#beat the absolute shit out of one of them

[multiheadcanons]

READY TO CHARGE!

aka mercs when they’re ubered

scout: for those 8 seconds, he’s got 80 years. he sees his life flashing in his mind with every shot ringing off; and it almost feels like he’s moving slower than he normally does. the first time he got ubered he wasted it in favor of experiencing being hit with bullets and watching them fly off as he lived an entire life in his mind. the doc was not happy when it was over and they got absolutely obliterated. he’s had to learn to push his mind back so he can make use of the power he’s given.

soldier: it feels like he took a bump of coke. he’s ripping, roaring, ready to massacre. he feels nothing. he’s thinking of nothing except who’s the closest that he can melee and where he can fire off a rocket to cause maximum damage. one of the more fun mercs medic gets to uber because it is almost always a guaranteed push into enemy territory. and the kings always arrive adorned in garlands of viscera. with a well timed uber on soldier, they can win the match. and when they do they yell at each other (in a good way) and shake each other by the shoulders. medic and soldier are good friends on the field.

pyro: pyro really wishes that medic would give them more ample warning before they’re ubered, because they will be skipping along, having a wonderful day, the sun is shining, the birds are singing; and then they’re filled with this heat. burning hot heat as their vision completely whites out. and they have no idea what’s going on, they’re just listening for their team, following the directions. left, right, fall back, push forward, spy on the flank, and when they come back, there’s confetti everywhere! except it’s not confetti. it’s charred body parts. and everyone except medic is standing in momentary shock as they continue to push into enemy territory.

demo: that’s the best crossfade he’s ever had when he’s drunk. also; normally medic is also drunk when he’s ubering demo. sure, they’re stumbling, and sometimes he’s still missing shots, but his favorite thing to do is take doc out sticky jumping with the quick fix. the extra durability helps as they fly across the map, landing directly in enemy spawn. then they lie in wait. when he’s sober, it’s like he cracked a bottle and didn’t stop until that shit was empty. he feels hearty, intelligent, lively, aggressive. he can see the particles of gunpowder through the shells of his bombs. he can hear the potassium chlorite whispering to him to shake the bombs. he can hear god telling him to fight. and when it’s over, and he turns behind him, it’s just his doctor. urging him forward. pushing him to fight.

heavy: he can feel medic’s hands on his face. on his chest. directly on his heart. physically massaging it to beat harder. faster. the doctor’s eyes take up his vision, and he’s floored by the sea of blue. he can hear the man whisper that it’s just them, it’s them against the world, and there’s nobody else the doctor can rely on. he’s got to succeed or they will all fail. medic is not saying any of this. medic is telling the russian to move in and start shooting. his eyes are dilated. he can hardly see anything past the barrel of his gun. he just hears the whir as he subconsciously pulls the trigger, and his doctor whisper “it’s all up to you.” he’s bricked up frfr. he’s mentally exhausted after an uber. it’s hard for him to keep focus in the heat of battle after being in nirvana. he fiends for the ubercharge. nothing compares to it. it’s like inhaling kilos of meth. he wants to feel that way forever.

engineer: that’s the most energy he’s had in years. he’s not normally given the grace of the uber unless everyone else is dead and it’s only him and the doctor and the point against the entire enemy team charging full speed ahead. and he’ll be honest, no, he doesn’t particularly like the doctor. but when they’re both playing god, it’s almost like two bullies in the sandbox. they go around and they break the other teams toys and laugh about it to their decapitated heads. they’ve gotten good at playing around each other. the enemy team feels the burn of a shotgun and as they’re looking down for the texan they miss the german with the ubersaw flying in at mach 10, only lengthening the time the uber goes on as he flashes the texan again. 8 seconds turns into 16 as the rest of their team joins the carnage. but there’s nothing for them to do. the scientists have it covered.

medic: the first time he attempted the uber he did die. he had a solid 8 seconds of euphoria, and as it ended, his eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed. now; after many more trials, it just feels like he took a mile long bump of coke. his hands tremble, but he’s gripping the medigun so hard it’s not noticeable. it has taken a lot of work to have the mental fortitude to actually focus and use the uber in a way that will matter. he relies on his team to take him where he needs to go as much as they rely on him to power them to cause maximum carnage. tunnel visions very hard when he’s about to pop an uber. makes him easy pickings for the enemy spy. the red medic is more prone to panic pop an uber to get him and whoever is around him out of danger.

sniper: sniper, along with spy, are more used to being “flashed” the uber to get them out of dodge with minimal harm moreso than they’re used to being actually ubered for the full duration. the one time sniper got a full uber, used exclusively on him and nobody else, no sloppy seconds, he got lost in the sauce. all he heard was the doctor behind him say “you want to have some fun today?” and all of a sudden his third eye opened and all he could see is white. he saw god. he heard the sound of battle slow, then stop. and god looked down upon sniper, and gave him the biggest thumbs up, and said “use the piss jars, mick.” and use the piss jars he did, laughing the whole time. the enemy team was disgusted, but they couldn’t be disgusted for long when they were dead. and they won. so obviously they did something right. one of few times snipes truly enjoys the doctor, and what his presence means for the team. that uber he’s got is a lovely little treat. that’s addicting, almost. and the doctor can not help but laugh as he escorts the aussie back to his nest. this sniper of theirs is a freaky little animal. he should do this more often.

spy: spy is a fiend for the ubercharge. spy does not get ubered in standard battle in a way that he can use it. but when medic is feeling a little silly goofy, or is drunk… fuck it! uber the spy! nobody even recognizes him as he’s cloaked in red, nobody realizes who it is until he’s got a six killstreak on the board; and by the time they think to call out that the spy got ubered, both the doctor and the spy have split from view. and the enemy team has to decide whether they want to risk going after the doctor, who at this point has probably regrouped with the team, or try to find the spy, who will always get the jump on them. and now they have to decide while they’re down half the team which way the rest of them want to go. ubering spy is a long shot, but when it works they can absolutely decimate the team.

[shurisneakers]

hey I wanna say I absolutely love your writing ,English is not my first language but your writing cracks me up every time I absolutely adore your work! I wanted to throw in an idea for misery loves company because I really like the grumpy×grumpy ,what about them being loners/grumpy in a wedding,maybe it's Steve's or someone else on the team and they share a quiet dance on the balcony or something so yeah that's my idea ,again love your works ♥️♥️♥️♥️

a/n: hello! thank you for your kindness and for sending this in, I hope you like it <3

this is part of misery loves company but is just a stand alone fic. you don’t need to read anything before this

warnings: swearing, light angst

You slip out before the first toast.

The balcony is quiet, the air sharp against your skin. Below, the city hums, distant and indifferent. The music is still loud behind you, but out here, it’s muffled, softened by the wind.

You don’t belong inside.

The thought comes unbidden, bitter in your mouth.

So the balcony is cold, the air sharp against your skin. The city sprawls below, distant and untouchable. The music inside is muffled now, voices blending together, champagne bubbling in glasses. It’s still too loud.

You lean against the railing, fingers gripping the cold marble. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t care.

You exhale, press your palms against the railing, giving yourself five seconds before you call an Uber to get home.

Behind you, the door creaks open.

"You gonna jump?"

You hear the shuffle of his shoes against the floor as he leans beside you.

You close your eyes. "Go back inside. Make someone else's night worse."

"Yours already looks terrible, I've got a headstart," Bucky says, stepping up beside you.

You don’t turn, but you can feel him watching you, his presence taking up too much space in a very spacious balcony.

"You left early," he grunts out.

"So did you," you mutter.

"Yeah," he says. "People started looking at me like they wanted to ask me to dance."

You scoff. "You just think everyone’s in love with you."

"You're not proving me wrong," he points out.

"You're the most insufferable man I know."

"Honoured."

You finally glance at him. His tie is loose and he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

"Why are you out here?"

Your grip tightens on the railing. "Why are you?"

You know he sees it.

"You gonna actually answer," he says coolly, "or are we going to keep doing this?"

You exhale sharply, looking ahead. "DJ’s shit."

"It’s a live band."

"Then they should’ve hired a DJ."

His mouth twitches, but his eyes don't move off you.

"Try again."

"No," you say flatly.

He tilts his head at you, expression unreadable.

It makes you feel like your skin is on fire. Weddings are hard. Weddings with him around are even harder, for reasons you can't put words to.

A beat passed and he finally pushes himself away from the railing.

You're about to make some biting comment, when instead--

"Dance with me."

You blink. "Are you concussed?"

"Not recently."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "If this is some kind of sympathy thing-"

"Jesus," he mutters. "Yeah, I wanna pity dance with you, that's exactly what's happening here."

"Then what?"

He shrugs, "You think you're the only one who's angry?"

Your jaw tightens, teeth harsh against each other.

"We don’t have to talk," he mutters, like he's tired. Like things are hard for him too. "Just dance with me."

You stare at him, skeptical. He stares back, unbothered.

Instead, you grab his hand, passive-aggressive, like the universe owes you something for putting him in your life.

"Step on my feet, I break your kneecaps."

"For the record, I was a good fuckin' dancer."

"There is not one person left alive that can corroborate that," you scoff.

It's a joke, but you're acutely aware that maybe it's exactly why this is hard for him.

He pulls you in, a little stiff, like neither of you actually know how to do this anymore.

The music filters in from inside, something soft, but the two of you aren’t moving right to it.

He sways, slow and easy, like it makes all the sense in the world.

It pisses you off that somewhere, it starts feeling that was for you too.

"You're terrible at this," you mutter.

"So are you," he grumbles.

You scoff. "You said you were good at dancing."

"Yeah, well," he exhales, "people say a lot of shit."

You roll your eyes, but you don’t let go.

Neither does he.

The wind picks up. His palm presses a little firmer against your back. You don’t know what to do with that.

"You think you’re mad now," he mutters, "just wait ‘til I do this."

You frown, "What are you plann-"

You barely have time to react before his lips brush against your forehead.

It’s quick, warm, and a little unpracticed, like he thought about it too hard but did it anyway.

Your fingers tighten against his shirt. Not because you want to hold on. But because you don’t know what else to do with your hands when something shifts in your chest.

"Jes—"

"Shut up," he says, and it's the closest you've heard him come to pleading. "Five more minutes."

The words sit between you, heavy and unspoken.

You don’t know if he’s talking about the dance or something bigger.

Five more minutes.

Like you’re not running out of time. Like something in the world could belong to you, even if just for a little while.

You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And five minutes stretch on longer than they usually do.

[harmonyrae]

Inked

Synopsis: Somehow you won a free session from the most famous tattoo artist in Linkon. You never expected to be sucked into his world, but you’re slowly becoming even more obsessed with him. And with who you are when you’re with him. When you finally discover what he’s involved in, will he push you away or show you a whole new world? 

AN: This fanfic was inspired & entirely fueled by the artwork above, done by the amazing @obligatedart - thank you for letting me use your work as the cover art! Go check them out and see the other tattooed Rafayel pieces they’ve done. I’ve written over 80 pages in a week so... comment if you want to be tagged for part 2!

Content Warnings: explicit language & sexual content, alcohol consumption, public sex, threesome, oral (m&f receiving), creampie, PiV, birth control mentioned (yay protection), mentions of needles (tattoo needles, not medical), genital piercings, vehicle accidents, injuries, blood, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 16k 

“I still can’t believe you won the fucking contest!”

Tara punches you in the arm and you grunt, swatting at her with a pout. She leans away from you to protect the coffee in her hand before giggling and gently rubbing the spot she hit.

“Sorry, sorry, I just… I spent so much money buying like 50 raffle tickets and you bought ONE and beat all the odds. Did you cast a spell? Are you a witch?!”

Tara’s animated voice draws the attention of the other cafe patrons. You sip your latte silently and try to avoid their judgemental gazes. Tara sets her cup down and crosses her arms. She leans back, squinting at you.

“So it’s tomorrow, right?”

You nod and lean on the table in front of you to pick at your blueberry muffin. Tara snatches the muffin away and you look up at her with wide eyes. She’s definitely irritated with your silence. But what can you possibly say? Sorry? Sorry for winning a once in a lifetime raffle to get a free tattoo by the best tattoo artist in Linkon? Who has a 5 year waitlist? Who has tattooed the biggest celebrities? Who was a judge on the #1 reality show for 3 years running trying to find the next big artist? Who is absolutely, positively, undoubtedly the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life? Fuck no, you are not sorry at all.

“I know you wanted to win so I don’t want to talk about it and make you upset.”

Tara rolls her eyes and plops your muffin back on its plate. You sit back and sigh, looking Tara up and down. She didn’t seem like the type to have a lot of tattoos, but she hid them well. When she wasn’t in her uniform she was showcasing the artwork on her body. The designs were gorgeous and you wished you had been more patient when getting yours. You basically ran to the tattoo shop on your 18th birthday to get a super basic bitch tattoo just because you could. 

“I want to hear about it! I am going to live vicariously through you. Spill bitch.”

You chuckle and finish off your latte before pulling out your phone to show Tara the email chain you started with the artist. She grabs your phone instantly and scrolls through the messages.

“Oh my god, even his emails sound hot.”

You roll your eyes and watch Tara’s eyes light up when she sees the design.

“Holy shit. You are BRAVE! AN underboob tat?! You’re gonna show him your tits the first time you meet him?! Biiiiiitch!”

She squeals before zooming in on the design and ogling at the details.

“This is so pretty! The seashells and the little pearls and chains? Amazing. It will match your chest piece really well too!”

She was right, the seashells and pearls would tie into your mermaid chest piece perfectly. It was the first tattoo you put a lot of effort into, getting the design nailed down and taking your time finding a good artist. You wanted this next piece to compliment it and expand on the original concept. The shells would be a dusty pink to match the tails with the beading and pearls adding a little sparkle. You smiled, your pre-tattoo butterflies swirling. 

“OH! You sent him a picture of your chest piece.”

She slapped your shoulder excitedly.

“In a bikini top! Are you KIDDING ME? Imagine him opening that picture and just getting to stare at your gorgeous tits and that tat? I’m horny just thinking about it.”

You grab her wrist to stop her flailing, your cheeks are burning since her voice is just a little too loud. She glares at you, her sly smile absolutely beaming. 

“Jesus Tara, shh! It’s not a big deal, I’ve wanted this piece expanded for a long time and Rafayel’s specialty is literally anything ocean related. He’s going to touch up the girls too.”

She raises her brows and drops her eyes to your chest and you quickly realize your mistake.

“The mermaids, you horny bitch, the mermaids.”

She nods slowly.

“Uh huh… sure!”

You don’t argue with her, let her think what she wants. You were already anxious thinking about the appointment. She was right about one thing, you were basically showing him your tits the same day you officially met. It’s like “Hi, nice to meet you, here’s my tits” - nice.

When you get home that night you spend extra time prepping your skin and finding the right outfit. Sure you’d be taking off your top and just wearing pasties, but making sure you felt your best beyond that was important too. You drink your sleepy time tea, since the pre-tattoo butterflies had turned to pre-tattoo anxiety.

You slip on your nightgown and settle back, trying to force yourself to relax. About 30 minutes later, you’re on your phone. You just couldn’t help it, you scroll through your feed liking Tara’s selfie with her boyfriend, Jeremiah. A photo of Caleb at a bar, he must have gotten some R&R today. And what’s this? Zayne posted a meme? Doctor Zayne? Oh, Greyson won a bet - that makes more sense. 

As you scroll, you start finding posts reposted by Lemuria Studios, recent clients, sketches done by artists and then a video that makes your chest tighten. Rafayel sits hunched over the arm of some buff dude in a tank top, the tattoo gun in his hand moves steadily against his skin. God, he looks hot. He’s just sitting there, doing his job, why are you freaking out? You want to put the phone down, watching him work is only going to make you more anxious for tomorrow. But you can’t seem to let it go. You’re mesmerised by the outline of the muscles of his forearm, barely visible under his own colorful tattoos, they twitch as he colors in the lines he just made. His dusty purple fringe brushes his cheeks, his earrings sway as he bobs his head to whatever music is playing. He stops and wipes the guy's arm with a towel before leaning back and looking at the camera. He smiles and… fuck… You drop your phone and stifle a moan. You’re not going to survive tomorrow. 

The next morning, you wake up early to get ready. You cook a huge breakfast, as difficult as this session was going to be, you didn’t want to make it worse by passing out. You down a huge glass of water while you do your makeup. You sweep your hair over your shoulders in two long braids and slip on a beanie. Your joggers sit comfortably on your hips and you change out your fitted halter for a dark cut off t-shirt. You were committing to the comfortable vibe, especially if you were going to be mostly uncomfortable very soon. 

Your phone rings and you race to the kitchen to see Tara’s picture flash on the screen. You answer and put it on speaker as you lace up your boots. 

“What’s up?”

“I’m just checking in before your session. Are you nervous?”

You chuckle under your breath. She has no idea.

“Oh yeah, I always get pre-tattoo jitters. They’ll go away when I get there.”

“I doubt it! Girl, his face is going to be inches away from your tits. I’d bring a change of panties if I were you.”

“Tara, what do you think people at work would say if they heard you talk like this?”

“Oh, they’d lose their minds! Sweet, innocent Tara would never warn you about imagining him dropping his tattoo gun and climbing on top of you, ripping your pasties off and –”

“TARA!”

She giggles for a minute straight, barely able to catch her breath. You swing your backpack over your shoulder and jog down to the garage. 

“Sorry! Honestly, I think you’ll have a great time. You’re gonna look hot with the new tat and I can’t wait to see it. Send me pics!”

“Of course. I’ll text you during breaks.”

After you hang up, you secure your helmet and hop on your bike. You take back roads instead of the highway since you know you’re too nervous and driving fast would be a bad idea. By the time you get to Regent Square, you can feel your heartbeat pounding against your ribcage. You find a long term parking garage and pay the outrageous fee. When you check your phone, you realize you only have 10 minutes before your appointment. You were supposed to be there at least 15 minutes early to fill out the paperwork. You jog down the street, only slowing long enough to catch your breath before heading inside the studio. 

Lemuria Studios is gorgeous, the pictures posted online don’t do it justice. The floor to ceiling windows bathe the room in sunshine, the weathered brick walls covered in bright graffiti, neon signs with what you assume to be words - although you are not sure what language it is and the hardwood floors are covered with vibrant rugs with intricate patterns. A large sectional couch corners off the waiting room where a few patrons wait for their artists. There are various tattoo stations, each decorated to suit a different artist. Towards the back of the studio there is a door with an ‘R’ in what looks like ceramic tiles. Must be Rafayel’s private room.

You approach the front desk and greet the receptionist with a smile. She passes you a clipboard with release forms and leaves to walk to the door at the back. You watch her knock and crack the door open, she says something before turning back to look at you. You quickly refocus and fill in the paperwork. You place the clipboard on the counter and take a seat on the couch, fiddling with the tassels of the pillow next to you. 

You’re about to stand and start pacing, your nerves getting the best of you, when you hear a door squeak open. You lift your eyes to see the man himself, emerge from the room and stroll towards the front of the studio. You clench your fists, yep, he’s even hotter in person. 

He’s dressed casually, his button up is definitely not buttoned up. His neck tattoo swirls down his neck to the center of his chest, two koi fish swim in a circle around his Adam's apple, the fins extend towards his jaw and down his neck with pink lotus flowers complimenting the red scales of the fish. Cut off sleeves let you see his signature tattoos, full sleeves on both arms. Not an inch of skin untouched, the full color underwater scenes are vibrant, bright orange and purple coral, dark blue waves highlighted with teals and white, schools of yellow and blue fish swim in circles around his forearm and a dolphin soars over the waves. His fitted jeans hide the leg tattoos you’ve seen in photos, the ocean waves that look more like flames than water that spiral from his ankle to his hip. He also supposedly has more tattoos on his torso, but you avoided looking up any photos of him shirtless because, well… that would be dangerous.

His shaggy hair casts a shadow over his eyes, but his smile is on full display. He turns to you and you hold your breath to avoid giggling like an idiot. His blue eyes are so bright, the wash of pink in them shines in the morning light that streams through the windows. As he approaches, you awkwardly stand and put on a shy smile. 

“Hi! I’m Rafayel, nice to officially meet you.”

He extends a hand and you nearly fall back onto the couch, finally taking a breath. You take his hand and revel in the softness of his skin. He suddenly yanks you forwards and starts pulling you toward the door at the back of the studio. You stumble along after him.

“I can’t wait to show you the final sketch, it’s everything you described but I added a little something that I think you’ll like.”

You giggle as he pulls you into the room. The bright purple walls are covered in either framed sketches, polaroids of tattoos, or random tattoo designs scribbled on a napkin or envelope. A vintage jukebox, with a modern AUX attachment, sits in the corner. A stack of canvases leans against the wall and a bucket of various spray paints sits on the floor. His drawing table has countless sketches pinned to it, including yours. The design is exactly what you imagined, but there’s an additional element. The centerpiece that directly connects to the chest piece is now slightly larger, having a net pattern woven behind it with a few fish and broken shells. 

“That’s amazing, holy shit! But it’s a bit more than we originally planned on, are you sure you have time?”

He immediately starts getting the transfer paper prepared. You see him shrug.

“The whole day is yours, it was booked by the radio station that set up the raffle. It’s actually pretty nice only having one client to work on, I can take my time.”

You feel your cheeks flush. He would take his time on your piece, it was flattering and nerve wrecking. You set your bag down on a chair in the corner and stuff your hands in your pockets.

“Oh, awesome, I didn’t realize…”

“You’re nervous aren’t you?”

You huff out a laugh and put your hands on your hips.

“Not at all, I have plenty of tattoos. I know the drill. I’m totally fine, just excited.”

He turns, the transfer paper in hand, and walks over to his station. Everything was meticulously set up from the tiny cups of ink to the paper towels to his tattoo gun. He sets the transfer paper down before heading to the sink in the corner and washing his hands.

“Do you need tape?”

You watch him scrub his hands, it was almost like he was a doctor preparing for surgery. You tilt your head and hum to yourself, trying to figure out his meaning. He dries his hands and looks at you, his lips set in an amused smirk.

“For your nipples.”

You immediately drop your gaze and try to laugh to distract from the blush rising to your neck and cheeks. You clear your throat and meet his gaze.

“No, I wore pasties. Like I said, I know the drill.”

He smiles and motions towards the table. He puts on gloves and gives his bottle of transfer cream a shake. He eyes you expectantly.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

You turn away from him and face the padded table in front of you. You tug your shirt off over your head and toss it over your bag on a nearby chair. You hesitate to turn around. You’re not sure why you’re so nervous - sure you are literally half-naked in front of a guy you could only dream of, but he’s done this countless times! Your tits are not the first ones he’s tattooed under. You turn to face him and watch his eyes drop to your chest, he glances at the transfer paper and back to you, mentally lining up the art on your body. 

“Yea, this will look amazing on you.”

His voice is rougher than before, you clasp your hands behind your back and rock on your heels.

“Thank you… uhm… do you want me to lie down or?”

He walks up and squeezes some transfer cream onto his gloved hand. 

“Just stand right here. This might be cold.”

You brace and when his fingers touch the skin just under your breast, you gasp. Not from the cold, but rather from the jolt of electricity that sparked through your system. 

“You were right, s’cold.” 

He chuckles and continues to rub the cream along your upper rib cage, under your breasts and down the center of your chest. He grabs the transfer paper and lines it up.

“Can you hold 'em up for a second?”

You blink.

“Your… breasts. I want to make sure this will line up properly.”

You silently curse at yourself for how stupid you feel. You really should have chosen maybe a leg piece or maybe a cute little forearm number, but no you had to do this. You cup your breasts and lift them, staring at the ceiling to avoid eye contact. He lines up the transfer and presses it to your skin, slowly peeling it away. 

“Fuck yes. That looks perfect. Take a look in the mirror and let me know what you think.”

He turns away and changes his gloves while you check his placement. Just the transfer looks insane, your previous embarrassment melts into excitement. You turn back to him with a huge smile. 

“I love it! It’s gonna look so good!”

Rafayel smiles and you skip over to the table. You miss the flush that spreads across his cheeks as he watches your tits bounce on your way over. You hear him clear his throat as he leans to drag his chair over with his foot. You lay back on the table, your head sinking into the pillow and your hands resting on your stomach.

