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yvaineseleneposts · 10 hours ago

Text

Eventually

Requested: no

Pairing: Mat Barzal x reader

Words: 5k

Warning(s): none,

It was one of those perfect fall evenings in Long Island — the kind where the air is crisp, but not cold, and the sky burns soft orange before fading into navy. I was halfway through curling the last section of my hair when the door creaked open behind me.

"Going somewhere fancy?" That voice — smooth, familiar — drifted in from the hallway.

I didn’t even have to look. “Don’t you knock anymore, Barzy?”

Mathew leaned against the doorframe, that cocky half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t know I needed to. Still practically family, right?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to focus on the curling iron and not the fact that he was looking at me through the mirror. “Dinner. Just... dinner.”

He stepped into the room, arms crossed over his chest, wearing one of his usual all-black fits — joggers, hoodie, backward cap. Casual, effortlessly him.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

I hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough that he noticed.

“Tyler,” I said, turning off the iron. “You’ve met him. He plays baseball at Hofstra.”

Mathew didn’t respond right away. Just stared for a beat too long. Then he nodded once and gave me a soft smile — one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That guy,” he said, almost to himself. “Yeah. Cool.”

He turned to leave, like it was no big deal, like we hadn’t grown up sneaking popsicles on the porch or dancing like idiots in my kitchen to ‘80s music. Like he hadn’t once told me, half-drunk on New Year’s, that he’d marry me if we were both single at thirty.

“Matty,” I said, voice catching. He paused, one hand on the doorframe.

“It’s just one date.”

He didn’t turn around, but his voice was low when he spoke. “It’s all right. I know that in the end…” He finally turned to look at me — eyes soft, unreadable. “We’ll be together.”

Then he was gone. And I just stood there in my room, heart thudding like a war drum, wondering when exactly everything between us got so complicated.

____

Tyler met me outside the restaurant, leaning casually against his car with a bouquet of wildflowers — not roses, not something cliché. Actual wildflowers. And maybe it was just the night air or the fact that I was still replaying Mathew’s words, but I felt something shift.

“You look beautiful,” Tyler said, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear.

“Thank you.” I smiled — it wasn’t forced.

Dinner was easy. Effortless, even. Tyler was funny in a laid-back, clever kind of way. He didn’t try too hard. He didn’t ask about Mathew — though I caught the moment he registered the name when the hostess greeted me like she knew me and casually asked, “How’s Mat? He hasn’t been in with you lately.”

Tyler just smiled through it. No jealousy. No weird tension. Just… cool.

And I liked that. I liked that he wasn’t from my past, that he wasn’t tangled up in family history or backyard hockey games or shared inside jokes from a decade ago. Tyler didn’t know that I broke my wrist trying to impress Mathew on rollerblades when I was twelve. He didn’t know how Mathew always made me pancakes after a breakup. Or that he kissed me once on a dare — and once when he really meant it.

Tyler just knew me, right now.

After dinner, we walked by the water. The breeze whipped a little too hard for my dress, but I didn’t care. Tyler offered me his jacket. I didn’t say no.

And when he kissed me under the streetlight, soft and slow — not demanding, not overthinking — I didn’t stop him. I kissed him back, because it felt right. And maybe it wasn't the fireworks I’d always imagined with Mathew, but it was something else: real. New. Warm in a different way.

But as soon as I stepped into my room later that night, the jacket still draped over my shoulders, the doubt crept in. The memory of Mathew’s voice echoed in my mind like a haunting:

“It’s all right. I know that in the end, we’ll be together.”

I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my phone, thumb hovering over his name. Because suddenly, I didn’t know if I wanted him to be right… or if I wanted to prove him wrong.

____

I didn’t see Mathew for two days after the date.

Which might not sound like a big deal — except it was. We were always bumping into each other. Grabbing coffee, crashing each other’s family dinners, him showing up uninvited with leftover sushi and a stupid movie in hand. And now, nothing.

No texts. No random memes. No sarcastic “morning, sunshine” snap. Just… silence.

I told myself it was fine. He was busy — Islanders season was ramping up, he had practices, media days, workouts. But still, when I walked into my parents’ place for Sunday dinner and saw him already there — wearing that familiar grey hoodie, sitting at the counter like he belonged (because he kind of did) — something tightened in my chest.

His eyes met mine. Just for a second. Then flicked away. Cool. Casual. Like he hadn’t told me two nights ago that he thought we were endgame.

I swallowed hard and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His voice was low, unreadable. “Tyler not coming?”

So he knew. Of course he knew.

I shook my head. “No, he had plans. Family stuff.”

Mathew just nodded and went back to chopping vegetables, knife tapping against the cutting board like he had something to prove. I busied myself helping my mom, but I could feel it — the tension humming under the surface, like an electric wire between us. It wasn’t just awkward. It was... off.

Later, while everyone was outside watching the game around the firepit, I stepped into the kitchen for a drink. I wasn’t surprised when I heard him behind me.

“You okay?”

I turned, finding him leaning against the fridge, arms crossed.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been weird,” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “Quiet. Different.”

I scoffed lightly. “Different how?”

Mathew shrugged, but there was heat behind his voice now. “I don’t know. Like your head’s somewhere else. Like maybe you’re trying really hard to pretend you’re not.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. He took a step closer, and my heart started doing that annoying skip it always did around him.

“I saw you guys,” he said, voice softer now. “Downtown. After dinner. Looked like it went well.”

I swallowed. “It did.”

He nodded again — slow, resigned. “Right.”

There was silence, heavy and strange.

And then, without looking at me, he added quietly, “I just thought if it ever happened… if you ever felt something for someone else… I’d feel it. Like I’d know.”

I felt my breath hitch. He finally met my eyes. “But you’re not just into him, are you?”

God, why did he have to say it like that? I blinked, suddenly not trusting my own voice.

“Matty…”

He stepped back, like he’d pushed too far. “Forget it. I’m being dramatic.”

“No, you’re not. I just…” I trailed off, arms crossed, the weight of everything crashing in at once. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Okay? I don’t know.”

He gave a sad little smile. “You always used to say you hated love triangles.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know I’d end up in one.”

(Flashback)

It was the middle of January — freezing outside, the kind of cold that cracks your skin and makes your breath visible even indoors if the windows leak just enough. Mathew had just flown back from a West Coast road trip. I’d picked him up from the airport because his car was snowed in and no one else wanted to make the drive that late.

We ended up back at my place around midnight.

Not because we planned to.

Because we didn’t want to say goodnight yet.

We were sitting on my couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, some movie neither of us was really watching playing in the background. He looked exhausted — eyes heavy, hoodie pulled low, hair still damp from the snow melting off him.

“Want tea or something?” I’d asked, half-rising from the couch.

He reached out and grabbed my wrist gently. “Stay.”

Just that. One word.

So I stayed.

It got quiet. The kind of quiet that has a pulse.

Mathew’s eyes didn’t leave mine. And suddenly the distance between us felt like nothing. His hand was still on my wrist, his thumb brushing back and forth like it belonged there.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke.

He just said, voice barely audible, “You know, sometimes I think I blew it. That I should’ve said something a long time ago.”

I blinked. “Said what?”

His jaw tightened. “That maybe I wasn’t just your friend. That maybe I wanted more.”

I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t that.

My heart was doing somersaults in my chest, and I couldn’t breathe for a second. He leaned in just slightly — not enough to kiss me, not really. But enough to feel his breath, to catch the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

I didn’t move.

Not forward. Not back.

I froze.

“Matty…” I whispered, unsure of what came next.

He gave me a soft smile — one that hurt. “It’s okay. I’m not trying to screw things up. Just... had to say it once.”

And then he pulled away. Laid his head back on the couch cushion. Closed his eyes like nothing had happened.

We never talked about it again.

But I remembered every second of that night.

Especially now.

(Flashback over)

____

Tyler picked me up for lunch on Tuesday. He had that same easy energy that had drawn me in from the start — soft confidence, worn-in hoodie, eyes that smiled before his lips did.

“How’s your week going?” he asked as we slid into a booth at this tucked-away sandwich spot by campus.

“Busy,” I said, brushing hair behind my ear. “Family stuff. Some work things.”

I didn’t mention the fact that I’d spent the last two nights lying in bed, replaying a moment from almost four months ago — Mathew’s voice in the dark, the weight of everything unspoken between us.

Tyler nodded like he got it. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”

“I have too,” I said. And it wasn’t a lie. But it also wasn’t the whole truth.

He smiled, reached across the table, and laced his fingers through mine. “You’ve got this energy about you,” he said. “It’s kind of… intense. Like you’re carrying a storm around, but trying really hard to keep it quiet.”

My breath caught — because how do you explain that the storm has a name?

He was still talking, gentle and curious. “I like it, though. It makes me want to know what’s underneath it. What gets you that way.”

I blinked, trying to push down the ache in my chest. “What if I don’t even know?”

“Then I’ll figure it out with you.”

He said it like a promise. Solid. Sweet. The kind of thing I would’ve swooned over a year ago.

But all I could think about was that night in January. Mathew’s fingers brushing my wrist. The crack in his voice when he said he wasn’t just my friend. And the worst part?

The way I hadn’t stopped thinking about that moment since Tyler mentioned the storm.

Because Mathew saw it too — long before Tyler ever noticed. He saw the whole storm. He was part of it.

I looked at Tyler, this sweet, steady guy who said the right things and looked at me like I mattered.

And all I could think was: Why isn’t it enough to let go of Mathew?

Why is part of me still stuck in a night we never talk about, in a promise I never made, in a kiss that never happened?

I squeezed Tyler’s hand. “I’m really glad we’re doing this too.”

And I meant it. Even if my heart was somewhere else entirely.

____

It was raining the next time I saw him. Not the kind of romantic drizzle that makes you want to dance in it — the real kind. Cold. Relentless. Soaking.

I was leaving the bookstore on Main when I spotted him across the street, hood pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn’t care that he was getting drenched. He didn’t wave. Just started walking toward me. By the time he reached the awning, I was already soaked from the knees down, clutching my tote bag like a shield.

“Matty—”

“I saw you.”

No preamble. No hesitation. Just three words, dropped like a stone in water.

I blinked. “What?”

He didn’t look angry. That was the worst part. His expression was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes right before everything breaks.

“That night. After dinner. By the water. I was driving back from the rink. I wasn’t following you or anything, I just—” He ran a hand through his wet hair, frustrated. “I saw you kiss him.”

I swallowed, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoed, voice sharp now. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Matty?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the truth?” He took a step closer, rain dripping off the edge of his hoodie. “Tell me you didn’t feel anything. Tell me it didn’t mess with your head. Because it sure as hell messed with mine.”

I looked down, then back up at him. “Of course it did. But I didn’t owe you anything.”

That landed like a slap. He stepped back, jaw clenched.

“You’re right,” he said after a beat, voice low. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. But I thought—” He exhaled hard. “I thought maybe after everything… I deserved to know if I ever had a shot.”

My voice was barely a whisper. “You did. Maybe you still do.”

His eyes flicked up to mine — searching, like he didn’t trust what he’d heard. “Then why him?”

“Because he made things simple,” I admitted. “Because I was tired of wondering what we were. Because he didn’t make me feel like I was holding my breath all the time.”

He let that sink in. Nodded slowly, like he was filing it away for later.

“And me?” he asked, quieter now. “What do I make you feel?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the truth? He made me feel like standing in the middle of a thunderstorm and laughing. Like being seen without having to speak. Like home and chaos and that one breathless second before a rollercoaster drops.

“Too much,” I finally whispered. “You make me feel too much.”

Mathew didn’t say anything. Just reached out, brushed a wet strand of hair from my cheek, and let his fingers linger for a moment longer than they should’ve. Then he stepped back.

“I’ll wait,” he said, voice steady. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait until you’re not scared of too much anymore.” And then he turned and walked back into the rain.

Leaving me on the sidewalk, heart pounding, soaked to the bone — and somehow, still burning.

____

I didn’t plan it.

Well — not really.

I knew the Islanders had a home game that night. Knew where to park without getting towed. Knew the guard at the side entrance of the arena well enough to get a pass if I smiled just right and said I was meeting Mathew.

What I didn’t know — couldn’t have planned — was how my heart would react the second I stepped into the cold concrete halls. Like muscle memory. Like my body knew this place because it knew him.

The game was winding down by the time I slid into an empty seat behind the glass. He was out on the ice, fast and sharp and maddeningly focused — the way he always was. Every movement, every shift, was electric. And all I could think about was that little kid from our backyard, skating circles in his socks, asking me if he looked like a pro.

I waited until the buzzer sounded and the crowd started filing out before heading down the tunnel. One of the staffers recognized me and waved me through with a wink.

“He’ll be out in a few,” the guy said. “He always takes forever.”

“Yeah,” I smiled softly. “I know.”

I didn’t mean to listen. Not at first. I was standing just around the corner, outside the locker room, when I heard his voice — unmistakable, even muffled through the concrete.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, and I could tell he was tired. Not physically — emotionally. “Everyone keeps saying it’s easy. That it’ll pass. That there are other fish in the sea.”

A pause. Someone mumbled something back, but she couldn’t catch it.

Then Mathew again, sharper this time — almost like he was laughing at himself.

“How long does love hurt?” he asked. “Why isn’t it just over? How long? A week? A year? Forever? I don’t know.”

Silence.

“I wish I didn’t still look for her in every crowd. Wish I didn’t check my phone twenty times a day for something she’s probably never gonna send.”

My heart lodged in her throat.

“She kissed someone else. I saw it. I know. And I still —” He stopped. Took a shaky breath. “I still feel like she’s mine. How messed up is that?”

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Because hearing it — not in a fight, not in a moment charged with tension, but like this, raw and broken and just true — it undid me.

Someone else said something again. Joking, maybe. Trying to lighten it. But Mathew’s voice stayed soft.

“I loved her before I even knew what love was.”

And just like that, my feet moved. I turned around. Walked back the way I came and fast, because suddenly I wasn’t ready. Not for that kind of truth. Not for a love that deep and aching and honest. But just as I rounded the corner, I heard my name.

“Hey—” His voice, closer now. “Wait. You were here?”

I froze.

Slowly, I turned back.

He was standing in the hallway, half out of his gear, flushed from the game and still breathing hard — but his eyes were wide. Shocked.

“How much did you hear?”

I opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then: “Enough.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as ice.

“I was going to surprise you,” I admitted, voice trembling. “Say hi. Maybe talk. But…”

“But you heard everything instead.”

I nodded.

He looked down, ran a hand through his damp hair, then met my eyes again.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear it like that.”

“But you meant it.”

A beat. Then: “Yeah. I did.”

And I didn’t know what to do with that — with the ache in his voice, with the fire still burning in my chest from words that weren’t even meant for my ears.

So I stepped forward.

Just once.

“Matty…”

And this time, he didn’t pull away.

____

I didn’t text Mathew after that night.

Not because I didn’t want to, because I did want to. More than anything. But some truths need time to settle before they can breathe.

Instead, the next morning, I met Tyler for coffee.

He was already at the café when I arrived, sitting by the window, sipping something iced. He looked like comfort — familiar, easy. The kind of guy you’re supposed to want.

“Hey, you,” he smiled, standing to greet me. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Just tired. Long night.”

He didn’t press. Just handed me a muffin and pointed to the drink he’d ordered for me — not my usual, not quite right, but close enough that it would’ve passed a week ago. Now, I noticed.

We took our drinks to go, walking aimlessly down the street. I waited, like always, for him to reach for my hand. He didn’t.

We passed through the glass door of a bookstore, and he let it fall shut behind him without glancing back. I caught it with one hand. It was nothing — a tiny detail. But it stuck.

Mathew always held the door. Always paused, always looked back. Even when they were barely more than kids. Even when they were mad at each other.

I shook the thought loose. Kept walking. Tyler pointed out a new sandwich place, cracked a joke about my inability to choose food when I was hungry, told me a story about his roommate’s weird late-night baking habit.

I laughed. Smiled. Played along but everything felt… off. Not bad. Just not right.

He didn’t glance sideways when we crossed the street — didn’t automatically shift to the outside like Mathew did every time, without thinking. He didn’t ask about my writing, or whether I’d started reading that book he recommended weeks ago.

I realized — slowly, quietly, achingly — that Tyler saw the version of me I showed on the surface. And he liked me.

But Mathew?

Mathew saw the chaos underneath. The cracks. The storm. And he still chose me.

Every time.

By the time we circled back toward my place, I was quiet. Lost in thoughts I didn’t want to voice, yet.

“You okay?” Tyler asked again, reaching for my hand this time. I let him take it. But the warmth didn’t settle the ache in my chest.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking.”

He smiled. “Don’t overthink it. We’re good, right?”

I looked at him. Really looked.

He was kind. He was steady. He was everything I thought I wanted.

And he wasn’t Mathew.

My voice was gentle. “I need some time. Just to figure stuff out.”

His brow furrowed, but he nodded slowly. “Okay. I get it.”

And maybe he did. Or maybe he just didn’t see the storm at all.

It was nearly midnight when I got home.

The city outside my window was quiet — not silent, but soft. A kind of hush that only came with the late hours. The hum of a distant car, the occasional bark of a dog down the block, the low whir of the heater kicking on.

I kicked off my shoes and sat on the floor, back against the wall, lights off.

No distractions. No Tyler. No Mathew. Just me and the echo of everything unsaid.

I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and rested my head against the wall, staring into the dark like it might answer me.

This was the part no one talks about — the in-between. The space after the fall but before the leap. The part where you sit with the ache and ask yourself the questions you’ve been avoiding.

Did I love Tyler?

Not really.

I liked the idea of him. The simplicity. The safety. The fact that he didn’t come with a history I couldn’t rewrite.

But he never really saw me. Not all of me.

And Mathew?

God, Mathew knew me. Every version. Every messy, stubborn, loud, impossible version.

He saw through my silence, read between every sentence, held space for feelings I hadn’t even named yet.

He saw me. And it terrified me.

Because what if he saw too much? What if he was right — that they were endgame — and I still blew it?

My fingers traced the edge of the mug on the floor beside me, now cold. The steam had long since faded, but the ghost of warmth clung to the ceramic.

I thought about that night on the couch in January. The way his thumb had moved across my wrist like it belonged there. The way he’d said, “I wanted more,” like it was a confession and a promise all at once.

I thought about his voice in the locker room — quiet, cracked. Asking the universe how long love was supposed to hurt.

And I knew.

I wasn’t choosing between two guys anymore. This wasn’t about Tyler or Mathew.

This was about me.

Choosing to stop being afraid of the things that mattered most. Of loving someone who had always loved me back, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was scared.

I whispered it into the silence, just to see how it felt.

“I love him.”

The words didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.

They just settled. Like truth.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, I let myself believe that it wasn’t too late.

____

It was raining again.

Of course it was. Same kind of rain as the night he saw me — steady, cold, and inconvenient. But I didn’t hesitate this time. I grabbed my coat, keys in hand before I could second guess, before doubt could talk me out of it.

The drive was short, muscle memory more than anything. I didn’t even have to think — I knew where he’d be.

His apartment was lit up when I pulled in. Warm light spilling out the window, familiar shadows dancing across the curtains. My heart thudded like it was announcing my arrival before I even got to the door.

I stood there for a second. Just breathing. Just feeling.

Then knocked.

It took a few beats. I heard movement inside — the scrape of a stool, a soft curse, the sound of feet padding across hardwood.

Then the door opened.

Mathew blinked at me, shirt rumpled, hair damp like he’d just showered. His eyes went wide, and then softened, like seeing me broke something in him and put it back together in the same breath.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey.”

We stood there like that — silence stretching, comfortable and unbearable all at once.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he added.

“I wasn’t sure either,” I said honestly. “But then I realized I’ve spent so long being scared of the wrong things.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

So I stepped closer. One breath. One truth at a time.

“I heard what you said. In the locker room.”

He looked down. Embarrassed. “Yeah. That wasn’t meant for you.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m glad I heard it.”

That got his attention. His eyes met mine — guarded, but hopeful. Always hopeful.

I took a shaky breath.

“Matty… I’ve been trying so hard to move on. To feel something else. To prove that maybe you were wrong — that maybe we weren’t written into each other’s bones the way it always felt.”

I swallowed. My voice was trembling now.

“But no matter what I do, no matter how far I run — I still come back to you. I still feel you in every song, in every quiet, in every moment that should feel complete but doesn’t.”

Mathew stepped back slightly, like he needed to steady himself. Like my words knocked the air out of him.

“I love you,” I said, finally. “And I think I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve known how to admit it.”

Silence.

Then, slowly — painfully — he spoke.

“You mean that?”

I nodded, eyes shining. “I do.”

He stared at me like he was memorizing the moment. Then he reached out, gently, like I was something fragile. Like he couldn’t believe I was really standing in front of him.

His hand found mine.

And just like that — all the noise, all the years of almost and maybe and not-yet — finally quieted.

“I never stopped,” he said softly. “Loving you.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I think that’s what scared me.”

And when he kissed me, it wasn’t fireworks. It was something steadier.

Like rain on the roof.

Like a promise finally kept.

Like home.

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wt555 · 11 months ago

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little rant in tags but...

can we please stop tagging eddsworld character fanart with the irl names of the creators?? thanks

#biggest ick #eddsworld #eddsworld discussion ig #stop using the real last names you idiots #the characters in the show ≠ irl eddsworld #tord larsson #tom ridgewell #matt hargreaves #edd gould #STOP USING THESE FOR THE CHARACTERS

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studioeisa · 21 days ago

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keeping score ⚽ mingyu x reader.

hating mingyu is easy. seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

⚽ uni soccer player!mingyu x reader. ⚽ word count: 20.4k ⚽ genre: alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: university. romance, light angst. offshoot of @xinganhao's soccer team!hhu verse. ⚽ includes: mentions of food, alcohol consumption. cussing/swearing. frenemies to ???, looots of bickering, slowburn, pining!! yearning!! tension, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial. reader is a fashion major, mingyu is a goalkeeper. hhu ensemble (mingyu’s soccer teammates). other idols make a cameo. ⚽ footnotes: this entire piece of work— all 20k words of it— is dedicated to @maplegyu. this couple is our magnum opus, and i owe so much of this vision to her; i can only hope i’ve done them justice. my favorite gyuldaengie! iyong iyo ‘to. ily. <3 🎵 the official keeping score s01 playlist.

▸ S01E01: THE ONE WITH THE MONTHLY FAMILY LUNCH.

The bane of your existence arrives like clockwork every month, complete with a three-course meal, polite conversation, and the insufferable presence of Kim fucking Mingyu.

You love the Kims. Really, you do.

His mother is an absolute angel, his father tells the best stories, and his sister is one of the few people in this world you can actually stand. But Mingyu?

Mingyu is a menace. A thorn in your side. A perpetual migraine dressed in a soccer jersey and an overinflated ego.

And yet, because your families are close, you’ve had the misfortune of growing up with him. There has never been a time in your life when he wasn’t there wreaking havoc, getting on your nerves, making these monthly lunches a test of patience and endurance.

You barely step through the Kims’ front door before he spots you, and the smirk that spreads across his face already has you bracing for impact.

“You spend all your money on clothes, don’t you?” Mingyu drawls, gaze sweeping over your carefully chosen outfit. This month’s best attempt at dressing to impress. “Do you ever buy anything useful, or is it just fabric and brand names at this point?”

You flash him a saccharine smile, one wide enough to make your cheeks hurt. “I would ask if you ever spend money on anything besides soccer cleats, but then I remembered—” You snap your fingers. “You don’t. Trust fund baby, right? Still trying to deserve that, Kim?”

He clutches his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “Low blow.”

You step past him, muttering, “Not low enough.”

The act drops at the dining table, of course. Because despite the mutual irritation that fuels your every interaction, you both have the social awareness to play nice in front of your parents.

Mingyu is seated next to you, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to roll your eyes when he oh-so-helpfully pulls a serving dish closer. To himself, obviously.

“Let me guess,” you say, resting your chin on your hand. “You’re carb-loading for a game?”

Mingyu, mid-scoop of mashed potatoes, doesn’t even blink. “Nah, just loading up so I don’t wither away listening to you talk about… what was it last time? The ‘psychological complexity of lipstick shades’?”

His mother lets out a dramatic sigh, though there’s no real dismay behind it. “Mingyu, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says easily, flashing his mother an innocent smile before turning back to you, tone all too sweet. “And personally, I think you’re more of a soft pink girl than a red one.”

It’s a direct dig at your choice of makeup for the day. You know he’s just speaking out of his ass; he doesn’t know the first thing about shades, and red is definitely your color. You take a slow sip of your drink before matching his tone. “That’s funny. I was just about to say you’re more of a benchwarmer than a starter.”

His father chuckles, far too used to this by now. “Oh, come on,” he chuckles. “You two have known each other since you were in diapers. When will you stop with the little jabs?”

“Maybe they’ll finally get along,” your mother says amusedly, “now that they’re graduating.”

You and Mingyu exchange a look, one perfectly in sync despite how much you loathe the idea of ever being on the same wavelength.

Nose scrunch. Head shake.

Not in this lifetime.

There was a time— brief, fleeting, and foolish— when you thought you might actually be friends with Mingyu.

You must’ve been, what, eight? Nine? Young enough to still believe that people could change overnight, that rivalries were just a phase, that some friendships took time to bloom.

Back then, it was silly competitions: Who could swing higher at the playground, who could run faster in the backyard, who could stack the tallest tower of Lego before the other knocked it over. It was childish, harmless, even fun at times— until you saw his real colors.

And now, over a decade later, nothing has changed.

He still finds new and inventive ways to drive you up the wall.

Case in point: Your families’ traditional group photo.

You don’t know why you still expect him to behave. You should’ve known better.

Just as the camera shutter is about to go off, you feel something tickle the back of your neck. You tense immediately, but it’s too late. Mingyu, standing behind you, has flicked the ribbon of your dress like an annoying schoolboy pulling on a pigtail.

You whirl around, shooting him a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” you warn through gritted teeth.

He gives you a wide, infuriatingly innocent grin. “Don’t what?”

You turn back, forcing a pleasant smile for the next shot. And yet— there it is again. A slight tug, barely noticeable, but just enough to let you know he’s doing it on purpose.

The camera clicks.

This time, you whip around so fast he actually takes half a step back.

“I swear to God, Kim Mingyu—”

“Kids,” your mother calls, barely looking up from her phone. “Let it go.”

“We’re not kids,” you shoot back.

Mingyu nudges your side with his elbow, leaning down ever so slightly to murmur, “You’re right. We’re adults now. Which means you can use your words instead of glaring at me like you’re trying to set me on fire with your mind.”

You retaliate by elbowing him in the ribs. He squeaks and begins to whine to his mother.

There is no universe in which you and Mingyu will ever get along. No amount of family lunches, no shared childhood history, no forced photo ops can change that.

And you’re perfectly fine with that.

▸ S01E02: THE ONE WITH SOCCER PRACTICE.

Mingyu is having a good practice session— until Seungcheol ruins it.

“Yo, loverboy,” the team captain calls out, grinning as he jogs up beside him. “You’ve got an audience today.”

Mingyu frowns, breath still heavy from his last sprint across the field. “Huh?”

Seungcheol subtly tilts his head towards the stands.

And there you are— looking as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.

You’re sitting as far from the field as possible, like being too close might infect you with ‘sports’. Your arms are crossed, your pink-clad form nearly swallowed by the ridiculous sun hat and oversized sunglasses shielding you from the very concept of nature. A frilly umbrella is propped up beside you, even though there isn’t a single drop of rain in sight.

The sheer disgruntlement on your face is almost impressive.

Mingyu groans. “Oh, come on.”

“Who’s that?” Vernon asks casually, appearing beside Mingyu and Seungcheol like a curious puppy. He’s the newest, youngest guy on the team, so he can’t be blamed for knowing the semi-constant fixture in Mingyu’s life.

Wonwoo, stretching nearby, lets out a knowing hum. “That,” he responds, “is Mingyu’s one true love.”

Vernon blinks. “Oh.”

Seungcheol laughs, slinging an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders in a way that always ticked the latter off. “The love of his life. His childhood sweetheart. The Juliet to his Romeo,” the older boy sing-songs.

Mingyu scowls. “Shut up.”

Vernon looks at you again. The way your expression barely changes as you sip from an offensively fuschia thermos makes him squint in confusion.

“She doesn’t seem too happy to be here,” the youngest notes, and Mingyu holds back the urge to snort.

You’re fidgeting now, glaring at a single blade of grass that’s found its way onto your lap, as if deeply offended by its existence. He’s half-tempted to dump an entire barrel of dried leaves on you, just to see you screech.

For now, though, Mingyu settles with shoving Seungcheol’s arm off him. “You guys are so annoying,” Mingyu grumbles.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses further up his face. “We’re just stating facts.”

“They’re not facts,” Mingyu snaps. “And she’s not here because of me. Trust me, if she had any choice, she’d be anywhere but here.”

Vernon looks between Mingyu and you again, then back at Mingyu. “…So?”

“So, what?”

The younger player shrugs. “Why is she here?”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She’s waiting for me.”

Seungcheol lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh? Waiting for you? Just how deeply are you entangled with this woman, Kim Mingyu?”

It’s a story that Seungcheol and Wonwoo already know. Mingyu knows they’re just being difficult for the hell of it, trying to goad him into reacting. He focuses on indulging Vernon, knowing the longer he avoids it, the longer he’ll be picked on.

“I owe her family,” Mingyu says through his teeth. “It’s not some stupid love story— her parents basically helped raise me when mine were busy working. You think I want to drive her places? I don’t. But my mom guilt-trips me into it every time.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo share an unimpressed look.

