#if I knew an artist that wanted to go in on it with me I would totally write the children's book Life with Bug | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itwasntimethatdidit40 · 1 day ago

Text

How could you love somebody like me?

Pairing: f!reader x Javier Peña Words count: 3032 Rating: + 18, NSFW, MDNI. Summary: Javi is under protection and has asked you to join him in the hotel room where he is confined. When you discover his secrets and lies, however, that room will become too small. Too small for both of you. Tags/warnings: POV second person, no use of y/n, Javi is still a DEA agent but it's a modern setting so the man has a smartphone. Reader is described having female genitalia and breasts, no other description of her is given, she doesn't blush and her hair is not described. Mention of alcohol, mention of cheating, Javi is a cheater, no happy ending, we will go through the man's phone (you're not supposed to do that but I never said my reader could do no wrong, right?), use of pet names (gatita which means kitten in Spanish, baby, darling), smut, angry sex, unprotected p in v (do better irl), cream pie, of course a little nipple play ‘cause it’s still my fic, toxic relationship, self doubt, mention of Steve, a huge pile of lies, Javi is bad at feelings, some reader’s thoughts marked in italics. I think it's all, let me know if I forgot something and I'll add it right away. A/N: Written for @jolapeno 's "Dear-uary" challenge. This was my prompt, I struggled a little bit at first but I ended up having a blast writing this ❤︎ Heavily inspired by this song (from which the fic also takes its title), I heard it randomly on Spotify one day and I thought "wait, this is perfect for Javi!" and I ended up being obsessed with two more songs by the same artist. LOL Many thanks to: - @aurorawritestoescape , my beta, for her help and advice, she will probably dream of elephants because of me tonight hahaha Kate I own you a big one, thanks baby so much, I love you ❤️ - The person who basically pulled this out of my brain and supported me throughout the process, my precious, my peanut @joelmillerisapunk. 🥰 Love you so much it's ridiculous🥹 - @milla-frenchy for letting me blather about this thing some days ago. Love you, bb ❤︎ English is not my first language, every single mistake is still on me, I deeply apologize if you find any.

Edited - because I forgot to change the most important detail, of course. I’m not myself if I’m not doing a mess. Yay. It’s okay now.

“Why the hell am I here? Was I the only available hole this week?”

“No,” he whispers.

“So what?”

Javier came back and found you in the middle of the room.

You were brandishing his phone like a sword in the air, the banner of everything that was wrong.

His face went pale when he saw you like that.

Eyes wide open.

Mouth agape.

He tried to say something but you immediately hit him with a vomit of words.

“I know what you’re doing,” you hiss under your breath, feeling your eyes sting.

Javier is a marble statue in front of you, his lips pressed together, his absent eyes not even looking at you, staring at a spot behind your shoulders, his arms abandoned along his sides.

He seems anchored to the ground.

His last words to you still burn on your skin like a fire you cannot extinguish.

A heavy silence between you fills the air of the room and makes it unbreathable.

“Fuck, Javier, talk to me,” you whisper angrily.

You clutch his phone in your hands, so tightly that your knuckles are white from exertion, as if you were clinging to it to keep yourself from falling off a cliff.

“You knew I was no good,” he says sternly.

You have been in this room for two days.

Officially, Javier has to stay here because henchmen of one of the new drug lords in town are set on taking him out.

Unofficially, he has you infiltrating the room.

Typical Javier, spending his time under protection fucking someone.

You foolishly almost believed it was romantic, until this morning.

“So you’re trying to say that it’s my fault? Is that what you want to say? It’s my fault that as soon as I turn my back you go and stick your cock in someone else's pussy?” You don’t even have the strength to scream right now. Your voice comes out rancorous but low, hoarse, like a blown growl.

Oh, you’re not going to accept being lectured by him, fuck no.

“No, I’m just saying -” he tries to explain and you glare at him, making the words die in his mouth.

"What?"

“Fuck, I'll never change,” he shrugs as if it were a truism that only you can't grasp.

His eyes shift to the ground, dull and absent.

“You don't change because you are convinced that you can't,” you admonish him, feeling anger rising from your chest.

"That's not true," he murmurs, keeping his gaze on the crimson and gold carpet that lies at your feet.

“Yes, it is,” you insist, ”and you seem to like to think of yourself as an incurable asshole.”

He still fails to see the real problem, the elephant in the room that lives and thrives among you.

"Then you tell me, if you think you know me so well,” he asks with defiance.

“You bet I fucking know you,” you lash out. “You think you're so mysterious and complicated?! Well, news flash, I've seen plenty like you. You’re just another man. You're not even that, you're a child. A child who's afraid of his own shadow when it comes to relationships.”

“Don’t fucking analyze me,” he hisses, finally setting his eyes back on you.

Raven, angry and fearful. He knows you can read him like an open book and this unleashes an awareness upon him that crushes him to the ground.

You bitterly laugh, “Truth hurts, huh? I know something about it”.

The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens, his nostrils flare, and his mouth tightens into a line so thin you think he’s about to burst. He stays quiet instead, eyes back on the damask carpet decoration.

_____________

“Yes, Steve, I'm fine. That jerk won't find me here, and anyway it's full of police outside the door.”

A pause and a sigh.

”No, no one followed her, they don't know who she is.”

You stood behind the half-closed bathroom door listening.

You smiled.

His voice sounded softer when he talked about you. You lulled yourself into that feeling.

Until you heard something else.

A booming laugh.

Water ran in the shower, tiny droplets coated the wall as the mirror fogged up.

“Whatever. Of course I'm still screwing around. At least, I was doing it before that asshole started chasing me,” his voice suddenly lowered so you took a chance and opened the door a little more. You wanted to make sure you heard right.

Your hand trembled against the doorknob, you grabbed your wrist to hold it steady.

“You idiot,” he scoffed. “Yeah, we'll be in touch.”

Suspicion. The black wing of a crow that had been wrapped around your heart for a long time.

But then why did it hurt so much?

You allowed yourself to hide it in a part of your brain where you never looked-that was a mistake. Making the hunch barely a firefly when it was supposed to be a bright neon sign.

He always places the phone with its screen down when you go out to dinner, softly smiling at it when he checks it after a few vibrations, telling you “it’s Steve” when you ask.

But you know that crooked smile.

He dodges when you ask him about his day "oh work, you know, just work."

He tells you he is with Steve but you hear female voices in the background.

Every time you try to confront him it always ends the same way, him telling you, “you’re paranoid, there’s no one else, just you, baby. You’re the only one I want.”

And then he fucks your doubts into oblivion.

You heard the thud of the phone on the blankets. And then Javier calling you.

You swallowed the gall rising from the walls of your stomach and just smiled when he joined you in the bathroom and suggested that you shower together.

You wanted some proof before you charged him.

If there was anything you had learned from being with him, it was that hard evidence was the key. So you played cool.

He fucked you against the shower wall and you moaned into his neck.

He licked your pussy like a man starved and you just bit your lips until you felt iron on your tongue.

He kissed you with that liar's mouth, and you let him.

And you fell asleep beside him, on the unmade bed of your uncertainties.

This morning someone from outside called him into the hallway to report the latest movements of the guy who was looking for him.

His phone was on the bedside table.

It was like a magnet, pulling your hand to it.

You were almost sure you knew his unlock code ‘cause you had watched the movements of his finger many times.

You tried twice without success.

The third time you let out a long sigh, visualized in your mind the movement one more time and unlocked it.

You were in.

Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your fingers swiped and clicked on the screen.

And there they were.

Dozens and dozens of messages and pics exchanged with 4 different women.

You scrolled through one of the chats with a certain Maria, who regularly sent him pictures of her tits and her legs spread wide, her pussy in the shot.

There was sexting, arranged dates, same promises he gave to you, things you never asked for but he kept repeating like a broken record. Even the same pet name. Gatita.

Blood simmered in your veins, a jolt in your heart, throat dry.

Your finger furiously scrolled through the chat, finding tons of messages he had sent her while he was with you.

You switched to another one and you found pretty much the same. And yet another, message after message containing flirting and explicit sex.

“Oh Javi, you keep getting better and better with that cock of yours”

“My pussy needs you, darling, can you come over?”

“I can’t stop thinking about your huge cock dripping on me”

And the more you scrolled, the more a question formed in your brain, rumbling through your temples like a deafening drum.

Was he ever sincere with you?

________

When he looks up at you again, you see it. A veil of fragility in the dense blackness of his gaze.

He looks almost helpless. “I know you tried,” he admits, ”You tried harder than anyone else.”

“Apparently it was no use,” you chastise him.

He doesn’t reply.

Instead he comes closer and closer.

You pull back, responding to his every step forward with a backward one.

“Please,” he whispers.

“No.”

“Don't do that.”

“You have no right to tell me what to do,” you bark.

”I know...”

“Fuck off, Javier, leave me alone.”

You pull back until you hit the wall behind you.

Javier approaches, bending slightly to reach your mouth, his mustache brushes against your cupid’s bow and you don't even have the strength to turn your face away anymore.

When your lips collide you let it happen.

It’s like when you drink too much Tequila.

It burns on your tongue, leaving you almost anesthetized as soon as you down it, and then an aromatic taste wafts into your mouth; it is lysergic, unusual, unmistakable.

You love it, so you keep doing it.

Javier is the same.

He's sharp, stiff at the edges, burns like fire, but he has an aura that you won’t mistake for anything and he hypnotizes you. He’s not like anyone else, despite what you told him. There is an underlying despair in him, a cry dying in his throat, “How can you love someone like me?”

He says it only with his eyes but you hear it clearly.

He is a time bomb that explodes in your heart every time he touches you. So you keep doing it.

“Fuck,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah…I know. I’m not worthy.”

And yet, you’re still here.

You let him peel off your every layer of clothing, to leave you naked and vulnerable in front of him.

You do nothing when he undresses too. Hastily taking off his shirt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, nervous hands and short breaths.

It is like some mind fuck game, intoxicating, dangerous, capable of leaving permanent marks.

He lowers his jeans just enough to free his cock, no boxers. Always ready.

His hands run over your hips and you groan.

His tongue slides over your neck, his eyes closed, his breath heavy and warm on your skin.

He makes you cry, but you don't say no.

His lips latch onto your nipple and adrenaline rushes through your veins up into your head, hitting hard like a jackhammer.

You don’t pull back anymore, you push your tit into his mouth so eagerly you feel his teeth closing on your bud and you whine in pleasure.

His growing erection leaks against your center. You are trapped. Not so much because you are between him and the wall but because you no longer know how to get him out of your head.

Right now it doesn't matter how much it hurts.

He slides his hands down your thighs and you know what he wants, without needing to speak. You wrap your legs around his waist. He kneels on the bed with you still clinging to him, you lie back on the soft blankets that smell of you both, arch your back and press against his cock. You folds splayed and dripping for him.

His fingers go up your rib cage, stop under your breasts and grasp there, he draws you back to him and your mouths collide again.

You let his tongue enter. You let the fleeting pleasure of this instant take over all the no's you know you have to say.

There’s no right kind of love here, this room is drowned in angry sex.

Angry at how you can never say no to him, angry at how he makes you feel, angry because you know that no one has ever fucked you the way he did, invading your body with a pleasure so addictive that it makes you sick. Angry because maybe he's right, he can't change.

You break the kiss and bite on his shoulder, a small act of revenge that really does no harm compared to your bleeding heart.

Your hands grasp on the golden skin of his back, leaving marks with your nails digging into it, your miserable attempt to leave marks on him in return.

You moan convulsively under his touch, your mouth wide open against his, your tongue desperately seeking him out.

His hands tighten on your ass, lifting you slightly, his cock slides over your wet opening, a guttural sound comes out of the back of your throat without you being able to hold it back.

You want him inside you.

You need him inside you.

And it’s wrong, and desperate. It’s masochistic.

You don’t even care for his jeans’s zip scraping your skin.

The thin line between pain and pleasure is so blurred now.

It’s a pathetic shit show of need and urgency.

You’d walk away from any other guy but Javier is the person you can never have just for yourself and at the same time he is the only one you want.

He is the knife and the wound at the same time.

When he asks “Whose pussy is this?” in his deep groaning voice that fucks directly with your brain, you can only reply “yours.”

Digging your nails deeper, biting more, wailing louder but just pleading with him.

You take his shaft in your hand and rub it against you in blind desperation, wetting it with your juices.

He groans into your ears while his hand reaches for your nipple and his big strong arm holds you close.

You are sitting on his thighs, your legs crossed behind his back.

His fingers pinch your nipple as you don't stop stroking his big throbbing cock.

Just put it in there. You think. I just need to feel your flesh against mine, inside me, claiming me like the rag doll that I am now.

Stupid bitch trying to have you when you’re damaged like a shattered glass, when you can bring nothing than heat to my body and freezing ice to my heart.

“Fuck me,” you groan.

He pushes against your core, entering you with one deep thrust.

Your pussy is weeping so much it doesn’t even hurt.

You clench on him with all the strength you have, chocking his cock with your walls.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re gripping me so hard, baby. There’s nothing you want more than this, huh? Me fucking you raw?”

“Shut up,” you hiss.

He starts moving, pumping into you as his hand reaches for your clit, brushing it in circles.

You whine, clinging onto his back, your face hidden in the crook of his neck.

You can’t look him in the eye, you can’t face your own shameful reflection in his pupils, you can’t think of anything else than this pleasure firing your body, your limbs, your mind.

Your pussy never gets the memo when it comes to him. She just clenches, and cries and asks for more.

At the verge of your brink, when you’re so utterly overwhelmed you could swear, you’re about to jump out of your skin, you hear it.

It’s the softest whisper on your skin, so low you barely catch the words, “I love you”

You cry a single tear that slides down the column of his neck, it could be mistaken for a bead of sweat so easily and Javier doesn’t notice it. But it’s there. You’re crying again.

You come, weeping.

Grasping to him like your last shred of hope.

But there’s no hope anymore.

You know you can’t go on like that.

You cried before. You argued before. It’s all useless.

A devastating orgasm shoots through you, leaving you without defense.

It’s the last thing you want but you need to get it over with.

You lie on the bed, feeling his last twitches inside you, his cum dripping onto your walls, his cock pressing against that spot that belongs only to him.

He lies down on you, gently crushing you with his weight, his sweaty skin against yours, the smell of your orgasm filling your nostrils.

You’re hopeless and breathless.

He's still inside you, like he doesn't want to leave.

You know you have to.

Eventually he shifts, lying on the other side of the bed muttering, “god, you really are something else.” He takes the pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and lights one, taking a long drag.

“I'm not enough,” you want to scream looking at him through the cloud of smoke enveloping him. “Or maybe you're not, for me.”

When he is about to fall asleep, you get up. You pick up your clothes off the floor and put them on silently.

“Where are you going, gatita?” he grunts.

Does he think he has solved it? Does he think you will forgive him as you did the other times?