Rafayel sits and slides closer to you on his chair. He picks up his tattoo gun and dips the needles into the ink. He looks up at you, shaking his head to get his fringe out of his eyes.

“Ready?”

You relax your shoulders and sigh, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Hell yeah.”

The outside of Rafayel’s palm rests against the side of your breast, holding the skin taut as he begins tattooing along the edge of your rib cage. The pain is about as bad as you expected. The vibration of the tattoo gun against your ribs makes your teeth chatter. You close your eyes and try to distract yourself while adjusting to the sting of the needles. 

“So, why mermaids?”

Rafayel’s voice breaks up the monotonous buzz of the tattoo machine. You tilt your chin down and look at his god-like profile. With his attention on your tattoo, you finally let yourself examine his face. The ear you can see is littered with piercings. Double conch, helix, daith, an industrial with a little fish charm attached. His eyes have a hint of black smudged along his lash line, of course he wears eyeliner… of fucking course. And it looks so damn good too. 

He has a variety of facial piercings, which look amazing and now you want one… or two. A small silver septum hoop. You notice he occasionally wiggles his nose, rubbing it across his top lip, a nervous habit perhaps? His lip piercings have you in a trance, the shark bites, the vertical labret - how would they feel against your lips? You also caught sight of a tongue ring. The things this man could probably do with his tongue…

“Still with me, cutie?”

You are glad he was refreshing the ink on the needles as you have a very physical reaction to this new little nickname he’s given you. You cough and try to steady yourself, once you are still he continues his work.

“Yeah, sorry, I was just distracted.”

“Oh yeah, by what?”

He’s teasing you now. Great. But you never back down from a fight and if he wants to poke at you with his cute little comments - and not just the needles in his tattoo gun - you’ll give it right back to him.

“By you.”

He laughs, a hint of surprise on his face.

“Oh really? What distracted you exactly?”

“I was just admiring your piercings. I haven’t gotten nearly enough.”

“What piercings do you want?”

His tattoo needle continues to buzz and the pain slowly fades to a numbness. 

“Definitely more on my ears. I like the tragus. And then maybe my navel, basic, I know.”

“No way, the navel is a great piercing. There are a lot of creative jewelry options too. I love mine, I’d recommend it to anyone.”

“You have your belly button pierced?” 

He chuckles and shifts his hand, his pinkie dangerously close to your pasty making your heart flutter.

“Yup. Was one of my first actually. After that it was all downhill. Now I have too many to count.”

“Really? What other piercings do you recommend then?”

He hesitates and glances up at you. His eyes flick to your breasts and back. And you swear you caught him biting his lip for a moment. 

“Body piercings are fun. But if you’re not ready for that but bored with your ears, facial piercings are a good place to start. Septum made me cry like a bitch, but it’s a great one.”

“Made you cry like a bitch, huh?”

Your mocking tone makes him pause and look at you, his lips set in a pout. You giggle at his pathetic, yet adorable, expression.

“It’s because it fucks with your sinuses or some shit, not because it hurt!”

“Okay, okay!”

“I’ve gotten some piercings that make grown men weep and didn’t flinch, trust me, it was not because of the pain.”

You raise your eyebrows at the implication, but you decide to hold your tongue and not entertain the thought of what those “other” piercings might be. You settle your head back and take a deep breath.

“And what about tattoos? Which one was the most painful?”

He hums to himself, his hand once again shifting and pushing your breast slightly upward as he colors in a line. 

“My neck was the worst, by far. I’m glad I didn’t pick something that went directly over my Adam’s apple cause I would not have survived.” 

“That piece is really nice. Did you design it?”

“I did. Then my apprentice tattooed it. Never been prouder of the kid. Now you’ve asked a few questions, I think it’s only fair you answer one of mine.”

You sigh dramatically and chuckle when he stops working. You know he is staring at you, probably pouting again, so you stare at the ceiling. 

“Alright, fair is fair.”

“Why mermaids?”

“Oh uhh…” You stutter as you try to find the right words. “Because they’re tragic yet beautiful.” 

Rafayel stops again and looks at you, his brows raised. 

“Art and literature depicts them as beautiful creatures, but their counterparts are much darker. Sirens lure sailors to their watery graves. They’re… underestimated? Like their beauty distracts while their voice reels them in. It’s powerful.”

“Was there something that prompted the need for a constant reminder of their power etched into your skin?”

You shift your gaze to his hands, resting on your stomach, the tattoo gun hovering over your skin.

“I spent a long time under someone’s thumb, feeling powerless. He always felt like he had to protect me. I was… lost… for a while. Then I read a book about a siren, using the form of a mermaid, who charmed the men in her life into submission while planning their downfall. I didn’t want Ca– my friend to be hurt though! I decided to put on a ‘damsel in distress’ act for him but I’m still in control, ya know?”

Rafayel nodded sharply, his gaze more intense. He shifted on his stool and the familiar hum of the tattoo gun started again. With his focus back on your body, you felt your mind start to spiral. Was your explanation dumb? You know sirens are not exactly mermaids, but mermaids looked better. Did he think you were dumb and confused them? Should you have said ‘cause they’re pretty’ instead?

“Most people don’t realize sirens and mermaids aren’t the same thing. Seems like you do.”

“I do! Yeah, I just… I guess…”

“Liked how mermaids looked better than a half bird sea creature?”

His voice was light, sarcasm had found its way back to him and you sighed in relief. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I saw some good siren designs but nothing clicked. This one did. Plus I think it makes my tits stand out.”

Rafayal lets out a breathy laugh and sits up straighter in his chair. He grabs a paper towel and wipes the excess ink from your skin. He moves his chair forward and settles his arm over the top of your breast, his hand resting at the center of your chest. You can feel his breath fan across your skin and you have to bite your lip, hard, to avoid shivering.

“It does, but I have a feeling they looked perfect before too.”

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you feel slightly dizzy. Did he just? Did he? He complimented your tits. This man complimented your tits, with his face inches away from them, while stabbing you repeatedly with a needle. How are you supposed to respond to that?

“Thank… you.”

Rafayel laughs at your whispered appreciation. His hands work carefully, shifting and sliding to draw the centerpiece.

“Okay, next question.”

Over the next four hours you and Rafayel go back and forth with questions. It almost felt like you were on a first date. You talked about your favorite music, his favorite movies, your job at the Hunters Association, his secret sushi restaurant that’s opening in six months. On your break at the two hour mark, he offered you a soda and walked in circles around the room, stretching his legs, while talking animatedly about a rave happening later this month. And when you begged him for the details so you could get tickets, his smile grew tenfold.

As he was adding the final touches, he stood bent over you poking and dabbing away ink until you were nearly ready to scream. His hair would brush against your shoulder and you’d stiffen, leading to Rafayel joking about ‘staying loose or it’ll hurt more’ which made you squeeze your thighs so tightly you nearly cried. When he finished and was doing the clean up he surprised you, his cheeks were a tad rosy and his usually playful tone more serious.

“I haven’t had this much fun during a session in a while. So… Thank you. I hope you like it.”

You took his hand and sat up, hopping off the table to turn and face the mirror. You were speechless. The lines were sharp and straight, the colors bright, the shading made everything pop out as if the seashells were just sitting on the surface of your skin. Your mermaids were glowing - their scales nearly sparkled and the ocean waves surrounding them looked so real. Tiny sparks floated around the mermaid's hands, creating a shield of fire. Like they were putting on a show or putting up a forcefield. You couldn’t stop yourself from squealing with excitement before you turned around and lunged towards Rafayel, pulling him into a hug.

“Oh my god…”

As soon as your chest collided with his, your excitement faded and pure terror replaced it. You jumped back, instinctively covering your chest with your hands. His ears were bright red and he stared at you, unable to blink it seems. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think! I was so excited and… Shit… I –”

He reaches out and takes hold of your arms. You snap your mouth closed.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you love it. I do wish that you hadn’t… pulled away so quickly though…”

You blinked rapidly. He was pouting again, pouting because you pulled away from hugging him. From hugging him while… His thumbs brush against your skin and you tilt your head, scanning his face for confirmation that what he said was real.

“I was going to wait to ask you out until after I bandaged you up and you had your shirt on, but why waste a perfectly good moment?”

Your mouth hangs open and you feel your knees jerk. Rafayel’s hold on you tightens and he helps you lean back against the table.

“Shit… let me get you some juice, you’re probably crashing a bit.” 

Oh, he has no idea just how badly you are crashing out right now. He jogs out of the room and returns with a small bottle of orange juice. He opens it for you and holds it to your lips. You take a sip and lift your hand to hold his wrist while he helps you drink. His eyes meet yours and you stare at him, he doesn’t look away, his gaze burns straight to your core. He sets the bottle down and grabs a paper towel, dabbing at your leaking tattoo gently. 

“Yes.” You whisper.

“What?”

“Yes, I’ll go out with you.”

If you thought you’d seen him excited before… He smiles, his dazzling teeth take your breath away. You raise a brow when you realize he has gems adhered to his canines - can he get any sexier?

“Well, I’d say this session went swimmingly.” 

You giggle and rest your palms on the table behind you. He gets to work cleaning your tattoo and snapping a few pictures for you before covering the fresh ink with Saniderm wrap. You pull your shirt back on and down the rest of the orange juice - you were starting to feel your endorphins fade away and your body was reeling from the experience. 

“How does tomorrow night sound?” 

He holds his phone out to you and you take it, seeing he already set up a contact for you. You feel your cheeks burn when you see the contact name “Tattoo Cutie.” You don’t correct it, just add your name beside it and punch in your number before handing it back to him. 

“Sounds perfect.”

You wake up to a banging on your front door, it’s so loud you’re sure your neighbors will complain to you later. You don’t even bother putting on your robe and jog through your living room. You swing the door open and Tara flies through, nearly knocking you over. You close the door and follow her through the hall to your living room.

“You’re casting a spell or making one of those wish bottle things or whatever it is that you’re doing to make your life so damn perfect.”

She plops down on your sofa and crosses her arms. She stares up at you with a stern expression. You try not to giggle since Tara’s version of “stern” comes across a lot like Rafayel’s pout. 

“I didn’t cast a spell. I just –”

“You just what? Became the luckiest girl in the world without even trying? That’s even worse!”

You finally let out a laugh and sit down next to her, pulling your legs to your chest.

“Listen, I have no idea what’s going on, I am just trying to enjoy it while it lasts. It feels like I’m going to wake up any moment and realize it was all a dream.”

She shifts on the sofa and turns to face you.

“I don’t want to sound like I am jealous in a mean way, I am jealous in a ‘give me some of your luck’ way. Maybe then Jeremiah will finally propose…”

You grab her hand and squeeze gently.

“Oh come one, you literally picked out your ring with him! He’ll propose, he’s obsessed with you. He’s also terrified of you, so he knows better than to half-ass a proposal. Give him more time.”

Her cheeks flush and she looks down at her hand, holding up her ring finger. She lets out a sigh and looks up at you with determination.

“I want to know everything about last night. Every dirty detail. Spill.”

She kicks off her shoes and crosses her legs under her, fully facing you. She won’t let go of your hand, so you’re trapped on the sofa with her until you tell her about your date.

“He picked me up on his bike and –”

“He rides a bike! Oh my god that’s hot - what kind?!”

“A Kawasaki. It was really nice, dark blue with bright blue headlights. He told me he collects them so –”

“He collects motorcycles? Oh my god…”

“Are you going to let me tell you about the date or not?”

Tara huffs and lets go of your hand. She lifts her fingers to her mouth and pressed her lips together, “zipping her lips” so you can continue.

“We drove around for a while and then he took me to – oh I don’t know if I can tell you…”

“BITCH IF YOU DON’T –”

You laugh and lean away from her flailing hands. You raise yours in surrender.

“Okay, okay, but you have to promise not to say anything, swear.”

She places a hand over her heart.

“I swear on Winterford the 3rd I will not speak a word.”

“Woah, swearing on your dog's life is intense Tara.”

She crosses her arms and glares at you. You roll your eyes and continue.

“He is opening a sushi restaurant in a few months, so he took me there to show me around. It’s down at the pier near Whitesand Bay.”

Tara opens her mouth to say something but instantly closes it. You nod in approval, her self-control is improving. 

“He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but the interior and kitchen are done. We made sushi together and ate on the rooftop terrace looking out over the water.”

Tara lets out a closed-mouth squeal and claps her hands. She motions with her hands for you to continue. 

“We walked along the pier and talked for a long time. When it got dark he offered his jacket - I know - and then we went back to his bike. He drove down this alley where graffiti artists practice and gave me a can to try it out.”

“Wait - sorry - you defaced public property?”

“Rafayel owns the building and advertises it as, and I quote ‘an artists playground’ so no I did not.”

“That’s a shame, it would have been hot.”

“Tara! I’m a public servant! I’d lose my job.”

She pokes your shoulder.

“Only if you get caught!”

You rub your temples and suppress the urge to laugh at her antics. 

“What happened next?”

“He drove me home.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She punches your shoulder and you fall back onto the couch.

“TARA!”

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN GET A KISS? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“I DID! Just not… okay… he kissed me on the cheek when he said good night. It was cute.”

“CUTE?”

You sit up and push her, she doesn’t even move. 

“I don’t want to rush things!”

“At least tell me he made plans for a second date with you?”

“He did. We are going out on Friday night.”

“Thank god. Please, I beg of you, get laid or at least make out with him!”

“Tara, I swear to god…”

“You have been insanely stressed lately and from what you’ve told me, he is super into you. Just let go babe, enjoy it! Enjoy him.”

You cross your arms and shake your head.

“It’ll happen when it feels right. I won’t lie, I hope it’s sooner rather than later, but I also am willing to wait. I –”

You stop yourself, feeling your cheeks heat up. Tara’s expression softens.

“Oh. Oh.”

You get up from the couch and head into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Tara is right on your heels.

“You liiiiike him. Aww, babes!”

She wraps her arms around you, hugging your back as you pour coffee beans into your espresso machine. 

“I just started seeing him, it’s too early to tell.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

She releases you and slides onto a bar stool, her arms leaning on the island. You start chopping up fruit and try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. The sound of your coffee machine cuts through the silence and you avoid looking at Tara, knowing she can read you like a book. Maybe it was after the tattoo session or when you were holding hands on the pier, but at some point you realized you really liked Rafayel. He made you laugh and he asked the most bizarre questions that made you think about life in a new light. You wanted more and god, you hope he does too.

By the time Friday rolls around you are definitely ready for some fun. You’ve been constantly sharing memes back and forth with Rafayel all week. It’s certainly eased the stress of work. But you want to see him and you’re eager for his call when you finally clock out and head home.

You’re barely in the front door when you hear your phone buzz. You see Rafayel’s name light up your screen and have to force yourself to count to ten before answering it. You don’t want to seem that eager. 

“Hey, you.”

“Hey cutie, how was work?”

“It was okay, not too much activity today so I was stuck cataloging old reports. I almost fell asleep like three times.”

“I bet. I… shit… I have to tell you something.”

You clench your fist and lean against the door to your bedroom, dropping your bag to the floor.

“Okaaaay.”

He sighs and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“I have to reschedule.”

And there it is, your heart sinks.

“Oh… yeah okay.”

“Not because I want to, trust me. I owe someone a favor and have to be at a party.”

You bite your lip, propping your hand on your hip as you start to pace.

“I see.”

You can’t mask the edge to your voice. A party? Someone is calling in a favor for him to come to their party? He is famous, so it would make them look good, but why couldn’t he invite you? Was he embarrassed of you? Did he not want people in his life to know you were dating? Or seeing each other? Or just talking? Are you even dating?

“It’s more like work, she’s offering free tattoos to the guests. The other artist fell through so she’s calling me in so her party doesn’t ‘crash and burn’ - her words not mine.”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, you’re pissed.”

You stop dead in your tracks and straighten up.

“I am not!”

“I can hear you pacing.” 

You look down at your shoes. Of course you wore your chunky boots with the clicky heels today. The taps on your wooden floors were that loud? Damn.

“I’m not mad, I promise.”

“Then you’re irritated?”

“No…”

“What is it? Come on, tell me.”

“I guess… confused?”

“Confused about what?”

You close your eyes and sit down on your bed. Bracing yourself for the embarrassment you’re sure will wash over you after your next statement. 

“Is there a reason you couldn’t bring me? I know you said it was more like work, but I guess… You know what, nevermind.”

You flop back onto your mattress and cover your eyes with your arm.

“Nope! Not ‘nevermind-ing’ - I would love to bring you, I just… I… fuck how do I explain it?”

“You don’t want anyone knowing about me?”

“No! Fuck no! That’s not what I… shit… okay, I didn’t think you’d want to come. It’s not a normal party. Not everyone is… comfortable with this sort of thing.”

You sit up immediately. Your hand tightly grips your phone. 

“What kind of party is it?”

He pauses. The silence stretches for what feels like hours. He finally sighs and chuckles under his breath.

“It’s a sex party, babe.”

You audibly gasp and slap a hand over your mouth. You shake your head and ignore your throbbing clit to continue the conversation.

“Oh, I… right… I get it. Sorry. Uhm…”

“You’re more than welcome to come as my plus one, but only if you’re comfortable.”

You take a moment and consider your options. A sex party. As Rafayel’s plus one. You’ve never been very adventurous with your sexual endeavors. You didn’t even realize sex parties happened in real life. You’re practically salivating just thinking about it. You stand and face the mirror hanging next to your closet. What have you got to lose? 

“What should I wear?”

Rafayel laughs, he clears his throat before continuing. 

“Something sexy, but that’ll be easy for you. I’ll bring you a mask.”

You pause after opening your closet. 

“A mask?”

“Yeah, everyone wears masks to add to the ‘experience’ - everyone at these parties knows each other most of the time, but the masks offer a sense of freedom. Everybody can do what they want for the night, no consequences.”

You tug at the fabric of a sleek black dress as you mull over the idea. Just for the night. No consequences. Maybe Tara is right, maybe you should just let go. 

“What time?”

“It starts at 9. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“See you then.”

After you hang up you get to work figuring out your outfit. Rafayel might have confidence in your ability to pick out a sexy outfit but you certainly didn’t. Should it be sexy and cute? Just sexy? Sexy and slutty? Sexy and fancy? You pull dress after dress from your closet and nothing feels right. You finally decide to forgo dresses completely. The first skirt you pull out is the one. You can visualize the outfit and while it’s much more revealing than you’re used to, you are pretty sure you’d be wearing more than most of the party goers regardless. 

You zip up the pleather mini skirt, adjusting it so it sits high on your hips. Your legs were on full display, the skirt mostly serving to just cover your ass. You grab your favorite black bra and shrug on the mesh top. Layering gold necklaces so your torso doesn’t appear so bare. You look in the mirror and jump up and down with excitement. Your tattoos are fully visible through the mesh. You had lathered lotion onto your new tattoos so the peeling wasn’t noticeable and carefully applied perfume, avoiding the healing skin. Your red pumps sit next to the door with your red crossbody clutch. You were ready, well sort of.

Rafayel called you only a few minutes later and you carefully made your way to the first floor. You were comfortable wearing heels, opting to wear them all the time when hitting the club with Tara or going on dates. But tonight, your nerves were making your ankles a little wobbly. The elevator door opens to the front lobby of your apartment building and you spot Rafayel leaning against a car just outside. Fuck.

He had a button up, that was actually buttoned up this time, tucked into shredded jeans. His boots were laced with gold laces. He had multiple chain necklaces around his neck. As you got closer you realized his shirt was also see through, just little golden floral appliques scattered over the sheer fabric. You could see everything and god, it was a sight. The definition of his abs, the dark lines of a tattoo on his side and swirls of ink trailing from his neck piece down his chest. You spot his navel piercing, sparkling as the setting sun casts what almost felt like a spotlight on him. Something else sparkles, nipple rings. You swear under your breath. He’s going to kill you, not literally, but - well he might with how fast your heart is beating. 

He finally looks up from his phone and spots you. His eyes widen and he stares, jaw slack, for at least a full minute. Your cheeks burn and you have to focus on his face so you don’t sneak a peek at his torso again. 

“Fuck, you look amazing.”

His words make you stammer. You swallow hard, working up the courage to respond.

“I can say the same for you.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your cheek. You feel his body against yours and sigh, wishing you could delay him letting you go.

“Ready to go, cutie?”

You nod and he opens the passenger door for you. You slide in and finally take a good look at the car you’re in. You’ve never ridden in a Bentley before - the seats were soft under your thighs. The leather is silky rather than sticky against your skin. The car was painted a similar dark blue to his bike and had the same bright blue headlights. You already knew he liked the color blue, but this just made it more obvious. 

He settles into the driver seat and the engine revs to life. 

“You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?”

You lean on the center console as you face him, leaning forwards.

“I’m sure.”

“We can leave at any point, Talia will just have to deal with it. Just don’t hesitate to –”

You press your index finger to his lips, silencing him. The surprised look on his face makes your smile hurt your cheeks.

“Rafayel, I’m sure.”

He smiles and you drop your hand, but he grabs it immediately and laces his fingers with yours. He rests your hand on his thigh, rubbing your hand with his thumb as he sets off down the highway.

As the gates to the mansion open, you squeeze Rafayel’s hand trying to quell a wave of nerves. This mansion is huge, you spot two guest houses and a pool with a waterfall - a full ass waterfall - nestled in the backyard surrounded by hundreds of trees and flowers. The cobblestone driveway leads to a massive mahogany front door, where two men stand, dressed in black. Rafayel continues rubbing your hand with his thumb.

“It’s intimidating, I know. It’ll be better once we’re inside.”

You watch party goers enter, getting pat down briefly before heading inside. From what you can see, they’re dressed fairly normally. Dresses and heels, suits or blazers. Rafayel parks in the garage of one of the guest houses and rushes around the car to open your door. You give him a playful glare.

“You know I can open my own door, good sir.”

He takes your hand and helps you out, bringing your hand to his mouth, his lips pressing against your knuckles. 

“I’m aware.”

You don’t argue when he wraps an arm around your waist as he leads you to the main house. He enters through a backdoor and a security guard greets him with a smile.

“Raf, good to see you. Talia is in the main room already. She told me to show you to the booth. And who is this with you?”

His voice hardens when he spots you. Rafayel leans over and kisses your temple.

“She’s with me.”

The guard nods and unlocks a door, ushering you both inside.

All the lightbulbs have been replaced with warm red bulbs, fake candles cover every surface, cushions and blankets are tucked in corners. Rooms that typically never have beds have become makeshift bedrooms. Wait staff stroll in and out of the kitchen with platters covered in hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne. A DJ is perched on a balcony overlooking the main floor, the music a mix of soft jazz with sultry singers. 

You’ve yet to spot any party goers, so you relax a bit as you take in the lavish interior. You’re pulled behind a curtain, a small room sits behind it with a padded table, a small cabinet, a portable sink, a large medical light and a few stools. Rafayel walks up to the cabinet and crouches, examining its contents. You spot a large collection of tattoo equipment. As Rafayel sets up his station, you peek through the curtain and see people walking around. Everyone is wearing masks and at least some form of clothing. You hear Rafayel call your name and you jump back through the curtain.

“Curious, are we?”

You scoff and cross your arms. He turns to you and holds something out. You take it and realize it’s a simple black eye mask, made of simple fabric with a thick elastic band. When you look back up at Rafayel, he is already putting his on. You slip the mask on and fiddle with the elastic, unsure if you should tuck it under your hair. Rafayel touches your hand and you pause. He turns you around and collects your hair, holding it up so you can slip the elastic band underneath. He lets your hair go and smoothes it back in place. 

“You’re welcome to look around, you don’t have to stay here with me.”

“I’ll stay, at least for now. I can be your assistant.”

He smiles and brushes his thumb across your cheek. He stares at you for a moment, his eyes bouncing from your eyes to your lips. You hook your fingers in the belt loops of his jeans and he leans closer. Is he going to –

“Raffie! Oh my god thank you thank you thank you!”

A woman with long purple waves bounces through the curtain. You almost let out a gasp when you see she’s naked from the waist up. Rafayel slaps a hand over his eyes and sighs.

“Talia… You might be the one person at this party I absolutely do not want to see naked.”

“Raffie, you’re so dramatic. I have pasties on!.”

If she did have pasties, they were… camouflaged. Her teasing voice only seems to irritate Rafayel more. Or maybe it’s because of her cute little nickname for him.