“Uh-huh,” Wonwoo says. “Poor you. Forced to chauffeur a beautiful girl around in your nice car. Sounds awful.”

Mingyu fights the urge to sulk. “It is. She’s unbearable.”

“She seems pretty quiet,” Vernon grunts as he adjusts his cleats.

“That’s because she’s sulking.” Mingyu isn’t sure why, but once the explanation starts, it just keeps going. “Normally, she never shuts up—always going on about useless crap, complaining about things normal people don’t even think about. Like, oh no, her new nail set doesn’t match the vibe of her outfit, or God forbid a restaurant uses the wrong kind of parmesan.”

He realizes he’s said too much when he notices Wonwoo fighting back a smirk, and Seungcheol biting the inside of his cheek. The latter pushes it further with a drawl of, “So, what I’m hearing is… you listen to her. A lot.”

Mingyu groans, rubbing his temples. He really had to learn how to keep his mouth shut. “No, I suffer through her,” he insists. “There’s a difference.”

Wonwoo folds his arms. “You know, it’s funny. You talk all this smack, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard her rant about you.”

“That’s just because she’s stuck-up. Always has been,” scoffs Mingyu.

His mind flashes back to childhood— when he was seven and you were six, and you turned your nose up at his scraped knees, saying, Only boys who don’t know how to run properly get hurt like that.

When he was ten and you were nine, and you refused to eat a slice of pizza at his birthday party because you only liked the fancy kind with real mozzarella, not whatever that was.

When he was fifteen and you were fourteen, and he caught you scoffing at his old sneakers, telling your mom some people just have no concept of ‘aesthetics.’

And yet, despite everything, your families had always forced you together.

Mingyu was never given the option to just avoid you. Your parents and his were practically inseparable, and since childhood, he’s had to deal with your high standards and exasperated sighs and perpetual disapproval over whatever nonsense you deemed worth being mad about that day.

“I promise you, she’s the worst,” Mingyu mutters, stretching his arms behind his head.

Vernon, still watching you, tilts his head. “So, what does she think of you?”

That one’s easy.

“She hates me,” Mingyu says simply. Like it’s a fact. The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you hate Kim Mingyu.

Seungcheol grins, his smile a little too sharp and knowing for Mingyu’s liking. “Oh, well. At least that’s mutual, right?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, but he does glance back at you just in time to see you struggling to shove your umbrella back into its case. You catch his eye and stick your tongue out at him, the act so childish that Mingyu can only roll his eyes and flip you off.

The feeling was most definitely mutual.

The practice goes as usual— drills, passing exercises, a scrimmage where Mingyu manages to nutmeg Wonwoo (which earns him a half-hearted shove after the play). By the time they’re finishing up with cool-down stretches, the sun is dipping low in the sky, casting the field in warm golds and oranges.

Mingyu runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and chugs the last of his water bottle before chucking it at Seungcheol’s back. “Captain,” he calls mockingly, “we done?”

Seungcheol catches the bottle before it can hit him. “Yeah, yeah. Go, be free.”

Mingyu doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his bag from the bench and jogs off the field, presumably heading toward you, who is still seated cross-armed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire practice.

The three boys watch the interaction from a distance. Mingyu says something; you scowl. He nudges your knee with his foot; you swat at him.

Wonwoo rolls his shoulders. “You think today’s the day?”

Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Not yet. Give it another few months.”

Vernon furrows his brows. “What?”

“The bet,” Wonwoo says simply.

Vernon blinks. “What bet?”

“We’ve had a running bet for years about how long it’ll take those two to get together,” supplies Seungcheol.

Vernon looks between them, then at you and Mingyu again. The two of you now seem to be engaged in some sort of bickering match. Mingyu pulls at the edge of your pink cardigan, and you swat his hand away with increasing irritation.

How long it’ll take the two of you to get together?

“You guys are insane,” Vernon says flatly.

Wonwoo snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I mean, look at them.” Vernon gestures vaguely in your direction. At this point, you’re looking like you’re five seconds away from pouncing Mingyu. “They hate each other.”

Seungcheol and Wonwoo do it again. That shared look, that quiet understanding.

“Look again,” the team captain urges, and Vernon does.

He watches as Mingyu steps back, laughingly avoiding your physical assault. You— despite your obvious frustration— fight a smile before rolling your eyes.

There’s something there. Some spark of familiarity, of knowing each other too well, of a connection that might just be a little too deep for pure hatred.

Huh.

A beat. And then Vernon digs through his pocket and procures a couple of loose bills.

“Before the year ends,” he declares, making Seungcheol and Wonwoo chuckle.

▸ S01E03: THE ONE WITH THE JANKY ELEVATOR.

You don’t know why you always end up here.

Actually, no. You do know why. Because your parents insist you wait at Mingyu’s place whenever they’re running late to pick you up, since apparently his apartment is safer than a café or a mall. Nevermind that the biggest threat to your wellbeing is standing right beside you, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Was a functioning lift too much to ask for when you were looking for apartments?” you say, eyeing the rickety metal doors of his apartment building’s elevators.

Mingyu doesn’t even look up. “Oh, sorry, princess. Next time, I’ll make sure to move into a high-rise penthouse with gold-plated buttons just for you.”

You make a noise of disgust, jabbing at the button with unnecessary force. “As if I’d ever step foot in your place again after today.”

“You say that every time.”

You open your mouth for a comeback, but the elevator doors groan open just then. The lights flicker ominously. There’s a suspicious stain on the corner of the floor. You step in with a sigh, Mingyu following behind you.

The doors shut. The elevator lurches upwards with a wheeze.

“You know,” Mingyu says, “if you hate coming here so much, you could always just Uber home.”

“Oh, believe me, if I didn’t have to be here, I wouldn’t. But my mom insists you’re—” You pause, making air quotes, “—‘trustworthy.’”

He smiles like he’s some God-given gift. “I am trustworthy.”

“You once stole my fries in front of my face and claimed I was hallucinating.”

“Okay, but—”

Before he can finish, the elevator gives a violent jolt.

And then everything goes black.

For a moment, there’s silence. Just the quiet hum of the emergency light kicking in, the faint creak of metal settling.

Then, Mingyu takes a sharp inhale.

“Uh.” His voice is suddenly tight. “No. Nope. No way.”

You blink, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. “Oh, great,” you grumble. “Fantastic. This is what I get for stepping into this death trap of a building.”

“I think— I think I need to sit down,” Mingyu mutters, lowering himself to the floor.

You huff. “Be so for real right now, you lumbering idiot.”

But then you actually look at him.

The usual cocky tilt of his head is gone. His fingers are gripping the fabric of his joggers, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes are darting around the elevator, as if checking for an exit that isn’t there.

Oh.

He’s genuinely scared.

A new, unfamiliar kind of concern settles in your chest. “Wait,” you say, kneeling beside him. “You’re not actually—”

“I just—” Mingyu gulps. “I hate elevators. And small spaces. And, you know, the whole getting stuck thing.”

And then it clicks.

You remember being kids, when the power went out at the Kim’s summer house during a thunderstorm. You remember little Mingyu, barely taller than you, sitting stiffly on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, trying— and failing— not to let his fear show. You remember the way his face twisted when the room was swallowed by darkness, how his mother had to light candles and sit beside him until the power returned.

He never admitted he was scared, of course. Mingyu never admitted anything.

But you knew.

Looking at him now— his face pale, his jaw tight— you realize some things don’t change.

Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm. “Hey. Breathe, okay? It’s fine.”

Mingyu exhales shakily. “I am breathing.”

“Yeah, like a terrified chihuahua,” you mutter. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He gives you a look, squinting at you through the darkness, but he obeys. Inhale, exhale.

You squeeze his arm. “See? Not so bad.”

He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing. You sit beside him, fingers still on his arm, grounding him. After a few beats, his breathing evens out. His shoulders relax.

“… Don’t tell anyone,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, I’m definitely telling the team.”

“I will murder you.”

An unbidden laugh escapes you. You nudge his knee with yours. “See? You’re fine.”

“Still hate this,” Mingyu exhales, rubbing his face.

“You are kind of pathetic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans back against the wall. Then, like it pains him to say it, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t remove your hand from his arm.

With a sudden jolt, the elevator whirs back to life. The overhead lights flicker before settling into a steady glow, and the quiet hum of movement returns beneath your feet.

Mingyu exhales the biggest sigh of relief you’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the doors have even fully opened, practically leaping into the hallway like he’s just escaped certain death. You follow him with a disbelieving huff.

It isn’t until you’re several paces into the hallway that you realize you’re still holding onto him.

Your fingers are curled around his forearm, right where they’d been when you were calming him down. Mingyu, ever the opportunist, notices right before you can subtly let go.

He tilts his head. “Aww, you care about me,” he coos, but there’s a hint of something in his tone. You think it might be genuine appreciation; you’re not about to dwell on it, though.

“Shut up,” you snipe. You want to shove him back in the elevator and see just how cocky he can be when it crashes out again.

“Admit it,” he sing-songs, trailing after you toward his apartment. “You were worried about me.”

“I was trapped in an elevator. I was worried about myself.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

You choose not to dignify him with a response, striding ahead until you reach his door. Mingyu unlocks it with a beep, stepping aside to let you in.

As soon as you enter, you do what you always do— make yourself at home. You toe off your shoes, toss your bag onto his couch, and march straight to his kitchen. The years of forced proximity have made this something as good as a routine.

“You got anything to eat?” you ask. The question is rhetorical; you’re already prepared to rob him of whatever he has in his pantry.

Mingyu scoffs as he kicks off his sneakers. “This is not a restaurant.”

“Clearly,” you huff, swinging open his fridge. The contents are bleak. A few eggs, a half-empty carton of orange juice, a suspiciously old container of takeout, and at least three protein shakes.

You make a face. “Be serious.”

He sprawls onto the couch. “What?”

“You live like a caveman.” You shut the fridge with an exasperated sigh, turning to scan the apartment. Your gaze lands on a new decorative shelf against the wall, filled with an assortment of mismatched trinkets. They’re all atrocious and generic.

You’re inclined to tease him that it’s why he’s bitchless, this sheer lack of consideration for aesthetics. You reel that in, though, opting instead for a lighter, “Since when did you care about home decor?”

Mingyu props his feet on the coffee table. “It’s called having taste,” he shoots back.

“You don’t have taste.”

“Excuse you—”

“This,” you gesture at the shelf, “is ugly.”

Mingyu grabs the nearest throw pillow and chucks it at you.

You barely dodge it. It whizzes past your head, and once again, you think this is exactly one of those things you should’ve expected from Mingyu. He’s immature, and obnoxious, and unbelievably rude.

“Did you just—” you’re gaping, but then another pillow flies your way.

You snatch it out of the air, and then you catch the way he’s already scrambling for another ‘weapon’. “You are such a child!” you screech, except you’re not above retaliation.

What follows is a semi-violent pillow war that neither of you are willing to concede. It’s ridiculous, and loud, and it feels exactly like every argument you’ve ever had with him. Full of unnecessary dramatics and zero real malice.

Just like that, the moment in the elevator— the quiet, vulnerable, human side of him you’d glimpsed— disappears into the back of your mind. A moment of weakness, never to happen again.

Because Kim Mingyu is still the same as he’s always been.

▸ S01E04: THE ONE WITH THE NIGHT OUT.

Mingyu swears he’s going to kill you.

He’s probably made that threat dozens of times in the past years, but tonight, he’s fairly sure he’ll actually do it.

He should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed shut-eye for tomorrow’s game. It’s the type of do-or-die match where scouts will be in the audience, after all, and while Mingyu doesn’t really give two damns about going pro, he wouldn’t mind the validation.

Alas, instead of being in his bed, he’s stuck in traffic en route to wherever the hell you’ve gone drinking tonight.

If it had just been you that asked to be picked up, Mingyu would’ve ended the call without question. Probably would have told you to get off his case and book a cab yourself.

But it’s your mother who’s asking, who has entrusted your safety and well-being in Mingyu’s allegedly capable hands. He’s not about to turn down the woman who practically helped raise him.

Disgruntled, Mingyu pulls into the parking lot of where you said you’d be drinking. Some swanky club with thumping music and neon lights.

“So help me, God,” Mingyu grumbles underneath his breath as he stomps out of his car and toward the establishment. When the bouncer charges him an entrance fee— an entrance fee!— Mingyu’s urge to cause you bodily harm only triples. He coughs up the fee and marches into the club, fully prepared to give you grief for this little stunt.

The club is alive, full of sweaty bodies pressing against each other and questionable house remixes that everyone is pretending to like. It’s an assault on the senses, and Mingyu absolutely loathes it.

He wasn’t about to act holier-than-thou. He’s had his fair share of drinking escapades, had even been to this very club himself once or twice. Still, it’s different when you’re ready for a night out and when you’ve been forced out of your restful evening because of a person you can barely even consider a friend.

It takes him all of three minutes to find you.

Take away the history, the tension, and fine. Mingyu would willingly admit: You’re gorgeous. Sometimes. When you tried.

It’s more than the sinfully short dress, more than the ankle-length boots that no one else would pull off. It’s that laugh of yours, so bright and open and loud as you let one of your friends twirl you around on the dance floor. The sound reaches Mingyu over the din of debauchery, and he feels a muscle in his jaw tick.

He hates it. He hates you.

He wants to be home, back in his bed, instead of standing five paces away from a stunning you. A you that he will have to drag down because of responsibility, because of his blasted pride. Whether or not he cares to admit it, he hates that, too.

Mingyu weaves through the crowds of dancing people until he’s reached you. He’s just about to call your name when the DJ plays a song that you seem to like, because you let out a loud squeal and try to jump.

Key word: Try. You’re just a little off-balance from your choice of shoewear and the alcohol running through your veins, because your attempt has you stumbling.

Instinctively, Mingyu reaches out to catch you. His palms land on your waist as your back falls against his chest, and it nearly kills him— the sound of your drunken giggle. You tilt your head back to look up at him.

It starts off as a half-lidded, hazy expression, one that shows off just how intoxicated you already are. But there’s something different there, too. A heat. A hunger. One that shows you’re out for something, someone tonight. Mingyu hates that the most.

He hates how that look on your face disappears when you realize who caught you. Immediately, your unchaste expression gives way to something more akin to sulky discontent, like Mingyu is the bearer of bad news.

And he is, really, because his fingers squeeze at your waist as he glares down at you.

“It’s past midnight, Cinderella,” he says, pitching his voice just loud enough above the music. “Time to head home.”

Your reaction to him is always a good litmus test of how intoxicated you are. When you jut out your lower lip and whine out a petulant “Mingyu!”, that gives him the idea that you’re pretty damn gone.

“You’re no fun,” you whine, trying to wriggle free from his grip. “This is my favorite song—”

“And it’s one in the fucking morning. Let’s go.”

Somehow, you manage to peel away from him. One of your friends links arms with you, the two of you bursting into laughter of giggles. Mingyu is tempted to leave you then and there. There’s nothing funny about this situation, and he’s already planning to tell you off for how this might affect how he plays tomorrow.

“One more song!” You put up one finger, practically shoving it up to Mingyu’s face. “Pleaseee?”

He’s only halfway through saying something like no, let’s go before your friend is dragging you further into the throng of dancing people. Mingyu can already feel a headache blossoming beneath his temple.

Resigned to his fate, he steps to the fringes of the crowd. He isn’t in the mood to scream to All I Do Is Win with all of these strangers; the least he can do is keep an eye on you.

You, scream-singing the lyrics. You, whose dress rides up with every little sway. You— laughing, dancing, still several paces away from Mingyu.

He crosses his arms over his chest and briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A voice snaps him out of his reverie.

“Hey, handsome. Want a drink?”

Mingyu’s eyes flutter open. He hadn’t noticed the girl sidling up to his side. She’s a bombshell, sure, with a lecherous gaze and a barely-there dress, but Mingyu trips up over the fact that the two of you kind of smile the same.

“No, thank you,” he says curtly. “I’m driving.”

The girl throws her head back and laughs. Mingyu’s headache feels like it’s worsening.

“You’re too good-looking to be the designated driver,” the stranger purrs. When she reaches out to run an innocent finger over Mingyu’s crossed arms, his lips tug into a slight frown. He’s no stranger to girls coming on to him. He’s entertained a couple, even, in settings exactly like this.

Tonight, he’s not in the mood. That’s it. That’s all there is to it, he thinks— as if he’s trying to convince himself.

That’s how he builds the courage to lie through his teeth.

“I’m here to drive my girlfriend home, actually.”

In the morning, he will justify it like this: He wanted the stranger to leave him alone. He wasn’t exactly lying. You were a girl, and you were… kind of his friend. And he was driving you home. That much was true.

In that very moment, though, his heart— the treacherous fool that it is— skips a single, infinitesimal beat at the prospect of calling you his ‘girlfriend’.

The stranger is undeterred. It’s a common throw-off, after all. The lie about having a significant other.

“Where’s this girlfriend of yours?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked upward in amusement.

Mingyu’s eyes flick over the throng of dancers. Right. He had been watching for you. He opens his mouth, about to mention some notable feature of yours, when the words stick in his throat. Because he’s looking right at you—

You, with your arms over the shoulders of some guy. You, tilting your face upward to kiss said stranger.

The strobe lights cut Mingyu’s vision into strips. He sees each moment like a flashbulb blinking on and off: Your eyes fluttering close. The stranger’s hand slipping to the small of your back, right over the curve of your ass. Your body, arching upward a little bit more.

Mingyu, still paces away.

By the time you’re pulling away from the man, Mingyu is already at your side. He’s still ever so gentle as he yanks you away from the stranger’s grasp.

“We’re going,” he announces.

The guy you had just been kissing lets out some strangled sound, something to the effect of “what the hell, man,” but Mingyu can’t be bothered to stick around and clarify. He focuses on hauling your ass away, even as you begin to kick up a fuss.

“But he said I was pretty—” you’re whining, the tone of your voice grating on every single one of Mingyu’s nerves.

“Because you are pretty!” he snaps as he guides you through the crowd. “Don’t go around making out with anyone who compliments you. Jesus!”

Somehow, the two of you manage to spill out of the club. Mingyu has a white-knuckled grip on your shoulders as he attempts to push you forward, towards his car.

You only add to his mounting annoyance when you dig the heels of your boots into the ground, keeping him from going any further.

“For fuck’s sake—” Mingyu grumbles. “I swear to God, I will leave you. I’m going to leave you to your own devices in this parking lot, you leech.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say shrilly. “You would never leave me!”

“I would,” he shoots back. He contemplates just throwing you over his shoulder and being done with it.

That train of thought is swiftly interrupted by you spinning around to face him. You plant your hands on your hips, speaking surprisingly evenly for someone who looks drunk out of their mind. “I was having fun,” you sniffle.

“And I was supposed to be asleep four hours ago,” he seethes. “Instead, I’m dealing with your bratty ass—”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Your mother asked me to—”

“Well, she can go and—”

“Please!”

Mingyu huffs out the word with his whole chest. Honestly, at this point? He’s not above begging. He runs his hands over his face before wringing them together.

“Can we just go home already?” he pleads. “I have to be up by six, and the student manager will have my neck if I’m late one more time. Please, please, please just get in my car already.”

You only stare him down with that steely expression of yours. Once again, Mingyu toys with the idea of manhandling you into his backseat, until you speak up.

“He said I was pretty,” you repeat, like that’s somehow the most important fact of the night.

“You are,” he responds exasperatedly.

“You’re lying,” you insist. It might be a trick of the light, a fleeting moment in the darkness of the otherwise empty parking lot, but Mingyu swears he sees a flicker of insecurity in your eyes.

You go on, “You’re just saying that. Unlike the guy back there, you don’t actually think—”

“Oh my God. Fine. Fine. I don’t think you’re pretty!” Mingyu throws his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat.

You look like you’re about to deflate, but then he barrels on, going absolutely insane over this whole stupid affair. “I think you’re breathtaking. I think you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world,” he bites out. “But, holy shit, are you the most annoying one, too!”

If you’re surprised, there’s no indication of it in your expression. But your hands do drop from your sides, and you’re looking at Mingyu with a little less disdain than a couple of seconds ago.

A beat. And then—

“You think I’m breathtaking?” you ask, the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

To hell with it. Mingyu surges forward and wraps his arms around your waist, hauling you off the ground.

You’re squealing and raining punches down his back the entire way to his car.

▸ S01E05: THE ONE WITH THE MORNING AFTER.

You wake up to the distinct smell of something warm and buttery wafting through the air, the scent tugging you out of your heavy slumber.

Your head is pounding, and your throat feels like you swallowed a gallon of sandpaper, but worst of all, there’s a familiar sense of displacement— the kind that comes with waking up somewhere that isn’t your own bed.

Cracking one eye open, you’re met with the soft glow of morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes you a second, but then you recognize the room instantly: Mingyu’s apartment.

The realization doesn’t startle you as much as it should. In fact, you sigh, rolling onto your back and rubbing at your temple. It isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here after a night out, though it’s usually because of some family event that went on too long rather than Mingyu being forced to drag your inebriated ass home.

Still, the headache and vague memories of last night are enough to sour your mood. You groan, sitting up and taking in your surroundings. Your shoes are neatly placed by the door. A bottle of water and a pack of painkillers sit on the nightstand, which you’re quick to grab.

And then, there’s the smell. The one that pulled you out of sleep in the first place.

You shuffle out of bed and into the kitchen, where you find an actual, plated breakfast waiting for you on the counter. A plate of eggs, toast, and— because you assume Mingyu is still an insufferable health nut— a side of fruit. Stuck to the rim of the plate, a bright yellow Post-it with the worst handwriting known to mankind.

Stop drinking. -KMG

You find yourself staring at the plate longer than necessary. No matter how crude the note is, the fact remains: Mingyu cooked this. For you. Before his game.

There’s an uncomfortable flutter in your chest that you quickly stomp out.

Because sure, Mingyu cooked for you. Sure, he bought you medicine. But he also had the gall to leave you a rude Post-it note like the patronizing asshole that he is. You grab the note and crumple it in your fist before popping one of the painkillers in your mouth. You mutter “fuckin’ bitch” to no one in particular, but it lacks real venom.

Your thoughts are interrupted by your phone ringing. You frown before spotting Mingyu’s charger plugged into the wall, your phone attached to it. You don’t have time to unpack whatever that means, because your mother’s name flashes across the screen.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” she asks, voice sharp with concern. “I tried calling last night, but your phone was off.”

“I was…” You hesitate, glancing at the breakfast on the counter. “With Mingyu.”

There’s no need for your mother to know where you really were dancing, who you’d spent the night flirting with. Hell, all of that is pretty much a blur at this point. The only thing left in your alcohol-addled mind is Mingyu calling you Cinderella, Mingyu’s hands on your shoulders, and… Did he carry you to his car? You’ll have to wheedle that information out of him later.

Your mother’s reaction to your white lie is immediate. Her sigh of relief is so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. “Oh. That’s good,” she breathes. “At least I know you were in good hands.” The food in front of you suddenly looks much less appealing. Of course. Of course that’s all it takes for her to drop her interrogation. You could have told her you spent the night at any of your friends’ places, and she still would have had a million questions. But mention Mingyu, and suddenly she’s appeased.

“Yeah,” you say flatly. “Great hands.”

You don’t like it. You don’t like feeling indebted to him. You don’t like that he has that effect— not just on your mother, but on you, too.

As much as you want to brush it off, you can’t help but glance at the plate again, at the neatly arranged breakfast that he didn’t have to make, at the medicine he didn’t have to buy.

And that flutter? That stupid, tiny, treacherous flutter in your chest?

You shove it deep down where it belongs.

Meanwhile, Mingyu fights his own battles. On the field, he’s a wall. A force of nature.

His muscles burn. His mind is sharp. Every time the ball nears his goal, he’s already two steps ahead. The opposing team is relentless, throwing every tactic they can at him, but it doesn’t matter. Not today.

Today, Mingyu is untouchable.

The scouts on the sidelines are nodding, murmuring to each other with increasing interest. His teammates are exhilarated, feeding off his energy. Seungcheol is the first to voice it, panting as he jogs past the goal. “You’re playing like a fucking monster.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer, just adjusts his gloves and keeps his gaze locked on the field. Wonwoo watches him a beat longer, brow furrowed. “You’re not usually this aggressive.”

Mingyu exhales sharply. “Gotta keep the scouts entertained, don’t I?”

It’s a good enough excuse. No one questions him after that.

But the truth is, he knows exactly why he’s playing like this.

Because across the field is him— the guy from last night. The guy who got to kiss you, to touch you while Mingyu watched.

And the jerk looks perfectly fine. Well-rested, even. Ready to play.

Mingyu’s jaw tightens.

When the next shot comes, he doesn’t just block it. He slaps it out of the air with enough force to send it soaring toward midfield. The sound of his palm meeting the ball echoes across the stadium. The forward who took the shot looks stunned; the murmurs from the scouts grow louder.

Seungcheol lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”

Mingyu exhales, flexing his fingers inside his gloves. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, but he’s locked in, focused. He doesn’t care how many more shots they take. None of them are getting past him today.

You’re not even here, but you might as well be by the way Mingyu thinks of you the entire damn time.

And if, after the final whistle blows and his team secures the win, he happens to walk past him with just a little too much shoulder in his stride? Well.

That’s just the cherry on top.

He feels proud. Vindicated. He revels in it for a full minute before— much like you— shoving the feeling as far away from him as possible.

Now it’s even. Now, he doesn’t owe you a thing.

▸ S01E06: THE ONE WITH THE PERFUME.

Mingyu isn’t sure how he ended up in the fragrance section.

The trip to the mall had a purpose— find a birthday gift for their student manager, someone patient enough to handle their chaos. Seungcheol was atrociously down bad for the girl, and was still trying to prove himself worthy of her time.

Seungcheol, Wonwoo, and Vernon debate between a sleek planner and a wireless charger.

“The planner will help her deal with us,” Wonwoo pushes, “we’re always bombarding her with our schedules, anyway.”

Vernon butts in. “Getting her a gift that benefits us is a shitty thing to do.”

The man of the hour— Seungcheol, who is balancing the two gifts in his hands— gives the world’s shittiest suggestion. “Let’s just get both!”

As the three try to argue the merits of the gifts, Mingyu wanders off. For some reason, he finds himself drawn by the gleam of glass bottles and the faint hum of different scents in the air.

He has no business being here. Cologne isn’t something he puts much thought into; he has his one bottle, the same one he’s used for years, and it does the job.

Still, his fingers ghost over the display, picking up a tester bottle without much thought. The label is understated. Minimalist design, black serif lettering against a frosted background. Expensive-looking. He presses down on the nozzle, sending a fine mist into the air.

The scent unfurls slowly. First, there’s a burst of something citrusy— bright, crisp, and fleeting. Then it settles into softer notes, something warm and clean, like white musk and fresh linen.

But underneath, lingering just at the edge, is something else. Something vaguely floral, but not overpowering. A hint of jasmine, maybe, softened by vanilla.

His grip tightens around the tester. He’s suffered through this scent before.

It clings to his couch cushions, stubborn even after airing out his apartment. It lingers in his car, filling the spaces between his words when you're in the passenger seat. It’s in his hoodie the morning after you crash at his place, making his head turn before he remembers you’re already gone.

Mingyu frowns, inhaling again, as if the scent will offer up an explanation for why it pulls at something deep in his memory.

Could it be your own perfume? Could your shampoo have the same notes?

He debates it for a second. Buying the bottle, testing if it really does smell the same. If it would fade the same way, settle the same way. If it would remind him of you just as much.

And then— what the hell is he doing?

Mingyu sets down the tester bottle, clicking the cap back on. He tries to chalk it up to curiosity. That has to be it. He’s a man of logic, someone who likes to confirm hypotheses like whether this inconspicuous bottle of perfume is the same as his arch rival’s.

That’s all there is to it, he thinks, as he stalks back over to his teammates. A verdict has been reached: Seungcheol will get her the planner. The charger will be halved three-way by Mingyu, Vernon, and Wonwoo.

“Where’d you go?” Wonwoo inquires.

“Nowhere,” Mingyu answers, even though his mind is still on the stupid smell.

He wipes at his wrist like that might help him get rid of the thought of you.

(In the other side of the mall—)

▸ S01E07: THE ONE WITH THE SHOPPING TRIP.

You love shopping.

Not just for the thrill of it or the satisfaction of walking out of a store with a new find, but because it’s part of your studies. As a business major with a minor in fashion design, you don’t just see clothes. You see craftsmanship, marketability, trends, and the little details that separate the exceptional from the ordinary.

Which is why you don’t take it lightly when a saleslady looks down on you.

It starts with the way she barely glances at you when you step into the boutique, her gaze flickering from your casual outfit to the more expensively dressed customers lingering by the racks. She doesn’t offer a greeting, doesn’t ask if you need help, just wrongly assumes that you’re not worth her time.

You brush it off at first. It’s not the first time someone has made a snap judgment about you, and it won’t be the last. But then, as you pull a dress from the rack, inspecting the stitching along the seams, you hear her scoff.

“That one’s a little out of budget, don’t you think?” she says, her voice coated in artificial sweetness.

You arch a brow, turning the dress over in your hands. It’s a designer piece, sure, but it’s not about the price. It’s about the construction, and this one? Overpriced for what it offers. You could name at least three brands that do a better job at a fraction of the cost.

Instead of rising to the bait, you hum thoughtfully. “The stitching here is uneven,” you muse, holding the fabric up to the light. “And the lining? They cut costs with synthetic blends when they should have used silk. The structure won’t hold up after a few wears.”

The saleslady falters, clearly unprepared for an actual critique. You don’t stop there.

“For the price, I’d expect better craftsmanship. If you’re going to charge this much, at least make sure the dress can justify it.”

