.

“Yes, hero. We’ll kill them together.”

But for now, they stayed there, huddled together, warm and safe and dry.

And if the hero didn’t leave, even after they had killed the supervillain? If the hero moved in, took up a place on the villain’s bed?

Then that wouldn’t be anyone’s business.

(The villain delighted in it, though.)

(The hero was just happy to no longer be alone.)

(The hero learned the Villain knew a startling amount about the human body, their body, and was especially adept at causing pleasure—)

(The villain delighted in that, too.)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Robin Sloan’s “Moonbound”

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

Robin Sloan has a well-deserved reputation as a sparkly, fizzy writer, the kind of person who can tell a smart/smartass story infused with fantasy-genre whimsy but grounded in high-tech, contemporary settings (think here of Charlie Jane Anders' gorgeous All the Birds In the Sky):

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/01/26/charlie-jane-anderss-all-the-birds-in-the-sky-smartass-soulful-novel/

In Moonbound, a new, wildly ambitious solarpunk novel published today by Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, Sloan moves out of his usual, daffy, high-tech/high-weird Bay Area milieu and catapults us 11,000 years into the future, to a world utterly transformed and utterly fascinating:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374610609/moonbound

Moonbound's protagonist is a "chronicler," a symbiotic fungus engineered to nestle in a human's nervous system, where it serves as a kind of recording angel, storing up the memories, experiences and personalities of its host. When we meet the chronicler, it has just made a successful leap from its old host – a 10,000-years-dead warrior who had been preserved in an anaerobic crashpod ever since her ship was shot out of the sky – into the body of Ariel, a 12-year-old boy who had just invaded the long-lost tomb.

This is quite a move. This long-dormant, intelligent fungus originates a thousand years into our own future, long after the climate emergency had been (miraculously, joyously) averted and has arrived in a world ten millennia years even further down the line. It must orient itself from its position inside the nervous system of a 12-year-old, and we have to orient ourselves to having an 11,000-year-distant future explained by an intelligent fungus from 1,000 years into our own future.

This is doing fiction in hard mode, and Sloan nails it. The unraveling strangeness of Ariel's world is counterpointed with the amazing tale of the world the chronicler hails from, even as the chonicler consults with the preserved personalities of the heroes and warriors it had previous resided in and recorded.

And in this curious way, we learn of the history of the chronicler's world, and of the strange world so far into the future that Ariel lives in – and becomes incredible consequential to.

Start with the chronicler's world: on the way to solving the climate emergency, the human race figured out how to cooperate on unimaginably massive projects (for example, addressing the world's runaway carbon problem). This pays huge dividends, ushering in a period of thrilling innovation, as humans and the nonhuman intelligences they have constructed collaborate to explore out planet, our solar system, and – thanks to a faster-than-light breakthrough – our galaxy.

A crew of seven are dispatched to the ends of space with great fanfare – but when they return, they are terrified and full of grim purpose. Something they met out there in the galaxy has convinced them that humanity must never look to the stars again. They blanket the planet in a cloak of dust and establish a garrison on the moon from which they destroy any attempts to leave the Earth.

This triggers a savage war against these seven "dragons" and their moonbase. The chronicler's warrior – the one who was entombed for 10,000 years before being discovered by Ariel – was shot down on a last-ditch attempt to destroy the dragons and their base on the moon.

Flash forward 10,000 years. Ariel lives in a weird, medieval-type village, albeit one in which the peasant-types all wear high-tech performance all-weather gear…and the animals all talk. It's a very strange place – there's a sword in a stone, a wizard in a tower…and an airstrip.

Even as the chronicler is trying to make sense of this anachronistic muddle, Ariel is marching towards his destiny. In short order, he finds himself in fear for his life, and then – for the first time in his life or the life of any other villager – Ariel leaves the village.

This kicks off the road-trip part of the novel, a real bildungsroman that sees Ariel, the chronicler, and a whole Wizard-of-Oz's worth of road pals (including a rusty tin-man type robot who is part of a hive mind of thousands of other robots all over the world; oh and a talking beaver) (oh, and a dead guy) (and there's an elk with a symbiotic beehive in its antlers that dribbles a stead stream of honey down its muzzle).

My editor Patrick Nielsen Hayden once articulated a theory of how science fiction works: you have the world, which is a kind of grand thought experiment, and you have a protagonist, who is a kind of microcosm of that world. Think of the world as this big, heavy gear, and the character as a much-faster-spinning gear that meshes with the world, spinning and spinning, pushing the world inchingly around a full revolution:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/26/aislands/#dead-ringers

The chronicler is a perfect microcosm of this strange world, where dozens of great civilizations have arisen and fallen – the ruins of a great society of hyperintelligent rats turns out to be very useful on one part of Ariel's quest – and where the dragons brood overall, a menace in the sky that the Earth's inhabitants have all but forgotten, but whom the chronicler can't ignore.

