#and I have a little painting by a two year old (I think she was two?) of my cat that makes me smile

[the-darklings]

Oh god please write the timebomb fic!!! (or several lol)

ೀ pairing: ekko/jinx

ೀ wc: 5k

ೀ summary: "Always a dance with you, huh?" Or: two years after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko receives an unexpected visitor.

ೀ author notes: ask and you shall receive!!! I wrote this in one sitting in some weird ass haze and barely edited it, but this is the most fun I had in a long while so I hope you enjoy!!!

ೀ read it on ao3 | listen to the playlist

The first few days after the battle, Ekko doesn’t rest. He barely sleeps or eats, or allows himself time to think. 

He can’t. 

There’s too much to do. The dead are in their dozens. His Firelights took a major hit, and he knows that for the next few months his fingers will be numb from painting their pictures on the mural day in and out. So many who could have lived but didn’t. So many could have had better futures. But if he just runs, if he keeps pushing on, he can outrun these regrets and his grief, too. This way, he doesn’t remember Vi’s heartbroken expression when she pulled him into a bone-crushing hug after the fight, blood and sweat still clinging to her, her words choked when she told him—

Four seconds. 

He could have saved her. He would have hauled her snarky ass out of that tunnel, ripped that bomb from her hands. He would have—

He runs from those thoughts, too. They suffocate him, and Ekko has too much to fix to be suffocated by his grief right now. 

He sure as hell didn’t fight for Piltover. He fought for Zaun, for Firelights. Because he knew Ambessa Medarda would never settle for anything other than complete subjugation. She would have destroyed Ekko’s home. She was already busy murdering and imprisoning their people, and nothing but complete eradication would have followed in her wake. 

Ekko did it for… her. The blue-haired symbol of defiance, of uprising. A loud declaration that they won’t live under Piltover’s oppression forever, that they’ll reach greater things one day and won’t be silenced. They won’t wait for permission to breathe again. It’s what she would have wanted, he convinces himself, even though part of him knows Jinx would have enjoyed the chaos of the fight more. Or maybe not. Not since that little girl. Not since he had to save her from herself over and over again, only to lose her anyway. 

Undercity mourns her. Her visage is everywhere. Jinx the Saviour. She would have hated it, he thinks wryly. She never got to see just how loved she was. 

Maybe he should have grabbed her and ran away. Maybe he should have let the world go to hell and saved her instead. The thought, born of fatigue, lingers only for a few fleeting seconds, a rare moment of selfishness amidst a day spent fixing the world around him. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. If only he had tried harder when they were kids and saved her from Silco. If only he didn’t give up on her. 

She’s always been his biggest maybe. And now they’ll never be more. Not this version of them. Never him and her as they were. 

Aw, are you gonna mope now, boy saviour?

“You’re not here.”

It punches clean through his chest. The realisation of it. The sheer, horrible weight. He’ll never see her again. 

Constants and variables, Benzo told him once. Constants and variables, young Ekko.

A week after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko sinks to his knees inside his room, exhausted and heartbroken, and sobs. 

.

Things begin to settle. Slowly, at first, the city might have been gutted after the battle but not destroyed, the morale low but hopeful. Hexgates are gone, and Ekko is glad when he finds out. He doesn’t want to see or hear anything about the arcane for a while. No magic in the world could fix the pain festering in his chest. 

Sevika, Silco’s old second-in-command and once his sworn enemy, comes to him two weeks after the attack. 

“They’re making me a council member,” she says, grunting when she falls into the tiny wooden chair inside his room. 

She’s always been a threatening figure, power rippling from every shift of her body, but Ekko isn’t sure he wants to fight anyone right now. Nor does she seem interested in strangling him. She lights a cigarette, her scarred features set in a fearsome scowl. 

“And?” he asks for anything better to say. “How is that any of my business?”

Sevika exhales through her nose, reminding him of an angry bull, all smoke and steely resolve. “I’m the only one presenting Zaun or her interests.” 

Ekko almost rolls his eyes. Of course she is. The Council is simply falling over themselves to fix the situation. After months of harassment and oppression, false arrestments and beatings, they asked them to bleed for Piltover and its interests with nothing but the bare minimum courtesy extended towards them afterwards.

“I could use you, kid,” Sevika continues, and Ekko forces his anger away, loosening his fists. “Exactly for that reaction. You’re smart as hell, and been a pain in my ass for years. Pilties will try to walk all over us again in a few months’ time. You and I both know it. We gotta beat them in their own game. Not let them silence us again. I could use someone like you. Be my adviser. You’ll have a direct line to the Council. We’ll make an actual change. It’s better than whatever this is.”

Ekko’s expression sours at her words while Sevika’s gaze flicks around his room in contemplation. He works all day to a point of exhaustion, then passes out. It’s the only way he’s been able to continue, day in and day out. Being in a leadership position means you can’t take time off to grieve. Too many people are relying on him. It’s bad enough that he accidentally abandoned his people for months without meaning to. The guilt he still feels over everything has been nearly suffocating. 

It’s a good gig, hero! You should do it and be a thorn in her side.

Ekko blinks the flash of blue from his vision, rubbing his brow just as Sevika adds: “It’s what she would have wanted, you know.”

A jolt of electricity runs through him. Everyone, even Vi, has been avoiding mentioning Jinx in front of him.  

His jaw clenches. “You don’t know that.”

“Kid, I know what not letting go looks like,” she says, and it almost sounds compassionate, or as close to it as someone like her can get. “We had our differences in the past, I know as much—”

“You killed my people,” Ekko snaps. “Do you know how many lives you destroyed with Shimmer?”

“Sure do,” she replies listlessly, smoke billowing past her lips. “I won’t try to justify my actions to you. But y’know, when you were gone, Jinx united Zaun in a way I haven’t seen since Vander. Beats me how she did it, but people believed in her. Even your Firelights.”

It mirrors everything he’s seen and heard for weeks. Jinx freeing their people, Jinx the Saviour, the beacon for their new future. The one who set and lived by extreme examples, who made Piltover back off and take the Undercity seriously. Because they all finally realised that there can never be peace without a fight. She should be here to fight this battle with him. Ekko should be busy arguing with her that blowing up another building will not make things right. He shouldn’t be walking around with her ghost a step behind him, tormenting him with ideas of what could and should have been. 

“And now she’s dead!”

His ears ring, his chest heaves, and he clutches his thudding heart, willing it back in its cage. He didn’t mean to come undone so easily. 

“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” Sevika says, and there’s a grimness to her when she says it, an unexpected pain buried somewhere deep in her gruff voice that makes Ekko see her differently. “I get it.”

“No,” he whispers, pained. “You don’t.”

.

Seven months pass before Ekko finally picks up a brush for her. 

He sleeps better at night but not without nightmares. Not without remembering Powder from the alternative universe and how they danced. How sweet her kiss felt. Not without that memory smearing to finding Jinx with a grenade in her hand, again, ready to disappear, go somewhere he could never reach her. 

Ekko still hears the detonation in his ears, over and over, on a sickening loop. His mind likes to torture him with ideas he failed to save her. That no matter what he does, or how he mends time, she’s forever out of reach. His blue beacon, his lighthouse he can never find in the depthless ocean of reality. 

Many have drawn her, but he still thinks that no one knows the exact hue of her hair or the wicked shine in her eyes better than him. He’s spent an entire lifetime examining them, looking for them in a sea of thousands. 

Their city is rebuilding. He agreed to Sevika’s request after a few days of contemplation. Caitlyn Kiramman’s expression when he ambled into the Council room was worth the additional burden now on his shoulder. But she’s changed too, matured, and now fills her position as the Council’s leader well. 

Ekko won’t forget how she allowed his friends to be imprisoned, tortured, and, in some cases, killed, but her regret made her side with him and Sevika more often than not during voting, and maybe he could at least one day forgive her. Another maybe. For Vi, if nothing else, who clearly loves the blue-haired woman fiercely. 

The barren wall stares at him. He’s painted Powder before, but this is different. One day, his friend, his dearest friend, was simply gone. Without a goodbye, in a wake of tragedy. The life Ekko once had disintegrated beneath his feet overnight. Benzo killed. Vander dead. Mylo and Claggor too. Vi died as well. Or so he believed for years. Powder was missing until a different knife was delivered to him weeks later, when the word on the street spread about Silco being seen with a little girl with blue hair. 

Ekko sighs, hanging his head. The city is healing, but he isn’t, or at least not as quickly. 

He runs his hand over the white wall, picturing Jinx as he saw her last, those precious hours between talking her down from the abyss and their joint attack on Noxian forces. It felt so good to rely on her again, to stand with her, side by side. As natural as breathing. 

You’re the order to my chaos, hero. 

“Leave me alone,” he says quietly, head hung low. “It’s been months.”

A figment of Jinx chortles, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the wall. You would get bored to death without me. Ha! Get it? 

Shooting a glare at her, Ekko picks up a brush, his fingers quivering. Tears burn in his eyes when he dips the brush into the paints he painstakingly mixed. He works, and works, until his eyes are dry and his wrist hurts. Ekko doesn’t stop until he loses light and when he steps back, he is looking at Jinx. Equal parts chaos and something ethereal. 

He wipes angrily across his mouth when he tastes saltiness pooling there and goes home. 

There’s no sleep that night. 

.

Time is a strange thing. It weaves and flows. Without his Z-Drive, he has no control over it. Time simply goes on, and he’s the passenger in a vehicle he doesn’t want to move. 

He’s important these days. He’s one of the few bright minds still left, and he’s endlessly busy with something. City of Progress needs every mind that can be spared. Wounds heal, and time dulls the memory, but not everything is so easily forgotten. Piltover moves quicker, but the Undercity erects a statue for Jinx beside Vander’s. He sees Vi at the ceremony, and they exchange strained smiles. They speak sometimes, but it’s not as often as it used to be. They’re both dealing with their grief the best they can.

At least Vi has Cait. Ekko has nothing but a cold bed and purpose. 

He and Sevika make a good team. It almost makes him wonder what could have been in a universe where they were on the same side from the start. His Zaun, cracked but not broken, is resembling the bright version of the Zaun and Piltover he saw in the alternative verse. There're years of work still left, but there’s something like hope in him, fragile and misplaced as it might be. 

A year passes. Then two. He visits the graves; he lights candles for those lost. Some days Ekko sees her, other days he doesn’t. He hopes for a glimpse, even when he knows he shouldn’t. It should be easier to let go of what you never had, right? 

His mural for Jinx grows. Other faces join her, people who died believing in her, surrounding the one they placed their trust in. And, at the centre of it all, her, her, her. 

Still her. 

Always her. 

. 

He’s not sure what arouses him. He hasn’t slept well in years, perpetual exhaustion clinging to him like a shawl. Some would call it the weight of living, no doubt. 

There’s a shift in the air, a disturbance that’s not enough to make Ekko jolt awake and reach for a weapon, but enough to make his eyes flutter open. He breathes the cool air, pushing his grogginess away. 

There’s a shape at the foot of his bed. Small and round. It takes several seconds for his vision to adjust, for him to realise that a hooded figure sits perched on his bed, knees pulled to their chest.

Ekko hasn’t had to rely on his battle instincts in two years, but there’s enough left in him to attack without hesitation. His fingers tangle in the cloak, shoving the figure down, his knee pressing harshly into their abdominal, hands seeking the intruder’s throat—

“Wow, little man, you sure know how to roll out the welcoming mat,” the all too familiar voice drawls before his fingers tighten instinctively around the slender, warm throat. 

A haggard breath forces from Ekko’s parted mouth. In the wild struggle, the stranger’s hood has slipped down, revealing a familiar face with a startling crop of blue hair. His heart squeezes painfully, forcing him away from Jinx’s apparition. 

“Leave me alone,” he croaks, rubbing his eyes till his vision swims. “Just leave me alone! I don’t want to see you anymore!”

“Huh, fine. I thought after two years, the welcome would be a tad warmer. Brrr.”

Ekko pushes himself to his feet, stumbling away, watching warily as the young woman sits back up, picking at her messy hair. She looks different. A little older than Jinx from his visions or memories. Her hair is longer, though nowhere near the same length she once had braided into two twin braids. She swings her leg back and forth, another pulled up to her chest while she watches him. And… her eyes. Ekko was the last person to see her with blue eyes before their battle on the bridge. The last time he saw Jinx alive, they were a dangerous, burning violet. 

Now, even with the shade of the night, they’re a muddy mix between the blue he once knew, and the piercing violet that made her so deadly. As if that restless edge in her has calmed down and settled. 

Ekko’s chest heaves as he stumbles back a step. 

“Soooo—” she begins.

“You’re alive.”

Jinx shrugs her shoulders. “Yup. Clearly. In the flesh even,” she crows, but it’s more muted when compared to the wildness he once faced off against. 

His hand flies to his stomach, and Ekko distantly wonders if he’s about to throw up in front of a girl he’s spent his entire life loving. 

Mercifully, his stomach settles, but his heart beats so loudly he can hear the blood rushing in his skull. 

“You’re alive,” he repeats, harder this time. “It’s been two years.”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t offer more than that, but there’s a shadow over her narrow face. She’s healthier. There’s more weight on her bones, her skin has lost some of the pallidness. As if someone took Powder and Jinx, split them clean down the middle, and fused them into one body. Stronger, more self-reassured, less teetering on the brink. 

“Would have written but mail is crappy where I was,” she jokes, her voice a familiar, drawling litany. “Besides, this is so much more mysterious—”

He closes the distance between them in two steps. His room isn’t big but he would have walked, ran, sprinted if needed to close the distance between them. His arms wrap around her and Ekko squeezes her so tightly he hears a small breath escape Jinx. She’s solid and warm. Smells faintly of sea and something metallic. Ekko buries his face in the soft crook of Jinx’s neck, gasping for breath. 

“Woah, hero, you’re gonna break my ribs,” she whispers, but her arms wind around him, more careful, unsure. “I thought you hated me?”

Even when he releases her, Ekko’s hands linger on her, go to her face, examining her through the crack of light illuminating his room. 

“I saw you,” he breathes, devastated. “I saw you everywhere. I hoped to see you everywhere.”

Something flickers over her face, an unknown thing, secretive and distant as she’s always felt to him. 

“Geez, seeing things? And they call me crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

There’s such vehemence in his voice it startles them both. Jinx nibbles on her inner cheek, searching his face cautiously. “I thought you’d be mad.”

Ekko laughs, a low huff of amusement. “Do you think I care for you so little, huh?”

Too late he realises he’s without a shirt, and is, in fact, mostly bare before the girl he’s harboured a crush on for years. Near boyish shyness forces Ekko back, making him clear his throat. His hands tremble when he reaches for a discarded t-shirt, hoping it doesn’t smell bad when he pulls it over his head. When he glances at her over his shoulder, Jinx is still there, still watching him, though there’s a thoughtful air around her. 

When she notices him looking, she offers him a sarcastic grin.

“No need to get shy, stud.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

He plops down on his unmade bed, watching her watch him. Her face is half hidden by her arms propped on her bent knee, but the silence between them isn’t awkward. They’re taking each other in, taking in the changes that have touched them both in the last two years.

