#carbon and other forms of dating

[sailorrlino]

Rodeo | lmh (m)

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

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

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

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

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

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

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

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

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

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

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

Any work is good work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s so goddamn sore.

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

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

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

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

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

Whichever comes first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any work is good work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightcrawler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

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

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

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But you’re so pretty.”

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

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

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

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

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

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

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When is the last time you slept?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, and that she chose to leave him.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not in danger here. 

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My watch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the point, though?” 

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

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

“And purple?”

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

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

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

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

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

“Collection accepted.” 

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

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

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

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

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

If the knife had been one of yours…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

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

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

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

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

He remembers almost every one of them. 

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

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

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

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

-

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

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irreversible. 

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

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

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

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

Will he or won’t he? 

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

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

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

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

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

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

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

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

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

It’s clinical. 

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

Any work is good work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s even a combination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

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

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

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

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

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

“Didn’t say you were.” 

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

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

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

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

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

“I’d never hurt her.”

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

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

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

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

He’s that confident in beating me. 

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

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

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

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

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

Act of faith. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there a way through that door?”

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

“Does she have a way out the back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s hardly less settling.”

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

“One is legal, for starters.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there’s you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

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

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

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

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

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

“They’re on the house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

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

-

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

An act of faith. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

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

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

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

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

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

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

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

“Where are we going?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it now?”

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

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

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

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

Minho bites back a grin. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not a child!”

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho, there’s a-”

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

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

“Mostly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

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

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

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

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

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

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

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

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

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

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

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

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need it.” 

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

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

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

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

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

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

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

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

“That joke was terrible.” 

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

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

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

[poppadom0912]

the reader and jay dated, they ended up breaking up because jay joined the army, he left leaving her a note. the reader moves on but she finds out she's pregnant she decides to keep the baby. ages later she gets a job at intelli, they are at a crime screen, the reader spots her daughter. the team are a little skeptical when they see the reader giving her money. hank brings her in for questioning, the reader tells voight that thats her daughter, jay realises that the girl is his.

Warnings: Mentions of break ups and swearing, angst with a happy ending?

A/N: Hello! I hope this lives up to your standards. I don’t know how happy I am with this but it’s whatever. I felt like adding a backstory would’ve taken away from the main story so i apologise in advance for the differences between what you asked and what i wrote. Hope you enjoy!!

*****

"Alright baby, have lots of fun. Love you lots."

"Love you too. See you later."

And with that, you were alone, watching your daughter run away with her friends.

Recently, whenever you were with her, the guilt was chipping away at your conscious. All because of your job.

You had known Antonio for years, being partners before Intelligence was formed. So when it was established, you joining him was a no brainer.

It was your fault you hadn't ever spoken or told anyone about Eliza's dad. The only one to ever know that you even had a child was Antonio, but all he knew was that a child existed, not their age or gender, and that their father left before you could tell him about your pregnancy.

But then Jay had joined intelligence and the tension between you two was so palpable it could easily take a physical form.

So, you confided in your long-lasting partner who, with this newfound knowledge, wasn't so forthcoming to the man.

Not only did you feel guilt for not telling Jay that he had a daughter, but you also felt guilty for not telling Eliza, who knew she had a father out there in the world somewhere but had never met him.

However, you had shown her countless pictures of him - you weren't that evil - so she was aware that she was her dads carbon copy and when she was a newborn, you struggled to look at her and if she were to ever see him in the streets, she would easily recognise him.

And that's what worried you the most: the two of them accidentally meeting without you present.

*****

The murderer on your current case had struck again and everyone was at the crime scene doing their respective jobs.

As you were finishing talking to an eyewitness, you caught sight of a familiar group of girls at the back of the crowd of bystanders, a certain brunette standing out to you.

"Sorry Tonio, give me two minutes."

Without waiting for a reply, you patted him on the arm and walked away, aware of his eyes and a few others following your movements.

Were you acting without thinking? Yes

Did anyone know who your daughter was? No!

Was this going to be a mistake? Oh, definitely but having your baby at a crime scene took precedent in this situation.

“Elizabeth Y/L/N, what are you doing here?” You asked, bending under the yellow tape and pushing her and her friends away so they could talk without anyone eavesdropping.

“The cinema’s around the corner.” Your daughter pointed somewhere behind you. She was the only one talking and from the looks of all her friends faces, she’d be the only one to do so.

“Alright well, this street is inaccessible for the rest of the day.’ You said, your tone strict and firm. “Here, take this and get yourself some food from that place you all like.”

The smile that brightened up her face, you could never stay indifferent to that for long.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” You warned them, a soft smile remaining on your lips as you waved them off. All her friends saying their thank-you’s and goodbyes in sync.

You walked back to Antonio with your chest feeling lighter.

Unfortunately for you, you failed to notice the look shared between Voight and Al.

*****

You’d been over the moon when you saw the two lines. You and Jay had been dating since High School and despite never seriously talking about having kids, you both knew that marriage and starting a family together was going to be in your future.

Trying to contain your excitement, you went about your day as usual, going to work, talking with colleagues and friends, doing the groceries before going home.

Surprisingly, the apartment was quiet and empty when you stepped through the door. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday, Jay always finished work before you. It was an unspoken rule that whoever got home first was in charge of dinner.

But today, everything was dark and in the same conditions you left it in this morning.

Turning all the room lights on as you walked through the apartment in search of your long-term boyfriend, you stumbled upon an envelope addressed to you in very familiar handwriting.

Feeling your heart thundering in your throat, you carelessly set the grocery bags aside and picked up the envelope with shaky fingers.

‘Y/N, I wish it didn’t…’

With those words, your entire world and everything you knew came crumbling down.

*****

Back in the bullpen, everyone stood back as Antonio presented the new information gathered from the previous crime scene. As Antonio finished, Adam came in, adding what he knew from a very knowledgeable witness.

As you were trying to pay close attention, you felt someone watching you. Such an uncomfortable feeling causing you to turn around and make eye contact with your boss who jutted his head towards his office.

Confused, you followed his silent instructions with no questions, aware of the multiple eyes belonging to your coworkers that were following your movements.

Closing the door behind you, you remained standing as Voight leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms.

“Anything you wanna tell me?” The suspicion was sky clear in his tone.

Your brows furrowed in further confusion, your mind struggling to follow what he was insinuating and where this was going.

“No? I’m sorry but I don’t think I understand.” You licked your lips in uncertainty. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

He just continued to stare at you blankly. Now you were starting to get nervous.

“If you tell me now, I can cover for you. We can work something out, but you have to tell me.”

You wanted to scream out all your frustrations. What the hell was he on about?

When you remained silent, he finally gave in.

“Who were you giving money to?”

A laugh slipped out from the revelation which you immediately tried covering up with a cough so you weren’t given a reprimand.

“She’s my daughter.” You revealed, a small smile on your face as you spilt one of your biggest secrets to him. “No one knows besides Antonio but all he knows is that I have a child, not their age, gender. Nothing.”

Instantly, he knew your reasons without you justifying yourself.

“You’re keeping her under wraps?”

You nodded, “from everyone.”

*****

Jay wasn't dumb.

Ever since he joined intelligence, things between the two of you had been awkward from the get-go. Your shared past was known to all your colleagues and it was never brought up.

But it seems that Antonio would never get over it as still to this day, a grudge was sometimes still held against him which given the circumstances, Jay understood.

Several years working together, you two were fine. You'd talk only when needed and hang out only in group settings. Other than that, you were never seen together.

Somewhere deep down, Jay wished that you would allow him to explain himself and finally apologise but your grudge was ten times stronger than Antonio's.

At the crime scene earlier today, everyone had seen you walk away and very suspiciously talk to a group of girls who you then handed money to.

The silent knowing looks they all shared held the same message. They all loved and adored you but they couldn't be ignorant to what they just saw.

Voight pulling you away to talk privately in his office only confirmed their suspicions.

When you re-joined them again a little later, the air was thick in anticipation, everyone wondering what happened between you and Voight.

You picked up on it straight away.

Now you hesitated. Telling Hank about your daughter was one thing. He was your boss and that man could take even the biggest secret to his grave.

It wasn't that you didn't trust them because you did, you would and do trust them with your life. But as soon as you revealed her age, everyone would connect the dots and that would lead to you being forced to actually talk to Jay.

"Umm." You licked you lips, wondering how to say it exactly. "Well, that girl I gave money to, she's not some criminal rando... She's my daughter."

Silence.

More silence.

"No fucking way."

"What?!"

"You have a freaking child?"

All their voices overlapped as they expressed their shock, Antonio clearly less so than the rest of them but still surprised nonetheless at knowing more.

You couldn't bear to look in Jay's direction.

"You have a fully grown child. Oh my gosh, you have to tell us everything." Kim asked nicely, her eyes wide from shock but also happiness. "Y/N, you’re a mother!"

You laughed, her giddiness contagious.

"Her name's Elizabeth." You started, smile soft and a sparkle about your eyes as you spoke about your favourite person and subject in the world. "It's always just been the two of us, so it's never been easy but we manage."

The rest of that hour was spent not working but everyone listening intently as you finally spoke about your daughter.

Jay finding you alone in the locker room at the end of the day wasn't a surprise. You'd been waiting for him to say something for a while now.

"Elizabeth?" He paused, watching you sat on the bench as you got your things together. "You named her after my mum."

The emotion was strong, weighing heavy down on his tongue, making it hard to talk. You still couldn't look at him, keeping your eyes trained in front of you inside your locker.

"Of course I did. That's what we planned, no?" You reminded him of the time you both came up with baby names. "I love your mum more than my own."

"And she's..."

"She's turning twelve."

"Fuck."

You couldn't stand the thick tension.

"She knows about you." You fiddled with the string bracelet around your wrist. "She's grown up knowing everything about you. I've sown her pictures of you and us and-"

You exhaled shakily, the emotions starting to get to you. "I've tried my best with her, to keep her opinion neutral but gosh Jay. You've caused me so much pain that at times it's so hard to see her adore this idea of you when she knows nothing of what you did to me."

Jay didn't try to stop your rant. "And I've been so scared that one day she'd see you in the streets and you'd reject her but-"

"I don't know how I feel about you back in our lives- back in my life." You finally looked at him, your eyes glistening from unshed tears. "I can't go through the pain again."

"Y/N, I'm-"

"No." You stopped him, your eyes burning into his. "I've already accepted your apology but this is going to take time. I'll introduce you to her and if you want, you can get involved in her life but leave me alone."

You were breathing heavily when you finished your rant.

"I can do that." Jay complied without a moment to waste. "Anything you want, anything she wants, I'll do it."

You exhaled shakily.

Wiping your eyes, you closed your locker door and zipped up your bag. Checking yourself in the mirror, you reapplied lip balm and patted your under eyes dry.

"I'll text you my address"

Jay stumbled on his words, confused at what you meant. "What? I-"

"She's home now. Did you want to meet her?"

"Yes. Yes please."

[lovelyiida]

KATSUKI BAKUGO X SECRETARY READER • A 500 FOLLOWERS SERIES!

❥ SYNOPSIS: as the years passed, Bakugo came to the realization that he was the last among his class to tie the knot. As the days grew colder, and the nights became lonelier. Bakugo finds the desire to get married, but he doesn't really feel like falling in love. At least he has his trustee secretary!

implied fem reader, aged-up! Pro-hero MHA characters over the age of 27, vulgar language, suggestive wording and content

❥: CHAPTERS

❥ MASTERLIST

❥ JOIN TAG LIST!

WORDS: 4.3K

PS: Please let me know if you have filled out the tag form since the last update so I can keep up to date!!

CHAPTER 8: VULNERABILITY

PHASE 2: CONSOLE

“Beady-eyed, dog-mannered, dimwad!”

Headline, headline, headline!

PRO-HERO DYNAMIGHT EXPLODES IN ANGER DURING INTERVIEW

[unreleased footage from Pop! Magazine spreads like wildfire!]

Over 3 million views, and 10 thousand shares.

Since the dawn of the moon, you have been repeatedly refreshing the page. Each and every comment was scanned with frantic-fast movements. Relishing in this whole interview fiasco from the comfort of your queen-sized bed, you moaned in anguish.

Your face became increasingly hot as you read the comments with your third glass of wine in hand. As much as you thought the comments would be demeaning to the pro-hero, the exact opposite happened!

[COMMENT] Did you see how he took up for his secretary? Omg, that was so hot.

• 45k likes • 216 shares

[COMMENT] The way he took her hand going off the set!!!!

• 78k likes • 12k shares

[COMMENT] Oh god, send me a man like Dynamight…

• 57k likes • 2k shares

[COMMENT] Bro there’s no way they aren’t fucking

• 180k likes • 3.8k shares

Of course, that’s the top comment.

Staring at your computer, you tried hard to fathom the situation you were now slapped into. The video of you and Dynamight has gone viral, and everyone now suspects that you two are in a relationship.

And they're not entirely wrong...

Despite your late-night attempts to contact the fiery hero, your calls went straight to voicemail and your texts went unanswered. Letting out a large sigh that was once trapped in your chest, you had no choice but to sit there and let the bomb explode. And await the absolute nuke that was urging to be dropped at the office.

Staring at the messages you sent Dynamight, you scowled. “Flashy piece of carbon fiber pants thinks he’s the shit and can just ignore my messages? Leaving me to the wolves once again!” you shouted in anger. You threw your phone to the end of your bed and buried yourself in your plush duvet. Your throat becomes tight as your eyes are welled with tears.

“I’m gonna teach you, Dynamight, to never fuck with me or any other secretary again.”