“Talia, please…”

Talia sighs dramatically and dives through the curtain for a moment. When she returns she has a silky purple robe on. She reaches up and yanks Rafayel’s wrist and pulls his hand from his face. His eyes remain closed.

“I put on a robe, Raffie. Chill out.”

Rafayel opens his eyes and shoves her shoulder playfully.

“Stop it with the Raffie.”

“I don’t know, I like Raffie. It’s cute.”

Rafayel stares at you and you can’t help but laugh. Talia giggles and grabs your hand, shaking it wildly.

“When Rafayel said he was bringing a plus one I was shocked. He never brings anyone around me honestly. You must be special.”

“Oh, no I’m –”

“She is.”

Rafayel cuts you off and you nearly choke on your own saliva. His hand grazes your hip, holding you close. Talia smiles and pokes his shoulder.

“I see. Well… here you go.”

She hands you and Rafayel a keyring with three cards attached. You flip the cards back and forth, not seeing anything printed on them. 

“In case you decide to… participate. Feel free to tattoo as long as you like, I only promised the service until midnight.”

Rafayel nods and accepts the side hug Talia offers. She gives you a quick hug as well - taking you by surprise - before skipping out of the room.

“So that’s Talia. She’s my aunt. And she’s so great at introductions.”

He puts his keyring in the cabinet and sits down on one of the stools next to the table. He starts spreading out a wide array of flash tattoos he’s designed, making it easier for selection. You fiddle with the keyring. 

“So what’s this about?”

He looks up and, even in the dim lighting you can see his ears turn red.

“It’s a… aha… a way to approach someone you want to interact with and express interest.”

You stare at him, letting your mind wander as you try to figure out how it works. You avoid Rafayel’s gaze, embarrassed that you don’t understand his implications. You hear him stand and approach you. His hand covers your own and he takes the keyring. You watch as he flips to the blue card.

“An individual will approach another individual, or a group of individuals, and hold up a card. They’ll wait until they’re chosen or refused. The card tells you what they want.” 

You lift your wide eyes to meet his.

“The blue card is for the male. The red card is for the female. And the yellow card is for both.”

You blink rapidly and clear your throat.

“So if I approached you and held up this.”

He holds up the red card.

“It means I want you… In whatever way I can have you.”

You take a deep breath and feel your chest tighten. You press your thighs together and basically beg your pussy to calm down. He places the keyring back in your hand and closes your fingers around it. He lifts his hand to hold the side of your neck. He leans closer, his nose brushing against yours, his breath fanning across your face. His lips barely graze your cheek, just above your lips. Every breath you take pushes your chest against his. It takes everything you have not to grab him and devour him on the spot.

You hear the curtain behind you flip open and Rafayel lets go of your neck, looking up to see his first client. You sit on a stool and watch Rafayel tattoo client after client. Most are completely naked, which takes you a bit of time to adjust to. You help him by cleaning the table - very well - between clients. 

Every time a woman enters, their breasts bouncing and pussy proudly on display, you feel a twinge of pain. And when Rafayel puts his hands on them to begin working, it feels like you’re going to throw up. 

Before you know it, midnight is less than a half hour away and your nerves start to swirl. What will Rafayel want to do once his “duties” are done? Just as you’re getting ready to ask him, a perky brunette with olive skin strolls in. Golden chains draped over her perfect body. She leans against the table and points to a simple jellyfish design. 

“It’s a popular one. Where’dya want it?” 

He clears the table and she lays down on her back. You glance down at your phone and check the time and when you look back up, she is laying with her legs spread wide. You hold your breath and look to Rafayel, who is still focused on getting his supplies refreshed. When he turns around a look of genuine surprise graces his face. He sets his tattoo gun down and crosses the room to wash his hands.

“Are you sure about that? It’s worse than a piercing and harder to heal. You won't be able to participate anymore tonight.”

“A night of passion or a tattoo on my pussy by the famous Rafayel? I am absolutely sure.”

Rafayel doesn’t look at you as he puts on his gloves. You tense and drop your gaze. He sits on his stool and slides over, when you finally look up you see him basically staring at her pussy. You gasp silently, you didn’t think it was loud enough for anyone to hear, but when Rafayel glances over his shoulder at you you quickly get up and dash through the curtain. 

You don’t look back and you don’t hear him call for you - not that you could hear anything over the music and moans. You walk through the various rooms, grabbing a glass of champagne from a waiter on your way. You finally find an empty room and sit down to catch your breath. You down your champagne in one go and fiddle with the stem of the glass. 

You know you shouldn’t be upset, you weren’t in a relationship and this was technically your second date. From the sounds of it, he’s tattooed that area before. Of course he has, it’s his job. It isn’t a big deal. You feel foolish for running out like that, he probably thinks you’re dramatic and can’t handle his job or his fame. You set the glass on a table nearby and cover your face with your hands. 

You finish off two more glasses of champagne before feeling brave enough to head back into the main hall. You take your time as you walk back to Rafayel’s tattoo booth, letting yourself watch the chaos around you. Clusters of people on beds, tables and even the floor. Riding, licking, sucking, moaning. You feel like you’re in another world, where shame and embarrassment don’t exist. If you weren’t so frustrated you might actually be enjoying yourself. 

You stop at the staircase, your eyes locked on a couple wrapped around each other. It’s not like the others, they take their time, kissing and touching before he lifts her to ride his cock. Her moans are soft and the smile on her face - she’s experiencing pure bliss. You feel your cheeks heat and your throat tighten. You want that, not just a night of passion with a hot guy. And maybe you aren’t able to handle Rafayel’s job or fame. Is that such a bad thing? That you know what you want? Or what you don’t want?

“Cutie?”

Rafayel’s voice breaks you out of your spiral. You feel his hand on your back and you turn to face him. You know your cheeks are flushed, your eyes hazy yet vacant as your mind tries to make sense of your newfound clarity. 

“I’m sorry I ran out.”

He places his hands on your shoulders and rubs your arms.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I know it’s your job and you’ve probably tattooed plenty of pussies - it’s not a big deal.”

“Really? I think it is a big deal if it upsets you.”

“I wasn’t upset. It doesn’t matter anyway, if I can’t handle it then maybe you should find someone who can.”

He stiffens, his brows knit together and his eyes darken. His voice drops and his tone becomes rigid.

“Is that what you want? For me to find someone else?”

“Maybe I am uncomfortable with the idea of you touching another girl's pussy, even if it is for your job. So yes, find someone who doesn’t care.”

He pushes you back against the wall. His hands move from your arms to tightly grip your hips.

“What if I like that about you?”

You open your mouth to respond, but he leans in, pressing his chest against yours.

“Do you want my hands on you? Only you? Only touching your pussy?”

Your chest heaves, pressing against him with every breath. His hands move up your waist, forcing your back to arch off the wall towards him.

“Cause that’s what I want. I don’t want to touch anyone else like that, not when yours is the one I can’t stop thinking about tasting.”

His nose rubs against yours.

“I told her to change the location or get out.”

His lips brush against yours, you can almost taste him.

“So don’t tell me to find someone else because you’re the one I want. So please, don’t run away.”

You let out a shaky breath and reach up to grab his neck, you capture his lips. He moans against your mouth and you bite his lip. He gasps and tries to pull back but you don’t let him. You hold him to you and slide your tongue into his mouth, which he quickly sucks in. His tongue dances with yours leaving you breathless. 

He leans down to pick you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands dive under your skirt. He grabs your ass and you roll your hips against his stomach. He walks over to an unoccupied sofa and sits down with you straddling his lap. You run your hands down his body, feeling the chill of his nipple rings against your palms. He pushes your hips down and you lower onto him, his bulge growing harder under you. He suddenly pulls back.

“Wait - do you want to go somewhere private?”

You grind your hips against him and he groans loudly. You can feel eyes on you and it makes you grind harder. You lean forward and press your mouth to his ear.

“I can’t wait… and I want them to watch you take what’s yours.”

Something inside of Rafayel snaps. He rips the mesh top from your body and pulls up your skirt over your hips. His hands roam across your back as he places kisses to your chest. Your relentless grinding makes him nip and lick at your skin in response. He unhooks your bra and tosses it over the sofa, his mouth moving to capture your nipple. You throw your head back and sigh, your breathing becoming more erratic by the second. 

He lifts your hips and you whine, the friction of his bulge against your clothed pussy wasn’t perfect, but it was something. He picks you up and stands, dropping you onto the couch. He kneels and unzips your skirt, pulling it completely off of you. You tug the buttons on his shirt loose and run your hands over his chest. He pulls off the shirt and you reach to unbutton his pants, but his hand stops you. You look at him, confused.

“I have to show you something first, okay baby?”

You nod and lean back. He unbuttons his pants and bends to pull them down completely - along with his underwear. Your jaw drops, literally drops, at the sight of his cock. Not just because he is well-endowed - not to the point of discomfort, but you’re sure you’ll be sore tomorrow. But because the moment you saw that glint of silver your pussy throbbed so hard you nearly came. 

Right at the base of his slit sat the silver ball, you reach out and wrap your hand around him. He shudders but remains still for you. You run your fingers over his slit, already leaking pre-cum, and roll the silver ball between your fingers. You feel the other end of the piercing underneath, you shift the piercing back and forth. He moans and his hips twitch. You stroke him slowly, working your way down to the silver studs at the base, sitting atop his pubic mound. You moan as your fingers rub across it, imagining how good it will feel against your clit. 

“Having fun, cutie?”

His words are broken, his breathing labored as you work him. You smile up at him and push yourself to the end of the sofa. He reaches his hand out and strokes your cheek. You hold his gaze as you stick your tongue out and lick his slit. His hands grip your hair and he pulls you away from him. He towers over you, making you lean back onto the couch. He climbs over you and leans down, pressing his lips to your neck.

“How wet are you right now?”

You roll your hips up against his cock and he growls into your neck. He sits back to tug your panties down your legs. He lowers himself again, pressing his entire body against yours. You moan with how hot his skin feels against yours. You wrap your arms around him and cling to him, your legs spreading wider as he settles against you. His hands roam your body, pinching at your nipples, fingering your weeping pussy, palming your ass - every touch sending shockwaves through your system. 

He dips his fingers further into your pussy and you pull your hips back. He looks at you, sweat already dripping down his forehead. You run your fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes - those beautiful fucking eyes. 

“I don’t want your fingers Raf, please…”

He chuckles and slides his hand down to line himself up. You feel the chill of metal against your entrance and flinch. 

“Look at me.”

You tear your eyes away from his cock and meet his gaze. He leans forward and kisses you. It’s a slow and steady kiss. Your mind swims as you feel his tongue slide in. And then you feel that delicious stretch, his cock sinking into you, the metal balls of his piercing stroking your inner walls. The kiss turns messy as your moans and his gasps harmonize and fill the air around you. Finally your hips jerk forward and you feel his pubic piercing press to your clit. You pull away from the kiss to scream his name, the pressure and chill of the metal overloading your senses. 

Rafayel whines as he holds still to let you adjust to him. You claw at his back and he drops a foot to the floor beside the couch to angle his hips better. You know he’s about to pound into you and make you scream even louder. The thought of the people around you watching makes you delirious. 

“Raf.. I need you– I need you to move, please…”

He doesn’t hesitate and he pulls back until just his tip is tucked inside and then he rams his hips forward, sending you backwards on the couch. You squeal and moan as he finds his rhythm. He rests his forehead against yours and gasps for air, his chest turning red from the exertion. Every snap of his hips pushes his pubic piercing against your clit making it throb and the drag of those inside of you drives you crazy. Finally you feel it, that silver ball hitting that spongy spot that makes your legs shake. You whimper and ignore the tears sliding down your cheek, the pleasure completely encompassing your being. 

“Fuck… I need to come, ahh.. Shit…”

He starts to pull out, but you wrap your legs around him and lock your ankles. He looks at you, his forehead tight as he fights off his orgasm. You release his back for a moment to grab his face, pressing a kiss to his swollen lips.

“Come inside me, baby. Pill… I’m on the pill, just come for me…”

Your command is immediately obeyed, you feel his release and shudder as the warmth fills you. His pace never falters and the added slickness from his release makes his cock slide through you even faster. Your g-spot is hit every single time he thrusts and you finally feel your back arch and your body tremble, your orgasm hits and you scream.

“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes Rafayel fuck yeeeeessss…” 

As you both come down, you feel his body relax against you. You lean your head to the side and he nuzzles into your neck. His soft kisses help your breathing to steady. You open your eyes and gasp quietly. Rafayel lifts his head and follows your gaze. A small group of people are standing in a circle around the sofa where you and Rafayel are lying. Some of them are holding cards and leaning on each other, some are just smiling and whispering to each other. 

“They want to join.”

Rafayel whispers in your ear. You hold onto him, suddenly very aware of how naked you are - how naked everyone is. Rafayel lifts you, his cock slipping out before he settles you on his lap. He wraps his arms around you protectively.

“We can tell them to leave, if you want?”

You hear your heart pounding in your ears. Before tonight, you never would have thought you’d be interested in experiencing certain things, but now… 

“Are you uncomfortable with anything?”

He looks at you, his brows raised in surprise.

“Another man’s dick in you, for one. Or his tongue…”

“I meant, for you.”

He tilts his head.

“I thought…”

“I don’t want you anywhere near another girl’s pussy. But his… tongue…”

You look up and stare at a particularly attractive man standing on the outskirts of the small group, partially hidden in shadow. He’s tall, broad shoulders, the hard lines of his abdomen glisten with sweat. An intricate tattoo of a dragon starts at his chest, its wings spread across his shoulder and down his arm, the body trails down his side, curving over his abs before its tail spirals down his hip and coils around his thigh. Before you can stop yourself, your eyes shift and damn… you can appreciate a pretty cock when you see one. His black and red mask covers his whole face, but even from a distance, his eyes are piercing. Rafayel follows your eyes and sees him, a blue card in his hand.

“What do you want him to do to me?”

You lean into his ear and nip at his earlobe, his cock springing to life against your thigh.

“I want him to suck you off while I ride your face.”

Rafayel groans, his head pressed into your shoulder. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Only if you want to. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to feel good.”

He lifts his head and looks at the man, who you’re positive is smiling wickedly. Rafayel gives him a nod and he approaches. The rest of those watching move back slightly, giving your trio more room. The man pulls a large round ottoman over and kneels beside it. His voice is deep and smooth, sending shivers down your back. Watching a man like this make Rafayel writhe with pleasure sends a new slickness to your tender pussy.

“Your ass goes here pretty boy, you lay back with your head on the couch so your girl can sit comfortably.”

He pats the ottoman, now lined up against the couch. Rafayel stares at him, his mouth hangs open. You examine the man before you, you wonder if he’s wearing contacts. Crimson eyes stare directly at Rafayel. Just as Rafayel is about to speak, the man lifts a finger to where his mouth would be. He reaches around his ear and you hear a quiet click. The lower half of his mask detaches and he slides it off, his face now only partially disguised. His smirk is breathtaking, he licks his lips slowly.

“I’m a man of my word.”

You look at Rafayel and narrow your eyes. He shakes his head.

“I’ll explain later.”

You lean in and kiss him, he whines when you pull back. He stands up with you in his arms and sets you on your feet beside him. He approaches the man, who is at least 2-3 inches taller than him. The man places a finger under Rafayel’s chin and lifts his gaze. 

“Your legs don’t move and your hands stay still. If you thrust, I hold you down. I’m doing the work here. Just like she –”

He points at you over Rafayel’s shoulder.

“She is riding. You lay there and take it, got it?”

You watch Rafayel tense, but with how his breathing accelerates you can tell he is turned on. He lays down, positioning himself as instructed. The man kneels and places his hands on Rafayel’s knees. Rafayel looks down and watches the man slowly glide his hands up his thighs. You crawl onto the couch, watching the man caress Rafayel. Finally the man wraps his large hands around Rafayel’s cock and strokes him until Rafayel is panting. The man nods at you and you pull on Rafayel’s shoulders until he rests his head back on the couch. You lift your leg over his head and hover over his face, but he doesn’t let you tease him. He grabs your thighs and pulls you down without warning. His lips close around your clit. You gasp and grab onto his elbows. 

You feel the chill of his lip piercings, his septum ring brushes against the skin just above your clit. And you finally have your answer, how his tongue ring would feel… you’ll never be the same. The ball rolls over your clit, the sudden chill and pressure makes your vision blur. You start rolling your hips. His moans start to get louder and you look up to see the man has started licking Rafayel’s shaft, placing sloppy kisses to his tip. He sucks his tip into his mouth and suckles, the lewd slurping sound he makes pushes you to grind your hips faster. When he finally takes Rafayel fully into his mouth Rafayel’s hips jerk. The man stops and lifts his mouth off of him and you feel Rafayel shake.

“I told you, no moving.”

He presses his forearms onto Rafayel’s thighs and grip his hips. You feel Rafayel’s fingers dig into your thighs as he laps at your clit, making your core heat unbelievably fast. You watch the man take Rafayel back into his mouth, lowering himself until Rafayel’s cock is fully in his mouth. Rafayel shakes under you and whimpers loudly. Hearing him whimper like that could make you come untouched, you’re sure of it. You watch the man’s throat move as he swallows around his length. You grind faster, knowing Rafayel won’t last long if this mystery man is deepthroating him so easily. He finally thrusts his tongue inside you and you lean forward, resting your hands on his stomach.

“Tell him to finger you.”

The man’s rushed words take you by surprise. As soon as he says them he is taking Rafayel in his mouth again. You lift yourself up just enough to hear Rafayel take a deep breath and groan wildly. You shift and bring your knees closer to his head.

“Raf, fingers… in me.”

A cocky smile tugs at his lips.

“I thought you said… you didn’t want my fingers?”

He barely gets the words out before he gasps, the man has shifted and sucked one of Rafayel’s balls into his mouth, his hand stroking his shaft. You look back at Rafayel and smile.

“Do as you’re told, pretty boy.”

You sit back down before he can reply. He quickly lifts his hands and circles your pussy as he continues to work your clit with his tongue. His teeth graze the sensitive bundle and his fingers curl and scissor rapidly against your puffy walls, not giving you a moment to adjust. You lean down and run your tongue over his nipple ring, he rams his fingers into you harder in response, finding your sweet spot. You take the piercing between your teeth and give it a gentle tug and start rolling your fingers over the other side.

You watch as the man starts bobbing up and down, from tip to base he takes Rafayel’s cock over and over.. You swear you can see the outline of Rafayel’s cock in his throat. He starts groaning, the vibration sends Rafayel into a frenzy and you feel your orgasm crest. 

“I’m coming fuck fuck fuck… ahhhh yes Raf yes..”

You hear the man moan and look up to see Rafayel’s release leaking out of the sides of his mouth. That sight makes your climax so intense you worry you might blackout. You feel Rafayel start tapping your thigh and you quickly lift yourself away, he gasps for air but laughs as he relaxes. You crawl off of him and are mortified to see the couch around his head completely soaked, his face and hair drenched. But you can’t find a reason to care when he looks so pussy drunk.

The man stands and wipes at his lip with his thumb, you glance down at Rafayel’s cock and see not a drop of his release is left behind. This man really sucked him dry and cleaned up… impressive. Rafayel sits up and looks up at the man. 

“Debt is paid. See you next week, Rafayel.”

With that, he turns and leaves. You look at Rafayel and crawl onto his lap.

“I’m looking forward to hearing what that was about…”

You try to wipe his forehead with your wrist. 

“Leave it, I like  smelling like you.”

You slap his chest and he chuckles. He looks up to see there are still people waiting. 

“Still in the mood to experiment?”

You don’t even glance around, you just lock your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek.

“No, I want you to myself. I need to see if my mouth can make you whimper like that again.”

He glares at you and pinches your side. You try to wiggle away from him, but he grabs you and hauls you over to lay on top of him.

“I can promise you, when it’s your mouth, I’ll be so delirious I might speak another language entirely.”  

You kiss his nose. 

“That’s hot.”

He laughs and kisses your nose.

“Let’s get out of here, yea?”

You’ve basically lived at Rafayel’s apartment over Lemuria Studios for the past week. It’s closer to the Association and much nicer. Plus, waking up next to him is a great way to start your day. And being fucked senseless every night is definitely helping you sleep better. 

“You should go by your place after you get off work, pick up some clothes and shit.”

You put down your coffee and stare at him.

“I want you to be comfortable when you stay here.”

You stand up from the bar stool and walk around the kitchen island. He stops chopping vegetables to lean on the counter and look at you. His shirt hangs off your shoulders, the hem barely covering your ass. You run your hands down his chest, placing a kiss over his heart. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you press yourself against him. He rubs his hands over your back and rests his chin on your head. 

“I like changing into your clothes when I get off work. I like using your shower gel so I can smell like you. I like sleeping naked in your bed. I am more comfortable than I’ve ever been.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I want you wearing my clothes and sleeping naked…”

You feel his hands glide down your back and pull his shirt up over your ass. The cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver. He leans down to kiss your neck, his hands feeling the curve of your ass and diving lower between your legs.

“I just think you should have some of your own things, you know?”

“I’ll pick up a few things after work.”

His fingers press against the crotch of your panties and you shiver.

“When do you have to leave for work?”

You glance over his shoulder at the clock and smile. You giggle and grab onto his neck, keeping him close.

“About an hour…”

He plants his hands under your ass and lifts you up. He continues placing messy kisses to your neck as he walks you to his bedroom. 

“That should tide us over until tonight, yea?”

Work wasn’t boring, but you were itching to leave and head to your place. The more you thought about it the more excited you were to have your things at Rafayel’s place. You loved smelling like him, but your hair types are very different and his products are definitely not working for you. You planned your entire evening while working. Completing reports, canvassing Wanderer hotspots, scanning physical reports into the digital system - with every mind numbing task, you got closer and closer to the self-care date with yourself. 

When you open the door to your apartment you’re greeted with the scent of extremely ripe bananas. You forgot you’d gotten them the day before the party and now… You close your front door and drop your keys on the entry table. You enter the kitchen and stare at the bananas. As you poke at them, you have an idea. It’s been ages since you’ve baked banana bread, but your grandmother's recipe is a classic. You find the recipe book on your bookshelf and gather the supplies you need. But before you bake, you need “an everything shower.” Badly.

Your shower gel is more floral than Rafayel’s, which is refreshing. And your scalp is finally able to breathe with your products gently scrubbing away the buildup. Shaving takes forever, but it’s worth it, Rafayel��s silk sheets would feel like heaven against your skin tonight. You put on a face mask while moisturizing and dance around your kitchen in your underwear while you stack the ingredients for the banana bread on the counter

Once the bread is in the oven, you grab a small suitcase and start packing up a few essentials. The travel size versions of your hair care products, underwear, an extra work uniform, a set of pajamas - just in case - two casual outfits and your go-to little black dress. You throw the uniform you wore today in the washer into the dryer and go through your fridge in case anything went bad while you were gone. 

You’re setting the trash bag by the front door when you hear a muffled grunt. You press your ear to the door and hear more quiet groans and shuffling feet. You stand on your tiptoes and look through your peephole as quietly as possible. You see what looks like a white helmet and a purple jacket. They’re so close to your door you start to panic. You hear a knock at your door and you freeze.

“Cutie? Are you still here?”

Rafayel’s voice is muffled behind the door. You let out a sigh of relief and swing the door open, forgetting you’re only in your underwear. Rafayel is hunched over against the doorframe, the sleeves of his leather jacket are torn and the left leg of his cargo pants are shredded and bloody. 

“Shit! Rafayel what happened?!”

He tugs at his helmet but can’t get it off. You push his hands away and unhook the straps to pull the helmet off his head. His face is pale and he’s drenched in sweat, but he still smirks when he sees you.

“Damn… what a welcome.”

“Shut the fuck up…”

You lift one of his arms and wrap it around your shoulder. You carefully help him walk into your apartment, kicking the door closed behind you. 

You help him sit down on the couch and drag your coffee table closer to elevate his leg. The fabric is almost completely torn away from his skin and you can see the dirt and gravel stuck in his wounds. You help him remove his gloves and jacket, carefully inspecting his arm to see if there’s any wounds you haven’t seen. You tug his damp t-shirt off and look for any cuts. Bruises are already starting to darken over his ribcage. 