A beat of silence. Then, another voice chimes in— a stranger, another customer, who suddenly looks interested in what you have to say. “That’s actually a good point,” she murmurs, inspecting her own dress more closely.

The saleslady’s expression tightens, and she suddenly looks less inclined to speak. You hide a smirk, setting the dress back on the rack.

You love shopping. But more than that, you love knowing exactly what you’re talking about.

The next store is quieter, more minimalist, with racks of clothing spaced out deliberately to give each piece a sense of importance. You skim through them idly until something catches your eye.

A shirt. Simple, well-tailored, the kind of thing that would sit well on broad shoulders.

Mingyu’s shoulders.

You wrinkle your nose at the thought. The idea of picking something out for him makes your stomach turn, and yet… you keep looking at it. It’s a nice color, something that would complement his skin tone. The fit would be flattering. It’s practical, stylish, something he could wear effortlessly.

You chalk it up to habit. It’s the same as when you find a cute piece that would suit a mannequin perfectly. Just another exercise in styling. Nothing more.

Besides, if you bought it, it wouldn’t be for him. It would be for the sake of aesthetics. Like dressing up a doll. Or— better yet— like charity.

Yes. That’s all it is. You like knowing what you’re talking about, and this is just a manifestation of it.

You grab the shirt, holding it up for a final once-over before tossing it into your basket. If anything, you can pass it off as a Christmas gift. That’s reasonable. Normal, even. No big deal.

But then you see a sweater that would pair well with it. And a jacket that’s undeniably his style. And before you know it, your basket is full.

It’s only when you’re standing in line to pay that it truly hits you.

What the hell are you doing?

Your grip tightens around the handle of the basket, heart hammering in your chest. You stare at the pile of clothes— clothes for Mingyu— and feel a wave of unease creep up your spine. This is not normal. This is not something you do.

You were supposed to get one thing. One. Now you’re standing here like some deranged personal shopper, about to spend money on a man you claim to tolerate at best.

No. Absolutely not.

You step out of the line, return to the racks, and unceremoniously dump the basket’s contents back where they belong. One by one, you rid yourself of every last piece until there’s nothing left.

Your heart is still racing by the time you exit the store. You need a spa day. Desperately.

▸ S01E08: THE ONE WITH THE GAME.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mingyu stares from across the field, frozen in place as his teammates jog past him. The pregame warmups blur into the background because there you are, sitting in the stands. Willingly.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Because in all the years he’s known you, you’ve never voluntarily attended one of his games. Not without some level of coercion. Not without at least thirty minutes of complaining.

And yet, here you are.

Unfortunately, you also stick out like a sore thumb.

He sees you draped in obnoxiously bright colors, layered in mismatched school merch like someone who got dressed in the dark— or someone trying too hard to look like they belong. The cap, the oversized hoodie, the scarf, all of it is excessive.

The worst part? It works.

Because even from across the field, even as his teammates stretch and the crowd chatters, Mingyu sees you. And now he can’t unsee you.

He ignores the cheerleaders calling his name. Ignores the people waving at him, the fans holding up banners with his number. Ignores the way his coach is probably going to yell at him later for getting distracted before the game.

Instead, he heads straight for you.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands, stopping just short of the stands.

You lower your phone, where you’d clearly been snapping photos, and peer down at him like he’s the one acting weird. “Your mom asked me to take photos of you,” you reply, voice maddeningly nonchalant. “Don’t lose.”

Mingyu scoffs. “Don’t tell me what to do.” Then, a beat later, he petulantly adds, “Also, I never lose.”

You roll your eyes, already angling your phone for another shot, but Mingyu doesn’t move just yet. The fact remains; you’re here, looking infuriatingly good, and he’s going to spend the next 90 minutes fighting for his life. He can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

Either way, he knows one thing for sure: He really, really can’t afford to lose.

But he does.

It’s a hard-fought game, and Mingyu plays like a man possessed. He dives for impossible saves, yells orders at his defenders, and shuts down shot after shot. The crowd roars every time he denies the other team, and for most of the match, it looks like his team might just scrape by with a win.

Then, in the final minutes, everything falls apart.

A miscalculated pass. A stolen ball. A breakaway that happens too fast.

Mingyu sees it unfold in real-time, feels the moment slip through his fingers before it even happens. He charges forward, determined to cut off the angle, to make himself big, to stop the shot. But the ball soars past him, hitting the back of the net with a deafening thud.

The stadium erupts. The other team celebrates. And Mingyu, chest heaving, fists clenched, can only stare as the scoreboard confirms it.

A one-point lead. Game over.

He barely hears the whistle. Barely registers his teammates patting his back, muttering things like You did great and We’ll get them next time. None of it matters. Because he lost. Because he let that shot in.

Because somewhere in the stands, you saw him fail.

He drags his gloves off, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He doesn’t want to look up. Doesn’t want to see if you’re still watching.

Against his better judgment, his gaze lifts toward the stands anyway.

There you are, camera in hand, expression unreadable. Of all his losses that day, that was the one that inexplicably ticked him off the most. The fact that you weren’t smiling, weren’t frowning. You were just… watching. He’s never been able to read your mind, but he despises that inability the most today.

Mingyu exhales sharply, looks away, and storms off the field.

He doesn’t expect you to wait for him outside the locker room. You’re there anyway when he steps out, your arms crossed and your lips pursed. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the look he shoots your way; you have to take large steps in your ridiculous heels just to keep up with his pace. He feels like a hurricane— one that’s about to sweep through your stoicism, about to leave significant collateral damage.

“Come on, then,” he mutters, shoving his duffel strap higher onto his shoulder. “Tell me just how shitty I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You must be dying to rub it in my face. Go ahead. Get it over with.”

You frown. “What the hell is your problem?”

That sets him off.

“My problem?” he snaps, finally stopping in his tracks to glare at you properly. You follow suit, and it amuses him for a fraction of a second— just how easily he towers over you. “I just lost a game, in case you missed that part while taking your stupid pictures.”

You scoff, fully displeased now. “Are you serious? You think I came here just to laugh at you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice is sharp, low. “You’ve never had a problem making fun of me before.”

Your jaw clenches.

“No need to make me your punching bag, Kim.” In turn— your tone is piercing, almost hurt. “I came here to comfort you. I’m not the fucking devil you make me out to be.”

The words hit harder than they should.

The weight of the loss still clings to him, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His hands are still balled into fists, his shoulders locked up so tight they ache. But the way you say it, the unexpected offense in your voice, makes something in him falter.

He rubs a hand over his face. The hurricane in him quiets, runs out of rain. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Sorry.”

You roll your eyes. Really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it. “I should just leave you here to wallow.” You make a grand show of turning away— really, you have every right to give him more shit; he knows he deserves it.

But then you glance at him over your shoulder. “Since I’m feeling benevolent, I’ll treat you to a meal.”

Mingyu stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Treating me? Are you dying?”

“Maybe,” you deadpan. “From secondhand embarrassment.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, something between a huff and a chuckle. “Wow. Real comforting.”

You shrug. “I never said I was good at comfort,” you snipe, and he knows that much is true.

Somehow, that’s how he finds himself behind the wheel of his car, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’s still mildly dazed as he glances over at you in his passenger seat. He doesn’t remember actually agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember deciding to take you to his favorite restaurant. And yet here you are, scrolling through your phone like this is the most normal thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, the drive is quiet. Mingyu fiddles with the AC, rolls his shoulders, frowns at the road ahead. But the longer you sit there, humming under your breath, mindlessly playing with the hem of your sleeve, the more it starts to sink in.

This is the first time the two of you have willingly shared a meal together.

Not because of mutual friends. Not because of a group project or an event neither of you could get out of. Not because your parents forced you into it.

Just… because.

It’s the strangest possible way for Mingyu to have possibly ended the night.

He spares you another glance as he pulls into the parking lot. “You better not complain about the food,” he warns, “or I’m leaving you here.”

Of course, that gives you the leeway to complain, bitching about things like sanitation and standards for cuisine. He tunes it out like he often does, instead trying to figure out how the hell he ended up here.

Here, sitting across from you in a restaurant that he usually only visits with his teammates. It felt like a fever dream to approach the host stand and ask for a table for two; his voice had come out a little too uncertain, like he couldn’t quite believe the words himself.

The host had seated you without question, handing you both menus before disappearing, leaving Mingyu to sit there and take in the absurdity of the situation. You, sitting across from him, elbows on the table, flipping through the menu like this is any other meal with any other person.

His mind flickers, unbidden, to a thought: Are you like this on all dates?

Then, he scowls. No. This is not a date.

“Alright, what am I getting?” you ask, still scanning the menu. “You’re the one who dragged me here, might as well give me a solid recommendation.”

Mingyu raises a brow. “I dragged you here? You were the one who insisted on treating me.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You shoot him a sharp glare, as if his insolence was something that caused offense. “Just tell me what’s good.”

He studies you for a second like he’s waiting for the punchline. When you just blink back expectantly, he sighs, resigning himself to whatever surreal alternate reality this is. “Get the beef stew,” he finally says. “And the garlic rice. You’ll thank me later.”

To his surprise, you actually listen. He half-expected you to ignore him just to be difficult.

The conversation that follows is easy in a way that confuses him. You bicker, naturally, but it’s mostly over trivial things— your tragic lack of appreciation for his taste in sports documentaries, the way he insists that pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity. Nothing about the game, nothing about his loss, nothing about the way frustration still lingers in the tightness of his jaw.

Instead, you seem content commenting on the restaurant itself, mentioning how you like the warm lighting, how the playlist is surprisingly good. And then there’s the way you eat. Without rush, without any of the absentmindedness he sometimes sees when you’re multitasking with your phone. You actually appreciate the food, nodding approvingly after each bite like you’re mentally scoring it.

Somewhere between your satisfied hums and the way you swipe an extra spoonful of his rice when you think he’s not looking, Mingyu realizes something strange: You’re actually enjoying this.

And, maybe, so is he.

It’s disorienting, how quickly the irritation from earlier has faded.

He tries to remind himself of the reasons you’re infuriating. That you’re picky about things that don’t matter, that you have a bad habit of being late, that you roll your eyes too much, that—

But every thought is immediately met with another. That you actually care about things enough to be picky. That you only run late when you’ve lost track of time doing something you love. That you roll your eyes, sure, but you also laugh, also banter, also make things more interesting.

Mingyu stares at you for a moment, something warm settling into his chest.

By the end of the dinner, he’s forgotten why he was so upset in the first place.

▸ S01E09: THE ONE WITH THE HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Mingyu arrive.

It’s the usual reunion scene— too many people packed into a house slightly too small for the occasion, music loud enough to drown out the conversations but not enough to stop them altogether, and a lingering smell of something fried mixed with overpriced cologne.

You’re still annoyed. Annoyed because Mingyu had, with all the grace of a wrecking ball, insulted your outfit on the drive here. Something about how your skirt was too short and your heels were impractical for a house party. As if he was some kind of fashion authority.

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice, asswipe,” you had snapped back, crossing your arms and staring out the window. He only scoffed in response, muttering something about not wanting to be responsible if you tripped and broke your ankle.

Now, hours later, you’re still disgruntled about it. You refuse to think about how, deep down, it had been less about disapproval and more about the way his gaze had lingered.

That would be a problem for another time. Maybe never.

You make your way to the kitchen, eyeing the assortment of drinks lined up on the counter. A bottle of something expensive-looking catches your attention. You grab it, twisting the cap with determination, but it refuses to budge. You try again, gripping it tighter, but all you manage is an embarrassing squeak of effort.

“Seriously?” you mutter under your breath, frustration bubbling up.

Before you can attempt another futile try, a large hand appears in your periphery. The bottle is plucked effortlessly from your grip. In one swift motion, Mingyu twists the cap open like it was nothing. No struggle, no hesitation, no unnecessary flexing. Just pure efficiency.

He doesn’t even smirk. Doesn’t gloat or tease you like you expect him to. He just hands the bottle back to you before turning away as if it had never happened.

You blink. Then blink again.

The room suddenly feels a little warmer. Must be the alcohol in the air. Or the heater. Or—

Oh, God.

With absolute horror, you realize Mingyu was kind of hot for that.

You take a generous swig from the bottle, hoping it burns away whatever ridiculous thought just took root in your brain. Unfortunately, the warmth spreading through you has absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

You take another sip, then another, letting the burn of the drink ground you. It’s fine. It’s whatever. You’ll drink and have fun and not think about the way Mingyu’s hand had so easily dwarfed yours when he took the bottle from you.

You wander back toward the living room, where clusters of people are chatting, laughing, reliving the glory days. Just as you settle into the buzz of the atmosphere, you catch Mingyu’s name being thrown around in a conversation nearby. You don’t mean to eavesdrop— okay, maybe you do a little— but something about the way his voice carries through the room makes you pause.

“Not drinking tonight?” You hear someone ask him.

“Nah,” Mingyu replies, nonchalant. “I’m her designated driver.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

Well, then.

If that’s the case, if Mingyu’s already consigned himself to the role of responsibility, then there’s absolutely no reason for you to hold back.

You tilt your head back, take another sip. Then another.

A warmth spreads through your limbs, but whether it’s from the alcohol or the fact that you now have free rein to drink without consequence, you’re not sure. You tell yourself it’s definitely the alcohol, though. Because the alternative— the thought that it has anything to do with Mingyu— just isn’t an option. Not tonight.

The alcohol has settled comfortably in your veins by the time the dancing starts. The living room has been cleared to make space, furniture pushed against the walls. Now the music pulses louder, the bass vibrating through the floor.

You’re laughing with old friends, moving with the rhythm, when you feel a sharp tug at the hem of your skirt.

You whirl around, already prepared to snap at whoever dared, only to come face-to-face with Mingyu. He’s standing there, a frown on his face. He leans in slightly, voice low but clear over the music. “I told you it was too short.”

You blink at him, thrown off by the way his fingers had just been on you, tugging fabric downward like it was some sort of personal mission. Something fizzes beneath your skin, something that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that Mingyu— annoying, overbearing Kim Mingyu— is looking at you like that.

It’d been such a boyfriend move. You force yourself not to dwell on it.

You don’t know what compels you, but maybe you’re just tipsy enough. Maybe you want to make him suffer.

You suddenly reach out, looping your arms around Mingyu’s neck. His whole body goes stiff, his eyes widening in immediate suspicion.

“Dance with me,” you say, tilting your head, voice syrupy with tipsiness and mischief.

Mingyu shakes his head, already taking a step back. “Absolutely not.”

You grin and pull him right back in. “You sure? ‘Cause I know things, Kim. Lots of things.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” he squeaks.

You sway closer, pretending to consider it. “It’s more of a… strategic incentive.”

A battle wars in his eyes. But then, with a low ‘tch’ and a mutter of “You’re insufferable,” Mingyu lets your grip pull him in.

The moment is bizarre.

His hands find their place— one cautiously at your waist, the other hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid to touch too much. You move to the beat, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, the solid press of his frame against yours.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

It’s also the best decision you’ve made all night.

The song shifts into something heavier, the bass thrumming through your chest, the kind of music meant for bad decisions and blurred memories. Mingyu hasn’t bolted yet, which is a miracle in itself. He’s actually keeping up with you, moving in sync, matching your rhythm with ease. It’s unexpected, the way he doesn’t seem like he hates this, like he’s maybe— God forbid— having fun.

You scoff at the thought, but the amusement lingers. The insults come easy, natural, tossed between the two of you like a ball neither wants to drop.

“You dance like an old man,” you tease, voice warm with liquor.

“And you dance like you’re trying to summon a demon,” he shoots back.

You laugh, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. Maybe it’s the dim lighting or maybe it’s the alcohol, but Mingyu’s gaze doesn’t seem as sharp as it usually does. His grip on your waist is firm but not forceful, like he’s not entirely opposed to being here, to this, to you.

It’s too easy to forget that this is Mingyu, that this is the same guy who has made a sport out of getting under your skin. Because right now, he’s just a tall, ridiculously handsome man who happens to be an unfairly good dancer.

The thought sneaks up on you before you can fight it. If he wasn’t Mingyu...

The words slip out before you register them. “I wonder what I’d do if you weren’t you.”

Mingyu’s eyebrows raise. “What?” His voice is a little rough around the edges, and far too sober.

Shit.

You blink rapidly, force a laugh, and shake your head as if you can brush it off. “Nothing. Ignore me.”

But the thing is— you can’t ignore it.

Because somewhere, in the back of your mind, you’re already picturing it. A world where Mingyu isn’t Mingyu, where he’s just some stranger with sharp eyes and broad shoulders who smells good and dances well, who looks at you like he’s actually seeing you.

A world where you wouldn’t have to fight every instinct telling you to lean in.

Eventually, your feet start to protest. You’re wearing heels that were never meant for this much standing, much less dancing. You haven’t even said anything about it, but your expression must be reflecting your discomfort and your frustration. Mingyu sighs like you’ve personally ruined his night before crouching down and unlacing his sneakers.

“What are you doing?” you ask laughingly as he kicks them off, right there on the fringes of the dance floor.

“Giving you my shoes,” he says, like it’s obvious, shoving them toward you. “I’m not carrying you to the car.”

You snort. “You’d probably drop me anyway.”

“Exactly.” He watches as you swap out your heels for his much-too-big sneakers, which make you feel ridiculous but are, admittedly, a godsend.

You don’t realize until you’re halfway to the car that Mingyu is walking in only his socks, completely unbothered. You slide into the passenger seat, tipsy and warm and just self-aware enough to realize something terrible is happening.

You are warming up to Mingyu.

It hits you like a truck.

Mingyu, your mortal enemy. Mingyu, who has annoyed you since childhood. Mingyu, who insults your outfits and steals your food and opens your drinks without a second thought.

Your head lolls against the seat as you stare at him in horror, combing through the memories, trying to pinpoint exactly when this started going wrong.

By the time he pulls up in front of your house, you’ve made a decision.

You need to stop being too nice to him.

▸ S01E10: THE ONE WITH THE TEAM LUNCH.

Mingyu is halfway through his second helping of rice when he hears it— the unmistakable sound of his personal hell approaching.

He doesn’t even have to look up to know it’s you. The dramatic click of your heels, the way the conversation at the cafeteria table shifts just slightly, the exasperated sigh that escapes Wonwoo before you even arrive.

And then, as expected—

“Kim.”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know what you want, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, it’s nothing good. Ever since the high school reunion, you’ve been nothing short of a menace.

He still doesn’t know what changed that night, but suddenly, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be the most irksome person in his life. There was the time you texted him an obnoxious amount of links to ugly sneakers after he’d lent you his at the party. The time you “accidentally” swapped his shampoo for some floral-scented one that lingered in his hair for days. The time you sent him a video of him losing his last match, edited with clown music in the background.

He finally looks up from his food, expression already set in a scowl. You’re standing at the edge of their table, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. Seungcheol, Vernon, and Wonwoo all look between the two of you like they’re watching a horror movie unfold in real-time.

“What do you want?” Mingyu asks, voice flat.

You feign offense, placing a hand over your chest. “Can’t I just stop by to say hello?”

“No.”

Vernon snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. Seungcheol nudges him under the table, but he’s grinning, too.

“You wound me, Kim.” You pull out the chair beside him and sit down like you belong there. “But fine, I do need something.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth before jerking his chin at you. “Then spit it out already.”

“I need a favor.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“I don’t need to know what it is.” He glares at you. “It’s a no.”

Wonwoo sighs, setting his chopsticks down. “Just let her talk, Mingyu. We’d like to finish our meal in peace.”

Mingyu gestures wildly. “I would like to finish my meal in peace!”

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. “This is more important than your third bowl of rice.”

He swats your hand away. “It’s my second bowl—”

“Not the point,” you cut in. “Listen, I just need—”

Mingyu groans again, slumping back in his chair, already regretting every choice that led to this moment. He knows, deep in his soul, that whatever you’re about to ask is going to be something ridiculous.

And yet, for some godforsaken reason, he doesn’t immediately tell you to leave.

“I need help moving some furniture.”

Mingyu blinks. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” you deadpan. “Are you going to help or not?”

He stares at you. It’s one of those things that’d be a given for anybody else. Mingyu was the type of friend who would drive someone to the airport, would help someone move, would cook if someone was sick. Those were things he’d do for someone he was friends with— something the two of you were decisively not.

“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he challenges.

“Because you owe me?”

He lets out a laugh. “I owe you?”

“Yes, for—” you flounder for a reason, “—for existing, Kim Mingyu. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

Unconvincing to a fault. Mingyu is half-tempted to call you out for being a spoiled brat, but he’s not interested in escalating this argument in front of his team.

“Not my problem,” he settles on saying.

“You’re the fucking worst.”

“And yet, here you are.”

The two of you go back and forth like that, the jabs mostly inoffensive and subjective. Mingyu is vaguely aware of Seungcheol pinching his nose like he’s nursing a headache, Vernon sipping his drink as if watching a spectacle, and Wonwoo calmly chewing his food, unfazed.

Finally, Seungcheol decides he’s had enough.

“Both of you,” he interjects, voice firm. “Can you stop fighting for five minutes?”

To Mingyu’s shock, you actually fall silent. You roll your eyes but begrudgingly listen, arms still tightly crossed.

Mingyu scoffs. “Oh, so you can listen to people,” he mutters. “Didn’t know you were capable of being nice.”

Your head snaps toward him. “I am capable of being nice. Just not to you.”

“Right, because you’re a little devil sent from hell just to ruin my life.”

“Your life was already in shambles before I showed up. Don’t blame me.”

The bickering immediately picks back up, much to the dismay of Mingyu’s teammates. Vernon exhales dramatically. “Mamma mia,” he sing-songs jokingly to Wonwoo, “here we go again.”

You suddenly reach out, snatch a piece of Mingyu’s pork right off his plate, and pop it into your mouth as you ready to leave. His jaw drops; he’s stolen your food a fair amount, but you’ve never done it to him. “Hey—”

You’re already turning on your heel and walking away, not sparing him another glance. “Thanks for absolutely nothing,” you chirp.

Mingyu watches, speechless at the petulant display.

“Did she—” he starts, then stops. His grip tightens around his chopsticks. None of his teammates push, all too wary of the dark look that passes over his expression. Seungcheol promptly tries to change the topic.

Mingyu finishes his meal in a foul mood, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force.

He doesn’t understand why you’ve gotten so absurd with him lately. Every interaction with you feels like a new test of patience, like one day you just woke up and decided to amp up all the ways you could make him miserable. He had almost started to believe, for one fleeting second, that maybe, maybe you weren’t that bad.

But no. The night at the reunion was just a fluke— when you’d danced together and he’d privately thought it was something he could get used to.

You were always meant to be his worst nightmare, and he resolves that he’s not waking up any time soon.

▸ S01E11: THE ONE WITH THE REASON.

The joint family meal is as lively as ever, voices overlapping in conversation, laughter ringing between bites of food. You, as always, have taken it upon yourself to make Mingyu’s life difficult today.

“Wow, even you managed to show up on time for once,” you remark as he slides into the seat across from you. “Did hell freeze over?”

Mingyu shoots you a deadpan look, clearly not in the mood for your antics. “Not today, Satan.”

You grin, but there’s something off about him. He doesn’t come back with anything more biting, doesn’t engage in the usual back-and-forth. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a blankness to his gaze that makes you wonder.

Your mother places a generous serving of food onto your plate, and you idly push some rice around with your chopsticks, gaze flickering toward him again. “What, got scolded for being too slow on the field?”

Mingyu finally looks at you properly. His frustration is clear. “Can you not today?” His voice is quieter than you expect, worn at the edges. “I had a shitty day at training, and I really don’t have the energy for you right now.”

The words catch you off guard. You could leave it at that, let him have his peace for once. A part of you— one you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge— almost wants to ask why, wants to pry into what’s bothering him and offer something resembling comfort.

Instead, you shove that impulse down. Whatever this is, whatever softening that night at the reunion did to you, needs to be stomped out immediately.

So you double down.

You spear a piece of your meat a little too forcefully. “Right, because I’m the problem here. You always find a way to suck at things all on your own.”

Mingyu’s expression shutters. For the first time ever— in all of your interactions with him— you feel something unpleasant coil in your stomach. He shakes his head and then goes back to eating without another word.

There’s a small, screeching voice in the back of your head that wants to demand an explanation. Not for Mingyu’s dismal mood, no, but for that flicker of disappointment that’d passed his face when he shook his head.

Why would he be disappointed over your cruelty? Why would he expect anything else from you?

The rest of the meal passes without his usual jabs in return, and you tell yourself that’s a victory. It feels like anything but.

As dessert is doled out, your mother calls out to the pair of you. “You two, go somewhere else for a while. The adults need to discuss business.”

You open your mouth to protest. You’re both adults already; surely you and Mingyu could sit in, rather than be forced into yet another awkward situation neither of you can run from.

But Mingyu is already pushing his chair back with a grumbled “fine.” The look your mother shoots you indicates that this is not about to be up for debate. You follow Mingyu out, both of you stepping into the cool evening air.

The restaurant’s outdoor area has an old playground— rusting swing sets, a chipped slide, and monkey bars that have seen better days. You walk ahead and hop onto a swing, the chains creaking slightly as you push off the ground.

Mingyu stands nearby, watching you for a moment. “Didn’t take you for the type to get sentimental,” he snorts, and that slight edge in his tone gives you just a bit of hope that he doesn’t completely despise you.

“I’m not. I just need somewhere to sit that’s far away from you,” you say matter-of-factly.

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he heads towards the monkey bars. He grips one, testing his weight against the metal. “Remember when you got stuck on these in second grade?” he asks as he free-hangs.

“I wasn’t stuck,” you sniffle in protest. “I was strategizing.”

Mingyu lets out a bark of laughter. “Strategizing how to fall on your ass?”

You drag the tip of your shoe against the dirt, narrowing your eyes. “If I recall correctly, you weren’t any help. You just laughed at me until my dad had to come pull me down.”

“Hey, in my defense, it was funny.” He swings himself onto the lowest bar, legs dangling. “You had snot running down your face and everything.”

You lunge half-heartedly to kick at his shin, but he pulls his leg away just in time. There’s a beat of silence, the air filled with the distant chatter of your families inside. It’s strange, this reminiscing. The usual bite to your exchanges is still there, but it’s smooth around the edges, tinged with something dangerously close to fondness.

Mingyu exhales, gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the distance. You think he’s gearing up for his next jab about something. Probably your embarrassing high school days, or that one summer vacation you hate talking about. Instead—

“Why aren’t we friends?” he asks. His voice is quiet, thoughtful.

You blink. The question is so absurd it momentarily stuns you. “What?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “we’ve known each other our whole lives. Shouldn’t we— I don’t know— be close?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was teasing. But the question doesn’t sound rhetorical, and he seems almost wistful.

You hate it.

You hate him.

Your chest tightens, unbidden memories surfacing. There were plenty of reasons. The bickering, the competition. But at the core of it, there was one moment. One day that cemented everything in place, whether Mingyu realized it or not.

You were seven. It was summer, the sun blazing high as the neighborhood kids gathered for a game of soccer. Everyone had been split into teams, and you had waited, jittery with anticipation, as Mingyu— the fastest, the strongest, the boy everyone wanted to follow— started picking players.

One by one, he called out names, grinning as kids ran to his side. You had stood there, heart pounding, willing him to say your name next. You were family friends! Sure, you were a girl, but surely Mingyu could see how fast and strong you were, too.

In the end, Mingyu had picked everyone but you. When there was no one left, you had been shuffled onto the other team by default. You still remembered the sting of it. The two of you were already acquainted, and yet he hadn’t even seen you as an option.

It was stupid. It was petty. And yet, that wound had never quite healed. Everything that came after was just a domino effect after that.

If you were a little meaner to Mingyu than you had to be, if you were much more curt and snappy with him than you were with anyone else? It all came back to that. That moment where Mingyu hadn’t seen you— worse.

He had pretended not to.

You swallow, dragging yourself back to the present. Mingyu is watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Because you didn’t pick me,” you say at last, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “That one time.”

Mingyu’s brows knit together. “What?” he asks, and it feels like a punch in the gut.

The look of confusion on Mingyu’s face— you don’t know if it’s a curse or a blessing. He doesn’t remember. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he?

But you do. You remember, and you hold on to it for the lack of a better thing to hold on to.

Hating Mingyu is easy. Seeing him in any other light takes work, and you’re tired of trying to figure that out.

Mingyu opens his mouth. For a second, it looks like he might protest. His brows pull together, his lips part, and there’s something foreign in his expression— something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. But before he can say anything, you hear your mother beckoning for you from the restaurant.

You stand up and brush nonexistent dust off your clothes. “Well, that’s my cue,” you say airily, praying to any higher power at all that Mingyu won’t call out the way your voice shakes. Just a little bit.

Instead, he remains by the monkey bars, watching you with an impassive look on his face. You can feel the weight of his stare even as you turn away.

You hesitate for half a second before glancing back at him. “We’re probably better off this way,” you say, because you always have to have the last word.

His grip tightens around the swing’s chains, knuckles going white. There’s a pause.

Then, finally, he nods. A jerky, forced thing.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strangely even. “Probably.”

You don’t acknowledge the way the word sits heavy between you, don’t let yourself linger on the way it sounds more like reluctant acceptance than agreement. Instead, you pretend not to hear it at all, turning on your heel and walking back toward the restaurant.

Hating Mingyu is easy. It’s all you’re good for. As you leave him standing alone, you hope it feels a little bit like that day in your childhood— when you’d been the name he hadn’t called.

▸ S01E12: THE ONE WITH THE SMILE.

Mingyu doesn’t get it.

He’s been off his game for days.