“Why come back now?” he asks, eventually. 

Jinx blinks, near feline-like, dropping her head back to stare at his ceiling as if it may offer an answer. “I’m a crappy friend, but not that crappy. Happy birthday, wonder boy.”

There’s a creak in his heart, a lightness in his ribcage, a balloon of affection despite their troubled history that inflates just for her. “You remember my birthday?”

She makes a sound at the back of her throat. Glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, we picked it together, silly, so sure I do.” Shadows fall over her features when she angles her head away. “I… I never thought I would come back—that it was better this way.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Something close to a smile ghosts over her face at his response. Ekko can’t rip his gaze away from her. He fears that if he does, he’ll wake up and she’ll be gone again, and he’ll have to relive the agony of losing her again. 

“Does Vi—”

“No. No. And it’s better this way.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Ekko. Please.”

He does. Because this is too good to be true, and he doesn’t want this to end. Emotions mix inside him, battling for dominance, so he sits there, letting them all wash over him. 

“You’ve been busy,” she says abruptly, nodding her head in the general direction of the outside world. “Their new wonder boy. I’m not surprised. You’ve always been good at creating things. Good things.”

“And you’ve always been good at fixing them,” he says. 

Ekko thinks back on the countless times she helped him to fix up old rubbish others have discarded and sell them in Benzo’s shop as small treasures. It feels, now, like a lifetime ago. In a sense, it has been. 

She snorts; it’s an ugly, hateful sound. “Not always.”

There’s weight to how she says it. Pain lingers in each syllable, more so a whispered confession. She’s thinking of others, those lost through accidents or her own direct involvement. 

“I’m sorry about Isha,” Ekko says carefully, thumb pressing into the hollow of his bare knee. He itches to take her hand, to smooth his thumb over her knuckles instead, but he doesn’t. She’s never been his to touch. “Vi told me about her.”

Jinx shrinks, turning away and he mentally curses. A sore spot even years later. Understandably so. 

“I… shit. Sorry.”

“What’s with the long face?” she exclaims suddenly, jumping to her feet and twirling. Her hands drop to her hips and she grins at him, all mischief. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here.”

Ekko squints. “Uh, what?”

“It’s your birthday, silly,” she says, like it should be obvious. “We’re going to spend the day together.”

.

Jinx keeps her hood up, her gait steady. Any sign of blue tucked away. She’s changed her attire to draw less attention, and as they walk in the hazy dawn light towards the bridge separating the sister cities, it feels almost normal. Casual. Not at all like the last time they spoke, they were about to fight side by side in a battle for their lives. Not at all like he spent two years thinking she’s dead. That still stings, but knowing how she felt back then, the state she was in before he talked her down from the edge, the pain she’s been through, Ekko can’t bring himself to feel resentful. He only wants to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay because she’s not alone. 

“You’re not saying, are you?” he asks, hands in his pockets. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the p. “Can’t.”

Words rush to his tongue. Insistence that she can and should stay—that there’s space here for her, not just in his life, but in the new Zaun he’s helping to shape. He almost admits it to her then. That he’s built this for her and the ones they lost along the way. 

Ekko continues walking, staring at the ground, noticing too late she’s fallen behind. He peers over his shoulder and freezes when he notices what’s caught her attention. The mural. Welcoming anyone coming into Zaun. Her face, slightly younger but now immortalised, peers back at them. 

“You drew this.”

He loosens a breath. “Yeah, I did. I, uh, just…”

Jinx reaches for her own face, fingertips ghosting over the painted wall. There’s tension on her face when she turns to look at him, something piercing and hard and thoughtful. Same pinch to her eyebrows he saw earlier in his bedroom. 

“I won’t let them take you,” he says softly. “If they came for you. I would fight for you.”

She doesn’t break their eye contact. “I know. You shouldn’t, but I know you would.”

“Then stay.”

She saunters forward, stopping only when they’re almost chest to chest. “I’m not her, y’know? The other me. The one you love.”

He smiles, huffing a small breath, refocusing on her and her small pout. Ekko reaches forward, tucking a few stray strands back under Jinx’s hood, lingering for a beat. “I wasn’t her Ekko, either. That’s why I came back. I like this version of you just fine. But just so we’re clear, every version of you is a pain in my ass.” He tugs on a small braid, grinning when she shoots him an annoyed glare and slaps his hand away. “But I won’t have it any other way. Wait, no. It sure as hell would be simpler if you didn’t try to kill me anymore, but I guess I’ll deal with that, too.”

Jinx snorts, absently reaching for the spot he touched, her gaze softer than before. “Ha! You hit like a girl, by the way. I never got to tell you.”

“You tried to blow us up.”

“Eh,” she whines. “That was one time. You gotta let that go.”

Ekko exhales a small laugh and realises he hasn’t smiled or laughed this much in years. Joy was leeched from him with her absence, and while he did his duties, there was no security of Jinx’s usual push and pull to keep him balanced and focused. Even when they were enemies, hunted each other down and attacked each other, they existed on opposite sides of a perfectly balanced sphere. 

Her nearness, the relief of having her there, overshadows the darker recollection of that afternoon when she tried to blow them up more than once. Memories so painful Ekko wishes to scrub them from his mind forever, yet they remain seared into his psyche. 

She grabs his elbow, dragging him forward, breaking the surrounding gloom. “Come on then,. Things to do, things to see.”

And Ekko does what he’s done since they were young. He follows her. Because they might not have tomorrow.

.

The day goes by too fast. Almost a blur. A series of snapshots Ekko will lock away in his mind forever. He never expected he’d get to do this again. This is something his younger self could have only dreamt about once. When they dreamt of simpler things; flashy toys and delicious sweets, things only a young boy could fantasise about, aside from a loving home, because at least that much he had. 

They walked and talked and joked around, eating street vendor food all day. Ekko knows they’re pushing their luck, but he can’t help himself. Jinx grew up here. This is her home too, and he wants to show her the progress they’ve made. There’s something comfortable about her snarky commentary and ill-timed jibes at the Council members. She asks about Vi only once, in relation to Cait, and Ekko tells her the truth. 

They’re happy. They’re together. She nods, satisfied, and moves on.

“We should go see Jericho next.” It’s an offhand suggestion while they walk the newly paved river path. Now people from the Undercity can enjoy the same luxury of having a peaceful sidewalk to take their kids down. It’s amazing how it’s the small things that bring people happiness. 

“Can’t,” Jinx replies, glancing towards the setting sun. Her smile twists; it’s still a smile, but it’s sad, in a way. “Sorry, hero.”

He takes several seconds to speak. “So, you’re leaving anyway.”

“Yes. I told you I can’t stay.”

“It’s a pity, then.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

Damn her for even asking. Damn her and all the shitty circumstances for keeping them apart. Damn her for picking him during that game of hide and seek years ago. Damn her for being there for him and not being there at the same time. Damn her for being his entire world for years. Even when Ekko thought he hated her, he wasn’t free of her. He never could be. His girl with blue hair. 

He’s in love with her, in every possible way, but they both know they can’t work like this. There’s too many ghosts for Jinx here, and despite the changes, Ekko can’t promise her she won’t get dragged off to Stillwater the moment authorities find out she’s alive after all. 

Ekko frowns, clenches his fists, and walks away. 

But she’s like an anchor to him. He stops several paces away, tied to her. “You’re gonna break my heart.”

They’ve been everything from friends to enemies and strangers to reluctant allies again. So much of his life has revolved around her. Continues to revolve around her. Past and present. But if Jinx sends him away now, if she walks away, Ekko will let her go. Because he can finally rest easy, knowing she is alive and well, even if they’re apart.

“In any other universe, I might have loved you,” she breathes. 

He pivots towards her, his nostrils flaring. “Love me in this one,” he insists, reaching for her. Ekko cups her cheeks, tilting her head until her hood slips back down, exposing her blue hair to the setting sun. He’s glad there’s no one in sight because he can’t think straight right now. “Choose me now. Ask me to go away with you. Ask me.”

He presses his forehead to hers. Jinx’s empty gaze appears glazed over, her thoughts far away no matter how hard he tries to grip her and hold her close. 

“I don’t deserve you, boy saviour,” she whispers emptily. “You’re good.”

“No one decides for me, Jinx. Not even you.”

She blinks owlishly, searching his wild stare, a pained expression on her face, her fingers knotting against her chest. “What if you don’t want me after a while? I’m… different and if I get bad again... What if—”

“Ask me, damnit.”

Jinx loosens a shaky breath, jumping through a hundred micro-expressions in a few seconds. A painful mix between hope and dread. 

“C…” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Come with me.”

Ekko sags in relief. “Yes.” He holds her, wraps his arms around her despite the unsure way she folds against him. As if she’s unsure where to put her hands. If she should. “Yes, I’ll come with you. I don’t care if you’re different. I want you as you are, okay? No matter where we are.”

A tremulous breath wheezes past Jinx’s lips. But with that, she melts into him, burying her face against him. Her embrace grows desperate and tight, a tremble shuddering through her body. 

“Always a dance with you, huh?” he says after a moment.

She chuckles, the sound warming his collarbone. “And you still got two left feet, boy wonder.”

Constants and variables, young Ekko, Benzo told him once. Everything bad that can happen in this universe might come to pass, but so might everything good.

----

an: ahh I know this isn't really my usual offering but I really hope you guys enjoyed, it's been a while since i've cared enough about canon/canon ship to do this.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (3 - The Neighbor)

Chapter Summary: Agnes sees the perfect opportunity to stir up some trouble while Wanda deals with her jealousy toward your work assistant, Geraldine. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 2.8k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: None

A/N: I really have nothing to say except that I enjoyed writing Agatha in this chapter // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The team has been at a standstill, figuring out who’s behind this, or how to communicate with anyone trapped inside the town. Every drone they've sent in morphs into something entirely different, thwarting their efforts to gather any useful intel. The people sent underground to scout a safe route through have gone dark, their communication cut off. No one else volunteered to attempt approaching the perimeter after that.

The broadcasts they've been tracking are erratic, cutting out for hours with no warning, making it hard to keep a consistent eye on the town's odd behaviors. But it's during one of these quiet periods when something clicks in Darcy's mind.

“I think I have something,” Darcy blurts out to Jimmy. They’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel, running out of faces to identify from the snippets of life in Westview they caught on screen. 

“Yeah?” Jimmy gives her a tired look, only half-listening. He can't remember the last time he managed more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep. Even if he could find the time to rest, the bizarre situation they're in won't let his mind relax. 

Darcy sighs and leads him outside the tent.

“So, you’ve seen that radio on Wanda’s kitchen counter, right?”

Jimmy only nods.

Darcy continues, “The next time she’s washing dishes, or whatever—which by my count—happens about once an episode, barf, we’ll shoot a signal to that little guy.” She leads him to a set of computers set up behind a pickup truck. Jimmy doesn’t understand what’s going on with these systems, but he’s hoping Darcy really is onto something.

“This transmitter will mimic the frequency of the broadcast,” she pauses to catch her breath in the cold and to give him time to catch up with her science. “And if my theory is right, it will allow us to speak to her.”

She cuts off any chance for Jimmy to comment and assures him, “This is definitely going to work.”

–

The annual Westview Harvest Festival is in full swing. The town square is packed with booths overflowing with baked goods and fresh fall produce. A small stage is set up for the local band playing tunes from the 70s, while kids dart around in all directions, their faces painted with fanciful designs. Billy and Tommy are with their preschool teachers, who are keeping them and other children their age occupied with arts and crafts that involve tumbleweeds—a material no one seems to think is entirely safe for five-year-olds to play with.

In hindsight, it’s the ideal setting for introductions and mingling. However, everyone here already knows each other—everyone, that is, except for Wanda. She makes an effort to blend in, but apart from a few interactions with the planning committee, which weren’t particularly fruitful, she often remains secluded at home. This makes you, the only one in the household who heads out daily for work, the more socially connected of the two. It’s both amusing and slightly anxiety-inducing to watch you interact with the townsfolk who are essentially strangers to you and to Wanda, if only you knew. You and Wanda never had the opportunity to live a normal life, to settle in a typical city, surrounded by neighbors who could have become integral to the life you might have built together. 

Seeing you interact with these people, she’s realizing it’s harder than she thought to share you with others. Or maybe she’s just as selfish as she’s always been, never really outgrowing it. When you were both part of the Avengers, it was like living in a bubble, surrounded by only a few familiar faces every day. Now, outside that controlled environment, it’s challenging her expectations and stirring up feelings she thought she had under control.

It becomes particularly tough when she sees Geraldine heading towards you, sporting that perpetual, dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. Wanda's fingers curl into a fist, tiny wisps of red energy leaking from them. You quickly cover her hand with yours, and the effect is immediate—she relaxes slightly, letting you intertwine your fingers with hers, anchoring herself by your side where she feels secure.

“It's so nice to see you outside of the office, just being one of us for a change,” Geraldine says, though she seems to be wearing the same uniform as at work. Not that you're judging, but it does make you wonder why she hasn't changed.

“Definitely beats being stuck behind a desk,” you reply, your attention briefly wandering. Only then do you notice that Wanda has subtly withdrawn her hand from yours, now exploring a booth with homemade apple cider. You hadn't even noticed the exact moment she let go.

“Hello, Wanda!” Geraldine greets her warmly. 

Wanda musters a tight-lipped smile that’s convincing enough, as Geraldine appears quite taken with it. Just then, Geraldine spots Agnes standing a little away from the crowd, lingering behind Wanda with a look that borders on suspicion or disdain. 

Geraldine steps up to her while Wanda continues to busy herself with whatever else is being showcased in the booth. “Hi, I'm Geraldine. Isn’t this a wonderful evening?” She extends her hand to Agnes.

Agnes eyes the offered hand but doesn’t accept it. Instead, she sizes up Geraldine with a quick once-over and nods, foregoing any introductions. Geraldine's smile falters briefly, but she quickly shakes off the slight, tossing a brisk, “See you around, Y/N!” over her shoulder as she heads back to her table.

You wave back and let out a sigh, relieved that you’ve just sidestepped what could have been the most awkward moment of your life. Wanda’s jealousy towards Geraldine seems more serious than you’d realized. You know Wanda can be possessive; it's just been a long time since it's manifested this way. But then, it's also been a while since you've both been in a crowd of strangers like this. Since…

Since when, exactly?

“Y/N, honey?” Wanda’s voice snaps you out of your fog.

You blink. “Hm?”

“I’m thirsty.”

Just like that, you’ve forgotten about your lapse of memory, replaced by a desire to tend to your wife's needs.

“I’ll get us some refreshments. What would you like?” you ask.

“Just some water, please.”

“Water here, too,” Agnes calls out, unsolicited. 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. It's great that Wanda's making friends in the neighborhood, but did it really have to be Agnes O’Connor? Ever since you and Wanda moved into this quiet suburb, Agnes has made it her personal mission to be involved in every aspect of your lives. You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than the apparent nosiness of your neighbor.

As you head over to get the drinks, Agnes sidles up to Wanda, her eyes gleaming with an opportunity to stir some pot. 