You don’t reply.

"You only ever tell me the truth when you think I won't hear it,” you type on your phone and send it to him, before coming out of the door without turning your back.

You leave him there, wondering, lost as he makes you feel.

There will be two broken hearts.

You know he loves you and you love him.

He is convinced that he doesn’t deserve you and pushes you away every time you get close to his soul.

He knows that you see him clearly; that scares him.

You are tired of fighting for the both of you.

You push the elevator button under the gaze of an unsuspecting policeman who urges, “Where are you going, miss?”

“I'm leaving.”

“Do you need someone to accompany you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Someone could follow you,” he counters.

“No one knows me, you don't have to worry.”

You wait for the elevator, still hoping to see his ruffled raven hair poking out the door, his voice calling to you, his hand tightening on your wrist.

None of this happens.

The only ones who will follow you are your ghosts.

Tag list: @baronessvonglitter , @almostempty , @probablyreadinsmut , @thundermartini , @gothcsz , @cas-readsandwrites , @harriedandharassed

Archive tag: @pedrostories

If you want to be added or removed just let me know! Thank you very much for reading❤︎

#javier peña x f!reader #javier peña smut #jolapenosdearuary #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x female reader #javier peña #narcos au #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal cinematic universe #ppcu #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

132 notes · View notes

cosmicalily · 3 days ago

Text

"written by the aces" - a mini series by @cosmicalily. view series masterlist, and outline here

4. "i've loved you for so long" | hwang hyunjin x fem!reader

You're taking me back, babe, to where it all started, wearing your hair up in your New York apartment, I swear, I've loved you for so long, I'd do it again and again and again and again, baby

author's note: okay so fun fact the left photo in this header is actually a pic of a picnic i went on with my friend that i took off my pinterest (ee if you wanna look at it here's the link! my pinterest is my pride and joy). i've had this fic in my drafts for ages, i adore this song and it feels SO undeniably hyunjin, i hope you enjoy!!

There were always questions as to how a broke artist afforded an apartment in New York City.

You had reasons. You worked almost every possible hour outside of the studio at a local coffee shop, and had sold several of your favourite possessions, including your prized guitar handed down from your mother. You worked hard for what you had, and you appreciated it more so that way.

That’s always how it had been. You worked hard enough for something, you’d eventually get there.

Hwang Hyunjin came from a wealthier background and also lived in an apartment in New York City, albeit much more beautiful than yours. He was beautiful, and not in any way snobby as you’d expect. He felt very deeply, and translated it into his artwork.

He knew that if he wanted something, he’d get it, reasonably quickly. But he didn’t like things that way.

He loved the anticipation, the slow burn, the pining and wishing and hoping, which was exactly how he felt about you.

He didn’t want his own expensive personal studio. He used the local art space, which was available to rent for a few hours each day. That was where he first saw you. All of you.

You and your posture that gave you back aches when you sat sketching for too long, the way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, your habit of tucking your hair behind your ears only for it to flop forward again within the next few seconds. He was fascinated by you, but he preferred admiring from a distance for the moment. He didn’t want to push forward or scare you away.

You thought he was one of the prettiest people you’d seen. He seemed so comfortable with his masculinity that he wasn’t afraid to step into his feminine side, wearing his hair a little longer, dressing a little more form-fitting. His lips were plush and sometimes scarred from where he nibbled on them, and he had brown eyes, so dark yet so warm, as if they’d melt you if you stared into them for a little too long.

It wasn’t as if you ever shared a conversation before he left New York. Even though you spent a lot of time together, it was comfortable silence. You sat, on opposite ends of the studio, working on your projects, trying to avoid catching each others eyes. One time though, when you walked past to go wash your paintbrush, you accidentally brushed against him, and he noticed.

The way your cheeks flushed, and your small smile.

Hwang Hyunjin didn’t expect his life to bring him back to New York City, although perhaps a part of him had always hoped it would.

He’d spent years travelling Europe, visiting art galleries and staying in beautiful apartments and villas, swimming in the ocean in the summer and taking photos of the mountains in the winter. He was inspired constantly, and filled his life with art, food, gorgeous views and wine.

He’d gotten to a point in his life where it was expected he would be married, or at least have entered a long-term relationship. Although he met some of the prettiest people he’d ever seen, he never pursued further than dinner and a kiss on the cheek.

He thought about you, and the way your cheeks flushed, and your small smile.

Your hair, piled up on your head in a way that was not at all structurally sound, letting fronds flop into your eyes and around your neck and collarbone.

He returned to New York a little while after he’d stayed in Paris, and spent time looking for an apartment. He’d been connected with a real estate agent, one that sold high-end apartments uptown. He decided to walk up instead of catching a taxi, and whilst walking past the studio where you’d first seen each other, he saw an advert in the window.

You were looking for a roommate, and applications were due by 5pm.

You stood on the other side of the apartment, your hair pulled up with a piece of blue-and-white gingham ribbon, taken off the wrapping of the book Hyunjin had bought you for your birthday. You wore a long denim skirt and pale yellow bralette, with lace around the edges and a soft pattern of tiny lemons across it, with one of Hyunjin’s white linen shirts over the top, unbuttoned and blowing in the wind that came through the opened window in the kitchen.

Hyunjin lay still in bed, flat on his stomach, admiring you from afar the way he always did. Even after two years, where all he’d done was live, breathe and love you, there were moments where he liked to remember how he’d fallen for you in the first place.

There were also moments where he wanted to be as close to you as possible. He shifted off the bed and walked over, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his face into your hair.

“Did you want to go out today?” he mumbled into your hair. “I feel bad that we stayed at home all day again; there’s not much point to weekends if we don’t do anything, is there?”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t really want to. I prefer being at home, anyway.”

“Good, because I didn’t want to either,” he smiled, pressing a kiss onto your shoulder. “Even though we don’t talk all the time…”

“I like our silence. We don’t feel like we have to say anything,” you finished, turning yourself around from where you were facing the kitchen bench and placing your arms around his waist. He shifted his to your shoulders, and pulled you in close, so you were flush against his chest.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” Hyunjin murmured, his forehead against yours, noses touching.

“You don’t just say it,” you whispered. “You show it. And that’s even more beautiful, I think.”

“I’ve loved you since I first saw you. And I know that you know, but I just want to remind you, that you’re what I’ve dreamed of for so long, and what I’ve wanted without realising.”

“You talk a lot sometimes, my love.”

“I mean everything I say. I like to talk about you. I like to talk to you.”

You cupped his face with your hands and brought your lips to his.

taglist: @hyunjiiza @velvetmoonlght @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @btch8008s @yaniluvs @ellemir2404 @bellarellasstuff @starsinagreenskyxx @ashtxrie @pigeonseatmayo @modesttiger @woozarts - comment, dm or send an ask to be added!

75 notes · View notes

redroomreflections · 1 day ago

Text

Paint It Black Chapter 3

Teen Natasha Romanoff x Teen Reader

Masterlist | General Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff has never known love—or at least, that’s what she tells herself. During her time in the Red Room, she encountered a girl whose memory was forcibly erased from her mind. Now, as an Avenger, she faces a new enemy who turns out to be more than just a threat; they share a tangled history that challenges everything Natasha thought she knew about herself and love.

Chapter Summary: Natasha learns who to trust in the Red Room

W/c: 5.2k

Warnings: This is a dark story, so read at your own risk. Mentions/hints of SA, violence, guns, and abuse. We're exploring the Red Room and Natasha's origins, kind of.

Someone I once loved gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift - Mary Oliver

You'd learned a lot of party tricks since you became Dreykov's best girl. You'd been trained by some of the world's deadliest martial artists and snipers. You knew how to make an arrow pierce through the toughest skin. You could crush your enemies' windpipe without your bow's help. You could use a man's tie against him and bring him to his knees in seconds.

You had learned early on that survival in the Red Room wasn’t just about strength or precision—it was about illusion. It was about shaping yourself into whatever they needed you to be, bending and twisting your identity until you could barely recognize your reflection.

When you were twelve, one of the older Widows taught you makeup—not just how to wear it, but how to weaponize it. Lipstick wasn’t just a shade; it was a story. A bold red screamed confidence and control. A soft pink whispered innocence. The faintest hint of gloss could disarm even the sharpest of men.

The etiquette classes were the worst. Hour after hour of balancing books on your head, learning the perfect angle for a smile, the exact tilt of your chin that would make you appear approachable but not too eager. You were drilled in dining etiquette, how to sip champagne without smudging your lipstick, laugh at jokes you didn’t find funny, and dance just close enough to your target to keep their guard down.

They taught you how to pretend to be smart—not too smart, but just enough to stroke a man’s ego without intimidating him. You mastered the art of asking questions you already knew the answers to, of feigning curiosity to keep the conversation flowing.

Every lesson was a reminder that you weren’t being prepared to live. You were being prepared to infiltrate, to seduce, to kill.

You still remembered the first time you saw yourself in the mirror after they finished with you—a little girl’s body dressed up like a woman. The makeup made your face look older, the heels forced your back straight, and the dress clung to you like a second skin. You didn’t recognize the person staring back.

"You’ll grow into it," the instructor had said, adjusting a curl in your hair. "By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be perfect."

Perfect. That’s what they wanted. A perfect soldier. A perfect spy. A perfect party trick.

And they had almost succeeded. Almost.

You had become everything they wanted you to be, yet somewhere deep inside, you had kept a piece of yourself hidden—a touch of defiance, a spark of who you were before they took you.

You didn’t need a party.

You didn’t need their approval.

You needed freedom.

And one day, you were going to take it.

****

After the meeting with Dreykov, you felt a wave of exhaustion wash over you. You tried not to scratch at the skin of your arms. You tried not to focus on the places he’d touched. You walked briskly through the cold, sterile hallways.

As you reached the nearest bathroom, you pushed the door open and slipped inside, grateful for the reprieve from everyone. The bathroom was small, with harsh lighting and chipped tiles, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the outside world. You leaned against the cool metal sink, slowly closing your eyes to collect yourself. Opening them, you felt heavier than before. The mascara smudged as you rubbed at your eyes.

Your reflection in the mirror looked exhausted, pale, and drawn, as though someone had taken a paintbrush and erased all the color. With one hand, you gripped the sink, and with the other, you shoved it down your throat.

You gagged as bile rose into your mouth, hot and burning. Your stomach contracted and heaved.

This particular party trick only helped you.

********

She hadn’t seen you in a while. Four days, thirteen hours, and twelve minutes, to be exact. It wasn’t like she was counting. You weren’t friends or anything. Widows in training came and went all the time, whether for training, on missions, or worse.

Death.

Natasha had learned not to become attached. Your presence had annoyed her since the first time she spoke to you. You were like an unwelcome buzzing in her ear. You didn’t listen like the other girls. You talked back. You were defiant. You got into trouble. You had resilience and determination in ways the other girls didn’t. Something she wished she could be. Natasha had drive and determination. She was the best in her class. She moved up an age group since returning from Cuba. She was good with a gun, she was fast on her feet, and she could quickly pick up new skills. The one thing she hadn't mastered was her poker face.

Her eyes scanned the room as she ate alone. It was time for a day meal. An hour where the girls were able to let loose just a little. Everyone sat near their favorite colleagues. The word friend should never be in a Widow’s vocabulary. Natasha didn’t have many. None that she wanted any. It made things more painful when she had to pull the trigger.

As she ate, she looked for two people in the room and didn’t see either of them as expected. The first one is you. Your absence had caused quite a stir in the commons. The widow's gossip about you and what’s become of you. Some girls in your age group had mentioned dishonorable things that Natasha didn’t care to replay in her mind. Though she thought nothing of you, she refused to believe bad things. The other person was Yelena. It had been a few months, and her former mission mate would be seven now.

In the years before, Yelena’s birthday was spent in the comfort of their own home. Alexei would grill burgers. Melina would decorate the den with balloons, streamers, unicorns, and pony things that the little girl liked. Natasha was always in charge of keeping her sister occupied. They would run around the backyard until the parents, Melina and Alexei, would come out with a cake and candles for her to blow out.

It was a good memory that Natasha allowed herself to hold onto. It was stupid. None of it was real. Yet everything about it warmed her heart. Memories like that kept her sane. One day, she would be free, and she could make memories like that again if she got the chance.

Natasha looked down at her tray. Lunch consisted of Pirozhki, a stuffed roll with minced beef and rice. There were also a ton of vegetables that Natasha wasn’t fond of. While the Red Room was another hell on earth, the girls were fed well. Their bodies needed it to remain healthy and strong enough to fight.

Natasha took her time biting into her food. Despite the lump in her throat, she chewed her food while keeping her eyes up. She only ate half before she decided it was not for her. She stood, walking over to the trash bin, before clearing her plate. She wiped her hands against the leg of her black sweatpants. She eyed the two guards at the entrance of the cafeteria. Demetri and Igor. They’d worked there for as long as she could remember. She approached the door with an excuse already at the tip of her tongue.

“Kuda ty idesh? (Where are you going?)” Igor’s hand pressed against Natasha’s shoulder, his voice sharp.

Natasha paused but didn’t look at him. “I am going to the infirmary,” she said in English, her tone clipped. Since returning to the Red Room, she had refused to speak Russian unless necessary. It wasn’t defiance—not entirely—but a quiet rebellion against a country that allowed men like Dreykov to exist unchecked.

Igor’s brows furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Demetri. “Zachem? (Why?)”

“I have my period.” Natasha’s voice was steady, and she met their gazes without a hint of embarrassment.

Both men immediately looked uncomfortable. Demetri muttered something under his breath and opened the door. Natasha didn’t wait for a formal dismissal. She slipped through before they could change their minds, her steps quiet on the worn linoleum floor.

The hallways were dimly lit, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic. Natasha passed several doors before she reached the infirmary. Her hand hesitated on the knob. She shouldn’t care about you—not here, not now. But she did.

Turning the knob, she opened the door just enough to peek inside. Voices drifted through the crack, low and tense.

“You need a break,” Nora’s voice was firm, though tinged with concern. “She’s been pushed too far, Madam B. Her body can’t keep up at this rate.”

“She’s fine.” Madam B.’s tone was clipped, her frustration evident.

“Widows are made of marble, is that it?” Nora countered, sarcasm dripping from her words. “She’s not marble. She’s flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.”

“Enough!” Madam B. snapped, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “We do not coddle here, Doctor.”

“She’s still a child,” Nora shot back, her voice firm and determined. “A growing girl who needs her rest if you want her to carry out any of her duties.”

Madam B. stilled, her lips pressing into a thin line. The word child hung in the air like a taboo, an unwelcome reminder of the humanity the Red Room sought to erase.

“She ceased being a child the moment she stepped into this place,” Madam B. said coldly, her eyes narrowing.