It’s not an injury. It’s not exhaustion. He’s been training the same way, eating the same meals, sleeping the same hours. And yet his shots don’t land the same. His passes are sloppy. He misses easy blocks he could have made blindfolded.

It pisses him off.

The ball soars past him yet again, hitting the back of the net with a dull thud. Vernon cheers and Wonwoo does a victory lap. Mingyu just stands there, hands on his hips, jaw locked tight. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to punch the goalpost out of sheer frustration.

Seungcheol, ever the captain, jogs over. “That’s enough,” he barks, voice edged with authority.

Mingyu bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what’s coming for him, and yet he still tries to protest. “One more round.”

“No. You’re done.” Seungcheol’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Go home. Figure out whatever’s got you playing like shit and come back when your head’s on straight.”

Mingyu has to bite back the retort that he’s not playing like shit, that he does have his head on straight. The numbers don’t lie. There’s no talking his way out of this one. With a sharp exhale, he yanks off his gloves and stalks off the field, muttering curses under his breath.

As he grabs his bag and heads toward the exit, he runs through every possible reason for his sudden slump.

Training? No. Diet? No. Stress? Maybe, but it’s never affected him like this before.

You?

You’ve been distant ever since that night at the playground. The constant quips, the snarky remarks, the way you always seemed to find a reason to pester him— it’s all dialed down to nearly nothing.

It should be a relief. He should be thriving with all this newfound peace and quiet.

Instead, he’s a goddamn mess.

Mingyu kicks a stray rock on the pavement as he walks to his car. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get you. And worse, he doesn’t get why it bothers him so damn much.

It’s entirely by accident, how he ends up spotting you. Maybe it’s some form of twisted divine intervention, some cruel twist of fate.

He’s at a red light, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, when he happens to glance to the side. And there you are, ripped right out of his scrambled brain, standing outside a café with a group of friends.

You’re wearing one of those preppy outfits he always mocks you for, all pristine pleats and crisp collars. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually say makes you look like you stepped straight out of some rich kid catalog. He tucks away the insult in his mind, filed for the next time you annoy him.

But then—

You’re laughing. Your head tilts back; your eyes crinkle at the corners. The street lights catch on the soft highlights in your hair, the gentle slope of your nose, the flush on your cheeks from whatever ridiculous joke was just told.

You look light. At ease. So effortlessly happy.

Mingyu watches, unseen, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

He’s seen you smirk, seen you grin in that infuriating, self-satisfied way when you get under his skin. He’s seen you scoff, roll your eyes, pout. But he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that in front of him.

And what’s worse—

Why does he want it?

He presses on the gas pedal once the light turns green. By the time he pulls into his parking lot, his mind is still spinning. He kills the engine but doesn’t move, just sits there, glaring at the wall in front of him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A stray hair tie, wedged between the seats. One of yours.

He stares at it, his brain stalling. The last time you sat in his passenger seat… when was that? His mind scrambles, trying to pinpoint the moment, but he comes up empty. The fact that he doesn’t know unsettles him more than it should.

Something else comes, too. A stupid, fleeting burst of happiness. An excuse to message you, to return it, to say something anything just to get you talking to him again.

The realization slams into him all at once.

His frustration. His inability to focus. The way your absence has been gnawing at him. The way your happiness without him made his chest ache.

Mingyu slumps forward in his seat, his forehead resting against his steering wheel.

Not even the screeching sound of his horn is able to drag him out of the horrific realization that he’s off his game because he likes you.

He likes you, the one person in the world he shouldn’t. The one person in the world he can’t have.

“Fuuuck,” he grouses, banging his head on the steering wheel so that the beeps come in sporadic bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He’s fucked.

▸ S01E13: THE ONE WITH THE PLANNING.

You don't know when it started— this weird, drawn-out awkwardness with Mingyu.

It’s not like you’ve stopped arguing. You're still giving him shit for his stupid hair, his dumb socks, his loud chewing habits. But lately, he’s... off. Slower to snap back. Not quite meeting your eyes.

Worst of all? He’s barely even tried to make fun of your outfit today.

It’s part of the Mingyu playbook. Some wisecrack about your clothes, some comment about how you should be running hell in Satan’s place. If he’s feeling particularly inventive, he even deigns to bring your course into it.

Today, though, it’s all painfully polite. Curt answers and absentminded nods. You know you’ve frozen him out since that night on the playground, but you didn’t expect to get the same chill in return.

“So what I’m hearing is,” you say, tapping something into your phone, “you’re fine with anywhere as long as there’s pasta. Are you five?”

Mingyu squints at you like he's struggling to come up with a comeback. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Wow. Riveting. Have you always been this dull or did I finally break you?”

He laughs, but there's no real bite to it. “I’m just being agreeable,” he offers. Even the snark in that is half-hearted, hesitant. “You should try it some time.”

“Oh, don't get all mature on me now,” you scoff, scrolling through the list of local restaurants your parents emailed. “God forbid you grow a personality overnight and forget how to argue.”

Mingyu mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “still better than yours.” He seems distracted, for the lack of a better term. The two of you have the unfortunate task of deciding on the next joint family meal’s venue, and he’s been uncharacteristically civil throughout it all.

Somehow, it unnerves you more than when he’s being an insufferable asshole.

“Seriously, are you okay?” you press, a touch of concern making its way into your tone. “You're kinda giving... robot with a mild software glitch."

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” he grumbles. “Just tired."

“Tired or scared I’ll beat you in the battle of wits today?”

“Not scared. Letting you have the spotlight for once.”

“Touching. Very generous.” You know a lost battle when you see one, so you scroll down the list again before turning your phone so he can see it. “Okay, vote: Overpriced fusion place with truffle everything or rustic hipster café that serves lattes with art so complicated it should be in a museum?”

Mingyu squints. “The second one has better lighting.”

“... Lighting?”

He raises his shoulders in a shrug. “For your parents’ photos. You know how your mom gets.”

Something twists in your stomach.

The fact that Mingyu is considering your mother’s happiness, that he knows how she is and he’s not complaining— instead accommodating?

You feel almost grateful, almost admiring, but you shake it off with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Hipster café it is. Let’s go, then.”

“I’m literally only here because you begged me to come.”

“Yeah, but I begged louder. So I win.”

There it is— the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not quite a comeback. But closer.

It doesn’t quite explain why his ears have turned pink, but that’s a can of worms you decide you’re not ready to open up just yet. Instead, the two of you go to scope the venue, lest your parents call you out for not fulfilling your duty-bound obligation to this godforsaken tradition.

The café is aggressively quaint. All pastel walls and potted plants and menus printed in cursive. A waitress greets you at the door with a bright smile and a clipboard in hand.

“Table for two?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says.

She glances between the two of you, then beams. “Perfect! You're just in time for our couple’s lunch special. It comes with two entrees, a shared appetizer, and dessert for only half the price.”

For a moment, you wish you could see yourself through the waitress’ eyes. You can’t imagine a single thing that might give off the impression that you and Mingyu were a couple. There’s too much space between the two of you, and the look you two share is enough for you to gleam that he’s equally flabbergasted.

He turns to look back to the unassuming waitress. “Oh, we’re not—”

The world’s most brilliant idea strikes you then. You act on it before you can develop a semblance of shame.

“We'll take it,” you cut in smoothly, linking your arm through Mingyu’s before he can ruin it. You smile sweetly at the waitress, completely ignoring the way Mingyu goes rigid beside you.

As you’re led to a corner table by the window, he leans down to frantically whisper, “What the hell was that?”

“A good deal,” you respond cheerfully. “Unless you want to pay full price just to protect your ego.”

He glares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You knew that when you got in the car.”

The waitress sets down your menus and tells you she’ll be back shortly for your order. Mingyu slumps in his seat, looking very much like you’ve told him he can never play soccer ever again.

“Cheer up,” you say, nudging his shin under the table. “If you play your cards right, I might even feed you.”

His eyes narrow. "You wouldn’t dare."

Ah, but you would dare. The moment the pasta arrives, you’re already grinning. You twirl the noodles with your fork; he tries to communicate with his gaze that he wants you dead.

“Say ahhh, loverboy,” you sing-song.

“Absolutely not.”

You kick him again. He hisses mid-sip of water. “Just pretend, Mingyu,” you say through the teeth of your smile. “God, have you never faked a relationship for free food before?”

“I have not, actually,” he retorts. “Fuckin’ cheapskate.”

Begrudgingly, he opens his mouth. He at least seems to know that you’re not about to let up. You shove the fork into his mouth; he retaliates by ‘feeding’ you some chicken piccata, though it’s more of him forcing the bite into your mouth even after you’ve protested the presence of peas.

The next half hour is full of increasingly absurd couple behavior. You fake gasp when he offers you water. He pretends to be offended when you steal his garlic bread. You stage-whisper pet names across the table just loud enough for the waitress to hear, coos of baby and sweetheart in between eye rolls and grimaces.

And through it all, there are moments— brief, fleeting— when his eyes linger on yours just a second too long. When his smile is a little too soft. When his hand brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away immediately.

You tell yourself it’s all part of the act.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth.

The meal ends as it should. Mingyu foots the bill, and he does it without complaint. On your way out, the waitress smiles at the two of you like you’re some couple to be revered.

Pride sparks like a flint in your chest. You douse it as quickly as you can manage.

Outside, the sun is bright and the sidewalk smells like coffee and car exhaust. With your joint scoping done, the two of you walk a little slower than usual. You’re unsure why you’re not rushing to get back to the car.

“Well,” you say casually, “you make a convincing boyfriend. Color me shocked.”

Mingyu gives you a flat look. “Glad to know my fake relationship skills impress you.”

“What can I say? Low expectations,” you chirp, then jab him lightly with your elbow. “Now that I think about it— you're pretty single, huh. Why is that, again?”

It’s a jab that you’ve delivered far better in the past. Jokes about him being unable to pull. Remarks of him not knowing the first thing about romance or women.

Today, though, it comes out as a query of genuine curiosity. One you typically might throw at someone you wanted to gauge interest in, and my God, how damning was that?

Mingyu doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He answers your question with frustrating casualness, toying with his car keys as he drags his feet. “Busy. Not looking. The usual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Lame excuse. Try again.”

“What about you?” he counters, the attempt at evasion only driving you a little more crazy. “Still turning down anyone who doesn’t meet your god-tier standards?”

You tilt your chin up, mock-offended. “Absolutely. Only the best for me.”

“Yeah? What does that even mean?”

It’s obvious. You know the answer to this.

“Someone who’s funny. Smart. A little annoying but not, like, murder-worthy,” you ramble. “Tall, but not weird-tall. Knows how to argue without being a total asshole. Kind to animals. Can cook. Probably has nice hands.”

The words come out easily, too easily. You mean to keep it jokey, casual, but the list tumbles out before you can really filter it. It’s only when you hear it out loud that it hits you.

You know someone like that.

Your mouth goes dry. A beat passes.

You realize, too late, that you've gone quiet. That the silence between you has shifted. It’s not awkward, but it’s charged.

Mingyu bumps your shoulder with his, snapping you out of your reverie. “That’s oddly specific,” he taunts. “Anyone I know?”

You scoff and shove him away. “Shut up.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see him fighting down a teasing grin. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, can feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

You don’t dare look at him.

You hope Mingyu doesn’t know. You hope he doesn’t realize you just described someone that sounds suspiciously like—

▸ S01E14: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF MINGYU’S LIFE.

Mingyu knows better than anyone, just how true the platitude every second counts is.

He plays soccer. Of course he knows the value of a ticking clock, of a last-minute save, of seconds that tick by arduously slow.

The clock has always been his enemy. But, today, it’s his friend.

Every second that ticks by moves the hands on the clock. Every movement on the clock will end this game faster.

He had this coming, really. When Ryujin dared him to kiss a girl— any girl— in the circle, he had known he was being baited. They all wanted him to choose you, to confirm whatever stupid assumptions they’d made about your complicated relationship.

Mingyu lived to defy expectations, so he leaned over and pulled Chaeyoung into his lap, and he kissed her like it meant something. Did his eyes briefly flicker open to check if you were watching? Did he feel some sort of sick, perverse triumph when he saw that you looked annoyed?

He should have known that karma would bite him back fast. You had the tendency to do that— knowing just how to piss him off right back.

It’s been two minutes and thirty-five seconds since you stepped into that goddamn pantry with Yugyeom.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Jinyoung had teased when the bottle landed on you, giving you free rein to choose anyone.

And Mingyu knew immediately that it wouldn’t be him.

Your high school friend group had jeered and laughed and teased when you reached for Yugyeom. Mingyu was not an inherently violent person, but he wanted so badly, in that moment, to wipe the smug smirk off the other man’s face.

You didn’t even look at Mingyu as you slinked away with Yugyeom.

Mingyu is nursing a new bottle now.

Trying to focus on the game. Trying to ignore the empty spaces in the circle. Someone’s daring something scandalous, a strip tease of some sorts—

You’re wearing his jacket, Mingyu realizes. From the little spat earlier this night when you’d spilled rum down the front of your shirt. Before you could throw a hissy fit, he’d shoved his varsity jacket in your arms and told you to suck it up.

The thought of Yugyeom unbuttoning that piece of clothing— that one thing on your body that might mark you as Mingyu’s, if it mattered at all— has the keeper clenching his beer bottle a little tighter.

It’s been three minutes and twelve seconds. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s counting it down, but he also doesn’t know how to keep his cool.

His brain keeps supplying him with images of what he might do if he were in Yugyeom’s place.

The realistic answer: You’d sulk, probably. Find a way to blame him for the situation. The two of you would bicker the entire seven minutes and then come out of the secluded pantry in foul moods. Seven minutes in hell, he would say sarcastically, when asked, and you’d flip him off.

Underneath the realistic answer, though, is something that’s close to a fantasy. His hands resting at your sides, his touch warm over your— his— jacket. Your fingers entangled in his hair. The way he'd have to lean down, to tilt his head.

Would you taste like all the alcohol you’d drank that night?

Would you taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of?

Mingyu shakes his head and takes a sip of his beer, his fingers trembling around the bottle. Eunwoo is stripping as part of a dare; Mingyu tries to focus on that, and not on the fact that it’s been five minutes and fifty-two seconds.

Jungkook lets out a loud squeal. The sound pierces through the pre-drunk migraine that Mingyu already feels coming on. The sound—

What would you sound like?

In his arms. Against his mouth. Underneath—

“Fuck,” Mingyu cusses lowly, the word spoken mostly to himself.

He’s drunk. He’s riled up. And you’re just so pretty tonight—

“Oi, lovebirds!” Jinyoung calls out in the direction of the pantry. “Seven minutes are up!”

Mingyu barely registers the sharp ring of the seven-minute alarm going off, or the jabs that everybody else throws out. His gaze is now fixed on the pantry door, the one he has to fight every urge to approach. Every second that ticks past the required mark has his head spinning with thoughts, with ideas that he would rather not dwell on.

Yugyeom emerges first, that smirk of his still in place. You come out right after, looking unruffled as you smooth out the front of your shirt.

You don’t waste a single beat. Your eyes find Mingyu’s face, where he’s poorly concealed just how much more intoxicated he's gotten in your absence.

A corner of your mouth tilts upward in a vicious smile. The action you give him next is so brief, he could have imagined it.

You pucker your lips.

A flying kiss.

Mingyu has never wanted you so badly.

▸ S01E15: THE ONE WITH THE WORST SEVEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE.

Seven minutes.

You could do anything in seven minutes.

Say something stupid. Say something brave. Let someone kiss you. Let someone else go.

You step into the pantry and it smells like cinnamon and dust and maybe a little bit of regret. Yugyeom’s behind you, grinning like this is just another game. And maybe to him, it is. A dare. A kiss. A story to laugh about later.

The second the door shuts, the world dulls. Muffled cheers and drunken cackles blur into the walls, and it’s just the two of you in this cramped little time capsule. His hand grazes your arm. Your breath catches, but not for the reason it’s supposed to.

“Hey, pretty,” Yugyeom greets, and there’s some sort of vindication in knowing he actually does think you’re pretty.

This was an evening of unepic proportions, of high school friends coming together for a birthday party and bad decisions. In your head, there’s some small consolation to the fact that there’s not much light in the pantry.

Just the hint of fluorescence flooding through the door crack, reminding you of a loose circle where Mingyu is seated.

The thought of him makes your skin crawl. It’s bad enough that you don’t know how to act around him anymore. But then he went in to make out with Chaeyoung of all fucking people—

“Let’s get on with this, Kim,” you tell Yugyeom, trying to sound convincing, sultry.

Your voice wavers just a bit on the surname. Wrong Kim.

To give Yugyeom some credit, he laughs softly before leaning in. His lips are warm. Kind. And you think, briefly, that he must be good at this. The kind of guy who gets picked in these games a lot. The kind of guy who smiles and means it.

You wonder if you’ll feel anything when he kisses you.

You don’t.

It’s not bad. It’s just not… anything.

You try. You really, really do. Your fingers curl at the front of Yugyeom’s shirt; his own hands dance over your sides. Over the jacket, over Mingyu’s jacket, and you wince because you’re thinking of him, of the way he’d introduced himself to the unfamiliar faces with that winning smile and that nickname of his, the stupid Gyu you never get to call him—

“Mmm,” Yugyeom hums against your lips. He pulls back, eyes still closed, a lazy grin on his face. “Did you just say ‘Gyu’?”

Fuck.

You blink at Yugyeom, your brain slow to catch up. “No, I didn’t,” you sputter.

He opens one eye. “You totally did.”

You could say you said Gyeom. You could simply shut Yugyeom up with a fiercer kiss, maybe a little more action.

But it’s there, out in the open, curling in the space between you two like something dangerous and damaging

The slip wasn’t just a slip. It was your heart showing its cards. A royal fucking flush you can’t even begin to run from.

Your hand falls to your side. Yugyeom steps back.

No annoyance, no dramatics— just something soft in his smile that makes it worse. “You wanna try that again? With the right guy’s name this time?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Yugyeom,” you groan, because while you can’t bring yourself to try making out again, you can at least say the right name. “Please don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” he chirps. He shifts to lean on one of the pantry’s low shelves, hands tucked in his hoodie. “So. Mingyu, huh?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because what is there to say? That you’ve spent more than half your life wrapped in arguments and almosts and the kind of tension that should’ve burned out by now but hasn’t? That the sound of your name in Mingyu’s mouth makes you want to scream or kiss him or both? That he gave you his stupid jacket and you’re still wearing it like it means something?

“It’s complicated,” you gripe.

Yugyeom cackles. “That’s the most girl-who’s-in-love thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

He doesn’t. “You know he was watching the door like a lovesick puppy, right?”

That shouldn’t make your heart flutter. It does anyway. “He was?” you ask, and you could kick yourself for just how giddy you sound.

It’s as close to a direct confirmation that Yugyeom is going to get. You think that he might be grinning, but it’s not something you can be sure of in the darkness. It’s something you hear instead, bleeding into his words. “Pretty sure he was ready to fight me.”

You sit beside Yugyeom. The shelf creaks. Your hands are cold in your lap, but your face is burning.

“Do you love him?” he asks, and it’s so straightforward you want to laugh.

You don’t say a thing. It’s one of those silence-means-yes moments, one of those things that should go unsaid.

The sun is warm, the sky is blue, and you’re in love with Kim Mingyu.

Despite how much the fact has simmered underneath your skin, it’s something you can’t bring yourself to say out loud. Because it’s not that easy. Because it’s him. Because you know the way he is— impulsive and stubborn and so good at pretending he doesn’t care when really, he cares too much.

And so you don’t answer Yugyeom. The two of you kill the remaining minutes in silence; it’s almost like your friend is letting you sit with the truth, the realization.

After a long moment, he leans in to press a chaste, friendly kiss to the top of your head.

“Whatever it is,” he mumbles into your hair, “he’s one lucky bastard.”

You let out a watery laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up— the sheer fear of the reality overwhelming you.

Jinyoung’s voice echoes from outside. “Oi, lovebirds! Seven minutes are up!”

“Come on. Gotta act like we had some fun in here,” Yugyeom urges. “You picked me to make him jealous, right? Let’s make it look like that.”

“I owe you my first born child,” you respond, genuinely grateful despite everything.

“Hopefully the one you’ll have with Ming—”

“Let’s not go there.”

He messes with your hair. You rumple up his shirt. It’s all a farce, a show, and Yugyeom is kind enough to play along. He throws you a conspiratorial wink as he steps out, that smirk of his slotting right back on to his barely-swollen lips.

You take a deep breath, and then you follow.

It’s almost like a magnet, how your eyes seek out Mingyu. He looks just a little more drunk; a feat, considering the fact you’ve been gone for only seven minutes.

You can’t help it. Your mouth twitches in a fond grin. The way his gaze is burning into you, the way he’s clutching his beer bottle just a little too tightly?

That might be what compels you. It’s a flicker of an action, a ghost of a tease. You throw him a flying kiss, giggling to yourself when his face flushes a shade of red.

You have never wanted Mingyu so badly.

▸ S01E16: THE ONE WITH THE ‘MISTAKE’.

He doesn't want to be mad.

Truly. Logically. On paper— whatever. Mingyu knows he started it.

He kissed Chaeyoung first. He played the game. He played you. And now here you are, sitting cross-legged on his couch in your usual over-the-top family dinner outfit. Like that one night at the party didn’t end with him counting down seconds that felt like drowning.

You’re humming some song under your breath. You’re so calm, so nonchalant.

Mingyu is not. He stomps and clenches his hands into fists and slams his drawer with more force than necessary.

You glance up from your phone. “Damn,” you say with a low whistler. “Did the closet offend you or something?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s pulling clothes out of his dresser like they all personally insulted him. Button-down, slacks, watch, socks. All too formal for something that’s supposed to be casual, but tonight everything feels like a performance.

He ducks into his room and dresses quickly. By the time he emerges, you’re already standing by the front door. It shoots a momentary panic through him, the thought of you leaving.

But then you’re quipping, “You said we had to leave at seven. It’s 6:55. Just reminding you before you start blaming me for being late.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he grunts, padding across his living room in search of his wallet.

He can see you looking skeptical in his peripheral vision. “Sure feels like it,” you huff.

“Can you not?”

“Can I not what? Breathe in your general direction?”

Mingyu exhales sharply. He should stop. He should apologize. He should not make this worse.

He does.

“Yeah?” His tone drips with derision as he finally shoves his essentials into the pocket of his trousers. “Maybe if you weren’t so good at pretending nothing ever touches you, I wouldn’t have to.”

You laugh; the sound is incredulous, sharp. Offended?

“Right, because clearly you’re the one who’s been suffering,” you jeer. And then, completely out of the left field—

“I forgot how hard it must’ve been for you, kissing Chaeyoung like your life depended on it.”

There’s so much to unpack. The way you’re bringing this whole thing up days after it happened, even after you and Mingyu have just kind of… bristled at each other a lot more. Mingyu wanted to think your patience was just a lot thinner than usual— as was his— but he hadn’t imagined it would be related to that night. Or to Chaeyoung.

It makes his heart, the traitor that it is, practically stop in his chest.

He knows where you’re getting at. He knows what this could mean. He just has to make sure, and it’s in the way he tries to keep up with his rage when he snaps, “What does that have to do—”

“Why didn’t you kiss me?”

And there it is.

The question cuts through everything. Your voice— loud at first, angry— is suddenly small. Wounded.

Mingyu’s head spins.

You wanted him to kiss you.

His mouth opens then closes. Your face is incandescent, burning with shame. He knows this about you, knows you’ve never been able to deny yourself a thing. You’re an open book, a heart-on-the-platter type of girl. As badly as he wants to try and figure out all the signs he might have missed, he’s more concerned with the fact that you’re already trying to take it back.

Your hand is on the door handle. You’re about to make a run for it, Mingyu realizes, and that’s not something he’s going to let happen.

Before you can get too far, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back.

When you look up at him, his expression is contorted into a mix of torment and want. You’re not looking any better yourself; you look caught between desire and fear, like all the years you’ve shared are bearing down on the two of you.

You look as crazy as Mingyu feels.

“I was waiting,” Mingyu breathes, his eyes wide and wild. “I was waiting—”

“For what?” you bite out. “What were you waiting for?”

His sharp response is softened by the desperation edging his tone. “For the perfect moment,” he snaps.

Mingyu tugs you into his space. He’s gentle, still, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you closer until you’re chest to chest. He has to tuck his head to press his forehead against yours, and he can’t breathe.

You’re holding your breath, too, like you’re fighting every instinct to kick up a fuss at how patient he’s being. He has to be. He has to be, or else he’s going to give you everything when the two of you have to meet your families for the night.

His breath ghosts over your lips, which are already parted so beautifully for him.

“But I guess,” he whispers, his heart in his throat, at your feet, in your hands, “my shitty apartment is as good as any for a first kiss, huh?”

Mingyu doesn’t even wait for you to answer.

He closes the distance and presses down into you, enough that you end up taking a step back. When your nails sink into Mingyu’s shoulders to hold yourself steady, he lets out a low hiss against your mouth but refuses to pull away.

He kisses you like he’s thought about doing it for years.

And maybe he has. Maybe it’s always been there— this prospect, this possibility, and he could’ve gone his whole life just wondering what it might be like.

Now that he has it, has you, he doesn’t know if he can go without it.

It might be a mistake. He knows that.

He’s crossed a line you’ve both danced around for too long. There's a part of him— rational and careful— that screams this could ruin everything.

But then you kiss him back.

You kiss him back like you mean it, like you’re angry about all the years wasted not doing this. Like you want to climb into the marrow of him and stay there.

Mingyu doesn’t know how long it lasts. Doesn’t care. Eventually, the space between you pulls taut again, and you're both left staring, dazed, stunned, as if the world has shifted under your feet.

His fingers ghost over his lips. They’re swollen, just like yours, and he knows there’s no going back from this. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that you’re some annoying pest instead of the love of his goddamn life.

“We— we should go,” Mingyu says hoarsely, barely above a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

And for once, you don’t fight him.

▸ S01E17: THE ONE WITH THE PROMISE.

The bane of your existence drives you to your family’s monthly dinner in his car with its one working speaker, and a half-eaten protein bar wedged into the cupholder.

You complain about the lack of legroom. He snarks back about your giant tote bag taking up all the space. It’s almost impressive how easily the two of you slip back into the familiar routine of bickering.

If someone were to eavesdrop, they’d never guess you’d made out half an hour ago. That he’d kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing; that you’d kissed him like he had all the answers to the questions you’ve been afraid to ask.

Mingyu parallel parks like an asshole— too far from the curb— and you mutter something under your breath as you slam the door shut behind you.

“You could say thank you,” he says, locking the car.

“Thank you,” you echo. “For the trauma.”

He almost smiles. The sight of him fighting that back reminds you of his lips, how they’d been so soft against yours despite the heated, desperate way he moved.

Your brain is going to be in the gutter the whole evening. You’re sure of it.

Your families are already there at the vouchsafed hipster café when the two of you walk through the door. For a treacherous moment, everything feels like clockwork again. The smell of garlic bread wafts through the air. His mother greets you with a warm hug. His dad already has a story locked and loaded. Your parents give him the same doting affection.

It’s so normal you almost forget what’s changed.

Almost.

Mingyu sits next to you instead of across from you. He offers you the breadbasket first, tops your glass when nobody else is looking.

At one point, you arch a brow at him, suspicious. He says nothing.

It’s all suspicious.

Conversation flows easily enough. Your families are familiar, loud, opinionated. There’s some rapport between you and Mingyu; if your parents notice that it’s not as scathing as usual, they don’t point it out.

Under the table, something changes.

You feel it before you see it. Mingyu’s hand, careful and tentative, resting on your knee. His touch is featherlight, like he’s giving you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

It’s hidden by the table cloth, and you think you might be imagining it until you glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

His expression is half-agony, half-hope.

And that’s the thing about Kim Mingyu. He’s always been too much and never enough. Too loud, too cocky, too frustrating. Never thoughtful enough, never serious enough, never willing to make the first move until now.

You’re done keeping score. This isn’t a battle of wits, a challenge of who can hold out better. This is a game neither of you will win.

No. This is a game you no longer have to play.

You lace your fingers through his.

Mingyu’s shoulders drop like he’s been holding that breath for years. He squeezes your hand, and you think you could get used to this, to him. You’ll have to talk about it later, to decide; for now, though, the promise of it is more than enough.

You used to think there was no universe in which you and Kim Mingyu could ever get along.

But maybe— just maybe— this one will do.

#mingyu x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svthub #keopihausnet #mingyu imagines #mingyu fluff #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #kim mingyu x reader #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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pacofprunes · 4 months ago

Text

let me help ya’ relax.

thanos / player 230 x reader (squid game)

warnings — noncon, public (voyeurism), tears, kissing, use of the word bitch, use of the word rape, pussy kissing, choking, slight / barely but manhandling,

by clicking read more you consent to reading this content and you are 18+

“hey beautiful.”

“the hell?”

standing right in front of you, or rather over you, player 230. it was night and everyone was asleep or sitting in a corner somewhere. you didn’t know this guy besides seeing him the first two games and seeing him act like a fucking lunatic. you sit up and gather yourself.

“what do you want?”

“oh you know, just wanted to talk to a pretty girl.”

he does a cheeky smile. you stare. what do you even say to that. thank you i guess…?

“uh—”

“no need to thank me, it’s what i do. just such a great fucking guy right?”

he picks at the cross on his neck before pulling a pill out and holds it out to you.

“you use?”

“what?”

“drugs. do you do drugs? or have you done them before?”

how the fuck did he manage to bring his shit in here for one, and for two; why the hell is he more worried about doing drugs rather than living. that’d be the last thing you’d be thinking about.