“Geraldine seems quite taken with your wife.”

It’s not like Wanda doesn’t know what Agnes’s doing, but she finds herself nodding in agreement anyway. Your new assistant does appear smitten with you, and while Wanda gets the appeal—you are, undeniably, crush-worthy—she can't say she's thrilled about it.

“Y/N is her boss,” Wanda murmurs, more to herself than to Agnes.

“Oh, honey,” Agnes laughs condescendingly. “Do you even go to the movies? That's how the steamiest affairs start, you know.”

Wanda bristles at the sound of that endearment from someone other than you. But she keeps herself together—barely. 

“I trust her,” Wanda forces out.

As you're getting drinks, Geraldine joins you, picking up a soda herself. She lets out a light laugh at a joke from the bartender, and you find yourself chuckling too, oblivious to the piercing look your wife is drilling into your back.

Meanwhile, Agnes sees her opening and swoops in, linking her arm through Wanda's with a bit more force than necessary. 

“Of course, you trust her, dear,” she murmurs right by Wanda's ear. “But do you trust her?” She points subtly with her chin towards Geraldine, her lips pursed. “You know what they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer…”

Wanda's shoulders tense, her entire frame stiffening. As you return with the drinks, Agnes steps away, leaving Wanda visibly shaken, like she’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

“Everything okay?” you ask, handing her a drink. You've noticed before how Wanda's demeanor changes around Agnes; she’s clearly a source of stress for her. It’s going to be a difficult conversation, but it might be time to tell Wanda what you really think about the neighbor.

Wanda takes the water you offer, her fingers trembling slightly as she does. For a moment, she appears distant, disengaged, as if her mind is elsewhere. Then, with a sudden shift, she flashes you one of those smiles that sends a shiver down your spine.

“I'm fine,” she declares, a little too brightly. Then, seemingly out of the blue, she asks, “Is Geraldine here with someone?”

You stop short, realizing you really don't know much about Geraldine beyond work. “I didn’t see her with anyone,” you say.

Wanda nods thoughtfully. Her next suggestion catches you by surprise. 

“Maybe you should invite her over to our table.”

Did you hear that correctly? Had Wanda just done a complete 180 regarding your assistant and was now interested in getting to know her? You shoot a suspicious glance at Agnes. Had she said something to Wanda to change her mind?

“Are you sure?” you ask, puzzled by her abrupt change of heart.

“I am,” Wanda affirms. “It might be nice to make a new friend.”

–

Back at the response camp, Darcy and Jimmy are huddled around the small, grainy television, waiting for the moment Wanda’s in her kitchen so they can send a message through her radio device. However, the usual domestic scenes are conspicuously absent, replaced by static and sporadic cuts to the ongoing Harvest Festival.

“Come on, come on,” Darcy mutters under her breath, shoving her glasses back up her nose. They've been slipping a lot lately, probably because she's been hunching over her work more than usual these past few days.

“It's this festival,” Jimmy says, squinting at the screen. “I think the whole town's out there tonight. I don’t think we’re going to get the chance.”

Their attempts to contact anyone inside the Hex are dwindling, and Hayward's interest leans more towards studying the energy barrier encasing the town rather than resolving the anomaly itself. His latest directive to launch another drone into the barrier feels like a brute force attempt to crack the problem. Jimmy thinks it’s a waste of time—and resources.

“Yeah, and you know what’s worse?” Darcy grumbles. “I have a bad feeling about Agnes. Every time she's around, things just seem to... escalate.”

As they watch, the screen cuts to a shot of Agnes at the festival, linking arms with Wanda, whispering something that makes Wanda’s expression tighten. “See, what did I tell you?” Darcy exclaims, pointing at the screen. “Who’s this Agnes again in real life?” she asks.

Jimmy swivels in his chair, his gaze sweeping across the expansive pinboard filled with photos of Westview residents. Agnes’s face is not among them. 

“No idea,” he says flatly. He had already run a search in the database, but it came back empty.

“So, we've identified Y/N, Monica, and Agnes as outsiders in Westview,” Darcy explains, tallying them off on her fingers. 

“That’s correct,” Jimmy confirms.

“And then there’s Wanda’s sons. But again… we haven’t seen any other children in the show besides the twins.”

Jimmy thinks about it for a while. It had never really occurred to him before. “Maybe they’re bound to show up at some point?”

“Smells fishy to me,” Darcy huffs. Her thoughts circle back to Agnes. “How do you think Agnes ended up here?” she asks, their list of unanswered questions growing daily.

Jimmy shrugs. “She could’ve just been visiting.”

Darcy considers it. It's a possibility, but somehow, it doesn't feel quite right—too simple, too convenient for someone as vibrant and prickly as the character Agnes portrays.

–

It's as if Wanda's animosity toward Geraldine just magically went away. 

They’ve been chatting for almost an hour. Initially, Wanda made sure to include you in the conversation, but as time passed, she and Geraldine started connecting over topics that didn’t involve you as much. Feeling somewhat left out but also at ease that the problem between your wife and your secretary has apparently resolved itself, you decide to check out the festival booths.

This is where Agnes finds the perfect opportunity to get you alone. She starts her approach—to your surprise and discomfort—by acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“I know you don’t like me very much,” she says with a knowing smile. “Maybe we can change that tonight?”

You eye her with suspicion, easily seeing through her blatant attempts to flirt her way into your good graces.

“How exactly are we going to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms in front of you.

Agnes simply laughs off the cool reception you’ve given her. If anything, she revels in it. 

“By getting to know each other, obviously,” she says.

“Right.”

She takes your elbow, and you swear she can feel you recoil at her closeness, yet she doesn’t seem to care. She urges you forward, dictating the pace. Her grip is unexpectedly firm, as if to say you have no choice but to listen—like leaving isn't an option.

With you literally in her grasp, Agnes sets her plans into motion. “So, how did you and Wanda meet?” she asks.

You deliver the narrative precisely as it plays out in your memory, exactly as Wanda implanted it in your mind. “We grew up next to each other. Best friends since we were kids.” 

“How cute,” she says, in that smooth, supercilious tone that usually makes your skin crawl. But this time, with the memories of Wanda filling your head, you hardly notice.

“Yeah, I remember when I first saw her,” you continue, gazing into the distance as if the scene you speak of is right there before your eyes. “It was almost Halloween, and my mom had baked a pumpkin pie to welcome them to the neighborhood. She sent me to deliver it. Wanda answered the door.”

“Love at first sight?”

“More like the opposite,” you say, throwing Agnes a good-natured smile, something you’ve never done before. “She couldn’t stand me, and I felt the same way.”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Agnes drawls before accompanying it with a short chuckle. “Who knows? Maybe there’s hope for us yet. You might end up not hating me so much after all.”

“Maybe…” you say, the smile reaching your eyes this time.

“Good, good,” Agnes says. “I can’t think of anything more romantic than growing up with the person you’ll be with for the rest of your life. Almost like it’s… sketched out, no?”

You nod at her, not sure where she’s going with this, but you appreciate the sentiment. You consider yourself lucky to have known Wanda most of your life. 

“So, you've lived in Westview your whole life?” Agnes asks.

“Yes,” you nod without hesitation.

“And you've only ever been to Westview?”

“No, of course not,” you laugh, ready to list off places you've been, but suddenly, you can't name any. The cities and trips that should come easily to your tongue just... don't materialize.

Not a single one.

Agnes watches you struggle with a blank expression. A second later, she begins throwing out suggestions, as if trying to help. 

“Canada?" 

You shake your head. 

“California?” 

Another shake.

“New York?”

No. This time, your eyes sting with the frustration of trying to pull something from the haze, realizing there’s nothing there. 

Have you really never been anywhere but Westview?

“Eastview, maybe?” she offers with a bit of sarcasm as she names the town next door.

“I—”

“How strange,” Agnes muses, driving home the final nail in the coffin of your crumbling peace.

You jerk your arm away from her grip and take a few instinctive steps back. “I need to pick up the twins,” you blurt out, seizing the first excuse that comes to mind. “We should be heading out soon.”

Without waiting for her reply, you start walking away, driven by a sudden, intense need to be with your boys, with Wanda. To hold them close, to find some stability. Because right now, you’re petrified by a fear you cannot name. 

“I heard Australia’s amazing this time of year!” Agnes calls after you.

The idea of not having been anywhere but Westview—it’s possible, right? Some people spend their entire lives in one place. But if this feeling—the one that's been gnawing at you lately—is real, if the world outside of Westview is truly non-existent, then what does that say about your life here?

What does it say about you?

[tyrantisterror]

At Sea Without a Map pt. 40

...

...

...

You wake up.

The first thing you notice, before you even open your eyes, is a sense of near-weightlessness. You're... floating, almost, untethered and ungrounded. You are also entirely and completely wet. As your eyes bolt open, you realize that you're still underwater. Panic grips you, for while you miraculously have lungs full of air, you know that can't last-

"Oh look, he's finally awake!"

Before you can fully take in your surroundings, someone swoops in and fills your line of sight with her face, planting a big, soft kiss on your mouth that opens your lips up as she breathes air into your lungs.

Then she pulls away as quickly as she snuck in, swimming around you in a serpentine circle as two more of her kind emerge from the gloom into your line of sight.

You are surrounded by three scantily clad mermaids, and no, you are not dreaming.

The one that kissed you, the blonde with the big ponytail, flutters around behind the back of the bizarre chair you're sitting in. "We're so pleased to meet you, human! Ah, don't speak - you'll waste precious air. Not that you have to worry about that, though, dear - whenever you feel light-headed, we'll just give you a kiss and have you right as rain!"

"He's a real pretty one," says the sleepy looking mermaid with long red hair. "Much nicer looking than our last pet."

"Are we sure they're a he?" asks the brunette mermaid with the bob cut and heavy bangs.

"Of course he's a he," the blonde sneers. "I'm the human expert, remember? I think I know how to sex a human!"

"We haven't looked under its clothes," says the redhead. "That's the only way to be sure."

"Or ask them," suggests the brunette.

"And have him waste valuable air?" the blonde scoffs. "You just want an excuse to kiss him, Bob!"

The brunette looks away. "N-no! I just think - humans have such pretty voices, can't we let them speak a little?"

"We're trying to keep this one alive, Bob," the blonder hisses. "The last one didn't survive a week!"

"It was awfully old and crusty, though," says the redhead. "How long do you think this one will last, Helyne?"

"Oh, a good five years for sure," says the blonde. "He's a healthy one, I can tell!"

The brunette, Bob, perks up excitedly. "Five years? We'll get to play with this one for five years?!?"

"Only if you don't break it, Bob," says the redhead.

"You're the one who broke the last one, Clio!" Bob snaps back.

"Girls, girls, don't fight in front of the pet!" The blonde, Helyne, makes her two minions back off before swimming in front of you, purposely adjusting herself so that her chest is at your eye level. "Don't worry, sweet little human, you're safe now! We got you away from that fat, ugly eel, and now we're going to tend to your every need and make sure you live a long, happy life!"

"Five whole years!" says the redhead, Clio. "I bet you never thought you'd last that long, human!"

"Humans do flourish in captivity," Bob says with a knowing nod.

"And you're going to thrive with us!" Helyne's long, graceful fingers tip-toe up your shoulder before stroking your chin as she lifts your head up to look her in the eye. "We'll feed you, keep you, even breathe for you. Doesn't it sound like paradise?" She looks deep into your eyes and smiles. "Say nothing if you agree!" Then, without asking, she kisses you again, deeply on the mouth.

You panic, realizing that in some ways this is worse than just having a big scary thing try to eat you. Unsure of how to escape the mermaids, you reach for your compass, only to find an empty pocket. Your compass, your one guide, is gone.

Fuck.

~ ~ ~

Elsewhere, on the surface of the sea, your boat lies on a small beach of a rocky and foreboding little island. Its sides are covered in bleeding lacerations, and the jagged smile painted(?) on its front had turned into a grimace of pain. Calibani emerges from behind it, tying together a long chain of shirts and pants around some of the nastier cuts on the ship's side in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

"I know it's not kelp, but it'll have to do," Calibani tells the bleeding boat as she finishes her makeshift bandage. "I don't have time to find anything else. I think this island is safe enough - it's not a crocodile, at any rate." She looks at the ship and sighs, "I know you and I have had our difficulties, but you've looked out for Sailor, so... I hope you rest up well." Then she turns to the sea, shakes the anxiety out of her shoulders, and prepares to set off on a rescue mission.

However, just as she prepares to dive into the briny deep, a curious object washes up next to her finned feet. It's a metal box, small enough to fit in her hand, with markings that are familiar to her yet hard to place.

Reaching down to examine the strange object, Calibani consults your compass.

[youssefguedira]

V, JoeNicky & Nile

V. An abandoned or empty place.

When Joe pulls the sheet off the couch it kicks up enough dust that it makes Nile sneeze. The couch underneath is old, wooden frame rotting, fabric stained and full of holes where moths have eaten away at it. 

“Sorry,” Joe says to Nile when she finally manages to get the sneezing under control. ��Didn’t realise it was that bad.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks down at the couch. Nile looks it over.

“There’s no saving that,” she says, wiping at her eyes. She can heal from falling over ten stories, but she can’t get away from allergies.

Joe frowns. “I liked that couch.”

The house is older than anywhere else they’ve brought her, and has been abandoned for long enough that it’s falling apart. But through some trick of posing as their own sons, or something, Joe and Nicky still own it, even if there’s a giant hole in the roof and all the windows are broken. Why they’d decided to come back here, Nile doesn’t know, but it’s a nice enough area, and a good distraction from, well. Everything. Growing back a leg, she’s discovered, is not fun. 

From one of the other rooms – she thinks it’s the kitchen, she’s not actually sure where Nicky had wandered to – there’s the sound of something breaking and crashing to the ground, and a muffled curse. 

Joe makes a questioning noise in the vague direction of the kitchen. A few moments later, Nicky appears in the doorway, covered in dust. “I am okay,” he says. “But I think we will need to go out to eat tonight.”

“Nothing?” 

Nicky shakes his head. “Unless you want to start a fire and go hunt some rabbits.”

Joe grins. “Just like old times, right?”

Nile shakes her head firmly, which makes Nicky smile. She loves them, but there’s no way they’re doing that. 

“We can probably clear out enough space in here,” Joe says, gesturing to the floor. “Get the sleeping bags out of the car. Probably have to start a fire anyway, but…”

Nile looks around again while Joe says something to Nicky in Arabic that makes him laugh. The house is falling apart, sure, but it’s structurally stable, and the bones are all there. It could be something. They’ve got time to make it something. 

Nicky is the one who goes for pizza in the end – he doesn’t trust Nile and Joe to order it if left to their own devices – while they try to clear out a space in the living room. Eventually, though, after Nile has another sneezing fit, Joe suggests they just take the sleeping bags outside instead, which works out a lot better. He sets about starting a fire with practiced ease while Nile sets out the sleeping bags around it. They’re far enough away from civilisation that she can’t hear cars passing by, which is kind of surreal, and the stars are brighter than she’s ever seen them. 