Sloan is really having a lot of fun with his talking animals; his transdimensional gods; his space-maddened, murderous lunar AIs. On the way, he's doing all kinds of really cool tricks – like asking us to really sit with the idea of giving moral consideration to the nonhuman world, including "beings" we currently think of as inanimate objects. This is a great riff:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/07/more-than-human/#umwelt

Sloan's debut novel, Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, mixed the tropes and sensibilities of tech culture with a beautiful, escapist fantasy, a "curious little magic shop" tale that was absolutely delightful:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/11/16/mr-penumbras-24-hour-bookstore-the-perfect-nerdish-fantasy/

And with Sourdough, Sloan's second book, he took that same fascination with the numinous (and with nerdy, obsessive hobbies) to the microscopic plane, with a tale of microorganisms and mystery:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/05/sourdough-a-delicious-story-about-nerdism-and-the-flesh-by-robin-mr-penumbra-sloan/

Moonbound delivers Sloan's third – and best! – fusion of fantasy and science fiction, delving deep into the meaning of personhood, language and moral agency with a road-trip story that visits a dazzling collection of wildly imaginative settings and societies in an epic quest to slay the dragons on the moon.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/11/penumbraverse/#middle-anth

[multiverse-aesthetic]

*GIF not mine*

A/n : so this is pure fiction, any name in here it's not from the books nor the series

Backstory: when morgoth took Adar he didn't take him alone, he also took the light of his world , Alruna who was the same as adar , scars over her face but not as much as she escaped before Adar. This is centuries after.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the distant echoes of a world in ruin. Adar stood atop a craggy outcrop, surveying the remnants of the Southlands he had conquered. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a fiery glow across the desolation, but for Adar, this land was no longer just a battleground; it was a canvas for his ambitions.

After centuries of servitude under Morgoth, he had forged a new destiny for himself and his kin, leading the orcs away from the shadows of their past. Yet, amidst the ashes of his triumphs, a flicker of longing stirred within him—a memory of love lost in the chaos of war.

He had once known a woman, radiant and fierce, whose laughter was like music in the darkness. She had escaped before him, and in the years since, he had heard nothing.

The air was thick with tension as the orcs marched through the underbrush, their guttural voices a harsh contrast to the serene beauty of the elven woods. Suddenly, a flash of movement caught their attention—

Alruna , an elven woman a golden-haired between the trees, swift and graceful.

The orcs surged forward, their instincts honed for the hunt “Get her! She’s worth more than gold!” the orc leader shouted to his other pair His voice snarls, brimming with crude excitement , as soon as Alruna knew she would get caught she ran quickly , but their speed out ran hers and quickly grabbed her , An orc lunged, catching her by the wrist and yanking her back, the force sending her crashing to the ground.

“Let me go! You’ll regret this!” she struggles fiercely, her eyes ablaze with defiance. “

“Such fire! We’ll see how long that lasts.” The orc laugh in a rough and mocking tone

Despite her strength, the orcs overpowered her, binding her wrists and dragging her through the forest, deeper into the heart of their encampment.

______________________________________

The orcs exchanged rough laughter as they dragged her closer to their camp. Fires crackled in the distance, and the ominous sound of metal against stone filled the air. She couldn’t see who awaited her, but the presence felt heavy, dangerous.

Suddenly, the orcs fell silent as a tall figure emerged from the shadows—a figure she did not recognize but whose presence made the orcs uneasy. His dark eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, time seemed to stop.

“Who is this?" Adar says in his usual quiet, yet authoritative tone,

The orc leader Bowing slightly, his tone shifting to respect.

“Found her in the forest. She fought hard. We thought she might interest you, Adar.” He said in a firm tone

Adar stepped forward, his eyes scanning her face. He could see the fire in her eyes, the strength in her stance, even in chains. His chest tightened with unspoken recognition, but she... she didn’t know him. Not yet.

“bring her to my tent , now.” He says in a calmly , commanding tone before he leaves , and he could not help but notice the ring she had on her finger , he knew that might’ve changed the way she looks now , how she still holds her beauty .

The orcs obeyed without hesitation, pulling her to her feet and dragging her across the camp. Despite the rough handling, she kept her head high, refusing to let fear or uncertainty show on her face. Soon, they arrived at a large, darkened tent on the far side of the camp. The orcs shoved her inside, and she stumbled but quickly regained her footing.

Adar was already there, his back to her as he stood by a simple wooden table, the light of a single lantern casting flickering shadows around the space.