“And yet her body hasn’t caught up to your expectations, has it?” Nora’s voice softened slightly, though it didn’t lose its edge. “You can push, break, and mold them—but they are still human. Y/N needs time to heal, or she’ll collapse in the middle of your next mission.”

“She wouldn’t dare,” Madam B. said sharply, her gaze flickering to you where you sat on the infirmary bed, silent but seething.

“I wouldn’t,” you said defiantly, your voice cutting through the tense exchange. “I don’t need a break. I’m fine.”

Nora turned to you, her expression softening. “Y/N, this isn’t a competition. It’s your health—”

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. “Widows don’t need rest. We don’t break.”

Madam B.’s gaze lingered on you long before she returned to Nora. “You see? She understands the stakes. Weakness is not an option.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Nora muttered under her breath, though not quietly enough.

Madam B.’s sharp glare returned to the doctor, but a quiet creak drew their attention before the tension could escalate further.

The infirmary door was slightly ajar. Natasha stood frozen in the opening, her green eyes darting between the women.

Madam B’s eyes narrowed as she glanced toward the door. “Watch her,” she commanded Nora before letting out a sharp huff and storming out of the room. The door slam echoed through the infirmary, leaving a tense silence.

Natasha pressed tightly against the wall outside and held her breath. Her heart pounded as she strained to listen for footsteps fading down the hallway. She waited—one second, two, three—until she was sure Madam B had left.

Carefully, she peeked around the corner to ensure the coast was clear. Satisfied, she stepped closer to the infirmary door. Her hand hovered over the knob, hesitating.

Inside, Nora sighed as she adjusted the cuff of the blood pressure monitor around your arm. “You really need to care more for yourself,” she muttered as she scribbled notes on a clipboard.

“You really need to stop worrying about me,” you replied, shaking your head.

“I’ve been worrying about you since you were four years old,” Nora said sharply, her eyes meeting yours.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Nora had been the closest thing you had to stability in this place. Her care had always been a confusing blend of warmth and frustration, a kindness wrapped in thorns. You could never understand why she cared so much. Why did she care at all?

Before you could think of something to say, you changed the subject. “How’s this love story with the scientist going?”

Nora froze, her brow furrowing as she shot you a pointed look. “Melina Vostokoff is a respected Widow who is incredibly smart,” she began curtly. “There is no love story. And you know it’s dangerous to talk like that.”

“You know Melina?” Natasha’s voice cut through the conversation as she stepped into the room.

Nora spun on her heel, her expression hardening as her eyes locked on Natasha. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her tone sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Natasha hesitated, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I just—”

“You just nothing,” Nora interrupted coldly, stepping forward. “Do you think this is a game? That you can wander wherever you please? Do you even understand the danger you’re putting yourself in by being here?” She gestured toward you, her anger flaring.

“Nora,” you said softly, sitting up straighter.

Nora ignored you, her eyes still fixed on Natasha. “You have no idea what she’s been through—what we’ve all been through. And now you think you can just walk in here and—”

“Nora,” you said again, more firmly this time.

Nora finally looked at you, her jaw tight.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice steady. “Let her stay.”

Nora’s shoulders sagged slightly, her anger dissipating into more like exasperation. She glanced back at Natasha, her eyes narrowing. “If anything happens, it’s on you,” she muttered before returning to work.

Natasha stepped closer to you, her movements careful, almost hesitant. Her eyes flickered to Nora, who was now busying herself with the clipboard, and then back to you.

"Hello," Natasha whispered.

"Dobro pozhalovat (welcome)," You said, not looking at her.

Natasha didn’t know why she came. Curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper she wasn’t ready to name. She stood stiffly in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as she scanned the room.

You were sitting in bed, your posture slouched but tense, eyes staring ahead as if avoiding any attempt to connect—whether with the walls, the room, or anyone.

“Are you sick?” Natasha asked, her voice soft, though her eyes were sharp as they scanned your body for any signs of injury. There were no bruises, bandages, or anything that would explain your absence.

“I wish,” you muttered with a sigh, fingers tracing aimlessly over a loose thread in the blanket that covered your lap. “Just getting evaluated,” you excused yourself, trying to shrug it off.

“You’ve missed all your training sessions.” Natasha pressed, her gaze intense as she approached cautiously.

“Keeping up with my schedule?” You raised an eyebrow, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you my new handler?”

“No,” Natasha replied quietly, her throat tight momentarily. “I thought we were friends.”

You didn’t answer right away, your lips pressing into a thin line. But you didn’t deny her, either. The silence between you two stretched, uncomfortable in its weight.

Nora kept her eyes on your chart from the corner, deliberately avoiding any direct attention. She'd never seen you regard anyone with such softness. You weren’t open with anyone other than her.

“You’re not going to go and report this to the other widows, are you?” You finally broke the silence, eyes narrowing slightly.

“The other widows are not my friends,” Natasha said, calm but firm. She let her gaze flicker toward Nora momentarily before returning to you. “You know Melina?”

Nora's response was clipped, her words tight and minimal. “She’s gone,” she said when Natasha asked about Melina’s whereabouts. “Don’t know where, don’t need to.” She didn’t look up from your chart as she spoke, not offering any more information. Her gaze remained focused on the paper in front of her, the lines of your vitals there, as if pretending not to notice the growing tension in the air.

After a long pause, she finally sighed, rolling her shoulders back as she stood up. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she muttered, making it clear she wasn’t interested in offering anything more.

With a curt nod to Natasha, she stepped toward the door, leaving you and Natasha alone in the sterile quiet of the room.

Natasha stood there momentarily, unsure of what to do, her thoughts swirling around the brief, cryptic exchange. She glanced back at you, her expression softening just a little.

“Is that your mom?” Natasha asked, her voice low and tentative, though the curiosity in her tone couldn’t be hidden. She didn’t wait for an immediate answer; she just leaned against the wall, her eyes still on you, waiting for a response.

"You see the resemblance?" You said flatly. "Nora is not my mother. Though she likes to pretend she cares."

"She seemed soft with you," Natasha offered, watching your reaction closely. "Not like the other Widows. Not like the guards."

Natasha shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned against the wall. She looked at you, her gaze unwavering but uncertain, as if trying to piece together her own reasoning for being there.

You huffed, shaking your head. “Softness is just another strategy. You know that.”

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes flicked toward the door where Nora had exited moments ago and then back to you. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s different.”

You scoffed, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it. “Why are you here, Natasha? You’ve never been one to check up on anyone.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes as if trying to read her. “So why me?”

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t a question she’d asked herself before walking into the room, but now it hung between you, heavy and unavoidable. She shifted her weight, her fingers brushing over the edge of the wall she leaned on.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice almost too soft to hear. She looked down briefly, her lips pressed into a thin line, before meeting your eyes again. “Maybe I was curious. Or... maybe I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why would you care?” you asked, your tone blunt but not unkind. “I’m just another Widow, right?”

Natasha shook her head, stepping closer to the bed. “No, you’re not. You’re... different.”

You raised a brow, leaning back slightly. “Different, how?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She stood there. Finally, she said, “You don’t let this place break you. I’ve seen it. You don’t let them win.”

Your gaze softened, but your walls didn’t crumble entirely. “And what about you?” you asked. “Are you letting them win?”

Natasha didn’t flinch at the question, but its weight settled in her chest. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I’m trying not to.”

"I am to train you,"

"You?" Natasha blinked, her surprise evident. "Aren't you too young?"

"They say I'm the best,"

"Then, why not use your talents on a mission?"

"Leaving this place is too much of a privilege," You shrugged. "I am meant to be here. I am meant to be his."

"Does he hurt you?" Natasha asked.

You paused, your expression unreadable. You didn't want to answer. It felt like admitting weakness, like giving in. "I'll live."

"That's not what I asked,"

Natasha frowned, her curiosity gnawing at her despite your apparent resistance. “You’re not like the others,” she said cautiously, watching for any shift in your expression. “He treats you differently.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You ask too many questions. You’ll do best not to in the future.”

“I just want to understand,” Natasha pressed. “How did you become so close with him?”

“If I had a straight answer, you’d have it,” you muttered, your voice low and even, your fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “But if I were to guess, it’s probably because I’m a good fighter. Maybe the best. That’s all that matters to him.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t treat you like a child.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you replied, your tone sharp, almost cutting. “What is it that you really want to know? What happens when I meet with him? It’s private.”

“It’s not nothing,” Natasha said softly. “I can see it. It’s not.”

“No,” you agreed, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “It’s not. But it’s none of your business.”

“You’re too young to—” Natasha started, but you cut her off.

“I am young,” you said sharply, sitting up straighter, your gaze hard. “And I’m the best. That’s a gift and a curse. He gives me gifts, and I give him something of myself in return. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Natasha’s stomach turned at your words, but she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure she wanted to push further, not when you were unwilling to share.

You sighed, your shoulders relaxing just slightly as you glanced at her. “I’ll train you,” you said, your voice softening, “but I won’t tell you things about my life. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

Natasha hesitated, her mind racing with unspoken questions and uneasy thoughts, but in the end, she nodded. “Okay,” she said quietly.

*******

The door to Dreykov’s office loomed taller than Natasha expected, its dark wood heavy and foreboding. She hesitated before knocking, her fist pausing mid-air. No one talked about what happened inside. Girls went in and came out changed—quieter, sharper, colder.

The door opened with a groan, and Natasha stepped inside. The warmth hit her first, different from the biting chill that filled the rest of the Red Room. A space heater purred softly under the desk, and the faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air. She didn’t know what she expected—something barren and clinical, maybe—but this wasn’t that. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books she doubted he read. A globe sat in the corner, and photographs she didn’t dare look at too closely caught the light from the desk lamp.

“Natasha,” He greeted, not looking up right away. He sat behind a wide desk of polished mahogany, his large hands resting flat on the surface. His tone wasn’t harsh but didn’t invite ease, either. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit.”

Natasha did as told, tucking her hands into her lap.

He studied her for a long moment, his eyes roaming over her body before resting on her face. His gaze was unnerving. It reminded her of a hawk eyeing a mouse, calculating and cold.

“You’ve been doing well,” Dreykov began, lifting his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were sharp and calculating, making her feel like he could see through her skin. “Top marks in marksmanship. Hand-to-hand combat. Strategy. Impressive for someone so… young.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha replied carefully. Her voice was steady, even though her heart was pounding.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the desk.

Natasha hesitated. She didn’t know. Not really. “No, sir.”

Dreykov smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve caught my attention, Natasha. That is not an easy thing to do.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“But,” he continued, his voice softening in a way that somehow made it more dangerous, “attention can be fleeting. Do you know what keeps it?”

“No, sir.”

“Loyalty,” he said, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on the desk. “Obedience. Dedication. Do you have these things?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha answered quickly.

Dreykov studied her for a long moment, the silence thick and uncomfortable. She wanted to look away but didn’t dare.

"You're familiar with y/n?" Dreykov asked.

She didn't know how to answer the question. She didn't know how much he knew. If he knew, she would be in trouble, too.

"She is a fighter and the best of the Red Room," Dreykov continued.

"Yes, sir," Natasha answered, swallowing hard.

"And do you respect her?" Dreykov's eyes bored into hers, unrelenting.

"Yes, sir," she said, forcing herself to maintain eye contact.

Dreykov was silent for a long moment as if contemplating her answer.

"She is to train you," He finally said, his gaze not wavering. "You will report everything back to me. Your training, your progress, her attitude and treatment of you."

"I don't understand," Natasha said, her brows furrowing. "Why?"

"Because you're special," Dreykov said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Because I have plans for you, and I need to ensure y/n does not interfere."

Dreykov’s gaze didn’t waver as Natasha processed his words, her thoughts running a mile a minute. How could you interfere? What could you possibly do to derail his plans? Natasha didn’t understand.

The confusion must have been written all over her face because Dreykov chuckled—a deep, humorless sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“Ah, you’re wondering, aren’t you?” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. “How could she possibly get in the way?”

Natasha didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak, her jaw tightening as she forced herself to remain composed.

Dreykov smirked, the expression cold and sharp. “Y/N is… how shall I put this? A jealous little thing,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “She doesn’t like to share. Especially not with me. You trust her?"

"I do,"

"Don't. Don't trust anyone,"

"Not even you?"

Dreykov laughed. "Especially not me."

Natasha didn't answer. She didn't know what to say. Her mind raced, the warning ringing in her ears. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the words stuck in her throat. A knock at the door broke the tension before she could muster the courage to speak.

“Come in,” He called smoothly, leaning back in his chair, his smirk firmly in place.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside. Natasha barely recognized you. Gone was the confident fighter she’d seen earlier in the training halls. In your place stood a girl—more petite, somewhat more fragile, with your shoulders held high. Your dress was simple, patterned with tiny flowers, its soft colors highlighting your youth. You looked pretty. Beautiful if she dared to think it. For the first time, you looked your age: fourteen.

Natasha watched as you crossed the room without sparing her a glance. It struck her as deliberate. You kept your eyes forward, focused solely on Dreykov, and your expression was carefully blank.

His smile widened as his eyes roved over your appearance, a glint of satisfaction gleaming in them. “Perfect,” he said, gesturing toward you. “Doesn’t she look like a proper child, Natasha? A flower among thorns.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted at how he spoke and appraised you as though you were nothing more than a tool he’d shaped with his own hands.

“Someone will teach you how to blend in,” Dreykov continued, his gaze shifting to Natasha. “How to act like a child. Then, how to act like a woman. It’s a skill, you know. One you’ll need.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. The idea felt foreign to her—learning to act like something she was supposed to be. “I don’t understand,” she said quietly, daring to speak despite the tension thickening in the room.

“Of course, you don’t,” Dreykov said, his tone condescending. “But you will. There’s a reason I’ve paired you with her.” He nodded toward you, and Natasha caught the faintest flicker of something—an emotion she couldn’t place—across your face before it disappeared. “She’ll show you. Watch her. Learn from her.”

You finally spoke, your voice softer than Natasha had ever heard it. “What do you need me to do, sir?”

Dreykov’s grin returned. “Everything you already do, my dear. And perhaps a little more. Natasha will shadow you for a time. Set an example for her. Show her how to be... convincing.”

You nodded stiffly, your movements almost mechanical. Natasha couldn’t tell if you were resigned or simply afraid.

She watched you with a growing sense of unease, unsure of what she was seeing. She couldn't pinpoint the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way you moved, the way you held yourself. You were afraid of him. Truly afraid of him. Every display of bravado she'd seen of you with others was thrown out of the window. You were small. Fragile. Vulnerable.

It scared her.

******

As the door shut behind you, the silence was almost unbearable. You walked ahead, your steps quiet and purposeful, refusing to meet Natasha’s gaze. She followed you down the hallway, barely able to keep up with the pace you set.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence. “Do you always wear dresses like that for him?” The words came out sharper than she intended, her voice laced with something between curiosity and accusation.