When Nicky gets back, two boxes balanced on one arm and a bottle of wine in the other, he looks over their makeshift camp and laughs. “Just like old times, then?” he asks.

Joe grins. “Except we have pizza.”

“And actual sleeping bags,” Nile says.

“Ah, these modern inventions could never quite match the comfort of a pile of furs,” Joe says wistfully. Nile gives him a look. She’s ninety percent sure that one’s bullshit, but she can never quite tell with him. 

Nicky sets down the pizza boxes, and jogs back to the car to grab the pack of plastic wine glasses they’d bought before they got here. 

“We should’ve bought marshmallows,” Nile says. “Could have made s’mores.”

“Well, we’ll have to go to the hardware store tomorrow anyway,” Joe points out. “And I think it’ll be a little while before we can actually sleep in there.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Nicky agrees.

[katsukistofu]

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ k. bakugo x teacher! fem reader. fluff. ⭑ he keeps staring. the kids notice.

In your five years of teaching, you never thought you’d see Dynamight sitting cross-legged on the daisy shaped carpet in the center of your classroom, while your kids swarm around him to paint his face.

Warmth spreads across your chest as you take it all in. It’s quite the sight, to see the big, buff, seasoned twenty five year old pro hero letting all these tiny toddlers take turns taking clumsy swipes at his face with the colorful paints you bought for them the week before for art class.

What you don’t notice is the way his eyes trail to you wherever you are in the classroom. When you move to open the windows to let the fresh air in, to wipe the chalkboard, even when you’re organizing the mess of crayons on your desk into their rightful bins.

“Why do you keep staring at our teacher?” One of them, a little boy wearing his t-shirt backwards, curiously pipes up. Everyone else nods in agreement, they’ve been wondering the exact same thing.

“You gonna tell her what I said when I leave later?” Katsuki raises a brow. A chorus of playful noooo’s follow him.

“We’re gonna tell her while you’re still here!”

These little brats. He’s barely known these kids for two hours and already he knows that they love you like a second mother, and wouldn’t be letting him go so easily. There’s fondness in his eyes as Katsuki chuckles and leans in, and the kids eagerly lean in to hear what he has to say.

“I’m starin’ cause she’s pretty.”

Gasps and nods of agreement spread across the carpet just as you clap your hands together, your sweet voice ringing through the classroom, to which everyone, including Katsuki with his paint bedazzled face, turns to give you their fullest attention.

“Alright my angels, let’s give Mr. Dynamight some space now okay?”

Curious little eyes glance back and forth between you and Dynamight with, when someone loudly pipes up, “Ms. L/n doesn’t have a boyfriend!”

“Mr. Dynamight thinks you’re pretty!”

“He stares at you like the way my brother stares at ice cream!”

“Hey I was going to say that!”

Bickering ensues across the carpet and you simply gape at them as a hint of a smirk appears on Katsuki’s face.

Should we tell them after class? He mouths in your direction.

No, you mouth back, covering a giggle behind your hand at the continued chaos of your kids behind your boyfriend.

A little homework never hurt anyone.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC "Pick Me Up"

The stream goes live on the first day of the school year. It's the usual song and dance - mad laughing, threats, poor jokes, terror, and about thirty kids huddled together in a classroom behind Joker's back. Tim recognizes it as one of the Gotham Academy classrooms. Dick can't imagine the horror those kids' parents must be feeling right now. Jason jokes about middle school traumatic experiences. Damian is feeling very justified for skipping classes today.

Bruce, all suited up in his Batman garb, is making his way to the Academy as fast as he possibly can. Those are kids.

Gotham is once again anxiously kept on the edge of their seats, watching as Joker decides to interview the kids on their learning experience so far. Something about leaving a good first impression on the new generation or some other bullshit. Most kids stutter over their words - it's true that Gothamites are way more composed when facing life-threatening events, but those kids are only fourteen or fifteen for the most part. They are not old enough to keep their cool in the face of a murder clown.

That is, until Joker points his camera at one of the girls. Black hair in a high ponytail, blue eyes without a trace of fear, a slightly displeased, even bored expression on her face. She looks straight into the camera, not even waiting for the laughing madman to finish his question, and deadpans:

"I don't think I like school. Pick me up, please."

Joker sputters.

"Not so scared, I see," he sneers, and, in the next moment, a comically large gun painted in purples and greens is pointed to the girl's forehead, "How about now?"

The girl scrunches her nose and makes a so-so gesture.

"It's kinda meh," she admits, "Like, yeah, points for style, but you know, size doesn't matter. It's all in the technique."

Dick snorts over the comms. It's a bad time for laughing, sure, but the phrase caught him off-guard. This is not what you'd expect to hear from a teen, and definitely not something you'd expect anyone to say to the Joker. Jason's comms are muted, but Barbara knows he also laughed a little.

"Technique, you say?" Joker hisses, pressing the gun closer to the girl's head, and she winces, leaning away from it, almost as if she is disgusted by the touch.

"Yeah, I mean, guns are not that scary anyway. What are you gonna do with them, blast my brains all over the floor? Been there, done that," the girl shrugs, "Kinda nasty, but overall, it's just like slime, only sticky." She pauses and looks to the side, seemingly lost in thought, "Huh, maybe we should have added Borax to it. Or was it baking soda?.."

"Listen here, you little brat," Joker's fingers catch the girl's chin, and his voice becomes sickeningly menacing. Bruce is almost there, just two more minutes. Tim is already grappling onto the wall.

But none of them get to finish.

"Put your dirty fingers away from my sister," a low, cold, and even in a way that speaks of barely contained fury, voice comes from out of the screen.

The camera spins, like whoever is holding it turned really fast, and everyone watching the stream sees a fairly normal guy standing by the window - a turtleneck and ripped jeans, same black hair as the girl, same blue eyes... Wait, they are not blue.

And that's not a guy.

The camera falls down to the floor, and there are a lot of panicked screams coming from the broadcast now, but none of them sound like children's voices. It's the screams of adults, of grown-ass men, and later, someone even claimed they heard Joker's scream among them, too. The picture on camera glitches a few times, and the angle is awkward, but everyone still gets to see how shadows in the room morph into eyes, wide open and green, and how the darkness grows sharp teeth, countless grinning mouths that don't belong to any faces.

Screams turn into gargling and then to quiet whispers, filling the ears of all those listening with countless words in languages they don't know.

Red Robin turns off the recording and looks to that same guy from the levestream, sitting across him on the couch. The guy - Daniel, or Danny, as he introduced himself - looks him in the eyes and raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, and?"

"How did you do it?" Tim asks for the third time this evening. Danny blinks.

"Did what?" He asks, completely incomprehending. Tim groans. He's been trying to get his answers, any answers at this point, from the guy for thirty fucking minutes already. So far, he's got nothing. Danny, whoever the fuck he is, proves to be the most annoying human being on Earth.

"Seven people in a coma, including Joker himself, with no physical injuries and none of the children remember a thing! How?!" He demands, and a girl's face peeks from around the corner:

"I remember!"

Tim snaps his head at her, "What do you remember?"

The girl pauses, blinks, and looks to Danny. Then shrugs, "My brother picked me up from school."

Tim drops his head down and breathes out in frustration. He can't force the information out of civilians, he is a vigilante, not a mafia.

"Would it make you feel better if I promise not to do it again?" Danny asks, and his voice is way too innocent for Tim to believe him. He raises his head to look the guy in his shameless, amused eyes.

"I hate you."

"Thanks," Danny grins.

[hannahhasafact]

Just took a gift to a friend and not only did he seem to really like it he ALSO followed the brand’s instagram I WIN

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[luveline]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he’s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

[emmyrosee]

Keiji is absolutely nothing if not an attentive, knowing husband.

He’s good, he’s good at the whole marriage thing, knowing what makes you tic and what makes you purr, your anniversaries and outings and just being an absolute maniac when it comes to knowing all about you.

So imagine your complete, your total, your absolute horrific discovery to find out that today, he’s not home.

There’s no flowers, no note, no chaotic breakfast that Mei insisted on making you with Keiji- she claims today is her favorite holiday- and there’s nothing.

Not one of those things, on this birthday of yours.

To be honest, you don’t really mind, he’s one for… however many years you’ve known him, he was bound to forget it at some point (you certainly know you’ve had a few close calls), it just feels strange to have a birthday just with you and not your loving husband or eager daughter.

You stretch, yawn and slowly get out of bed, making your way to the kitchen to prepare for your day off, eager to spend some time alone and not have to worry about anything until you pick up your four year old.

Who is just as surprised as you at Keiji’s forgetting. Who takes a vendetta against Keiji for forgetting.

“You mean daddy didn’t take care of you today?” She says sadly. “That’s not nice of him…”

You giggle, “it’s okay, it’s just one day, yeah?”

“But!” She whines. “I made you a card! ‘Nd we should have a cake! And a birffday party!”

You shrug as you continue to strap her in, “well, sometimes, things don’t exactly pan out like we’d expect them to. And that’s okay! Besides,” you take out your credit card and flash it to Mei, “now we can have a girls day, yeah? Brag to daddy all about it.”

She beams up at you, and you finish buckling her into her seat.

Nails have been painted, delicious pastries for dessert have been picked, a cake to be baked and decorated has been prettied up, and now, all you can do is wait for Keiji to come home and witness all the fun he’d missed today.

Sure enough, 15:34 rolls around, and Keiji comes through the door, sleepy smile on his face and jacket shrugging off of his shoulders. “Hey, my girls.”

“Hey,” you hum, making your way over to him. You toss your arms around his neck and pucker your lips out for a kiss, which he tenderly returns. “How was work?”

“Exhausting,” he says with a small whine. “So glad to be home with the two loves of my life.” He smiles and kisses you again, only to then make eye contact with his daughter, who eyes him in a scold. He crouches down and reaches out to pinch her cheeks, only for her to dodge him slightly.

“And how’s my favorite little-“

“Hmph!”

Immediately, Keiji is cut off by the sound of your four year old’s disapproval, and he watches with a displeased furrow as she stomps her foot with crossed arms and turns away from him. His jaw is slacked, at the mercy of Mei and your attempts to not cackle out loud.

His eyes, filled with incredulous confusion flick back up to you in search for your assistance in correcting her attitude, but you say nothing. Instead, you place your hands on your hips and look down your nose at him.

He straightened his back and took a deep inhale for patience, “excuse me?”

“I said:” once again, Mei stomps her foot and crosses her arms tighter over her tiny chest, “hmph!”

“Have i upset you, Mei?” He asks, crouching lower to try and get her to open up to him. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“You should know,” she snips.

God she’s so cute, you could just bite her.

Keiji, right now however, may disagree with that sentiment.

“I don’t think I like this attitude, little miss-“

“Not my fault you didn’t wish mommy happy birffday today!” Mei pouts, and instantly, Keiji’s brows shoot up, from anger to surprise. When he turns to look at you in confirmation, your expression turns from one of amusement, to faux anger to match Mei’s. His gaze softens, and he reaches his hands out to you for your affection.

“R…Really?”

“Really really,” you confirm. “I was super surprised our four year old and Koutarou remembered before you did.”

All the color drains from his face, and for a moment your expression softens as he looks like he’s about to faint right in front of you. “Kou…Koutarou remembered?”

“Honestly all of the Jackals did- Kiyoomi even sent me a card that’s due to come.” The detail, all though a little unnecessary, again makes him deflate, and even if your intentions are cruel, he looks so cute trying to grovel for forgiveness.

“Baby… my love… I’m so, so sorry-“

“You should be,” you huff, crossing your arms dramatically. “It’s a good thing I had Mei to keep me company all day, apparently she’s the only Akaashi who loves me.”

“Yeah!” Mei’s voice echos behind Keiji. It makes him snort and drop his head against your shoulder, palms smoothing up your hips and sides in an attempt to be affectionate, though the action only has you melting into his embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he hums from your neck, peppering soft kisses along the length. Your breath hitches and your own hands come up to rest on his own shoulders. “Is there anything I can do to make up for it?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, giggling softly when he tenses up, then looking up it you in betrayal. “I want ramen. I want ice cream and chips, and I want to watch classic Disney movies as a family, and I want to do those cute panda face masks Mei got us for our anniversary with Koutarou.”

“Okay… okay I can do that; what kind of chips?”

“All of them.”

“You got it.” With that, Keiji kisses your cheek and quickly turns on his heal to head back out to the corner store to stock up on everything you asked for.

“Mommy?” Mei asks, tugging your pant leg.

“What baby?”

“Are you mad at daddy?”

You smile and ruffle her hair, bending down to pick her up and help you set up the rest of your birthday wishes.

“Couldn’t be mad at daddy even if I wanted to be.”

[ahqkas]

BRUCE WAYNE never thought something as simple as a walk through the park could undo him so completely. he had been passing through on his way to a wayne foundation meeting, a brief moment of peace in his usually packed schedule, when his eyes caught the scene.

a toddler—no more than two, maybe three years old—stumbled through the snow, mittened hands clutching tightly to her father’s pant leg. she was bundled in a too-big scarf and a pink hat, hear head tilted to gaze at the snowflakes around her, her cheeks red from the cold.

he froze, mid-step, completely caught off guard by the wave of baby fever that crashed over him. it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about children before. he already had a house full of them—though they came to him much older, with the weight of trauma already etched into their young faces. but this was different. she was different. he imagined a tiny girl like that in his life, her small hand slipping into his with absolute trust, her laughter filling the empty corners of wayne manor.

by the time he returned home, the manor blanketed in snow, his gloves still clutched in his hands, his thoughts had become a single drumbeat: i want that.

he found you in the library, a fleece blanket draped over your legs, a book in hand as you sat in your favorite chair by the window. the firelight flickered over your face, softening your features, making you look like you belonged in one of the stories you loved so much.

“you’re back early,” you said, voice breaking the stillness. you glanced up from the book and your lips quirked into a smile that stopped him in his tracks. “everything okay?”

he didn’t answer right away, his gaze tracing your features like he was committing them to memory. finally, he crossed the room, shedding his coat as he went, draping it across the back of the chair opposite yours.

“i saw something today,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. bruce knelt before you, one hand resting on the arm of the chair as the other gently took the book from your hands. you let him, brow furrowing slightly as you tilted your head at his actions.

“what did you see?”

“a little girl,” his eyes locking onto yours. “she couldn’t have been more than two. she was holding onto her father’s leg, bundled up in a scarf that practically swallowed her whole. she was laughing.”

his words lingered in the space between the two of you, thick with unspoken meaning. your expression softened as you realized where this was heading, fingers brushing against his hand where it rested on your chair.

“she reminded me of something,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “or maybe she made me realize something. i want that, with you. i want us to have a child—a little girl, a boy, i don’t care. i just . . . want it to be ours.”

your breath hitched in the back of your throat as your cheeks flushed—not just from the fire, but from the intensity of his words, of the way his eyes burned into yours like he could see every part of you—the future and the past. “bruce . . .” you began, voice barely above a whisper, but he leaned closer, cutting off whatever protest or question lingered on your lips.