You rush through your room to the bathroom to get a first aid kit and a few towels. You toss your face mask in the trash and put on your robe, haphazardly tying the belt at your waist. When you return Rafayel has his head back on the cushion with his eyes closed. 

“Raf? You with me?”

He opens his eyes and smiles weakly. He tries to sit up, but clutches his side with a grimace.

“Rafayel, you need a doctor.”

He shakes his head, but keeps a hand pressed over his ribcage. 

“It’s not that serious, trust me. I just need it cleaned up. I’m sorry I just showed up like this…”

“Rafayel…”

“I’ll get checked out when my doctor gets back in town. I promise.”

You rub your forehead and reach to turn on another light. You place the first aid kit on the coffee table and rush to the kitchen to grab a glass and a bowl of water. You hand Rafayel the glass, set the bowl down and sit down in front of him. 

“Drink that.”

He doesn’t argue, he drinks the water slowly while he watches you work. You dip a towel in the water and gently try to clean the dirt and gravel out of his wound. He winces, but doesn’t struggle. You start putting a bit more pressure to see where the deeper cuts are and he groans. You look up at him and he has his eyes closed tightly. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

You continue cleaning the wound until it looks clear of debris. You shake a can of antiseptic spray, squinting your eyes at him as he shrugs.

“I crashed, no biggie.”

You grit your teeth and spray a more than generous amount on his leg. His leg shakes and he curses under his breath. He reaches for your hand and takes the can, chucking it across the room.

“Enough! I.. I think it’s clean…”

You flash him a smirk and grab a roll of gauze to start wrapping his leg. 

“I haven’t crashed in a long time, but these things happen. I’m okay.”

You continue wrapping his leg in silence. The feeling he is hiding something ripping into you like a knife. This is a serious injury, he could have lost his leg or worse. He’s a careful driver, you know that. So what caused him to crash? You finally look at the helmet on the floor next to the couch. The white paint on the side is scraped and you can see a thin crack along the visor. But what catches your eye is the intricate red design on the front. 

“Nice helmet.”

“Thank you. I don’t get to wear it often. Guess it’ll be retiring until I get it fixed up, huh?”

You nod. He leans forward and grabs your hands.

“I know it looks bad, but I’ve had worse. Come on, look at me, please?”

Just as you meet his gaze his phone rings. He grabs his jacket on the couch and digs his phone out. His gentle smile drops when he sees the caller. 

“I need to take this, I’m sorry.”

He lifts his leg and tries to stand up, but you push him back.

“I’ll go, you need to keep your leg elevated.”

You walk to your room, closing the door behind you. Holding the handle, you don’t let the lock click. You wait until you hear a hushed “hello” before pulling the door open a crack. You press your ear as close to the opening as possible. Rafayel’s voice is hushed.

“I need to know their name.”

“No, I know. I know. I’d never seen them before.”

“I don’t give a fuck, they almost got Ryūō caught. Cops knew which bike to follow.”

Your eyes widen at the mention of cops. Who is Ryūō? Is that really a name?

“Yea, they caused my crash. No, Zayne’s out of town. Of course I’m not at the hospital, I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m okay, seriously, I need to focus on Ryūō.”

Zayne?! As in your childhood friend, the head of cardiology? That Zayne? Is he Rafayel’s primary physician too? Why can’t Rafayel go to the hospital?

“I want a name by the end of the night, put any expenses on my card.”

“No, don’t say anything. I’ll set up the next meeting and fill everyone in.”

“Yeah, fuck… Okay, have Ryūō call me.”

You’re tempted to swing the door open and confront him immediately, but your brain is swimming with theories. 

“Cutie? You can come out now!”

You open the door slowly. Your eyes narrow and you glare at him from across the room. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes and your stomach tightens. As you approach him, he shifts uncomfortably, your gaze finally unsettling him. Just as you sit down to finish treating his leg, his phone rings again.

“Is that Ryūō?”

He looks up from his phone, his expression darkens. You don’t leave, instead you continue wrapping his leg and sit in silence while his phone continues to ring. Finally, he answers it.

“Hey.”

“No, doc’s out of town. I’m okay. It could have been worse.”

“Where’d you stash your bike?”

“No no no, I’ll send someone to get it. Keep your head down for a few days.”

“I’m looking into it.”

“He put down Onryō so I’m guessing it’s personal. Could be you, could be me, or both. I’ll have more info by the end of the night.”

Onryō? As in the Japanese yokai? You remember reading about popular yokai’s before your vacation to Japan after you graduated college. You recall they are ghosts who hyperfocus on vengeance. Their passion could be born out of jealousy or hatred. Does he think this person is trying to hurt him and this Ryūō person? Now Ryūō makes more sense. Another yokai.

“Sy, I am asking you not to look into it. It’ll get too messy if you get involved.”

Who is Sy?

“I know what you can do and I am asking you not to do anything. Please. I will call you as soon as I know anything.”

He hangs up and tosses it on the couch. He covers his face with his hands and groans, running his hands through his hair before looking up to stare at you.

“Go on, ask.”

You secure the gauze with tape. Picking up a new towel, you dip it in the water and squeeze out the excess before moving to sit next to him. You wipe his face and he relaxes, you continue down his chest. 

“I’m pretty good at puzzles. So… I think I pieced most of it together.”

“Do tell.”

You feel his fingers trace your jaw. You pause and look at him.

“Bikes, cops, code names, someone is messing with you or whoever Ryūō is. My educated guess… Racing?”

He looks down at his leg, his brows furrow.

“Am I wrong?”

He sighs and looks at you again.

“Spot on.”

“So can you tell me what really happened now?”

He pulls the towel out of your hand and pulls you to him. You lean against the couch, careful not to put any pressure on his ribs. Once you settle, he takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been a part of the racing scene for a few years. Ryūō and I started around the same time. Now, we’ve become leaders… kind of? We’re used to having targets on our backs. So we’re careful about bringing new people onto the scene. Today, we held an open race to test the waters and it bit us in the ass.”

“Onryō? You mean?”

“Yeah... They signed in and before the race even started, cops rolled up. They targeted Ryūō and he pulled off the race to pull the cops away from us. That’s when the prick kicked me off my bike on a turn and I fucked up my leg.”

“So you have people looking for this Onryō person, what will happen when they find them?”

“My people will call me. And I’ll deal with it.”

You cross your arms and glare at him.

“And how will you, “deal with it” exactly?”

Rafayel tosses his head back on the couch and closes his eyes.

“I can’t tell you that, cutie, you know that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not going to put your job on the line. You have a duty to report this kind of thing, right? The less I say the better.”

“So Ryūō and Sy, they’re the same person, right?”

Your question makes Rafayel sit up straight, he turns to you and grabs your shoulders tightly.

“Drop it. Please.”

“No. You came to my door, bleeding and bruised and you’re expecting me to just ignore whatever shit you’re into that caused all this? Really Rafayel?”

His grip tightens.

“You’re not getting hurt because of me.”

You reach up to hold his face in your hands. Your thumbs brushing under his eyes.

“I’m a hunter, I am good at taking care of myself. I’m not afraid of whatever it is you’re involved in, but what I am afraid of is you getting hurt.”

He leans into your touch, his cheeks warming and his pale skin starts to flush.

“I know you’re able to protect yourself, but these people… They’re different. They play by a different set of rules and I don’t want you to risk your job or your safety for me.”

“That’s my choice.”

He huffs out a laugh and leans his forehead against yours.

“I know, I just… fuck…”

You kiss his nose affectionately and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. You curl up beside him, pressing your face into his neck.

“Let me choose you.”

He rubs your back and your body relaxes next to him.

“So…”

He kisses the top of your head and hums encouraging you to continue. 

“What’s your name? Like your racing name?”

He chuckles and leans back, tucking you into his side. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“Kiko.”

You close your eyes, it seems all the racers pick a yokai as their code name. You try to remember the lore behind Kiko. 

“That’s a type of Kitsune, right? A holy fox? No, spirit fox!”

“Yep.”

You shift so you can look up at him. 

“I thought you’d pick something ocean related like… Kōjin or Tatsu?”

“A biker with an oceanic racer alias, purple hair and brightly colored Kawasaki?”

“Oh…”

“Yea, I don’t need cops breathing down my neck at the studio. So I chose something, I guess, that fit my personality?”

“You relate to a fox, huh?”

“Curious, playful, intelligent. Yea, I think so.”

“They’re also very loud if they don’t get love and affection.”

Rafayel nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, you giggle, swatting at him to sit up.

“I guess it’s an accurate description then.” 

You look down at his helmet and squint. The white base and red lines around the eyes and at the center.

“Ohhh… that explains your helmet!”

“Yeah, usually I wear a white leather jacket but I was in a rush today.”

“You don’t race the blue bike you’ve been driving me around on, do you?”

“No, I have a different bike for races. Different colors and fake plates.”

You sit up, cross your legs and face him. 

“Take me with you.”

His eyes widened in surprise.

“Like, on a ride?”

You smile, a wicked gleam in your eye.

“On a race.”

He stares at you, his mouth open and eyes unblinking. You stare back, your smile unwavering. 

“You realize it’s illegal, right?”

You nod.

“And dangerous?”

You nod.

“And you might –”

You slap a hand over his mouth. He chuckles, the vibrations tickling your hand.

“I know the risks. I want to see more of your world. Especially when mine is so… blah…”

“Hmm mmh mmh hmm huh mhm!” He mumbles, trying to speak to you through your hand.

You move your hand away and pinch his cheek. He grabs your hand and holds it tight.

“You fight Wanderers for a living! That’s not ‘blah’!”

“Fine. I want to see more of your world because I…”

You look down at your lap, trying to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks. He grabs your chin and lifts your face to meet his gaze. 

“Because what, cutie?”

“Because I hope I can be a part of it…”

He plants his hands on your waist and lifts you, plopping you down on his lap. His hands hold onto your ass and he pulls you closer. It’s at this moment you realize you’re still not wearing any pants and the rough fabric of his cargo pants rubbing against your nearly bare pussy makes you twitch. You grab onto his shoulders and try to lift yourself off his lap.

“Your leg!”

“It’s fine, stop squirming.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh and shift your knees wider to properly straddle him. He squeezes your ass and rubs his hands down your thighs. You run your hands down his chest and start to play with his nipple rings, which earns you a deep groan. He takes the hint and stops teasing you.

“I want you to be a part of my life, but it’s a complicated one. Are you sure?”

You wrap your arms around his neck and thread your fingers through his hair. You lean forward and place a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Show me a whole new world, Aladdin.”

He chuckles and bites his lip as he looks up at you.

“My dick is not a magic carpet, but I will take you for a ride.”

You slap his chest and try not to laugh.

“You’re so stupid…”

He seizes the opportunity, with your hands on his chest, to grab your face and pull you to him. He kisses you until you can barely breath, your worries fade. You’re not sure what you’re getting yourself into, but you’re sure of one thing - Rafayel has made you feel more alive in the past week than you’ve felt in years. And you’re going to chase this feeling, for as long as possible.

Rafayel finally lets you breathe and you smell something burning. He scrunches his nose and you sniff the air, trying to determine what it could be. Your eyes widen and you scramble to crawl off of Rafayel’s lap.

“My banana bread!”

(AN Part 2: Surprise! It's also a crowfish fic. Smile.)

Tag List (comment if you wanna be added!): @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname

[estellan0vella]

The Greatest Fucking Tragedy: L. Mh Lee Minho x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 14.3K

Content Warnings: Marijuana Use, Depictions of Focal Impaired Awareness Seizures (FIAS), moments of dissociation, and post-seizure disorientation, Drowning/Non-Consensual Submersion, Retaliatory Violence, Threats of Harm, Crude Humour, Background Jilix 

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The Alpha Phi frat house smells like weed and stale beer. It’s a permanent scent, woven into the fabric of the couch cushions and lingering in the wooden floors no matter how many times Seungmin bitches about cleaning. Right now, though, the weed is winning. Thick smoke curls through the dimly lit living room, the cheap LED lights flickering in rhythm with the low hum of music playing from someone's speaker.

Minho is sprawled across the couch, legs spread, shirt discarded somewhere across the room, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He takes a slow drag from the bong before passing it to Chan, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. It’s a good high, the kind that makes his limbs sink into the cushions, makes the world feel warm and slow.

Across from him, Felix is perched in Jisung’s lap, and Jisung, the little shit, has both hands shoved down the front of Felix’s sweatpants. Felix barely reacts, eyes glazed over, exhaling smoke through his nose.

“Dude,” Changbin mutters, head lolling to the side as he looks at them. “At least fucking pretend like we’re not all here.”

Felix grins, a lazy, stoned smile. “Nah.”

Jisung laughs, head tipping back against the couch. “You’re just mad because you’re not getting any.”

Changbin flips him off, but it lacks any real heat.

“You know what’s actually pissing me off right now?” Hyunjin announces, draping himself dramatically across the armchair like some Renaissance painting. His long black hair falls into his face, and he exhales, letting the smoke swirl in front of him before looking at Minho. “Minho doesn’t know how to fucking swim.”

There’s a beat of silence before the entire room erupts into laughter.

Minho groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Wait, wait,” Jeongin gasps between laughs. “You’re telling me you—Lee Minho, who can probably do a backflip off a fucking moving car—can’t even float?”

“Jesus Christ,” Seungmin chokes out. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Minho mutters, reaching for the bong again. “I just never fucking learned.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Jisung sings, poking at Felix’s stomach while Felix tries and fails to bat his hands away.

Chan, who’s been silent up until now, takes a hit before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His short blue hair is messy, and his eyes are half-lidded, but there’s a sharp glint of amusement. “Bro, what happened? Did your parents just decide, ‘Fuck it, let’s let this one drown?’”

Minho exhales slowly, fingers flexing against his knee. “I grew up in Gimpo, dipshit. Not exactly a fucking beach town.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hyunjin interjects, sitting up suddenly. “I’ve seen kids in the middle of fucking Seoul learn to swim.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t, you fucking pretentious art bitch.”

Hyunjin gasps dramatically. “Excuse you, I’m an art history major. Say it with respect.”

“Art bitch,” Minho repeats, deadpan.

“God, that’s pathetic,” Changbin snickers. “Can’t wait to throw your ass into a pool.”

“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” Minho warns, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, we absolutely would,” Seungmin grins. “Like, imagine the fear in his little rat face.”

“Fucking hilarious,” Jeongin agrees, laughing. “We’ll get some floaties for you, hyung.”

Minho exhales sharply through his nose, looking between them all with narrowed eyes. “Alright, you wanna go there? You wanna play this fucking game?”

Felix hums, head tilting slightly. “Always.”

Minho leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Hyunjin, you pretentious fuck, you spend more time making sad little sketches of broken statues than actually studying for your bullshit major. Jisung, you look like a fucking poodle with that mop on your head, and I hope you choke on Felix’s dick one day and die happy. Felix, your mullet is an actual crime, and I’m gonna shave that shit in your sleep.”

Felix gasps, clutching at his chest. “Rude.”

“Jeongin, your entire wardrobe looks like it came from a thrift store run by blind grandmas, and Seungmin, I hope every client you have in the future fucking sues you into the ground.”

Seungmin just grins. “That’s fair.”

Minho shifts his glare to Changbin. “And you, motherfucker, I hope you trip over your own fucking dumbbells and break both your legs so I never have to hear you talk about leg day again.”

Changbin snorts. “Joke’s on you, I’d just talk about arm day instead.”

Minho exhales sharply, leaning back against the couch. “Fuck all of you.”

Chan chuckles, passing the bong again. “Love you too, dumbass.”

“You know what, though?” Jisung suddenly pipes up, squinting in Hyunjin’s direction. “Hyunjin, you were the dirty bastard that left the used condom in the hallway after banging that Kappa Tau girl.”

A collective groan fills the room, a mix of disgust and exasperation.

“Oh, what the fuck,” Changbin grumbles, shaking his head. “I stepped near that shit, man. You’re fucking nasty.”

Hyunjin, instead of looking remotely ashamed, stretches his arms above his head lazily. “That may be true,” he admits, voice smooth and amused, “however, no one saw me bang that girl.” He smirks at Jisung and Felix. “But we all saw you two going at it on the couch that one time, you dirty exhibitionists.”

Felix, without hesitation, points an accusing finger at Hyunjin and shouts, “Homophobia!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hyunjin scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad because your past sins are being brought to light.”

“It’s not a sin,” Jisung grins, tightening his arms around Felix’s waist. “It’s called being in love, bitch.”

Seungmin, who’s been lazily nursing a beer on the other side of the couch, snorts. “Jisung’s probably fondling Felix’s balls right now.”

Felix smirks. “He is, actually.” He adjusts slightly in Jisung’s lap. “I’ve been at a semi for like twenty minutes.”

Jeongin groans, burying his face in his hands. “Fucking gross.”

“Hey, don’t kink shame,” Felix says with mock offence, raising his brows.

Minho takes a slow drag from the bong before passing it off and exhaling through his nose. “Shame,” he deadpans. “So much shame. We all saw Jisung balls deep in you, Felix.”

Felix just shrugs, completely unbothered. “And? You're all just jealous.”

“We also saw Jisung’s nasty balls,” Hyunjin pipes up with a smirk, “and his surprisingly fat ass.”

Jisung gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Excuse you! My ass is none of your concern.”

Hyunjin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It became my concern the moment I had to witness it in a position I never wanted to see.”

Jisung glares. “Hyunjin, we all saw your used jizzy condom.”

Hyunjin smirks back. “But we all saw your nasty balls.”

Jisung whines, kicking his feet. “I fucking hate you.”

Felix laughs, patting Jisung’s cheek. “Ji, baby, your balls aren’t nasty or else I wouldn’t put them in my mouth.”

A collective groan of disgust echoes through the room.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man,” Chan mutters, rubbing his face. “I’m too high for this conversation.”

Jisung just grins proudly while Hyunjin mock gags. “You’re the most insufferable couple I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

“You’re the one,” Jisung suddenly snaps back, pointing an accusing finger, “who, instead of using tissues like a normal fucking person, used a sock to clean up after your wank sessions.”

Hyunjin instantly straightens. “Wait, hold the fuck up-”

Jisung steamrolls over him. “And then, like the absolute menace you are, you had the fucking audacity to send me looking for a pair of your socks when you sprained your ankle last semester.”

The room goes dead silent. Then Changbin lets out a wheeze.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin mutters, eyes wide with horror. “No.”

“Yes,” Jisung continues, as if reliving a war story. “Me, being a good fucking friend, went upstairs, searched through your shit, and found your sordid sock of shame.” His voice rises in outrage. “It was hard, Hyunjin. Socks shouldn’t be fucking hard!”

The entire room erupts into chaos. Felix practically falls off Jisung’s lap from laughing so hard, while Jeongin looks seconds away from leaving the house altogether.

“Hyunjin, what the actual fuck?” Chan gasps, leaning away from him.

“You nasty fuck,” Changbin wheezes, shaking his head.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Jeongin mutters.

Minho just smirks, watching the conversation unfold, deeply satisfied that the attention is nowhere near his lack of swimming skills anymore.

Hyunjin groans, running a hand down his face. “Alright, first of all, that was one fucking time-”

Jisung interrupts with a loud, “Bullshit!”

Hyunjin glares. “Second of all, why the fuck were you digging that deep in my stuff?”

“Because I thought I was helping a fucking friend,” Jisung snaps back. “I didn’t think I had to watch out for a biohazard!”

“Fuck you,” Hyunjin mutters.

“I’m gonna get you a box of tissues,” Felix laughs, wiping his eyes. “That was the most disgusting shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You all suck,” Hyunjin huffs, slouching back into the chair.

“Not as much as Felix,” Jisung quips.

Felix beams. “That’s right, baby.”

The argument between Jisung and Hyunjin doesn’t die down. If anything, it escalates, because neither of them knows when to shut the fuck up.

Hyunjin suddenly grins, pointing at Jisung with a newfound spark of mischief in his eyes. “You wanna talk about nasty? You fucking humped one of Felix’s pillows once.”

The entire room explodes with laughter, except for Jisung, who lets out the most inhuman screech imaginable.

Felix, to everyone’s surprise, doesn’t even look offended. Instead, he tilts his head, looking at Jisung fondly. “That’s cute, Ji.”

Jisung glares at Hyunjin, face burning red. “Yeah, well, Hyunjin fucking jerked off while wearing one of Changbin’s hoodies!”

The laughter somehow gets even louder.

Changbin, who had been taking a sip of his drink, immediately chokes. “What the fuck?”

“I fucking knew it!” Seungmin yells.

“I don’t fucking know why you’re all so surprised,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Hyunjin throws his hands up defensively. “Okay, first of all, that hoodie was comfy as fuck. Second of all, it’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Oh, it became my business,” Jisung snaps. “Because you’re a fucking weirdo.”

Felix, wiping tears from his eyes, claps his hands together. “Alright, enough talking. Time for physical violence.”

And just like that, all hell breaks loose.

Jisung and Felix immediately launch themselves at Minho, and Jisung shouts, “POWER OF THE GAY BOYFRIENDS!”

Felix follows it up with a very enthusiastic, “YEAH! Like Power Rangers!”

Minho doesn’t have time to roll his eyes before Jisung tries to tackle him, but Minho is faster. Years of football training make it easy for him to dodge, and he grabs Jisung by the waist, flipping him effortlessly over his shoulder and slamming him down onto the couch. Before Jisung can wriggle away, Minho shifts, trapping him between his thighs in a tight grip.

Felix tries to grab Minho from behind, but Chan, who had been minding his own business, too high to care, suddenly gets dragged into the mess when Minho pulls him forward, locking an arm around his neck in a headlock.

“Fucking traitor!” Chan gasps, squirming.

Minho just grins, tightening his hold on both of them. “You little shits thought you could take me?”

Felix, still determined, throws himself forward, trying to grab Minho’s arm. But Minho is faster, he catches Felix mid-motion, wrapping an arm around his neck and securing him in another headlock.

“I got two of you now,” Minho announces, grinning wildly.

Felix flails. “Let me go, you fucking rat bastard!”

Jisung is still trapped between Minho’s thighs, thrashing wildly. “Felix! Betrayal! He got me!”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Jeongin and Seungmin are wrestling like rabid dogs.

“Your fashion sense fucking sucks!” Jeongin yells, trying to shove Seungmin off him.

“Oh yeah?!” Seungmin barks back, gripping Jeongin’s shirt and yanking him down. “At least I don’t look like a thrift store threw up on me!”

“I fucking told you, vintage is in, asshole!”

Changbin and Hyunjin have also somehow ended up grappling with each other. At first, it was just playful shoving, but now Changbin has Hyunjin pinned down, and Hyunjin, breathless, suddenly blurts out, “I’m weirdly into this. Is it because I’m bisexual or submissive?”

Without missing a beat, Minho, who still has both Chan and Felix in a headlock, calls out, “Both.”

Jisung takes advantage of the distraction and bites down on Minho’s thigh. “OW, YOU FUCKING GREMLIN!” Minho yells, immediately releasing his hold on Chan and Felix to shove Jisung off.

Jisung cackles maniacally, rolling off the couch. “FUCKING WORTH IT!”

Chan, now free, immediately lunges at Minho, tackling him. “Payback, bitch!”

Felix joins in, piling on top of them. “GET HIM!”

On the other side of the room, Seungmin has Jeongin in a headlock, Jeongin is still screaming about fashion, Changbin has Hyunjin pinned, and overall, the frat house is complete fucking chaos.

Just another normal night in Alpha Phi.

Minho stands in the frat house kitchen, flipping thinly sliced beef in a pan, the rich scent of soy sauce, garlic, and sesame oil filling the air. His black hair is damp from a quick shower after the royal rumble in the living room, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. A cluster of Hello Kitty bandaids is haphazardly slapped onto his thigh, covering the spot where Jisung fucking bit him like a rabid animal. He still doesn’t know where the hell Felix got Hello Kitty bandaids from, but at this point, he’s given up questioning anything in this house.

Just as he’s about to taste a piece of bulgogi straight from the pan, Chan strolls in, looking far too smug for someone who got his ass handed to him in the wrestling match earlier. He props himself up against the counter, arms crossed, watching Minho cook.

“Hey,” Chan starts, casual. Too casual.

Minho narrows his eyes immediately. “What.”

“I have a friend who can teach you how to swim.”

Minho blinks, staring at him. Then, slowly, he reaches over and turns down the heat on the stove before resting his hands on the counter. “You have friends outside of the frat?”