You stopped abruptly, turning on your heel to face her. You looked less fragile momentarily, the fire she’d seen in the training halls flickering behind your eyes. “What do you think?” you snapped, your tone cutting.

Natasha stared at you, searching for an answer, unsure of what she was looking for. “I don’t know. You won’t tell me anything.”

“And I don’t plan to,” you shot back. “You’re not here to know me, Romanoff. You’re here to watch and learn. Do that.”

Natasha felt the sting of your words, but she refused to back down. “He thinks you’re jealous of me. That you don’t want me around.”

You flinched at that, just barely, but it was enough for Natasha to notice. “He doesn’t know anything,” you muttered, your voice quieter now, tinged with bitterness.

“Doesn’t he?” Natasha challenged, stepping closer. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger, hasn’t he? Playing dress-up, doing whatever he tells you to do.”

Your jaw tightened, and for a moment, Natasha thought you might lash out. Instead, you smirked, though there was no humor in it. “And you’re any different? Do you think he doesn’t have plans for you, too? You’re just another piece on his board, Romanoff. Don’t kid yourself.”

The words hit harder than Natasha expected, but she kept her expression neutral. “At least I’m not pretending I have control,” she said evenly, her eyes narrowing.

Your smirk faltered, and Natasha caught a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or anger. “You don’t get it,” you said quietly, almost whispering. “You don’t know what it’s like to be... useful. To matter.”

Natasha opened her mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She didn’t know what it was like—not really. But she could see the weight of it now, the burden you carried. And for the first time, she wondered if Dreykov’s warning wasn’t about jealousy but the cracks in your armor that he didn’t want her to see.

You turned away before she could say anything else, your steps brisk as you returned to the training hall. “You don’t need to understand,” you said over your shoulder, your voice cold again. “Just keep up.”

Natasha watched you go, a knot tightening in her chest. She didn’t know if she wanted to follow yr fight you, but she knew one thing for sure: Dreykov was right. You were dangerous—but not in the way he thought.

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #black widow x female reader #natasha x you

61 notes · View notes

nottivagos · 2 days ago

Note

Mechanic Daniel is haunting my thoughtsssss👨🏻‍🔧

Just imagine readers car is making a few funny noises coming into the shop one day and instead of asking the guys or Daniel she thinks hey I can do this myself and show everyone I’m not just a pretty face, I’ve watched Daniel enough to know what’s going on right? Wrong. After the shop is closed reader somehow makes her car even worse not noticing mechanic Danny has come back for something and is less than happy, I neeeeed to know how you think he’d react😭🙏and what he’d do to reader 😉

It's that time again! Welcome to Notti's "Not So Innocent" Notebook where I write some filth to make your Tuesday a little bit better <3 || 18+ mdni pls and ty

an: GUYS. ANOTHER NONNIE WANTS ME DEAD. this is not a drill. anywho, LOVED THIS IDEA. ugh angry dilfs.. 😵‍💫.. i kinda switched it up a little with reader going to ask danny first (i hope u dont mind! i'd just had this idea that she was so ditzy she literally went to a con man for a car.) but the plot after that is the same <3

taglist: @orangeblossomsintheair

“I told you to not buy a shit car off of ‘im,” Danny grumbled, rubbing his temples with annoyance. “But fine,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, “I’ll fix your car,” he groaned, yet his voice held some gentleness to it. “Pass ‘em over, pet,” he flashed his rough, oil-stained palm out towards you, demanding you give your car keys over.

“Really?” your eyes brightened, that glint of happiness ever so more noticeable. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” you exclaimed your appreciation, passing over your car keys into his hand. He responded to your over-bubbly response with a disinterested grunt, nodding as he pocketed your keys, pulling out a cigarette before turning on his heel to take his well deserved smoke break after speaking to you.

However, Danny’s ‘I’ll fix your car’ meant that you were getting it back in his own time. Your boss never understood the concept of a timeframe, or in this instance, a deadline. You needed your car badly, and quick too. You couldn’t help but sympathise with him slightly, he was drowned in work, but that wasn’t an excuse in this instance.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t impressed by who you’d bought your car off. Maybe he was a little biassed, a tinge of jealousy behind that motive, but that could be suppressed by the mechanic. He’d advised you not to buy something from a rival car dealership (with a notorious legacy of selling “useless pieces of crap that deserved to be in a scrapyard”, in his words) in the local area, but the offers he was providing to you were amazing! Too bad that the car had a hundred problems you couldn’t fix. Too bad that you were too much of a pretty face whilst lacking the brains to see a con artist in his element.

Maybe you were being too impatient. Daniel was a busy man, but surely he’d make some time for you? After all, you were the one sucking him off during after-work hours, surely he’d make you the exception. Unfortunately, your hopes were far from reality. Danny was living in a ‘laid-back’ mindset ever since his divorce, doing tasks when he wanted to do them. Not when they needed to be done by. His customers knew not to complain, or they’d face the wrath of an aggressive mechanic nearly throwing a wrench at their head for rushing him.

‘Death by wrench’ was something you definitely didn’t want your ultimate demise to be known as, so you sat silently, despite the irritating urge to go and ask Danny if he’d even thought of starting on your car playing in the back of your mind. You couldn’t help but wonder if it would be better if you tried to mend your car yourself. Not only would it take the stress of Danny and the guys, but also you could prove to them that you were not just the ‘pretty face in reception that only makes a good fuck for Dan’.

So guess what you stupidly decided to do, a rush of confidence influencing your brash decision. Fix your car! You waited (rather impatiently) for Danny and the guys to go on their lunch and a shared smoke break, knowing they’d take 2 hours instead of the actual designated 30 minutes, to try and mend your poor machine. It had only been making a few weird noises… Easy fix. Right?

Wrong! Despite ogling over Danny whilst he fixed cars, believing all of that daydreaming about him whilst watching would come to good use, you soon discovered that you were not a car mechanic. And instead… useless. Well, useless wasn’t the nicest term to use. If you had maybe asked one of the guys or Danny himself for some advice, the car’s ‘wheezing and sputtering’ problem would’ve been an easy fix. But instead, giving you a wrench and a power to ‘fix’ your car ultimately made its problem worse.

The minutes turned into hours, and somehow it was already the end of the working day. The garage was silent, apart from your annoyed huffs and puffs as you continued to try and mend what you’d already broken even more.

Pouting, you wiped your sweaty forehead, not acknowledging the unamused grunts from behind you. Whilst you’d been sucked into your own world of mending your car, Danny had been watching you, agitated of course, silently whilst he rested against the countertop.

“What a shit job you've done.” A husky, unamused voice bellowed from behind you. “For a girl who ogles over me all day whilst I work, I’d suspect you could do better than.. whatever this is.”

Eyes widened as your breathing hitched. Fuck, he did not sound happy, or amused at what you’d done. Turning on your heel, you faced him with a nervous smile. “B-Boss!” you exclaimed as a blurt, “I was just trying to fix it on my own!”

“Thought I’d told you to wait,” he said, giving you a knowing look. He was resting against the worktop, burly arms crossed against his broad chest. “And instead of waitin’ like a good girl, your car is now even more fucked.”

“B-but—!”

“But nothing,” he grunted with distaste, pushing himself off of the counter towards you. In a swift movement, he had your front pushed onto the bonnet of the car, ass high up in the sky as you let out a small yelp.

“What am I going to do with you, huh?” he sighed, as if he was scolding a child, large palms gripping your hips as you rested your chest against the bonnet of the car. “Always so impatient,” he murmured, fingertips trailing down to your clothed ass which was becoming more visible as your dress rode up your curves, “always so needy. Fuck, you really know how to piss me off, petal.”

Large hands came to brush your skirt up your body, revealing your clothed bottom to Danny more clearly. He hummed with satisfaction as calloused fingers hooked underneath your panties, the cool air hitting your slick pussy almost immediately as he ripped them down your legs.

“Can’t even have a smoke without you goin’ against what I’ve told you to do,” he added, swatting your ass with force. The slap made you yelp, tears foolishly forming in your eyes as your hips jerked forward upon impact.

“That—” another whack to your throbbing flesh, “—was for being impatient—,” he grunted upon another harsh impact, his hand now leaving a red mark against your asscheek, sobs now escaping your lips. “And this—” the clap echoed around the quiet workshop as you whined, “—is for making an easy fix even worse for me to do.”

A foolish whimper followed. A strangled sob as you felt your pussy become slightly wetter. Daniel brought his face down to your ear, his ragged breaths rattling your eardrums ever so slightly.

“Tell me you’re sorry and I’ll stop,” he whispered huskily into your ear, hot breath burning the shell of your ear as you bit your bottom lip, mascara smudged by the tears you’d shed. His hand ghosted over your throbbing curves, the distance teasing you as your body was tricked into thinking he would smack it again.

“I-I’m sorry, Danny!” you blurted loudly, tears streaming down your rosy cheeks like a little girl. “I won’t try and fix a car on my own again, I-I- promise!” you squeaked helplessly.

“Good girl,” Danny hummed, moving away from you to the workbench to pick up his toolbox whilst you rearranged your clothes.

When you’d finished, he looked at you with a soft smile, despite the irritation that he’d have to stay even later to fix your problems. His doe brown eyes looked sweeter than they usually did, as he leaned in for a little kiss. The kiss was ever so soft, as if it was a ‘sorry’ for spanking you so hard, but he let his lips linger on your burning cheek for a while after.

“You should probably get off,” he said, his voice gentle as he looked at you. “It’s late, I’d hate to keep you here any longer,” Danny added with a soft glance, before rummaging through the box for the tools he needed.

You were about to head to the exit before Danny’s head sprung back around, as he reached out for your arm.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he called out, wrapping your hand around your wrist for a moment. “Next time you want me to do somethin’, just ask. Hell, nag me until I don't want you to nag me anymore," he chuckled with a shake of his head, “I’m more than willing to do it for you if you need it done as soon as possible, princess.”

like divorced mechanic!danny? consider sending me an ask so you can be included in my notebook! - notti <3

55 notes · View notes

elyxir1zz · 9 hours ago

Text

★ — Between the lines - part 5

CW : meanie sevika, artist reader, hockey player vi and sevika, modern au, highschool shenanigans, cheating, sex, dark themes, love triangle

A/N : hope you guys like it!

The next day, you found yourself alone with Vi in an empty classroom, the quiet hum of the school hallway muffled behind the closed door. The two of you sat apart, tension hanging thick in the air. Vi perched on the teacher’s desk, her arms crossed, while you leaned against a student desk, your hands gripping the edge as if it might ground you.

“I need to tell you something…” you whispered, your voice trembling. You couldn’t look at her, your eyes fixed on the scuffed tile floor.

Vi’s brow furrowed, her posture straightening. “What’s going on?” she asked, her tone laced with concern.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out before fear could silence you. “...I slept with Sevika.” Your voice broke as you finally met her gaze, the guilt threatening to swallow you whole.

Her face froze, the emotion flickering in her eyes unreadable. She opened her mouth, then closed it, as if trying to find the right words but coming up empty. “...I…” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You have every right to be angry with me,” you said, your voice cracking as you leaned harder against the desk, needing something to hold you up.

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint ticking of the classroom clock. Then, finally, she spoke.

“...I knew,” she said quietly, her words cutting through the tension like a blade.

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck as she avoided your gaze. “I had a feeling. The way you’ve been acting, the way Sevika looks at you. I just… I knew something wasn’t right.”

You stared at her, your chest tightening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, her expression unreadable. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, are you sleeping with someone else?’” She let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t want to believe it, so I told myself I was just imagining things.”

“Vi, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes. “I—I don’t even know why I did it. I was confused, and stupid, and—”

“Stop,” she said firmly, cutting you off. She looked at you then, her blue eyes piercing through you. “I don’t want excuses. I just… I just need to know. Do you love her?”

Your breath caught in your throat. The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. “I…” you hesitated, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s not like that.”

She studied your face for a long moment, her expression softening just slightly. “Okay,” she said finally. “I believe you.”

“You do?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vi nodded, standing up from the desk. “Yeah. People make mistakes. And as much as this hurts… I still love you. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

Her words felt like a lifeline, but they also left a strange hollowness in your chest. You wanted to feel relieved, but something about the way she said it—calm, almost detached—made you uneasy.

“You’re forgiving me… just like that?” you asked cautiously, watching her closely.

“Just like that,” she said with a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “But this? This can’t happen again. Ever.”

You nodded quickly. “It won’t. I promise.”

She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around you in a hug that should’ve felt comforting. But as you rested your head on her shoulder, that uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away.

Sevika was lounging in the student lounge, her long legs stretched out in front of her, her laptop balanced on her knees as she worked on her college essay. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of conversation and the occasional clink of vending machines dispensing snacks. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she typed, the glowing screen her only focus.

Then she heard the sound of footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate. She glanced up briefly, her neutral expression hardening when she saw Violet standing there.

“Oh hey, Violet…” Sevika drawled sarcastically, her lips curling into a slight smirk. She sighed dramatically, her eyes flicking back to the screen. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Vi didn’t respond immediately. She just stood there, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes fixed on Sevika like she was trying to bore a hole through her.

“You’ve been busy,” Vi said finally, her voice calm but laced with an edge that made Sevika pause.

Sevika tilted her head, her smirk deepening as she finally looked up from her laptop. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Vi stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Her shadow loomed over Sevika, but the taller girl didn’t flinch. “I’m not an idiot,” Vi said coldly, her voice dropping lower. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Sevika raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

Vi’s jaw clenched, and she leaned down, her hands gripping the edge of the bean bag Sevika was sitting against. “You’ve been sniffing around someone who doesn’t belong to you.��

There it was. The air grew heavier as Sevika closed her laptop, setting it aside. She leaned back against the bean bag, her expression calm but her eyes sharp. “She doesn’t ‘belong’ to anyone, Violet. She’s not a piece of property.”

Vi’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Sliding in, playing the misunderstood bad girl. But here’s the thing, Sevika—you’re not her type. You’re just a distraction.”

Sevika’s smirk faltered for a brief moment, but she quickly recovered. “If I’m just a distraction, why are you so pressed about it?” she shot back, her tone cool and steady.

Vi straightened up, towering over Sevika now. Her fists clenched at her sides. “Stay away from her,” she warned, her voice dripping with venom. “You’re gonna ruin everything for her. She’s got a future, and you’re not part of it.”

Sevika’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t let Vi see how her words stung. “Funny,” she said, standing up slowly to meet Vi’s gaze. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Sevika stood up, she was a bit taller then violet, but both of there presences crashed between eachother.

“You don’t scare me,” Sevika said evenly, her voice steady as her eyes bore into Vi’s. “And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your call to make.”

Vi leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t back off, I’ll make your life hell. I don’t care how tough you think you are—you don’t want to mess with me.”