The pattern of clicking heels and bustling conversations filled the office today. Usually, the bleak energy of Dynamight's office could be caught with little to no attention. But the sight you’ve seen today was out of the ordinary.

“The printers are down; just send emails!”

“Has anyone been in contact with Pop Magazine? They’re completely blocking our calls!”

“God damn it, I need a raise!”

The chitter-chatter amongst your coworkers is at an all-time high. As you started to quicken the pace of your steps around the office, scowls and stares were slapped across your face. Stepping foot by foot, you reach the bathroom and hide in the nearest stall.

The door bursts open before you can even think about taking another breath. “Can you believe Dynamight fired Hitomi and Sakura for telling the truth? I mean, the whole floor has seen the video! Even Red was speechless.” A woman says her friend snickers at her remark before chiming in.

 “I’d like to see little miss Secretary say something now; she’s not beating the slut-cretary allegations at this point–”

You didn’t know what came over you at the moment, but your feet began to move before your mind could comprehend what the actual fuck was going on. Slamming the stall open, you watch the two women flinched at your action. Eyes going wide, they stare into your soulless eyes, filled with an incomprehensible anger that you didn’t know was held within you.

“First off, let’s get one thing straight right now.”

You said it flatly, closing the stall behind you. You walked up towards the duo and closed in on them. “Me and Dynamight are not a thing; have you ever taken into consideration that I’m the only person who’s in charge of this man's reputation and career, as we both fucking know it?”

"So, of course, I’ll be hip-and-hip with the brute. Do you think I want that man in that play-pen he calls a fucking office? Oh please, Dynamight needs my ass because he can barely keep his head on every second of the day. So just maybe, we should all realize how valuable I am to all of your lives!”

“Because I know that if I wasn’t here, this building would be in flames, man-made or not.”

You spoke sternly with each huff of your breath, and the two women in front of you were left speechless. Your frown soon curled into a small twitch of a smirk before you spoke once more. “So excuse me for needing to be spoken up for. You bitches, have a nice day.”

Without looking back, your feet trailed confidently out of the boss battle that was the ladies' room and straight toward Dynamight's office. With each harsh click of your heels, you stepped closer to the office, your frown stuck and growing deeper by the second. Your coworkers took into account the drastic shift in your demeanor. From shy and outspoken to confident and ten cans of bitchy.

Without thinking twice, you throw the door open with a small huff and walk into the domain of the pro-hero. Closing the door softly, you turn at your heel and scowl at Dynamight. His amber eyes burn back at you with an almost unamused look, unphased by the absolute chaos ensuing beyond the Acia wood door.

“So what? Are we just going to ignore what the press is saying about us?” You said flatly.

“I ignored your annoying ass text messages pretty much the same way,” he snapped back slyly.

This asshat.

As you stormed towards his desk, you slammed your hands against it with a loud slap that made your palms sting. “Is it possible for you to actually talk about the issue and not be a fucking brat?” You spat with anger.

Dynamight's laidback/unbothered exterior soon crumbles in slow motion. From sitting back in his seat, he approaches you with a smooth motion, his eyes glowing amber-red as his elbows land on said desk. Looking straight into your eyes, a devilish smirk etches across his face.

“Say that again for me, Y/N; go ahead.”

Faces close to one another, you could feel the heat radiating off of the hero. You frown at his attempt at intimidation, snapping your eyes away for a single millisecond before you feel a strong, warm grip on your face.

“No, don’t look away now, pretty. Say what you just said to me again. Since you have all the audacity in the world today,” he said with amusement oozing from his tone. You groaned at the sensation of his hand gripping your face, swallowing down your fear. You spoke once more.

“I said, Man up, brat.”

A long-standing pause settles over the room as his gaze burns into your eyes. Suddenly, Dynamight stands up with one swift move. The blonde removes his hand from your face, you moan in anguish at the fade of his unsettling grip and stare into the blonde's eyes once more.

You watch as the hero points his finger at himself with a mischievous smirk,

“You wanna see a brat? I’ll show you a fucking brat!”

He brushes past you and storms out of the room. Shouting your name for you to follow, you quickly turn to follow in blood-curdling anger. You knew he was a pro and all, but there’s a statistic that for every 1 out of 5 chances, a villain can take a perfect hit at a hero of his caliber.

So you might take a chance and strike him at his weak point…

Preferably somewhere in the lower region.

You watch as Dynamight calls for an emergency meeting, calling for all staff to be in attendance. All staff from each agency scurry behind his steps, and even Red Riot follows suit. He tries to calm the hero down, but his efforts fail.

As the workers sat swiftly to hear the beloved hero's comments, your heart began to beat a new rhythm as the truth dawned on you about what you dreaded would happen next.

"So, I believe we all understand why we're in here. So let's address some rumors and set them to fuckin’ rest."

A sudden pang of fear hits your chest and seeps into your body as you hear the words fall off Dynamight's tongue and through the audience of your coworkers. Eyes scan the room until your eyes fall upon a certain red-headed main in the back towards the exit.

Letting out a soft exhale of relief, you speed your way toward Red Riot.

“Red!” You spoke aloud as you gained the attention of the other pro hero. His eyes snap towards you and he points towards his beloved partner in utter confusion. “What the hell is happening now?” He exasperates in exhaustion.

“He’s having a hissy fit because he can’t handle when the public negatively views him–”

“Negative?” He interrupted. You roll your eyes and raise your hands, completely giving up on the situation playing in front of you. “Dude bumped up 10 ranks in public favor, what the hell could he be upset for?” Red Riot spoke in confusion.

Holding your briefcase towards your chest, you sigh at the current baby of the hero stabbing daggers into your form.

“I…I’m not sure.”

As the assembly room filled up, every person in their seat watched attentively as they awaited the hero's urgent message. The blonde clears his throat before groggily shoving them in his pants. Silently pacing back and forth the head of the room with slow steps, eyes still trained onto you.

“I know what everyone is thinking to themselves, why the fuck are we here? Well, I need to address some petty rumors that are going on in the concrete hellscape.”

“All Might save us…” Red Riot groaned quietly as he watched in secondhand embarrassment at the Blondes' stunts.

"If you think me and my secretary have a romantic relationship, I'm afraid you're damn wrong.”

“Don’t listen to what I might’ve said in the past, or what I’ve said in the present. It ain’t true.”

Blah blah blah, blop blop blop.

You swore you could’ve seen physical bullshit fly out of his mouth.

“To prove this…I’m happily engaged!” The hero boasts confidently to the crowd of his workers. Shoving his right hand out of his pocket and out towards the expecting crowd. A diamond-banded ring shone brightly in the bright haze of corporate lighting.

Then, in a moment both shocking and surreal, Dynamight seizes the attention of the room with a declaration that sends ripples of astonishment through the assembled crowd. With a brashness that borders on audacity, he confronts the swirling rumors head-on, his words cutting through the murmurs like a lightning bolt.

In the sudden hush that follows, the truth is laid bare, raw, and unfiltered. The bombshell revelation of your engagement sends shockwaves through the room, leaving jaws agape and minds reeling. Eyes widen in disbelief as whispers erupt, spreading like wildfire among the stunned onlookers.

Yet, amidst the chaos, Dynamight stands undaunted, his demeanor unwavering despite the tempest of reaction he has incited. His confidence radiates as he confronts the storm of speculation with a rare candor, unapologetic in the face of scrutiny.

Calm within the midst of the business casual storm.

As for you, on the other hand, you could only think of one thing to do in this situation. Your feet rush towards the blonde with a speed never before seen, and your hand flies back as far as possible before landing a seething slap on the hero’s cheek.

Dynamight lets out a gasp of shock (and so does everyone else in the room) at your hit. You stood in front of the hero for only a moment before rushing out of the room and straight out of the office.

And now what was left of you was your body sulking under your covers once more. Leaving you to pick up the pieces of your self-worth once more.

You should consider just giving up, calling off the engagement, and leaving the industry for the rest of your life. A soulless desk job would be better than whatever the fuck this reality is right now.

So much for that speech in the ladies' room...

You tried hard to care for and take up for the hero you worked for, but at times like this, your vendetta only grew stronger. And the more your sister became right. But there's a voice in the back of your head that is somewhat empathetic for the hero.

Look at his family, for All Might’s sake!

An overprotective bitch for a mother, and an emotional father with no backbone.

(it’s okay for men to show their emotions!!!)

Of course, that would create a man with a lack of emotions and a soul-crushing ego to overcompensate for it.

Of fucking course!

Sighing into your pillow, you could only fantasize about the words you’d want to say to that man right now. 

“Tight pants, brazen-boned, bastard.” You grit your teeth together, as the words only make you angrier. “Beady-eyed, dog-mannered, dimwad!” You throw your blankets off your body and jump out of bed. Rushing towards the kitchen, you grab the fridge handle and swing the door open.

“Fuck!”

No beer.

Huffing out a defeated sigh, you eye the clock on the counter. It read 11:45.

Licking your lips, you ponder as you stare at the fridge and back at the clock. You might as well go out for a walk to cool some steam off. Shuffling over to your coat rack, you lazily threw on a hoodie and some slides. Grabbing your purse and your keys, you open the door to your apartment.

Rummaging in your purse for some convenience store coupons, you continued on your slew of words. “I bet he’s not even a real blonde, just a poser of a man-baby–”

“Hah?”

Eyes snapping wide from the voice, you jump back in shock as you see the man of the hour.

“What the hell are you doing here, Dynamight? Do you know what time it is?” You exclaimed in shock, mouth twisted down into a frown. You stared down at the blonde in anger and in utter embarrassment. Looking down further, you noticed he had a couple of bags in his hands.

Beer and chicken?

“Let me in, we need to talk.”

You scoff at the man's words as you throw your purse over your shoulder. “As if, do you know how you embarrassed me and you today?” You spoke with venom at the hero. Dynamight rolls his eyes before he speaks once more, “If it makes you feel any damn better, I made them all sign NDAs.”

You stare at the hero once more in confusion, and he stares back…unwavering in his actions.

“Okay, sure, do whatever you think will place a bandaid over this whole shit show for all I care.” Placing your hands on your hips, you watch the pro hero step towards you. “Yeah? Well, it's a pretty strong bandaid.”

You hum back in response before the both of you fall into silence. The both of you gazed at each other awkwardly, before tearing your gaze away. A light blush warms your face which makes you look down once more. Looking at the bags of fried chicken and beer, you look at Dynamights hand…

His engagement ring is still on!

“You idiot!”

Frantically looking around the outside of your apartment, you turn back and quickly open the door. You then hold the hero by the collar before shoving him inside. He follows suit with a grunt before shutting the door behind him.

“What the hell is your problem?” He cursed at you.

“My problem? My problem is that you come out to my doorstep late at night bearing a peace offering with your ring on, shining brighter than ever! Fuck-face!” You cursed back. This makes the blonde smirk at your complaint.

“If you think someone is watching us, then you’re pretty late to the party,” he chuckles.

“W-what?” you stuttered in anxiety, breaking from his gaze. You locked the doors and shut the blinds to your home. “Calm down; I paid them off a long time ago,” Dynamight rummages through the bags before setting the food and beer out on the dining table.

“Paid them off?” you asked.

“Yeah, they started watching you as soon as you pulled that stunt at the children's interview a while back. They were going to trample your door down just for a couple of gabs about me.” He spoke, cracking open a can of beer. The hero takes a couple of gulps before placing the can down.

Pulling out a chair, the hero sat down and began to speak. “You think you do all of the protecting when it's me.” He takes another swig of his beer as he stares into your eyes. You swallow a lump in your throat before you grab a seat as well.

“But you can’t say I haven’t.” You trailed off.

“Haven’t what?” He asked.

“Took care of you; everyone thinks you're this strong force to never be reckoned with, but you’re the complete opposite,” you rambled as you grabbed a can of beer and cracked it open. Taking a refreshing, much-needed swig.

Katsuki never responded.

“Y’know, it’s crazy how much this position has changed me. For the good or worse… I’m not so sure.” You spoke softly towards the hero.

“And why do you think that, Y/n?” He asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek at the question. “Before I came to this agency, I never knew what it was like to take care of someone besides myself. And even then, I was doing a shit job at it. My life was teetering on by a thin string.”

The room was silent, the only noises being the taping of Katsuki’s foot, the ticking of the clock, and the hum of your refrigerator.

“So what? You’ve never helped someone out before? Beating someone’s ass with your quirk? Nothin’?” Katsuki spoke, trying to understand where you’re coming from. But you could only let out a big sigh.

"Well, technically, I’m kinda quirkless.”

Katsuki’s tapping stopped.

He gave you a look you’ve never seen before; his eyes were growing soft and his chest began to fall. Like he’s loosening up or something. The blonde stared intensely at you, waiting for you to speak once more. Biting your lip, you continued once more.

“It's like it comes in little spurts, no matter how hard I try to concentrate and force it out. It’ll only come out at the randomest of times. I’ve never seen myself at full power before.”

“One moment I was just like you, young and so excited about my quirk. I grew up thinking that I was going to save the world and that I’d work hard and conquer my way to the top. But the thing is, as yours grew stronger, I was only getting weaker. And the next thing I knew, I woke up, and it was gone.”

“So I went through life with the mentality that I needed to give myself a bit more attention; I couldn’t just wing through life knowing that my quirk could save me. But I knew that if I could have a position of power, that would make me feel like I was making a difference out there for you of all people…”

You suddenly laughed at yourself, taking another swig of your beer.

“Sorry, I don’t even know what I’m saying, I’m already buzzed.”