Chan scoffs, shoving at his shoulder. “Obviously, dumbass.”

“I don’t believe you.” Minho smirks, popping a piece of bulgogi into his mouth. “You leave this house for, like, two things. Football and music. That’s it.”

Chan rolls his eyes. “She’s an architecture major. Business minor. She’s the year below us, and she’s on the swim team.”

Minho chews, waiting for him to continue. “And?”

Chan exhales. “She’s kind of anxious. Kind of like Jisung, but where Jisung’s awkward and loud, she’s just quiet, doesn't really speak unless she has something to say.”

Minho hums, tossing the beef in the pan. “Okay.”

Chan leans against the counter. “Go to the college pool tomorrow night. That’s when she’s there. Just explain that you’re like a baby that got tossed into water, and she’ll take pity on you.”

Minho snorts. “Wow. That’s a real confidence boost.”

“She’s nice,” Chan says, ignoring him. “She’ll help.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “She hot?”

Without hesitation, Chan slaps the back of Minho’s head as hard as he can.

“Fuck!” Minho hisses, rubbing his skull. “What the fuck was that for?”

Chan glares. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Minho smirks, rolling his shoulders. “Well? Is she?”

Chan slaps him again, this time across the arm.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Minho mutters, taking a step back. “I’ll just keep asking.”

Chan exhales through his nose, looking like he’s fighting the urge to hit him again. “Objectively, as a straight man? Yes. She’s attractive. But I don’t look at her that way.”

Minho takes another bite of beef, chewing thoughtfully. “Fine. I’ll go and see what she’s about.”

Chan nods, pleased. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence, just the quiet sound of the stovetop sizzling. Then Chan adds, “Oh, also, she has epilepsy. FIAS.”

Minho’s chewing slows slightly, then he swallows. “Focal impaired awareness seizures, right?” He glances at Chan. “They covered it in my first aid certification course.”

Chan raises his brows, looking impressed. “Yeah.”

Minho shrugs, flipping the last of the beef onto a plate. “Alright.”

Chan watches him carefully. “That’s it?”

Minho scoffs. “What, did you expect me to freak out? ‘Oh no, the girl who’s gonna teach me how to swim has a medical condition, I guess I’ll just drown instead’?”

Chan snorts, shaking his head. “No, but I figured you’d at least have some dumbass question.”

Minho grabs chopsticks and digs into his plate, shrugging again. “Nah. I got it.”

Chan watches him for another second, then claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good. Just don’t be a dick.”

Minho grins, mouth full. “No promises.”

The air inside the college swimming centre is thick with the scent of chlorine, the sound of water lapping against tiled edges echoing through the vast space. Minho walks in, hands in his pockets, boots heavy against the slick flooring. His black top, with open-knit sleeves exposing glimpses of his arms, contrasts against the bright, sterile lights overhead. His black pants, speckled with splatter-paint details, shift slightly as he moves, and the layered silver chains around his neck glint under the fluorescents. The star-shaped pendant catches the light with each step.

His eyes scan the pool, and then he sees you.

You're in the water, moving with eerie precision, muscles cutting through the water like you were born for it. Your blue hair, tied back into a ponytail, gleams under the lights, the two silver strands at the front catching his attention. You’re wearing black yoga shorts and a white T-shirt, slightly translucent from the water, revealing the black swimsuit underneath.

Minho watches as you push off from the shallow end, slipping entirely under the surface. You don’t come up. Not once. He watches, eyebrows raising, as you glide through the water, streamlined, controlled. Your body moves with an effortless fluidity, and he finds himself unable to look away.

By the time you reach the deep end, a full fifty metres later, you finally surface. Not even gasping. Not even fucking struggling. You just exhale sharply, hands sweeping through the water to keep yourself afloat.

What the fuck.

Minho smirks, stepping closer to the edge of the pool. "Hi."

Your head turns towards him as you tread water, eyes sharp and calculating as they land on him. Your expression is calm, blank, like you're not entirely sure what to do with his presence.

He tilts his head slightly. “I’m Minho,” he says, tone easy, casual. “I, uh-” He gestures vaguely. “Need to learn how to swim. Because I’m sick of my asshole friends picking on me for it.” He grins. “It’s my only flaw, really.”

You blink at him.

Undeterred, he continues. “I’m free Wednesdays and Fridays. Whichever works for you. Chan referred me to you, so here I am.”

There’s a beat of silence, the water shifting gently around you. Then, finally, you speak.

"You need some swimming trunks."

Your voice is soft, quiet, but not hesitant. Minho watches the way your lips barely move when you speak, like you're used to making yourself small. He leans forward slightly, smirk deepening. "I can get those."

"Friday nights. Late."

"See you then, mermaid girl," Minho says, stepping back slightly. Then he pauses. "Wait, Chan mentioned FIAS. What happens if that happens in the water?"

You meet his gaze evenly, voice completely flat. "I pray."

Minho snorts. The bluntness catches him off guard, and for the first time, he sees your lips twitch, just barely. It's small, barely a movement, but he sees it.

Interesting.

"See you Friday, then," he says, turning on his heel, already looking forward to whatever the fuck this is going to be.

Minho arrives at the swimming centre late Friday night, the place eerily quiet except for the distant sound of water lapping against the edges of the pool. The fluorescent lights cast a cold, sterile glow over the tiled floors as he steps inside, heading straight for the men’s locker room. He’s dressed in sneakers, sweatpants, and a hoodie, his usual go-to for lazy days, but now, faced with the inevitable, he exhales sharply.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, stripping out of his clothes.

He pulls on the black swimming trunks he bought earlier that day, minimalist, simple, no unnecessary designs, because he refuses to wear some ridiculous board shorts with neon patterns like an overexcited tourist. He rolls his shoulders, shakes out his arms, and then, satisfied, steps out of the locker room and into the main pool area.

You’re already there, standing by the edge of the shallow end, your blue hair tied back into a ponytail, the two silver strands in the front catching the light as they sway slightly. You’re wearing the same white T-shirt and blue yoga shorts as before, the fabric damp from where the water has already lapped at the edges.

Minho watches as you drop into the pool effortlessly, slipping beneath the water before resurfacing in the shallow end. The movement is smooth, controlled, as if the water is an extension of you rather than something separate.

Minho, however, is not fucking graceful.

He carefully climbs in, feeling the cold water instantly hit his skin. The chill makes him jolt, and before he can stop himself, his hands fly up to his chest, covering his nipples.

“Oh my!” he exclaims, voice high-pitched in mock horror.

Then he pauses, blinking.

“Fuck,” he snorts, shaking his head. “I sounded like Dorothy Gale.”

Your expression remains neutral, but the slight quirk of your lips does not go unnoticed.

Minho grins. “You’re holding back a laugh.”

“I’m not,” you say, though your voice is softer than before, almost amused.

“Liar,” he hums, letting his hands drop back to the water. “Alright, teach. What’s first?”

Without a word, you grab two inflatable armbands and a bright orange life jacket, stepping forward to hand them to him.

Minho stares at them, unimpressed. “Really?”

“No risk of drowning if you wear those.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but pulls them on anyway, the plastic squeaking slightly against his arms. The life jacket is a little snug, but he fastens it without complaint, standing in the water looking every bit like a grown-ass man being forced into safety gear like a toddler at the beach.

“This is humiliating,” he mutters.

You don’t comment, simply nodding towards the water. “Lie on your front and kick your legs.”

Minho eyes you suspiciously before doing as instructed. He stretches out, floating on his stomach, and starts kicking. The water splashes aggressively around him, but he doesn’t fucking move.

He pauses. Kicks harder. Still nothing.

You tilt your head slightly, watching the sad display. “Okay. New plan.”

Minho flips onto his back, groaning. “Thank fuck.”

You step closer, extending your hands toward him. “Hold my hands, and then kick your legs. I’ll pull you.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches forward, grasping your hands in his own. Your grip is surprisingly strong despite your smaller frame, steady and sure, like you know exactly how to keep control.

Minho lets you guide him, kicking his legs as you gently pull him through the shallow end. It’s not exactly the most dignified moment of his life, but he supposes he has to start somewhere.

“We’ll stick to the shallow end for now,” you say, voice calm and even. “You need to get comfortable in the water.”

Minho watches you as you focus, your movements precise, controlled. Your face is unreadable, but he can tell you’re completely in your element here, unbothered by the water surrounding you.

“You know,” he muses, kicking lightly, “for someone so quiet, you sure take your job as a teacher seriously.”

Your grip on his hands remains steady. “You’d rather I let you drown?”

“Nah,” he grins. “I like the attention.”

"Keep kicking,"

Minho groans as he keeps kicking, his legs starting to ache. “This is fucking tiring,” he complains, gripping your hands tighter as you continue pulling him through the shallow end. The life jacket and armbands are doing most of the work, but still, kicking non-stop is a workout.

You don’t respond, just keep moving, your expression unreadable as always. The water ripples around you both, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the surface. Minho watches the way you move, barely making a sound, like you’ve done this a million times before.

Then, suddenly, you stop.

Minho doesn’t.

“Oof! Fuck,” he grunts as his face smacks directly into your stomach. His fingers clutch yours tighter on instinct, and for a second, he just stays there, processing the fact that he’s literally face-planted into you. He blinks before pulling back slightly.

Your fingers twitch in his grasp. Minho straightens up immediately, expecting some sort of reaction, maybe a shove, a deadpan glare, a snarky comment, but instead, you’re just standing there. Your body is still, eyes unfocused as you stare off into the distance, expression blank.

His brow furrows. “Uh, hello?”

You don’t react. Minho tilts his head. Then, cautiously, he waves one of his hands in front of your face, letting you hold the other. Your fingers twitch again, slight, barely noticeable, but he feels it. 

Then it clicks.

“Oh,” he mutters, realization settling in. “It’s happening, huh?”

You remain frozen, still staring at nothing. Minho watches closely, observing the subtle shifts in your body. Your fingers keep twitching against his palm, and there’s the faintest movement in your lips, like you’re about to say something but never quite get there. He’s seen shit like this before, at least in training videos, but seeing it in person is different.

“Damn,” he murmurs, leaning in slightly. “That’s actually kind of cool.”

He inches closer, curious, watching the way your expression remains eerily blank. He wonders what it feels like, if you’re aware of what’s happening or if it’s just an empty space in your head. He’s about to say something else when you suddenly blink rapidly, your head jerking slightly.

Your eyes focus again and then you yelp when you see a pair of brown eyes inches from your own. Minho barely has time to react before you start toppling back into the water. His hands shoot out, grabbing you by the waist before you go under, keeping you steady. His grip is firm but careful, keeping you upright as you breathe sharply, eyes wide.

“Whoa, easy there, mermaid girl,” he says, smirking slightly. “You good?”

You blink up at him, hands gripping his arms instinctively, body still slightly tense from the abrupt shift. Your lips press together briefly before you nod, adjusting yourself so you're standing properly again.

Minho doesn’t let go immediately, watching you closely, making sure you’re not about to keel over again. Your fingers tighten slightly on his arms before you let go, taking a small step back. “Sorry.”

He snorts. “What the fuck are you apologizing for?”

You just shake your head, as if brushing it off, and Minho narrows his eyes slightly. “Does that happen often?” he asks.

You hesitate, then nod. “Sometimes.”

Minho watches you for a second longer, then finally releases his hold on you, stepping back as well. “Huh.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Huh?”

Minho shrugs. “I dunno. Just thought it’d be more dramatic. Like glowing eyes, speaking in tongues-”

You stare at him.

He grins. “What? I think that’d be cool as fuck.”

Your lips twitch again. Not quite a smile, but something close. Minho notices and he finds himself already looking forward to seeing more of it.

Minho wakes up feeling like absolute fucking death. The moment he tries to move, his muscles scream in protest. His legs? Useless. His arms? Betrayers. His back? Feels like he got hit by a fucking truck. He groans, flopping onto his side, and staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He knew swimming was a workout, but this? This feels like he spent all night fighting for his life against a bear and lost.

After several moments of regretting every decision that led to this moment, he decides he needs to get to the kitchen. Food. Coffee. Maybe painkillers. Preferably all three.

Except there’s one problem, his legs don’t work.

With a grunt, he rolls onto his stomach and starts crawling out of his room. The frat house hallway is silent except for the occasional creak of floorboards beneath his weight as he drags himself forward. His limbs feel like jelly, completely useless beneath him.

He pauses, exhales sharply, then keeps going, determined. If he dies, at least let it be in the kitchen where someone will find him before his corpse starts to stink.

Reaching the staircase, Minho stares down at the steps like they personally wronged him. No way he’s walking down those. Not happening. Not when his legs feel like they’re made of fucking pudding. So he sits his ass down on the top step, grips the railing, and starts bum-shuffling his way down like a fucking toddler. Every bounce sends a fresh wave of agony through his body.

Fucking fuck. Fucking swimming. Fucking Chan. Fucking mermaid girl.

By the time he reaches the bottom, he’s out of breath. This is the worst workout of his life, and it’s just existing at this point. He flops onto his back for a second, groaning, before realizing he still has to make it to the kitchen.

So he rolls back onto his stomach and starts crawling again.

This time, he doesn’t even pretend to make it look dignified. He’s just dragging himself forward with his arms, barely using his legs. Like some pathetic fucking soldier crawling through the trenches.

When he finally reaches the kitchen doorway, he gives up. Completely. With a dramatic groan, he sprawls out on the cool tile floor, pressing his face against it, arms and legs splayed out like a crime scene chalk outline. "I'll nap here," he mutters, voice muffled against the floor.

And he means it. If this is how he dies, so be it.

An hour later, the frat house is still mostly silent, everyone either still asleep or too hungover to move. The only sound is the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors.

Then, Jisung stumbles into the kitchen.

Still half-asleep, he drags his socked feet across the tile, rubbing his face, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, and he looks like he just crawled out of hell.

Which is exactly why he doesn’t see Minho sprawled out like a fucking corpse in the doorway. With absolutely no warning, Jisung’s foot slams down onto Minho’s ribs.

"FUCK!" Minho yells, jolting awake as if he’s just been electrocuted.

Jisung screams too, flailing backwards. "WHO THE FUCK- WHY THE FUCK- WHAT THE FUCK."

Minho groans dramatically, rolling onto his back. “Ji, you fucking dickhead.”

“Me?” Jisung yells, gripping the kitchen counter to keep himself steady. “Why the fuck are you sleeping on the goddamn floor like some fucking Victorian orphan?!”

Minho sighs, cheek still pressed against the cool tile. "Legs don’t work. I’m dead."

Jisung blinks, looking down at him, expression shifting from pure horror to vague amusement. “Wait, for real?”

Minho just groans in response.

Jisung smirks, stretching his arms above his head. “Damn. Sounds like a you problem.”

Minho lets out a long, suffering sigh. “Ji, drag me to the kitchen table.”

Jisung stares at him. “You want me to drag you?”

“Yes. By my ankles. Do it.”

Jisung shrugs. “Alright, bet.”

Without another word, Jisung crouches down, grabs Minho’s ankles, and yanks. Minho grunts as his body scrapes across the tile, arms flopping uselessly at his sides like a fucking ragdoll. The kitchen floor is cold and definitely not clean, but at this point, he has no fucking dignity left.

Jisung keeps dragging him across the room, humming casually, like this is a completely normal morning routine. By the time they reach the table, Minho is done. His pride? Gone. His will to live? Questionable.

Jisung finally stops and hoists Minho up into one of the chairs, grunting as he shoves him into a semi-sitting position. “Jesus, you’re fucking heavy,” Jisung mutters, rubbing his arms.

Minho flops against the table dramatically. “Coffee?”

Jisung leans against the counter, eyeing him. “You want it black or with a side of my dick in it?”

Minho barely lifts his head. “Both.”

Jisung snorts, shaking his head. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

Minho sighs, pressing his cheek against the cool surface of the table. “I love you.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, grabbing the coffee pot. “Yeah, yeah. You’re buying me breakfast, asshole.”

The swimming centre is eerily quiet this late at night, just the low hum of overhead lights and the distant echo of water lapping against the pool’s edges. Minho steps inside, adjusting the collar of his black leather jacket, his boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. Underneath, he’s wearing a simple black top, paired with heavily distressed light-wash jeans that hang loose around his frame. His silver chains clink softly with each movement.

He scans the pool area, expecting to see you standing by the water like last time. Instead, his eyes travel upward and his stomach fucking drops. You’re on the highest diving board.

Minho freezes, every muscle in his body locking up as his palms instantly start to sweat. The fuck are you doing up there? The fuck are you doing up there? His own fear of heights kicks in violently, making his heartbeat hammer in his chest.

Then, before he can even breathe, you leap off.

“Oh, what the fuck-” Minho slaps his hands over his eyes, peeking through his fingers like a horrified child watching a horror movie.

You free-tumble through the air, flipping effortlessly, the movements fluid and controlled like you’re meant to do this, like gravity is just a suggestion. Right before you hit the water, you take perfect form, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.

Minho drops his hands, exhaling sharply, watching as you pop up to the surface like it’s nothing, slicking your hair back casually.

You’re insane.

“I’m gonna go change,” Minho announces, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You just nod. He watches you for a second, still processing the absolute insanity he just witnessed. Then, a thought strikes him. “Is that safe for epilepsy?”

You shrug and Minho stares. “Cool, cool, cool. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt.”

Then he turns on his heel and beelines for the locker room, already questioning every fucking choice that led him to this moment.

Minho steps out of the locker room, now clad only in his black swimming trunks, his skin still chilled from the air-conditioning inside. The moment he emerges, he spots you standing by the pool, waiting, with those fucking armbands and life jacket again.

He stops in his tracks. "You’ve got to be shitting me."

You don’t even blink, just extend them towards him like it’s non-negotiable.

With a long, suffering sigh, Minho stomps over, yanking the armbands onto his arms before grudgingly pulling on the life jacket. It squeaks slightly as he fastens the buckles. He steps into the pool and immediately tenses at the coldness. “Fucking shit, fuck-”

You wait, completely still, just watching as he hisses through his teeth before finally sinking deeper, water lapping at his shoulders.

“This is actual torture. I’m filing a fucking lawsuit.”

You ignore his dramatics. “Okay,” you say evenly, voice calm, “so today, we’re going to get you comfortable with not being able to touch the floor.”

Before Minho can protest, you grab the back of his life vest and start towing him toward the middle of the pool. “Let me go!” he yelps, kicking his legs as if that’s going to help.

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you fucking do.

Minho immediately freezes, his breath catching in his throat as he realizes. He’s just floating. Not touching the ground. No solid surface beneath him. Just water. His muscles tense, but instead of immediately drowning like his instincts scream he’s about to, he just bobs.

Minho blinks.

You’re treading water beside him, effortlessly balanced. “See? You’re fine.”

He exhales, body still stiff, but, yeah. He’s fine. He lets himself bob around for a bit, staring at the ceiling, processing the fact that he hasn’t died yet.

After a few moments, you speak again. "Want to know next week’s lesson?"

Minho glances over warily. “What?”

You meet his gaze, voice neutral. “Getting comfortable being underwater. Fully submerged.”

Minho immediately straightens. “The fuck I am!”

Panic shoots through him as he starts paddling away, pathetically, in what can only be described as the saddest attempt at a doggy paddle ever witnessed. He doesn’t get far. Because you just grab his ankle and tow him back.

“NO!” he yells, flailing. “FUCKING LET ME GO!”

You don’t even struggle, just calmly drag him back toward the centre of the pool like he’s some misbehaving pet. Minho groans in defeat, throwing his head back.

This is actual fucking hell.

Minho storms into the frat house living room and immediately regrets it because Jisung and Felix are making out on the fucking couch. “For fuck’s sake,” Minho groans, marching over. “Do you two ever fucking stop?”

Jisung barely acknowledges him, just waves a lazy hand in Minho’s direction while still attached to Felix’s mouth. Minho scowls. Fuck this. He grabs the back of Jisung’s hoodie and yanks.

“HEY!” Jisung yelps as he gets ripped away from Felix, arms flailing. “WHAT THE FUCK?”

Felix blinks at the sudden loss of contact, lips slightly swollen. “Uh why?”

Minho ignores the way Felix looks two seconds away from pouting. “I need him,” he says simply, already dragging Jisung toward the stairs.

Jisung stumbles after him, grumbling. “Can I at least finish-?”

“No.”

“Jesus, you’re strong for a dude who doesn’t even fucking swim.”

Minho hauls him up the stairs, yanks open his bedroom door, and shoves him inside before slamming it shut.

Jisung huffs, straightening his hoodie. “Alright, asshole, what the fuck is this? Why am I here? And why-” He pauses, eyes locking onto the bathtub, which is completely full of ice water. “-the fuck is your bath full of ice?”

Minho sighs. “I need your help.”

Jisung squints at him. “With what? Are you planning a fucking polar bear plunge?”

Minho runs a hand through his hair. “I’m taking swimming lessons.”

Jisung stares at him for a long moment. Then, he just nods. “Finally. The bullying worked.”

Minho glares. “Fuck you.”

Jisung grins, clearly too pleased with himself. “So, what? You’re trying to get used to freezing to death?”

Minho exhales sharply. “My teacher wants me to get comfortable underwater, and I don’t want to look like a bitch in front of her. So, you’re helping me practice until next Friday so I can show her I can do this shit.”

Jisung snorts, crossing his arms. “And you think dunking yourself in a fucking ice bath is the way to go?”

Minho gestures toward the tub. “Water’s water.”

Jisung shrugs. “Fair enough.” He gestures toward the bath. “Get in, then.”

Minho grimaces, looking at the water like it personally offended him. “You’re gonna have to force me in.”

Jisung blinks. “Are you serious?”

Minho nods. “Dead fucking serious. My body is screaming ‘fuck that’ right now.”

Jisung grins. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Before Minho can protest, Jisung grabs him by the arms and lifts him straight off the floor.

“WAIT- FUCK-”

Jisung drops him into the ice water. Minho screams. Not just any scream. A full-body, guttural, horror-movie victim scream. “FUCKING SHIT! JISUNG, YOU FUCKING DEMON SPAWN!”

Jisung, completely unbothered, leans over the tub. “Deep breath.”

Minho whips his head around, shivering violently. “What? Why?”

Jisung shoves his head under the water. The cold hits like a fucking truck. Minho flails, the shock rattling every nerve in his body, but Jisung holds him down. 

Ten seconds. Ten seconds of pure, fucking misery.

Then Jisung yanks him back up. Minho gasps, sputtering water, eyes wild. “WHAT THE FUCK-”

Jisung claps him on the shoulder. “Only five more days of this. Deep breath.”

Minho’s eyes widen. “Wait-”

“Three, two, one.”

And back under.

Underwater, Minho screams, but all that comes out are bubbles. He starts shouting curses at Jisung from beneath the water, muffled but angry as fuck. Jisung just grins, keeping him down.

This is absolutely the best part of his fucking week.

The water is cool against Minho’s skin as he drops into the shallow end of the pool, his silver chains glinting under the fluorescent lights. The weight of them against his collarbones is familiar, grounding. The past week of Jisung’s torture training has prepared him for this moment, and for once, he doesn’t hesitate before stepping into the water.

You swim over to him, moving effortlessly, your sage green yoga shorts clinging to your hips, your white T-shirt damp and slightly translucent from the water. Minho catches the slight contrast of your sage green bikini top beneath it, but he doesn’t let his gaze linger.

"You ready for submersion?" you ask, voice quiet but steady.

Minho grins, rolling his shoulders. "Yep," he says confidently. "I fucking trained for this."

And without waiting for a response, he drops under the water. 

Everything muffles. The sounds of the pool, the hum of the building, even his own heartbeat, it all dulls to a distant echo as he sinks just enough for his head to fully submerge. He hovers there, his body bobbing slightly, legs kicking just enough to keep him steady. His lungs burn slightly, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s almost peaceful.

Then his mind starts wandering. Why the fuck is he so desperate to impress you? It’s not like he gives a shit about what people think of him. He’s always been confident, always had people watching him, but this feels different.

And then, before he can stop himself, his thoughts shift. To you. To how fucking beautiful you are. And then, seamlessly, to all the filthy fucking things he wants to do to you.

Minho smirks to himself, keeping his face submerged as his brain dives headfirst into every inappropriate thought he probably shouldn’t be having in a fucking swimming pool. But fuck it.