Sevika’s eyes narrowed, her smirk returning as she stepped even closer, their faces inches apart now. “Is that a threat, Violet?”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, but before either of them could say anything else, the sound of the lounge door opening broke the moment. A group of students walked in, laughing and chatting, oblivious to the standoff happening in the corner of the room.

Vi took a step back, her eyes still locked on Sevika. “This isn’t over,” she said quietly, her voice a low growl.

Sevika crossed her arms, her smirk unwavering. “Looking forward to it.”

Vi shot her one last glare before turning on her heel and walking out of the lounge.

Sevika sat back down, picking up her laptop and opening it again. But as she stared at the screen, her hands hovered over the keyboard, her mind replaying the confrontation.

“Not her type, huh?” she muttered under her breath, a flicker of doubt crossing her face before she shook it off and returned to her essay.

You sat on the (THE LID IS CLOSED) toilet, your heart heavy as you stared down at the burn marks on your thighs. The mottled skin was angry and red, one mark looking far worse than the others. It throbbed slightly, a sharp reminder of the punishment you'd inflicted on yourself. You frowned, biting your lip as you thought, I need to ice this after school before it gets infected. The thought filled you with both dread and shame.

The sound of someone banging loudly on the bathroom door jolted you from your thoughts. “Jesus Christ!” you gasped, hurriedly pulling your jeans back on, wincing as the fabric brushed against the raw marks.

“You’re not spending the whole lunch period in there!” a familiar voice barked from outside the stall.

You sighed, recognizing the voice immediately. “Alright, I’m coming!” you called back, your voice laced with irritation.

Opening the stall door, you were met with Jinx leaning casually against it, arms crossed and an exaggerated pout on her face. Her wild blue hair framed her mischievous grin as she tilted her head at you. “Took you long enough,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically.

You moved past her to the sink, keeping your head low as you washed your hands. Jinx watched you for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I skipped a whole line at the taco truck to come find your mopey ass. So... you’re buying.”

You chuckled softly despite yourself, shaking your head. “You want tacos that badly, huh?”

“I need tacos that badly,” Jinx corrected, her tone serious as she stepped closer, her reflection joining yours in the mirror. She tilted her head, her gaze flicking over your face. “But what’s your deal, anyway? You look... weird.”

You avoided her eyes, focusing instead on drying your hands with a paper towel. “I’m fine,” you muttered.

Jinx wasn’t buying it. She moved to block your way, her playful demeanor slipping just enough for concern to creep in. “You’re not fine,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “I know you better than that.”

You forced a small smile, brushing past her as you headed for the door. “I just didn’t feel like dealing with people today,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Jinx followed close behind, her boots clunking noisily against the tiled floor. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not ‘people.’ and I don’t take no for an answer. Tacos. Now.”

Despite the ache in your legs and the storm in your mind, you found yourself laughing quietly at her persistence. “Alright, alright. Tacos it is.”

Jinx grinned, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you both stepped out into the hallway. “That’s the spirit! Now let’s get out of here before someone realizes we’re ditching half the lunch period.”

You let her chatter fill the silence, grateful for the distraction, even as the burning sensation on your thighs reminded you of the pain you were trying so hard to hide.

You both sat in your car, parked in a quiet corner of the lot, sharing takeout from the bag on the seat between you. The faint smell of tacos filled the air, but your appetite was nowhere to be found. Jinx, on the other hand, was devouring her food like it was her last meal, oblivious to your inner turmoil—or so you thought.

“I don’t know what to do,” you muttered, staring down at the uneaten taco in your hand.

Jinx paused mid-bite, glancing at you with raised eyebrows. “Wait,” she said through a mouthful of food, “she showed up at your place, and you two smoked? And she admitted Vi tried to ruin her life over hockey?” She tilted her head, her voice heavy with disbelief.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, avoiding her gaze.

Jinx chewed quickly and swallowed, her eyes narrowing as realization dawned on her. “Wait. What happened after that?”

Her tone made your stomach twist. You didn’t respond, your silence speaking louder than any words could.

She blinked, her eyes widening in shock. “You had sex?!” she yelled, the words practically echoing in the car.

You yelped, panic flooding your system as you reached over to cover her mouth. “Shhh!” you hissed, your eyes darting around as though someone might have been listening through the tinted windows.

Jinx pulled your hand away, a smirk creeping across her face. “Oh my god, you did. You slept with Sevika.” She leaned forward, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “You know you just admitted to cheating on my sister, right?”

You groaned, pulling your knees to your chest and burying your face in them. “I know,” you mumbled, your voice muffled.

Jinx leaned back against the seat, popping the last bit of her taco into her mouth. “It’s fine,” she said casually, brushing crumbs off her hands. “My sister doesn’t talk to me anyway unless Vander makes her.”

Her words caught you off guard, and you looked up, guilt and curiosity mixing in your expression. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, leaning her head against the window. “Vi’s always been... Vi. Perfect big sister to everyone except me. She acts like she has to keep me at arm’s length or something, like I’m some kind of liability.” Jinx’s tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness she couldn’t quite hide.

You frowned, your guilt doubling. “Jinx... I’m sorry.”

She waved you off, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it. But you...” She poked your arm, her grin morphing into a teasing smirk. “You’ve got some real problems now, huh?”

You sighed, your head falling back against the seat. “Yeah. And I have no idea what to do.”

Jinx tapped her chin thoughtfully before leaning in closer, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “You could always just date Sevika. I mean, she’s tall, hot, and has a bike. That’s like... three wins already.”

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “This isn’t funny, Jinx.”

“No, it’s hilarious.” She grinned, pulling another taco from the bag. “But hey, if you want my advice—which you probably don’t—figure out who you actually want. And if it’s not Vi...” She took a bite, chewing for a moment before finishing, “...then don’t waste her time.”

Her bluntness stung, but you knew she was right. As she went back to her tacos, you stared out the window, the weight of your choices pressing down on you. For the first time, you weren’t sure if you had the strength to make the right one.

“So..whatd it feel like?” she smirked “jinx!” you laugh

You were nestled against the pillows on your bed, a book for English class resting in your lap. The words were starting to blur together as your mind drifted, but the sharp knock at your door yanked you back into focus.

“Come in,” you called, your voice tinged with distraction.

The door creaked open, and your mom leaned against the doorframe, her expression a mix of hesitation and concern. She traced the edge of the door with her finger before stepping inside.

“Your dad called,” she said softly.

Your heart plummeted at her words, your chest tightening as you forced a smile. “Oh yeah? Did you tell him to go fuck himself?” you quipped, your tone light but dripping with bitterness.

Your mom sighed, moving to sit beside you on the bed. “Listen, honey, he’s trying,” she said, her voice calm but pleading.

“Yeah, well, why wasn’t he trying when I needed him to?” you shot back, the words leaving your mouth almost automatically.

Your mom rested her hand on your knee, her expression pained but understanding. “I’m not going to make you talk to him, okay? It’s your choice.”

You nodded but stayed silent, staring down at the book in your lap. The familiar ache of resentment twisted in your chest.

After a moment, she leaned in, resting her head gently on your shoulder. The weight of her presence was comforting, even if the topic wasn’t.

“I just don’t want you to carry this anger forever,” she murmured.

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “It’s not anger, Mom. It’s disappointment. I stopped expecting anything from him a long time ago.”

She didn’t respond right away, and the two of you sat there in silence. The quiet was heavy but not unbearable. She rubbed your knee absentmindedly, her small way of letting you know she was there, even if she couldn’t fix everything.

“I know he hurt you,” she said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you have every right to feel how you feel. Just... promise me you’ll let yourself heal, too.”

You glanced at her, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and nodded. “I’ll try,” you said, the words not entirely truthful but enough to ease the tension.

She smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before standing up. “I’ll let you get back to your reading,” she said, smoothing out her clothes as she headed for the door.

“Thanks, Mom,” you said quietly, your voice softer now.

She paused at the doorway, looking back at you. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you replied, offering a small smile as she left the room.

As the door clicked shut, you leaned back into the pillows, your mind far from the pages of your book. The emotions swirled inside you—anger, sadness, confusion—mixing into a storm you weren’t sure how to calm.

Your phone went off and you look down at it, a message from jinx? you raise an eyebrow as you unlock your phone to read it

“S.O.S meet me at the cafe downtown.”

taglist:

@vyvvycg @drinkdawudda @jiungmcvv @half-of-a-gay

#arcane #arcane sevika #sevika #sevika x reader #lesbian #vi x reader #vi arcane #wlw #jinx arcane #jinx #league of legends #arcane league of legends

37 notes · View notes

whimsimille · 2 days ago

Text

Our Bond Reaper

Minsung x Fem!Reader

Soulmate AU

Words: ~10000

contains mentions of 18+ content, sex, drug use, abuse of substances, nsfw undertone, established relationship (jisung x minho), oral (f and m receiving), piv, mxm, threesome, overstimulation, handjob, dry humping,

a/n: should i continue?

Chapter 2: The Ritual

"Are you... Are you really going to let this happen?" Minho's voice trembled as his feet traced obsessive circles across the empty flower shop parking lot. His fingers, restless like butterflies trapped in a jar, found an old receipt at the bottom of his pocket and began folding it obsessively into increasingly smaller triangles, scratching the thermal paper until it was almost torn.

Looking down, the asphalt was still wet from the morning rain, reflecting the streetlights that would soon turn on, creating small rainbows in the dirty puddles that smelt of oil and urban loneliness.

"Of course I will. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with that?" Minho let out a hysterical laugh, his free hand grabbing and pulling at his dark hair. "Chan-hyung, for heaven's sake— It was a disaster when we both came out as soulmates! Remember the scandal? The headlines? The sasaengs trying to break into the dorm?" He stopped abruptly and spun on his heels to face Chan. "And now you're here dragging me to buy flowers for a ritual that could be completely fake? A ritual he didn't even tell me about?" His voice rose an octave. "Since when do you let Han Jisung get into your head like this? You of all people, hyung! Hell, you literally sacrificed everything so we could stay eight! Gave up everything!"

Chan sighed heavily, his fingers drumming against the car hood in a rhythm that Minho recognized as the chorus of "Haven."

"Minho-yah," he began, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and sleepless nights in the studio, "first: lower your voice; people live here." He nodded toward the buildings around them, where an elderly woman in a floral robe was watching them curiously from the third floor. "Second: your boyfriend is having increasingly worse nightmares. Felix told me he found him sleeping in the bathroom last night, curled up between the toilet and the sink, shaking and mumbling about wars and spirals. Third: even though you're here spewing all this in my face, you were the first to get ready and grab the car keys when I said we needed to talk about the possible 'third' person. Didn't even brush your hair properly," he gestured to the bird's nest that was Minho's hair. "If you really wanted to give up on this ritual, you would have gone home to confront Han about not telling you anything. But here you are, destroying a receipt in your pockets and pretending you're not dying of worry."

"I'm not—"

"Fourth," Chan continued, ignoring the interruption, "I don't care about JYP and his minions. They can come at me with their contracts and threats all they want. I did it once for you all, didn't I? Faced that packed room, signed my own artistic exile sentence." He laughed. "Why not a second time? Binnie and I are already used to meetings in empty cafes at three in the morning and stolen kisses in airport bathrooms."

Minho swallowed hard, his fingers finally tearing the abused receipt into tiny pieces that danced in the wind. "Channie, don't do this. Don't sacrifice yourself again. I already feel guilty enough about the first time."

Chan pushed himself off the car. The smell of old coffee and energy drinks finally enveloping the younger one like an ungiven hug.

"Guilty? Why the hell do you feel guilty? I made a choice. I always knew that one day I'd have to choose between being an idol or..." He vaguely gestured to his own chest, where Minho knew his soulmate mark—a complex pattern of sound waves that matched Changbin's musical notes mark—pulsed under the black t-shirt. "This."

"But you chose us. Chose to hide your relationship with Binnie so we could..."

"So you guys could be together? Yeah, I chose that. We chose that, him and I. Besides, being hidden is fucking great." The blonde's fingers found the pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in his denim jacket pocket—he'd sworn he'd quit months ago but always came back in times of crisis, like a stubborn ex-lover who refuses to return the apartment keys.

The pack was crushed, probably from playing with it while listening for two hours to Han Jisung venting about Minho's rejection of trimarks and about how he had found a dusty book in the library that contained a ritual that could prove if he and Minho really had a third soul—preferably alive, because dealing with ghosts would be too much even for them.

"And I'd do it again. And again. And again." He took a cigarette from the pack but didn't light it, just twirled it between his fingers like an invisible baton. "Now there's someone out there suffering. Having nightmares, feeling phantom pains. And if I can prevent someone else from going through that..." He shrugged, finally bringing the cigarette to his lips and lighting it with a silver lighter that had the initials CB97 engraved on the side. "Well, fuck JYP Entertainment. Fuck all of them."

As the first puff of smoke rose in slow spirals against the night sky, it danced with the first snowflakes of winter. A flake caught in one of Chan's hairs, and Minho saw it melt instantly against the warmth of his skin.

"Besides," Chan continued, "it's about time I stop pretending I can control everything. That I can protect everyone." He laughed, the sound mixing with the cigarette smoke. "Look at me: trying to micromanage even my members' soulmates. Typical."

"Chan-hyung..." Minho stepped forward, his hands automatically reaching out to... for what? To hug? To hit? To beg? To tear that resigned smile from the face of the man who had sacrificed everything for them? He didn't know himself.

"No." Chan raised a hand, effectively freezing Minho in place. "Don't look at me like that. Just... let's go into this damn flower shop, buy the flowers for the ritual, and hope that this time..." He took a deep drag, smoke escaping through his nostrils, ashes staining his shirt. "That this time everything works out. And maybe... perhaps it's time for more people to be openly happy."

A car zoomed past on the wet street, its headlights creating elongated shadows that danced on the building walls. The elderly woman in the window had disappeared, probably bored with the drama unfolding in the parking lot, but her black cat still watched them with golden, judgmental eyes.

"Fine, but if this goes wrong..."

"If it goes wrong," Chan stubbed out the cigarette against his boot sole with more force than necessary, the smell of burnt rubber mixing with that of snow, "you can punch me. Right in the face. No consequences. Changbin will probably help you, actually. He's been complaining that I need a few slaps to put some sense into this thick head."

"Promise?" Minho raised his pinky.

"Scout's honour." Chan intertwined his finger with Minho's, raising the other three in a mocking salute.

"You were never a scout, hyung." Minho rolled his eyes but didn't let go of Chan's finger.

"Details, details..." Chan smiled, his dimples appearing like small craters in his pale cheeks—too pale, Minho noticed with concern, making a mental note to force him to take vitamin D. However, before he could say anything, Bangchan threw an arm over his shoulders, cold fingers finding the warm skin of the younger's neck. "Now let's go, before I change my mind and go back to the studio to sleep with my man's voice in the background. Binnie recorded three new tracks yesterday and..." He paused, the tips of his ears turning red as he bit his lower lip. "Well, you don't want to know the details."