“No.”

You looked at Katsuki as he spoke, a frown on his lips as he shook his head. You couldn't help but laugh at his demeanor. “All I’m saying is that maybe I wasn’t as cut out for this as I thought I would be. Maybe I’m meant to be a walking target that villains can smell. I’m a walking damsel in distress, honestly. If we didn’t meet through the agency, we could’ve met that way most likely–”

“Shut up.”

Katsuki deadpanned at your words.

“I knew someone who was quirkless, and that loser is stronger than me for all might’s sake!” He exclaimed.

“All I’m saying is that you have a good life, so be proud of it. You work hard, harder than I’ve seen most of the chicken heads that I’ve hired. So bask in that glory.” He says softly, you roll your eyes before you start up again.

“I have a good life? Says the multi-acclaimed pro hero Dynamight! Ranked number two out of the whole country, he drives a red sports car, lives in a nice childhood home, goes to a great school, gets to roll around in money, and gets to tell people how they should dress for five days out of the week? Right, my life is really good.”

You snorted at yourself, reveling in the truth you spoke. But all Katsuki could do was shake his head.

“That same person who you were talking about has almost died countless times, kidnapped in their first year of high school, and has lost too many friends and mentors to count. So yeah, I consider you to have a good life.”

You let out a bittersweet chuckle at his words, “There’s one more thing too.” You added on, Katsuki raised his eyebrows in amusement, “like?”

“You’re also the last to get married.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes and lets out an amused smirk. “Right, that’s checkmate for me–”

“How come you’re the last? I would think that you’d be the first! You’re not a bad-looking guy; you might need to work in the emotional availability department but. You’re crystal clear.”

“I uh…  I tried to do the whole young love thing but it didn’t work out in my favor.” He responded softly towards the touchy subject, but you decided to persist.

“And why do you think that, Katsuki?”

Back when Bakugo was a younger, newly emerged pro, there was someone of his caliber that he found perfect. They had the spunk, the quirk, the personality, the looks, even the barons. He believed they were perfect for each other.

He had his sights set on them since he had been working in the force. At first, they were a nice distraction. Clever banter turned into hot makeout sessions. Training days turned into blanket-covered nights where the both of them would talk about their future.

And back then, he believed it. He believed that he had a future with them.

Sometimes he would envy Kirishima; he didn’t understand why he wasn’t chosen to bear the burden of love. A warmth beyond his comprehension, a family that he could selfishly call his own.

Sometimes his mind would trail back to that night. A night that he wished he could forget. A thought that he wished could be locked away forever. He remembers the sight as he looked into their eyes—the utter betrayal.

The smirk of mischief and evil as the one and only person he ever could love has turned against him. The moment when he got stabbed in the chest, too close to his heart. And in that moment, he had to choose selfishly in a way he never wanted to.

And that choice was his life over theirs.

You didn’t know what to say at the moment, Katuski just dropped the biggest bomb you had the burden of holding. Stammering with your thoughts, you say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Katsuki…”

“I would’ve never known–”

“It wasn’t for you to know; I don’t even know why I told you that,” he said to himself. You softly smile at his harsh words.

“Well, not to toot my own horn but I’m your fiance,” you chuckled. Katsuki gives you a smirk before he looks at your hand. "Then, where’s your ring?” He asked.

“In my room, placed somewhere safe and out of harm's way!” you smiled.

"Well, I’m gonna need you to start wearin’ it more,” he retorted.

“I figured that after your little speech, you gave us away like you weren’t even trying.” You spat out sarcastically. “I didn’t even mention your name!” He raised his voice in protest. “Yeah? Well, I’m sure everyone connected the dots to a perfect fuckin T.” You spoke with a smirk.

"Well then if they decide to connect those lines to the press, that NDA will be there waiting for them to get bit in the ass,” he snapped back.

You laugh at his words before taking a final sip of your beer.

“Why did you choose to give yourself a chance with me?”

Oh, you were buzzed.

“You are a hero that’s supposed to date other heroes, top models, and superstars of your caliber. Why date some small-town secretary that doesn’t even fully have a quirk?” you spoke, just above a whisper. Scared of his next response. Feeling that as if you got the wrong response, you just might hurl all over him.

Katsuki lets out a sigh before he silently panders to himself. He was eyeing you up and down before he finally spoke with a smirk.

“I’m not sure, wishful thinking?”

“asshole”

YAAAAAAAAASSSSUHU IM BACK IM BACK

I saw all your comments begging me to come back, next chapter when? next chapter when? NEXT CHAPTER NOW HOE

As you all might know now, I am a busy college student who finally has time to fantasize and write to my heart's content. SO YOU WILL BE GETTING MORE CHAPTERS OUT OF ME VERY SOON!!

Thank you all so much for the support, I love you all and hope you guys have an amazing read! Please let me know how I did in the comments. Comments and reposts are very much appreciated!!

— lovelyiida 

❥: @xo-evangeline, @inlovewithteo217, @im-better-than-your-newborn, @nar00, @king-dynamight, @gold24fish, @xasilex, @the-queen-of-sorrows , @itgetzweird08 , @yoyosocks165 , @pebblepoop , @lovra974 , @bakugospartner , @gaby-11 , @akqsa-xxi , @jolynegf , @goldenglow149 , @aliruuiz , @zukowantshishonourback , @ilovedenk-i , @atsushiki , @smolbeanzzz , @lem-hhn , @stevenknightmarc , @katsu-shi , @ryumiii , @idontevenknowlolls , @lyn07 , @kennshifts , @ackerman-suck-3-r , @alicen23 , @xasilex , @elegantvoids , @lowkeyremi , @plutounderbridges , @k0z3me , @thecurlyhairedgoddess , @sunyrose , @winterv-black , @chuugarettes , @kiarathace , @thisbicc , @thekookiecorner , @hyu-hl , @katsukisxslut , @optimisticprime3 , @cosmicbreathe , @yessimo , @sanemishina , @snxwycloud , @cosmic-rainstorm , @vinivave , @venus-xxoo , @lavender99 , @iluv-ace , @artfulthoughtsblog , @thatcreepycat , @prettylittleshady , @lavalampfullofsoup, @melodykittya , @bakugoiidaswaifu, @queendynamite2001, @starxsage, @mikestuffffs, @queendynamite2001, @kazuumii, @Minori-taiga1, @Liveurlifetothefullest

[oomisluvr]

“We should get married.”

Japan is unusually hot this time of year, the humidity weighing heavy in your lungs. The cicadas sing their love for the warmer weather, celebrating a seemingly endless summer. 

You watch the busy intersection from Kiyoomi’s highrise balcony, idly watching the streetlights conduct the flow of traffic.

Green, green, yellow.

Yellow, green, red.

Red, red, red.

You snort, “What makes you say that?”

Kiyoomi takes a long drag from a cigarette, inhaling deeply then releasing the breath in a plume of smoke. It’s a nasty habit he picked up from watching his eldest brother, a habit he rarely lets himself indulge in due to his lifestyle.

He only does it when he’s anxious. Jittery. Nervous. He only does it when he absolutely needs to.

Lots of people think he’s a prude, a killjoy, robotic by nature. Twitter seems to consider him as barely human, but you’ve been around Kiyoomi to know his faults, his shortcomings. You’ve seen enough of him that he doesn’t have to pretend around you.

The first time he slid a cigarette between his lips, you could hardly believe it. 

Laid comfortably on expensive sheets, his hair wild from how you had been tugging on it earlier, swiping a lighter off his nightstand and pinching the cig between two fingers. You remember how he grinned at your disbelief, a handsome smile on his face at how he was able to catch you off guard, the smoke pooling above him in a wicked halo. 

It’s what people do after a good fuck, isn’t it? He had joked. Consider this a compliment.

You remember feeling special. You remember feeling exactly how you feel right now.

“You make me happy, and I think I make you happy, too.” You watch the smoke dissipate into nothing, remnants swept away by a warm summer breeze. The cicadas grow quiet, muffled by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

You shift your attention from the sky overhead to the spiker. You find he’s already looking at you.

“It just makes sense.” He says.

You falter, “We’re not even dating.”

“Does it matter?” His response comes quickly, “We love each other, don’t we?”

You avert your eyes from his, afraid to fall captive to his piercing stare. His hand finds yours, rubbing smooth circles against your knuckles with a calloused thumb. Kiyoomi brings your hand to his lips, laying a soft kiss to the skin there. You draw a shaky breath, inevitably melting into him when he pulls you into his side, pressing you into him completely.

You’re surrounded by his body heat, the spiker towering over you. You hate how soothing it is. You hate how well your body responds to him, your eyes snapping back to him in an instant. 

“I’ll take care of you,” His voice is hypnotic, equal parts captivating and petulant. You hate that you believe him, like always. “We’ll take care of each other. How does that sound?”

Your body betrays you. You feel yourself falling, the walls closing in until–

“Okay.”

Kiyoomi hums, taking another drag of his cigarette, and releasing the smoke into the night air. The carbon burns your eyes, and you cough at the second hand exposure. Kiyoomi’s grip on you tightens and the smoke curls around him, forming that same wicked halo floating against the edges of your memory.

You can hardly remember life before you met Kiyoomi, the memories as tangible as his cigarette smoke. Part of you thinks loving him was inevitable, inescapable. Truly, meant to be. 

You don’t care what the other part of you thinks. Or anyone else, for that matter.

You bring your eyes back to the city below you, watching the streetlights flash and flicker and change.

Green, yellow, yellow.

Yellow, red, red.

Red, red, red.

hehehe i wanted to write something romantic but also left a sick feeling in your tummy. is it toxic obsession or is he just a freak in love? up 2 u baby its whatever you want it to be but lmk if this is too creepy!! so i can tag it as nfsw so it can go with my darker content!! ok bye love as always, niko ♡

[alnilaem]

a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

-

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands. 

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges. 

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable. 

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos. 

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips. 

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car. 

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist. 

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride. 

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate. 

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway. 

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose. 

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him. 

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves. 

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled. 

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes. 

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back. 

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings. 

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different. 

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles. 

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt. 

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews. 

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend. 

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–” 

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters. 

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night. 

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?” 

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock. 

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants. 

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back. 

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls. 

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls. 

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up. 

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters. 

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all. 

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago. 

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava. 

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head. 

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock. 

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick. 

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face. 

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked. 

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed. 

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long. 

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth. 

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response. 

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way. 

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it. 

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

-

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

[probablyasocialecologist]

Activists and scientists have been warning for years that schemes to offset carbon emissions by planting trees or other crops would lead to a surge in land grabbing, especially in the global South. These warnings are now proving true. GRAIN combed through the various registries of carbon offset projects to try and get a better sense of this new land grab and how it is unfolding. We identified 279 large-scale tree and crop planting projects for carbon credits that corporations have initiated since 2016 in the global South. They cover over 9.1 million hectares of land -- an area roughly the size of Portugal. The deals add up to a massive new form of land grabbing that will only increase conflicts and pressures over land that are still simmering from the last global land grab spree that erupted in 2007-8 in the wake of global food and financial crises. They also signify that new sources of money are now flowing into the coffers of companies specialised in taking lands from communities in the South to enrich and serve corporations, mainly in the North. To date, 52 countries in the global South have been targeted by these projects. Half the projects are in just four countries: China, India, Brazil and Colombia, which are developing their own industries of carbon project developers. But projects in these countries account for less than a third of the total land area involved. The most affected region, in terms of land area, is Africa, with projects covering over 5.2 million hectares. Many of the projects involve land deals to set up giant eucalyptus, acacia or bamboo plantations. Typically, these are pasture lands or savannahs that were used until now by local communities for grazing livestock or growing food.

17 September 2024

[bestanimal]

Round 1 - Phylum Porifera

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

The Phylum Porifera includes the sponges, also called sea sponges.

These animals are filter feeders that are bound to the sea bed in their adult forms, though some have free-swimming larva. Many species are important for building reefs. Their bodies consist of a mass of collagen jelly (called mesohyl) sandwiched between two main layers of cells. But they are not soft! Most sponges’ bodies are full of sharpened structural elements called spicules, which are made of either silica or calcium carbonate, so any predator biting into a sponge would get the same sensation as biting into shards of glass. Some sponges also have exoskeletons. Most sponges filter food particles via water flowing through their barrels and pores, but some sponges are carnivorous, using either sticky threads or barbed spicules to catch prey. Sponges may have been the first animals, and fossils of them date back to the Cambrian.

Propaganda under the cut:

Sponges could teach us how life began on earth.

As filter-feeding omnivores that feed on detritus, plankton, bacteria, and in some cases crustaceans and other small animals, sponges are an important part of the nutrient cycle in the ocean. Some are also symbiotic to other organisms, like algae, and provide homes for many reef animals.

Glass sponges, with skeletons of six-pointed siliceous spicules, are one of the longest lived animals on earth, with a possible maximum age of around 15,000 years!

While the spicules of most sponges render them too rough for human use, species in the genera Hippospongia and Spongia have soft, fibrous skeletons. Early Europeans used these dried out skeletons for many purposes, including cleaning, padding helmets, filtering water, painting, and even as contraceptives. The sponge industry almost brought these species to extinction, so nowadays most kitchen sponges are made of synthetic or plant-based material.

As revealed in the stage musical, the beloved cartoon character Spongebob Squarepants is an Aplysina fistularis (common name: yellow tube sponge), seen in the first image of this post.

spunch

[hunnylagoon]

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐔𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥

Chapter One: Be Nice To Me

The Last of Us AU

I barely remember my own name for I am no longer human enough to have one.