“it’s all i could think about on the way home,” he murmured, his forehead brushing against yours, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate tone. “how much i want to see you holding our baby, to watch them grow up with you. to give them everything we didn’t have.”

you swallowed hard at his words, your soft hand sliding up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there.

“well, it’s a good thing we’re snowed in tonight.”

bruce froze for a moment, then a slow, knowing smile curved his lips. he rose to his full height, pulling you gently to your feet, the book forgotten as it tumbled to the floor.

“is that so?” he asked, his voice like velvet, rough and warm all at once.

you didn’t answer with words, just slipped your hand into his, your gaze steady despite the flush painting your cheeks. your husband pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips, before guiding you from the library, the firelight casting long, flickering shadows in your wake.

and as snow continued to fall outside, the world quiet and still, the manor felt a little less cold that night.

[77gigabytes]

Mini-me {Love and Deepspace boys}

I can't stop imagining the LADS boys with kids. Mainly because of the "Plushies I gave her; plushies she gave me" trend. I CAN'T, I CANNOT, I DO NOT HAVE THE ABILITY TO CAN XD

Enjoy!

-Seven

|| Masterlist ||

Rafayel ❖· ────── · ·

Rafayel is as much of a child as he is a man

I think that Rafayel would have a son.

Right now, the two of you aren’t planning for another child, but Rafayel wouldn’t say no XD

Rafayel would be super fun and silly with your son

He would be overly dramatic when your son presents a new drawing of craft to him

“Here, papa,” Your son presents a painting of the ocean to Rafayel, “I tried the oil paints this time.”

With a hand at his chest, Rafayel does a big gasp, “What a masterpiece!”

Your son giggles

“I should present this at my next art exhibit!”

Please, as much as he exaggerates his reactions, he would have those painting and trinkets buried with him - that’s how much he loves your son

I imagine that one day as you’re cooking, they’re in the living room and Rafayel has your son’s hand enveloped in his own, guiding him as he paints.

It reminds you of that time in his studio in Greensprings after you promised to see the lanterns together

“What should we add next, kiddo?”

“Hmmm.” Your son taps the paintbrush on his chin, “What about some birds?”

“Heh, like the ones that stole your chips the other day?”

“It wasn’t the birds! It was you, papa!” he jabs the paintbrush at Rafayel’s chest

Rafayel lifts his hands up in surrender, “What do you mean? I’m innocent.” He chuckles as your son pouts at him

More often than not, the two of them are covered in paint, or whatever art supply they used. It ends up to be a whole load of washing for you >:(

Your son definitely loves the ocean just as much as his father.

When you were pregnant with him, he would kick in your belly whenever you were swimming or submerged in water.

As a toddler, he would kick his legs and squeal every time the waves washed over him

Rafayel would have his hands under your son’s arms, stabilising him so that the waves wouldn’t push him over

Now at six years old, he’s diving under, collecting shells and chasing fish,“Momma, look at this shell.” He lifts his small palm carrying a pink shell, his pearly whites beaming up at you as he smiled, “You can have it, momma, orrrrr, maybe I can make it into a paint with papa later.”

It’s late afternoon and your son is knocked out on the couch from spending the entire morning at the beach.

You and Rafayel get started on dinner

Rafayel comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Thank you.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Huh?” You pinch your brows and chuckle a little as he nuzzles your neck, “What for?”

He takes a deep breath, “I don’t know, just… For our son, for being my wife, I’m just happy, I guess.”

You chuckle lightly, “I’m happy too.” You turn around and pinch his cheek, “A little jealous that he takes after you so much, but happy.” you offer a bright smile.

Before Rafayel can lean in, his arms are jerked away from your waist

Your son is pulling at Rafayel’s arms, “No, papa! Momma is mine!” He’s leaning all the way back, using his entire weight as leverage to pry Rafayel’s body from yours, “Go away, papa!”

Rafayel scoffs, “Yours?” He raises an eyebrow, “Tsk.” He clicks his tongue and hauls your son over his shoulder, Your momma was mine first, you jellyfish!”

Rafayel's fingers jab at your son's sides, and the sound of your son’s laughter fills the kitchen “Hahaha, pa—haha-papa! Stop!” He’s got tears in his eyes but the biggest smile on his face.

“Nope!” Rafayel pops the ‘p’ and continues to tickle him, “I gotta show you who’s the big fish in this tank, pipsqueak.”

You shake your head and put an hand at your hip, the other one pointing the spatula at them, “Alright, enough, or both of you aren’t getting dinner.”

Sylus ❖· ────── · ·

Sylus has a daughter, a son, and another on the way!

He’d spoil them ROTTENNNNNN. I mean, he buys you dresses, gives you his black card to spend as much as you want, what more would he do for your children? Or rather, what wouldn’t he do for them?

He would definitely be the type to let your children learn how to do things on their own, even if they are clearly struggling. He lives by the ‘they’ll never learn if they don’t do it themselves.’ idea - he literally says "I prefer the cold and things that make me strong."

Although, he would yield after a little while when they’re clearly upset and wailing, but more often than not, with some gentle encouragement, he’d get them to figure out how to do it themselves - climbing thing, opening boxed, pulling out chairs, etc.

It gets a little troublesome since they become explorative - he often has to use his Evol to reign them back in. Although, the children squeal in delight when they’re lifted into the air and land in their father’s arms.

Mephisto is surprisingly gentle with your little ones, keeping his claws and beak out of range because it could hurt them, but also because they wouldn’t hesitate to grab it XD

Luke and Kieran are often on babysitting duty so that you and Sylus can go out - Honestly, this is why you have another baby on the way. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Sylus would totally hum to your belly, always off-tune, but he definitely would.

ANYWAY

Today, you’re out on an errand and your baby boy is absolutely crying to bits so Sylus and your daughter are trying their best to calm him down

Sylus has your daughter on his shoulders as he changes your son’s diaper. Your daughter has her hands in his hair as she makes silly faces down at her brother to try and distract him from crying.

By the time you come home, it’s quite late and you find that they are all sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor, toys scattered about and a kids show playing in the background.

Your son is splayed out on Sylus chest while your daughter is on her stomach, across Sylus’ stomach XD

You chuckle a lightly at their positioning

The lack of sleep must have finally caught up to Sylus, huh? You think

As you come closer you realise that your son is awake - he’s cooing with a fist in his mouth, drooling all over Sylus’ shoulder.

With a little difficulty, you kneel down onto the floor to slip your son out from Sylus’ arms. Slow and steady… The last few times you’ve tried, Sylus’ eyes would snap open, on high alert -because who would dare try to take his precious angels.

Anyways, you decided that Sylus probably needs the sleep, especially since you’re pregnant again, he’s been so on edge

You cradle your son in one arm, and with the other, you run your hand through Sylus’ hair - which he subconsciously leans into.

Then, you lean down to place a light kiss on your daughter’s cheek, although leaning down has become a challenge in itself with your growing belly.

With the support of a nearby armchair, you stand yourself up.

You make your way over to the cushioned rocking chair in the corner of the room, cradling your son to your chest to feed him.

Just as he finishes, your daughter’s slowly sits up from where she was laying. She rubs at her eyes and blinks sleepily - a vibrant red, like her father’s, peeking through.

She looks around the room and gasps in delight when her eyes land on you, “Mama!”

She takes a few steps to you and then stops midway to look back at her father. She hurriedly grabs the throw blanket from the armchair and throws it across her father, uncaring of whether it covered him properly or not.

“Hi, mama.” She greets you as she climbs to sit in your lap

“Hi, sweetie.” You gently caress her face, “How was your day?”

“Mmm…” She quirks her lips, “Well, little bubba was crying a lot, like, a lot, a lot.”

You chuckle as she spreads her arms all the way apart.

“But I missed you." She nuzzles into your shoulder, "Daddy did too, he kept looking at the clock.”

Hehe, ever the observant girl your daughter was.

“Aww, I missed you, and daddy, and bubba as well.” You press little pecks to her face and nuzzle your nose with hers to which she giggles. Like tinkling bells in the wind.

Zayne ❖· ────── · ·

I feel like Zayne would have a son and a daughter. Your son would be quite a few years older than her though

Some days, Zayne would take them to work, subtly showing them off to his colleagues

Greyson never misses the opportunity to pinch their cheeks and ruffle their hair, “They both look like a mini Dr. Zayne."

Zayne may have all those awards and trophies lining his office walls, but his pride and joy will always be his children

He may not outwardly express it, but he absolutely cherishes them - reading them bedtime stories, tucking them in with the lightest kiss upon their foreheads

I imagine your son would be very studious, having read most of the books occupying the shelves of Zayne’s office. He would be quite curious, exploring the hospital and asking the doctors all sorts of questions that they themselves do not even have the answers to.

He would be your little gentleman, learning from his father, pulling out chairs and opening doors.

Your daughter would probably be a little shy, always having a fist clenched on her daddy’s clothes or holding onto his hands, or rather his fingers.

Her big brother wouldn’t hesitate to get her whatever she wanted or take her wherever she wishes - your family’s little princess

As much of a workaholic Zayne is, and as much as he wants to provide for you and your little family, he would have no problems lessening his hours to spend time with you and the children

It doesn’t matter how tired he is from a long day of endless surgeries, he would just as eagerly play with them in the living room

“Here, Dad, have a turn.”

“What is it?” Zayne removes his coat and drapes it over the couch’s armrest.

“Uncle Greyson bought it for us.” Your son leads Zayne over to the living room table.

“Uncle Greyson, huh?”

Your son brushes over the comment and continues to explain the little toy, “You have to take these plastic organs and bacteria out without touching the edges or else it beeps and his nose flashes a red light.”

Ever the steady-handed surgeon, Zayne takes them all out without a problem.

“Daddy,” your daughter clutches at the fabric of Zayne’s dress shirt. “I want to try.”

Zayne beckons her over to stand in front of him where he can support her little hands holding the plastic forceps

On the off chance that you are not with them, Zayne would get them sweet treats on the way home

“It’ll be our little secret.” Zayne whispers, with a finger pressed to his lips

your son and daughter giggle in their seats and happily gobble up spoonfuls of the dessert

It isn’t long before they all start having toothaches and receive a scolding from you

On family vacations, you all end up in a cabin up in the mountains of Snowcrest (at the request of your sweet little angels)

Zayne is more than happy to teach them how to snowboard,

Much to your surprise, as your daughter grew older, you found that she was quite proficient in snowboarding

But there used to be times where Zayne made them little tiaras and crowns of ice and built little ice castle with them using his Evol

Xavier ❖· ────── · ·

Sleeps as much as your newborn son, if not more, and your eldest son has inherited his father’s incredible appetite.

When you’re not at home, Xavier nearly burns the house down trying to make food for them, so once your son was old enough, he opted to learn how to cook - having his father as an assistant because, you know… they need supervision or something XD

Xavier would definitely read them bed time stories

His voice is so soft and mellow, they would fall asleep so quickly

Not much of a surprise considering that Xavier falls asleep at the drop of a hat

But on days when they have nightmares, Xavier would use his Evol to create little bunnies and flowers that float around in their bedroom

and when sleep finally overtook them, he would tuck their blankets around them and whisper,

“Sweet dreams, my little starlight.”

Most days, in your lounge, your younger son would be crawling all over Xavier as he laid on the floor.

“Arghh, the monster’s got me.” he would jokingly say.

Your older son would then come in with a cardboard sword, gently tapping his little brother on the back to slay the monster

Xavier cradles the young one in his arms, “And the hero has saved the day once again!” He lifts the infant up into the air and receives a toothless smile.

“Just like you and mommy!” Your son beams down at Xavier, sword and shield still poised, “You keep us safe from all the wanderers, right? I wanna be just like you and mommy.”

Xavier just smiles - the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes, “Well, we better start training, huh?” Xavier ruffles your son’s hair.

Although he may not be as well-off as Sylus, he definitely would do his best to spoil them, bringing them to amusement parks, buying them little star lamps for their bedrooms, taking them to the arcade and playing kitty cards with them.

One time, you all went on a holiday to this guest house in the forest. When you asked him how he knew about this place he replied with:

“I befriended the uncle that runs this guesthouse while I went fishing that one time.”

Xavier would take them hiking, showing your sons the most scenic views in the forest

when night time came, all four of you were laying down on a blanket, gazing at the stars

Today, he’s taken you to a cherry blossom park. He’s got your eldest son on his shoulders, and your little one in a baby carrier at his front.

Your eldest son is reaching up trying to grasp at the pink petals some of which fall onto your youngest’s head.

Xavier quickly lets go of your hand, which he was holding, to brush them out of your baby’s face. (he’s using the other one to stabilise your son’s leg over his shoulder)

Just as quickly, he grasps your hand once more.

You squeeze his hand lightly, “Let me take the carrier from you, Xavier.”

“No, it’s okay.” He quickly refuses, “I want to carry them both. It won’t be long before they’ll be too big to do so.”

AHHHHAAA, I'm finally finished with exams, so I'll be able to write more often. Yahooooo ~(˘▾˘~)

But brooooo, the Lads with KIDSSSSS I CAN DIE HAPPY

-Seven

|| Masterlist ||

[princessbrunette]

ᡣ𐭩 ｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅PRINCESSBRUNETTES SCREAM SALON INTRODUCES … ໒꒰ྀི ˃̵ ࿁ ˂̵ ꒱ྀིა

PICTURE YOU ࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃

♩chappell roan — picture you ♩

pairing: pervy pope, jj, john b x reader

cw: sexual fantasies, the pogues being peeping toms, masturbation.

you are responsible for your own media consumption. welcome to kinktober day five. better late than never!

pope knew was he was doing was wrong. you were his neighbour for christs sake.

at the end of the day, he was but a man— and whilst he had no intention of stooping to full pervert level like this, he had slipped up and bragged to the wrong people, AKA — jj maybank, about how his fine ass neighbour had a certain… routine, every friday night… and would leave her bedroom blinds open for it.

the regret fully kicked in when he opened his front door, seeing the excited expression on his two best friends faces.

“no. i shouldn’t have told you.” is how pope greets them.

“dude it’s fine,” jj reiterates, easily moving past him in the entrance to his house with a clap on the shoulder, an only slightly less enthused john b following closely behind with an awkward but willing smile. “we’re not gonna watch. we’re just gonna… like — happen to glance out the window. while she’s flickin’ the bean.”

“thats — that doesn’t make it any more okay.” pope stresses, following his friends up to his bedroom.

“look, she leaves her blinds open right? isn’t that what you said? have you maybe considered that… possibly, and hear me out on this… she wants to be watched?” john b, usually the voice of reason finds it in himself to convince pope just that little more, wide puppy-like eyes doing most of the convincing. he’s probably the only reason pope hasn’t grabbed them both by the scruff of the neck and hauled them out.

the night goes on, and honestly — the perverted plan is nearly forgotten about until their attention is brought to the window just across from popes, the lamp switching on as you arrived home from work. john b swivels on popes desk chair, nodding his head toward the sight with a whistle.

“oop, shows starting.”

“honey, i’m home.” jj sings out in a high pitched voice, excited for what’s to come.