He thinks about you in his bed, tangled in his sheets, your body pressed against his as he drags his teeth over your skin, making you moan for him and him only. He thinks about your legs wrapped around his head, your hands clutching at his hair as he eats you out, taking his time, drowning in you in the best fucking way. He thinks about you with your legs around his waist, his hands gripping your thighs as he fucks you, your breath hitching, voice breaking as you say his name the way he wants to hear it.

His lungs start burning a little more now, but he stays under, letting the thoughts roll through him like waves. Then, finally, he pushes himself up.

He breaks the surface, shaking the water from his hair, and immediately locks eyes with you.

"Forty-six seconds," you say, nodding slightly. "Impressive."

Minho grins, still thinking about the absolute filth that just went through his mind. "Told you I trained."

You just hum, watching him, but something in your gaze makes him wonder if you can somehow tell what he was just thinking about.

Then, after a pause, you say, "Hey, what's the best way to shut a guy down?"

Minho raises an eyebrow. "Depends. Are we talking politely or effectively?"

You tilt your head slightly. "Just straightforward."

Minho shrugs. "Just say, ‘Hey, not interested.’ That’s it. No explanation needed."

You nod, processing that. "Okay."

Minho narrows his eyes. "Wait, who the fuck are you rejecting?"

"Just some guy who asked me out that I’m not interested in."

Minho immediately wants to ask who, but shakes it off. Instead, he smirks. "There is another option. Do this." He lifts both middle fingers.

You pause, watching him, and for the first time since he met you, you smile. Not a twitch of the lips. Not just a small reaction. A real, actual fucking smile. And Minho feels it hit him straight in the chest like a fucking wrecking ball.

Oh, he’s in trouble.

The pool water is cooler than usual tonight, but Minho barely registers it as he steps in, his silver chains clinking softly against his collarbones. You’re already there, standing waist-deep, your blue yoga shorts clinging to your hips, your white T-shirt damp against your frame with the blue bikini top just barely visible underneath. Your hair is tied back as always, those silver strands framing your face. 

"Okay," you say, voice smooth, measured. "You're learning breaststroke today. It’s the easiest for beginners. You keep your head up."

Minho nods, already bracing himself for whatever bullshit he’s about to endure.

You hand him the life vest. Without hesitation, he pulls it on, tightening the straps. At this point, he barely even complains about it anymore, just accepts his fate.

"Lie on your front," you instruct.

Minho exhales through his nose and flips onto his stomach, legs floating behind him.

"Hold the wall," you say.

Minho grips it, brows slightly furrowed.

"Legs are important in breaststroke," you continue, treading water next to him. "You kick your legs in a circular motion to propel yourself through the water. The legs are the primary source of propulsion, so it's important to get the technique right."

Minho hums, tilting his head slightly. "So what do I need to do?"

You watch him for a moment, then explain, your voice steady, clear. "Start with your legs in a streamlined position, feet pointed. Then," You pause. "Bring your heels towards your ass, with your knees slightly over hip-width apart."

Minho listens, brows furrowing slightly as he tries to visualize it.

"As your heels come up, turn your feet and knees out," you continue. "Then push your feet back in a circular motion. Finish with your legs together, stretched out, and in a streamlined position."

Minho blinks at the ceiling for a second. "That’s a lot of fucking steps."

"It’ll feel more natural once you start," you say simply. "Go ahead. Try it."

Still gripping the wall, Minho starts practising the motions, his legs moving through the water, awkward at first, but getting smoother as he repeats the cycle.

And then, your hand presses against his stomach. Minho freezes, muscles tensing beneath your touch. "Focus on keeping your core strong while you work your legs," you say, completely unaware of the absolute fucking war raging in Minho’s head right now.

Minho nods stiffly, resuming the leg motions, but all he can think about is how soft your hand feels against his bare skin, how close you are, how he’d kill to touch you in return. But he pushes the thoughts aside.

Because fuck that, he needs to get this right. He focuses hard, making sure his legs move in the correct circular pattern, making sure his core stays tight, making sure he doesn’t look like a complete fucking dumbass. Because if he’s going to impress you, he’s going to fucking earn it.

“And now stand up.”

Minho obeys, his feet finding the pool floor as he straightens. The water drips from his hair, sliding down his skin, but he barely registers it. His focus is entirely on you, watching as you move with that same effortless control, completely at home in the water.

“Okay, now the arm movements,” you say, treading water next to him. “You extend your arms, keeping your elbows tucked in, then push them forward to create a streamlined position.” You demonstrate, your arms cutting through the water with precision, your movements controlled and fluid.

Minho watches carefully, then mimics your motion, extending his arms in front of him. His elbows are a little too stiff at first, but he adjusts, rolling his shoulders, making the motion smoother.

“Then,” you continue, nodding at his form, “dip your head between your arms.”

He does, the coolness of the water surrounding him in a way that should be unnerving but isn’t. Not as much as before.

“And when you're using your legs and arms at the same time,” you say, your voice calm, even, “glide forward as your kick finishes behind you. Then sweep your hands out to the sides until they form a Y shape with your body.”

Minho mimics the arm motion, feeling out the movement. It’s strange, a little awkward at first, but it makes sense. He grins, looking at you with sharp confidence. “I’m ready to try and combine both.”

You nod. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Minho takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and then tries. It is an absolute fucking disaster.

The moment he attempts to coordinate his arms and legs, it’s like his entire body forgets how to function. His kick is mistimed, his arms flail in some horrific attempt at a Y shape, and instead of gliding smoothly through the water, he just sinks slightly, floundering like a dying fish.

For the first time ever, you giggle. It’s quiet, soft, but it immediately catches Minho’s attention.

His head pops up above the water, hair dripping into his face, and he grins instantly. “Made you laugh!”

You keep giggling, and it’s genuine, your shoulders shaking slightly as you try to compose yourself. “You looked so ridiculous,” you admit, voice breathless with amusement.

Minho’s grin only widens. “I didn’t look that bad.”

You nod, still giggling. “You did.”

You lift your hand and point at him, as if emphasizing how fucking ridiculous he looked, and you’re still laughing, the sound soft but real. Minho watches you, something warm spreading through his chest, and for once, he doesn’t say anything. He just lets you laugh.

The next day, Minho aches. Every single part of his body feels like it’s been set on fire, the result of spending hours practising breaststroke, pushing himself relentlessly just so he can show you his progress next Friday. His arms hurt, his legs feel like fucking concrete, and his core, don’t even fucking get him started on his core.

But it doesn’t matter. Because he’s going back.

It’s midday when Minho arrives at the swimming centre, determined. The pool is mostly empty at this hour, which is perfect, it means he can practice without distractions.

He strides into the locker room, pulling his hoodie over his head, tossing it onto the bench before stepping out of his sweatpants. His movements are slower than usual, stiff from soreness, but he powers through, grabbing his black swimming trunks and pulling them on. The moment he steps out, rolling his shoulders, he hears it.

Splashing. But not the normal kind. Panicked splashing.

Minho he snaps his head toward the pool. There, crouched at the edge of the deep end, is some Sigma Chi fucker. He’s leaning over the side, one hand pressed down into the water, holding someone under. Whoever it is, they’re clawing at his arm, fighting desperately.

Minho’s stomach drops. Then, he realizes.

It’s you.

“OI!”

His voice booms through the swimming centre, and the Sigma Chi guy jolts, head snapping up in alarm. The guy’s face drains of color, hands immediately raising in surrender the moment he sees who the fuck he’s dealing with.

Because everyone knows about Minho.

Minho doesn’t stop until he’s standing right there, towering over him and then, the guy removes his hand from your head. The second his grip is gone, you break through the surface, gasping for air, your hands immediately gripping the pool wall as your body wracks with coughs. Water drips from your hair, your shoulders shaking as you struggle to breathe, to steady yourself.

Minho’s rage spikes so violently he sees fucking red. Without hesitation, he shoves the Sigma Chi guy straight into the pool. There’s a loud splash, followed by a string of panicked curses, but Minho ignores him. His focus is on you.

He crouches immediately, reaching down and with zero effort, he pulls you out of the pool. The moment you’re standing, you cling to him, your body still trembling, coughs shaking through you. Minho wraps an arm around your back, pulling you closer, his other hand smoothing your soaked hair down in slow, calming motions.

"Want me to call Chan?" His voice is low, controlled, but his fury is boiling beneath the surface.

You shake your head, still gripping onto him, your fingers curled tightly into his skin. You don’t say anything, don’t let go, just keep holding onto him like he’s the only stable thing in the fucking world right now.

Minho doesn’t move. Just keeps rubbing your back, keeps smoothing your hair down, keeps holding you until your breathing steadies.

Behind him, the Sigma Chi guy sputters in the water before shouting, "What the fuck, Minho?!"

Minho doesn’t look at him. "What the fuck you?" His voice is sharp, cutting, layered with undiluted venom. "What the fuck are you doing trying to drown her?"

The guy scoffs, pushing his wet hair out of his face. “She deserved it!”

Minho’s jaw tightens. His fingers flex against your back as he holds you tighter, keeping you as far away from this fucker as possible. “Oh yeah? How?” His voice is calm, too fucking calm, and dangerous.

The guy’s eyes flare with resentment, his face twisting in rage. "She fucking humiliated me! She rejected me! Like anyone else would even be interested in her!"

Minho feels your fingers tighten around him, your whole body tensing against his.

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

Minho shifts, turning to face you, his voice gentle now, quiet. "Go get dry and dressed," he murmurs, his hand still soothingly rubbing your back. "We'll get coffee, yeah?"

You nod, hesitating only slightly before finally slipping away, heading toward the women's locker room. Minho watches you disappear through the doors before he finally turns back.

Minho crouches at the edge of the pool, his lips curling into a grin, but there’s nothing friendly about it. It’s the kind of grin that makes people sweat, the kind that carries the weight of a promise. One soaked in violence and bad fucking decisions. The Sigma Chi guy treads water below him, still coughing, still glaring, but there’s a flicker of something else behind his eyes now. Unease.

Minho tilts his head, fingers drumming against his knee like he has all the time in the world. “You wanna drown someone smaller than you?” he muses, voice light, almost conversational. “Someone who’s too shy, too fucking kind, too scared to fight back?” His head tips forward slightly, his grin widening. “Well, now, you’ve pissed me off.”

And then he moves. With zero hesitation, Minho’s hand shoots forward, grabbing the fucker by the collar and shoving him straight down into the water.

There’s a choked gasp, followed by a violent splash, but Minho doesn’t let go. He watches as the guy’s arms flail, his hands grabbing at nothing, his legs kicking uselessly beneath him. It’s not panic yet, not fully, but Minho can see it brewing, feel it building, and he revels in it.

It’s not even close to what the bastard did to you, but Minho doesn’t need long. Just a few seconds. Just enough to make a point. Beneath the surface, bubbles rise as the guy thrashes, his fists hitting at Minho’s wrist, but Minho doesn’t budge.

And then, just when he starts to struggle harder, just when the panic fully sets in, Minho yanks him up by his hair.

The guy breaks the surface with a ragged gasp, sputtering, coughing, trying to push his wet hair out of his eyes. His breathing is shaky, his expression furious, but it’s fury laced with fear now.

Minho leans in closer, voice low, steady, sharp as a fucking blade. “I see your face around her ever again,” he murmurs, tightening his grip in the guy’s hair, forcing their eyes to lock, “and you won’t resurface next time.”

The guy stills. His whole body goes rigid, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, and Minho watches as his brain finally fucking catches up. Minho lets go, standing up smoothly, towering over the water-drenched mess below him. He doesn’t need to say anything else. The warning is clear enough. And if the bastard is smart, he’ll take it.

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

Minho steps out of the pool area, rolling his shoulders as his gaze immediately finds you sitting outside the women's locker room. You’re curled up on one of the plastic benches, elbows resting on your knees, fingers playing with the hem of your white cropped hoodie. Your black sweatpants are slightly too long, pooling around the tops of your scuffed white Converse, and your damp blue hair is still tied back, the silver strands at the front framing your face.

You look small like this, curled in on yourself, your usual quiet presence even quieter than usual.

Minho exhales, schooling his expression into something lighter, something easier. He won’t make this worse for you by hovering too much, by pressing for details you probably don’t want to give.

Instead, he stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly. "I'm gonna go throw some clothes on, and we'll go, okay?"

You blink up at him, nodding once, your fingers still idly tugging at your hoodie sleeve.

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides into the men’s locker room, making quick work of peeling off his swimming trunks. His body is still aching from hours of practice yesterday, and now with the added exertion of holding someone underwater, his muscles protest every movement.

Still, he moves fast, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants and a fitted hoodie, leaving his damp hair to dry on its own. Within minutes, he’s stepping back outside, rejoining you where you’re still sitting in the exact same position.

He doesn’t give you a chance to hesitate.

"Come on," he murmurs, gently pulling you up to stand, his arm automatically wrapping around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. He keeps his grip loose, non-restrictive, letting you lean in as much or as little as you want. "We’ll get you some tea or coffee, yeah? It'll help."

You nod again, your body moulding slightly into his warmth, and Minho exhales softly, steering you toward the exit.

The air outside is cool, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the pavement as Minho leads you toward the frat house.

“We can go back to the house,” he says, keeping his tone casual, like this is just another normal day. "Everyone has lectures or shit to do, so it'll be quiet."

You nod again, your gaze fixed ahead, silent but steady.

Minho watches you for a second before tightening his arm around you slightly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else. He just keeps walking, keeps leading you forward, until the swimming centre is nothing but a fading memory behind you.

The frat house is exactly as chaotic and disgusting as Minho expects when he pushes the door open, stepping inside with you tucked at his side. You glance around, eyes scanning the absolute mess that litters the floors, the couch, the countertops, crushed beer cans, abandoned hoodies, a pair of sneakers that definitely aren’t the same size, and an inflated condom bobs around the hallway.

Minho kicks it out of the hallway like it personally offended him, muttering under his breath before leading you toward the kitchen.

You follow silently, your steps slow, as if still processing everything from earlier. Minho keeps one eye on you, making sure you’re not checking out mentally before focusing back on the kitchen doorway.

And then, you trip. Minho's arm shoots out immediately, catching you before you even come close to hitting the ground, steadying you with ease. But instead of focusing on you, your eyes drop to the floor, to the thing that nearly sent you flying or rather, the someone.

There, sprawled across the cold fucking tile, is a guy with fluffy brown hair, dead asleep. His cheek is smushed against the floor, arms sprawled out, one leg bent awkwardly over the other, like he just died mid-walk and collapsed.

You blink.

Minho exhales through his nose. "That’s Jisung," he says, bored, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "He’ll literally sleep anywhere. The fact that he’s still here means Felix isn’t, or else his clingy little boyfriend ass would’ve coaxed him into sleeping somewhere socially acceptable."

You nod, still staring at the grown-ass man sleeping peacefully on the filthy frat house floor.

Minho steps over him without hesitation before glancing back at you. "Just step on him."

You frown. "That’s cruel."

Minho smirks. "It’s Jisung, it’s fine."

You shake your head and carefully step around him instead. But Minho steps directly on Jisung’s back. There’s a grunted noise from below, a sleepy, confused “fuck off”, but Jisung doesn’t even move, just shifts slightly before settling back into deep unconsciousness.

Minho moves on, making a beeline for the kettle, rolling his shoulders as he opens a cabinet stuffed full of tea bags, instant coffee packets, and a variety of shit he barely remembers buying.

"Any preference for tea?" he asks, glancing at you over his shoulder. "I have every kind you can think of."

You hesitate for a second before murmuring, "Green tea."

Minho nods, pulling a box from the cabinet with one hand while reaching for the kettle with the other. "Honey?"

"Yes, please."

He hums, setting the kettle on before turning to face you, leaning against the counter. His gaze lingers on you for a second before he says, voice still casual but laced with something sharper, "So. What happened with that Sigma Chi dick?"

You don’t answer immediately, fingers curling slightly against the hem of your hoodie. Then, finally, you sigh, voice quiet but steady.

"He and his friends cornered me. He asked me on a date, I said no, and then, well, you saw how he took that." Your lips press together briefly before you add, "He was waiting for me when I arrived at the pool."

The sharp, earthy scent of tea fills the kitchen as the kettle steams, and from the floor, Jisung sniffs like a fucking bloodhound. His eyes crack open groggily, still half-asleep, but immediately locked onto the source of the smell.

"Tea," he mutters, voice rough from sleep. "Me want."

Minho doesn’t even glance down, just rolls his eyes as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet.

Jisung starts to push himself up but pauses mid-motion, blinking slowly as his gaze shifts to you, still seated at the table. His head tilts, squinting slightly, like he’s trying to confirm whether or not you’re real. 

"There’s a Smurfette in the kitchen," 

Minho snorts, shaking his head. "Jisung, this is Y/N," he says, setting a mug down in front of you before handing you a spoon. "She’s my swimming teacher, my friend, and Chan’s friend."

Jisung blinks again, brain still not fully operational. "Chan has friends?" he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes before his head snaps up properly, realization finally fucking hitting. "Wait, wait, wait, you’re Minho’s mystery teacher?"

Minho sighs. "Give him a minute," he mutters to you. "His two brain cells need time to fucking jumpstart."

Jisung doesn’t even register the insult. Instead, he points at you, eyes wide, and then immediately swivels back to Minho. "What the fuck did you do to the poor girl?!" His tone is accusatory, like Minho’s some villain who just kicked a puppy. "She’s soaked and sad!"

Jisung scrambles up onto his feet, rubbing his eyes before dramatically throwing himself between you and Minho, arms outstretched like some tragic hero. "It’s okay, honey, I’m here to protect you from the big meanie."

You blink at him, processing the absolute whirlwind of energy that just came flying at you, before calmly saying, "Minho helped me."

Jisung freezes and his arms drop slightly, his brows furrowing as his lips purse in deep confusion. He turns to you slowly, like he’s trying to process words that don’t make sense. Then, with absolute seriousness, he asks, "Minho? Lee Minho? Helped someone?!"

Minho just rolls his eyes, stirring the tea, but Jisung isn’t done. His brain pivots instantly, fixating on you instead. He squints at you, tapping his chin. "You look like you have anxiety. I have anxiety. That makes us anxiety buddies."

You blink as Minho groans, setting his mug down with a small thud. "Jisung, she doesn’t need your crackhead anxiety energy right now. She needs calm."

You shrug, voice still soft. "I don’t mind."

Jisung immediately flips Minho off before he slides into the chair beside you. With zero hesitation, he digs into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a small fidget toy, a soft, squishy ball that glows slightly when squeezed, and places it in your hand.

"Here, these help," he says. His voice is genuine, no longer teasing, just light and warm and real.

You look down at the toy for a second before wrapping your fingers around it, testing the texture, feeling the slight give as you squeeze. It’s simple, but oddly grounding, and when you look up again, Jisung is grinning at you.

"It’s okay," he says, nodding sagely. "Minho might seem like a dick, but he’s nice."

You don’t hesitate. "I know."

At that, Minho pauses, his spoon still stirring, but his lips twitch slightly, a hidden smile that he quickly hides behind his mug as he takes a slow sip of tea before he turns back to the counter, grabbing the jar of honey and twisting off the lid. He dips a spoon in, watching the thick golden liquid drizzle into the mug, swirling into the warm tea as he stirs. His movements are unhurried, the soft clink of the spoon against ceramic filling the kitchen.

Behind him, Jisung shifts in his chair before he speaks again, voice more curious than concerned. "Uh, Minho, what’s wrong with her?"

Minho glances over his shoulder and immediately spots it. You’re completely still, your eyes locked straight ahead, your fingers still fidgeting with the squishy toy Jisung gave you, but your expression is vacant like someone hit a pause button on you.

Minho exhales through his nose, setting the honey jar down. "She’s having a seizure."

Jisung frowns, turning toward you, his head tilting as he waves his hand in front of your face. No reaction. You don’t blink, don’t shift, don’t even seem aware of the movement at all.

Jisung leans back slightly, processing, before muttering, "Aren’t seizures more-" He suddenly jerks his arms and shakes his whole body violently, mimicking full-body convulsions.

Minho snorts, shaking his head. "Different type of epilepsy, dumbass. She’s just not here right now."

Jisung drops the act, blinking at you with open fascination. "Dude, this is cool as fuck. I need to learn how to disassociate like this. My brain never fucking shuts up."

Minho just rolls his eyes, turning back to the counter and grabbing your mug. He lifts it carefully, making sure the tea is mixed properly, before moving back toward the table.

Just as he sets the mug down in front of you, your body jerks slightly, and then you blink. Your hands twitch around the fidget toy before your gaze refocuses, flickering around as if you’re reorienting yourself.

Minho watches, giving you a second before speaking. "Tea’s ready, mermaid girl."

Your eyes drop to the mug in front of you, your fingers hesitating for half a second before wrapping around the warm ceramic. You don’t say anything, don’t acknowledge what just happened. And Minho doesn’t press.

He just leans back in his chair, watching as you slowly bring the mug to your lips, your fingers still curled around Jisung’s fidget toy.

Minho arrives at the swimming centre late Friday night, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he approaches the entrance. The air is crisp, the quiet hum of streetlights buzzing faintly in the background. He spots you immediately, standing just outside the doors, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the strap of your bag.

You’re dressed in beige cargo pants, the fabric slightly oversized, hanging comfortably around your frame. A white knit sweater is layered over top, the sleeves slightly too long, the hem brushing just below your waist. A beige cap sits snugly on your head, your hair tucked back neatly, and your white sneakers scuff lightly against the pavement as you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

Minho slows his steps, his brows pulling together slightly. "You okay?"

Your fingers still against the strap for half a second before you nod, but your voice is quiet, controlled. "I didn’t want to go in without someone checking he wasn’t waiting again."

Minho nods once, his jaw tightening as a familiar wave of irritation flickers through him. He doesn’t say anything—just wraps an arm around you, pulling you close as he guides you inside with him. His gaze scans the space immediately, sweeping across the pool deck, the empty bleachers, the locker room hallways. His muscles are tense, his grip slightly firmer than usual, but he doesn’t let it show on his face.

After a few moments, he exhales through his nose. "I think you’re good," he murmurs, finally glancing down at you. His arm squeezes briefly, reassuring, before he steps back. "Meet you in the pool?"

You nod once, your voice slightly steadier. "We’re working on breaststroke in the deep end today."

Minho smirks, shaking off the lingering tension. "Great."

He heads toward the men’s locker room, stripping off his hoodie and jeans as he moves. His body is still sore as fuck from practising all week, but he doesn’t care. He’s determined. He tugs on his black swimming trunks, running a hand through his hair before stepping back out toward the pool.

The moment he does, his eyes immediately find you.

You’re standing by the edge, adjusting your navy yoga shorts, your posture casual, your skin still slightly damp from warming up earlier. You’re not wearing your usual T-shirt over your swimsuit this time, just a navy bikini top, the fabric snug against your frame, exposing more skin than usual.

You catch him looking and exhale through your nose, tilting your head slightly. "I forgot my T-shirt." Your voice is as even as always, but there’s a hint of hesitation, like you’re expecting a reaction. "Is that okay?"

Minho grins immediately, his gaze sweeping over you without shame as he hops into the pool, the water sloshing around him as he lands. His smirk is lazy, teasing, eyes glinting.

"More than okay," he says smoothly, shaking the water from his hair.

You don’t react. Just tilt your head slightly, watching him with that same calm, unreadable expression. But Minho notices the way your fingers pause slightly against the waistband of your shorts before you follow him into the water.

Minho paddles out into the deeper part of the pool, his strokes steady, his muscles aching slightly but functioning better than they ever have in the water. You swim beside him, your movements smooth, effortless, like the water bends around you rather than resists. The contrast is almost funny, where you glide, Minho is still learning, still adjusting, but for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s fighting against the pool itself.

“Remember what I taught you,” you say, your voice lighter than usual, more open. There’s a warmth to it now, something easier, something softer.

Minho grins. “Obviously,” he scoffs, then actually fucking does it—his arms and legs moving in sync, his body pushing forward without immediately sinking. It’s not perfect, but it’s breaststroke, and it’s working.

You watch for a few moments, and then, to his absolute fucking delight, you smile at him.

“What now? I’m like a fucking fish!”