Premise: The flames of the campfire fizzled out entirely while Ellie Williams was unknowingly enduring what was the beginning of the end. Following short after, Ellie begins to develop unnatural tendencies that terrify both her and Joel, leaving the two of them to learn what it means to no longer be human.

Warnings: violence / gore if you squint / upcoming angst / weird ass behaviour

I’ve got boulders on my shoulders, collarbones begin to crack. There is very little left of me and it’s never coming back.

Jackson was a small town with little to do if you were a teenager, so the seventeen-year-old residents favoured a drive to Cindersnap forest just on the outskirts to chug back beer and complain every little thing that nipped at their minds. The night sky was so clear that you could count every star, and the air was filled with the scent of pine and the earthy aroma of the forest.

These yearly camping trips shifted in nature when Jesse and Dina got together. Ellie appreciated that they would let her tag along with them but she couldn't help the slight bitterness that crept into her thoughts when she watched the two of them whisper and giggle in hushed tones. It was no different around a campfire than in the school cafeteria or the back of her geography class.

Jesse's playlist hummed softly through an old speaker while Dina stood up, plunging her hand into the cooler to pull out a can of the shittiest beer they could find. "Guys, watch," She spoke, calling the attention over to herself before she punctured a small hole into the bottom of the beer can, cracked the top open and chugged. Dina was far from loving the flavour but drank nonetheless until beer dribbled down her chin and onto her bright red hoodie. 

"Was that meant to be impressive?" Ellie asked but she couldn't fight the smile on her face.

"Yeah, because you can out-drink the shotgun queen," Dina sunk back into her foldable lawn chair, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Who gave you that title?" Jesse looked to his right to face his girlfriend.

"Sarah McKinnon, April twenty-third," She announced, very matter of factly.

"Didn't realize we were carbon dating," Ellie pushed herself off the log she had been perched on for the last hour while she stared across the fire pit at her two friends through flames the colour of tangerine. "Alright, shotgun queen," She teased Dina, grabbing a beer from the cooler and holding her hand out for the pocket knife "I fear this is the day you get dethroned."

She sucked a sharp breath through her teeth, reaching into the pocket of her hoodie for the blade "I fear you are very mistaken."

Jesse raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You sure you can handle it, Williams?"

Ellie shot him a defiant look, popping the can and preparing to pierce it with the pocket knife. As she positioned the knife, the metal gave way too quickly, and the blade slipped past the can, cutting into her palm. "Fuck," She hissed in pain but simply switched the hand holding the beer can, wiping her bloody laceration onto her denim shorts. 

"Jeez," Dina said, a crease forming between her brows as she watched the blood soak into Ellie's shorts "Might wanna back down."

Ellie ignored her and sunk the blade into the can which sprayed its foamy contents into the fire before she quickly stopped the eruption by attaching her lips to the puncture and guzzling it back, tilting her head upwards to the moon. She crushed the empty can in her hand, smiling victoriously. "What do we think?" She asked "New queen?"

"Debatable, one of us cut their hand open and the other is perfectly intact," Dina held out her palm, expectantly "I'm taking away your knife privileges for the night, you are still permitted to drink beer like a regular human."

"Jesse?" Ellie looked toward the drowsy man, he pulled his hood over his head and leaned back with his arms crossed.

"I hate to say it Dina's got a pretty strong argument," 

"Wow," Ellie drew out "Not a shred of honesty around here."

"Please enlighten me," Dina says, leaning forward, elbows propped on her knees "How was butchering yourself better than my perfect chug?"

She was nearly offended that she had to explain herself "Uh, because I'm gonna have a sick ass scar and I cut myself and kept going."

"That was pretty badass," Jesse nodded.

"Yeah, sure," Dina scoffed though her tone was light-hearted "I expect you to write me an apology song for getting blood on my knife but I'll also accept gift cards."

"Too bad I will not be doing either of those things," Ellie wrapped her flannel higher around her body. She held her bleeding hand out in front of her, watching the red liquid pool out and drip down.

Jesse caught onto this small act "Does it hurt?"

"Nah," Ellie looked up at the pair, flyaways had fallen out from her ponytail and framed her freckled face "I should probably call it a night though." She could feel eyes on her as she rose to her feet, awkwardly holding her hand out so she didn't wreck her clothes further. Part of her wanted to stay up until the morning light hung overhead but the more rational half of her brain kindly reminded her that the last time she was tipsy by a fire she lit the cuffs of her pyjama pants on fire and had to endure the jokes to that very day.

"Goodnight," Jesse readjusted in his chair, tugging on his hoodie strings to tighten the hood clinging around his head.

"Night, Els," Dina gave her a little smile, scootching her chair closer to Jesse.

It would've been nice if they thought ahead enough to bring bandaids but alas, Ellie had to pour some water from her plastic bottle over it and let the cut encrust with a scab. Though the campsite was barren that night, usually, she could hear the sounds of families and couples chatting amongst themselves but then it had only been crickets chirping between blades of grass and the distant sound of her two friends laughing.

It wasn't rocket science to remember where they pitched their tents, it was the same every time they visited the sight: right next to the wood-splitting block, a red axe wedged in the center for whoever needed to cut firewood. 

She paused, her senses sharpening. The habitual sounds of crickets and rustling leaves seemed to have stilled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as if responding to an unseen presence. Ellie turned her head slowly, scanning the darkness. She couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were on her, watching from the concealment of the trees.

Without waiting another beat, Ellie ducked into her tent, bright yellow and a stark contrast to the black one that Dina and Jesse would be sharing. That was another thing she hadn't been fond of when the couple started dating, they used to share one big tent to simply sleep under the stars but now that they were separated Ellie was still kept awake by the pair's constant flow of conversation.

Ellie didn't bother to change out of her flannel, all she did was take her bloodied shorts off and slip into a pair of clean sweatpants. She wasn't one to be neurotic over what she wore, especially when she was camping and the only ones to behold her were the beedy eyes of animals. 

She lay in her sleeping bag, nestled within the comforting embrace of her tent, a duffle bag propped under her head as a makeshift pillow. The day had been long and filled with hours of roaming around the woods and eating smoked hotdogs by the lake. As the night dragged on, Ellie's weariness grew, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Despite her unease, sleep eventually claimed her, and she drifted into a fitful slumber.

It was nearby rustling that had woken her. She heard it then, pounding against the beaten dirt ground, at first Ellie had assumed it to be either Jesse or Dina until she checked her phone and saw the time read two thirty-seven am. Looking at the thin walls of her tent she was searching for the warm surge of light peaking through that signalled her two friends were still at the fire though all that shone was dim moonlight, no sign the pair were even in the vicinity.

A low, menacing snarl, so deep it reverberated through her bones. The sound was close, too close. Her breath hitched, and her heart pounded in her chest. She could barely make out the shape of something moving just beyond the circle of light cast by the moonlight, a hulking shadow blending into the darkness and dancing on the canvas of her tent. 

With the sound of a guttural growl, her heart lurched in her chest. Fear shot through her veins like ice as she realized she was no longer alone in the darkness of her tent. She scrambled to sit up, her hand instinctively reaching for the zipper to flee, but before she could even make a move, a massive weight crashed into her. A muzzle with jagged black rotting gums tore through the yellow polyester tent.

Pain exploded in her thigh as sharp teeth sank into her flesh, tearing through fabric and skin alike. Ellie screamed, her voice drowned out by the ferocious growls of the creature attacking her. She fought back desperately, kicking and flailing, but its grip was unrelenting, its strength overwhelming.

Through the haze of agony and panic, Ellie caught a glimpse of yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness, filled with primal hunger and fury. It was a wolf, its fur matted and stained the colour of a rusted penny with dried and crusted blood, a creature driven by instinct and desperation. It was unsettlingly large, it’s haunches muscular.

It had felt like every part of her leg was torn apart, fangs clamping down in a new spot every time to get a good grasp of its prey. It was like someone was using a dull axe to butcher her, an axe so dull you had to muster up all of your brute force to make an impact and whoever was wielding the axe wasn't a skilled woodsman, their cuts were messy and they never landed in the same spot. Ellie was sure this would be it for her, dead in the Cindersnap forest, her remains never to be found, discarded in her ruin of a tent until animals picked apart her dead carcass. 

Her mind raced, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she fought for her life. She clawed at the ground as the wolf began to drag her away from the tattered wreckage, her nails leaving marks on the ground as cried out. She could feel her strength waning, her vision blurring as darkness threatened to consume her.

Just when she was ready to end her thrashing and let herself be eaten alive, a flurry of movement and shouts echoed from nearby. Through the haze of pain, Ellie heard Jesse and Dina's voices, their cries filled with fear and urgency. They had heard her screams, and now they were screaming themselves. 

Jesse didn't wait another second before he pulled the red axe from the wood-splitting block, he raised it over his head as he had practiced for years of cutting logs and brought it down onto the spine. The wolf let out a yelp, its body contracting, teeth scraping over Ellie's calf as it turned its attention to Jesse. 

He didn't want to take the risk that it would take its turn at him or Dina, so he swung again, hitting it in the neck. Jesse's grip had slipped from the handle, letting the axe sink into the neck, the wolf staggered and whined. It growled low for a few moments that stretched into eternity until its abnormally large body collapsed on the ground over the top of Ellie. She could hear its ragged breath, see the life slipping from its amber eyes as its sanguine blood pooled over her. 

Everyone waited for the animal to go limp but it just writhed there until Jesse used his foot to repeatedly kick the beast until it rolled off Ellie, he pulled the axe out and swung again, this time it fell flaccid, with no more unsteady rise in its chest. Just stillness.

"What the fuck!" Dina shouts, her arms thrown out in front of her in exasperation, eyes pulled wide by the terror before her.

Dina ducked down, hooking one of Ellie's arms around her, urging Jesse to grab his car keys from his bag. In a short amount of time, both of them were on either side of her, supporting Ellie while they practically hauled her to Jesse's truck, leaving everything behind.

Both Dina and Jesse were speaking affirmation into her ears, trying to reassure her that this memory would long pass them but everything just rang in her head, mind going numb. 

She couldn't focus on anything other than the bloody mass that consumed her leg. Long serrated wounds and sunken teeth markings lined all the way up her leg, from the scrapes on her thigh to the flab of flesh on her calf that was being held together only by tendons. She finally released the sob that was building in her throat, it was like every awful thing she had ever felt was seeping through the gaps of her teeth. 

Looking down at her clothes soaked in blood that wasn't one hundred percent hers and clung to her body she saw her future slipping away. The soccer scholarships she had put everything towards gone in the span of the few minutes that it took the wolf to maul her.

They reached the car, and Jesse opened the back door while Dina carefully eased Ellie into the seat, trying to keep pressure on her wounds. Blood stained the seats, but that was the least of their concerns. Jesse jumped into the driver's seat, starting the engine with shaking hands. Dina climbed in beside Ellie, never taking her eyes off her friend and gently caressing her head with wiry hands intended to soothe.

Inside her head, thoughts rang through like bullets, each coming faster and more panicked than the last. She couldn't look at Dina or the street lights gliding past them, it was just Ellie staring at her near mangled leg. She couldn't even hear her heart beat like it was a prisoner to her rib cage. She closed her eyes, clamping them and trying to wake up from this terribly painful nightmare but there it was burned into the forefront of her brain, the wolf with rotten gums and jagged teeth digging into her leg and peering into her head with those loathsome yellow eyes. 

"Ellie?"

Ellie groaned and blinked several times, trying to get her eyes to readjust to the stark light flooding into her bedroom from the hallway. It had been three days since the mauling and Ellie was more than happy to seclude herself so she could avoid those pitiful stares from the public.

Joel stopped in the doorway as his eyes hit the darkness of the room. The first sign that something was really wrong was just how dark it was. There were blankets up over the windows, blocking out any trace of daylight that might be able to bleed its way in. In the blackness, as his eyes adjusted, he could see her in the middle of her bed, blankets pulled to her neck despite the warm weather, facing away from him, staring at nothing.

"Kiddo, are you sure you don't want me to take the day off?" He furrowed his eyebrows, studying the limp figure of his daughter. She had been in the exact same position when he came into her room the night before.

"Yes."

His eyes shifted to the plate of food he had left on her dresser last night before he went back to the dining table to eat his dinner alone. The pasta was untouched, the sauce became gelatinous, and everything in the bowl just stuck together as one thing. With a disgruntled sigh, Joel took the cold bowl of pasta and replaced it with warm French toast and a little side of syrup. "Ellie, you gotta eat something."

"Okay." She had been saying that for the last three days, agreeing with whatever Joel asked of her without actually doing it. This included showering, her auburn hair was greasy and unkept in a ponytail. The gauze wrapped around her leg and tucked beneath the splint was beginning to smell like vinegar.  "I mean it," He said firmly "It doesn't gotta be this breakfast, you can go downstairs and get something from the fridge or ask Dina to bring some takeout, maybe Tommy and Maria could come over and cook ya something. Some sunlight wouldn't hurt either."

"Okay," Ellie repeated, voice mellow. Had there been another source of noise in the room Joel wouldn't have heard her at all.

The animosity simmers for a minute while Joel regards her with fretful eyes "Is it the painkillers?" He asked "Or the antibiotics? We can try a smaller dosage."

The figure on the bed looks lifeless, had she not spoken to him moments prior, Joel would've assumed the worst. She only been released from the hospital the morning before and she had spent her entire time back home staring at her wall like a blood-sniffing shark.

"I can't sleep," She said, voice flat. "I'm so tired and I can't sleep."