“you’re so much better than this, john b.” pope deadpans, double taking at jj as he switches off the lights to the bedroom sending them all into darkness. “what the hell?”

“do you wanna get caught creepin’ on your neighbour? no? didn’t think so.”

“you done this before jayj?” there’s a lilt of teasing to the brunettes voice as his blonde counterpart grabs a seat and drags it up beside him, the young adults gathered as they watch your figure dart around the room going about your nightly activities.

“shh.”

the boys curse, ducking down slightly when you suddenly appear at your window, fingers grazing the blinds. they stay deadly still in the dark, barely even breathing as to not draw attention to the fact they’re gathered round to watch you. you look pensive, hesitant, like you’re about to draw the blinds and shut the world out and yet… you don’t. you back away, leaving them open.

“huh.” pope breathes, glancing at his wavy haired friend.

“likes an audience. interesting.” routledge hums, voice deep and breathy.

you begin to undress, and they swear the air in the room gets thicker. peeling your leggings down your legs like they’d been painted onto you for the day creates an audible reaction from your neighbour and his friends, jj even going as far as to stick his knuckle in his mouth.

“god damn.” he garbles, earning a hum of agreement.

“oh you really lucked out here pope. the only neighbour i ever had was a 70 year old woman. trust me when she left her blinds open you look the other way.” john b doesn’t remove his eyes from the scene as he recounts the anecdote, causing pope to screw up his face.

the truth was, pope did have his own fantasies and perversions. he told himself time and time again, he wasn’t watching. he was at his desk first, you left your blinds open. visions of you at the library you worked at, helping him with research in that little mini skirt he saw you wear once. bending over to rummage shelves, sweet fat crescent of your pussy on display through your panties. pope would have no choice but to take you right there on the table behind the bookshelves, the two of you trying to stay quiet as he disappears between your thighs, seeking out that sweet nectar…

when he snaps out of it, you’re already on the bed, in perfect eyeshot of the window. just you, that dim lamp that made your skin seem to glow, an oversized tshirt and some panties.

“you guys don’t feel wrong doing this?” pope speaks in a hushed voice like you might be able to hear.

“how could something so right be so wrong, my friend?” jj pulls out a joint to stick into his mouth, only to have it plucked from his lips and tossed aside by the heyward boy.

“i’m drawing a line.”

“alright, that’s fair.”

“you guys are missing it.” john b hums, entranced by the way you palm at your tits through the top, eyes fluttering shut as your body starts to relax into the bed. “putting on a show for us.”

silence falls upon them finally as they stare, your hands trailing down to lift the hem of your shirt up and over your breasts, massaging the fat and plucking at the nipples.

“oh wow.” pope breathes, jj breaking out into a grin.

“this is some american pie shit right here.”

“grow up.”

“i’m just saying.”

it seems like forever before your hands reach down to your panties, fingers gingerly dusting over the thin fabric of what appears to be baby blue panties with a pink bow at the top centre. jj even swears he can see the gloss of your arousal on your open thighs from where he’s sat. you begin to rub yourself through the material, teasingly and you pull your bottom lip beneath your teeth, sucking in a breath.

“th’atta girl.” john b murmurs, and the air in the room suddenly feels too hot, too stifling. it wasn’t this hot five minutes ago.

“its like i… can’t look away.” pope justifies in just above a whisper, finally perching down to a more comfortable view, watching the way your head tosses side to side, back arching just that little bit as you try and find a better angle. patience leaves you, and you’re pulling the panties off all together.

“would you look at that.” jj marvels, before glancing at his two friends. “y’all mind if i jerk off real quick?”

“what?” pope screws up his face, and john b glances at him.

“yeah, uh. i mind.”

“it can’t wait?” pope adds, shaking his head and jj throws up his hands.

“i thought that’s what we were doing’ here alright my bad!” he dodges john b’s disapproving swat, eyes wide. “oh that’s where you draw the line? y’all are not real freaks.”

“no.” john b shakes his head, pope chiming in with a “thank god.”

but as their attention lands on you once more, your fingers sinking into that glossy hole — they begin to really reconsider their choice.

[alexthetrashyracoon]

To be honest, at first you weren’t one hundred percent sure if Simon would be the right man for you, Simon was the complete opposite from you, he was organized and had a strict routine which he had from his background in the military. You were constantly improvising and try to get shit done.

But the moment you accidentally stumbled into the living room, seeing your seven year old daughter Cara, sitting in his lap and painting his nails in bright pink nail polish.

“Mhm…” you hear her mumbled, scratching her hair as she finishes to paint his thumb, half his nail is still naked, some of his fingertip is actually drenched in color, but she does it with passion. “Nope! Unicorn Pink isn’t yours!”

“I told you, little princess,” Simon chuckles and holds his hand up to look at the painted nails in the sunlight that streams inside. “I would say… let us try Dolphin Blue, yeah?” He grins as he looks at you from the corner of his eyes.

You feel like you were in heaven as you watched the scene unfold

Your daughter agrees and slips out of his lap, running past you without paying attention and almost falling due to the stone floor being slippery and she wearing fuzzy socks. But she can catch herself and hurry into her room.

“How was work?” Simon asks and stands up from the couch he’s sitting on, careful to not make a mess with his nails and the open bottle of nail polish, Simon puts the lid back on it to keep it from drying out too quickly.

“We had a very fun day.” Simon smiles at you, taking the worry from your shoulders. At first you weren’t sure if this would work out, Simon alone with Cara, it would be the first time without you being there. But it seemed it worked out in the end.

“We went to the Zoo, she is now obsessed with otters. We grabbed McDonalds on the way home, she had her nap. So… you can sit back and relax.” He grabs your face in his big hand, rubbing his pink painted thumb over you lip before leaning down to greet you in his own way, catching your lips in an open kiss, breathing new life into your tired body after your stressful work day.

“Is it too early to ask for you to marry me?” You giggle lovingly and wrap your arms around his midriff and burry your face in his chest. Simon huffs out a laugh and pats your head. “I’ll ask you in three months but you have to act surprised then.” He grinned and you cannot not laugh at his proposal.

“Got it!” You daughter announces when she returns and grins up to you two. “Have you seen Daddy’s new nails? They will look much better in Blue!” She grins and walks back to the couch.

Simon is silent for a moment and you think that he will leave now that your daughter called him Daddy. But he surprises you. “See, I have to marry you now, she loves me. Can’t break her little heart now, can I? Also, her other parent is kinda hot.” He whispers in your ear before following Cara onto the couch to let her continue her manicure on his rough but gentle hands.

[authorhjk1]

dont you think Haewon deserves to get absolutely destroyed in her childhood room while her parents are downstairs

Marking

(Oh Haewon X Male Reader)

"I don't really get, why you had to come too. It's not like you're my boyfriend."

"I'm not. Lucky me."

You feel Haewon's elbow in your ribs.

"Hey, I'm driving!"

"So what?"

You send her an angry glare, before looking back ahead, focusing on the traffic.

The two of you are on your way to Haewon's parents. They are celebrating their anniversary today. A special one. 25 years. And the both of you are invited. Haewon for obvious reasons and you because you know her father. You only found out after your shenanigans at her place after your breakup. You saw a picture of him on her fridge while you left. And it turns out, he is your boss.

Well, not exactly. He is the head of the marketing team at the company you're working at. You are in a different department. He still has the higher position though. The two of you had to work together occasionally and, despite the age difference, you got along very well. That was, until you started to fuck his daughter's brains out every chance you got.

"We are here."

The two of you get out of the car. While Haewon walks towards the door, you get her stuff and trail after her. She didn't have time to change into her dress yet.

"Mom, dad!"

Haewon greets them and you shake the pair's hands afterwards. Luckily, her father knows that your ex girlfriend Sullyoon is his daughter's best friend. So it's not that weird that the two of you know each other. But it might have been a little suspicious for the two of you to arrive in the same car.

"Please come in. We have prepared lunch already."

"Thank you."

You smile at them, but you can't help but feel guilty. You doubt that they know what you have been doing to their beloved daughter every single day for the past couple of weeks.

"Haewon, go upstairs and get changed. After we are finished eating, we are driving to the party."

"Please, Mr. Oh. Let me drive. The two of you should just relax today."

"Thank you so much, dear."

Haewon's mom accepts your offer with a big smile.

"Too bad that Sullyoon found you, before our daughter did."

"Mom!"

Haewon's cheeks turn red in embarrassment as her mom teases her.

"She is coming too today, why is she not here?"

You glance at Haewon upon hearing her dad's question. Seems like she hasn't told them yet. Maybe to have an excuse for the two of you to keeps seeing each other.

"Well, she... She is very busy with work these days. She told me to pick Haewon up and drive her here. She will catch up with us at the party."

Not your finest moment, but you don't want to call Haewon a liar in front of her parents.

Come upstairs

You stare at the message on your phone. What the hell, Haewon? You know what she wants from you. But this is her parents house. Her father is sitting two meters away from you. How could you...

If you come upstairs now, I'll admit it.

You scoff in disbelief. This has been going on for weeks and now, Haewon wants to admit that she is a whore? A little late in your opinion. But then again, hearing it from her own mouth, while she cums on your cock...

The picture in your head makes you get off the couch.

"Haewon texted me. She needs help with her dress."

You explain yourself without even thinking about your words. It's surprising to see how fast your blood can rush from your brain to your cock, just by thinking of Haewon's desperate moans and whines.

"Sure. Go ahead"

You're glad her father doesn't seem to catch on as you climb the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

You barge into Haewon's childhood room. She stands in the middle. Naked.

"Took you longer than I expected."

You slowly tear your eyes off her naked frame and scan the room. A bed, a desk, a wardrobe. Nothing special. Her walls are decorated with her paintings though. She was definitely not very old, when she made them. They look like ones from six year olds. But still not bad. Your eyes land on the wax crayons, which are lined up by color, lying on her desk. But the nude woman in front of you quickly brings back your attention on her.

Haewon steps forward, her arms wrapping around your neck.

"Fuck me and I confess."

You roll your eyes.

"I'm not falling for that again."

"It's not a joke this time."

Haewon gives you grin.

"Admit it first. Then I fuck you."

This is how your 'relationship' started out anyways. Haewon broke you and Sullyoon up and just wouldn't admit that she did it, because she wanted you. Because she is a slut.

"No. Wrong order."

Haewon gives you another teasing grin.

"Fine."

You give in, knowing that, except for fucking it out of her, there is not much you can do about it anyway.

The two of you quickly engage in a heated kiss, warming each other up. Not that Haewon needs much of that. You can tell by how her core rubs against your thigh.

"If you want me to fuck you good, you better start sucking."

You whisper into her mouth, while slightly pulling away.

"You are not too big of a whore yet to take all of it without lube."

Haewon bites your lip, the pain makes you flinch.

"You just want to see me choke on it again."

Without a word, you grab her shoulders and push her down.

"Not that I'm complaining."

A devilish grin appears on her otherwise innocent face.

Haewon starts out slow by just putting the tip into her mouth. She lets her tongue swirl around it, while both her hands wrap around your cock.

Her blowjob is everything but slow and sensual though, once she gets into it. Like a hungry animal, Haewon starts to engulf your cock. You're reminded of this morning. That's how your day started.

Her hands quickly stroke you, while her head bobs up and down. Her eyes look up at you, almost mocking your inability to keep standing still. You can't help it. You have to hold onto something, or you'll fall. The only thing in sight, as usual, is Haewon's head.

You place one of your hands on top of it. Haewon immediately stops. Her eyes tell you to use her. Her eyes tell you that she is a whore. But her mouth still doesn't. To be fair, it's full with cock right now. But you make a silent promise to yourself. Within the next twenty minutes, Haewon will be calling herself a whore, while she begs for more.

You slowly pull her back onto your cock. Only halfway though. It doesn't make her choke, but you can already hear her breathing through her nose. You loosen your grip, Haewon's lips glide along your length, until they reach your tip. A moment to let her take one last breath.

A second later, Haewon chokes hard. Your cock is blocking her airflow. It's entirety is stuffed down her throat. Her nose is pressed against your abdomen. You hold her in place.

One second

Two seconds

Three seconds

Four seconds

Five seconds

Haewon's eyes give you a silent challenge. Every fiber of her being tells you that she is a whore. Why can't her mouth do the same?

Five seconds turn into ten seconds.

Spit starts to leak out of the corners of her mouth.

Ten seconds turn into fifteen seconds.

Haewon's eyes become wider as she realizes that you don't intend to let go anytime soon.

Fifteen seconds turn into twenty seconds.

Her nostrils flare as Haewon's breathing becomes heavier, faster.

Twenty seconds turn into twenty five seconds.

Her drool now falls off her chin in the form of long strings.

Just as you reach thirty seconds, you let go.

Haewon falls off your cock. Her mouth still hanging open as she backs away. She tries to catch her breath, her naked chest heaving heavily.

"I will wait for your confession, once you're done with surviving."

You give her smug grin.

Haewon doesn't have the energy to reply. The lack of oxygen is still visible.

"Or are you in for round two?"

This time, Haewon shakes her head.

"But you're not gonna confess what a whore you are?"

She shakes her head again.

You groan.

"Fine. But I will not be leaving this room, until your whole body screams whore."

You take a step closer towards her desk.

"And I know just the right way to start."

After grabbing the red wax crayon, you turn back around. Haewon's eyes are slowly wandering towards your hand.

"I hope this washes off easily. For your sake."

Haewon barely has time to open her mouth, before you're already towering over her. Taking a fistful of her short hair, you make her turn her head.

The young woman feels the cold crayon on her cheek. You stain her gorgeous face. Her skin senses your handwriting. The swing of the letter S. A straight line down, one to the right. An L. Another swing U. Two more lines form a T.

You let go of Haewon's hair, letting her head return to its original place. You lean back, taking in your work.

She glares at you. Her cheek is covered with red wax. The word 'slut' seems to glow on her otherwise flawless skin.

"Well, slut..."

The word slowly drips off your tongue with such a degrading undertone.

"Let's fuck that confession out of you."

You lift Haewon off the floor and place her on her windowsill. She shivers as the cold glass makes contact with her back.

"So much space for me to write on."

You whisper as your free hand wanders all over her front.

"You wouldn't dare."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I already did, slut."

You step closer, parting her legs in the process. Your faces only inches away, the tip of your cock now resting on her wet pussy lips.

"And I will cover your entire body."

You immediately start to fulfill that promise. Haewon weakly tries to push your hand away, but you hold her wrists with one hand. You place the tip of the wax crayon right between her tits and her collarbone. You slowly read the words as you write them on her skin.

"Sex toy."

Haewon closes her eyes. She shivers again. You are sure it's not because of the glass.

"Do you want another one?"

She shakes her head and shoots you an evil glare. Her lips are pressed together, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of begging you to stop.

"Suit yourself."

This time, you place the crayon right above her pussy. Her smoothly shaven skin becomes your canvas. You don't read the word out loud, this time.

It takes her moment, since Haewon has to read it upside down.

"Owned"

Just as she understands its meaning, you're already past her lips.

"Ngh! Please!"