"Oh God, definitely not." Minho pretended to shiver dramatically. "It's enough that I've caught you guys making out in the equipment closet like teenagers on their first date."

Chan laughed, the sound echoing in the empty parking lot. "It was just once!"

"Three times, hyung. I counted." Minho raised three fingers emphatically. "And the last time you were shirtless and Binnie had glitter on his neck. Glitter, hyung. I still find sparkles on my headphones when I go to record."

And so, under the first snow of winter and the lights of the flower shop sign—purple twinkle lights that tinted their skin with ethereal shadows like actors in a film noir—the two entered the shop. Like a portent, the bell above the door chimed.

"Fine." Minho wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and his eyes scanned the shelves filled with flowers, each one more exotic than the last. He was fucking pissed, wanted to leave, but knew Chan wouldn't let him, so fuck it all. "I don't know anything about this ritual. When will it be, what will he do, how will it be, where will it be. What do we need? What if he blows up our apartment? Or worse, what if he summons a demon?"

Chan rolled his eyes, but his lips trembled with a contained smile. He took a crumpled notepad from his back jeans pocket and flipped through the pages until he found the list he was looking for. "According to Hannie, we need purple flowers—preferably lavender or iris—rose quartz crystals, and red candles. My God, there are items written in Latin here! Oh, and coarse salt. Lots of coarse salt. Like, enough to make your blood pressure rise just by looking at it."

"Sounds more like my grandmother's cleansing bath recipe mixed with a beginner cultist's shopping list." The smell of wet earth and fresh flowers was starting to make Minho dizzy, his head spinning as if he'd had too much soju. "And where will this happen? In a cemetery? Because if so, I should warn you that my gothic wardrobe is at the laundry."

"No, you dramatic donkey." Chan flicked Minho's forehead, who groaned theatrically. "At your place. Jisung has already prepared everything, including doing an energy cleansing with sage and removing that horrible One Piece poster you insist on keeping in the living room."

"What do you mean? And our children?" Minho's eyes widened. "Will they witness everything?"

"Felix went to help Jisung with the floor writings and took all four to his dormitory with Seungmin. Soonie was especially happy to sleep in the king-size bed. And before you ask, yes, they have enough food for a week."

"It's today?" Minho's voice cracked on the last syllable. How could his soulmate have planned all this with the other members, and he, the one involved, know nothing about it?

"My God, he really didn't tell you anything!" Chan scoffed as he ran his hands through his bleached hair, making some melted snowflakes drip onto the wooden floor. "Typical Han Jisung, planning a mystical ritual without telling his fucking boyfriend."

Like a shadow materialized from his darkest thoughts, a young attendant approached them with steps so silent they could make Soonie die of envy. Her name tag, attached to a cord decorated with small dried flowers and crystals, identified her as "Yeeun.". She had dirt stains on her moss-green painted nails, a silver ring with an amethyst, and smelled of wet earth, fertilizer, and something sweet that reminded of jasmine incense.

"Can I help you?" Her voice had a musical timbre, like wind chimes on a summer afternoon.

"No."

"Yes, ignore my friend, please. He's kind of pissed at life." Chan quickly intervened, nervously rolling up his denim jacket sleeve until it formed a small crumpled tube at his wrist. "We need lavender. Lots of lavender. And Iris too, if you have any. It's kind of urgent. Like, really urgent. Matter of life and death. Or at least of a relationship."

"For a soulmate ritual?" Yeeun asked casually, as if commenting on the weather or asking for the time. When both stared at her open-mouthed, she smiled and pulled aside the turtleneck of her wool sweater, revealing a crescent moon. "My girlfriend is a witch too. I recognise the signs." She smiled, revealing braces with purple elastics. "Come with me; we have a special bed for these occasions. Chaeyoung insisted we keep a separate stock. Said something about specific energies and moon phases."

As they followed Yeeun through the fragrant corridors of the shop, Minho poked Chan's ribs.

"See? Everyone has a witch soulmate except me. I have a music producer who's obsessed with wars and swords and will probably end up blowing up our apartment trying to do a love ritual or whatever. I can already see the headlines: 'Idol dies in mystical ritual gone wrong; neighbours report smell of lavender and regret.'"

"At least he doesn't try to convince you to record demos at four in the morning," Chan muttered, rubbing where Minho had poked him. "Binnie has this annoying habit of calling me in the middle of the night saying he had a musical epiphany. Last week he wanted me to record a rap about mushrooms and astral travels."

Minho's laughter echoed through the shop, startling a hummingbird that was lazily drinking from a vase of orchids. The tiny bird shot away in a blur of green and blue.

"And did you record it?"

Chan blushed to the roots. "Maybe? The melody was good, okay?"

"You guys are ridiculous," Minho declared, shaking his head. A rose petal fell on his shoulder, and he absently blew it away. "All of you. And I'm even more ridiculous for being here, about to spend my salary on flowers for a possibly fake ritual that my boyfriend found in some dusty book. If this goes wrong, I'll make you eat each of these flowers."

"Ah, but it's not just any book," Yeeun commented over her shoulder while bending down to pick up a particularly beautiful lavender vase. "If it's the same one my Chaeyoung uses, it's an ancient grimoire from a poor soul who was exiled and tried to burn the evidence when she was discovered. It's been passed from witch to witch for generations. The rituals there are legitimate, even if what you're reading isn't the original book. They're copies."

"Oh yeah, cool." Minho drummed his fingers against the nearest shelf. "Then answer me something, please. Do any of these rituals end with my butt where my head should be? A tiger's tooth in my armpit? Death?"

"For fuck's sake, Lee!"

Yeeun tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "No, nothing so dramatic. The worst that can happen is a strong headache and maybe some strange visions. Like watching an 80s movie after taking cough syrup."

"Visions? What kind of visions? Because if I start seeing JYP naked, I swear I'll sue everyone."

"Shared memories, mainly." She looks at Chan's notepad that he placed open on a table and starts separating other listed branches. "Sometimes fragments of the past, other times glimpses of the future. Chaeyoung says it's like tuning an old radio—you get some stations clearly; others are just static."

Chan stopped playing with a hanging stone amulet. "And what about the... more permanent side effects?"

Yeeun raised an eyebrow, her astute eyes catching something in Chan's tense expression that Minho couldn't decipher.

"Ah," she said softly. "You're worried about burnt marks."

"Burnt marks?" Minho ran his tongue over his dry lips. "Is that possible? What about Psyche? Isn't that a betrayal to the goddess?"

"Technically yes, to all your questions." Yeeun sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. "Soulmate marks can be burnt, and the bond between the people involved will be broken without the approval of the three sisters of fate, but it's not that simple. The person who wishes to remove the mark would need to contact Psyche, offer her one of their future lives after this one, and only then would the bond be broken and the mark disappear. It's like trading your future for the present, you understand? If you don't complete all the steps, you die and lose the right to reincarnate. And believe me, death is the easiest part of this process. That's why it's illegal, both in our country and worldwide. However, there are rumours in the city that there exists... well, a peculiar person who survived the goddess of souls' wrath and is capable of burning the connection in severe cases. Some call it a gift, others a curse. Personally?" She shrugged, making the flowers in her arms sway. "I think it's more of a haunting than anything else."

"And what about the ritual we're planning to do? One of... reconnection." Chan asked.

"If you wish to perform the attunement ritual, you must understand that the person you're seeking might have ended the bond. There's no certain answer about what might happen in these situations. Some report only hearing buzzing in their ears, like television static; sometimes there's no burnt person at all, and they communicate naturally. Others..." She hesitated. "Others say they hear the burnt person's scream while the mark reforms and the connection is reconstructed. I believe these cases of reconnection are rare; maybe they happen when souls have a very strong connection and channel. But, well," she smiled, a sad and knowing smile, "I don't know much beyond that. Some things are better left in mystery, aren't they?"

"No, miss. I don't need any more mystery in this life. It's enough trying to understand how Han Jisung knows how to wield a sword without ever having practiced fencing in his life."

"In this life, you mean."

Minho swallowed hard, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the shelf until his knuckles turned white. The old wood groaned under his force. "What do you mean, this life?"

Yeeun began wrapping all the branches in different papers to facilitate identification. The sweet and herbaceous aroma intensified with each manipulation of the flowers. "Ancient souls carry memories. Abilities. Sometimes they're just fragments—like knowing exactly how to hold a teacup correctly without ever having learned etiquette or recognizing a song in a language you've never studied." Her eyes met Minho's through the branches. "Other times they're bigger things. Like knowing how to handle a sword."

Chan made a strangled sound, nearly dropping the crystal he was examining. "So you're saying that..."

"That your friend was probably a warrior in a past life? Yes." Yeeun tied everything with a purple ribbon. "And by the way you're looking at me, that explains some things, doesn't it?"

Minho ran his hand over his face. His temples were throbbing. "Great. Perfect. My boyfriend is the reincarnation of a medieval warrior. That explains why he insists on sleeping with that ridiculous sword under his mattress." He paused, frowning. "And it also explains why he cried watching all those documentaries about the Crusades."

"At least he doesn't collect shurikens," Chan muttered.

A melodious sound filled the shop—Yeeun was laughing.

"You really have no idea how special you all are, do you?" She began separating some iris stems, their petals such a deep purple they seemed to absorb light. "Ancient souls gravitate toward each other. It's like... imagine a masquerade ball where everyone is blindfolded. You can't see the faces, but you recognize people by the way they move, by the echo of their footsteps on the floor."

Once again, the hummingbird perched on a nearby orchid, its tiny wings glinting in sapphire and emerald hues. Its bright, bead-sized black eyes examined the environment before darting back to the glass ceiling of the greenhouse, leaving behind only the soft echo of its wings. Some things seemed to exist on a different plane of reality, like that iridescent little bird, transitioning between two worlds.

Exactly like Han Jisung when wielding a sword, his eyes focused on something only he could see, his back straight and chin slightly raised in a posture that screamed years of military training. Sometimes, on the quietest nights, Minho caught him murmuring orders in an ancient language while sleeping.

Exactly like Minho when dancing, his movements carrying an elegance that didn't match someone who grew up in the streets of a small town—it was something more refined, older. Something that made his hands unconsciously search for rings that no longer existed and his feet follow the steps of dances that no one else remembered.

Exactly like callused fingers from so much sewing and a gentle smile that warmed any environment. She who drew on any surface—on market walls, in beach sand, even on the tanned skin of the two men who always followed her like devoted shadows.

Damn! There was no third person; there was no woman between two men! Fuck, this was all Jisung's delusion! Why the hell was he imagining a third soul?

No. No, no, no. It was all nonsense. Schools taught—with colored graphics projected on holographic screens and all that scientific crap certified by the International Academy of Psychic Studies—that soulmates were rare. As rare as a diamond meteor falling in the middle of Times Square. And always, ALWAYS in pairs. It was basic: one plus one equals two. Like a pair of shoes, like the hemispheres of the brain, like fucking DNA with its two intertwined helices. Psyche, the goddess herself—that immortal creature who decided to play puzzle with mortals' souls—had split a single soul into two halves so they would find each other on Earth. Two. Not three. What kind of experimental mathematics was Jisung trying to shove into his head?

Cold sweat ran down his neck like ice snakes, dripping onto his shirt collar while his eyes fixed on a random point on the shelves in front—an amber bottle with what appeared to be salamander eyes floating in formaldehyde—without really seeing.

The chemical reaction that allowed telepathy—documented in thousands of brain scans, studied by crazy scientists in white coats—happened between TWO brains. Neurotransmitters: dopamine and serotonin intertwining in a perfect tango between two minds. The cases were so rare they needed to be registered with specific government agencies, each pair catalogued as if they were specimens of endangered butterflies.

Minho ran his hand through his already disheveled hair, pulling some strands hard enough to make his scalp protest. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, he mentally insisted, but from exhaustion. The air in the shop seemed denser now, as if Yeeun's words had materialized an invisible mist that made each breath a conscious effort.

"What if..." he began, his voice coming out hoarser than intended, "what if someone... hypothetically speaking... could hear more than one person? Like, more voices than they should?"

Chan turned so quickly he knocked over a bottle of essence, his agile hands catching it millimeters before it hit the floor. Yeeun, in turn, remained completely still, her hands frozen in the middle of tying a bouquet of lavender. The only movement in her face was the slow blinking of her eyes, like an owl contemplating its prey.

"More voices?" she repeated softly. "Like a... chorus?"

"Not exactly." Minho moved restlessly, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against his thigh. "More like... a conversation. Between three people. Sometimes they're just fragments; other times they're entire dialogues. And there's this feeling..." He gestured vaguely with his hands, searching for words to describe something he barely understood, "like there's an empty space. An unoccupied chair at a dinner table."

"There are stories, yes, about souls that were split not into two, but into three parts. Even four. They're rare. So rare that most scholars consider them urban legends or mystical delusions. But... some things are rare precisely because they're too powerful to be common."

Yeeun picked up Chan's notebook that was still open on the counter as she moved through the shop like a silent dance.

"If you want advice, in case the ritual is successful and you find a partner without bonds..." Her eyes met Minho's. "Know that the person will burn from within in the real world. Their body will writhe, scream, beg while the organism reconstitutes itself to receive the bond again and the mind dives into ancient memories."

"And how will we know if..."

"Try to find the frequency," Yeeun interrupted Chan, now separating small crystals that chimed like tiny bells in her hands. "The frequency in which their soul will be immersed, even if you can't see their face or hear their voice clearly, maintain contact. Don't let them get lost in their own memories."

Minho bit his lower lip until he tasted the metallic flavor of blood. "And if they get lost?"

Yeeun stopped her dance through the shop, turning to face him. The cobalt-blue crystal in her hands pulsed when she answered, "Then you dive in together. It's risky, but..." Her eyes, now with a supernatural glow.

Chan swallowed hard. "Is that... is that possible? To dive into someone else's memories?"

"Possible?" Yeeun laughed. "Darling, you already do it every night. The shared dreams aren't just dreams—they're memories leaking through the cracks between realities. The ritual will just... open the floodgates completely. All memories, all lives—everything will surface at once."

The hummingbird returned, its wings creating small whirlwinds in the incense-laden air before landing on Yeeun's shoulder. She stroked its iridescent feathers as she continued: "That's why you need to be prepared to anchor whoever is drowning in their own memories. When the memories start flowing, don't fight against them. Let them come like waves. They're just echoes of the past; they're no longer your reality."

"And if... if we discover something we don't want to know?"

Yeeun's smile was as enigmatic as a sphinx's. The hummingbird on her shoulder tilted its head, as if also waiting for her answer.

"Ah, but you already know, don't you? In the depths of your hearts, in the shadows of your nightmares—you already know. The ritual will merely bring to light what your souls have been trying to tell you for centuries."

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

Everything ready. Finally.