"Do you want me to grab some melatonin?" 

"No."

"Maybe if you got out of bed for a bit it would tire you out."

"Please just go away."

Joel pressed his lips into a thin line, lowering his chin in the slightest "I'm gonna head out now, just thought I'd come to say hi," He waited a moment for Ellie to respond then waited another, accepting the stillness he spoke again "I'll be home at three, maybe we can cook dinner together."

"I just want to sleep."

"Alright," He turned "I'll let ya sleep."

It had been seventy-six hours since Ellie last slept, a moment before she was dragged out of her tent and chewed up like gum between a heavy jaw. She had spent the first two days gazing up at the obscenely bright hospital ceiling, the lights burned her retinas but she couldn't look away. 

In the hospital, she had refused to eat when the nurses insisted she had thrown up her guts and they decided that a drip feed would be mandatory. If only she could sleep or drink. The insomnia was worse than the thirst. It was driving her mad. It had been days, full, entire days since she had slept.

 She was afraid to look in the mirror or at the camera of her phone because she had an idea of the gaunt face that would be looking back at her and the vague idea mortified her. 

On the fourth night from the mauling, something had begun to seethe inside of Ellie, she shot up, drenched in sweat. Her body felt as if it were on fire, a searing heat coursing through her veins. She threw off her blankets in a desperate attempt to cool down, but the air in her room was no relief. The heat radiating through her body was so intense it felt like there were bugs crawling beneath her skin, burrowing and laying their eggs before they chewed their way out. 

She stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky and weak, barely supporting her weight. Her skin felt raw and tender, the sensation unbearable. Instinctively, she began to scratch, her nails digging into her arms, trying to soothe the burning that seemed to radiate from within. The throbbing pain from her leg had been subdued by the fire burning beneath her skin.

Ellie began to scrape the skin on her forearms, followed by her neck, torso and legs, everything was stinging with this scolding sensation. She had gashed at her skin frantically, twisting her body and clawing at it in an attempt to make it stop, all that this did was turn her skin red and leave nail marks across it. 

Summoning all her strength, Ellie crawled to the bathroom. She pulled herself up to the sink, using the counter for support, and then, with determination for this to end, she stumbled into the shower.

She turned the handle to the coldest setting and, without a second thought, stepped under the icy spray, fully clothed. The shock of the cold water took her breath away, but it also brought immediate relief. The burning sensation began to fade as the cold water soaked through her clothes, cooling her fevered skin.

Ellie leaned against the tiled wall, letting the cold water wash over her. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she felt her body temperature slowly beginning to drop. The pain and burning subsided to a dull ache, and for the first time in what felt like hours, she could think clearly. 

Without meaning to she let out a choked cry, hands running down her face while she looked down at her body. The splint was now soaked with ice water and the red scratch marks covering almost every inch of bare skin visible. 

Ellie stood there, her mind foggy and overwhelmed by the fever. She had no idea what was happening to her body, why it was betraying her in such a painful way. The room spun around her, shadows dancing on the walls, and she fought to stay conscious, fearing what might happen if she let go. Suddenly the concept of sleep was feeling very frightening.

On the fifth night, Ellie had hobbled her way down the stairs, splint dragging behind her after Joel had told her he was worried and went to bed. She was driving herself insane, she could hear her own heartbeat and the wet squelch of her blinking pounding in her ears.

Her thoughts often returned to the shotgun in the shed. She craved death in the same way she used to crave a Gatorade at a track meet. She was loyal to her numbness like a penny in the pocket of a priest. 

She hadn't before thought about killing herself, not until she had been kept awake for five days by the image of glowing amber eyes ripping her apart. Something was most definitely wrong with her body. She knew the very second she looked in the mirror, past her baggy clothes her collarbones had jutted out and her ribcage was prominent beneath freckled skin. How her spine grated against everything she laid across would have almost any other person in a ward.

Joel's casual steps in the hallway had morphed in her ears to the sound of heavy boots stomping on sheets of metal. The night was preferable to the day when children would run through the streets and throw water balloons at each other on neighbours' lawns. Each screeching laugh she heard brought her closer to hammering nails into her ears just so she could avoid those little sounds.

It didn't help that she could smell everything too. Joel's morning coffee was usually the scent that kept her awake staring at the ceiling followed by all of his wallflowers which she had taken the liberty of unplugging and hiding in the shed next to the shotgun. She had also sniffed out her almost ancient body sprays from middle school and thrown them out, it had taken her minutes to source out the smell that was burning in her nose.

What brought her downstairs that night had been her appetite, intense and sinking. She was sure hunger would have killed her. Five days of an empty stomach that rejected everything she put into it ended with a brief shaking moment where she was filled with an insatiable craving that hit her all at once like a thousand knives to the gut.  

During one of Joel's daily checkups, he informed her that he bought ribeye steaks and suggested they have a mini barbeque with Tommy and Maria but Ellie did little more than sink further into the mattress where she had rotted. It was clear with every passing second that something was deeply wrong with Ellie at first she chalked it up to side effects from all the anti-biotics and painkillers and insisted to Joel that was the only issue but with her smell and hearing overwhelmingly strong she was sure the problem was something more unnatural. 

The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a silvery light through the kitchen window. Ellie stood at the stove, the sizzle of the steak in the cast-iron skillet filling the quiet house. The aroma of searing meat was intoxicating, stirring a deep, hunger within her. She tried to ignore the gnawing craving that had plagued her since the transformation, but tonight it was particularly strong.

The house was quiet, but her senses, now heightened beyond the norm, picked up the smallest sounds. She could hear the soft creak of the house settling, the distant hum of a car engine on the road, and something else—something closer.

Her ears twitched at the faint sound of soft footsteps outside. She focused, and the noise became clearer. Tiny, deliberate steps on the wooden porch, accompanied by a rapid, almost fluttering heartbeat. A cat.

On the patio, she could hear the neighbour's overweight calico cat, Fudge. He favoured the Miller household on the nights the Andersons fell asleep before letting him inside. She could hear his little paws padding up the wooden steps and then find his perch on the rails of the patio that Joel renovated himself, they were sturdy enough to support the pudgy cat. 

She turned her attention to meticulously seasoning the steak, her movements precise and controlled, a desperate attempt to hold on to the rational part of her. As the meat cooked, she watched it intently, the marbling of fat melting into the rich, red flesh. The scents were overwhelming, and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. She stood right in front of it, counting down the seconds she had to cook it.

Compared to Joel, Ellie was awful at cooking meat. He prided himself on his barbeque skills, one of his most valued possessions was his meat smoker and the thoughts of warm July days, sitting on the back porch and eating whatever Joel had cooked made her eyes gloss over with craving. 

After a few minutes, Ellie flipped the steak, listening to the satisfying crackle as it hit the hot pan. Her mouth watered, and her senses were alive with the sounds and smells of cooking. She focused on the task, grounding herself in the familiar routine, hoping it would keep the feeling at bay.

Once the steak was perfectly cooked to a rare finish, she plated it carefully, adding a simple garnish of herbs for no other reason besides she thought it looked fancy. She carried the plate to the dining table, her steps measured and deliberate. She wanted to eat like she used to, to enjoy a meal with dignity and grace, but the primal hunger was a constant, roaring presence in the back of her mind.

Ellie sat down, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She cut the first piece of steak, the juices running onto the plate, and brought it to her lips. The taste was incredible, a burst of flavour that seemed to ignite every nerve in her body. She closed her eyes, savouring it, trying to hold on to this semblance of normalcy.

But with each bite, the hunger grew stronger. It was a living thing, a beast clawing its way to the surface. Her hands trembled as she cut another piece, the silverware clinking loudly against the plate. Her entire body shook as she raised another piece to her mouth, eyes focused on the slab of meat with an untamed desire. 

Unable to resist any longer, Ellie dropped the fork and knife. She reached for the steak with her bare hands, the warm meat pulsing in her grip. She brought it to her mouth, tearing into it with a ferocity that shocked her. Juices ran down her chin, and she barely noticed, lost in the primal act of feeding.

She devoured the steak, her senses overwhelmed by the taste, the texture, and the sheer satisfaction of fulfilling her deepest hunger. It was messy, undignified, and utterly freeing.

When the steak was gone, Ellie sat back, her breathing heavy, her hands and face smeared with the remnants of her meal, juices from her bloody steak dripping down her arms and chin. She bordered between a mix of shame and relief.

Ellie stared down at her empty plate. She was sick. Sick with the hole in her stomach that screamed at her for more, slowly it began to grow.

She rose from the table, her movements now driven by instinct rather than conscious thought. Crossing the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator door, the cold air washing over her. Her eyes scanned the contents hungrily. There, in the pull out meat drawer, were several packets of lunch meat. She grabbed the first one, ripping it open with ease. It was roast beef, and she shoved slices into her mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. The taste was salty, a little too salty yet she still choked it back.

Next, she pulled out a packet of pepperoni, her fingers working frantically to tear it open. The rich, spicy scent hit her nose, making her mouth water. She devoured the entire pack in seconds, the flavours bursting on her tongue, she discarded the plastic packaging on the floor. She reached for more, tearing through packages of ham and turkey, ripping them open effortlessly with her teeth, the cold cuts vanishing almost as quickly as she could open them.

But even after consuming all the lunch meat, she wasn't near satiated. Her gaze fell upon a package of raw chicken breasts. A part of her recoiled at the thought, but the urge overrode any hesitation. She snatched the package, ripping it open, the raw meat cool and slick in her hands. She brought a piece to her mouth, hesitating only for a moment before biting into it. The taste was different, raw and unseasoned, it was delicious.

Ellie ate piece after piece, the raw chicken disappearing into her ravenous maw. She didn't understand the compulsion, the gnawing hunger that drove her to this. The raw meat was smooth and slippery against her teeth, leaving a small coating of gel on her lips. The sensation was alien and unnerving, yet she couldn't stop herself from biting down.

When the last piece was gone, she stood in the dim light of the open refrigerator, her breathing ragged, as she stared at the empty meat drawer. 

She walked to the sink and began to wash her hands and face, the cold water a shock against her skin, grounding her once more in the reality of her situation. She watched as the water ran red, the remnants of her raw feast swirling down the drain. When she was clean, she dried her hands and looked at her reflection in the kitchen window, the moonlight casting her features in a pale glow. The mess she had made, juice from animal carcasses dribbling down her chin and her pale green eyes seemingly brighter than ever. 

Ellie wanted to be terrified by her actions but the truth was that it was the leading cause for her to finally fall asleep when her head hit the pillow. It was also the reason why she woke up the next morning feeling amazing. 

She was up even before Joel. After wrapping her splint in a plastic bag to keep it dry, she stepped into the shower, letting warm water run over her skin. The last few days she felt too weak to even carry her own weight and now she could see the muscle of her skin like she had just gone for a run and they were still burning.

Closing her eyes she gently washed away at the grease of her scalp with her head and shoulders shampoo and scrubbed at her skin with body wash until the smell of the previous night's binge was gone completely. 

For a few minutes, she felt almost at peace until she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Last night's rampage had been undeniably weird but she kept coming up with new excuses for her behaviour. With extensive googling she found out she wasn't the only one to crave meat so intensely, it was a symptom of malnutrition and while she knew that couldn't be it she tried to accept the coverup to repeat to herself. 

Using her forearm, she wiped the steam from the mirror. She looked at her reflection, expecting to see the familiar face she'd always known. But something was different. She leaned closer, frowning at the sight of her eyes, which seemed to have strange, golden flecks over her usually pale green iris. Shaking her head, she dismissed it as a trick of the light.

She grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste, eager to complete her morning routine. As she squeezed the toothpaste onto the brush, she caught a glimpse of her teeth in the mirror. She paused, her heart skipping a beat. Her teeth looked sharper and more prominent.

Ellie dropped the toothbrush into the sink, her eyebrows furrowed as she brought unsteady hands up to her mouth. She ran her fingers over her teeth, feeling the unmistakable points of her canines, now lengthened into fangs. It wasn't real, it couldn't be. Maybe her teeth had always looked like that. She pressed her finger into the canine until it drew blood. 

A wave of panic washed over her. She opened her mouth wider, examining the fangs from different angles. They were not the teeth of a human—they were the teeth of a predator. 

It felt like her blood had run cold. Maybe she was turning into a vampire, she remembered watching those corny series about teen girls sprouting fangs and drinking blood. There were werewolves, she had been bitten by a feral beast and barely escaped with her life. 

She never even believed in myths and legends, it felt all too ridiculous to even consider the possibility. 

Ellie hurriedly pulled on clean clothes, the shock of seeing her fangs still reverberating through her mind. Determined, she went downstairs and perched herself at the dining table. She sat hunched over with her phone out in front of her, an absurd amount of unanswered texts that she didn't plan on responding to. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. What was she even looking for? Strange teeth growth? Uncontrollable hunger?

She took a deep breath and started with a simple search: 'sudden appearance of fangs'

The results were varied and mostly unhelpful—articles on dental anomalies, vampire fiction, fang cosmetic procedures, teeth shaving, and clickbait about dental surgery gone wrong. Ellie scrolled past these, her frustration mounting. 

She tried another search: 'uncontrollable hunger for raw meat'

This search yielded more unusual results. Articles about rare medical conditions and eating disorders that favoured odd cravings. But also folklore and myths about creatures that fed on raw flesh. She clicked on a few links, her eyes scanning quickly over the text.

One phrase kept popping up: 'lycanthropy.' Her heart pounded as she typed the word into the search bar.