A loud whine escapes her mouth as she feels your tip inside of her. Your cock starts to stretch her out as you slowly push forward.

"From now on, whenever you deny being a whore, I'll ruin your body further."

Just as you say that, you are just as deep as Haewon can take it. She starts to take heavy breaths again. Her eyes are glued to the part of your cock that's still not inside her.

"Are you a whore?"

You sigh, knowing full well that she won't agree yet. Haewon shakes her head.

You place the crayon on her left shoulder.

"Bitch"

You focus on fucking her now. Being inside of Haewon doesn't allow you to properly focus on humiliating her. You need to blow off some steam first. And what is better for that than Haewon's snug hole?

You start to screw Haewon into the window behind her. Her back is pressed flat against it. Her legs are spread wide, dangling off the windowsill. One of your hands holds onto her waist while the other is loosely placed on her thigh, still holding the crayon.

Haewon's moans fill the room she has grown up in. All those memories of her childhood are now stained by this experience. They are worthless. All that matters now, is that she is a whore. Slowly, Haewon's own mind comes to that conclusion. So slow, she almost doesn't realize it.

Your pounding makes her slowly lose her mind. Her moans increase in volume. Her whines reach a higher pitch.

"Again, are you a whore?"

This time, you catch her hesitate. But then, Haewon shakes her head again.

Her eyes are barely able to follow the crayon as you slow down your thrusts only a little. Just enough, so you can properly write. Her skin just above her navel is now showing off a marking as well.

"Cocksleeve"

Haewon doesn't have time to read the second half as you pick up the pace again.

"Oh, god!"

Her head leans against the glass behind her. Her back arches, her chest gets pushed towards you. Instead of leaning in and sucking on her tits, you reach forward with your free hand.

"Aaah!"

Haewon let's out a loud cry as you pinch her nipple. And the other one. Another scream.

"S-Stop. It hurts."

She whines, but you both know that that's not her safeword.

"Tell me, if you want me to be gentle. Are you a whore?"

"No!"

She gives you a determined glare. An angry pout.

Once again her crayon finds her skin.

This time, you write on both her tits.

"Free"

"Use"

Haewon looks down, barely manages to read it, and lets out another moan.

"So you do like it rough? Thought so."

You let the wax crayon fall onto the windowsill. Hooking your arms under her legs, you pull her towards you.

"Oh, fuck!"

Her cry can be heard throughout the whole house. You're sure of it. You're buried balls deep inside her cunt. Your thrusts are harder now. You go as fast as possible, not wanting to give her a split second to breath. Her eyes, once locked on yours, are now rolling to the back of her head. Haewon's mouth hangs open in a silent moan.

"Are you a whore?"

This time, Haewon doesn't even respond. Maybe she didn't hear you. Who cares?

You let one leg fall down to reach for the crayon. Another two words are added to the others.

"Sex object"

Between her collarbone and her throat.

Haewon feels you, marking her again. But an overwhelming heat rushes through her body in an alarming pace. It starts out inside her pussy. Right around your cock. It travels through her core. Through her abdomen and her organs. Past her tits. Through her throat. Until it finally reaches her brain. And her mouth.

"Oh holy fuck!"

Haewon cums hard. You start to produce squishing sounds as you keep stuffing Haewon's wet pussy with your cock. Her hands search for your body, trying to push you away. Her legs quiver and shake, before they wrap around you, trapping you in place.

"N-No more."

She weakly sighs, once she has started to calm down.

"I haven't heard the magic word from you yet.

"Haewon, honey! Are you alright? The clock is ticking!"

Misses Oh's voice makes you both look at the door. Luckily, it sounded like it was coming from downstairs.

"In a minute."

Haewon's voice cracks in the middle of her sentence.

"Maybe we should open that door and let them hear you."

"Whore!"

You're surprised at how quickly Haewon blurts out that word.

"I'm a whore! I admit it."

She looks down, very aware that your still inside of her.

"I know. "

You lean forward and kiss her forehead.

"Was it that hard?"

Haewon timidly shakes her head.

Her eyes widen when you raise the crayon again.

"W-Wait what are you doing?"

"Hold still."

"But-"

"I feel like your confession isn't coming from a genuine place, you know? Plus, I need to mark the spot, where I want to cum."

Haewon gulps, but stays silent and doesn't move.

You start on her right cheek. Three words. You keep going, even when you reach her nose. Once you are on the other side of her face, you finish the line. The last letter is placed right next to the first word you wrote on her. The new words cover her whole face. From right to left.

"Cum hungry slut"

You don't tell her what you wrote.

"Knees."

Haewon follows your order and you're back to where you started. It doesn't take long for her to bring you to the edge from there. A nice, quick blowjob. Her hands massaging your cock. Her tongue lapping her own juices off of you.

"Damn, Haewon."

You grunt, which makes her look up at you with those big eyes.

She points your cock at her own face, strokes you two more times and then makes you orgasm. You explode right above her face, covering it with your cum. Her nose, her cheeks, her lips. All of it is ruined by your seed. And the rest of her body is marked with red wax.

"Write it down."

You nod towards her desk.

Haewon understands. She doesn't even get off the ground. She crawls the short distance, reaches up and grabs a piece of paper and the black crayon. You enjoy the view of her ass, before she turns back around. She writes one word.

"WHORE"

When she looks up again, you're already holding your phone in your hand, the camera ready.

Haewon holds up her self made sign.

"A little lower."

You make sure that every single mark you left on her body is clearly visible. Your cum is still staining her face as well.

"What a whore you are."

You chuckle as you snap a couple of pictures.

------------

Hi everybody!

Hope you enjoyed this one. This chapter is gonna be the last of of this small series. So there won't be any follow up fics.

Stay healthy!

[moonlinos]

Call my bluff, call you ‘babe’

♡ Pairing: Lee Minho × fem!reader

♡ Genre: Childhood friends to lovers, fluff

♡ CW: Implied smut, alcohol consumption. Twenty solid seconds of angst, but it doesn’t even really count. It’s just tooth-rotting fluff.

♡ Word count: 5.5k

♡ Synopsis: Minho has been your best friend since you two could barely form coherent sentences. He was there when your last baby tooth fell, he was there when you failed your high school exams, and he was there as you walked down the aisle.

♡ A/N: This was going to be just word-vomit fluff to make me cry, but I couldn’t control myself and before I knew it there were… so many words.

You were four years old when you met Minho. It was the first day of kindergarten, and you were assigned seats together. The entire day was spent with you chatting to every kid you could reach from your seat while Minho quietly sat painting and doodling by your side. You vaguely remember thinking he was odd and whining to your mom about how your seatmate was boring, and that was why he was the only kid in class you didn’t talk to. She smiled and told you maybe you should make an effort to talk to him. That same day, you racked your little brain for a reason why your seatmate might be so quiet and promptly decided that he was too shy to start a conversation himself. You then asked your mom if the fact that you didn’t talk to him might have made him sad, to which she hesitated, and that was enough to have your bottom lip wobbling.

You remember tears streaming down your cheeks as you frantically sobbed, inconsolable at the fact that your seatmate was sad and that it was partially because of you.

The next day, you asked if Minho would like to use your special glitter pens — you even told him you wouldn’t mind if he used your favorite colors. That was really all that was needed to plant the bud of friendship between you two.

Ever since that day, you two slowly became inseparable.

You attended the same elementary school after begging your parents, writing a very concise list of reasons why you two could not possibly be separated. Reasons such as the fact that Minho still didn’t know how to tie his shoelaces, so it would be dangerous for him to be alone in a new school. Or the fact that you were always losing your gloves, and Minho always carried an extra pair in his backpack just for you, so you would surely catch a cold if you didn’t have him beside you during winter.

All extremely valid reasons.

Minho began walking you home from school when you were both nine years old. He was often left alone due to his parents’ work schedules, which made him become the most street-smart kid in your class. You had to beg your mom for a week, but she ultimately caved in.

Your favorite thing to do on your way home was to stop randomly and doodle on the sidewalk with chalk, with Minho joining you in no time. You even had your favorite little sketching spot — right in front of a nice old lady’s flower shop, where you two would spend far too much time decorating her entrance pavement with flowers, rainbows, and smiley faces. She would later introduce herself to you, Ms. Kim, and would always thank you both with a flower of your choice. You always picked tulips, and Minho always picked daisies.

On one hazy winter day, you and Minho were eager to adorn the flower shop’s entrance with a new set of doodles since the ones you had done just yesterday got covered in snow. As you two did your best to dig through the piled-up snow with your gloved hands, you suddenly felt something hard slide down your throat. Your hands stilled, and you turned to look at Minho with wide eyes.

“What happened?” He asked. “Did you lose your glove in the snow this time?”

You shook your head frantically, careful not to swallow. “Teeth,” you simply said.

Minho looked at you like you were crazy, squinting his eyes as he studied your face. “What?”

You felt tears well up, and he immediately abandoned his mission of shuffling through the snow before pulling you into a big hug.

“Why are you crying? Don’t cry. I hate when you cry, I feel weird when you cry,” He said, but no tears left his worried eyes. Minho never cried, that was something you had learned a while back. 

You, however, cried until Ms. Kim noticed you two from the window, cooing as she approached you two with a gentle smile. You tried your best to explain your predicament. Minho sat with you behind the wooden counter, holding your hand in his, the smell of flowers making everything feel less catastrophic than it did ten minutes earlier.

Ms. Kim explained that you had no reason to cry, as it was normal for kids to swallow their baby teeth. And you remember harshly shaking your head and explaining with a trembling voice that you hadn’t cried because of that. You had cried because that was your last baby tooth, which meant you were officially a grown-up. You didn’t want to be a grown-up. Minho wasn’t a grown-up yet, with his last baby tooth still holding on proudly in his gums. You didn’t want to be a grown-up all alone; it would be terrible and sad.

That afternoon, you two went home together in silence, your respective flowers clutched in your hands. Minho was never good with words. Sadness engulfed him because he couldn’t do enough to make his best friend smile again. What was the point of a best friend if they didn’t make you laugh when you were crying?

Minho walked into school the next day with a proud smile on his face before placing his last baby tooth on your desk. You eyed it curiously, brows furrowed.

“There, I took it off last night,” He simply said. “Now we’re gonna be grown-ups together.”

At eleven years old, your daily after-school video game appointments began.

You had just cut your hair short; a bob you thought looked cute on your favorite singer turned out to be cataclysmically unflattering on you. And, at eleven years old, it was earth-shattering and definitely the end of your life (despite what your mother told you).

You spent every second out in public with your hair hidden by a beanie, hoping it would distract people from your disastrous haircut.

Except it had the opposite effect.

One particular day at school, a boy came up to you simply to inform you that your head looked like a mushroom before running away, laughing with his friends. They were foolish words spoken by a foolish boy, but you were eleven. Once again, earth-shattering and the end of your life.

You avoided everyone the entire day — including Minho, whom you always talked to no matter your mood. You knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid him for much longer, seeing as he walked you home every day, so you simply prayed he wouldn’t notice your puffy eyes or that he at least hadn’t heard any of the other kids making unfunny jokes about your haircut.

After school, Minho sighed in feigned annoyance when you told him you had lost your gloves again before retrieving a pair from his backpack. Like a habit, you asked if he wanted to hang out at your house, although the answer was always unchanging.

“My mom’s baking a cake,” you told him. “We can play video games and then eat it together.”

Minho hummed in agreement, adjusting his backpack before grabbing your hand as you two began your daily walk to your house. It was something you always did, never walking anywhere without your hands clasped together. These past few months, however, this once ordinary gesture had begun making your heart beat faster. You didn’t understand why, and you would rather not think about it because every time you did, the words from your other friends would echo inside your head. Their stories about how they felt their hearts racing when their crush had hugged them or even looked their way, making you question if maybe…

But it couldn’t be. Minho was your best friend. How could he be your crush?

It was another one of those afternoons, your mom busily making you two sandwiches as you and Minho played New Super Mario Bros on your Wii under the blanket fort you always meticulously built. Minho had been acting weird all day — even weirder than you, who had to endure all the asinine jokes and hurtful words from your peers. As you completed the last level for the umpteenth time, saving Princess Peach, Minho all but threw his controller to the side. You turned to shoot him a questioning look, which went ignored as he rummaged through his backpack.

He retrieved a crumpled-up piece of paper, which he promptly gave to you.

You cocked your head, awaiting some sort of explanation, but Minho simply picked up his controller once more and hit play on the game.

Unfolding the paper, words greeted you in Minho’s messy handwriting.

YOUR HAIR LOOKS CUTE. STOP HIDING IT.

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could say anything to him, Minho reached out and snatched your beanie from your head. Your short hair and bangs cascaded onto your face, partially obscuring your view. But you could still make out his side profile, where a faint smile appeared on his lips.

After that, you two were silent for the rest of the day, eventually dozing off under the tent lulled by the sound of your mother’s hand mixer and Mario’s theme song. The sun eventually set outside the window, and you woke up to two plates of your mother’s cake waiting for you on the coffee table.

From that point on, your beanie was left forgotten inside your drawer.

You were fifteen when you realized that perhaps your feelings for Minho weren’t all that platonic after all.

It all started with a letter on Minho’s desk on a rainy Friday. October 25th, Minho’s birthday.

Minho’s quiet nature hadn’t changed one bit since you first sat beside him at four years old. He would rather die than start a conversation, rarely went out to the movies with your friend group and, most importantly, hated being the center of attention. That was why he told no one about his birthday since you two began high school this year. It was the subject of much debate among your little group of friends, with some bribing Minho with his favorite snacks or promising to do his assignments until college just for some sort of clue; a day, month, even the day of the week he was born.

But Minho never budged.

So, seeing a letter on his desk on the day of his birthday was odd, to say the least.

You arrived back to the classroom late after chatting to your friend from another class in the hallway, catching as Minho sat down with a puzzled look on his face and an open letter in his hands.

“What’s up?” You asked, sitting on the desk in front of him.

He looked up, thick glasses crooked from a dodgeball incident earlier that week. “Yumi found out it’s my birthday today,” He informed you, a bit too nonchalantly. “She organized a birthday party at her house tomorrow with our friends.”

You immediately took the letter, reading it and blanching at the words written in the girl’s pretty handwriting. She had found out Minho’s birthday by snooping around Facebook until she found his mother, who had a plethora of pictures of Minho on his previous birthdays. Not only that, the letter ended with a paragraph where she confessed her feelings to him — with all the clichés and dramatics only an adolescent crush could provide.

You still remember your first thoughts upon learning that information: Oh, Yumi. Of course a girl like her would do something like this.

You cringe at your words now, but at fifteen, you deemed no girl worthy of your best friend. Especially ‘girls like Yumi,’ who in your eyes all but threw herself at him. At the time, you thought you were looking out for the boy who was practically your brother. Now, you understand you were simply an insecure fifteen-year-old who allowed ugly, misogynistic thoughts to brew inside your mind out of fear of losing Minho. For your immature brain, every girl interested in Minho was an enemy because they could easily take him away from you.