“no. i dont do them and i dont have any interest in that.”

he does a fake pouty face.

“come on babe, loosen up ya’know? don’t wanna stress your pretty little face out.”

he pops the pill in his own mouth. where was this guy going with this? he clearly wants to stay here, hence the big blue ‘O’ on his jacket. so if he’s bored he should go talk to the people on his side. how the hell could you relax watching people you’ve gotten close to or even have just spoke to once die? meanwhile this dudes been jumping around having the time of his life while he’s been here. if this game ended tomorrow, he’d join it again a million times over. or maybe he wouldn’t but the drugs in his system sure as hell would.

“yeah, no… i appreciate your kindness but i don’t even know you and i think i’m just gonna lay back down.”

he grabs your hand and starts shaking it aggressively.

“my names thanos, it’s great to meet you! now you know who i am.”

he smiles again. you just stare. that’s not how it works at all. you could tell he was waiting for you to introduce yourself but you just brush it off and tell him again you’re going to lay back down. before you go to turn over and lay though, he grabs your face with both of his hands and presses your lips together into a deep kiss. he holds you there for a good while, and it felt like you were suffocating.

“what the fucks wrong with you?”

“baby, you could be my new drug! change that ‘X’ into an ‘O’, we’d be absolutely unstoppable!”

“this is real life you idiot, not some fucking video game!”

you slap his hand away from you and try telling him to get lost, but he just grabs your wrist and pushes you back onto your bed. you yell at him to get the fuck off of you but he just presses a finger up to your mouth hushing you.

“sex is a great way to relieve stress. just let me make you feel good. don’t be too loud though, unless you want the others to see us. but by all means, do it. it’s only going to make me harder.”

he laughed and winked at you. you suck the air through your teeth and he still holds onto your left wrist with one of his hands while letting the other one push at his chest. you’re more cautious with your voice level now and in a whisper you try again to get him to go.

“i don’t want to have sex with you, can you just go? go jack off in the corner or mess with literally any other girl here!”

he ignores you for the time being and goes to push your pants down, but with your free hand you grab his hand to stop him.

“gee babe, how sweet of you to wanna hold my hand! but uh, i kinda need it to get to the fun part.”

he ignores your hand continuing to grab at his, not proving to be much use at all besides annoying him. he pushes your pants down, and then your panties to your ankles; acting as sort of some form of restraint. it would prove to be somewhat more difficult to kick at him now as your footing would get caught in the pant legs. he sits up off of your chest finally and starts to pull his pants and boxers off. you wanted to scream at him so badly to get off of you, to scream for some help, but you knew nobody would and all they’d do was watch. it wasn’t anybody’s problem and they weren’t going to make it theirs.

he cups your sex and starts rubbing circles at your tiny little hole to get you all soaked and ready for him. he leans down and he kisses it. he was literally about to start making out with your fucking pussy.

you squeezed your eyes shut and a couple tears come sliding down. god, first you’re in this game that seems normal, then people around you start getting shot, nobody wants to go home, and now you’re getting rapped by some crazy ass drug addict that calls himself fucking thanos. thanos! you’re pulled out of your thoughts when you feel his thumb on your face and him wiping your tears. you slightly open your eyes and he kisses you again. this time with your free hand you push as hard as you can at his face. he moves back and he makes an ‘ow’ face and rubs his forehead. he grabs your used to be free wrist and just pushes it to your side and holds it there.

“it’s always the prettiest bitches that play fucking hard to get.”

he lines up his cock with your somewhat wet hole. he maybe would’ve spent a little more time prepping you but you just ticked him off and he wasn’t going to help you anymore than he already has.

“it’s alright, i’ll have screaming my name and this whole place will know it by the time we’re done baby!”

oh god you were gonna be sick. you feel the sudden intrusion and you immediately tense. biting your lip back from screaming and shaking your head, tears flying left and right. you try to bend and claw your fingers at his hands that are holding yours down but it proves to be futile. you yell at him, while still keeping your voice down to stop and that he’s gotten enough and that he should go.

“agh—please—”

“please? you—fuck’—you want me to please keep going? well you don’t have to tell me that, i was already going to!”

he keeps a fast pace going, and the bed might as well of slid off of the shitty bars it was being held up on. everybody sleeping above you could definitely feel the whole thing moving. you try to fish your legs out of your pants legs to at least have some sort of way of pushing him away but it proves to be slightly harder than you thought.

“fuck babe—you feel so—fuck- so fucking good.”

he sucks the air through his teeth breathing heavy, while you’re doing the opposite and holding your breath.

“god you’re so tight, and you’re so — m’- so hot. i wish i could feel every inch of your — agh - you’re body but you’re too much of a fucking bitch, so i gotta keep ya’ still.”

he stops at an in thrust and moves his face down to yours, causing his cock to go deeper in you and causing you to bite back a moan and squeeze your eyes shut. he presses his forehead to yours, your sweat causing them to almost stick together. he whispers to you while keeping perfect eye contact.

“but you’re my fucking bitch right? you’ll be my dumbed out little whore, baby. should get a tattoo on ya’ that says thanos’s bitch.”

he laughs, now moving down to your neck, starting to kiss all over it. leaving sweet marks all over as he starts thrusting into you again. you just feel his heavy hot breath against your neck and you just stare up at the bars above you and hold in the choked up sob threatening to come out. you feel his cock tense in you, threatening to shoot his load out and your eyes widen. he starts thrusting harder. he lets go of both your wrists and before you can even breathe out, relieved from the slightest bit of less pressure, he wraps both his hands around your throat and looks you in the eyes the whole entire time.

“come on bab — fuckk’- babe. look at me pleas- come on, watch how good you — you make me feel.”

you start to scratch at his his hands and his arms. he’d most definitely be marked up all over by the morning. finding it increasingly more difficult to breathe. you finally decide to look him in the eyes, sending him a pleading look to stop and to quit choking you, your face slowly starting to turn a shade of blue. upon your eyes looking at him, seeing those teary orbs and pleading face, it sends him over the edge. he sends a curse your way before he surprisingly pulls out, his load going all over the bed. he lets go of your neck and pulls up his boxers, falling on top of you. his weight making it hard for you to completely catch your breath. you start to choke and hiccup on your own tears before he looks up at you and strokes his hand across your face, catching a few tears in his hand.

“i told you it wouldn’t be bad at all. don’t you feel a little more at ease now? are you prepared for the games tomorrow?”

not at all. was he fucking delusional? he lays his head back on your chest, looking up at you like a child, and rubs his hands up your sides.

“tomorrow when we vote, you better change to an ‘O’. wouldn’t want my pretty girl to betray me after all.”

he does a fake pout at the end of that. you go to sit up to pull your pants back up but he stops you.

“uhm, allow me. wouldn’t want you to do any hard labor! i’ll take care of it all for ya.’”

he pulls your panties and your pants up and sits up off of you, getting his own pants situated. he grabs your hand and presses a kiss to the top of it, looking at you in your eyes with a smile, your eyes still watering. and you send a glare his way.

“ouch babe! you hurt me here.”

he smacks his chest a couple times where his heart was.

“i’d stay here and sleep with you, but my friends will want a piece of you too if they find out that’s what i did tonight.”

you shudder at the thought of that.

“but dont worry. i’ll see you tomorrow. i’ll see ya at breakfast, yeah?”

he pulls you in for one long kiss and you push him away and he almost falls into the next bed over. he grabs at his heart again dramatically.

“ugh, i don’t wanna leave you. we’ll talk tomorrow though, kay? maybe have some more fun too.”

he winks at you again before turning over his shoulder and literally skipping away, running with his arms in the air and his hands in fists. you just hug your knees, crying into them, and now more than ever you wanted to go home. god this was so fucked. you just wanted to go to the bathroom and wash all over yourself but you knew they wouldn’t let you in. you just keep a tight grip around your knees, trying to find some sort of solace while you’re stuck here.

#tw dark content #tw noncon #yandere squid game #squid game x reader #yandere thanos #thanos x reader #thanos smut #yandere thanos x reader #yandere squid game x reader #Choi su bong x reader #yandere choi su bong #squid game smut #tw smut #tw dark themes #tw dark fic

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gojonanami · 10 months ago

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tags: crack, fluff, implications of cheating (no cheating dw), satoru being his needy jealous self, suggestive at the end, based off a TikTok

“Are you cheating on me?”

Satoru couldn’t believe his eyes — he wondered if even his six eyes were betraying him the first time he saw, but no, once he saw it a second time, he knew it was true.

You were ogling other men’s shirtless pictures!

He could see you zoom in on some shitty Instagram model’s abs, and he couldn’t believe it. You had insisted on having a mirror hung up on the closet door, stating it would be easier for you to get ready in the mornings, and he had readily agreed — and he knew it would be useful in bed too—

But he didn’t know it would be useful in this way.

The last two nights he saw you zoomed in abs through the reflection in the mirror as you sat scrolling through your phone on your shared bed.

And right after, you had come over to kiss him — which he wasn’t complaining about, but when you had his body to look at, why did you need anyone else’s?

You look up from your phone to see your husband pouting, his arms crossed, “what are you talking about, Toru?”

“Don’t you ‘Toru’ me!” And you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, and stifle the small smile on your lips from your husband’s dramatics, “I saw you staring at shirtless men’s pictures for the last two nights and I need the name of the homewrecker so I can go hollow purple him,”

You can’t help but snort, “well you won’t have to go far,” and he furrows his brow, “it’s you, you idiot,”

“Eh? What do you mean it’s me?” And you flip your phone around, the picture of the affronting abs, only for you to zoom out to see his own picture, from the day you both had spent at the beach recently, but…why do you need a picture? I’m right here!”

He takes off his shirt with one hand in two seconds flat, and you can’t help but laugh then, reaching for him, and pulling him in close.

“I know, but sometimes I like to appreciate what I have, and I can’t just ask you to strip every time I want to look—“ and he tilts his head, “I know you’d do it, doesn’t mean I’m gonna ask,”

“But the real me is so much better,” he grumbles, and you laugh again.

“Are you jealous of a picture of yourself, Toru?” And he’s pouting again, and this time you’re kissing it away, before pushing him onto the bed, his eyes blinking up at you, as he grunts softly when you sit on his abs, “well how about I show you how much I prefer your real life abs?”

And his pout is quickly replaced with a grin, his large palms resting on your hips, “Can you handle it?”

You grind slowly against his stomach, making him groan softly, a wicked grin on your lips, “you know I can. The real question is can you?”

And after that long night, Satoru wouldn’t stop sending you picture of his abs for a long while anywhere he was (much to his students’ displeasure).

#sab [mlist]#satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru fluff #gojo fluff #gojo fanfiction #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fluff #Jjk fanfiction #Jjk x you #satoru gojo #jjk fluff #satoru gojo crack

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neferaskingdom · 15 days ago

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♡ Mini-Charles | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: He’s used to fans, but something about this tiny one in Suzuka hits different, and Charles can’t stop smiling. Mini-Charles 2026 pretty-please? you'd make such an amazing maman mon amour-

A/N: Chat I fear I cooked with this one. Mini-Charles literally made my ovaries almost burst, so I present thee with this little blurb.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

One of the best parts about the Japanese Grand Prix was always the fan stage. Rain or shine, Suzuka fans showed up in full force, enthusiastic, respectful, and often wildly creative. Charles had seen all kinds of things over the years—handmade banners, fans in full Ferrari suits, even one guy who brought a cardboard cutout of him as a saint to every single event. But this time, something, or rather someone, really stole the show.

It started when Charles was doing the fan Q&A alongside Lewis. He was mid-sentence, answering one fan’s question, when he noticed a flash of red near the front row. Not the usual Ferrari cap or flag, but something... smaller.

A child, maybe five or six years old, standing perfectly still with his hands on his hips in what could only be described as an exact replica of Charles’ fireproofs. Down to the logos. Even the custom detailing on the sleeves. He was wearing a mini version of Charles’ helmet too—full visor, the matte red and white colors perfectly matched. And the stance. God, he was standing exactly like Charles does when he’s focused in the garage.

Next to him were two girls around the same age. One was decked out in Max’s navy fireproofs and helmet, and the other had gone all out in papaya orange, even painting freckles on her cheeks like Lando. But it was the little Charles clone that made him pause mid-answer.

He leaned slightly toward Lewis, nodding subtly toward the kid.

"You seeing this?"

Lewis squinted. Then grinned. "Mini-you? Yeah. That kid's got your whole aura going on."

Charles laughed softly, eyes still glued to the boy. "He stands like me. That's terrifying."

"He's probably got the hand gestures down too."

Charles kept glancing at him throughout the session. Every time he looked, mini-Charles was looking back up at him, visor slightly tilted, tiny hands on his hips like he was part of the team.

It didn’t take long before a Ferrari PR staffer approached the boy’s guardian and arranged for them to come into the garage. Word traveled fast, and before Charles had even finished his media rounds, he heard, "Little Leclerc's in the garage!"

The name stuck immediately.

She found Charles in the Ferrari hospitality area a few minutes later, practically bouncing as he pulled her by the hand.

"You need to come see this kid. I swear to God, it’s like someone shrunk me."

She raised an eyebrow. "They cloned you in Japan?"

“I just wanna see him up close,” he said, glancing back at her with the giddiest grin. “He had the little visor, chérie. The visor! And the gloves. Like mine! And he even did the pose. Did you see that?”

She laughed. “Yeah, I saw. You’ve been smiling like an idiot ever since.”

He didn’t even deny it. “I love him. He’s my favorite person here.”

By the time they reached the garage, mini-Charles was standing between two engineers, who were enthusiastically showing him how the pit boards worked. His fireproofs were real. High-quality replicas down to the seams, probably custom-made. Even his boots had the little CL16 logo printed on them. He was soaking it all in with this quiet, intense focus that looked way too familiar.

Charles crouched down and called softly, "Hey, champion."

The boy turned instantly, visor flipped up to reveal a round face and wide brown eyes. He didn’t speak—just lit up with a shy grin and ran the last few steps into Charles’ waiting arms.

Charles caught him effortlessly and stood, the kid now perched on his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. His tiny gloves clutched the front of Charles’ polo, and the smile Charles gave him was soft, full of awe.

"You see this?" he asked her quietly. "I mean, come on. Look at the gloves. The detail. He’s even got the sponsor patches."

She stepped closer, smiling as she took in the sight of the boy.

"He’s better dressed than you."

Charles crouched beside him. “Tu es magnifique. You look better in my suit than I do.”

The boy just stared up at him in awe. “You’re my favorite driver.”

Charles clutched his chest, looking like he was about to melt into a puddle any second. “Mon coeur. I’m done for. You are adorable.”

They took photos—a lot of them. With the engineers, the mechanics, even Fred Vasseur came over to see what all the fuss was about and ended up holding the boy for a photo. The engineers joined in. The boy was passed around the garage like a VIP guest, posing with everyone, giving high-fives, and pretending to check tire pressures with an air of serious professionalism.

She stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching Charles with a fond smile that she didn’t even try to hide. He was fully enchanted. There was a softness in the way he bent to talk to the boy, the way he smoothed the kid’s hair when it stuck out from the helmet. She hadn’t seen that side of him in a while—not since their last trip to her home when he spent a whole afternoon playing pretend race car with her nephew in the living room.

Then Charles was waving her over, grinning. “Come on, chérie. You have to be in the photo too.”

“I’m not in uniform,” she said, gesturing to herself.

“But you’re part of the team,” he insisted. “We need a proper photo. Mini-Leclerc needs his whole crew.”

The three of them posed together—Charles, her, and the tiny version of him in the middle, clutching the helmet proudly.

"Smile!" someone called. "We need a nice family photo of the Leclercs!"

She froze slightly at the comment, but Charles just grinned, looking between her and the boy with a soft, far-off, dreamy expression. He didn’t correct them. Didn’t even blink.

After the photos, someone jokingly put mini-Charles on the scale, and the number made Charles nearly choke.

"Sixteen point sixteen kilos? Are you kidding me? That’s... that’s my number! Twice!"

He was laughing, absolutely delighted, holding the boy’s hand as the mechanics lost it behind him.

Later that night, back in the hotel, he was still grinning.

"Did you see how he stood by the car? Like he was about to jump in and drive it. I swear, it was like watching a tiny version of myself."

She sat on the bed, watching as he opened his phone and showed her photos from earlier. "Look at this one. Look how he’s holding my visor like it’s sacred. This kid gets it."

"You were smitten."

"Can you blame me? I mean... that could be our actual little Leclerc one day."

She looked up slowly. "Oh, we’ve moved on from 'mini-me' to actual mini Leclerc now?"

He leaned into her side with a sigh. “He was perfect. Did you see how serious he looked when I let him sit in the simulator? Like a little pro.”

She smiled. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am,” he admitted easily. “I want one.”

She blinked. “A simulator?”

“A Mini-Me. Like… a real one. Ours.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want a kid now?”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t, like, wake up thinking that. But then I saw him, and—mon dieu—he looked exactly like me. It was so weird. And he had the little gloves and the fireproofs. I swear, he had the same little fold in the elbow. I didn’t know kids could look that cool.”

She laughed. “Charles.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “I already found a onesie online. Look.”

He pulled up his phone and showed her a Ferrari red baby onesie with a tiny number 16 on the back.

“Stop.”

“There’s a mini balaclava too,” he said, completely ignoring her tone. “And look—this one has a hood shaped like a helmet. Isn’t that cute? I mean, come on. This baby looks ready for a race.”

“Charles. You're literally in the middle of a championship fight. You don’t sleep enough as it is. Not to mention you travel all year. When would you even see this baby?”

“‘I’d make time obviously.”

“And babies cry. And don’t sleep. And poop. A lot.”

“I can handle poop.”

She stared. “That’s your strongest argument?”

“No, my strongest argument is that I would make an amazing dad,” he said proudly. “I would be so fun. Like, I’d teach them how to race little go-karts and read them bedtime stories in three languages. And make the best sandwiches for school lunches. And if they wanted to wear their race suit to preschool, I’d let them.”

She bit her lip to hold back a laugh. “Max is having a baby,” he added after a pause.

“Oh no. You’re not doing this.”

“Why not? I’m just saying. Max is having a baby.”

“And?”

“So why can’t we?”

“Charles, this isn’t a competition.”

He pouted. “It’s not not a competition.”

“Unbelievable.”

He sighed and slumped against her, his fingers drawing aimless shapes on her arm. “You’d be such a good maman. You’re warm and patient and you already take care of me and Leo. It’d be easy.”

“Charles Leo is a dog. You’re talking about an actual real life baby here!”

“I’m not saying now now,” he said quickly. “Just… soonish. Ish. I’m just planting the idea. Watering the seed. Like a gardener.”

She rolled her eyes. “Can the gardener sleep now?”

He grinned. “Can I fall asleep while showing you just one more video? It’s this baby in a chef outfit trying to flip pancakes and he throws them on the dog.”

She groaned. “Bed. Now. It’s not the right time for this conversation.”

He followed her into bed, still murmuring about Mini-Charles and tiny helmets and kids in the paddock.

As she lay down, he slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. "What if I just... keep showing you baby videos until it becomes the right time?"

"That’s not how this works."

"I found one earlier of a baby eating spaghetti for the first time and just losing it. It reminded me of you."

"Charles No."

"Or the one with the baby who keeps saying 'no' to everything? That one’s also very familiar."

"Go to sleep."

“I’d call him Jules,” he whispered against her neck. “If it’s a boy.”

“Go to sleep, Charles.”

He pouted into her shoulder. “Fine. But at least think about it. Just saying, Little Leclerc has a nice ring to it."

She turned off the bedside lamp and rolled back towards him, burying her face in his chest. "Sleep now. Babies later."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and sighed.

"Fine. But just you wait. One day, I’m putting that onesie in my shopping cart."

And she couldn’t help but smile.

Because if today had shown her anything, it was that Charles Leclerc would make a very cute dad. Just... maybe not this season.

“Bonne nuit, future maman.”

“Stop!”

He grinned against her shoulder and didn’t say another word. But she could feel the way his fingers gently traced circles over her stomach, and she didn’t stop him.

Maybe one day. Just not today.

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butchvampireheimerdinger · 3 months ago

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The Great War

A/N: So this was made in response to a request but it ended up blossoming into a full 2K word fic adjacent and I had to split it into two posts! Anyways, if you enjoy sexy and occasionally soft Sevika, dramatic arguments that result in comfort, and mob-wife vibes… enjoy!

Warnings: Not smut but mentions of sex and both characters are D O W N B A D.. A lot of cussing and mentions of violence.

Pairing: Butch!Sevika X Femme!Reader who is super outgoing and forward

🂱 So the two of you’ve met briefly around town, kinda running in the same circles. You notice her right away but you don’t actually talk until she shows up at work — The Last Drop.

🂱 You’re a server and your charisma, magnetism, and punchy/blunt sort of energy makes you well suited to hospitality. You’re the bubbly outgoing type of waitress who gets their table laughing and in a good spirits with ur contagious good vibes.

🂱 You beat the other waitress to claim Sevika’s table, and it’s on.

🂱 She would get a kick out of it — your shamelessness. She really likes the forward thing, timidity makes her roll her eyes. Life’s too short for playing hard to get! Plus, she’s an adult. And a literal revolutionary who quite literally does not have the time for all that.

🂱 Before you learn each others names you endearingly and lightheartedly call her “butchy,” or something like that. She calls you sweetheart.

🂱 You’d pour her beers on the house. You’d lean over the bar counter on ur elbows, making sure ur titties look good and perky. And if it was just the two of you, she would not hide her ogling.

🂱 It’d be a bit of a game to you two. Making the other person crack, being the first to back down/get all blushy. You’d be all flirty-flirty over the bar counter, she’d pull you into her lap during her card game. It’s like how straight guys play gay chicken. Except ur actually gay so it would just be chicken.

🂱 And she’s smoking indoors, as per us. You ask if you can have a hit. She shotguns it into ur mouth and you blow it upward, once again drawing attention to your décolletage, to the girls hehe

🂱 Eventually she just asks you straight up if you wanna spend the night. Maybe you take her up on it, maybe you don’t. Either way, she’s not the fuckboy (fuckbutch?) hit it n quit it type. She’s an adult woman with emotional intelligence and communication skills goddammit and she’s gonna ask you to dinner.

🂱 Takes u to the fanciest place in the undercity, orders everything on the menu trying to flex her wallet and impress u. Whether or not u ask for it she gets you one of those weird rich people desserts where they make part of the preparation an “experience.” like they pour hot liquid over a hollow chocolate shell and it cracks open and reveals a little cake inside. Or something involving a blowtorch.

🂱 Anyways this whole time ur just rubbing ur lil high heeled foot up her pant leg under the table and twirling ur hair, touching her arm, etc. Naughty girl — she mock-scolds you telepathically with a dommy little eyebrow raise thing.

“Here? Now? I pull out all the stops to give you a magical evening and you already wanna leave and bang it out. That’s real classy, sweetheart.”

🂱 You’re both rather bold and upfront, obviously. Strong personalities, fire sign energy — which means you butt heads often. Your relationship is super intense and fiery so every day is like a soap opera, or like The Real Mob Wives of Staten Island in levels of drama.

“Why the hell didn’t you come home last night? And why did i have to find out from Vivi that she saw you cracking skulls in a fishing boat by the pier?”

“Babygirl I told you I was taking care of business. Sweetheart, uprisings don’t happen overnight, it’s all about biding time and strategically applying political pressure in Topside-”

“Jesus, Mary, and the goddamn camels you and your strategic goddamn pressure. I’ll tell you I’ve fucking had it with you and your fucking pressure. You wanna make me look like an idiot? When me and my girlfriends are sitting drinking mimosas for brunch at Jarrod's and they ask me ‘Y/N where’s that woman of yours?’ And i have to look them in the eyes and say “Clint Eastwood was unable to join us as she had a prior engagement strategically applying pressure. To the back of enforcers’ skulls. With a fucking baseball bat. Like a common thug. Mind you, I’m a classy lady all by my lonesome on a Sunday fucking morning-"

“Classy lady I’ll fucking say. You’d think I plan on growing old with Mrs. Fucking Vanderbilt, the way you want to buy ten thousand pairs of red high heels-“

“Omg babe you wanna grow old with me?”

“-that all look exactly the fucking same, by the way. ‘Burnt orange’ and ‘vermillion’ and ‘chartreuse’ or whatever the fuck — You know it’s just fucking red.

“Chartreuse is green, since you wanna be a smartass,”

“Don’t gaslight me, woman. Where do you even plan on wearing those? We live in an oversized sewer pipe. Not the magical land of Oz. I told you who i was when you met me. I told you this is what I do. And you better get used to it if you wanna keep charging my card at every boutique within a ten mile radius,”

“Or what? Gonna give me the spiel again, talk me to death about the uprising and the political elites and the our time is imminent, y/n. Gonna threaten me like you do your little fishing buddies? Gonna apply me some strategic fucking pressure?”

“That’s enough.” Sevika hissed, scary calm. She kicks the pantry door shut and whips around, pointing at you with her cigarette. “I’ve had enough of this shit. You’re done, Missy.”

“Beg pardon? I’ll decide when I’m done, thank you very much. You’ve got some nerve telling me when to speak when I can’t even reach you half the time. I had to track down your little boss the other day — brought him a lovely casserole — and ask if he could pass on a message for me! ‘Excuse me Mr. Scaryman Eye of Zaun, sir, could you possibly ask Zorro if she might head home as soon as she’s done busting kneecaps? And to arrive in a clean shirt, as my parents are in town and they prefer to greet their daughter-in-law when she’s not covered in someone’s intravenous blood. Thank you kindly.’”

“You showed up at work? Wait- you talked to Silco? Babe I told you to stay the fuck away from there!”

“Please. He may be the kingpin of the city or whatever, but I make a gorgeous quiche. Trust me, babe. Once he tastes my cooking, I am henceforth immune to whatever machiavellian basement torture chamber you brutes probably use as your break room.”

🂱 Sorry guys, got a little carried away there. Point is, one minute you’re screaming at each other and dramatically slamming doors and throwing shit, the next you’re fucking on the kitchen floor like the world’s about to end. You guys basically co-authored the book on how to be an absolute nightmare of an upstairs neighbor. The entire building feels the floor shaking and no one knows if the screaming is just you guys having a little too much fun for 2pm on a Tuesday, or if they’re gonna see this on the news tomorrow.

🂱 Kidding! At the end of the day, trust and loyalty are the foundations of your relationship. You love each other wildly, deeply, and passionately.

🂱 Sevika has a strict no going to bed angry policy. If you’d gotten into it that evening you might give her the cold shoulder, curl up facing away from her in the quiet moments before bed. She’s reading by the lantern on the bedside table — an upcycled barstool the two of you stole from your old job at The Last Drop one evening when you were in a particularly silly mood.

🂱 She catches your gaze a couple times as you stare over your shoulder to see if she’s paying attention to you, and then you immediately turn and go back to ignoring her. She takes off her reading glasses, tosses her book onto the bed, and rolls over to you, wrapping her arm around you from the back.

“Hey baby?” She kisses your shoulder and the back of your head since you still won’t look at her, and she continues. “Love of my life? Light of my world? Keeper of my soul and partner in crime through the sea of trials we call the fucked-up game of life?” You turn slightly to give her a glaring side eye.

“…What do you want.”

“Still mad at me, babygirl?”

“Not at all. Why on earth would I be mad?”

“I’m sorryyy,” she draws it out, cooing at you all soft and sing-songy. If the ne’erdowells who often got their asses handed to them by her and her little team could see this Sevika, they’d think they lost their mind. Hell, if any punk on the street could see this Sevika they’d think they lost their mind. It made your knees weak the way she undid herself and softened for you. For only you. You fought the smile forming and she continued murmuring against your skin.

“It’s all this bullshit at work Silco’s got me taking care of. I’m neglecting my little lady, I’m stretched so thin. It’s too much…”

“Too much…?” You echo. “Talk to me, love. Silco’s not letting you catch a breather?”

She grunts in affirmation against your shoulder: “Mm-hrmm”

“Does my baby have the whooole wide world on her poor, tired, buff, strong, sexy shoulders-EEK!” She gleefully flips you over to face her, making you cackle. You’ve been disarmed. At her mercy. You always were.

She leans forward to bonk her forehead against yours.

“Glad someone in this cruel world finally understands me and my line of work,” she says, half-joking.

“No one understands the importance of your job better than me, babe.” You continue, at this point unable to remove the sarcasm from your tone even if you tried. She nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder facedown, head supported by the cushiness of your tit. You weave your fingers in her hair.

“The honorable burden of great duty… The unfathomable smothering of moral obligation, even. One might describe it as an immensely… strategic pressure-”

“-For FUCK’s SAKE”

“You have worker’s rights, you know! Demand an hour off — paid — in your underground torture chamber-breakroom. You’re entitled to relax and sip coffee as you watch the bodies hit the floor, goddammit!”

Feigning exasperation, Sev dramatically collapses backward starfish-style on the old-ass creaky-ass decrepit-ass daddy longlegs convention of a double bed the two of you share; in a shithole apartment, in a shady-ass neighborhood, in a collapsing city. That’s how it was between the two of you. Underneath it all, she trusts that you’ll always be there to kiss her wounds, to make sure her collar is straight and there’s no shmutz on her face. You trust that at the end of the day, it’s you she’s coming home to.

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avocado-writing · 8 months ago

Note

being the worst wolverine’s wife and one day you get zapped by the TVA for whatever reason, and it looks like you completely disappeared, this is what leads logan to become depressed, start drinking and ultimately ignore the x men when they die etc etc

he goes with wade purely bc he would if you were alive- he couldn’t give less of a shit about wade’s universe but he can feel you over his shoulder like an angel telling him he needs to do this (i imagine it’s like the jean hallucinations he had in the wolverine movie)

what if you’re in the void and he finds you with the rest of the group, like being unable to believe you’re really here?

hehe i love angst and ily avo <3

I already did a “Logan meets you in the void” fic here so I didn’t wanna make this too long or I’d just end up hitting the same beats!