Han let his body sink into the sofa, the soft leather creaking under his weight while every muscle protested against the effort of having dragged furniture for hours. His eyes, heavy as molten lead, scanned the room, cataloguing the items set aside for the ritual—pure black wax candles arranged in a perfect circle, crystals aligned at the cardinal points, empty spaces awaiting the herbs and other items Chan promised to bring.

The sweat stuck to his shirt, and the dense smell of sandalwood incense was already making him slightly dizzy, making the edges of his vision ripple. He needed to take that damned iris bath that the grimoire had specified with such emphasis (three whole pages just about the ideal water temperature, for god's sake), but his limbs felt like concrete, and the damn flowers were still with Chan.

It didn't help that his mind was a whirlwind of worries: the four children he had to leave with Felix (Doongie particularly indignant about the temporary change, that little furry dictator), the exact position of the moon that was rapidly approaching the necessary apex, and especially... especially the expression he would see on Minho's face when he arrived.

He tried, for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes, to reach the older one through the mental channel they shared but found only that characteristic silence—like waves hitting against an invisible wall, the kind of blockade that Minho only erected when he was truly furious. Kind of silence that made his stomach twist into impossible knots to undo.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, Jisung fished the phone from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly over the screen before opening the conversation with Chan.

han: hyung, where are you?? the moon's almost at the right point! did you manage to get min out of the dance room? did he agree to go to the flower shop? for the love of all that's holy, tell me he's not planning to kill me. or worse, ignore me forever.

wolf: breathe. just dropped him off at the dorm; he's heading to your place. and stop biting your nails, i can hear it from here.

han: ...alive? like, he's still breathing and everything?

wolf: well... he's SLIGHTLY pissed that you hid your plans and ritual readings. MODERATELY pissed that i took your side and promised to serve as anchor again if needed. CONSIDERABLY pissed about only now understanding this whole soulmate thing that no school bothered to explain properly. and EXTREMELY pissed about not being able to get this triad marks story out of his head.

han: ...so i'm more screwed than an ant at a rodeo.

wolf: not necessarily. i managed to calm him down a bit. i think deep down he wants to help, he's just scared. but han-ah, listen to me: when he gets there, SIT and TALK to him first. don't jump straight into the ritual. he's got his head full of conspiracy theories, needs to vent.

han: but the moon... it'll only be in the right position for like, 3 more hours??

wolf: the moon will be back in the right place next month. you three have waited so long, a few more weeks won't kill anyone. and for god's sake, don't try to solve everything with kissing and sex this time either.

han: hey! when did we...

wolf: last week at the boxing gym? month before last in the kitchen? that time in the elevator that traumatized poor seungmin? the new year's party? the broom closet incident? do you really want me to keep listing? i have a drive file just for this.

wolf: anyway. love you both, you stubborn idiots. good luck! and han? he'll understand. just... give it time.

Jisung stared at his phone until his eyes burnt, until the familiar metallic sound of the elevator cut through the silence, making his breath catch in his throat. The characteristic hum of the motor echoed through the empty corridor—one, two, three floors up. Each second stretched like old gum while his heart hammered against his ribs.

The soft beep of the electronic lock cut through the silence, and Han felt every muscle in his body tense in anticipation.

"Min?"

Through the dark reflection of the turned-off TV, he watched Minho slide into the apartment like night water—silent, fluid, dangerous. Snowflakes melted on his broad shoulders, staining the black shirt that outlined every tense muscle under the thin fabric. A bulky package of flowers and ritual supplies balanced in his arms like a reluctant offering, the crumpled kraft paper whispering secrets of iris and something more pungent, almost metallic.

"Don't even think about opening that mouth." Minho's voice came out controlled—but Han knew that cadence that carried promises of storms to come. While kneeling to untie his shoelaces, his movements were too precise, like a feline preparing to pounce.

"Love, if you'd just let me—"

"I said," Minho raised his eyes, and through the TV reflection, Han saw that particular gleam, like turbulent waves under moonlight, that made his knees weaken. He silently thanked that he was sitting. "That I don't want to hear a single word from your mouth."

"How do you expect to understand if you won't let me explain?" Han felt his own energy responding to Minho's, sparks of frustration igniting under his skin while his fingers dug into the leather of the sofa. "You're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Minho stood up, eyes meeting Han's through the dark reflection. The succulent pot on the small table trembled when he passed, but didn't fall—Minho never completely lost control; that was the worst part. "Then explain to me, Han Jisung, how it's not ridiculous to discover that my boyfriend spent weeks conspiring behind my back."

Han watched, hypnotised, as Minho hung his soaked coat on a random chair. Water drops dripped from the sleeve, forming a small puddle on the wooden floor.

"Min, I..." Han swallowed hard. "I know I should have told you before, but I was afraid you wouldn't understand. That you..."

"That I wouldn't understand?" Minho's laugh sounded like torn silk. "Ah, now you want me to understand? After days of planning all this insanity? After involving Chan-hyung and the others in this..." His fingers contracted in the air, as if searching for words they couldn't reach.

Desperate, Han extended his consciousness through the bond that united them, seeking that familiar connection—and almost screamed. It was like diving into an arctic ocean, waves of icy fury exploding behind his eyes. His temples throbbed in protest while Minho's anger leaked through his mental defenses like ink spilt in clear water, tinting his own thoughts dark blue and silver.

"You have no idea," Minho murmured, and there was something new in his voice now—a raw vulnerability that made Han's heart twist, "what it's like to discover that your soulmate, the person who should trust you above all else, was hiding something like this. Planning a ritual that could..." His voice failed, and for the first time Han saw beyond the stormy waves—saw the pure, crystalline fear that made Minho's hands tremble while he practically threw the flower package in his direction.

"Min, please." Han tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. "If you'd just listen to me—"

"Listen to what exactly?" Minho ran his fingers across his face in an almost violent gesture, leaving pink trails where his nails met skin. "How you want to play with ancient forces we barely understand? How you want to risk everything we've built because of some dreams?"

Something inside Han's chest twisted painfully as a result of the behavior. His Minho, his safe harbor, who would normally envelop him in warmth and comfort as soon as he crossed that door. Who would bury his nose in his neck and breathe deeply as if Han were pure air after days of suffocating?

"They're not just dreams, and you know that very well!" Han stood up in a sudden movement, and the flower package slipped from his lap. Iris petals scattered across the floor like fallen stars, being crushed under his bare feet as he advanced. "They're memories, Min. Our memories. Why are you so afraid of discovering who we were? Of what we meant to each other in other lives?"

On any other day, any other argument, Minho would already be pushing Jisung against the sofa, his eager fingers leaving trails of fire on his skin, his body moving beautifully while mounting his lap and bouncing. He would beg with that hoarse voice for Han to fill him with his cum completely, to make him think only of jisungjisungjisung while he held him by the throat and buried himself deeper, until the nightmares that haunted them dissolved into pure pleasure.

But not today. Today, Minho backed away as if Jisung's touch burnt, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he headed to the kitchen.

Jisung hesitated for three heartbeats before following him.

The switch clicked under Minho's fingers, bathing the kitchen in fluorescent light that highlighted the dark circles under his eyes.

"There is no woman drowning in a frozen river. There is no us walking until our knees bled. There is no woman drawing symbols on our skin. There is no woman feeding the poor with blessed bread. There is no-"

"Wait." Jisung interrupted, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he watched Minho from the kitchen doorway. The older one moved like a caged predator, his eyes frantically scanning every drawer and cabinet. "Drawing on our skin? Feeding the poor? Love, I never... never dreamed of any of that. Just of her drowning. How can you know so much about her if it's all in my head?"

The sound of glass against glass echoed through the kitchen as Minho searched the cabinet under the sink. His hands trembled imperceptibly as he knocked over two empty bottles. "Where the hell did I put that bottle of Macallan? I'm sure that..."

"Min." Jisung took a step into the kitchen, maintaining the distance he knew Minho needed when he got like this. "What else are you hiding?"

"Ah." A sharp smile cut across Minho's face when his fingers finally found the neck of the bottle they had barely touched in months. He held it up against the light like a macabre trophy, the amber liquid dancing hypnotically. "Fifteen years. What a pathetic waste." His lips curved in disgust as he studied the label. "But necessary, isn't it?"

"Lee Minho."

"No." Minho poured a shot, and the crystal clinked against his teeth in a dissonant note as he downed it all at once. A single drop escaped, tracing a tortuous path down his neck. "Don't use that tone with me. Don't dare use that cheap therapist tone thinking you can fix what you don't even understand."

Jisung watched in silence as Minho poured another shot.

"Why won't your hands stop shaking?"

"Fuck off." Minho slammed the glass—not hard enough to break, of course, but enough to make the amber liquid dance.

Jisung moved. His fingers found Minho's nape, where the muscles formed a map of tension he knew by heart; he pressed there, right where the pain always accumulated after endless nights in the studio, feeling the tendons protest under his palm.

"Let me see your eyes." The words slipped against the damp skin of Minho's nape. "Please. Just... let me see what you're hiding."

When Minho remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the half-empty bottle as if it were a private oracle, Jisung slid his hand forward. His fingers spread across the older one's throat with a familiarity that crossed lifetimes—not a threat, but a collar. An anchor.

"Jisung! No!” Yet, Minho's body betrayed him as it always did, responding to Jisung's touch like a compass finding north. It took just a harsher squeeze and his head fell back in a silent surrender that hurt in its familiarity, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat where Jisung could feel his pulse running like a panicked animal. "Han-ah... I can't... I can't go through this. Not again."

"Breathe with me." Jisung pressed a little more, his fingers finding that specific point that made Minho melt—right where his jugular met his jaw. "Slowly. One-two-three, in. One-two-three, out."

"I..." Minho's fingers closed on Jisung's sweatpants like claws. The fabric protested. "Fuck. Shit. I can't... can't lose you both again. Not like this. Not this time."

Jisung's fingers froze against Minho's throat while his own heart stuttered in his chest. "Again?"

"There was this duty..." Minho's voice sounded distant. "It was... it was sacred, you know? Like..."

When Minho started to lose himself in old memories, Jisung tightened his grip on his throat. "Continue. I'm here."

"It was my responsibility." His shoulders—always so proudly straight—curved inward as if trying to protect himself from a blow Jisung couldn't see. "The people were my responsibility, but there was you... you and her in the temple gardens and..." A violent tremor shook his body. "I lost her that day. Not you, never you, but her..."

"It's okay." Jisung murmured against his nape, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there where sweat was starting to accumulate. "You were amazing. We don't need to do the ritual; we can leave this behind if it means our happiness."

"No!" Minho turned abruptly, and his elbows knocked over two glasses. The sound of it shattering against the floor echoed through the kitchen. "Han-ah, no. I... we need to do it. Now."

"Minho," Jisung held his face between his hands as if holding something too precious to name, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on his cheekbones where the skin was too cold. "You're not in any condition. There's another moon in a few days; we can wait and—"

"I need her now, Han Jisung." Minho's hands found his wrists.

"Shh... breathe."

"Now!" It was the first time Minho truly raised his voice, the word coming out like a contained sob. His knees gave way. He slid down the counter to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, dragging Jisung with him. "Please, please, please..."

"Minho, enough." Jisung knelt in front of him, ignoring the shards digging into his knees. "You're going to take a shower, and when you're calmer, we'll talk about—"

Suddenly, like a dam breaking, Jisung felt the older one finally release the mental connection that united them.

A flood of ancient memories hit him—fragments of past lives mixing like a maddened kaleidoscope. His vision darkened at the edges as images overlapped: Minho and him, pale skin against tanned skin, calm against destruction, duty against war. Candles lit in circles of salt, molten gold chains flowing down their wrists like liquid blood, screams echoing through ancient stone corridors. The smell of incense and death mingled on his tongue as Minho seemed to finally relax, Jisung's love flowing through the mental channel like warm honey, trying to calm the storm of memories.

The flame mark on his left side began to burn as if being branded again, and he could swear he felt the waves tattooed on Minho's abdomen rippling in response, their bodies recognizing each other across centuries.

"We need..." Minho took a deep breath. His fingers involuntarily contracted against the fabric of Jisung's shirt. "We need to take an iris bath first. If... if we're going to do this. Your subconscious is saying this."

Jisung didn't even question how Minho had access to his subconscious. His own thoughts seemed distant, as if observing everything through a veil of murky water.

All he knew now was that they needed to do the ritual. Today.

"Come." He murmured, his voice coming out strangely velvety, as if someone else was speaking through him. He lifted Minho with supernatural strength that made his own muscles protest.

The older one's body trembled against his as they crossed the hallway. The iris flowers lay scattered across the floor like small purple corpses, their broken stems leaving a trail of fragrant sap.

In the bathroom, Jisung undressed Minho with fingers that no longer felt like his own, his knuckles cracking with each undone button. Each movement was guided by muscle memory too old to belong to this life. The warm water fell over them like a ritual blessing, purple petals floating on the surface while steam rose in lazy spirals. Minho sobbed softly, words in ancient Sanskrit flowing from his lips.

"Han-ah..." Minho grabbed his wrist with enough force to leave crescent moon-shaped marks, his teeth chattering from cold despite the hot water.

But Jisung was already floating somewhere between lives, his body moving of its own accord while his consciousness observed through a veil.

"We need..." Minho tried to speak, his voice breaking. A drop of water ran down his tense jawline, hanging for a moment before falling. "The circle... the candles..."

Later, Han guided them back to the living room, now dressed in white robes that seemed to absorb and reflect the moonlight, fabric thin as a spider web against their still damp skin.

Minho's kiss came like an electric shock—their teeth accidentally clashing, the taste of metallic blood mixing with salt—and suddenly Jisung blinked, violently returning to consciousness. He found himself standing in the middle of the circle of candles, all lit by his own hands at some point. The antique silver lighter still burnt against his palm, metal too hot to be natural.

In silence, as if moved by invisible strings pulled by an ancient puppeteer, both let the white robes slide from their bodies, the fabric whispering secrets against their skin as it pooled at their feet.

Minho shuddered when his feet touched the circle of coarse salt, a strangled sound escaping his throat that reminded Jisung of a wounded animal. His fingers contracted involuntarily, joints cracking like dry twigs, as if responding to an invisible electric current.

"Lie down." The words escaped Jisung's lips, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. "Let the salt embrace you, hyung."

"Jisung-ah... What if... what if it goes wrong again? If she... if this time we lose everything? The energy feels different, wilder somehow."

"Look at me," Jisung commanded, his hand finding Minho's chin with surprising steadiness. "This time is different. We are different. We're stronger now, aren't we? Together."

"Together."

They lay face to face in the center of the circle, their bodies forming a perfect mirror image, like twin flames dancing in the darkness. The coarse salt scratched their bare skin, leaving tiny red marks that mapped across their flesh.

"Your heart," Minho whispered, his hand hovering over Jisung's chest. "It's beating so fast. Like hummingbird wings."