And Minho had never reciprocated any girl’s feelings, always politely turning down the few confessions he had gotten during middle school. You were ready to berate Yumi, your brows immediately furrowing as your face contorted, but Minho beat you to it, speaking before you could utter a word.

“I know I should be mad, but isn’t it a little�� cute?”

You couldn’t help but scoff, the sound escaping your lips like a burst of disbelief. You also couldn’t help how your hands began to tremble as your heart shot up to your throat.

“Cute?” You asked with the strongest voice you could muster. “You think her invading your privacy is cute?”

And Minho simply shrugged, tapping his fingers on his desk. “A little bit. I know you don’t really like her, but she’s part of our friend group,” He said, taking the letter from your shaky hands. “Plus, she’s always been nice to me, and she is cute.”

That was all you could physically bear to hear, excusing yourself from the conversation with the lie that your friend had called you from the classroom window before sprinting out into the hallway. As you continued walking, your palms grew clammy and your heart weighed heavily in your chest.

You felt tears well up in your eyes once you reached the stairs. Sitting on the steps, you cried into the cardigan of your ugly school uniform. You didn’t care that you would be scolded for skipping class; all you cared about was that your best friend was going to be taken from you.

After school, as you and Minho were about to exit the school gates — your hands tightly clasped together as they always were — Yumi appeared carrying a cake, the rest of your friends behind her as they all sang happy birthday. 

Minho blew out the candles and made a wish. Everyone cheered as his best friend, Chan, shoved his face into the cake. Minho yelled at him, grumbling with glasses covered in white frosting, but ultimately laughing along. Yumi was quick to clean his face with a napkin, earning her a smile from Minho before he released your hand to gently squeeze her rosy cheeks.

You remained quiet, forcing out a smile and looking up at the sky every now and then so your tears wouldn’t fall.

All because Minho had let go of your hand.

Minho’s fifteenth birthday — that was the day you learned you could fool everyone else, but never yourself.

Your seventeenth summer was a drag.

Minho had just been broken up with a couple of months before, Yumi crying as she explained her parents wanted her to focus on her studies, and having a boyfriend was simply a distraction she couldn’t afford if she wanted to be a doctor someday. An unwilling participant in the entire situation, you sat awkwardly at the bus stop as she spoke.

You were ready to witness Minho cry for the first time in your life, maybe yell about how unfair her parents were being, but he simply pressed a kiss to her forehead just as your bus arrived.

Not much had changed when he began dating Yumi, with you learning that suppressing how you truly felt was worryingly easy. You still hung out with them, battling through their cuddles and kisses like a soldier on the front lines of a war. Never unscathed, but always strong. Nobody needed to know about how you cried into your mother’s arms almost every night before falling asleep.

The only change had been you and Minho’s daily gaming appointments. You two had since outgrown your video game phase, both now interested in diverging things that made it impossible for you to enjoy them together. You discovered your love for flowers went beyond doodling on the sidewalk in front of a flower shop, but Minho complained that growing flowers was too time-consuming, and he loved dancing, which you were far too uncoordinated and lazy to even try doing.

And so, you two settled for simply hanging out together at your house. Your room had easy access to the roof, which you two took full advantage of, setting up a permanent blanket fort where you would snuggle up with pillows and talk for hours after school.

That summer was no different, with Minho stretched out across the old mattress, watching the light pink sky slowly fade away as night set in while you two busied yourselves talking.

That was the day you finally gathered the courage to ask Minho about his breakup, desperate to understand why he had appeared so unfazed. After the one-year milestone of their relationship in February, you had begun to make peace with the fact that she would probably be around for a while.

Minho shrugged at your question, hands resting on his stomach while he gnawed on his bottom lip. He explained he was sure that he liked her, but it turned out he valued her as a friend much more than as a girlfriend.

You couldn’t help but scoff at the answer. You knew Minho better than you knew yourself at times, which was why you knew he was lying through his teeth.

“Why did you stay so long with her, then?” You questioned, the resentful lilt in your voice a bit too obvious. You cleared your throat before adding, “I mean, you surely didn’t act as just friends.”

“I guess I felt lonely before,” He explained. “I was selfish for staying with her, but I enjoyed having someone. Was especially nice after…” Minho trailed off, dismissively shaking his head, and you remember being close to throwing him off that roof as he kept being so damn enigmatic.

“After what?” You prodded, “Minho, I’m your best friend. What’s the point of us talking if you’re not gonna tell me the truth?”

He turned his head to look up at you, the darkening sky making his eyes gleam as if they held an entire galaxy of stars. You felt that familiar nervousness return.

“It was nice to not be so alone after so many years of pining after someone.”

You cocked your head to the side, and Minho had the gall to chuckle at your puzzled expression. You shook your head, mumbling to yourself that your conversation was pointless if he wouldn’t tell you the whole truth.

Lying next to him on the mattress with a sigh, you could feel the weight of Minho’s gaze on you. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.

You remember the moon was already high in the sky by the time one of you finally moved — Minho, who slowly inched his hand closer to yours before clasping it tightly in his. Despite your racing heart, you thought nothing of it. He was now single, so it wouldn’t be ludicrous to assume a habit you two had cultivated for many years would naturally return.

However, after some beats from your erratically racing heart, Minho’s fingers intertwined with yours. You had never done that before, always holding hands in a way that all but screamed platonic.

That night, with his thumb caressing your skin and his hand squeezing yours, Minho finally spoke the truth after so long.

“It’s you,” He said, tone nonchalant but voice audibly shaky. “Think I’ve been pining after you since I was nine and ripped my tooth out ‘cause I thought that’d make you stop being sad.”

You remember gasping quietly and his hand tightening around yours as the clock ticked and your silence remained. You remember finally mustering up the courage to turn to look at him and being met by an expression you had rarely seen on Minho’s face in the thirteen years you had known him — he was scared, wide eyes dancing around your face as if he looked for an answer in your features, his chapped lips parted slightly as if he was ready to backtrack the moment he saw any hint of doubt in your eyes.

You remember smiling at him and how his expression shifted into pure confusion. All it took was for him to finally have the nerve to hold your hand in the way he’d always wanted to, and for you to use his courage as a catalyst for your own. You remember how you closed the distance between you two and pressed your lips to his. You remember it feeling weird because you were kissing Minho, your best friend.

But you also remember it feeling right because you were kissing Minho, your best friend.

Your transition from being best friends to being in a relationship was easier than you had ever thought it would be — it was also slower than you could have ever imagined.

Minho never asked you out or confessed his feelings beyond what was said on the roof, and neither did you. It was a shared knowledge between you, a silent agreement that didn’t need words — at least for now. The little gestures and subtle changes left no doubt in your minds that you two were, in fact, no longer just friends — like how you began to always intertwine your fingers while holding hands, or how Minho would pull you onto his lap when you hung out with your friends, or how you would rest your head on his shoulder as he played with your hair during lunch break.

Your friends certainly had questions, the confusion written all over their faces easy to read like a book, but you both knew they also understood your relationship without you needing to make a big deal out of it.

You picked him up from dance class every weekend, sometimes arriving earlier just to catch a glimpse of him through the glass door, as Minho insisted he was too embarrassed to dance in front of you.

One day, thoroughly unprompted, he reached into his backpack as you two exited his dance academy and pulled out a yellow tulip. You had furrowed your brows at the sudden gesture, and Minho nonchalantly told you that planting your favorite flower was surprisingly easy. Since becoming teenagers, you had stopped going to Ms. Kim’s flower shop, and you had long forgotten about how you two used to have your own respective flowers back in the day.

It seemed Minho hadn’t forgotten.

That was one thing you had come to know about him only after you began dating. Although he seemed cold and distant on the outside — rarely communicating his feelings through words — Minho secretly kept a mental note of every little detail about the people he cared about, and he unfailingly found a way to communicate his feelings through actions. Such as promptly handing you a brand-new flower he had picked before you even had the chance to mourn your tulip as it began to wilt.

You, on the other hand, had always been the type of person to communicate through words; spoken, written, or read, which is how you began saving your best daisies from the small garden you created in your backyard and practicing your flower arrangement skills exclusively by making pretty bouquets you could gift to Minho (always with little notes hidden among the flowers).

Your once explicitly platonic roof dates also left no room for doubt, as making out under your usual tent became a hard-to-break habit. In fact, that was how your family found out about your relationship. You were eighteen, with graduation just around the corner, when your mother caught Minho kissing you as tears welled up in your eyes at the thought of having to be apart from him during college (although you both knew that would never be the case, as you always moved mountains simply to stay together).

Everything was slow-paced, and neither of you had any desire to rush anything. Once, Minho told you he had waited eight years to finally kiss you, and somehow, that anticipation was what had made it all the more special.

And so, your first proper date only happened six months after your first kiss, and your first fight only happened a year and a half into your relationship. Not to mention your first I love you, which had been a slip-up that happened only in your first year of college after a drunken night with Chan and Minho. Your head on his lap, your tulip nestled among his daisies in a pretty vase on the coffee table as Chan hummed along to some song that came from his phone. You felt as if your entire being was filled with pure gratitude at that moment, and the liquid courage that flowed through your veins only helped you mutter out how much you loved Minho.

He looked down at you, hands cupping your cheeks with a silly smile adorning his face, and simply answered, “Well, I love you more.”

Your carefree attitude toward your relationship was almost a contrast to the one you had with your friendship. You and Minho had met so young that you could never truly pinpoint when you had become such close friends. You always wondered if that was what led you two to be so easygoing with what most people rush into. Things happened when they were supposed to happen.

You remember one of Minho’s new friends, Changbin, asking something about your sex life at some party during freshman year, and you two nonchalantly answering that you didn’t really have one. Your friends’ shock was understandable, but you and Minho only laughed.

Things happened when they were supposed to happen.

It was Minho’s 21st birthday, when your flowers were no longer in bloom, but your love remained blossoming like it was mid-spring. He had, as always, vetoed any and every plan of a celebration suggested by your friends. He opted to stay in with you, cuddling under a blanket fort like you had been doing for so many years. Chan graciously offered to sleep at a friend’s dorm, leaving your small shared apartment just for you and Minho.

He hadn’t planned for anything to happen, and neither had you. You were simply lying together, watching the flickering of the candles you had set up around the coffee table, recounting the innumerable memories you shared when you suddenly felt the earnest, all-consuming need to have Minho as close as possible.

It was clumsy, both of you inexperienced and nervous. Your teeth crashed together and your hands gripped each other tightly, the realization of the intensity of your yearning becoming undeniable. At some point, the entire tent collapsed on top of you, and laughter filled the room for a brief moment before being replaced by your sighs and whispered moans.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was you and Minho.

Graduation day was a blur in your mind.

It had all started with Minho and Chan drunk at eleven a.m., offering you the awful-tasting omelet they had cooked in your cramped kitchen. They then went on to zone out for most of the ceremony after stumbling out of your apartment.

You approached Minho after he was done taking pictures and getting scolded by his family for being drunk on his graduation day, his mother giving you an apologetic look as you whisked him away.

“You’re stressed,” you pointed out.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” you replied with a sigh, resting against a large tree far enough away from the hustle and bustle of recently graduated students and crying families. “So is Chan. Don’t think I’ve seen him this drunk since Jisung’s birthday party last year.”

Minho chuckled, shifting on his feet and toying with the fabric of his gown. You furrowed your brows; he only ever got fidgety when hiding something. You learned that for the first time when you were thirteen and he had to wait until your birthday to tell you he’d gotten you two tickets to see your favorite band, and again when he had to keep Chan’s then-girlfriend’s plans of asking him to move in together a secret.

“You’re not nervous ‘cause of graduation, are you?”

You remember the way he stilled almost immediately.

“We always tell each other the truth, right?” He asked.

You remember the way your whole world spun as he pulled out a small box from his pocket and how everything seemed to fade into a white mist that surrounded Minho like a spotlight as he proposed to you.

Your wedding was small — both because that was how you had wanted it to be and because of your lack of money for a proper party.

After graduating, Minho became a dance teacher at the academy he attended as a teen, teaching little kids who he said always reminded him of you two. You used the money your parents had saved for you to travel after college to buy the old flower shop that held so many memories from your childhood. Neither of you used your degrees, and neither of you made a lot of money, but you were overflowing with an infatuation for life and a love for each other so great that it made up for any silly inconvenience that dared to come up.

The ceremony was held at a local church — although neither of you was particularly religious, that was the cheapest place available. You opted to walk down the aisle together; hands clasped the way you used to do for many years while walking home from school. Minho held onto a daisy bouquet you made, while you held the single tulip he had picked out for you that day.

“I’m not good with words,” was how Minho began his vows, the glow of the fairy lights and candles adorning the church rendering his attempt at hiding his tears futile. That was the first time you had ever seen him cry in the twenty-one years you’d known him. “But I think that never mattered with you. You know me better than I know myself. Most times, I don’t even have to say a word, and you’ll still understand me. It’s been this way since we were four, and you understood why I was so quiet, and you still chose to be my friend. Thank you for understanding me, and thank you for allowing me to love you. Loving you is what I do best and look how lucky I am; I’ve been able to do it for my whole life.” He then shot you a grin, the back of his hand wiping away your tears. He ended his speech with a line that was so very Minho, thought up with sincerity but spoken primarily to make you smile. “You’ve always felt like home, and I can’t wait to feel that way until we’re both food for the worms to eat.”

You had never cried so much as you did on the day of your wedding — which was remarkable, seeing as you’d been a crier your whole life. You remember the irony of it all; Minho, who had never been good with words, telling you about his love with words that came from his heart and spilled from his lips without any rehearsal, while you were rendered speechless and too emotional to even attempt to form a coherent sentence.

Your wedding vow was a simple, choked-up, “Thank you for being my best friend, Minho.”

Minho carried you home from the church, with your cheeks flushing pink and his smile beaming as your friends made rice cascade around the two of you like snow. It turned out the boy who hated attention didn’t mind the spotlight so long as it meant showing off his love for you.

Your honeymoon was spent in your small house above your flower shop — which you named Daisy’s Tulips — where you cuddled under a blanket fort the entire day, only leaving the comfort of the pillows and fluffy covers well after midnight to adorn the sidewalk in front of your house in a brand new chalk drawing.

“Can you imagine if we never said anything?” Minho suddenly wondered aloud, his chuckle echoing through the quiet street. “We were both pretty good at hiding our feelings for so long.”

And you simply shook your head, painting a daisy with white chalk on the sidewalk. “Minho, I know you. You wouldn’t have let me keep pretending after finding out I liked you too.”

“Who says I would have found out?”

“You said it yourself,” you explained, “I know you better than you know yourself, and that’s reciprocal. You would’ve found out ‘cause I can never hide anything from you.”

And Minho smiled, taking your hand in his just as you were done with your drawing. Your gaze shifted toward him, and you admired the man he had become. From the shy little boy who sat beside you to the quiet teenager with thick glasses to the man he had grown into; you loved every version of Minho you had the privilege to meet throughout your life, and you were certain you would love every new version of him you came to know in the future as well.

“Of course you can’t,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’m your best friend, aren’t I?” He asked with a grin, and you nodded. He then added, “Thank you for being my best friend.”

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