You tilt your head, clearly unimpressed. “At best, you’re at a six-year-old’s swimming competency.”

Minho gasps, hand dramatically slapping his chest. "How fucking dare you-"

His overreaction costs him immediately. The second he loses focus, his rhythm breaks, and his body tilts awkwardly, sinking slightly. His instincts kick in, panic flaring for half a second, but before he can do anything, you move first.

You dive forward, reaching out without hesitation, your hands gripping his arms, steadying him, keeping him above water before he can actually fuck himself over.

Minho exhales sharply, adjusting, getting his balance back, and then grins triumphantly as he resumes swimming, this time more controlled. “You,” he pants, paddling closer to you, his voice smoother, cockier. “You’re a fucking miracle worker.”

You glance away, almost shy, before nodding slightly, the corners of your lips twitching again. Minho watches you for a beat longer before he moves.

Without thinking, without second-guessing, he surges forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. His fingers tangle into your damp hair, and before you can react, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is hot and demanding, his lips moving over yours with no hesitation, no uncertainty, just pure fucking intention. His other hand grips the pool ledge, holding you right where he wants you, his body pressing against yours, chest-to-chest, nothing between you but water and heat.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your thighs squeezing slightly as you pull him closer, and he fucking groans into your mouth, his fingers tightening in your hair as he kisses you deeper, harder, hungrier. Your hands find his shoulders, gripping lightly, nails digging in as you kiss him back, the slow burn of tension between you finally fucking snapping.

Minho’s hand slides down, dragging over your thighs, your hips, your waist, mapping out your skin like he’s memorizing it, like he’s claiming it, like he’s been waiting for this the entire fucking time. And then, slowly, he pulls back, his breathing slightly uneven, his forehead resting against yours as he smirks. “I’m gonna take you on a date,” he says, voice rough, but amused, like the words just popped into his head and stuck.

You blink at him, slightly dazed, and he grins. “Somewhere where I have the high ground,” he muses, still catching his breath. “Like football.” His fingers trail lazily down your spine, and he smirks even wider. “Yes. I’m going to teach you how to play football.”

You stare at him for a second, and he knows you’re about to call him a dumbass, but before you can, he tilts his head slightly. “Wanna go on a date?”

There’s a pause, a small one, but a pause nonetheless, before you finally nod. "Sure."

The college football field is eerily quiet this late at night, the floodlights casting long shadows over the empty bleachers. The grass is slightly damp from the evening air, but the field itself is pristine, untouched, a perfect stretch of green beneath the stadium lights.

You stand near the centre, arms crossed loosely over your chest, dressed in black leggings, black Converse, and a long-sleeve black T-shirt. The fabric clings to your frame just enough to be flattering, but loose enough to be comfortable, your movements easy, fluid, as you watch Minho with quiet curiosity.

Minho, on the other hand, is grinning like a fucking idiot, clearly thrilled about whatever the fuck he has planned for tonight. In his hands, he holds his black and red #25 jersey, the fabric slightly worn but clearly well taken care of.

"Put it on," he says, handing it over with zero explanation.

You eye him for a second before taking it, fingers brushing against the material as you pull it over your head. The scent of fabric softener, faint cologne, and something distinctly Minho lingers in the material, comforting, familiar in a way you hadn’t expected. Minho watches, clearly pleased, before stepping closer and placing a football helmet on your head.

It immediately slips forward, covering your eyes. There’s a beat of silence. Then Minho sighs, shaking his head. "Okay, maybe we forget the helmet. Time to learn football."

You adjust the jersey, pushing the sleeves up slightly before glancing at him. "You know, I had hoped our date would involve food."

Minho waves a hand dismissively. "Food later. I’ll cook for you. I’m the best cook in the frat." His smirk widens. "But right now, I get to teach you something."

You exhale through your nose, clearly unconvinced, but before you can argue, Minho tosses you a football.

You reach for it and miss completely. The ball thuds against the ground, bouncing off into the distance.

Minho throws his head back, letting out an obnoxiously loud whoop, his hands shooting up toward the sky. "YES!" He claps his hands together. "You suck at something! Thank you, God! Finally!"

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. "Shut up."

Minho grins, clearly delighted. "Okay, can you run?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Yes."

Minho smirks. "Of course you can. At least you’re terrible at catching. You need a flaw, sweetness, and God has finally given you one."

You don’t dignify that with a response, just watch as he tosses another football toward you. You reach for it and miss again. With a deep sigh, you drop your hands. "This isn’t fun."

Minho hums, tapping his chin thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he snaps his fingers. "Okay, let’s make it fun." He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something lower, smoother. "Kisses. Lots of kisses. If you can take this ball from my hands, I’ll reward you."

You tilt your head, stepping closer. "Or," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers brushing against his as you lean in. "You could fuck me in your jersey."

Before he can process what the fuck just came out of your mouth, you snatch the ball straight from his hands and sprint. Minho freezes. His brain short-circuits completely, his entire system rebooting like a fucking crashed computer. His hands are still outstretched, fingers still slightly curled, like they haven’t quite registered the loss of the ball yet.

His brain screams at him to move, but all he can do is blink rapidly as the words repeat in his head on a fucking loop. 

Then, finally, he reacts. "HEY!" His body jerks forward, snapping into motion as he scrambles to chase after you, his feet digging into the turf as he takes off.

But, you’re faster. You fucking sprint, your movements quick and controlled, your legs carrying you with ease as you gain distance. Minho grits his teeth, pushing harder, but you’re already ahead, already laughing breathlessly as you weave across the field.

The cool night air rushes past as you sprint across the field, the football tucked securely under your arm. Your heart pounds, not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer exhilaration of being chased.

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Minho gaining on you, his strides long, powerful, relentless. His expression is pure determination, sharp and focused, but beneath it is a grin, a cocky, teasing thing that says he’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

Before you can push forward, before you can even think about trying to outrun him again, he lunges. His arms wrap around your waist, and for a split second, the world tilts. But instead of hitting the ground hard, he twists mid-fall, flipping the position so you land right on top of him, his back hitting the grass instead of yours. The impact is cushioned, controlled, his body taking the fall for you effortlessly.

You blink down at him, breathless, the warmth of his body radiating up through your clothes.

Minho’s grin is smug, his dark eyes flickering in the dim stadium lights. "Nicely played," he murmurs, his voice low, amused, his hands still resting against your waist, fingers just barely digging into your hips.

You smile, something mischievous flickering behind your usually calm gaze. Slowly, deliberately, you lean down, your lips barely brushing against his, teasing, soft, fleeting before you’re gone again.

You push off of him, sprinting away before he can even think about stopping you, the ball still firmly in your grasp. Minho bursts out laughing, a full-bodied, genuine laugh, as he scrambles back to his feet, his boots digging into the turf as he launches himself after you.

"Come on, sweetness!" he calls after you, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. "You can’t run forever!"

You know he’s right, his endurance is better, his reaction time quicker, and before you can dodge, before you can make another move, he snatches your wrist mid-sprint.

With one fluid motion, he spins you back into his chest, your body colliding with his, and in an instant, his mouth is on yours. The kiss is nothing like the last one.

This one is fierce, unapologetic, possessive, his hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your skin, fingers threading through your hair as he holds you there, as if making sure you’re not slipping away again.

Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away, don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess. Instead, you press closer, your fingers gripping at his clothes, your entire body melting into the kiss like you’ve been waiting for it.

Minho makes a low, satisfied noise, something deep and approving, something that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss even further, like he can’t help himself.

The football? 

Completely forgotten.

The swimming centre is buzzing with faint echoes of water slapping against tile, but the real noise comes from the group of seven loud-mouthed Alpha Phi assholes standing at the edge of the pool, all of them dressed in various pairs of swimming trunks, looking either confused, bored, or outright suspicious.

Minho stands in front of them, hands on his hips, grinning like he owns the fucking place.

"Good afternoon, bitches," he announces, his voice echoing through the space. "Meet Y/N."

You’re standing slightly behind him, relaxed but observant, dressed in your usual yoga shorts and a bikini top, arms loosely crossed as you watch them all process the introduction.

Chan, standing closest, immediately steps forward and wraps you into a warm, familiar side hug, squeezing lightly before pulling back just as quick. You return it, a small smile forming as his presence is steady, grounding, something safe.

Jisung, already grinning, waves happily at you, his expression bright, easy, open—completely different from the crackhead energy he had the first time you met him. You wave back, your movement small but genuine, and Jisung nods approvingly, like he’s decided he fully supports your existence now.

Then Hyunjin, who has been watching Minho with pure suspicion, tilts his head, arms crossed over his chest. "Why are we here, Minho, and why the fuck are you in swimming trunks?"

Minho’s grin widens, clearly thrilled to finally say it. "Because, dear Hyunjin, I can swim." He claps his hands together, turning slightly as he throws his arms out dramatically. "And I'm here to prove it to all you bitches." Then, his voice shifts, going softer, more playful, as he turns to you. "Not you, baby."

Your lips twitch slightly, but you don’t say anything, just watch as Hyunjin’s jaw actually fucking drops.

"What?" Hyunjin sputters, looking wildly at the others. "Are we being punked? Are there cameras? No fucking way."

Chan, still processing, frowns slightly before turning back to you, his eyes narrowing. "Y/N, you and Minho?"

You nod once, your face calm, unreadable.

Chan immediately loses it. "WHAT? NO, NO, NO! NOT MY LITTLE BABY!"

And then, before you can react, he fucking cradles you. Chan, all muscle, all protective instinct, literally wraps his arms around you, holding you like you’re an actual fucking child, his voice dramatic, pained. "This is a disaster. This is the worst thing to ever happen. No. Nope. I refuse. We are undoing this. Y/N, blink twice if you need saving."

Minho, completely unfazed, crosses his arms, rolling his eyes as he waits for Chan’s meltdown to pass.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Minho waves him off, stepping forward, leaning casually against your shoulder, completely ignoring the fact that Chan is still holding you like a toddler. "I corrupted your baby. Wasn't really hard anyway. It's me, Chan. Time to accept it."

Chan groans loudly, shaking his head. "I hate this. I hate everything."

Minho grins wider, fully basking in the moment. "And anyway, none of that matters because the real point is-" He gestures toward the pool with both arms, dramatic as ever. "Y/N taught me how to swim, so my only flaw? Gone. I am now perfect."

Jisung bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach, literally bending over as he wheezes. "Your only flaw? Minho, you are the biggest piece of shit I’ve ever met."

Hyunjin claps sarcastically, still looking personally betrayed. "Wow. Wow. I’m so happy for you. This is truly a moment for all of us."

Seungmin leans against the edge of the pool, arms crossed, his expression completely unimpressed as he watches Minho stand there like he’s about to unveil the greatest athletic achievement of all time.

“Get to swimming then, Tinky Winky,” Seungmin deadpans.

Minho’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. “Fuck you,” he shoots back, flipping him off before stepping toward the edge.

And then, without another word, he hops into the pool.

The water splashes around him, cool against his skin, but he barely registers it before he pushes off the wall, kicking off with force, and starts breaststroking up and down the pool. His movements are controlled, precise, smooth, nothing like the floundering disaster he started with weeks ago.

It’s not perfect, but it’s damn good.

The guys watch for a few moments, still processing the fact that Minho, Lee Minho, the man who refused to even put a toe in the deep end, is actually swimming like a normal fucking person.

“Pssst, Y/N,” Hyunjin suddenly whispers, leaning in slightly. "Hi, I’m Hyunjin. How bad was he when he started?"

You tilt your head, your expression calm, innocent, but there’s a hint of amusement flickering in your eyes. "He wore a life vest and arm floaties."

Hyunjin’s hand flies to his mouth, trying to smother his snort, but it’s too late—a wheeze escapes him, and the others immediately zero in on the conversation.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to make them hang on every word. "The first time he tried combining the arms and legs for breaststroke," you continue, straight-faced, "I thought he was going to die."

The guys erupt into laughter, the sound echoing through the swimming centre, bouncing off the walls as Chan doubles over, clutching his stomach, while Jisung literally collapses onto Felix. Seungmin is wheezing, Changbin is cackling, and Jeongin actually has to sit down on the edge of the pool from laughing so hard.

You smile innocently in Minho’s direction just as he reaches the wall, finishing another length.

He catches the look on your face immediately, and his own grin grows wider. "What are you talking about?"

Hyunjin, still laughing, straightens up instantly, clearing his throat. "Oh, uh, nothing, right Y/N?"

You tilt your head, playing along effortlessly. "Nothing."

Minho narrows his eyes slightly, clearly not buying it, but before he can say anything else, he reaches up, grabs Hyunjin’s wrist, and yanks him straight into the pool.

Hyunjin yells in betrayal as he hits the water, arms flailing dramatically, his voice muffled by the splash as he disappears beneath the surface.

The others cheer loudly, jeering as Hyunjin resurfaces, coughing and spluttering, glaring at Minho like a wet cat.

Felix and Jisung, still grinning, move toward you, offering their hands. Without hesitation, you take them, letting them help you into the water, the cool temperature washing over you instantly. Changbin, Chan, Seungmin, and Jeongin all hop in after, the pool filling with energy and laughter as the guys start splashing each other, the tension from earlier completely gone.

Then, from somewhere behind you, Seungmin calls out.

"CHICKEN!"

Minho turns to you immediately, his smirk returning full force. "Get on my shoulders, baby."

You raise a brow but don’t hesitate, placing your hands lightly on his shoulders as he ducks under slightly, guiding your legs around him before standing up fully, lifting you above the water with ease. For a second, the world tilts, your vision filled with stadium lights reflecting off the rippling pool, the sounds of laughter and splashing fading slightly as your focus shifts solely to Minho.

He’s looking up at you, his hands firm around your thighs, holding you steady. But his expression is different now, his usual cocky smirk softened, his dark eyes taking you in with something quiet, unreadable.

The lights from the pool cast a soft glow around you, catching on the strands of your blue and silver hair, making them shimmer like fucking stardust. And then, before he can even stop himself, Minho murmurs, almost in awe,

"You’re beautiful, you know that?"

You smile at him, a small, genuine thing, one that lights up your eyes. Minho smiles back instantly, warmth spreading through his chest, a deep, easy kind of happiness settling in his bones.

For the first time, he lets himself think about it, really fucking think about it. If the guys hadn’t bullied him into learning how to swim, if he hadn’t let his own stubborn pride push him to prove himself, he would have never met you.

And in Minho’s mind, that would have been the greatest fucking tragedy.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind

Lee Minho Taglist: @0haerireah0 @linowzzzz

Proofread by the lovely @eastjonowhere

[stupidlittlespirit]

random thought.. but do you think Ford would be open to having a partner who isn't very book smart.. I think about this a lot because I'm not nearly as intelligent as he is,, (i'm sure most of us aren't but..)

..like I'm smart in some things but I never was an academic god yannow. I was in special classes all through out school because I learn slower than most people LOL, do NOT ask me to do long division. I STILL COUNT ON MY FINGERS AND TOES FOR SIMPLE EQUATIONS LMFAOOO

anyway

I think there should be more x reader fics about Ford and a not so smart reader (not saying you should be the one to write it obviously, i'm just throwing my opinion out to the world anonymously)

I feel like I see so many fics about the reader being his lab assistant with like 4 freaking PHDS or whatever, and I just feel so disconnected to the story when I read those because like, that's not me AT ALL.

(no shade to freaks of a feather btw, I LOVE THAT ONE ACTUALLY.)

idk. sorry. i'm just rambling to you now, I just mainly wanted to hear what you thought about my first question since ur like a ford pines pro or whateva. :-)

This is actually why I made the MTB AU.

I do appreciate the fics with Reader being attached to Ford in an academic setting but I am not that kind of person and I cannot see myself being smart in that way, personally. I like to learn etc but I'm not very academically inclined and I could NOT put up with the shit that man would run me through in that scenario. One smart word and I'm beating his ass.

So, I made MTB because I wanted Reader to be a bit more down to Earth (idk if that's the right phrasing?) and for them to be able to exist without competing with Ford. I felt like a lot of fics wanted the Reader to keep up with/out pace Ford intellectually and I'll die before I'm caught competing with a man, I'll tell you that much for free sfkjhsa

Absolutely NO shade to the fics in which this is the case, though, because there are still plenty of those ones that I enjoy!!!! It's just that when it comes to my own stuff, I'm more inclined to want to read as accurate to myself as possible and I don't have those kinds of talents. I'm not that kind of guy. Again, doesn't mean it's bad, I'm not saying that, I'm just saying I do not have the facilities for that LMAO

I love science and studies and all of that, but it can be fun to balance out Ford's intelligence with emotional stuff and make use of his personality beyond his academic capabilities. You don't need to compete with a partner, you make up their other half. So whatever he's bad at, you make up for and vice versa.

I don't think Ford would require a partner to be super 'intelligent'/book smart/theory smart. He'd be happy if you were, but he'd be equally as happy if you were just willing to listen to him yap about his smart stuff and cheer him on with it all. When he's older, he tells us himself that he's grown to value love and compassion and common sense equally with theory/book intelligence, and that he's a fool for ever thinking differently.

Sure, if you were unkind and rude and purposefully obtuse with no intention of learning and growing, he probably wouldn't like that very much, but he's not going to think less of someone he loves just because they're not hitting triple digits on the IQ chart. He loves his brother and Stan isn't up there in that regard, yknow?

Intelligence doesn't revolve around a singular type of definition. Intelligence exists in many forms. Just because you aren't 'book smart', it doesn't mean you're 'dumb' or anything, it just means your talent lies in something else. You could be very emotionally intelligent, or creative, or funny or kind or sweet or whatever example you want.

I think that's what matters to him in the end.

[daemon-in-my-head]

Huh, let's do one of these again cuz I'm feeling some kinda way

Dark Urge Ask game - redeemed post epilogue funsies

If your Durge could change one, single thing, event, feature, just anything about their life, their body or their relationships, what would it be?

Do they ever miss the cult or Bhaal or wish they chose differently? How are we coping is what I'm asking.

How's shit with their LI going? Did they have one? Is it going well even after the post-epilogue party? What's the vibe here? Did they maybe even find a new partner?

What's it like being known as a hero? Do they enjoy it? Are they getting shy whenever they hear a bard recount their tales? Is it too overwhelming, and they decided to try and escape it?

How's our mental health? Did we get out unscathed, are we still tormented by nightmares? How do we cope with this little absolutely life changing journey we just went thru? Any lifestyle changes to deal with it?

Have we learned from the mistakes of our predecessors, or are we fully embracing the Abdel Adrian route? Are they trying to establish themselves as an influential figure or trying just to live a lovely little peaceful life?

How do they feel about never getting the majority of their memories back? Is it relief, that they won't remember what atrocities or mistakes they make or perhaps dread, because a Bhaalspawn undoubtedly made enemies and they'll never know who they are?

How's it going in terms of faith? Serving Jergal, another god altogether, are we faithless nowadays? What's the situation here?

How's the canon situation on a scale of 1 to 10? 1 being this could be part of a sourcebook, 10 being this is basically original fiction now.

Do any of the traits they learned in their old profession ever come in handy later down the line? Have they opened a clinic, do they get by as a mercenary, are they staying far away from everything even slightly connected to their past life?

Are they gonna reach the later half of their life expectancy or are we gonna have some sweet early demise going on here? Will they ever get to enjoy the fruits of their labour?

How exactly does loosing Bhaals essence impact a being created by him? We holding up well or barely scraping by?

Generally speaking, without saying much, what's the vibe here after it all ends? Tragedy, coffeeshop AU kinda vibe, rom-com, drama baby, slice of life or hero's quest?

Do they ever feel like they miss any of the other chosen? How much do they manage to recall? Are they beating themselves up over it?

What's their biggest struggle now that everything is over?

Also what's the greatest joy now that they're "free" (depends on interpretation ig)?

Was it worth it?

Do they ever meet any of the other tadfools again? Are they questing together once more? Do they purposefully stay away from some?

How are the others doing actually? What's Durges opinion on it? Do they think their old companions are doing well, are they glad about it or maybe even resentful? Do they ever even find out?

Any physical changes going on here compared to how they were before the whole 'defeat the brain' business? What are they? Is Durge handling them well or do they need a bit more time?

Now as for the fun part.... Do they ever remember what exactly they did with some of the other chosen? How awkward is it or are they proud of it? Does anyone else find out? Give me the tea dammit.

Does the skrunkly little tyrant ever make his way back into the picture in some way? What way exactly?

What happened to the physical prayer for forgiveness? Is it stored in a lil chest somewhere in their new home? Did it get burned? Did it get buried? What's going on here?

What happened to the stones? Where are they? Do they still exist? Remember most of the idiots only wanted the crown, nobody ever said something about those pretty gems that spend god knows how long with the others. Basically how freaky is Durge about them?

What happened to a bunch of very peculiar weapons such as; the Fabricated Arbalest, the Stillmaker, Bloodthirst, Crimson Mischief, Ketherics Warhammer, all that fun stuff.

What happened to the coat. Tell me. How's it doing. Where is it. What's going on?

Finally, last but not least. What is Durges biggest wish now? What do they strife to attain? Peace, happiness, the food they've been craving for a solid week now?

Wild card / Dealers choice.

Obligatory reminder how these work: ask prev when u reblog, be nice, this isn't strictly romantic, bla bla bla yk what I usually put here. Basically, have fun, go wild, be nice to your fellow brain rotters, make someone's day. We're all sane here. Promise.

[glam0urgh0ull]

CAN WE KNOW ANYTHING MORE ABOUT ZACH AND JEFF? Or with zach and any other characters like EJ and/or Toby?

YES OF COURSE, YALL DONT KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE WHEN YOU GUYS ASK ABOUT ZACHARY!! 🙈

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

Zachary's relationships with Other Pr⦻xies/Pastas!

➳ Jeff the Killer 🔪

Jeffery Woods exhibits very severe antisocial and sociopathic behavior. He’s frustrated with everyone around him trying to understand him when he can barely understand himself. He has a negative outlook on life and is very selfish and narcissistic, these feelings lead to frequent fits of violent rage. All of these factors make Jeffery Woods a very hard person to get along with, many of the proxies have actually come to dislike Jeff due to his poor behavior. Except for one, Zachary Phelps.

Zachary is an irresponsible and aggressive jackass, and one of the few proxies who are consistently affected by the Slender Sickness. The reality-warping torture messing with his head, his drug addiction-along with the brutal withdrawals-has only making things worse, wearing down what little sense of reason he had left.

Zachary and Jeff will often act as if they’re both one second away from tearing each other's throats out, but in reality, the two of them are practically joined at the hip. Both are short-tempered, irrational, and prone to violence-and when nights out doesn't go according to plan, then all hell will break loose in no time. Verbal arguments will quickly escalate into full-on brawls until somebody pulls them apart or they are too beat up to continue. But for all the screaming, swinging, and shit-talking, they’re both very oddly attached to each other.

➳ Toby Erin Rogers 🍂

Toby Erin Rogers is infinitely more understanding and empathetic when put side by side with proxies like Jeffery Woods and Zachary Phelps. He is absolutely loyal to Slenderman, following every order, mission, and task without question.

However, unlike the rest, Toby would have clear boundaries when it comes to people he kills for Slender. He will not lay his hands on any women or children, because he believes that would make him too much like the man his stepfather was. Thankfully, Slenderman has never challenged this rule and Toby has thus far been able to enforce it without any punishment. However, Zachary is the kind of guy who goes in and out with a bang-explosives, guns, whatever gets the job done in the most destructive way. Collateral damage? Civilians caught in the crossfire? Doen't faze him one bit. Every stunt he pulls, the risks of getting arrested skyrocket, but he simply does not care.

Toby, on the other hand, hates the recklessness, the complete disregard for innocent lives, and the lack of control involved in it. Being around Zachary is a draining experience, as it is like standing next to a box of flares with lit fuses and awaiting an inevitable explosion. But Zachary? He loves Toby. Not in a way he'd ever say out loud, but deep down, he admires him. Sees in him something he could never be-someone with restraint, someone who still has their shit together. Someone who still gives a damn.

➳ Eyeless Jack 🩻

Eyeless Jack, previously known as Jack Nyras, was a medical student with a bright future ahead of him—until the night when fate took a turn on him. Jack was lured into the forest and sacrificed by a girl whom he had trusted. He was made into some grotesque, monstrous demon, cursed with an insatiable hunger for flesh. His body, animalistic and twisted, served as a further reminder of the disgusting, vile creature that he had come to truly detest with every passing day.