Jisung raised his hand, his fingers tracing the contours of Minho's face without actually touching him.

"Do you trust me?" Jisung asked, his breath ghosting over Minho's lips.

"Until the end of time itself."

Always.

"Psyche..." The ancient words began to flow from Jisung's lips like sacred water: "Mother of lost souls, guardian of eternal bonds, keeper of memories that time forgot..."

A violent tremor shook Minho's body, his spine arching off the ground like a drawn bow. His fingers dug into the salt, leaving deep furrows as his nails scraped against the wooden floor beneath. "J-Jisung... it's burning..."

"Shh..." Jisung continued the chant, his voice taking on impossible layers and textures, as if multiple versions of him were speaking at once—past, present, and future converging in a single moment. His hand found Minho's, intertwining their fingers despite the older's trembling.

The air around them began to vibrate with an ancient frequency that made their teeth ache. The candle flames flickered and danced, casting shadows that seemed to have lives of their own on the walls, twisting into shapes that shouldn't exist in this reality. The smell of ozone filled the environment, heavy like before a storm, mixed with something more ancient—the scent of incense and snow.

"Han-ah," Minho gasped, his free hand clutching at his abdomen where the mark of waves rippled beneath his skin. "I can feel her. She's... she's so close..."

Before darkness engulfed Jisung, he last saw Minho's eyes, which were no longer black but instead glowed with an unearthly blue that he recognized from other eras, lives, and rituals. Those eyes held universes of memories, lifetimes of love and loss.

And then, like a door being violently broken down by the fist of Psyque, their consciousness plunged into darkness, the echo of ancient temple bells reverberating in their bones, calling them home to a place they had never been in this life.

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

"Your Highness!"

"Your Highness, are you alright?"

"Prince Minho?" A second voice, softer, almost maternal, joined the chorus of concern. "You seem... distant."

Minho startled violently, his head hitting the golden vessel from which the mute nursemaid, Hyejin, was pouring water over his hair with a dull thud. As the metal reverberated, the young girl retreated, almost spilling the elaborate pitcher.

"Careful, Your Highness! You could have hurt yourself."

For a bizarre moment, he felt as if his hands weren't his own. There were tiny ripples in the perfumed water as his fingers shook against the bathtub's edge, their nails scraping the solid gold, which for some reason reminded him of a much smaller bathtub in a modern room.

"Your Highness looks pale," observed Yerin, the royal healer, while pressing specific points on his shoulders. "Your meridians are disturbed. Perhaps we should call the royal physician?"

"That won't be necessary."

He blinked several times, each movement of his eyelids seeming to drag sand. Similar to a pendulum, his vision shifted between two overlapping realities: the opulent bathtub in his royal quarters and the touch of at least five pairs of hands applying Oriental fragrances to his skin. But why did part of him expect the artificial scent of market soap?

The soulmate mark pulsed below his navel like a second source of life, burning with an intensity that made his entrails twist.

"Yah! Lee Minho!" The voice pierced through the heavy oak door carved with protection symbols, making the chandelier crystals chime. "I know you're in there, you royal idiot! Open this door before I break it down!"

"By all the ancient gods," gasped Sana, the visiting priestess from the eastern temple. "Such insolence! In my temple, such behavior..."

"We should call the royal guard!"

"He is the guard!"

"Oh!"

Ah, yes. Han Jisung was practically breaking down the door, each impact sending waves of energy through the bond that united them. The connection between them pulsed like a freshly opened wound, leaking raw emotions;

"If you don't open this door right now, I swear by Psyche I'll invoke the ancestral portals right here!"

"Minjoo-yah," he called softly to the younger nursemaid, who was kneeling beside the bathtub like a devotee in prayer. His fingers, wrinkled from the perfumed water, found the young woman's cheek in a casual caress. Still, it appeared that her gaze was more interested in exploring the area where his nudity was barely concealed by the purple water.

Minho couldn't blame her—it was no secret in the palace that his beauty was considered a blessing from the gods, though sometimes it felt more like a curse. Black as a night without the moon, his hair fell over his chiseled shoulders, water dripping down his alabaster skin in hypnotic patterns that seemed to both reflect and absorb the candlelight.

"Minho, don't make me break the protection seals!"

"Could you open the door for me, dear?" His lips curved into a smile that made the young maid blush to the roots of her black hair. "And Seulgi-unnie," he called to the older maid, who remained near the window like a silent sentinel and watched with a concern that went beyond the present moment. "Please, prepare more towels. I have a feeling I'm going to need them."

A faint creak of the door opened, and a flushed and panting Jisung, still in his training clothes, emerged. At his waist hung the ceremonial sword, its elaborate scabbard clinking against his thigh with every sudden motion. His black hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat from sword training, and there was a dirt smudge on his cheek that made him look younger, almost like the boy who used to steal peaches from the royal gardens with Minho.

"You..." Jisung began, his dark eyes traveling over Minho's naked body in the bathtub with a familiarity that made the maids avert their eyes, embarrassed. "Missed the war council meeting."

Minho tilted his head back, letting a drop of water run down his neck like a provocative caress. Through the bond, he sent flashes of the previous night—Jisung sneaking in through the secret passage behind the carved wardrobe, their urgent kisses, fingers covering Minho's mouth.

"Ah," Jisung swallowed hard, understanding tinging his cheeks red.

"Ah?"

"I... might have contributed to your delay."

"Oh... you might indeed."

Since childhood, when Jisung, son of the queen's head nursemaid, followed Minho like a shadow through the palace corridors, their lives had intertwined like threads in a forbidden tapestry. Whenever possible, the young prince evaded calligraphy lessons by hiding in the gardens with Jisung, where they stole flowers and made up stories about dragons and warriors.

At sixteen, during the Lantern Festival, their soulmate marks appeared simultaneously—waves for Minho, flames for Jisung. The panic in the queen's eyes was instantaneous; a prince could not have a servant's son as a soulmate. That same night, Jisung was sent for military training, a desperate attempt to maintain appearances. But not even distance could break the bond that united them.

"All of you," Minho waved his hand, "may leave. Captain Han will help me with the rest of my bath."

The maids exchanged hesitant glances. Only Seulgi, who had been his nursemaid since birth, allowed a small knowing smile to play on her lips before bowing and guiding the others out of the chamber.

"You're impossible today," Jisung muttered as soon as the door closed. "The entire council was waiting, including the ambassadors from the southern kingdom."

Minho observed his lover's movements with half-closed eyes, appreciating the way the muscles in his arms rippled under sun-bronzed skin. "And since when do you care about protocols, love?"

"Since there's a war knocking at our door with its drums of death," Jisung growled. "And a marriage—no, a sentence—that you insist on pretending doesn't exist, as if you could erase reality as easily as you extinguish the candles in your room every night." His dark eyes shone with a mixture of anger and fear that made the bond between them vibrate painfully.

"Don't you dare mention that wedding," Minho hissed. His fingers found one of the towels that Seulgi had left, the soft fabric absorbing the water as he wrapped himself in it. "Not today. By all the old and new gods, not today."

"Then when?" Jisung followed him into the main chamber, his training boots leaving damp tracks on the carpet imported from the western kingdom—that same kingdom now burning under Chrysalis's siege. "When their armies cross our borders with their machines? When their war towers spit fire? When they discover the ancient tunnels?"

Minho stopped in front of the ancient wooden wardrobe, his fingers tracing the dragon carvings that decorated the doors—first the head, then the wings with their delicate membranes, then the serpentine tail, in a pattern he had repeated since he was small enough to hide inside it during storms. That same wardrobe, which now hid the hidden passage Jisung used to sneak in each night.

"They found someone. For the ceremony attire."

This caught Minho's attention. His kingdom, Lunaris, cradle of lunar crystals and enchanted forges, had always been better known for its weapons than its textile arts. Every craftsman had become a manufacturer of weapons, every weaver a manufacturer of military uniforms, and every child a potential soldier as a result of the never-ending conflict with Chrysalis. Needles had been exchanged for swords long ago.

"Who?" Minho asked while donning a black silk tunic.

"One of the refugees from the royal kitchen. Y/N," Jisung replied, taking two hesitant steps toward Minho. "They say she crossed the Red Plains alone. The border guards found her nearly dead from thirst."

"From the east?" Minho froze, his fingers stopping over the silver buttons.

The eastern kingdom—formerly known as the Garden of the World—had fallen to Chrysalis three moons ago. Its famous hanging gardens had been transformed into training grounds, and the fountains that once spouted holy water now leaked a dark, viscous liquid that made the earth scream.

"The war isn't just coming, Minho," Jisung approached, his hand finding Minho's soulmate mark through the thin fabric of the tunic. "Chrysalis has already devoured the east. The south," his voice faltered, "the south knelt during the last new moon, preferring enslavement to total annihilation. And the west burns since it refused to surrender the Twilight Crystals."

"And you think marrying the princess of Chrysalis will prevent this?" Minho turned so abruptly that his tunic billowed like black wings. "That exchanging vows with those who corrupt the very essence, who transform our sacred crystals into fuel for their machines, will save our people? That lying in her bed while you..."

"No," Jisung answered, his hand rising to touch Minho's face. "But it will buy time. Time to fortify our defenses, to evacuate the border villages, to hide our own crystals."

"To say goodbye?"

Jisung sighed. "Don't say it like it's final. You know I always find my way back to you."

A sad smile played on Minho's lips. "Like a stray cat that always returns home?"

"Like a soulmate who accepts no other destinies," Jisung corrected. "Come. The seamstress must be waiting, and I," he stepped away while heading to the desk near the window, "pilfered something from the meeting that might improve your mood."

Minho arched an eyebrow, watching Jisung retrieve a wax paper package from behind a stack of official documents. The seductive aroma of fresh bread and melted cheese made his stomach protest loudly, a cruel reminder that he had missed breakfast due to his... nocturnal activities.

"You stole food from the war council meeting?" Minho asked, a genuine smile finally illuminating his face. His fingers found Jisung's when he handed him the still-warm sandwich.

"Actually," Jisung began, adjusting the golden buckle of his military uniform, "I saved this poor sandwich from a terrible death by neglect. No one was really eating—too busy shouting at each other about fortifications and defense lines. General Kim almost spilled a wine jug on Counselor Park."

Minho took a bite of the sandwich, an involuntary moan escaping his lips when the melted cheese touched his tongue. "You are impossible, Han Jisung. Completely impossible."

"Says the prince who missed a crucial meeting because he was too busy taking a petal bath," Jisung teased, his hand finding the small of Minho's back as he guided him out of the room. "And before you say anything, yes, I saw the death glares Counselor Jung was throwing at the door every five minutes."

"He was always too dramatic," Minho muttered, cleaning a crumb from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Remember when he nearly fainted because he found Jeongin practicing archery with the guards?"

"Now let's go," Jisung chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the empty corridor like music, "before the poor seamstress thinks she's been abandoned. And Minho? No matter what happens, remember: some things are stronger than political agreements or wars. Our mark is proof of that."

They walked together through the palace's silent corridors, their steps echoing against the polished marble like a melancholic duet. The afternoon sun entered lazily through the high windows, creating golden patterns on the floor.

"Can you hear?" Minho tilted his head slightly. The king would certainly be in another endless meeting with his counselors—the raised voices leaked from the council chamber. "They seem more agitated than usual. Can you make out what they're discussing?"

"Something about the northern borders," Jisung replied. "The queen must be too busy with wedding preparations with your future mother-in-law to calm the king now. You know how he gets without her around." His eyes met Minho's for a moment before quickly looking away. "And Jeongin? I haven't seen him today."

"Stuck in his lessons with Seungmin," Minho replied, a weak smile playing on his lips as he ran his hand along the ancient tapestry decorating the wall. "Probably trying to convince our dear tutor to let him escape to the lower city again. You know my little brother—always preferred the company of commoners to nobility."

"As if you were any different. Remember that time you disguised yourself as a flower seller just to..."

"Shh," Minho interrupted him, his fingers finding Jisung's lips for a fraction of a second. "The walls have ears, Captain Han." His eyes scanned the empty corridor before his voice dropped to a whisper. "So... Tell me, do you think she's trustworthy? A seamstress from the east, appearing just now... It seems too convenient. Especially considering the rumors about Chrysalis spies infiltrating through trade routes."

Jisung pressed his lips together, his fingers drumming restlessly against his sword hilt. "Chan verified her background personally—three times, actually. But keep your eyes open. Not all spies carry daggers," he hesitated, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "some carry needles and thread, as my mother used to say."

From the corner of his eye, Minho observed how Jisung tensed at mentioning his mother.

Through their bond, he felt Jisung's memories float—his mother singing while sewing uniforms for her son, teaching him to use a sword, telling stories about spies and heroes while preparing jasmine tea for the queen. And then, the distant echo of screams, flames consuming the village, his mother pushing children into a secret tunnel while facing a dozen Chrysalis soldiers alone.

Minho discreetly slid closer and his eyes swept the empty corridor before placing a soft kiss on Jisung's temple.

I'm here, my love. I'll always be.

Jisung breathed deeply and his lips curved into a small but genuine smile as he nodded his head.

I know, baby. I'll always know.

In silence, Jisung guided the way through the ornate corridors to the seamstress's room, their fingers occasionally brushing when they were sure no one was watching. His hands, calloused from years of wielding swords and climbing walls, could still make Minho's heart leap like a lovesick teenager. While being escorted, the prince fidgeted with the silver ring that was set on Jisung's ring finger in the shape of a crescent moon.

When they arrived, it was Han who opened the door, his body freezing instantly in the doorway as if struck by a paralysis spell. Minho noticed the immediate change—Jisung's broad shoulders tensed under his uniform, his breath caught, and his lips parted in silent surprise.

"Jisung?" Minho called, his own hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden in his boot. "What is it?"

Jisung didn't answer him.

Intrigued, Minho gently pushed him aside, only to perfectly understand his soulmate's reaction. The seamstress—Y/N—had her back to them, hanging various fabrics and drawings on an ornate folding screen. As though Aphrodite herself had sculpted each of her features, the afternoon light streaming in through the high windows cast a golden halo around her, and her precise movements and posture evoked Athena's wisdom.

When she turned, Minho felt his soulmate mark burn as if touched by live embers. Beside him, he heard Jisung stifle an exclamation. Y/N gazed at them with eyes that seemed to contain entire galaxies, deep and ancient as the universe itself.

For a moment, the prince completely forgot how to breathe, his throat closing as if he had swallowed desert sand.

"Your Highness," she made a graceful curtsy, her melodious voice carrying a slight eastern accent that made something inside Minho vibrate in recognition. "Captain Han. I was expecting you."

#imagine #lee minho x reader #minho x reader #minsung x reader #minsung #stray kids minho #han jisung x lee minho #lee minho x you #han jisung x reader #han x reader #han jisung #soulmate au #soulmates #bang chan #binchan #romance of the three kingdoms

15 notes · View notes