1.4k. rated m for excessive use of the word “fuck”

The day you disappeared you took his fucking soul with him.

You had been out shopping. Nothing weird about that, he wasn’t some overbearing husband who demanded to know your location every single hour. But then afternoon had turned into evening had turned into night and nobody had heard from you. The unfamiliar sensation of panic had risen, queasy, from his stomach into his chest. They sent out a search party and looked for days. Not a trace of you to be found. Logan couldn’t smell you. Fuck, he’d never not been able to smell you before.

He would hunt for you every day, hoping to find you alive but trying to level with the idea of you being cold and dead because at least then he’d have closure; he’d stay awake for hours on end until he collapsed from exhaustion… then he’d wake up and repeat the whole horrible affair. Nothing. After weeks of searching, Charles had laid a hand on his arm. Logan can still remember the look of pity on his face, like a bomb to the gut.

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

They had to assume you were abducted and killed. Your body never turned up. And Logan just had to… keep going. How was he meant to keep going? You were his entire fucking life and then you were just…

Gone.

To say he was left empty was the biggest understatement of his fucking life. He was a shell of the man he once was. He never laughed any more, never smiled, always trying to plug the hole your absence left in him with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. Drink himself to a place where he could forget you.

It never really worked. At least it made him numb to the pain though.

When he staggers home one evening, eyes bleary and head spinning, and finds the whole mansion torched? Everyone left that he loved fucking dead? Well, it takes the last vestiges of his existence and crushes them into dust.

Oh, Logan, he hears in the back of his mind. Your voice. It breaks him. He falls to his knees, hands buried in the burning timbers, and wails.

He survives. He does not live. Thinking about everyone he’s lost, with you haunting the corners of his consciousness, always reaching out to comfort him - but when he goes to nuzzle into the warmth of your palm he is overcome with rage and bitterness to find it’s just his own imagination playing tricks on him.

Then a fucking idiot in red dragged him away from the shambles which was his life and forced him to be functional again, if only barely. He’s angry, so angry all of the goddamn time, even when in the back of his mind he can hear you speaking sweet, calming words to him.

And then he hears your voice for real.

Sees you standing across the base this pathetic resistance has made. You look older, sure, he does too - but there’s no mistaking the fire in those eyes. You’re even wearing the same fucking shirt you went missing in, he remembers it, it has a picture of your favourite band.

His heart stops dead in his chest as you whisper his name.

“Logan?”

“Oh shit!” says Wade, and Logan has never wanted to kill him more, “Oh shit! Is this your refrigeratored wife, coming back to throw in a third act character arc?”

Logan finishes the bourbon bottle and throws the empty at Wade’s head, where it shatters and knocks him flat. You wince at the violence and he feels like pure shit.

“I’m fine,” Wade calls from the ground, sticking a thumbs-up into the air.

“Logan, I…” you clearly want to say something, but you have not been met with the Logan you knew. That Logan would have spent no time running to pick you up and hold you in his arms. This one half-snarls at the man he bloodied on the floor.

There is an agonising silence, both of you wanting to speak but not being sure how. You take a hesitant step forward.

“I never thought I’d…”

“How do I know it’s you?”

You recoil like he’s stabbed you with his claws, confusion and hurt flooding your face. Goddamn. He is the worst man alive. He’s not sure if he’s saying it because he just wants to lash out at the nearest person, or…

… or if, because he gets his hopes up, it might just kill him to have them crash down again.

“What?”

“All these fuckin’ timelines. How do I know? How can I be sure that you’re you?”

The sadness in your face melts away into anger. When you step forward this time, you’re on the warpath. He sees the others in the room cringe, trapped now in this caustic reunion.

“How can you be sure it’s me? Fuck, Logan, I knew it was you, didn’t I? What do you want? You want me to show you the shitty tattoo I got after we first started dating and we were both drunk?” You lift your sleeve to reveal a little design on your shoulder. “Want me to tell you how an eighteen-year-old Marie was my bridesmaid and she cried because she didn’t think anyone would ever be that kind to her after living as a mutant again? Want me to fucking remind you that in my vows I said I would be by your side, for fucking ever, no matter what - and how when that TVA agent zapped me when I was out for the day and I ended up here, it was only the thought of fulfilling those vows which kept me going? How about all that, or do I fucking need to humiliate myself more?” At this, you gesture to the others who have lined up at the side of the room, trying to look scarce but utterly failing.

Your shoulders are heaving with emotions, tears hot and heavy in your eyes but not yet spilling over. Logan grits his jaw. Yeah. It’s you.

“I…” he starts, but trails off when he realises there’s nothing he can say. You shake your head, numb.

“Fuck you, Logan Howlett,” you spit, words you’ve never ever thrown his way before, and run out of the room.

“Wow. Aced that one, peanut,” says Wade, and Logan rips off one of his legs.

He finds you several hours later at a campfire outside the rundown building which makes up headquarters. LeBeau has clearly been kind enough to part with some of his liquor, because you’re gulping down whiskey like it’s air. You stare at him, embers dancing in bitter eyes.

“What do you want?” you snap. He grunts as he sits down opposite you, either from age or exertion. Stares into the flames.

“I never stopped looking,” he manages.

You blink.

“What?”

“I never…” he shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he bared this much of his soul. “I never stopped. Even when the others told me to give up, that I would only make it worse for myself, I’d still search. Couldn’t face the idea you weren’t there any more.”

It’s true. If he was twelve bottles deep he’d be looking, if he was hungover as a dog he’d be looking. When the rest of the X-Men were still there and even after they weren’t. If he wasn’t sitting at a bar he was on the streets, ever a bloodhound trying to catch your scent again.

For the first time you soften.

“Oh.”

“So… when I asked if it was you… ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. Just couldn’t live with it if it wasn't true. Wasn’t real.”

When you stand he expects a slap. He deserves it. What he doesn’t count on is you sitting down - not on the log next to him, but in his lap. He hasn’t felt you do that for so long, and it’s so good. Your warmth on his thigh. You grab one of his hands, still larger than yours, and press it to your chest so he can feel your beating heart.

“I’m real, Logan. I’m right here, baby,” you whisper, eyes dewy. Fuck. His are as well; he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed by you, your feel, your gaze, your smell. He’d forgotten how much he loved it.

Logan noses upwards against you, searching for your lips, and you let him find them. When you stroke his hair he can feel the wedding ring on your left hand. The kiss is desperate, longing, and the best one he’s ever had.

“Right here,” you repeat, forehead against his. He grips you so tightly that it’s possible he’ll never let go again.

#my writing #james logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x men x reader #logan howlett imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu imagine #wolverine fanfiction #mcu fandom

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prael · 8 months ago

Note

I challenge you to a 20 minute writing challenge.

20 mins to write something based on 1 item on your left, and the 1st idol on your Tumblr Dashboard.

First idol on my dashboard: IVE Rei. Object on my left: A glass of milk.

MILK

18+ IVE Naoi Rei x male reader smut Masterlist

Words: 1250

"Rei!" You slam closed the door of the refrigerator and make for the one into the living room. "Rei! When the milk is empty, you put the carton in the recycling!"

There she is, sitting on the couch, with a glass full of the stuff. She shrugs and says, "The empty carton is to remind us to buy milk."

"You mean it reminds me that I need to buy milk, because god knows you won't!" You run a hand through your hair, which is starting to go frizzy in the heat and the stress.

"I buy milk all the time!"

"Name one time."

Rei just blinks and stares, like the request is absolutely foreign to her. Her mouth slightly parted as she struggles to find an answer.

"That's what I thought, but sure, you just sit there with a glass full of the milk I bought."

Rei looks down, into the depths of the glass. "Oh."

"Oh?" You're throwing your arms in the air in defeat. "'Oh' is the best you can do, Rei?"

"You want this milk?" Rei throws you a dark, mischievous look. "Sure, you can have it." Then Rei tilts the glass towards herself, letting some it spill over her chest and into her cleavage. "Oops."

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

Rei just smiles that same smile and pours a little more onto her chest, splashing against her bare skin and then spilling into her white shirt. She starts to shift around uncomfortably. "It's really cold," she says, laughing as milk soaks her.

"You're insane."

"It tastes real good you know." She undoes the top two buttons and reveals her glistening skin beneath. "Taste it."

"I'm leaving, Rei." You roll your eyes and make for the bedroom. "You know we can't do this shit anymore. Make sure you clean up."

"Leaving, huh?" Rei giggles and pours some more milk—it soaks into her jeans now. "Guess I better enjoy myself."

"Whatever," you say as you start to walk past her.

"Mmmm, yup, that's the spot. Oh geez, I'm totally ruining the sofa, this is great. It's getting me so wet. So cold, aah..." Rei's soft little moans start to fill the room. "Mmm, shit, this feels nice." She doesn't even look up at you. She knows what she's doing.

But even knowing she's crazy doesn't stop your feet from stopping in the living room. It doesn't stop you from watching, as more and more milk drips down her exposed skin, or as her white shirt clings desperately to her breasts. Or when her nipples push up against the material, when they show through so clearly. Or as she squeezes herself gently through her shirt. Her legs start to tremble. "Oh my god, this is amazing."

Your blood flows in only one direction, and with your heartbeat pumping you can feel all the annoyance leave your head. You stare, and Rei giggles into her drink. The last little dribble falls into her lap. Her legs twitch as the chill goes up and down her body.

"I really, really need someone to clean me up," she says as if she's talking to herself, and not to you, her roommate.

A second passes in silence. The distant voices from the television are like faint static in your ears.

Then the scene fades out as you lose consciousness of your actions. Fades out into a series of rapid stills. Snapshots of time and memory and images, flashing before you: of you throwing your pants to the side, of pulling her shirt over her head, of licking a drip of milk running down her navel, of the way she calls you an idiot in-between heavy breaths. There's her bra on the floor, her hand on your head, pulling you closer to her breast.

Your face a mess, and the milk now a hint sweeter as it lingers on your taste buds. Your hands struggling to unfasten her pants, peeling the material off her soaked skin. Her panties, the lacy black pair with the red bow in the middle, soon to find her ankles. You're tasting more of her than the milk now. Some twisted combination of the two on your tongue, your mouth exploring every inch of her cunt. The taste of her driving you mad.

Everything gets so fast. Time rushing by, skipping seconds in a sequence, one scene bleeding to the next with nothing in between. Everything overlaid with an unbreaking daze. The point of your head buried in her, her arms above her head and clenching tightly on the back of the sofa, and your tongue ravishing her pussy.

Only Rei's voice grounds you from your delirium. "Right there," she cries out. "Right there, yeah, lick right there... I'm cumming for you."

But the experience is a rush—her voice in your head sounds tinny and distorted. It barely makes sense to you, your own mind floating just out of touch. Your nerves are buzzing, and your arousal burns like an unstoppable wildfire.

The room shifts. Not literally, but in your perception, your field of vision twisting and turning until Rei is suddenly on all fours before you, her naked back and ass pointing into the air. Your hands caress her perfect skin, smooth like satin. Each touch sends shockwaves through the surface. You grab her hips, firmly, pulling her toward yourself and closer to your dripping cock, ready to fill her. And in a fluid motion, you slide yourself into her. She squeaks in delight.

Now your focus tightens on each thrust, each motion of you plunging inside Rei. You pull on her hair, gently, as she pushes her hips backwards to meet you. You told yourself a hundred times that the last time would truly be the last time. A lie you keep telling yourself. No matter how much it happens, she always manages to crawl her way back under your skin and into your blood. She's a disease that refuses to end, the toxicity you keep coming back to for more.

Her voice breaks out in an uncontrollable series of moans. Loud, forceful, and totally in control as you rock your hips back and forth. She grips your hand on her hip. "Harder," she cries, "fuck me, please, fuck me as hard as you can."

The warmth of her drives you further and further into a well of pleasure so deep you can't see the bottom.

Her moans become frantic and excited. Your breaths become deep and ragged, and your pulse pounds in your eardrums as a sweat comes to the surface. You close in and kiss her back, tasting her fair skin again. As the pace builds, so too does the pressure well up inside you—a sharp heat inside, about to break loose.

"Harder," Rei screams, and bites her lip as you deliver, you feeling her shudder and collapse as if every bit of strength left her all at once. Her body responds involuntarily to your movements, jerking in time. As it does, it sparks a response inside you. You bury your head between her shoulders and squeeze her hips as you cum—delight ripples and flows throughout your body.

She screams and trembles and collapses onto the sofa, pulling you down after her. You rest your chest against her back and kiss her neck tenderly. You share your heaving breaths and hot, sticky sweat. The room spins. Rei pants and speaks not a word.

In your head you tell yourself, 'this is the last time.'

#kpop smut #ive smut #rei smut #naoi rei smut #male reader #kpop fanfic #smut #m reader #rei x reader

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holylulusworld · 1 month ago

Text

How to cure a grump (10)

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: grumpy Bucky, mistaken identity, kinda fake dating trope, fluff, mentions of being cruel to animals (no description), idiots in love, fluff

How to cure a grump (9)

How to cure a grump masterlist

“Y/N? What’s wrong baby?” Your mother watches you throw your coat and boots on. You’re choking on tears, ignoring your mother’s worried voice as you rush out the door, slamming it shut behind you.

Not an hour ago you woke, sore, but smiling when you woke in Bucky’s arms. He didn’t leave. Bucky spent the night holding you in his arms, feeling content. Or so you thought.

Now he’s just another mistake you made. Another man who tried to take advantage of you only to regret he got too close to you.

“What?” Your mother drops everything to storm upstairs. “JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES!” She yells at the top of her lungs. “What did you do to my daughter?”

“Ma’am…Mrs. Y/L/N…uh—this is a misunderstanding,” he nervously replies while shuffling from one foot to the other. “She got it all wrong.”

“Barnes, listen,” she pokes his chest with her index finger, “I ignored this whole fake-dating stunt you pulled. I even tried to give you a fair chance to be a better man after you fired my daughter before Christmas.”

Bucky inhales sharply. All this time, he believed your mother didn’t know you lied. Now she’s furious, and he feels like a scolded boy when she repeatedly calls him a jerk.

“Mrs. Y/L/N, I didn’t want to hurt Y/N. She just…fuck…crap,” he huffs. “I called my friend Steve, and she only heard half of the conversation. I like your daughter… very much.”

He sheepishly looks at your mother, hoping to earn her trust.

“I let you celebrate Christmas with us knowing you’re all alone and a jerk. But—” She narrows her eyes and twists one of his nipples through his shirt, “if you believe you can sleep with my Y/N and tug your tail because you realize this is getting real, I’m going to castrate you!”

Bucky winces while rubbing his hurt nipple. “Ma’am, what’s with the whole castrating thing all the time? Is this a family thing?”

“It’s tradition in this sleepy little town that the women unite to castrate wrongdoers,” she replies, a twinkle in her eyes. “Now, go out there and find my girl! If she gets hurt, you’re dog food.”

“Yes….uh…give me a minute to put some pants on,” Bucky says. He looks down at his body because he’s still in a shirt and his boxer briefs. Well, and socks. The Christmas socks you got for him on your shopping tour.

“No,” she quips and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’ll go right now, and I don’t care if you’re only in your underwear.”

“It’s freezing,” he argues. “Let me at least put on my boots.”

“Go, get your boots, and then, you will make things up to my daughter. If not, you know what will happen.”

“You will castrate me,” Bucky hurriedly says. “I got it.”

Your mother chuckles when he wants to run downstairs. “I still got it in me.” She clucks. “I scared the shit out of him.” She looks Bucky dead in the eye. “Get some pants and then, you can go and make things up to my Munchkin.”

Bucky stumbles back inside the guest room. He grabs a pair of pants, throwing them on before rushing downstairs, almost slipping on the staircase.

“Y/N?” Bucky calls your name as if he could magically summon you by saying it. “Doll, I’m sorry. Listen…” He walks faster, trying to figure out where to go. “Y/N?” He curses himself for not talking to you first.

Bucky walks left and right, aimlessly roaming the streets of your hometown. He stops in his tracks, remembering the places you went over the last few days.

“I know,” he says before walking toward the place where you found Alpine. “Y/N, are you here?” He calls your name, walking faster when a noise catches his attention. “Doll? Doll! I’m fucking sorry…you heard the wrong part of my conversation with—”

He gasps, watching you wrap another kitten in your scarf. “Steve already called me,” you murmur while placing the kitten into a box you found next to the dumpster. “He called you an idiot but asked me to not give up on you.”

“Steve is…” Bucky huffs. “I’ll have a serious conversation with my friend when we are back home, but, uh…he’s not wrong.”

“He said you were worried it was the wrong moment to tell me you love me,” you say as you pick the box up to hand it to Bucky. “I couldn’t sleep, thinking about the kitten in the dumpster. I feared there are more.”

He nods and follows you around the backstreet. You listen closely, stopping now and then to look inside abandoned bags, boxes, and dumpsters.

“Wait, I heard something,” he says. “Over there.” He pushes the box into your arms to crouch down and fish a trembling kitten and its mother out from under another dumpster. “There you are, mommy and baby.”

“Oh no. What if there are more?” You sniffle. “No…it’s so cold. What if we lost some already?”

“We won’t lose a single kitten.” He carefully places the cat and its kitten inside the box. “Never.” Bucky gently runs his hands up and down your arms. “I’m sorry for…everything.”

“You’re an idiot,” you reply, smirking. “You’re lucky that you are pretty or else I’d…”

He grins. “Let me guess, castrate me.”

“Exactly,” you agree, looking at the cats in the box. The mother meows loudly while looking left and right. Suddenly, the cat jumps out of the box, dashing toward another dumpster. Bucky follows the cat, opening the dumpster to help the cat jump inside.

“Here are more,” he calls for you. “Why didn’t we find them yesterday?” Bucky watches the cat grab another kitten by its neck. He grabs the cat to place them back inside the box. “That makes four kittens, including Alpine.”

“We need to find them all!” You try not to think about the tumult going on in your mind. Last night, you slept with your former boss, and you are scared it was another mistake.

“We will find them all,” Bucky simply replies. He hands you the box with the cats to look in every nook, every dumpster and box.

Bucky doesn’t give up. For almost an hour he searches for more kittens until he finally finds the last one, a little orange cat, hiding in a soaked box.

You watch Bucky place the last kitten inside the box. “Do you think this is the last one?”

He points at the cats in the box. “The mother is calm now, look. They were meowing loudly the whole time. We should bring them back to your mom’s house. It’s too cold for them.”

“OH, my goodness,” your mother coos. “So many kittens.” She smiles widely and immediately snatches the box out of your hands. “My sweet darlings. Who kicked you out onto the streets?”

“The mother is wearing a collar, but there’s no address or something,” Bucky murmurs, still walking on eggshells around your mother. “Uh—do you think we can keep the white one? She already likes me.”

“They are still small and need their mother. Bring the kitten to me. I’ll take care of all of them while you,” she points between the two of you, “make up.”

Part 11

#How to cure a grump (10)#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #x reader #ceo bucky barnes #business au

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broareweabouttoviberightnow · 2 months ago

Text

"We need cash." Two, Soda, Steve, Dallas, Pony, 'n Johnny crowd the living room in a loose circle like mourners at a funeral. Between them, the shattered, stacked, 'n swept together corpse of what had once been their TV.

"We? Ain't my fault it's broken." Dallas kicks at a shard of glass 'n Pony narrows his eyes at him. "Blame it on the kid 'n call it a night."

"Hey!" Pony stomps a foot before he can catch himself, crosses his arms. "It wasn't me!"

Steve scoffs, rolls his eyes. Pony's face darkens murderously. "Was too."

"No, it was not! You were the one who fuckin' threw me!" Soda 'n Two's eyes ping pong back 'n fourth between the two of them.

"Did not! 'N if I did it was only 'cause you started the fight."

"Bullshit!" Pony's voice hits a shrill high note 'n Steve smirks at him, self-satisfied. "I only started it 'cause you were fuckin' callin' me names you asshole."

"Well, I wouldn't have been callin' you names if you hadn't been actin' like a brat." Pony lets out an indignant wail 'n Soda has to fly across the group to snag him by the waist so he doesn't start right back up again.

"Ok, ok. Enough you two." Pony writhes around like a fish on a hook for another moment before Soda jabs him in the ribs 'n he howls but stops fightin'. "This isn't solvin' our problems."

"I don't see how this is an us problem." Dallas tries again, hooks an arm around Johnny's shoulder 'n pulls him close. "I just got here, Johnny wasn't involved, 'n neither was Two. Soda bites the bullet for not stoppin' 'em 'n Darry can string the idiots up as he so pleases. What's the problem?"

Steve 'n Pony both turn on him, united for the first time that afternoon, fingers pointed 'n accusin'. "'Cause Two was bettin' on us-"

"Hey! Look, all's fair 'n love 'n war or whatever they say. Nobody asked ya to start rumblin' in the livin' room of all places."

"Yeah, 'n Darry'll love to hear that." Steve grabs his hip, wags a finger in a pretty damn passin' imitation of Darry. "Two-Bit Mathews you're how old now? Glory God almighty when are you gonna get any sense- OW!" Steve hollers at the comic Two's rolled up 'n thumped him over the head with.

"Ok, Ok fine. But I wasn't fuckin' bettin' against myself!" Two glares pointedly at Soda who rocks back 'n forth on his heels, suddenly findin' the floor real interestin'.

"Soda!" Steve stops nursin' his head to glare at Soda with wide eyes.

"Hey! Look! I'm sorry!" He blinks, tries his best tip-earnin' grin. "It was all on you, Stevie."

"SODA!" Pony whips on him quick as quick, quiverin' with as much indignance 'n outrage a fourteen-year-old can manage. Soda swallows back a snort, grabs Pony's face in his hands. "I'm sorry-"

"Well. Tough shit for y'all. But I don't see what this has to do with me or Johnny 'n I'm of the mind to beat it before Darry gets home 'n raises hell."

"Uh, Dal." Johnny clears his throat 'n tries to ignore the pointed stares of the rest of the gang hot on his face, runs a hand up the back of his neck, blows out a long breath. "IhadfiftycentsonPonyboy."

"Johnny!" Dallas drops him but doesn't sound half as annoyed as he does impressed.

"Well at least someone was in my corner-" Pony shoots Soda an aggravated glance 'n Soda throws his hands up placatingly.

"Yeah, speakin' of which." Two whips his hand out, palm up, 'n makes a grabbin' motion. Both Soda 'n Johnny huff but reach in their pockets 'n pull out quarters, dumpin' into Two's waitin' hands. He hoots his laughter 'n shoves the dollars' worth of change into his pants.

"Wait, who were you bettin' on Two?" Steve crosses his arms at the same time Pony plunks his hands on his hips, both glarin' accusingly.

"Me? I wasn't playin' for neither of ya! I bet y'all were gonna break somethin'!" Two cracks himself up, howlin'. It doesn't last for long 'n Pony 'n Steve turn succinctly on him, draggin' him down to the floor 'n landin' jabs wherever they can reach.

"Good lord. Well, y'all have fun with that one. I'm peelin' outta here."

"Oh no you don't." Soda catches one hand deftly in the collar of Dallas' jacket as he turns to leave, hefts him back. "You even think about wormin' outta this I'll tell Darry about that time you smoked all that pot 'n threw up 'n I had to carry a bowl a soup down to Buck's for your scrawny ass."

"Yeah, or that time you got picked up for shopliftin' 'n when the cops called I picked up the phone 'n never told Dar." Steve pauses in his onslaught of Two-Bit to throw his hat in the ring. The moment he's not focused Two wriggles out, flips him easily onto his back.

"Or that one time with Tim-"

"OK. Goddamn! No wonder Darry's goin' grey. Y'all are enough to send a man to an early grave." Dallas scowls 'n throw his hands up, shakin' Soda off. "So what now?"

"Now we need cash." Two says plaintively 'n they all stare down at the wreckage again.

"Ok. Thanks, genius." Steve rolls his eyes, clambers back to his feet, offers Pony his hand 'n hauls him up. "What are we lookin' at here? Like what? Twenty bucks?"

"Twenty bucks? Steve, what world do you live on where a TV is twenty goddamn bucks?" Dallas toes at the the box 'n it sparks. "Jesus Christ, none of you unplugged it? Hurry up 'n yank the plug out before we gotta by Dar a new house too."

Both Soda 'n Johnny dive for the cord 'n Johnny pulls up at the last second so they don't crack their heads together.

"So what, like fifty?" Pony 'n Soda exchange a glance, avert their eyes.

"Uh, try more like eighty, man." Soda plops down on his ass, looks desolately at the hunk of plastic 'n glass again.

"EIGHTY? Guys. We're dead. More than dead. Dar's gonna kill us, bury us, 'n then dig us back up again." Steve chews at his thumbnail, paces quick back 'n forth.

"Naw, Steve. Be realistic." Two grins, stuffs his hands into his pockets. "He'd never go through all that work for us. I think just killin' us the first time around'll do it."

Pony groans, presses both his palms into his eyes 'n collapses back into the armchair. "Not funny, Two."

"Aw, not even a lil-" He's cut off by the throw pillow Steve beams at his head, hittin' him square in the face.

"Man focus. We got cash, right?" Dallas refocuses the room, looks at them each in turn. The silence is answer enough, the celin', floor, 'n walls becomin' real fascinatin'. "Man, y'all've got to be jokin'. Steve, don't you have some money from the DX or your da put away?"

"Uh, well, no. Not really. Kinda, uh, lost it. All." He twiddles the bottom of his vest between his fingers, refuses to look up.

"Whatta ya mean lost it?"

"Look you lose one goddamn drag 'n suddenly everyone's crawlin' up your ass! How was I supposed to know that? 'N hey, what about you, Two? I don't hear you offerin' anythin' up."

"Ha! What money? I didn't have anythin' to start with don't look at me. Ask Soda, he's employed."

Soda throws his hands up guiltily. "Don't look over here. I got six bucks to my good name."

"Yeah, good 'n broke-" Soda pulls a face 'n kicks Dallas hard in the shin before he can duck outta the way.

"Where'd your paycheck go, Soda?" Johnny prods at him with his foot 'n Soda playfully catches it, yanks at him.

"Hey, I keep the lights on in this place!"

"And the rest of it?" Johnny pulls back 'n, when he realizes Soda ain't lettin' up, reaches down to jab at the ticklish spot on Soda's ribs.

"What? A man can't be afforded a lil' fun?" Soda yowls 'n drops his foot, wrigglin' backwards to get away. "How was I supposed to know a guitar was twenty-five bucks?"

"Soda!" Pony's jaw drops open. "You can't even play!"

"Hey! Yet! Gimme some credit! Plus I don't wanna hear anythin' from mister no job over there." Soda crosses his arms dramatically but he's grinnin' the whole way 'n all of them know he doesn't mean it.

"That ain't fair! Darry won't let me get a job. 'Course I don't got no goddamn money. Look at Dal. He's got a job!"

"First of all, I didn't even break the fuckin' TV. Second of all, how much money I got is none of your damn business." Dallas scowls, turns his nose up. Steve groans, drops down to the couch with his head in his hands.

"God so we're all broke."

"Hey-!"

"Shut up, Dal." Two cuts him off 'n Dallas' shifts his glare, damn near murderous. "Johnny Cakes?" He tries, weakly hopeful.

"Uh, I got three bucks." Soda quirks an eyebrow up 'n Johnny plops his hands on his hips.

"Where did you-"

"Ya gonna ask questions or are ya gonna take it?" Soda studies him for a moment, arms crossed still 'n doin' a cartoonish impression of a fussin' hen.

"Boys, we got a real hood among us here today." He hoots 'n Johnny kicks him in the hip, both of them still howlin'. "So that brings us up to, what?"

"Uh, nine bucks. Ten if someone can wrestle that change outta Two's pocket." Pony leans forward, elbows on his knees, 'n sizes Two up like he stood even a single chance.

"Man. I want lillies at my funeral. Can I put that out there? Should we do last rites now or-"

"Aw, hush up, Steve. Look, we just gotta scrape together a little money before Dar gets back. We can get, uh, what was it?" Soda frowns, counts absently on his fingers.

"Seventy more bucks." Pony dead pans 'n Soda's self-assured smile wavers a bit.

"C'mon, that's nothin'! We just gotta put our heads together." Soda climbs to his feet, rubs his hands together in thought. "How do we get our hands on some quick cash?"

Dallas 'n Two open their mouths 'n Soda throws out an accusin' finger to each of them. "'N nobody's doin' nothin' illegal 'cause if Dar has to pick one of us from the station before he comes home to no TV he's gonna start inventin' cruel 'n unusual punishments, y'hear?"

Dallas rolls his eyes 'n mutters 'n Two nods absently in agreement but they both don't offer any other ideas. "Anythin' else?"

"Uh, pawn shop?" Pony offers.

"Yeah, great idea, Pone. Anyone have any expensive jewelry they've been keepin' back?" Steve drawls, dryly, apparently resigned to his fate.

"Well, it ain't mine but I got, uh, a Singer we could sell." Dallas leans back in the doorway, waits for the onslaught of questions. They don't disappoint.

"A Singer? Dal, you've been watchin' me hafta hand hem 'n you had a Singer?" Soda howls, goes to kick him in the shin again but Dallas is prepared this time 'n dodges it.

"Where the hell did you get a Singer-?"

"Why-?"