Jack struggles to accept what he has become and what he's done for Slenderman. The countless lives he has taken just because of his own gluttony leaves him drowning in his own guilt and mental torment. Often to the point where Jack punishes himself for his bloodlust by starving himself for days on end. Then again, no matter how much he punishes himself or indulges in his urges, the hunger always remains. Never satisfied. Constantly gnawing away at him on the inside.

Because of this, Jack hasn't allowed himself to be around the other proxies, he couldn't. Not when he's a risk. So, Jack avoids everyone as much as he can. Therefore, Zachary hasn't seen him all that much and doesn't have an clear opinion on him. Jack, on the other hand? He's seen just enough of Zachary to know that if they ever stuck in a room with each other, he would end up ripping the poor guy's throat out. So, for his own peace of mind and Zachary's safety, Jack would rather keep as much space between them as possible.

[pokespe-rainbow]

Any Tmnt Iteration x Spider-Man!Reader: Red Brother, Angry Brother

Part 1 , Part 2

"And then we tried tacos! It's like a pizza, but the pizza has beans, salsa, and vegetables inside! It's like putting a pizza and a hamburger together!" - rambles Mikey, chewing a slice of pizza as Splinter listens every word his son has to say - "I still like pizza more, but we should order tacos often, you'll love them sensei!"

"Seems like you've made a friend Michelangelo" - Splinter talk carefully - "And you trust them?"

"Aham" - Mikey with his mouth full of pizza

"Yes, it is good to know you're socializing." - speaked Splinter, not disturbed by Mikey's manners

It's been almost two weeks since Michelangelo started to sneak out of the lair without his brothers noticing. While Splinter considered that lack of attention from his sons, Michelangelo seemed to come renovated from said visits. Splinter decided to sit with his son in the dojo and let him speak freely of their experiences. Apparently, Michelangelo was telling the truth and making a friendship bond with that public vigilante Michelangelo April talked about. Splinter trusted in his son judgment of character, but still threads of distrust would escape. This friend was merely pretending to gain Michelangelo's trust? He wouldn't know until they were meeting them face to face. Splinter didn't want his son to bring a potential dangerous stranger to the lair, but sometimes one has to take risks. Until now, they seemed to care for Michelangelo and share some traits with his younger son.

Maybe all was a coincidence, and Michelangelo actually did a good friend.

"Sensei? Are you okay?" - asked Michelangelo, and Splinter noticed he had stopped paying attention and submerged in his thoughts

"I'm all right, my son. I just get lost in my own thoughts. You have no to worry. " - assured Splinter - "You may retire now, "

"Okay. I'll be out there. I'll come back before 11! I promise!" - waved Michelangelo before he was on the door

Splinter sighed and gave himself a mental note of alerting Michelangelo's brothers. He'll feel safer of this mysterious vigilante would the approvement of the four of his sons.

Raphael punched aggressively the punching bag, over and over, thinking in his blue claded brother's face instead of the punching bag. Leo was being a dick. An absolute asshole. While things eventually cooled with Donnie, not like any of them had apologized to the other one, Leo was still being a little bitch. Yeah, it's been weeks since they received a beat up from the Foot, but they'll get these feet fetishist next time.

Most importantly, Leonardo was acting like himself. Raph's stomach absolutely revolted every time Leo remembered of himself. Raphael was actually such a dick with his brothers, like, all the time? Mikey even started to pass more time locked up in his bedroom that watching TV with them. The dramas Splinter used to see probably weren't like nothing that occurred in real life, but Raphael feared their family turned like one of those families on the TV. Yelling at each other all the time and fighting over nothing. In that families the little brother always got hurt. Raphael didn't want to hurt Mikey.

Maybe watching something on the TV would improve his mood. Nearly getting out of the dojo when he found him.

Mikey was sneaking out. He had his skateboard under his arm and looked around to make sure no one would follow him. Mikey seemed to forget his brothers were also ninjas and got out of the lair.

Mikey snuck out, and if Raphael hasn't decided to come, he wouldn't notice too. Did… Did Mikey have been out of the lair all the times they thinked he was in his room with his stupid comics? What was Mikey thinking? What if Mikey encountered too many Foot Soldiers and got hurt? What if he got himself caught? Shit, has Donnie been right?

Raphael stood a few seconds, asking Donnie wouldn't be a choice, too focused on his stupid tech to even notice. Leo wouldn't listen to him or would listen and flip at Mikey. Mikey didn't need Leo being himself at this time. And talking to master Splinter would make him waste time and lost the trace of Mikey. Growing, and with his sais on his belt, Raphael go after Mikey. Alone.

Yeah… You should probably should have put baby powder on your armpits, definitely spandex wasn't your best friend. If you could put your hands in a satin roll, the suit may be more comfortable and durable. The last enconter with the lizard ripped your last pants and had to replace these with your aunt old yoga pants that she believed gave to charity. Better keep quiet about that. Your homemade suit wasn't your best work, but do the work of keeping your identity safe.

You stay put on the side of a tall building, watching New York from afar. The things you get to know about the Foot Clan made your stomach twist in discomfort, and honestly… Fear..

How no one noticed them yet? You assumed witnesses would be silenced, probably by the more grousome methods. You should probably have felt confident, Electro without doubts could have beaten a full squad of these ninja giys with a zip-zap of his fingers, but you could feel yourself shiver. Your spider sense vibed at the sole thought of them. They were probably better than you at hiding in the shadows, and to differ from the typical bank robbers, these guys were pros.

But also you were [S/n], you couldn't afford yourself to be afraid , or doubt when come to save someone's life. Mikey's brother's life, or what was left from it.

Mikey was already one of your closest friends. You already have told him about the hardships of the job, and he just gave you a thumbs up and just said HE Believed in YOU.

Mikey was one of your people now

You took a deep breath and swung yourself to your next location.

You moved to the rooftop you were supposed to meet Mikey, one that was darkened by the shadows of the taller buildings, and no regular human should see without a flashlight. You could already see the shape of a shell in the darkness, smiling under your mark and deciding to say hi.

"Hey Mikey!" - you wave a hand and snorted at seeing the turtle stirr. He still got used to that? You'd think Mikey had his own turtle sense when was about you…

Except it wasn't, the turtle turned around, the metalical flash of something thaf wasn't nunchakus come to light, golden eyes instead of baby blue and then you could hear the meme in your head "And in that moment he knew, he fucked up".

You were on the corner or the rooftop, your Spidey Sense flaring like a fire alarm with 'Danger Danger Danger' as he launched at you. You did the most logical thing, jumping off the building and to the stairs, quickly hanging from the side as the unknown turtle decided to follow, and wow, those were some big forks! Not bug forks! Something-something you couldn't think about! There was a giant turtle and this one did was trying to kill you!

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU KNOW ABOUT MIKEY!" - screamed the angry turtle, slashing with the forks—SAIS! THE NAME IS SAIS!— as you jump out of the way, grabbing the side of the stairs and jumping up, leaving the turtle behind

"Sorry! Wrong Turtle!" - you say, giving a small wave and decide you don't really want to fight a nearly identical turtle to your friend…. Wait… A nearly identical turtle to your friend? - "Wait! You're his brother!?"

"And what if I am Punk!?" - growled the turtle, and you settled down the idea of facing him was a bug No-No in your list

"I think this is a big misunderstanding!" - you screamed - "We're good friends, actually! He was supposed to be here…" - you said looking around - "Anytime now…?" - you ask again, still no tracks of your orange friend - "He's…. Supposed to…" - you check again your watch. Twenty minutes late - "That's inusual…"

You started to worry, honestly. Mikey was actually an early bird when come to your meeting, very eager too. Did… Why was his brother over here instead of him?

You felt your Spider Sense blaring again, and you wanted to stop fighting Mikey's brother. It was easy to catch his wrist, and it was equally easier to throw him over your shoulder. He growled at you, like a rabid animal. Did you were really scared of facing him a few minutes ago? Maybe it was the fear of something happening to Mikey that oppacqued the fear of losing one eye.

"Why are you here instead of Mikey?" - you asked at Mikey's brother

"Why would I say anything to you!?" - was his answer

"Cause I'm worried!" - you put your hands on your hips - "He never comes that late. Is he always that late?" - you turn to ask Mikey's brother. He's touching his wrist and sitting, probably thinking of how to take you out now

You inhale a few times as you start to think about what could have happened. Mikey can't be held by traffic. He's good moving through the shadows and very fast… and is the enemy of ninjas that were as good as him by moving in the shadows…

"Oh shit" - you hear Mikey's brother talk, a whisper, so is either a hidden comm or is talking to himself - "Mikey wasn't lying."

You glance at the unknown turtle, a similar mask, only but red. His face is nearly identical but so different to Mikey's for some reason. This could tell you he was Mikey's twin, and you wouldn't even doubt it. Now, it seems that his anger had cooled down, more relaxed and looking at you like if you've grown two heads.

You sighed as it seemed the red turtle wouldn't try to stab you once again. You could say he was …. He didn't look bad, but your panic didn't help in anything.

"…. I saw Mikey snuck out and follow him. Lost him" - said the red turtle. His wrist didn't look damaged. Good

"Where?" - you asked, trying to concentrate in the noises of New York City

The red turtle looked at you before sighing - "A few blocks from here."

"Fine. Let's go" - you said, putting a foot ver the edge of the building - "Lead the way…" - you waited for him to move - "Sorry for kicking your ass…"

"Sorry for almost stabbing you" - he said - "…. So…. Mikey didn't really make you up…"

"Yeah, he complained about his brothers not taking him seriously" - you looked over him before taking out your gloved hand - "Truce…?"

The red turtle looked at your hand before accepting the handshake - "Truce…"

You just hoped nothing serious would've happened to Mikey with you distracted

"I'm Raphael…"

"…. [S/n]…."

[isa-ghost]

AU where Cucurucho can see through all the Fed workers'........ well they don't have eyes, but don't worry about it.

I am DEFINITELY turning this into a full-fledged fic... eventually. I really have to focus on the ones I already have planned, BUT LISTEN......

Do I even have to mention the angst potential between Tubbo and Fred? Or Walter Bob? Or any of the other workers we or the islanders actually got kinda emotionally invested in?

Something something eventually he can see through the islanders that work for/with the Federation's eyes too. Cellbit, Fit, Foolish.

Maybe also the ones that have pasts with or get too close to the Feds or Cucurucho himself. Bagi, Baghera, Jaiden.

And maybe also the ones the Feds have kidnapped and done things to. Phil, Felps, Pac, Mike, Roier.

Maybe the latter two groups aren't compromised yet, but Cucurucho certainly has aspirations to get to that point.

Once the islanders who aren't compromised (or maybe Cellbit/Fit/Foolish figure out Cucurucho can use them and of course warn everyone else because the islanders are unwaveringly loyal to each other for the most part), paranoia explodes among the islanders. They start suspecting each other despite trying their best to keep trust strong. They start wondering if the eggs are being used too. SecurityCraft cameras start getting suspected.

This is the shit the Codes were trying to warn them about. They Know. They're the previous iteration of islanders.

It's Etoiles's time to shine. Granted, several candidates that were being considered eligible to join The Resistance are now compromised or Could Be compromised, but they can figure that out as they go.

He builds an underground meeting place in the spirit of Order Theoritas. He'd use The Order if it weren't for Cellbit being compromised and having full access to the hideout he built. This is the place he'll use to sort out what to do to stop Cucurucho, or at least to find a way to disconnect his eyes from the islanders.

He definitely finds a way to do that at some point, bringing the saved people under The Resistance's wing, letting them recover from it before recruiting them to help save the others.

At first The Resistance is made up of the other people who have been Touched by the Code. Charlie, Maxo, Luzu.

The Codes do their best to get Etoiles intel from within the Federation ASAP in an effort to try and stay one step ahead of Cucurucho, or at least so they have some ability to anticipate what the Federation's next move(s) will be.

Etoiles decides it's most important to seek out the vulnerable islanders and recruit them first, before Cucurucho can get to them. Bagi, Baghera, Jaiden, Phil, Felps, Pac, Mike, Roier.

But he's not going to just welcome them in so easily. They're essentially quarantined in a secret location meant to look like where The Resistance is based, but in reality it's a decoy. In this place, they're screened and monitored for a period of time to ensure The Feds didn't beat The Resistance to them.

Once they pass all the tests to ensure they're not compromised yet, they're brought into The Resistance officially and brought to the REAL hideout. Dare I suggest a certain plot twist that I'm not going to elaborate on in case I actually write this as a fic.

Phil and Roier pass the tests for sure. Roier is particularly feisty throughout the process, he wants to save Cellbit ASAP. Phil's hatred of The Federation is potent. Etoiles trusts them wholeheartedly by the end of their testing. Codebreakers and Bloodhounds >>>>>>.

While the processes with The Vulnerable are ongoing, The Resistance also try and reach out to people they're confident haven't been compromised yet. Tubbo, Bad, Tina, Pierre.

It's a long shot to contact them, but they try to go to the people who are rarely around too, since they're also unlikely to be compromised. Missa, Mariana, Niki, Mouse.

Etoiles has mixed feelings about it, but out of necessity he forms a blacklist of members he absolutely refuses to recruit, for the sake of keeping things secure. Quackity, Antoine, Vegetta.

Tubbo's on board immediately, he's been grilling Cucurucho and challenging him since his first days on the server. With his intelligence and ability to plan combined with Etoiles's skills, The Resistance surely stands a better chance.

They successfully assemble Bad, Tina, Pierre, Missa, Niki, and Mariana (after an Average Slimariana argument and subsequent hatefucking). Mouse's correspondence is pending (she's a very busy demon!) but Tina and Niki are able to vouch that she'd be likely to help them too.

By the end of all their recruiting, The Resistance consists of Etoiles, Tubbo, Bad, Tina, Pierre, Missa, Niki, Phil, and Roier. Hopefully Bagi, Baghera, Jaiden, Pac, and Mike will join them soon, they're still going through their screenings. (Pac especially is working hard to earn their trust, he wants to save Fit as much as Roier wants to save Cellbit).

Niki proposes The Resistance devotes a portion of themselves to figuring out what to do about the eggs. They can't just abandon the kids! Suffice to say it's a controversial idea to The Codes, but she has a point. Much spicy debating to be had about it.

As THE babysitter ever, Bad volunteers to look after all of them whenever The Resistance is meeting. Whenever they aren't, they go about their days as normal as possible, doing tasks/getting cookies or whatever.

Phil basically joins Bad, but more so because 90% of his reason for living on the island are Chayanne and Lullah. But he's good at staying in his own lane and keeping his mouth shut. His only challenge will be avoiding the inevitable questioning from the kids, especially Lullah.

They have to keep up the illusion they're none the wiser to what Cucurucho is doing. If the eggs ARE plants, The Federation will know right away that the islanders know something is up. After all their incessant fussing over keeping the eggs safe and happy, there's no fucking way they'd all suddenly spontaneously be avoiding their own kids.

It's torture, even to Etoiles himself, to not tell the kids about what they're up to, but they have no choice. They can't risk it. No matter how much the kids would be on their side, or want to help, or at least want to be in the know, it simply can't be done.

Ideally, over time and through so much DELICIOUS suspense and tension and angst, they'd find a way to stop Cucurucho. But I don't know if I'd end the story 100% happy so maybe not Everyone can be saved. I dunno. It wouldn't be a completely unhappy ending though. :)

[doctor-bus]

I tend to have extremely vivid (sometimes lucid, though I don't have much control) dreams, but there are two that really take the cake for me. Under a readmore because they're long

The first one was a nightmare I had once while taking a nap. It was a really long dream, and most of it was just me going through my daily life, doing things like sitting at my desk on my computer, talking to my mom at home, attending class, ect ect ect. All super mundane and not scary at all. Except every so often my ex would call me, and I didn't want to talk to this ex so I was ignoring the calls.

Except later on, I was rushing across the university campus I was attending at the time and not really paying attention, so when my phone rang I answered it on reflex. Instead of my ex, it was a robotic, automated sounding voice listing off a description. Things like "He is: blonde. He has: blue eyes. He is: 6 foot 5. He is: 200 lbs." It was weird and creepy, so I quickly hung up before the message ended. I sent a couple texts to my mom and friends about this weird ass spam call I got and then just went to class.

The rest of the day in the dream, I kept getting the calls and ignoring them. I knew that it would be the same voice if I picked up, and I really didn't want to get involved in whatever weird bullshit that was.

Then it was evening, and I'd just gotten out of the shower. I remember the sensory detail of the steam in the hallway being extremely vivid (I think just because I was overheating under the blanket). I stepped from my bathroom into my bedroom (in nothing but a bath towel, as I hadn't finished drying off yet) and immediately grabbed my phone off my desk to check it, but my hands were still kind of wet so I fumbled it and accidentally called the number back. It fell on the ground and I had to kneel down to pick it up. By the time I did, it was already partway through the message

"He is: blonde. He has: blue eyes. He is: 6 foot 5. He is: 200 lbs. He is: right handed. He is: 15 ft away."

And at that moment I realize that I am supposed to find this person, and that this person is coming to find me.

My bedroom only had two possible points of entry, one door and one window. I was near the door, so I backed up a little and angled myself so that I could see both at the same time.

My closet door opened behind me.

I scrambled back from the closet towards my desk and window, and this guy slowly climbs out of my closet wearing a tattered, old, incredibly creepy dinosaur costume. It looked sort of like a cursed, hand-sewn doll, stained + faded blue fabric and black bead eyes. He has to sort of bend down to get the long neck and head out, but then he stands upright and is absolutely looming over me, and I'm still kneeling on my floor pretty much naked.

I know with full certainty that whatever the voice sent him here to do will not end well for me. So I quickly grabbed a dagger off my desk (one I'd looked at online right before the dream but didn't end up buying) and stabbed upward at him, right into his crotch.

And out of the wound came dozens and dozens of hands, all grabbing me and pulling me into the split seam.

Then I woke up and spent the rest of the day going "what the absolute fuck was that?!?!?" lol

The other one was less scary, but very emotionally moving.

I dreamed that I was an actor, and that I played the villainess on a power-rangers type show. It was kind of hokey and cheesy, but I was part of an evil power couple with another character, both themed after pollution (for the good guys to beat back, ofc). Like I think I was styled after oil and he was styled after industrial smoke or something???

Anyway, our characters are in evil love or whatever, and we were kind of flirting too. Nothing had come of it yet, but we had really good chemistry and spent a lot of time making flirty banter in between filming scenes at this park in my home town.

(Also at one point we, and a bunch of our coworkers, kicked the shit out of a truck with awful transphobic bumper stickers and ran away lol.)

Anyway, I wanted to keep things going with this guy, but he was really hesitant, saying things like how I didn't really know him and I needed to understand; it's not just his character, he really is toxic. Saying that it's better if we end it there and whatnot.

But then the show got cancelled and we all got fired. (Maybe partially bc of the truck incident. We didn't get caught, but there were enough trans people and allies in the cast and crew that we were suspected. The guy may not have had a name but he DID have blue hair and pronouns, and he was super understanding that I'm non-binary even though I was playing a femme fatale)

I said that was stupid, and that I wanted to keep seeing him, and he kind of relented and said he wanted to keep seeing me too.

Throughout the rest of the dream, we'd meet up periodically. I was doing some other stuff too (there was a weird nonsense segment where I was astral projecting to a Thanksgiving feast and my cousin spilled sprite on the stove and I couldn't clean it up bc I couldn't touch anything??? but that wasn't really relevant).

Anyway, I kept meeting up with this guy, but some things were off. Like, I'd try to call him one day and it'd say it was disconnected, but then he'd call me back from that same number a few hours later. There was another point where I walked the apartment building that I thought he lived in, only to see it burnt out and abandoned, but then later when I walked by again it was normal and I could see him in the lobby through the window. So I kind of assumed that maybe I was mistaken? Maybe I'd gotten lost? But then google maps also said the building was abandoned. But I was like, whatever.

And I had a really good romance with this guy, like, it felt like we had a very serious relationship for months.

Then out of the blue, he says we need to break up. I'm emotionally devastated, asking why, crying, saying that I really love him and I thought we were happy??

And he looks me dead in the eye and says

"Because I'm not real. And the closer you get to me, the closer you come to not being real either."

And then I woke up, feeling a profound sense of loss for the life we had together. I still remember him fondly sometimes, even though it was only a dream.

Anyway if you read all that, thanks for coming to my TED talk lol. I have a lot of cinematic dreams like this, but these two are def the wildest.

I’m so nosy what’s the weirdest, strangest, most insane dream you’ve ever had?

[phia-myth]

Can you talk about Modern AU Patrochilles? ^_^

i would LOVE to.

like i mentioned before, achilles is an amputee. he lost his right leg when he was pretty young.

achilles and patroclus grew up together. their dads have been best friends ever since their uni days. at the start of the story they’re queer platonic partners, but eventually they develop a romantic relationship

antilochus is their best friend who has to deal with third wheeling all the damn time

achilles has gifted kid burnout syndrome. his dad expects him to pursue his talent in sports and his mum expects him to go into politics or philosophy (which, like in ancient greece, is an important career). he, however, wants to pursue music

patroclus has the opposite issue. he’s just sort of drifting with no real goal. he ends up falling in love with the dog shelter community service he’s made to do after he gets into a fight with hector

speaking of, the story behind that is that patroclus provokes hector after the whole paris/helen/menelaus drama (i’ll get into it if anyone asks). they get into a fight and hector. one fight later and patroclus gets out lucky with a concussion, a suspension, and a community service charge.

achilles overreacts and starts tweaking and beats the absolute shit out of hector. he literally chases him for like three blocks and kicks shit out of him. if his mother wasn’t thetis and he wasn’t basically a child prodigy, he would have absolutely been arrested.

he was mostly tweaking bc when The Boys™️ (odysseus, ajax and menelaus) showed up, they lost their shit on the way to the hospital bc patroclus had a seizure and expected the worst case scenarios which, when achilles is on the other end of the line, is not the best idea

it probably didn’t help that achilles and patroclus were in that ‘will-they-won’t-they’ sensitive spot where they should really be communicating but didn’t

it’s ok when patroclus is better they talk and kiss kiss fall in love

there’s no such thing as sexuality (or race) in my modern au, but if i were to assign them a sexuality, pat would align more with being demi and achilles would be demi romantic bisexual. but like i said, those labels don’t exist for them.

peleus owns a fairly popular cafe that achilles and patroclus help out at from time to time. after pat’s mum died, menoetius lost his job and peleus gave him a job at the cafe.

yes the cafe is called phthia

peleus was in the army but has since retired and used his retirement fund (and inheritance) to open phthia after he and thetis divorced

thetis comes from a wealthy family who is well known in the political sphere. her parents made her marry peleus after visiting the oracle of delphi. long story.

bonus but here’s some old modern au doodles i abandoned of patrochilles (+ pyrrhus and antilochus)

[xkatchy]

Sooo I tripped and fell into the Bloodweave void (bc OFCOURSEIDID) despite romancing Gale with Val (my Tav). Almost enough to make me obsessive scroll Tumblr again. And now the songs I regularly have on in my car start to have new meaning (BCOFCOURSETHEYDO) so now I've got:

Gale:

Astarion:

[washingtonwhitemarkiplier]

IS THAT THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!

[book-lover85]

Stay at home dad and artist on commission Keefe

[seventh-district]

“Why’s he call you Darlin’?”

on my knees begging my brain to stop trying to associate this song with Sam

[ratatatastic]

happy we love defending our teammates around here from mr aj "thats one of the biggest things is im very loyal to my teammates and no ones going to take liberties and take any cheap shots towards my teammates" greer

if youd like to know what caused aj to go after kastelic its because of two hits on adam and jesper that happen within 7 seconds of each other and while casters were quick to note the jesper hit they never mentioned kastelic basically riding adam near the benches hard not even a few seconds before that and those within tandem is what makes aj go enoughs enough! and shed his gloves

there has to be something so funny about jesper and uvis hovering nearby as aj just (insert the dog eating cabbage angrily video)

despite wrastling the shit out of a guy aj wants more and honestly a perfect addition to our kitty lineup!! oh delightful little cat!!

boston bruins @ florida panthers | 10.8.24