“you know once , we fought against the same enemy..” he says quietly his tone calm as he traces the edge of the table with his fingers , Alruna does not say anything as she stands quietly chained hand and neck , he turned to face her his gaze fixed on her as she pulled at her bindings, trying to break free.

and that’s when she decided to talk

“you know nothing of me , so as I” she says firmly standing her ground , Adar’s gaze softened, but he didn’t approach. He could see the confusion in her eyes, the layers of pain and mistrust that had grown over the years. She truly didn’t remember him, not yet. He had been twisted by the darkness, scarred by time, but he was still the elf she had once loved.

He approached her quietly , breaking her chains free and then took a step back

his eyes scanning her face—so familiar, yet changed by the centuries that had passed. She watched him, eyes wary but stubborn.

“You’ve not changed, though much time has passed.” He says His voice low, resonant.

“Stop speaking as though you know me. Whatever past you imagine, I have no part in it.” She says loudly , Her tone sharp, defensive

Adar’s heart tightened at her words. She truly didn’t remember him. How could she forget? He stood a little closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper.

“There was a time when you would’ve known me with a single glance. When my presence alone brought you comfort.” His voice soft, but filled with old memories

She falters for a moment, caught off guard by his tone but quickly regains her composure.

“Whatever you’re trying to say, I don’t know you. You’re nothing but a shadow now.” She says quietly

Adar’s eyes darkened, a flicker of pain flashing through them. He stepped even closer, and for the first time, she saw not just the leader of orcs, but something deeper—someone more.

In a hushed, reverent tone, he speaks in Elvish. "Le melon a nin, amar maethor” (I loved you, my steadfast warrior).

At those words, something stirred within her. The language, the phrase—something so intimate, so personal, only one person had ever spoken to her that way. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. Could it be…?

“What did you say?” she says so quietly her voice Barely a whisper.

His expression softens, and his voice becomes even quieter, filled with tenderness. “You were my light in the darkness, my guide when all hope was lost.”

She stares at him, the memories slowly surfacing, like fragments of a long-forgotten dream.

The scarred face before her began to blur with the image of someone she once loved—someone she had thought lost forever.

“Álváró..” she whispered almost to herself , his eyes snapped to hers

“I stopped being called by this name long ago” he says quietly but his tone is firm , her brows frowned as she can’t believe it

“is It really you?” she askes quietly as she took a step closer , He nods slowly, the weight of centuries reflected in his eyes.

“I have waited so long for this moment. I thought I had lost you to the shadows, that you were taken from me. But you survived. You fought.” He says quietly , His voice filled with emotion now, deep but raw

“I never thought I’d see you again. So much has changed.” she says quietly , her voice is soft

Adar stepped closer, his hand hovering just above hers, as if unsure whether to reach for her. His fingers barely grazed her skin, the smallest touch, but it sent a shiver through her. It was nothing, and yet everything—a reminder of the connection they once shared.

“Not everything has changed.” he says quietly, his voice trembling slightly.

For a moment, the walls between them crumbled. She saw the depth of his love in his eyes, the way his hand hesitated as if afraid to break the fragile moment between them. And then, just the smallest tear—one he didn’t bother to hide—slipped down his cheek, catching the light.

She had never seen him like this, never seen him show this kind of vulnerability. It stirred something deep within her, an ache she thought she had buried long ago.

Without thinking, she reached for him, her fingers brushing the side of his face, just barely touching the scar that marked him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch, just for a moment—a silent plea, a small surrender.

“I thought you were lost… gone forever.” She says quietly , her voice started to get shaky with emotions .

“No, I was always here. Waiting. Fighting for you.” He whispered , Tears brim in her eyes as the realization washes over her,

They stand there, the silence between them thick with shared pain and love, the past and present colliding in this intimate moment.

He lightly brushed his finger over her cheek , she closes her eyes at the feeling of his hands once again even it’s different more rougher than before

“we , are together now ,The past may have taken years from us, but I will not let it take any more.” He says quietly as he lowered his hand from her face

She nods, still overwhelmed, but for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, she allows herself to feel hope, to remember what they once were—and what they could be again.

___________________________________

Let me know what you think,And if anyone has any other ideas 👀🤍

[adreamingskin]

Poetry Competitions, Submissions & Opportunities – MARCH 2023

Over 150 #poetry competitions, literary journal submissions and writing opportunities, open or with deadlines in March 2023. Best of luck and please share! #amwriting

Spring is on the way and with it over 160 poetry competitions, writing submissions and opportunities open or with deadlines in March 2023! Looking forward to April — National Poetry Writing Month — I’ll be bringing the drama with a brand new 30-day writing challenge, drawing inspiration from the heroes, villains, beasts and beauties of the Ancient Greek myths and legends. These tales of power,…