Pages upon pages of information about werewolves appeared. She read through them, her disbelief battling with the mounting evidence. Accounts of transformations triggered by bites, the phases of the moon influencing behaviour, the insatiable hunger for raw meat—all of it sounded disturbingly familiar.

She stumbled onto forums full of people discussing what they would do if they were a werewolf, how they transformed and who would they kill. There were others posting about their favourite horror movies based on werewolves, an entire article about Remus Lupin. She hesitated, then searched for 'werewolf bite symptoms' There wasn't anything useful that she had read. 

All she had were three of dozens of symptoms. Ellie didn't have weird hair growth, super strength, claws, or abnormal aggression. Typing in werewolves onto Google she was met with a subreddit full of discussion. Ellie began writing out her issue, ready to air her weird behaviour to equally weird strangers on the internet who might offer up some answers. 

astronautical: I think I might be a werewolf- Okay, I know I sound really fucking stupid saying that but please just listen to me. Last week I was on a camping trip and was pulled out of my tent and mauled by a wolf, the first three days in the hospital they had to drip feed me because I wouldn't eat and when I got home it was more or less the same. I didn't sleep since the attack until last night after I binge-ate raw meat and dead ass when I woke up my canines were fangs. A couple nights ago I had a weird hot flash kinda thing but I'm far from menopause, it was like my skin was on fire. My hearing and smell is crazy strong, like I can hear the heartbeat of my neighbour's cat. Can someone please tell me if they have experience with werewolf stuff or if there's another medical issue this could point to? I'm not crazy, I swear. 

xHexical: honestly sounds like rabies 

hunnylagoon: bro thinks they're teen wolf 

cocoah00ves: This could be purely psychological. A lot of times animal attacks can cause trauma even if you don't realize it. PTSD can put you on edge which could be why you're hearing and sense of smell seem to be very strong, trouble sleeping and lack of appetite are other symptoms. If you really restricted food for a few days then your body was likely suffering from iron deficiency and was telling you to eat meat. The heat flash could've been caused by your injury and enunciated by your mental state. As for the canines, hallucination, your teeth are not as sharp as you think they are. 

zylez: Mate you have rabies 

aggravating_olive_38: I wish this was real bc it would be sick asf

littlethought63: This that girl from Wyoming? 

schumber: You mentioned a lack of sleep and that might be causing you to spiral a bit. Take some sleeping pills and mellow out. 

dazednaware: I think it's a PTSD response :( try therapy 

     mcwhoremick-responding to dazednaware: try getting some dick you dumb cunt

          dazednaware-responding to mcwhoremick: ???

multifandomtrash258: friendly reminder this subreddit is intended for discussion of werewolves, not fictional stories or roleplay accounts

With an exasperated groan, Ellie turned her phone off and put it face down on the table just as she heard Joel thumping down the stairs. She felt like her brain had rotten entirely, there was no way she had seriously considered that she was a werewolf.

"Wow," Joel said, one hand up his gray t-shirt and scratching his back "You're up."

"Yeah," She tried for a smile but it still came across as melancholic, it was hardly a smile just lips pressed together in a thin line that carried the ghost of one.

"Well-uh, ya' want breakfast?" He asks in a beeline for the coffee maker, pulling out a mug from the cupboard which reads 'Worlds greatest farter (I mean father)' Ellie thought the corniness of it was hilarious and gifted it to him just a month earlier on Father's Day.

"Sure, if you make bacon." 

Joel was a little taken aback that she was finally accepting the invitation to breakfast. He was shocked that she even had an appetite albeit thankful "Sure, kid." He left his mug beneath the coffee maker, as he waited for it to fill he went into the fridge to retrieve the bacon. He opened the fridge, his brow furrowing in confusion as he scanned the shelves. "Ellie, where did that chicken go?"

Ellie's heart skipped a beat, panic rising in her chest. She hadn't thought about the consequences of her meat-eating binge the night before. "Um, yeah, I got pretty hungry last night," She kept her voice as nonchalant as possible. 

"You ate all of it?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly, newly mourning the loss of his forty-dollar pack of chicken. 

"Yup," She was just thankful he hadn't noticed the missing steak and lack of lunch meat. 

 "I'm glad you're eating but Jesus Christ girl," he muttered "Next time don't eat us outta house and home."

Joel expertly flipped the bacon in the skillet, the sizzle of fat hitting the hot surface and filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering aroma. The savoury scent drifted through the air, tempting Ellie's senses as she watched her father work his culinary magic. The smell of the bacon worked to conceal the stench of coffee that Ellie despised. "How many pieces do you want?" He asked her.

She craned her neck up to look at the bacon frying on the pan "Whatever's left."

His brows shot up, wrinkled creases forming on his head. This wasn't the first time Ellie had some odd eating tendencies, when they had first met and she was still in the foster system, she felt too out of place to eat. Once again when she was fourteen and starting high school, she lost all appetite, only picking apart her meals and leaving almost a full plate. Had she not starved herself for five days, Joel would've said something other than "Alright."

As soon as the bacon was cooked to crispy perfection, Joel transferred it to a plate lined with paper towels to drain. He turned to the stove, cracking eggs into the same skillet, the eggs sizzling in the bacon grease. He slid slices of bread into the toaster, the anticipation of a delicious breakfast filling the kitchen.

Ellie's stomach growled impatiently as she watched the food being prepared. The hunger that had plagued her for days now surged back with a vengeance, the scent of the bacon driving her wild with craving. She tried to resist, tried to focus on the eggs and toast that would make a complete breakfast, but her attention was fixated on the plate of bacon. "What are gonna do this summer?" Joel asked. She had intended to work her job at the movie theatre and plan the rest of the summer around that but with her leg torn up she couldn't possibly stand for hours on end, she could hardly walk. 

"I dunno," When Joel placed the plate of bacon on the table, Ellie's restraint snapped. Without a word, she lunged forward, snatching a piece of bacon and devouring it in a single bite. She barely registered the hot grease burning her lips as she reached for another piece, and then another.

Joel watched in surprise as Ellie wolfed down the bacon with alarming speed, barely pausing to chew before reaching for more. He opened his mouth to speak, concern etched on his face, but Ellie ignored him, her focus solely on the plate of meat before her. "Maybe pick up a new hobby?"

The eggs finished cooking, and Joel plated them alongside the toast, but Ellie barely spared them a glance. Her attention was consumed by the bacon, her hunger driving her to eat faster and faster, as if afraid it would disappear if she slowed down.

By the time Joel sat down across from her, his own plate in hand, Ellie had already polished off nearly half of the bacon. She barely acknowledged him as he began to eat, her eyes fixed on the remaining strips of meat.

Joel watched her with growing concern, the realization dawning on him that something wasn't right. "Ellie, slow down," he said, voice firm. "You're going to make yourself sick."

"Sorry," She halfheartedly spoke through a mouthful. 

"Christ," He muttered under his breath, taking a long swig of coffee "What's the plan for today?"

She shrugged "Sleep, I guess." 

He wished Ellie would do anything other than lay in bed and wilt away. Even if she just sat on the porch, he would be grateful.  "You should invite Dina over, she's been wanting to see you."

"Yeah, I know," Ellie's damp hair clung around her neck while she reached forward for more bacon. 

"Are you two fighting?"

"No."

"So what's going on?"

"Nothing, I just feel like shit and want to be alone." 

"Okay," he pressed his lips into a thin line, bringing his mug to his lips while he watched Ellie devour the rest of the bacon, paying no mind to the eggs or the toast. She finished her meal with a large glass of water that she chugged back in mere seconds before plopping herself on the couch and scrolling on her phone. 

As glad as he was to see that his daughter had finally showered and eaten, he had that deep lingering feeling in his gut that something had shifted inside of her. He feared that she wouldn't be the same without soccer or prospects on the horizon. 

While Joel was at work, Ellie had the bright idea of watching werewolf movies to gain some kind of grasp on whatever was happening. She refused to believe it was purely psychological and she was making all of this up in her head.

She started with the classics, fast-forwarding through the filler parts and scrutinizing the beginning when they were bitten and then the transformation. She chewed on a piece of jerky canines separating it with ease, wondering how much of what she was seeing was based on myth and how much might hold a kernel of truth.

Ellie had intended for these movies to be research for her condition, however, she had gotten distracted while watching Twilight and spiralled through the saga. If she really was a werewolf, were there vampires? What about witches? 

Were vampires like Dracula or Edward Cullen? Maybe there was a wide variety of them. It was also a strong possibility that she was suffering from something else like the continuous comments beneath her post suggested.

Rabies didn't click in her head, she had been given a shot almost immediately upon entering the hospital or so she was told. Nothing could rationalize, she was feral at night and that was a fact that she couldn't link to anything aside from insomnia which wasn't known for making people eat raw meat. 

Abruptly she turned the TV off, her thoughts proving to be too overwhelming. She chose to opt for another one of the suggestions under her post, take some sleeping pills and mellow out. It was at three pm Ellie took five sleeping pills and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Ellie closed the door softly behind her, flicking on the light switch. The harsh brightness of the bathroom light made her squint momentarily, but she forced herself to face the mirror. The reflection staring back at her was both familiar and disturbingly alien.

Ellie parted her lips, feeling her stomach churn with anxiety. She carefully pulled back her upper lip, revealing the source of her dread—her canines were no longer the small, nondescript teeth they had always been. Instead, they had elongated into sharp, pointed fangs, glistening ominously under the bathroom light. It wasn't a hallucination. They were growing even longer than they were that morning.

She turned her head from side to side, examining them from different angles. Her fingers trembled as she touched the tips of her fangs, feeling their razor-sharp edges. It was undeniable; these were not the teeth of a human. 

Tears welled up in her eyes as she grappled with the reality of her transformation. She closed her mouth, trying to make her fangs less noticeable, but the sensation of them pressing against her lower lip was impossible to ignore. 

-

She had successfully slept for seven hours. The moment she woke she had forgotten about her reality until she mistakingly bit her tongue, the taste of iron flooded her mouth and she wanted to cry all over again. 

Ellie lay in bed, her heightened senses picking up the smallest sounds around her. The house was quiet, but outside, she could hear the faint, delicate footsteps of a cat on the porch. The sound was unmistakable: soft pads against the wooden boards, a rapid, fluttering heartbeat. The primal hunger, which she had fought so hard to suppress, flared up once more.

She tried to resist, gripping the sheets tightly. Fudge sat on the spot on the patio that he always favoured. Ellie's hands pressed firmly into her ears as she dug her face into her pillow, trying to ignore the sound of the Anderson's cat stretching and the ravenous knawing inside of her. 

Once again, she was lying in bed and contemplating her own death. She needed whatever this was to go away as fast as possible. She thought she could keep it to herself so she wouldn't have to concern Joel but every passing second her mind flung between crying while she confessed or putting a shotgun in her mouth and pulling the trigger.

Ellie dragged herself out of bed, and moved down the hallway, her eyes lingering on Joel's bedroom door, slightly ajar, he was fast asleep inside. There was a hunger within her, she needed to eat something or she would chew through her own hand.

Back in the kitchen like the night before, there was nothing left for her in the fridge. Ellie moved to the freezer, where more meat awaited. She ripped open a package of chicken breasts, the frozen flesh burning her hands, but she didn't care. She gnawed at them, the icy texture a strange contrast to any other thing she'd consumed. She continued through the freezer, consuming everything she could find: pork chops, sausages, a roast that she chewed on like an animal.

Her fingers claw at the frozen packages of meat. She tore into packs of ground beef and pork chops, barely waiting for them to thaw. The coldness of the meat did little to dampen her fervour. Each bite was a temporary reprieve from the hunger, but it was never enough. Like a nicotine patch, it hardly worked then it was over. 

As the last of the meat disappeared, Ellie stood in the wreckage of her binge, her stomach churning with the mass of food she had consumed. Yet, the carnal hunger persisted, more powerful and demanding than ever. She felt a surge of desperation, a hankering that could not be satisfied by the lifeless offerings of the freezer.

She needed something fresh.

Her heightened senses picked up the faint sound of a heartbeat, the shuffle of tiny paws against the floorboards. Ellie moved to the door, her senses locked onto the cat outside. As she stepped onto the porch, the cat froze, its eyes wide and reflective in the moonlight. It sensed the danger, but it was too late. Ellie's vision sharpened, her hearing intensified, and her muscles coiled like springs. She could hear the Fudge's rapid heartbeat, see the minute twitch of his whiskers, and smell his fear.

Before the cat could react, Ellie lunged. She was fast, much faster than any human could be. Her hands, flexing, grabbed the cat with unerring precision. Fudge yowled, a high-pitched scream of terror, but the sound was cut short as Ellie's teeth sank into its flesh. Warm blood filled her mouth, and the taste sent a shiver of satisfaction through her body.

She tore into the cat with a ferocity that frightened her, the human part of her horrified by what she was doing, yet unable to stop. Ellie was a passenger in her own body. She devoured the cat quickly, the small body offering little resistance as she consumed it entirely, bones crunching under her powerful jaws.

When the last piece was gone, Ellie sat back on her heels, blood dripping from her mouth and hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The hunger was finally sated, but the reality of what she had done crashed down on her with overwhelming force. She looked around, dazed, the remnants of the cat scattered around her. The porch was now a scene of carnage.

Tears filled her eyes as she stumbled back inside, slamming the door shut behind her. She rushed to the sink, scrubbing her hands and face frantically, trying to wash away the evidence of her actions. The cold water stung her skin, but it did little to cleanse the horror she felt inside.