"Look! It was Sylvie's, right? When I kicked her out she didn't get the chance to take it or nothin'. It ain't mine." He throws his hands up defensively, eyes Soda still standin' close enough to wallop him if he decided to. Soda glares back like he's still makin' up his mind about goin' for round two.

"Aw, man. We can't pawn off Sylvie's stuff." Johnny backs outta the way as Soda decides to give it another go 'n jabs at Dallas. "She mighta been a lil' mean but she don't deserve to have her shit sold off."

"The bitch- Soda get offa me- two-timed me? Remember?" Dallas knocks Soda's hands deftly away 'n Soda sneaks in on more solid kick before retreatin'.

"Oh, yeah." Johnny rocks back 'n forth on his heels, still clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Maybe Soda 'n Steve could pick up some extra shifts for a bit?" Pony tries again, clearly not as willin' as Steve to lie down 'n take his medicine.

"Yeah, another winner, Pone. 'N when Darry comes home to no TV tonight?" Steve scowls at him 'n Pony glares back, the two still dangerously close to another all-out scrap.

"Well, at least I'm comin' up with somethin'."

"Doesn't help if it's all stupid-"

"Alright you two, knock it off. We can't afford to have to buy anythin' else y'all broke 'cause y'all can't keep your traps shut." Two cuts in 'n they both round on him, glarin'.

"Look who's talkin'!" Steve mutters 'n Two grins 'n flips him off.

The laughter 'n bickerin' trail off, lapsin' into silence again. Each lookin' guiltily at the disaster, eyein' each other. "Well, uh, is anyone not above beggin'?" No one says anythin' 'n Two clicks his teeth, nods. "Yeah, didn't think so."

"Hey, guys." Six heads turn to look at Pony, suddenly ashen 'n lookin' past them up at the clock in the kitchen. "Is this a bad time to tell y'all Dar told me to tell y'all he'd be home early this afternoon?"

"Pony." Steve flies to his feet, grabs Pony by his shoulders. "How early?"

Somehow, Pony manages to pale even further. "Uh. In like. An hour?"

As if it had heard, the TV hisses, flashes, lets out one final death rattle 'n falls silent so it's just the seven of them, eyein' each other like men at the gallows.

"Dallas?" Johnny gives himself a shake, grabs his jacket from the back of the sofa.

"Yeah, man?"

"Let's get your girlfriend's stuff."

211 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 2 months ago

Text

I've Never Been Higher

Main Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, established realtionship, the tiniest amount of fluff and angst, just pure, raw smut (fingering, p in v sex, choking)

Summary/Warnings: Request from an anon! After you get drunk and expose your secret relationship with Ben, you know there will be consequences. Good thing they seem to be the fun kind.

Author's Note: I'm putting this one in the 60s-ish. It is very horny. Enjoy!

Word Count: 5k

This is a disaster.

You barely drink. It takes half a bar to get you drunk at all. You rarely have the patience or time to get to buzzed, let alone wasted.

Stumbling and tripping over your heels and words, the world is vibrant and bright but also a little hazy—like watching it through a thin, shimmering layer of fog—and loose-lipped, giggly, wasted.

Curled up in a booth with your normal, non-supe friends and whispering about nothing wasted. The room is spinning and turning but you’re too engrossed in how funny the word squirrels sounds wasted. One of your friends always keeping a hand on your shoulder, or an arm around your body, because one wrong ditzy smile or mention of him, and you’ll start to float upwards fucking wasted.

And they know that.

And you’d been really drunk. It was the weekend, and it was a celebration of something—you didn’t really remember what—and you’d been so fucking drunk, so when one of your friends asked how’s Ben with a teasing grin, you’d almost ascended just from the sound of his name.

You think you said he was perfect. Actually, you know you said he was perfect. Despite the entire night being hidden behind a shifting curtain of your drunken brain, you know exactly what you’d said about Ben, word for word.

Because it’s printed on the front page of the news. A massive quote of Soldier Boy settles down with B-list Hero? In big, black letters, accompanied by a very handsome picture of Ben, and a smaller, poorly lit photo of you.

An inside source tells us that, last night in uptown Manhattan, Vought’s own second list super-heroine Hurricane revealed that she and Soldier Boy have been going steady for over a year, and proved herself to be quite smitten with American’s Son.

You’d always hated that title for him. Ben was not America’s Son. He was more in line with America’s very grumpy father, and you were not a second list hero. You had the third highest save rate, and you’d only been at Vought for two years. You’d caught up with everyone in the first three months, and surpassed the rest by the end of the summer. You’d been warring back and forth with Liberty—the snide, conniving, weirdly possessive over Ben and hateful bitch—for second place for about a year now.

If fact, if you counted non-criminal saves—aiding people with their daily troubles, helping people who were in crisis, offering aid to charities and foundations—you were only a dozen or so behind Ben.

He says that’s why he noticed you. He says he’d seen how close you were creeping up behind him after only a year, how fast the gap between him and second place was closing, and he’d been furious but intrigued. Then he’d always say that he went to find you to snap that you should calm the fuck down and stop acting like you own this place, but you’d been so damn beautiful he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I’d known you’d be mine right fucking there.” He’d grumble, his lips latched to your neck and his arms caging you against the wall. “I see a lot of hot fucking women, baby, but you’re the only one who’s made me look twice.”

You’d always giggle, run your hands through his hair, and try not smile like too much of an idiot into the air. “You know, you can’t be positive I didn’t just steal the air out of your lung on-“

Ben would swallow your words with a deep, rough kiss, shove his knee between your thighs, and chuckle at your high whine.

“I’m real damn sure,” he’d grunt your name, guiding you to grind against him as he spoke. “Because that shit doesn’t work on me, doll, and you fucking know it.”

“I-“ You’d gasp, pulling at his hair and squirming in his grip. “You’re getting cocky again-“

“You fucking love it.”

God, you did. You loved him. He’s full of shit, and you know he’s full of shit—he hadn’t been awestruck by you, he’d marched up to you, told you that you were a fucking problem, and then walked away—but you don’t love him any less for it. If anything, you love him more. He’s honest. You’ve never seen him be anything but himself, and it was a little like a sanctuary. Ben would tell you if you were being dramatic about something if you were in the wrong, or he’d threaten to chop off the balls of whoever had hurt you with such a violent fervor in his eyes if he knew you were right.

You feel bad a little for whoever one day pisses you off enough to let Ben loose on them.

He’d make sure your ideas were heard and implemented, when nobody was listening to you, then point at you when someone congratulated him on it and snap it was her fucking idea, you pussy-faced cock gobbler. Thank the lady then keep fucking working.

He’d bring you silent gifts every time he stepped over the threshold of your apartment. He’d fuck you like an animal in your bedroom, then hold you in the dark like you were something priceless. He’d put a hand on your thigh under the table, when meetings got too heated and you were in danger of quite literally flying at some dumbass who thought he was smarter than you.

And he did keep you secret, but you’d never protested. It had been your idea to begin with, and maybe you’d expected him to one day grunt at you that this dumb fucking secret shit is over, you’re my date to the movie tomorrow night, but he never had.

You’d go to all the red carpets separately, he’d track you down in the bathroom and fuck you on the sink—muttering low, dirty praise about how good you were taking him, how everyone was going to be able to fucking smell his cum filling you up, how you looked so fucking gorgeous in that dress and you were trying to damn kill him—before you parted ways and acted like co-workers for the rest of the night, right up until he showed up at your apartment as the after party settled down.

And you could’ve had him like that for a million years. If it was all he could give you, you’d take it and worship it and never try to make him more than he was. He was already, arguably, too much. But he was yours. He didn’t fuck other women—he hardly even looked at them—and it had never mattered what the vultures of the press said, you’d known Ben was yours, and that was all that mattered.

But now you’re staring at the paper, re-reading the article over and over like the words could suddenly change and nothing would be wrong, and for the first time, you’re afraid.

Not of Ben. Never of Ben.

Of how you’re going to lose him.

Because you’d been explicit. Vulgar. Incredibly detailed in ways you never were while sober.

Hurricane described in great deal her alleged sex life with the Golden Hero, claiming him to be a firm but generous lover, using a multitude of words not suited for publication. Our source details how she’d claimed that she reaches climax about “four times a night,” and that she wants to “marry his and have all his stupid, giant babies.” Multiple times throughout the conversation, Hurricane called Solider Boy the “best thing that ever happened to her,” and said she’d “jump off a cliff if he asked her to.”

If these claims are true, should the public prepare for an upcoming great American wedding? Or is Hurricane speaking of a one-sided obsession? Solider Boy has rarely been seen in public with the air-powered supe, and there is no evidence but her alleged word that they are anything more than co-workers. If Hurricane is lying-

You have to stop reading there, or you might choke on your own spit and fear. You’re not lying. It’s not alleged, it’s real and you meant every word of it, but Ben wasn’t supposed to know that. He was supposed to take the lead about where you went, and you were supposed to trail in his wake, admiring the way his skin seemed to sometimes be golden, and bask in how when he looked at you there seemed be something flaring and catching light in his eyes that was never there for anyone else.

You mean something to him. You know he sees you as more than a body. Ben calls you his girl, and his jaw twitches when a Vought suit or lower-level hero tries to flirt with you, and he has all the money in the world but he touches you like you’re the most valuable thing in his life.

You’re not sure how you’re going to face this. You have to face this—it’s the front fucking page, and it’s a mess, and you’re solely responsible—but you don’t want to. You want to fly up to space and never come down, or sink into the floor, or seal all the doors and windows and never leave.

And you know none of that would work. Ben would launch himself after you and you’d slam into his gravity because you didn’t know how not to. He’d pull you up from your self-inflicted grave without breaking a sweat. He’d kick and pry the doors open no matter how tight you sealed them, crashing into your apartment with an animalistic look in his eyes, his arms flexing and attention all on you, before picking you up and cradling you without a word because he was bad at them, but he did care.

Ben really did care.

And you can’t face him.

But you have to go to work.

And you hope you’ll just vanish off the face of the earth before you can enter the building, but the universe doesn’t seem to like you all that much today, so instead you’re barely a foot through the door before Legend his standing in front of you, brows raised and voice firm.

“Hurricane.”

“I, uh,” You swallow. “Yeah. Hi.”

His face doesn’t even move an inch. “I believe we need to talk, girl.”

“Do we?” Your voice is barely a squeak, and you really wish everyone would stop fucking looking at you. “I don’t- um- Look, I swear I didn’t-“

“My office.” Legend snaps. “Now.”

All you can do is nod and shuffle behind him, feeling a little like a child in trouble. You can feel all their eyes, almost hear the judgmental expressions and thoughts, the bitter and withering fears you’d been harboring in your chest since Ben asked you out—although it was more like he said you were smoking hot and he wanted to fuck you, you’d told him he’d need to try harder than that, and then the next day he’d shown up with more roses than you could hold in your hands and said you were hot, and interesting, and he wanted to fuck you put he wasn’t going to do it until you were begging him for it—coming to life in a loud and suffocating cloud around you.

You know he’s out of your league. Ben’s out of everyone’s league. He’s more than a god, he’s something primordial that crawled out of the earth just to guard it with his whole fucking existence.

And when you sit in Legend’s office, it feels even more certain that this is the end of more than just the love of your life. It’s so drastic, how much higher and better Ben is than you are, that there’s no way they’ll allow you to just say he’s yours. The public would never want him to be yours, because they can see it too. Everyone can see how unworthy you are-

“You get three minute to explain yourself.” Legend mutters, settling in his big, velvet chair, spinning a pen in his hands. “But you better have a top of the line reason for fucking around and claimin’ all that, or we’re going to be revisiting your tenure here. Go.”

Every breath you take is thin in your lungs. You need to speak, but no words are coming out. His chair is a throne, and the pen is an executioner’s axe, and you whole life is on a thread that depends on you speaking, but you can’t-

“I-“

There’s a crashing sound outside, a roar that sound like a lion or dragon or avenging angel, and Legend looks away from you with a shocked expression—which for him, means genuine interest flashing in his gaze and a twitch near his eyes—as Ben crashes through the door.

“Mr. Solider Boy, sir-“ Legend’s receptionist is scrambling behind him, her voice high and frantic. “You- He’s in a meeting- You’re not supposed-“

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.” Ben grunts, and the receptionist’s snaps closed. You mouth think she’s shocked he knows her name. “And close the damn door, Legend and I need to have a fucking chat.”

You swallow, starting to push to your feet, but Ben’s faster. His hands grasp your shoulders, pushing you back down into your chair, and they rest there as he glowers at Legend.

“Ben,” Legend sighs. “I told you we’d be meeting later-“

“And I told you there’s no way you’re talking to my girl without me there,” Ben hisses, his hands squeezing on your shoulders, and you’re a little dizzy.

His girl.

Not a secret, but still Ben’s girl.

And suddenly nothing really feels all that faraway or terrifying at all.

“I understand this is distressing for all of us-“

“Oh, fuck off and eat my fucking ass,” Ben rolls his eyes, leaning slightly over your body as he leers at Legend. He’s really warm. “You don’t know what in goddamn Christ you’re talking about, Legend, and you’re being a pussy fucking idiot-“

“Ben-“

“I said fuck off.” He growls your name, and it’s not at you. It’s like a wolf snarling and snapping at a threat to their pack. “She didn’t do a goddamn thing wrong, and you’re going to make her give herself a fucking aneurysm, so calm the fuck down and listen when I tell you to just fucking drop it, or I’ll carve your brain out of your skull and fucking feed it to you.”

Legend doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head, scanning over Ben with an odd expression. “What have you been offered, Solider Boy, to defend her-“

Ben scoffs. “I can’t be fucking bribed, you dick-headed asswhore, I goddamn love this woman-“

It hits you like a freight train. Explosive and fast and brutal, irreversibly changing everything in your body until it all just a crumpled pile of Ben.

“You-“ Your voice is hoarse, and you lean back to look at him with wide eyes. “You love me?“

“Of course I fucking love you, shut up and-“ he grabs your hand, pinning it to the chair. The world had gotten so light, and you’d started to float, and Ben was keeping you there. With him. And he loved you. “Don’t lose your damn mind. Let me save your fucking job-“

“I love you too,” you whisper, and that manages to air its way through his fury.

“I know that. Stop flying.” Ben turns back to Legend, and you think he’s somehow taller. “You fire her, you lose me.”

That makes Legend’s face twitch again, and his eyes dart to you for only a second. You’ve seen that expression before, during meetings or negotiations that weren’t quite going his way.

He weighing his options. Trying to work out if Ben is bluffing.

Legend should know better.

Ben doesn’t bluff.

His hand still squeezing with carefully measured pressure on your shoulder, and his gaze is firm, and he’s not a liar. Ben has many, many vices—fractured and chipped and defunct parts of him you love just as much as the shining titanium that makes up the rest of him—but lying is not one of them.

If anything, Ben only ever doubles down.

“Don’t be a damn idiot,” he drawls, his words casual but his gaze on Legend a silent promise of violence. “The people fucking love it. They love her. She scores higher points with younger demos, and America loves love. They’ll love us. so I don’t know why you’re being such a pussy-brained motherfucker, but she is the best goddamn thing to happen to this company in fucking years.”

You think you’re going to ascend. That all the dizzying light and joy that Ben always silently plants in your body is going into bloom and rocketing up to the sun with his every word, and you have no choice but to rise up to that high, clouded but bright heaven with them. It’s a place born of Ben’s love. It hazy, pastel clouds, but they’re sturdier and more certain than anything else has ever been. You could build something here, known it would never crumble because Ben really, truly loves you. Even Legend’s skeptical expression and cool words can’t drag you down from down this.

And what they trigger only launches you further upwards.

“They’ll have to actually believe it,” Legend snips. “If we are going to allow this-“

Ben’s hand glide over your throat to grab your chin, he tips your head back, and kisses you. Deep and rough and heavy. The type of kiss he’s only ever given you behind a locked door, where he’s folding himself over you and invading your every sense, because now you’re pliant and moaning, and everything is Ben. Reaching up to try and tug on his hair and urge him further, grabbing his forearm for balance despite sitting down, making a strangled sound that’s meant to be his name when he presses his tongue down your throat-

He pulls back, presses a smaller, dangerously sweet kiss to your brow, and looks back to Legend.

“That fucking believable enough?”

You’d like to see Legend’s expression, but your gaze is trapped on Ben. His hand is still on your chin, grip relaxed as his thumb trails over your lower lip—you’re not sure he knows he’s doing that—and you can see the exact place on his jaw that you want to try and suck a mark on, even if it’s never worked before. His brows are raised in a challenging question as he stares down Legend, and his hair looks soft, and when he licks his lips slightly it sets off a million little sparks in your lower stomach-

“Ben.” You whisper, and he looks down at you with a frown.

“Wha-“

“Please.” You squeeze his arm, and he tenses behind you. “I- Please.”

A smirk creeps over his lips, and you think someone coughs, but they’re not Ben so it doesn’t really matter.

“You need me right now, sweet girl? Can’t even fucking wait, need me to fucking ruin you in the goddamn office-“

“I- You-” you squirm in your chair, reaching up to try and tug him back down to your level. “Stop being mean-“

He chuckles, but doesn’t move an inch. “You know I’m not being mean. You’ve seen me be fucking mean,” he drawls your name, and if he doesn’t move soon, you’re going to explode. “I’m just waiting for you to beg me fucking properly-“

“Please, Ben, please-“

“Please what.”

You’re past dignity, or trying to spar back and forth with him on this. He said he loves you. He said it, then kissed you like that, and nothing in the world is more important than feeling him all around you and over you and in you-

“Fuck me, Ben, please-“

There’s that same cough again, but you don’t really hear it. You can’t really hear anything but your heartbeat in your ears as Ben’s face splits into a wide, almost feral grin, and you won.

He slams his mouth back down to yours, grabbing you by the waist in a second and hauling you up to his chest—your legs wrapped around his torso as you shamelessly grind onto his stomach—and holding you there as his kiss turns starved and brutal, like he hasn’t done this almost every night for the past year.

You’re not complaining. With just his mouth almost molded into yours, one hand fisted in your hair while the other holds you steady against his body, and grunts that you can feel vibrate in his chest, you’re wrecked and whimpering in his arms. You need more. He’s everywhere but it’s not enough, and you’re aching and burning under his touch but it’s not enough-

Ben breaks the kiss when you start to scratch at his shoulders, and you take a ragged, sudden breath. You’d forgotten you needed to breathe, and the rush of air is sending you so high-

He starts to attack your neck and shoulders, tugging at your supe costume to continue his dizzying assault on your skin, and you wrap your arms around his neck in desperate attempt to not fly out of his hold. Ben’s own grip tightens in response—he knows how close you are, just from his kiss and touch, he always knows so you so well—and you squeak his name when he bites at your neck-

“Alright. I got it.” Someone’s talking that’s not Ben. Legend. You’d forgotten he existed at all. “It’s not fake, you’ll be dating, fine. You two can stop now-“

“Get out of my office.” Ben grunts, and Legend sighs.

“We’ve been over this, Soldier Boy, it’s not your-“

Ben pushes you down on the desk, rips off your shirt, starts to kiss over your breast with a possessive growl that sends a shiver up your spine, and Legend groans.

“Fine.” You’re vaguely aware of something shuffling around, but Ben’s rubbing a thumb over your nipples through your bra, and you’re incredibly focused on just holding on. “No messes.”

Neither of you make any promises, and you don’t think no messes is possible. Not as Ben shoves his hand into your panties the moment the door closes, tearing off your bra and lowering his mouth to suck and bite along your breasts.

“I-“ You gasp, your hands shooting to grip at his hair when two rough fingers shove right into your cunt, starting to pump in a smooth, unyielding rhythm. “God, fuck-“

“Say my name, baby,” he grunts, flicking his tongue over a nipple, working you into a frenzy as his fingers bump that deep spot and crook against it- “Say my fucking name and I’ll ruin you like you fucking deserve-“

“Please-“ You squeak as his thumb finds your clit, just pressing as he starts to kiss down your stomach. “Ben, please-“

“There she goes.” Ben nips at your stomach as he lowers himself further, an arm wrapping around your waist to pin you down when the remainder of your clothing is torn from your body and his fingers still, leaving you grinding hopelessly against his hand and gasping for air as a warm breeze picks up in the room. “Want my cock, sweetheart? Going to fucking beg for it like the pretty little slut you are, so fucking needy-“

“I’m-“ You gasp as he bites at your inner thigh, and you can feel his grip tighten again as your hair starts to float around your head. “Just for you, Ben, just need you, please-“

“Such good manners,” he drawls, pressing one, mockingly sweet kiss to your clit as he shoves your knees further apart. “So fucking wet, too. Anyone else get you like this, sweet girl-“

You shake your head, bucking your hips up into the air. “No- Never anyone else, just you-“

“That’s fucking right.” He growls, his thumb pressing to your clit, his breath warm over your cunt. “You’re all fucking mine-“

“Yours,” you gasp. “Ben, please-“

He rises back up, pinching your clit as his mouth crashes back into yours and groaning your name when you writhe against him.

“Christ on a fucking cross, baby-“

“Ben-“ Your snake your hand between when his body is wrapped over yours, palming at him through his pants. “More, need more-“

“Always fucking give you more,” he grunts, pulling your hair until your head tips further back with a whine. “Need to wait, use those pretty fucking manners-“

He cuts himself off with a groan as the wind starts to tear through the room, and you shove your hand into his pants, wrapping your hand around his dick and stroking it until his hips rut up into you-

Ben catches your wrist, and before you know what’s happening you’re flat on your back, your hands pinned over your head and Ben’s face hovering inches over yours.

“I said fucking wait.” He hisses, and you swallow. “You pull that shit and I’m going to blow all that cum you love so much on your fucking hand. Is that what you want?”

You shake your head, grinding up into where you can feel him, pressed right on your inner thigh.

“Words-“

“No.” Your words are breathy and desperate, and you don’t care. “Ben-“

“What do you want?” His tone is mocking, a smirk pulling at his lips, and God, he’s such an asshole but you fucking love him-

“You, want you, Ben-“

He hums, dropping the full weight of his hips over yours and chuckling at your high whine when the head of his cock bumps at your clit. “What do you want me to do-“

“Fuck me,” there’s no hesitation in your voice. With Ben, there never is. “Want your cock, Ben, please-“

It’s all he needs. Ben slams into you with one movement, but doesn’t move. He just splits you open beneath his and grins at your dazed expression, the head of him pressed right on that spot and fuck, he needs to move-

“Need a second, pretty girl?”

“I- move-“ You squeeze around him, pride glowing in your chest at the low, rumbling groan it draws from his chest. “Ben-“

He gives one rough thrust, pulling all the way out before slamming back in, and you let out a high, strangled sound of need.

“Say you’re mine.” He growls, repeating the movement, a little faster. “Tell me who fucks you this good, who you fucking love, who makes you a cockdrunk, needy little slut-“

He’s makes another thrust with every demand, and the euphoria of Ben all around and in you is like a truth serum. If you wanted to lie, you couldn’t.

This feels too fucking good.

“Yours Ben, I’m yours, it’s only you,” you gasp as he bruises against that one spot, his mouth diving down to suck at your neck. “Always you, just you, I love you, please-“

That snaps him. Ben starts to fuck you, really, properly fuck you, your hands still trapped above you and his cock bruising your cervix as he hammers into your dripping cunt, letting your scratch and claw at his broad, muscled back and whine his name as his balls slap on your ass and his free hand plays with your tits until you’re writhing and gasping below him-

“Fucking mine.” He grunts, his thrusts never breaking pace as you hurl towards release. “So fucking desperate for me, baby, nobody’s gonna fuck you like I do, fucking love you, love this pretty fucking pussy, such a good girl for me, squeezing my cock so fucking tight-“

You make a strangled sound that’s supposed to be his name, and Ben swallows it with his mouth over yours.

“Need to cum in you, baby,” he growls down your throat, his hand gliding your body to rest over your throat. “Need to fucking fill you up, let everyone know you’re fucking mine-“

You nod a little stupidly, a white-hot coil wound so tight in your stomach, so close to snapping-

Ben pushes up off of you, reaching an inhuman, abusing and perfect pace in your cunt, and right as the coil burst like starlight through your body, he squeezes his hand around your throat with just the right amount of pressure to drag the mind-numbing pleasure on and on, letting you ride your orgasm as he roars your name and comes with one last slam of his hips.

He tugs you back to his chest as you both come down, knowing far better than you let your body go when you’re still light-headed and drunk on how warm you feel. Full of Ben and used by him in the best possible way, and he loves you, he’s said it two times now and that’s real.

Ben drags two fingers through your dripping, still fluttering pussy, stuffing his cum back inside of you—a tiny ritual he always seems to do for himself, because you’re on the pill but he always glows with pride after, so you let him indulge—as he kisses over your collarbone, and you bury your face in his neck with an easy hum.

“Are you,” you sigh, clinging to his body like a baby as his rubs firm circles over your back. “Were you serious?”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I’m always fucking serious-“

“I know, I just mean-“ You sigh, leaning back to scan over his handsome, solid features. “About us. Are we- Is this public now?”

His jaw clenches slightly. “You’re the one who was calling me the best thing that ever happened to you-“

“I- you are, I just want to be sure you’re sure-“

“I’ve been sure since I fucking saw you,” Ben says your name, his voice firm, and you just stare at him. “The secret shit was your idea, and I’d move a fucking mountain for you, so I did it, but it’s always been fucking dumb as shit.”

“Oh.” You swallow, offering him a small smile. “Sorry.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. We’re public, sweetheart, and every single fucking pussy in the world is going to know you’re mine.”

“Good,” you hum, resting your head back on his shoulder. “You’re mine too, you know.”

“I’m damn well aware.” Ben kisses the side of your head, tracing a hand up your spine. “All fucking yours.”

End Note: I never have more fun than coming up with Soldier Boy insults. Channeling all the swearing I can't do at work into this.

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#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy x you #reader insert #romance #x reader #request #the boys #smut #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x female reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles characters #female reader #godmadeaterribleerror #anon request

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makeitworse · 1 month ago

Text

picture you

⟢ dae-ho × f reader | nsfw, mdni!

dae-ho’s having a little trouble focusing on his studies, so you offer him a hand.

c/w: university au, very subby dae-ho, male masturbation, he’s pervy & ashamed abt it, praise kink, dry-humping, he cums in his pants a/n: quick lil idea i wanted to get out

dae-ho’s sorry, he really was. he was close to banging his head on these books. you’re on your third explanation of this topic, and his brain wasn’t retaining any of it.

he (once) prided himself in being a better man than this— but he couldn’t focus today. not when you showed up to his lesson looking so.. enticing.

you were being so patient with him, and here he was repaying the favour by defiling you in his thoughts. it’s disgusting. and he can’t stop.

were you always this alluring to him? how did you manage to one-up your already perfect looks, and have him shifting in his chair to slyly adjust the front of his pants like some hormonal teen?

he was watching your mouth move, but the words weren’t reaching his ears, not when last night’s visions were flooding back.

your cheek hollowed out, glossy eyes looking up at him as you kneeled in front of his chair.

he gulped, grounding himself back in reality and swallowing the daydream down. his throat burned with guilt.

it killed him to objectify you in such a way, every night when he’s alone in the dark with his hand and imagination. he doesn’t mean to, really. he didn’t start out wanting to, it’s just... he can’t stop. he can’t do it without you.

he used to tell himself it was just a coincidence that he’d scroll through your pictures beforehand. he swears to no one in particular that it’s an accident when your name falls from his lips as he cums.

it doesn’t mean anything when he has to restrain himself from checking you out as you stretch in your chair. it’s only a ‘random, for no-reason’ boner after you tell him how well he did.

dae-ho was eager to please. he craved your praise, and he needed to ace this upcoming exam so he gets to hear you tell him how proud you are.

but in some poetic karma, having you as a tutor had him falling further behind.

he’s watching you softly bite your lip as you reread the textbook, maybe wondering how to explain it in a way he can understand. you uncross and recross your legs, and his gaze flickers to the space between them.

when he looks back up, he’s met with your eyes staring back at his.

shit.

“dae, what’s going on?”

your still voice rips the sheets off of his dirty thoughts. he stammers like an idiot, caught with his hand down his pants.

“has something been bothering you?”

“ah,” he groans. he doesn’t want to disappoint you. but, he really can’t concentrate today.

earnestly, he nods.

“is it anything i can help with?”

the look on his face says it all. the way his expression drops at your offer to help with his ‘bother’— which was actually straining against his pants. he’s not even certain if what you just said was real, or if he’s lost in another daydream.

“okay,” you shut the textbook with a thud. “let’s take a break.”

dae-ho’s jaw was slack as he studied you. telling you what he really needed seemed out of the question. but you’re serious as you survey him, eyes darting up and down his body.

he gulps at the weight of your gaze. did you see his..?

dae-ho freezes up at the touch of your hand on his knee.

“what can we do to get you back to focus, dae?”

his erection is raging at him to just say it with his words. you’re offering, after all. your hand is literally on his knee. and, oh god, you’re creeping your fingers up his thigh. his eyes damn nearly roll back into his head.

“would this help?”

he blinks. he blinks again. he needs to know the way you’re pulling him in through a half-lidded gaze is real. really real. you look like you could eat him up, and he’d let you gladly.

dae-ho’s nod in reply is so tiny, he’s not even sure he actually got it out. but he knows he did when your other hand comes to cradle his cheek.

all air leaves his lungs as you swiped a thumb to his bottom lip, pressing down on the soft skin.

“ah,” you direct, and he parts his mouth open for you. your thumb slides onto his tongue, which elicits a noise from his throat he quickly stifles.

you hum in praise as dae-ho closes his lips around your thumb and sucks lightly. the twitch of his dick is a spotlight on the very evident tent in his pants.

it’s not like dae-ho’s never been touched before— but he’s questioning the standard of his previous encounters, when you had him this hard in a harmless tutoring session.

you pop your thumb from his mouth as your other hand rides further up his leg, stopping dangerously close to his crotch. your palm’s like a magnet the way he’s resisting the urge to buck into it.

“this okay?”

dae-ho nearly chokes with how quick he stammers out a ‘yes’. inside his head he’s screaming it. you could do whatever you wanted to him, and he’d be grateful.

his cock is pulsing the instant your fingers glide over the outline through his pants. you dare to close your hand over him, and he catches your lips curl into a smile as his eyes flutter shut.

he opens them at the sound of your chair scraping closer to him. you’re close enough that your knee bumps his.

“you’re so big, dae.” you coo, leaning to level your face with his. his breath hitches.

you rub your hand steadily over his length. he can’t help the moan that escapes. you giggle at that, pleased.

you set an excruciatingly slow pace as your hand glided up and down. against his will, his hips jolt once or twice, desperate for friction. dae-ho whines an apology, but you just soothe him by caressing his cheek.

his eyes were trained on your mouth: how your lips were parted slightly as you palmed him, how you were close enough that your breaths mixed— he could so easily catch you in a kiss. but he didn’t want take advantage of you or anything. you’ve already been so generous to him.

like he’s thinking out loud, you softly ask: “do you want to kiss me?”

it’s probably no surprise since his gaze hadn’t shifted from your mouth. he nods meekly, slightly in disbelief as you lean forward to meet his lips with yours.

dae-ho’d pinch his leg to check that this is actually happening, if he wasn’t already practically melting in your touch.

he jumps at the warmth of your tongue sliding into his mouth. he’s almost too shocked to remember to kiss you back, but he does so fervently. he’s been aching for you.

he still feels embarrassment nipping at his neck that he even viewed his tutor in such a way, despite how you were now literally giving him a handjob through his pants.

you break the kiss, but not without a sweet peck as you pull away.

“you promise you’ll work hard for me after this?”

“i will.” his voice nearly cracks. after this, he’d worship the ground you walk on if you asked.

“that’s my good boy.” you smile. he could’ve came just from that.

dae-ho swears his mouth waters as he (shamelessly) watches you hike up your skirt, catching a flash of your panties as you stand.

you swing your legs over either side of his chair. pinching his chin, you guide dae-ho to look you in the eye.

but his barely stay open— his face contorting with a moan as you sink down onto his lap.

his dick’s digging right into your heat. he’s left shivering while you trail kisses down his neck. it’s an effort to not thrust up into you when you’re pressed against him like this: he doesn’t want to embarrass himself.

dae-ho steadies his shaking hands by meekly placing them on your hips. was it okay to touch you here?—

—and that thought was gone in an instant as you pulled dae-ho’s hands down to your ass.

his head was spinning. this was all so surreal. just last night, he was cursing himself for picturing you in all the ways that were happening now.

this time when you dive in to kiss him, he doesn’t hold back on parting your lips with his tongue. you encourage him with a rock of your hips, and he muffles a moan into your mouth.

dae-ho gained the confidence to snake his hands under your shirt. another grind against him was like permission granted to go further.

dae-ho was messy as he rutted with you. his hips stammered with their thrusts— he couldn’t keep up with your pace if he wanted to last.

he was sloppy with his mouth on yours, desperate to taste all of you. his hands had found themselves buried under your bra and fumbling with your tits.

it was all too much for him to handle at once. you ground down on his cock so perfectly, your rhythm unfaltering. pre-cum pooled at the front of his pants, and through the fabric he felt how damp you were as your cunt rubbed against him.

he couldn’t help the whines spilling into your mouth as you kissed him. you balled his loose hair into a fist and craned his head back. the tug on his scalp made his dick pulse, and the way you were looking at him with your mouth open and brows pinched— god, you were panting too— and fuck—

“w-wait! wait, i’m—”

knowing he was close, something flickered across your eyes. you latched onto his neck, and he cried out as you sucked a sensitive spot of skin.

dae-ho was foul-mouthed as he came: blabbering cusses between shameless moans, twitching up into you while you rode him through his orgasm.

his pants stained with warm ropes of cum. the sensation almost made him recoil, but you hummed into his ear pleased, gently rubbing his back.

dae-ho lolled his head onto your shoulder. you wiped the sweat from his forehead and placed a chaste kiss on his brow.

“let’s tidy ourselves up, then back to your study. okay?”

there was a laundry list of things he’d rather do with you than uni work. but if he doesn’t work well for you, he’s not sure he’ll get another chance.

dae-ho nods a bit too seriously, as if he’s following orders. it makes you chuckle.

“work well for me, and i’ll put it in my mouth next time.”

and he felt himself getting hard all over again.

#dae ho x reader #kang dae ho x reader #squid game x reader #kang dae ho smut #dae ho smut #daeho x reader #player 388 x reader #squid game smut

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6okuto-moved · 1 year ago

Text

AN INCH BETWEEN US

osamu x gn!reader | ~800 words, he calls you hon once, you're getting married! :3

“you don’t usually get nervous.”

“well,”—osamu fiddles with his cufflink, eyes trained on the metal around his finger—“today’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?”

make sure you don’t see each other before you get out there, atsumu warned as he pat your fiancé’s back. bad luck or somethin’.

doesn’t make sense if we’re doin’ a first look, idiot.

oh, shut up. don’t look at each other ’til then, then!

your back rests against the door, his on the other side keeping it from closing. maybe it’s just a silly superstition, but it cements today as something real, reminds you that it’s happening.

you reach your hand around to search for his own. “at least we’ll be together the whole time. and then we can say goodbye, and go home, and get out of these clothes, and sleep—”

osamu groans and rests his head against the wood—you don’t think he’s slept properly in two weeks, head scrambled and busy with preparations and the same nervous buzz as yours; the fact that he fell asleep before 1am last night was a miracle.

his hand finds yours, engagement ring resting cool against your skin, palm warm and a little rough. he mumbles, “thank god i closed the shop for a few days, if you told me to wake up any earlier than 9 tomorrow i think i’d die.”

“why are you- we haven’t even gotten to the actual wedding, ’samu.”

“okay? i’m tired and ’m gonna get even more tired. i just wanna cuddle at home. can a man not dream?” he defends, and all but whines. you snort but relent, letting him pull your hand closer and settle into a quiet.

“what if i fall?” he blurts out.

“...what?” a laugh escapes you. “you won’t fall.”

“i could trip down the aisle.”

“you won't.”

he squeezes your fingers. “didn’t realize i was marrying someone who could see the future?”

“’samu. you won’t fall, but if you get in my head and i fall, i’m blaming you,” you warn with a teasing lilt.

a beat passes, and you can tell he’s smiling as you stare at the couch ahead of you.

sitting on a wooden hotel floor, wedding attire on and hair not done, bed covered in supplies and friends’ outfits, the buzz of the air conditioner making it a little too cold in your room—you think you’re content like this, because at least you’re here with him.

shuffling a little closer, he says your name.

“hm?”

the inch between you feels a little bigger as osamu lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, lingering on your ring finger a second longer than the others—“i’m glad i get to marry you.”

your grip tightens, and if osamu listened carefully, you think he could hear your heart trying to beat out of your chest in search of his.

the elevator dings somewhere down the hall.

“i’m glad i get to marry you, too.”

“samu!” his twin’s voice rings out. “are you done cryin’, or do i haveta drag y’back to get your hair done?”

“god, ’tsumu, yeah, i’m comin’, stop yellin’!” he chides with a huff.

atsumu scoffs before replying—something about his twin being ungrateful for all he does—then walks back to the elevator. you hear a sigh. “guess i should go, huh?”

a thumb rubs the back of your hand, and you almost tell him to stay, but there isn’t much time, and it won’t be long before you’re pushing it. taking a deep breath, you let go to stand up first. “mhm.”

the door squeaks at the weight now gone as you both stretch.

you turn to say goodbye, the open door and shadow in the hall taunting you, but freeze when a familiar hand starts to push the door open.

“wh- samu!” your hand flies up to push his grey bangs out of view.

“woah- what- shit- sorry, sorry. habit, was gonna kiss ya,” he apologizes with a stumble.

panic evaded, your heart rate comes down and he huffs. “my- seriously, hon, you’re lucky my hair isn’t done yet.”

“...sorry, i—” you try to hide a laugh. “i’m sorry, i panicked.”

“no, really?”

“’samu,” you whine, embarrassment painted across your face, though he can’t see. he laughs outside, and you try to ignore the heat in your face.

“...at least you’ll kiss me later, right?” you ask quietly.

“....yeah.” there’s a smile in his voice, a pause, a rustling of fabric as he pats down his suit once more. “see you out there?”

you place your hand on the doorknob. “see you out there.”

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#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #osamu x reader #osamu fluff #osamu x gn!reader #haikyuu x gn!reader

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hxney-lemcn · 28 days ago

Text

Idiots & Injuries — dark! Link x gn! reader

summary: you find yourself being an idiot and taking care of the same person who had attacked you not so long ago, but sometimes bonds are forged in the strangest of circumstances.

tw: blood, detailed descriptions of getting injured, fixing them, and healing process, lots of blood

a/n: I FINALLY THOUGHT OF SOMETHING!!! Not to mention this has been my best work in months 😭 I hope people actually read this 💔

wc: 4.8k

Master List

“Beautiful.”

Those words slipped out as a sword pierced your side, causing you to let out a gasp. Your wound felt like it was on fire and you collapsed unceremoniously on the ground, the grass trying its hardest to cushion your fall. You pressed your hand to your side, a sticky red substance coating your fingers, but you knew you had to keep putting pressure to stop the bleeding. The entire time you couldn’t take your eyes off the person who stabbed you, his crimson eyes that glowed in the dark were wide with surprise.

Your words had caught him off guard, the awe in your eyes made his hands waver. His killing blow had turned into a wound that would kill you if left unattended. It was a mistake he had never made before, he felt like he was being dissected under your gaze, but not like how he was used to. Normally he was met with harsh glares from beings of light and darkness alike, most of fear, sometimes jealousy, sometimes disgust. Never…he had never seen that look on your face directed towards him before. It made him feel…he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand what this strange feeling was.

The sounds of footsteps along with someone calling your name rang out through the silence. They sounded worried, rushed footfalls rapidly approaching. You finally pulled your eyes away from the shadow-like man, glancing towards the voice of your neighbor, Tobo. You must’ve screamed upon impact. You felt so out of it, not only was it the dead of night, but you had seemed to become entranced with the man who looked like no one else you had ever met, not to mention your hands started to feel cold…how much blood have you lost?

“Dear Hylia, what happened?” They gasped, rushing over to your crumpled form, red coloring the grass under you. You opened your mouth to respond, unsure how to even explain the odd circumstance that led you to this moment. Your eyes drifted back to where you had last seen the entity, but he had disappeared, just like a shadow.

…

The whole night seemed like a fever dream, the only thing reminding you that it was real was the bandaged wound on your side that would pulse with pain if you overexerted yourself too much. Which was hard not to do when you had to take care of your cuccos. Of course your kind neighbors had offered to help, and you did have to begrudgingly accept for the first few days as you could barely stand up without your body lighting on fire. But once you were able to stand and eventually lift things again you were trying your hardest to get back to work.

It didn’t help that your mind kept wandering to the handsome stranger that had tried to take your life. Were you insane for finding your attacker attractive? Probably. You couldn’t help the awe that filled you every time you thought of him, his eyes glowed! Ash grey hair had framed his dark colored skin. Deep, deep down you found yourself wanting to meet again, even if you knew it would be your downfall.

It had been a couple weeks, the skin on your wound had begun to scab, the sign of a healthy healing process. The moon was merely a sliver in the sky that night, the stew you were cooking nearly done. The hearth warmed your small home, the cucco’s silent as they slept in their coop. It was a night just like any other. That comfort was your downfall.

THUD

Your heart jumped up to your throat, blood thrumming through your veins. Your eyes watched the door wearily, frozen in place from fear. Last time you heard something startle your cucco’s was when you had ran into the beautiful man, your wound throbbed at the thought of getting hurt once more. Rapid knocking sounded from your door, adrenaline flowing through you. You stood up from your wooden chair, legs shaking slightly. The knocking sounded urgent. You took a step forward. But what if it was a ploy? Hesitantly you made your way to your window, pushing the curtain to the side just enough to take a peak at who could be knocking so vehemently.

Your world froze. A dark heap laid at your door, dark red eyes scrunched in what seemed to be pain, white teeth held in a snarl, his fist that was covered in a dark gauntlet was pressed against the dark oak door. Your breath hitched. It was him. He was back. He looked hurt. Why was he here? Your brain went into overdrive as you yanked the door open without second thought. Were you being stupid? Yes. This man had hurt you, he had intended to kill you, what was to say he wasn’t here to finish the job? But another part of you tugged at your heart strings, he looked like he was in pain, why would he be at your door if he had nowhere else to go?

He raised his head quickly, glaring at you like you had personally done this to him. His clothes were torn, his hair was a mess, dark purple splotches coated his skin (so dark it almost blended in).

“Can you stand?” You whispered, kneeling down to his level. A low growl left his throat leaving your nerves alight. Everything in your being was telling you to run, to close the door and be done with this whole thing, but you were stubborn for better or worse. “Do you want my help or did you just come here for me to watch you die?” That seemed to shut him up, grasping your doorway to try and pull himself up. You stood up with him, hands hovering beside him in case he took a tumble, leading him over to the chair you were just occupying. Your eyes swept across the dark village before you closed the door, making sure no one had come out to check the racket.

You quickly got to busying yourself. After your serious injury you kept a small box of medical supplies, many thanks to Tobo who basically forced you to take the items. You placed the box next to the chair, rushing over to your boiling stew and taking it off the hearth, grabbing another kettle and pouring water, some salt, and vinegar into it. Once that was on its way to boil, you rushed back over to the wounded man that watched you with hawk-like eyes.

“You have to take off clothes in all the areas you’re badly wounded,” You spoke up again, rummaging through the box and taking out the bandages and stitching supplies just in case.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked, voice gravelly. It was the first time you heard him speak, his throat sounds scratchy with pain, his tone a low rumble. You did your best to ignore the way it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m not gonna let someone bleed to death on my doorstep,” You snapped. “Do you know how much of a mess that would be?” It wasn’t the full truth. You weren’t sure why you were helping him, he had tried to kill you not too long ago after all, but a part of what you said was the truth. The thought of having a dead body at your doorstep and having to explain to the villagers who he was seemed like a headache.

The shadowy figure stayed silent after that, his face showing that he didn’t fully trust you, but knowing he didn’t have much of a choice at the moment. You turned back to the kettle, watching as small bubbles slowly pooled at the bottom. Can’t it boil already? This was a dire situation after all. The shuffling of clothing and pained groans came from behind you, with a small glance to try and assess the situation when you felt your stomach drop. You weren’t sure how he hadn’t dropped dead already. Cuts littered his dark skin, dark purple liquid flowing from the deeper ones. It was clear to you he wasn’t hylian, you knew on the night of your meeting. If his bright red eyes weren't a dead give away, then the dark purple substance that seemed to be his blood was more than enough evidence.

You were snapped out of your thoughts as the water finally started to bubble. Taking the kettle off the hearth, you carried it with you, grabbing a clean rag on the way.

“I’m going to clean your wounds first,” You explained, dipping the rag carefully in the hot mixture of water and vinegar. “This is going to hurt a lot.” He merely let out a short ‘tsk’, fists clenching in preparation. You wiped his bloodied skin, your white rag quickly matching the dark purple of his blood. It was a quick process. Dunk the rag in the mixture, wipe at a wound, and repeat until his skin was as clean as you could get it. You were impressed at how he didn’t let out a grunt of pain throughout the process, you had been howling like a wounded pup when your neighbor cleaned your wound, the phantom sense of the stinging pain made you wince.

You let out a sigh, threading your bone needle with catgut suture you had left over. “A few of these need to be closed,” You murmured, seems to be at least two wounds that were particularly deep. “This is going to hurt even worse than the cleaning.”

“Just get it over with,” He snapped. You both glared at the other for a few seconds before you shook your head. He stabs you, leaves you to die, then comes stumbling to you on death's door and he has the gall to tell you to hurry up? You were no doctor, what was he expecting? With a roll of your eyes you lift the needle to his skin, purple blood still slowly oozing from it, you hesitated. Your stomach squirmed at the sight, bile threatening to rise up your throat. You couldn’t even look at your own wound, the blood and flesh and-

No, you need to steel yourself. This was not the time for you to falter. Biting your cheek, you willed your hand to stop shaking, taking a deep breath and pushing the needle through his skin. The squealshing of flesh made you even more queasy, but you pushed through figuratively and literally. It seemed this time he couldn’t hold back his pained grunt, muscles pulled taut as he gripped the armrests. You went as quickly as you could, but slow enough to ensure the best suture. You nearly cried when you realized you’d have to do this again. Thankfully, the wound you did stitch seemed to have stopped bleeding. Dipping your hands in the cleaner mixture, blood now added to the concoction. With a deep breath, rethreading the needle, you got to work once more. This time it went faster, the motions becoming just the slightest bit easier. The queasiness refused to go away when you were done, taking out the last of your bandages and nearly wrapping his entire torso with it.

“Are there any more injuries anywhere else?” You asked, voice sounding exhausted, hands finally able to tremble without consequence.

“No,” He shook his head, hair swaying gently with the movement. Now that you were able to look at his face, it seemed you weren’t the only one who needed a good night's rest. You washed your hands the best you could once more in the kettle before picking it up to dump behind your house. You watched the dark liquid trickle out, tainting the grass below. Setting it to the side to be washed another time, and exchanging it for the stew that had grown cold and placed it back onto the dying fire.

You watched from the corner of your eye as the entity winced while leaning down to grab his bloodied and torn tunic. Sighing through your nose, you walked back over, yanking the dirty clothes from his hands. His glare sharped on you as you tossed the clothes into your dirty laundry basket, opened your dresser that sat in the corner and found a clean undershirt that would fit him. You handed him the shirt, raising an eyebrow at his reluctance.

“You shouldn’t put those gross clothes back on,” You grumbled, tossing the shirt at his head when he refused to take it. “Do you want all my work to be for nothing? Besides, it's not like you can leave like that.”

That was how you got stuck with a shadow entity whose name was Knil. He didn’t talk much, if at all, and you had deemed him bedridden until his injuries healed enough to not reopen them or undo your stitches. Were you a hypocrite? Maybe, but it seemed that this was your punishment for being such a thorn in Tobo’s side when they tried to take care of you.

“Sit back down,” You huffed, pushing Knil’s shoulders to get him to sit down on your bed. “Seriously, what do you even expect to do? You take one step out there in broad daylight and the villagers are going to call the royal guard.”

“I’m not some pet you can keep locked up,” He hissed back, glare darkening.

A genuinely confused expression fell on your face, “What?” It slipped out without you even realizing. “Why in Hylia’s name would I keep you as a pet? No, if you move around too much you’re going to do more damage to yourself, in order to heal properly you need to rest.”

“Why the hell do you care?”

You had no rebuttal and you were frustrated with this constant back and forth. This wasn’t the first time you had this argument and you doubt it would be the last. Instead you stomp over to where you kept his tunic and trousers that you had washed and sewn back together. Dropping the clothing on the nightstand next to Knil you snapped, “I don’t. If you wanna leave, give me back my clothes and do it at night when no one can see. Otherwise, under my roof you’ll follow my rules, and rule number one is don’t reopen wounds due to stupidity.”

You shook your head as you grabbed a bucket and stepped out. You needed a minute to cool off and you just happened to be out of water, so might as well grab a pale. A cool breeze brushed over your form, causing you to shiver slightly. In your anger you forgot to pull on a cloak. Hmph, just another small annoyance. Approaching the well, you put the bucket on the hook, turning the handle to lower it into the water below. You listened to the sound of chatter, animals, and footfalls surrounding you. You lived in a small village, everyone knew the other, helping out with chores when needed. It was a nice setting, but it put you all the more on edge when you were housing not only an enemy (you didn’t want to admit to yourself he was a monster just yet), but also the man who had attacked you. If the others found out they would surely send you to castle town hospital as well as kill Knil.

With a sigh, you shook the depressing thoughts out of your head, turning the handle the opposite way to take back your bucket now filled with water. A small grunt left your lips as you used both hands to carry it. Even though your injury was nearly fully healed, the scabs finally started to naturally fall off, but your skin was still tender and over exerting yourself still made your side sting. Explotitives fell out of your mouth when you tripped over your feet, wincing at the searing pain that exploded for a second. You dropped the bucket on the ground to gain your bearings, you hated how weak you felt all due to a stupid stabbing.

“Need some help?” Someone asked. Your eyebrows furrowed as you hadn’t heard that voice before. Looking up you were met with a stranger, deep blue eyes watched you in concern, blond haired splayed across tanned freckled skin. He looked oddly familiar for someone you never met.

“Ah, no thanks,” You smiled politely. “Just getting over a stab wound, no biggie.” With that, you tried to pick up the bucket once more, only for brown leather gauntlets to grab the handle before you. A frown tugged on your lips, gaze lifting to meet the strangers once more, a rebuttal on the tip of your tongue, but once more he got the first word in.

“I wouldn’t underestimate the severity of a stab wound,” The stranger replied, eyes flittering over your form. “Are you sure you should be moving so much?”

You waved your hand dismissively, starting the trek towards your house, it was clear he wasn’t going to let you carry the bucket now, “It’s almost fully healed now, I just need to regain my strength. It’s embarrassing to be a farmer and unable to even carry a damn bucket of water.”

“I’m sorry,” He frowned, following after you with relative ease.

“No reason to apologize,” You sighed. “It’s not like you stabbed me.”

“Who did?” He asked. You side eyed the strangely familiar stranger, still not being able to place where you’ve seen his looks before. Of course he would ask, you just now noticed the sword strapped to his back and the chainmail armor that lay beneath his green tunic, he was probably a knight of some sort. Shit, you really didn’t need his attention near your house.

“I don’t know,” The lie slipped seamlessly from your lips. You had been repeating it over and over again the past month. “It was dark and I could barely see a thing, something scared my cuccos, went to see what it was and the next second I found myself crumbled to the ground.”

The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed, expression looking troubled, “Has there been any other trouble around here?”

“No,” You shook your head, eyeing your door that came closer and closer to you both. You eyed your windows whose curtains blocked your view, but you managed to catch the split second of glowing red that disappeared after you made eye contact. “Thank you for carrying it this far, but I have it from here.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes,” You nodded, carefully grabbing the bucket and opening the door as little as possible. “Thank you so much Mr!”

“Just call me Link,” The stranger smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well thank you, Link,” You smiled awkwardly, shuffling your way backwards into your house. It must’ve looked quite silly from the confused look on Link’s face, but you really didn’t want the door to swing open and show off the man who you surely shouldn’t be…

It was then that it clicked. You set the bucket next to the door, closing it softly, turning to face-

Your breath got knocked out of your lungs as you were violently pushed against your door, something cold pressed to your neck. You rapidly blinked your eyes, taking in the shadow that had you pressed against oak wood, something sharp pricked at your neck causing you to push further into the wood.

“Wh-what…?” You breathlessly asked, heart beating rapidly. You were lulled into a false sense of safety due to the severity of his wounds it seems. He was still as dangerous as the day you met him.

“Why the hell is he here?” His tone took on something you hadn’t heard before, absolutely terrifying you.

“Wh-who, Link? You stuttered, flinching when the blade was pressed a bit more into your neck. Wait, was that your kitchen knife?

“He just helped me carry the water back,” You pleaded. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone’s eyes hold such venom before.

He scoffed, teeth bared in a snarl, “And I’m supposed to just believe that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” You groaned, you would’ve thunked your head back if you weren’t already pressed as far as you could get to the door. “If I was turning you in he’d already be in here kicking your sorry ass.” Perhaps you should’ve put on a filter when trying to calm down someone who was two seconds away from slitting your throat. A whimper unconsciously fell out when he dug the knife just a bit closer, you could feel a liquid fall down the column of your throat.

“Fuck!” Knil snarled, pulling away and tossing your knife across the room. You took in a shaky breath, clutching at your throat, unknowingly smearing the blood. You watched with nervous eyes as he paced, hands pulling at his grey locks.

“I don’t think he knows you're here if that’s what you’re afraid of,” You sighed, finally pushing yourself away from the door. His bright eyes snapped to your own, his pacing faltering. “Seriously,” You continued, grabbing a clean rag and pressing it to the small cut. “He seemed genuinely surprised when I said I got stabbed and I told him I don’t know how I got hurt.”

“Why the hell would you tell him that?”

“I don’t know,” You huffed, now trying to search for the discarded weapon. “I couldn’t carry a damned bucket of water, do you know how stupid I feel because of that?”

That seemed to shut him up, but you found yourself spilling more of your feelings, “And now I’m being threatened in my own goddess damned home.” You turned your eyes back to Knil once you tossed the knife onto a counter, eyes falling to a purple splotch on your white under shirt. “And now you’re bleeding, are you kidding me?”

Knil watched in surprise as you approached, he flinched back when you raised your hands, but instead of hitting him like he expected, you gently pushed him into a chair, lifting his shirt and undoing his bandages. This whole situation was so confusing to him. You confused him. He could barely remember dragging himself to your home half dead after his last encounter with Link. He couldn’t wrap his head around why you had helped him so easily, or what that look was that you aimed towards him more often than not. He couldn’t understand why you refused to let him go, why you didn’t force him out the second you finished fixing him up, why you hadn’t asked for something in return. Why didn’t you tell Link about him? Why did you stay quiet? Why weren’t you yelling and screaming at him for hurting you not once, but twice now?

The fire that burned within him at seeing you with Link by your side died down, turning to a gentle burn. Your hands, while not soft from your work, were gentle as you pressed a cloth down on his bleeding side. Your face was still contorted into an angry scowl, but you did not take your frustrations out on him…well not physically at least.

“Why in the world would you think I’d turn you in after taking care of you,” You continued to grumble under your breath. “Using my knife against me, the nerve.” He couldn’t help but feel foolish at your scolding, you had a point. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t understand that point that caused him to lose rationale, or it could be due to how inexplicably irate that stupid hero made him, most likely a mix of the two.

“Why…” Knil scrunched his nose at how weak he sounded at that moment. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

You paused your movements, meeting his eyes once more, “I should with all the trouble you cause me.” He tensed at your response, fight or flight taking over him. It was clear the difference of power he had over you-

“But because I’m an idiot I’m not gonna,” You shrugged, finally pulling away as the bleeding stopped. Knil’s eyebrows furrowed, you still haven’t answered his question. You bit your lip as you turned away, fidgeting with the dirty cloth, “Has anyone complimented you before?”

The question left his mind reeling, what did that have to do with anything? No one had, not until you did that fateful night. You had thrown him off balance, the warm look in your eyes as he went to uncaringly take your life. His silence seemed to answer your question and you continued.

“Has anyone taken care of you before?”

That one seemed to hit closer to him, Knil’s face becoming defensive. No. No one had until you. You could tell. It was why you tried to fight help as much as Knil did. You just simply weren’t used to it. It made you feel weak, useless, like a burden…

“That’s why I won’t turn you in,” You finished, placing all your dirty clothes and rags into the proper bin. “I think you deserve to be given some good that life has to offer.” You were such a confusing being of light…it made him curious to learn more. For once he wanted to do something that wasn’t pummeling that stupid hero into the ground.

“But I hurt you,” Knil pointed out, eyes trailing to the dark red that started to cake up and dry on your throat. It seemed all your fussing on him had caused you to forget about yourself. A strange tug told him to take care of you in return. He quickly snuffed that thought out.

“You did,” You affirmed, stretching your arms over your head and making some of your joints pop. “Do you regret it?”

Once again Knil found himself falling into silence. Was that what he felt when he first hurt you? Was that what he felt when you stared at him in fear when he broke your skin with the knife? Was that what he felt when his stomach churned as you cared for him even after all he did to you? Was that regret? Guilt? You had been churning up so many new feelings in him he had become overwhelmed. He didn’t know what he was feeling, he was born from evilness and anger, from resentment and hatred. He knew he hated Link, hated him for being what he wanted to be, for his existence creating him, for being seen as nothing but a shadow chained to take down the fated one.

You…you didn’t look at him with hatred or anger, even as he split your side with his sword. There was a strange warmth to your eyes whenever you looked at him, your gentle touch left his stomach fluttering, even when you were frustrated with him your words were oddly…affectionate? Was that the word? It was something he had never experienced before. Even now, now that you knew whose shadow he belonged to, now that he had hurt you once more…

You held his cheek softly in the palm of your hand, he was cool to the touch but you didn’t mind, “You deserve a second chance, just don’t throw it away. I won’t put up with any more threats of violence or acts of harm.”

Knil felt his stomach churn at the thought of you tossing him out. Why did he care? He shouldn’t. He was supposed to leave the second his wounds healed up enough for him to be okay on his own, it had barely been a week since he stumbled into your house…why did he already feel so attached to you? The feeling of your thumb rubbing against his cheek caused his skin to feel like it was on fire. Who was he kidding? He already knew the answer, he just didn’t want to admit it. The thought scared him, he already was caged in a sense before, tied to the hero. He didn’t want to be caged in another way. He had seen what affection for someone can do, when he killed people, they would always plead for him to spare their loved ones, or the ones that couldn’t believe when the one they cared the most for would try and throw them under the carriage. It was a weakness, something someone could target to make him crumble, to put him back in a cage…

“Now that that’s over with,” You pulled away, crossing your arms and stepping back. “I suppose I need to wash another load of laundry.”

If this was a cage, then why did he feel like he was being released?

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