Ellie braced herself against the sink, her body shaking with sobs. She had lost control, given in to the craving, and now she was left with the consequences. The taste of blood lingered in her mouth, a bitter reminder of what she had become. Upstairs she could hear Joel shuffling and quickly moved to the sink to wash the blood off her. It was futile, it had covered the bottom half of her face and sunken into her T-shirt and grey sweatshirts.

When Joel reached the bottom of the staircase and saw the numerous empty packets of meat strewn across the kitchen along with the seventeen-year-old frantically wiping at her skin with a dirty dishcloth. Ellie knew Joel was behind her, she could hear his quickened heartbeat. Never had she felt so terrified, she couldn't face Joel and let him see what had soaked into her clothes, all she could do was let out a strangled sound that bordered between a scream and sob. 

"Ellie?" Joel inched closer, one hand gently landing on her shoulder. She dug her face into her collarbone, trying to prolong the inevitable until Joel used his free hand to face her toward him. He staggered back. Joel's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him—the sanguine covering Ellie, the bloodlust burning in her eyes. His voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke, his words heavy with disbelief.  "What the hell did you do?" 

That was how Ellie Williams spent the first week of her last summer. 

3 new messages

ACCEPT|IGNORE

noahson_tickets: Hey

noahson_tickets: You aren't crazy

noahson_tickets: Werewolves are real

[sweetrottenendings]

"Plea"

Lawrence Oleander x GN!Reader

I might make a part 2 to this idk i just luv my plant wife.

SFW, one single swear word, 899 words. You wanna go on a date with Lawrence. Maybe a little OOC? Still figuring out how i wanna portray him in my writing.

Once again MDNI i promise you this fandom isn't for you.

-

It’s been a long time since you’ve had fresh air- real fresh air, not just Lawrence opening the window a smidge after your pleading. Despite all the greenery littering his apartment (or- your home, the cage you’ll never leave.) it feels as if the oxygen has been sapped entirely. All that is left is the musk, the stench of rot and the way its salt infects your lungs. Is there a chemical mixture of salt and carbon dioxide? Probably, but it likely isn’t what you’re sucking in at the moment.

Sometimes however, it brings you comfort with the familiarity. Stockholm syndrome set in long ago, so long ago that you struggle to remember the moment it hit. You don’t think you’d have it any other way, you love Lawrence despite the revolting relationship that’s been curated in the space- you’re thinking about the air again.

The delicate sound of trickling water sounds out, Lawrence is watering the plants. He’s meticulous, as he is with everything he does. Eyes narrowed and eyebrows furrowed as he dictates the exact amount of water each plant requires. It’s moments like these where you get to observe him in his entirety. The way his form hunches, blonde hair that occasionally clings to his neck, bright blue eyes that used to haunt your nightmares but now soothe your dreams. If only there were a universe where you had met normally, where Lawrence wasn’t as disturbed as he is- and you could be a normal couple. One that goes on cute dates to the park, snuggles together at night when the rain gushes outside, loves each other like normal people and don’t prod at each others spinal cords-

You should stop that thought there.

A park date, you imagine that would be something he could enjoy- considering his affinity for nature. Perhaps he could even enjoy it in this universe? He loves you, he really does- in his own fucked up way. Plus you really, desperately need fresh air. You need to inhale it as hard as you can, to feel alive for once (But do you really want to feel alive?) compared to the hollow death you feel now. Lawrence would never take you out around people however, there will always be that part of him that worries you’ll run and abandon what you’ve created together. (You never will, he’s all you need.)

What about during the night? He could take you to any spot he chooses, hide you from anyone he sees- even tie you to him, surely you could make it look inconspicuous. It would be nice too, the weather during the night is pleasant and far more suited to what he’s used to. He might get angry though, he wouldn’t kill you but maybe he’d finally go through with the threat to cut off your limbs. After pondering for a moment, you decide it’s worth the risk.

Your voice cuts him out of the zone he’s found himself in- he turns sharply towards you. He isn’t as trembly as he used to be, now confident in his power over you. “Lawrence-” Your voice is soft, the way you’ve trained it to be, “I have a request…”

He stares at you, unblinking.

“This is t-the biggest thing I will ever ask of you, and I won’t be upset or surprised if you say no.” It’s not like your feelings matter anyway, but you hope it may soothe any anger. He places down the watering can with a soft sound and makes his way to you. You haven’t been tied up in a very long time, but sometimes you sit yourself in the same chair from the start- it’s almost comforting. He kneels down to your eye level with a stern stare, and nods- prompting you to continue.

“I-I want to go outside-” He inhales sharply “-with you…” He exhales. “A date, in a park maybe, during the night so there isn’t anyone around…” You give him a sweet smile, as loving as you can, “...it’d be just us, like it’s meant to be.” he continues to stare, blue eyes burning into your soul and eating whatever confidence you had left- jaws wide and unrelenting. He must be angry, surely, he’s going to cut your limbs off and tie you back up, you’ve destroyed everything!-

“Okay…” You blink.

“Okay?”

He nods “We… we can go out.” You feel your heart swell with the most joy you’ve felt in your life, it bursts at the seams like you’ve just gorged yourself at a buffet. You want to hug him- you reach your trembling arms out in hopes he understands, and he does. Taking you into his arms, soft yet oddly strong for someone like him, he wraps you into his being. A hand comes up to stroke your hair in a soothing gesture- you didn’t realise you had started crying. You nuzzle your face deep into his chest, a grateful mantra pouring from your forever scarred lips. He tilts your head up to face him- a warm smile splayed across his face, filled with nothing but love for you, only you, forever you.

His voice is the gentlest you’ve ever heard from him,

“If you try to run, I will kill you.”

You smile back,

“Good, I love you Lawrence…”

He doesn’t say it back, but he doesn’t have to. You know he loves you.

[copperpipes]

PLEASE? TELL ME WHAT YOU DO IN SPECULATIVE BIOLOGY? THAT SOUNDS REALLY COOL???

WHERE DO I EVEN START???

Okay I know. Some general information about the subject first:

Its a genre.

Before speculative biology comes speculative evolution, a more known subject that is basically a whole genre of books, projects, and is more spread then speculative biology because it is less specific. You would find plenty of speculative evolution projects.

They are very similar in a lot of ways and I think the difference is that speculative evolution 'documents' the journey (the evolution) of a creature or a multitude of creatures throughout a time-line of events that may or my not effect its form, while speculative biology is more focused on a single time period or just one creature or maybe a made up culture or an entire planet at a certain point in said journey, and digs deep.

A good example would be birgworld by @iguanodont and alien whale documentary which I definitely recommend checking out if you like the subject and a couple I forgot the name of currently ':]

Whe i say digs deep, I mean it could be as vast as from the building bloks of DNA (like carbon and nitrogen for us) to the politics and cultural plays. Tradition, religion, culture, history, language, psychology, and of course, biology. From general physiology to the way they reproduce and raise their young if at all.

This genre is usually categorized as sci-fi (not in all cases, but then it would be seen less as speculative biology and more just world building, an example would be monstergarden on YouTube) even though its word building because most of the creatures 'documented' are made up aliens and the projects themselves are closely tied to science.

Everything has an explanation in speculative biology and it goes into detail.

Actually a couple of my personal projects are categorized as speculative biology since in them I put my imagination to use and explore alien creatures and their identity.

Being my autistic self everything is thought out to the miniscule detail of how my aliens farm their equivalent of potatoes to what is their social structure and the different things I listed prior. Consider it my special interest.

To this date, I have at least drawn a picture of 10 different intelligent alien species (not including animals or other life forms from same planets, not even different life stages that may be in one species) all seen in a single time period on their respective planets.

Speculative biology also often features in it the planet itself and the solar system it belongs to since one is heavily effected by the other.

I am planning on posting about my project soon enough since I'd like to document it digitally but for now its nearly 3 am so yeah

Thank you so much for the ask I've been wanting to blubber about my favorite subject for some time just didn't have the opportunity :]

This is merely a summary of what little knowledge I hold, I encourage you to look into it and maybe start one of your own.

Also if I didn't get the question right correct me please

[nikoniclove]

Hi! So i was re-reading first date and i was wondering if you could maybe write that ace, reid magic for magic where it all blows up in her face?? i would love to see how that came to be and what happened between both “magicians” and how jj and emily reacted to seeing that?

Here you go! It’s just a short blurb, so I’ll add it here.

Retaliation

You bond over battling robots first and foremost when one of the first cases you work on takes you to Vegas. You overhear Reid excitedly telling JJ about the Battle Bots, feats of science and engineering in the form of 250 lb robots duking it out in a secure arena. You join in on the conversation, sharing your thoughts on the different types of weapons the bots deploy. JJ chuckles, shaking her head at the shared enthusiasm.

Then it's magic tricks, and while Reid is obviously more adept at sleight of hand, you can hold your own with a deck of cards. Things start to get out of hand when you both foray into one-upping each other with exploding science tricks. It starts because he hits you in the forehead with his film canister trick. It continues because you retaliate by super gluing a Mentos to a piece of dental floss and sticking it in the lid of his Coke bottle. When he opens it, the Mentos falls into the carbonated soda and explodes all over his desk. Emily flat-out laughs with her glee while JJ tries to be stern, insisting that you and Reid are acting like children. "He started it," you retort.

"Maybe so, don't make me finish it," JJ threatens, hiding a smirk.

Reid isn't one to be outdone when it comes to science experiments, so he swaps your lunch for an ivory bar of soap in the bullpen microwave, which explodes into a flakey mess. You grumble the entire time you're cleaning out the piece of equipment.

One evening, Rossi demands attendance for dinner - pasta, wine, cigars, the usual. By this point, you've done the team nights more than a few times. You're more well-integrated into the team than you thought you'd be. To be fair, you're sleeping with two members of said team, so well-integrated is a particularly amusing phrase in that regard. In any sense, a dinner at Rossi's is the perfect time to get Reid back. Emily watches you carefully prepare a small tissue with some baking soda inside of it, folded into a perfect little envelope. "Don't let Jen see you doing that. She'll put you in timeout," Emily teases.

You shrug. "Reid has a lesson to learn."

"I don't doubt that," she laughs. "Try not to blow up Rossi's wine or cigar collection when you strike."

You bide your time and wait until Reid is outside, mostly to heed Emily's warning of not having the bag explode on something Rossi might not appreciate. When it's time, you take your gallon-sized bag with the appropriate ratio of water and vinegar. You drop the tissue of folded baking soda into the baggy, sealing it quickly and giving it a little shake. You drop it just behind Reid and shift to the other side of the patio under the guise of refilling your wine glass. And you wait.

When the bag explodes with a loud pop, Reid shrieks in a high-pitched startled tone. JJ flinches. Morgan and Emily are doubled over laughing. You are very, very pleased with yourself. At least until you see that JJ sloshed red wine all over herself. "Ace," she growls.

"Sorry," you grimace. "I'll go get you a fresh shirt."

"Nope," JJ insists. "You," she points. "And you," she points to Reid. "This is over. It's two for two, and I'm calling it. You hear me? Done. Finito. No more exploding retaliation." When you and Reid look properly scolded, JJ hands you her glass. "I'm going to go change. When I come back, there better be a fresh glass of wine and some tiramisu I know Rossi has somewhere."

Emily squeezes your shoulder, happy tears in her eyes, while Morgan taunts Reid for his dramatic reaction. "I probably should have included a note about JJ and pranks in my earlier warning." Then she whispers in your ear. "The key to getting back on her good side is that thing you do with your tongue."

[ayyyez]

Hello! If you're still open for hcs can you do what kind of girl Naruto and sasuke would like personality wise?

a/n: Hello! Yeah sure thing, thanks for sending in a request :)

Tags: dating headcanons, fluff

Characters: Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha

Naruto Uzumaki

I think Naruto is pretty flexible with someone he likes/dates. He's got the kind of warm complimentary personality to bring out the best in you no matter what. He can sort of be with with anyone as long as they weren't 100% a carbon copy of him (similarities are okay just not exactly the same)

If you're someone who is more shy he holds the kind of warmth to naturally bring you out of your shell. Does so much talking without feeling embarassed or anxious so it takes the pressure off you. Is super encouraging when it comes to getting you to open up about yourself too.

He can be a little insensitive about certain things sometimes but it's never malicious or intentional. As long as you can call him out on his shit or understand, the two of you will flow well. He does learn, albiet it takes time. Makes the effort!

Naruto becomes a bit more sensitive and considerate around you the more he learns about your likes and dislikes. At first it was all about taking you to things he liked. If you enjoy them then great! More things you have in common but if you don't he wants to find out what you do like. Bugs you about it until you tell/show him. Makes it a fun time no matter what.

If you're more bubbly like him then the two of you are chatterboxes bouncing off each other, all laughs and energy. He's a competitive guy so if you are too then you can make a game out of who pays for the bill at dinner.

Didn't have money growing up so isn't into fancy food places. Is a local ramen man still. Ichiraku has his heart after all. So he's not going to be a fan of being dragged around to fancy venues all the time. If thats your thing then count him out. He's a street corner, local business kinda guy. Fancy places for anniversaries maybe.

In general he's just going to want to be with someone who supports him and who he can support in return. Naruto isn't super fussy. Compassion is a big thing for him in a partner. Also someone who strives to understand people.

Everything else is simply an added bonus that comes with being you.

Sasuke Uchiha

I think for Sasuke it's less about what he looks for in a partner and more about who will stick it out and be with him for him. He's a very complicated guy and not a lot of people can handle that. You have to be patient and understanding, that's for sure.

Like all Uchiha he feels things very deeply and with that depth comes a lot of pain and trauma he's held onto for years. Someone who is willing to stick around and just be there for him goes a long way.

Just be a shoulder to lean on, cry on and listen to him when he is ready.

If you are someone who is kind but not a push over (doesn't take shit from anyone) then that's perfect for him. There are days he needs kindess but there are also days he needs a kick in the ass. Someone to remind him of his priorities, that there are people who care about him and that you care about him.

He gets inside his own head a lot. If you're a bubbly person who can pull him out of that—he really needs it.

Even just someone who can make silly jokes and tell fun stories that make him laugh. Take him on mini adventures through the village. Little things to bring him back to life and get him out of his natural mopey state.

Sasuke will say he doesn't want to them but it's up to you to know better—to know he really just means he's afraid of leaving the comfort of his brooding.

He actually ends up enjoying himself. One day he does admit that to you (in the form of a gentle whisper in your ear).

If you're the kind of person who has a natural inclination to take care of him, he will appreciate you so much. Whether it's cooking him food or taking him out to eat, making sure he's sleeping or holding him while he sleeps to make sure he feels safe. All the little things to give him comfort.

Someone who can talk to him easily! He's not very good at opening up about certain things. If you start off the conversations and lean into certain topics, even by offering up certain vulnerabilities about yourself then he will feel safe to eventually do the same with you.

He needs someone he can talk to and trust but he's not good at establishing those boundaries and opening himself. He needs your help and comfort to do it.

Sasuke just needs someone who is willing to be open and vulnerable so he knows it's okay to be the same. He needs love.

[nothingbutnowhere]

Paid In Full (18+)

The Apartment Anthology

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Contains: 18+, Unethical and creepy maintenance man!Simon, I don't know how else to put this but he comes on your toys in your shower when he enters your apartment for maintenance, come eating, if I missed anything lmk

It could be worse. Really, the building you live in isn't that old or in disrepair, just out of date. There's only been one thing you've needed to call maintenance for.

Despite this, you see the maintenance guy around a bunch, or at least his truck full of various tools and parts parked outside the buildings. The man himself proves to be elusive and you've only seen him when he came into your apartment to fix the heat. Tall, stoic, and handsome. Polite with his face mask and shoe covers. His eyes glance around your apartment, seemingly bored with the way his eyelids droop. Neither of you attempt small talk while he works and you stand awkwardly across the room. He scribbles down some info about the repair on a carbon copy sheet and tears one off for you, nodding when you thank him. His eyes travel down your body, making your genuine smile fade as you silently wish for him to leave.

It's the time when you don't see him in your apartment that causes an issue.

You're a person who likes to play solo. Regardless of whether or not you're getting laid, there's fun to be had in reveling in your imagination while you masteurbate.

And what better place to play than in the shower? Warm, steamy air, nice and wet and sensitive...

So not one or two, but three toys sit in the corner of your shower, their own little city line of dildo skyscrapers, varying in lengths and thicknesses.

Therein lies the problem. You usually keep them there. And why not? No roommates, the only one in there is you!

Until you're not.

You return to your apartment one day to a pink slip sitting innocently on your bathroom counter. The scribble you can barely make out reads: Ceiling fixed- upstairs bathroom tub leak, with the date and an illegible signature.

Your face drains of blood as you look over and see the open shower curtain.

Without a doubt the maintenance guy saw your toys.

Well it's time to leave the country and change your name and start a new life.

But something catches your eye. You step over to the tub and take a closer look. Lines of white streak the toys, some sort of liquid running down them.

That's- no. There's no way. That can't be come.

Against better judgment you reach out tentatively, pointer finger sliding through the mess, which sticks to you when you pull back.

You look at the slip clenched in your other hand. At the bottom, something is written directly on it in pen:

6pm for payment

Ok first of all that's not how that works, and second of all: fuck. He has a key. And you've seen him before, he's huge and muscular enough he can definitely pull the chain right out of the wall if you used it to keep him out. You're screwed. You're going to have to leave the country, this time for another reason. You should march right down to the rental office and demand to be let out of the lease. You should be grabbing your emergency bag and going to stay with a friend. You should be filing for a fucking restraining order.

But you're frozen, breaths ragged and loud in the enclosed space and your heart pounds in your chest so hard it nearly rattles your ribcage. The- stuff- on your finger is a glossy, milky white. You definitely should not be touching it. But you have to admit that deep down the real come (and not your own) on the toys looks good.

You stick your finger in your mouth.

...

I do NOT consent for my works, part of my works, or my ideas to be used for ANY form of AI.

Part 2

More Simon

So This amazing fic jogged a memory of the maintenance guy seeing my toys in the shower- mortifying btw- so naturally I decided to extrapolate into a fic. Because I'm totally normal!

[cecropiacrown]

Little mini-fic for Fengqing 💜

Modern AU

Word count: 1075

TW: alcohol mention

Mu Qing crosses one leg over the other as he settles in on Hua Cheng's ridiculously comfortable loveseat. He smooths down the fabric of his pants and pretends to inspect his nails, while in actuality he's assessing the scene around him.

Shi Qingxuan is animatedly talking to He Xuan on the couch opposite from Mu Qing, her legs thrown over the man's lap as her hands move excitedly with each indecipherable word. How anyone understands her fast-paced speech is lost on Mu Qing. He Xuan gently guides Shi Qingxuan’s sandal back onto her foot where it had begun to slide off, never lifting his eyes from her face. His own face is as stony as ever, but Mu Qing sees the undeniable care in his gesture.

Xie Lian is giggling from his place on Hua Cheng's lap as they both sit in that gaudy leather wingback. Mu Qing is sure Hua Cheng had such an ugly piece of furniture custom made because there's no way something as horrid as that came from off the shelf. Hua Cheng kisses Xie Lian's cheek again and Xie Lian breaks out into a wide smile, nuzzling his nose against Hua Cheng's temple. Gag.

“Do you want anything, A-Qing?”

Ah, and there's that voice again. Mu Qing shrugs and waves off Feng Xin as the man stands nearby in the kitchen doorway.

“Whatever.” he says offhandedly, running his nails over his scalp as he pushes his hair back.

Feng Xin has made himself bartender for the night and has been back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, distributing drinks of varying colors and alcohol contents. He sighs in reply to Mu Qing and ducks back into the kitchen.

Pei Ming and Ling Wen are over by the monstrous record player in the corner, sorting through records and debating on which one to play. Pei Ming holds up a contender and wriggles his eyebrows at Ling Wen, only for her to shake her head and turn her attention back to her sorting. Pei Ming pouts and gently puts the record away, returning to helping Ling Wen sort.

Inwardly, Mu Qing sighs.

He's not sure why he comes to these parties Hua Cheng hosts. All he knows is that he's here now, a carefully constructed look of nonchalance on his face, while his heart hammers in his chest.

He and Feng Xin have been dating for three months now.

Secretly, that is.

They're taking things slow, with this being Mu Qing's first relationship and all, and it's been going really well. The only thing that's not going so well is figuring out how exactly to act around their friends.

Mu Qing wants to slowly ease their friends into the idea that he and Feng Xin could be dating, but old habits die hard and Mu Qing, especially, is struggling. The vulnerability required of him to… openly express his feelings, is gargantuan, to say the least. It took years for him and Feng Xin to even form a friendship and Mu Qing was in love with the man. Admitting those feelings to Feng Xin alone was difficult enough, he has a hard time imagining he'll ever feel comfortable letting people outside their relationship know, even if those people are their… friends.

It was Mu Qing's idea for them to start calling each other A-Xin and A-Qing, respectively. But even just that got them suspicious glances from their friends. It's been a weird situation to navigate. Mu Qing simultaneously wants to push Feng Xin away and pull him in for a kiss. It's frustrating. Ah, but they're managing. They'll drop some hints here and there, and maybe in another three months, Mu Qing might be ready to talk about it.

Feng Xin shoulders his way through the kitchen door with two fancy glasses in his hands and makes his way over to the loveseat. He stays standing as he holds one of the drinks out to Mu Qing.

“Here, try this. It's like mine but without vermouth.”

Mu Qing eyes Feng Xin warily but quickly plucks the small glass from his hand. He can hear the faint pop of carbonation and he studies the, admittedly pretty, gradient of the drink as it goes from blush red at the base to shimmery clear at the top. He swirls the drink once, then twice and brings it up to his nose. Sharp brows furrow and then raise for a moment in surprise as he lets out a soft oh. He smooths out his expression and forces his voice to come out evenly.

“It smells nice.”

In very Mu Qing fashion, Feng Xin rolls his eyes, but waits expectantly for Mu Qing to just try the damn drink already.

Mu Qing takes a tentative sip, letting it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it down. His face stays still except for his eyes, which glint with satisfaction.

“That's not bad.” He admits.

Feng Xin sighs and relaxes his shoulders, a little relieved.

“Huh, well, I'll take it. That's a compliment in my book.”

“You can read?” Mu Qing asks innocently.

He touches the cool glass to his bottom lip for a moment before deciding he doesn’t want to appear too eager to have another taste. He lowers the glass only slightly and swirls it again, watching the gradient dissipate.

Feng Xin groans and crosses his arms, but the way he looks at Mu Qing is much too fond to be called a glare.

“You’re absolutely insufferable, did you know that?”

“Wow, that's a pretty big word for you-- and also,” Mu Qing can’t help it. He takes another sip of his drink, not as reserved as the first sip, and does well to mask his pleasure.

“I'd argue that you actually suffer me quite well.”

The smirk he offers too closely resembles a smile and both men realize in this moment that the room has gone silent. Everyone is staring at them.

The atmosphere of the room is thick with tension and Pei Ming, ever the chivalrous one, cuts through it with his stupid, teasing voice.

“Since when have you ever been this nice to each other? Did you two lose a bet or something?”

“Yes.” “No.”

Mu Qing and Feng Xin say simultaneously.

They both visibly bristle, their cheeks red as they each take sips of their drinks and pointedly look away from each other.

Yeah.

Things are going just great.

[officialdaydreamer00]

Nui shenanigans

in which you have a tiny nui version of your fire-headed significant bother

character: idia shroud

content: cw for suggestive things (i spoil you too much gd), an unhealthy amount of tooth rotting materials, the brainworms are worming so please excuse the rotting ^-^, reader is not yuu, gender neutral reader (mainly leaning to afab/fem aligned readers)

pausing the event to whip up a birthday present for @identity-theft-101! happy spawn date you biteable fucking gremlin <3

this feels so much like im working on PR lmao

first of all, the idia nui is sentient, let's get that over with. idia nui is an exact copy of the real idia, just in tiny doll form.

he's only 10cm tall (or about 3.9 inches) so he can fit snuggly in your palm or your shirt pocket.

very, i mean very, affectionate. touch starved too, he craves and will soak up any physical contacts from you like a sponge. just like idia lmao

also very squishy and biteable, since he doesn't take any physical damage. use that information to your likings :)

now that's out of the way, we gonna talk about the interesting stuffs.

when i tell you he's a carbon copy of idia in doll form, i mean rook hunt level accuracy. the resemblance is concerning.

from the mannerisms to the actions, idia nui acts just like our local fire hair ipad kid. except that it looks even cuter, somehow.

idia nui can be carried to places. just place him on your shoulder, in your shirt pocket or hoodie hood. for fem aligned folks, you can even let him vibe in your bra pocket.

idia nui, of course, has quite a case of social anxiety. he doesn't do well with people, so hide his existence when you're in the presense of other human beings, please.

you can always share your love and interests with idia nui. he will listen to your ramblings with rapt attention and encourages you with his adorably shy smiles.

as expected, idia is seething with jealousy, seeing how idia nui can do things that he can't. social anxiety fucks with his brain so badly.

ans now you have two blue fire wet cats fighting for your attention and affections. let the war begin

all he can do is watching over you through his floating ipad and silently seething. he would gritted his teeth whenever idia nui notices the ipad and gives you affections, and will explode in flames if the nui sends him a mocking grin, which is more likely than you think.

one time, idia finally manned up and actually smooched you, he had a blue screen moment and then he dipped.

you've never seen idia ran tf away so fast lmao.

spoilers: in the end you rewarded them both with cuddles and kisses so all was good ^-^

remember to reblog if you enjoy my works! ^-^

[feelingautistic]

I received a question from @nunee63 (hi, you're famous now) on one of my greenland shark facts and I wanted to take the opportunity to say I'm opening up my asks for shark-related questions so if you have a burning question about sharks or want more info on a fact, feel free to drop a question and I'll try to answer them when I can :)

Anyway, the question was 'how do we know the age of the oldest greenland shark?' and, to put it simply, we don't. Marine biologists estimate the greenland shark is between 272 and 512 years old but they couldn't give you an exact number.

When aging a fish, marine biologists tend to count the growth rings (similarly to the rings of a tree trunk) of the otoliths, a structure in the ears that help fish balance and hear. This doesn't work for sharks, however, because...they don't have otoliths, so marine biologists use the backbone of sharks, which also form these growth rings, instead.

This works well for some sharks but greenland sharks don't have growth rings on their backbones so instead marine biologists used radiocarbon dating. They were searching for carbon-14 that built up in high amounts in the eye lenses of sharks born after the early 1960s, when nuclear bomb testing had caused the isotope to leak into marine ecosystems.

Once they knew the age of some younger sharks, they could calculate the growth rate of the sharks and apply that to older sharks (simply by measuring how much the shark must've grown from birth and figuring out how long that would take). Obviously, this method isn't perfect, hence why there's such a large range, but it allows us to estimate the age of long-living animals and scientists are debating applying the same method to other long-living animals.