#about: tate stone

[secrettyrant]

Full Name: Tate Stone

Age & Birthday: 32 years old, April 20th

Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada

Occupation/Role: Soldier (Forgery / Hacking and sometimes muscle)

DETAILS

History with The Saints: Tate was practically born into The Saints. His parents were involved and his father, Ian was an enforcer up until his death in 2024. His mother, Tanya, was involved prior to her leaving when the Stone siblings were still young. Tate joined as soon as he was old enough, and hasn't progressed further than Soldier but he's solidified himself as a member that helps with any technological and documentation needs. At times, he's pulled in as extra muscle.

What They’re Known For: Tate is a Stone, so his reputation is often linked to his father and his siblings. His personal reputation is that he's a fairly laid-back guy who often seems indifferent to most of the things happening around him. He's been in and out of jail a few times, proving his loyalty time and time again because he's never once snitched. Tate's the go to guy for anything digital like some casual fraud, Fake IDs and documents, or hacking security cameras.

PERSONALITY

Core Traits: Loyal, Quick Thinking, Calculated, Focused, Relaxed, A little bit annoying

Strengths: Tate is great with computer, obviously. He can get a shitty laptop working in seconds, and he loves cracking passwords. Sometimes, he does it in his spare time just to keep his mind sharp so any funny status updates you don't remember posting? Probably Tate being a dick. He's not an overly aggressive or physical person, but he can handle himself if he needs to.

Weaknesses: Tate doesn't take too much seriously, which makes him seem dismissive and indifferent. His relaxed nature could be confused as complacency or as if he just can't be fucking bothered to do anything. There's a little bit of selfishness running rampant in his blood where he does think about what he can gain from something and if he can, he'll utilize it.

What Keeps Them Up at Night, If Anything?: Tate sleeps pretty soundly, his only concern is about his siblings but even then he knows they can all handle themselves.

How Do They Handle Conflict?: In the face of conflict, Tate probably seems like an arrogant or cocky bastard because he's not taking it that seriously. He thinks most conflict is stupid, might even laugh right someone's face. But, when it really matters, Tate's able to flip the Stone switch and handle himself. He doesn't exactly deescalate situations, so this has happened more than once.

HISTORY

Current Situation: Tate's father was killed in 2024 and while he doesn't outwardly seem like it's affected him, it's hit him pretty hard. He doesn't seem as if he wants revenge, or even wants to do much of anything about it but inside he's ticking away, picking apart plans piece by piece. He'll probably go a little bit rogue if he has to, because revenge is definitely on his mind.

[onlyangel4]

Hi can i request an smau with just met to love at first sight (maybe summertime fling) with lando based on Wherever u r by umi and V 🥹 happy ending!!

wherever u r. ln4. smau.

lando norris x actress!reader

lando always thought that love at first sight was some cliche created by the movies, something not applicable with real life. but then he met you

faceclaim: madelyn cline

y/ninsta posted a story

written: emergency leg shave in a hotel sink before going out in monaco that i definitely do not belong at, wish me luck.

y/bff replied to your story: i can't believe you are going to an event alone, your confidence baffles me

y/ninsta: if it makes you feel better i said yes when i was drunk and now that i'm stone cold sober i am shitting my pants

y/ninsta posted a story

written: two hours later and i am ready

y/nsightings posted a story

written: y/n spotted outside a club in monaco, there is a massive celebrity event there tonight she told a fan that her plus one dropped out last minute so she is attending alone and is shitting herself, sounds like our y/n

f1updates

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 54,683 others

f1updates: lando, charles and alex, daniel and heidi have all been spotted outside the same club in monaco. there is an exclusive invite only event taking place. several celebrities have already been spotted entering the club including zendaya, yn l/n, tate mcrae and the kid laroi

view all 7,293 comments

user1: i would sell a kidney to get inside that club

user2: omg this is the event y/n was shaving her legs for

user3: she is so real for that if i knew that i was going to be in a room with f1 drivers i would shave EVERYTHING

user4: the summer break just started and they are already meeting up at a party they are all obsessed with each other

y/nupdates posted a story

written: y/n spotted leaving the monaco party with an unknown man

y/nfan

liked by user5, user6, user7 and 34,855 others

y/nfan: guys! so my boyfriend does a lot of work behind the scenes in film and tv so we got invited to this event in monaco. and i spotted y/n standing at the back of the party not really interracting with anyone because she didn't know anyone so i went up to her told her that i was a massive fan and she spent a lot of the night with us. we were dancing and watching lando norris' dj set when he saw her and goes "holy shit that is y/n y/ln shit you are hotter in person" and when his dj set was done he ran off the stage and over to us and we were about to take a selfie so i got this gem. honestly the best night ever.

view all 592 comments

user7: could that be who y/n was spotted leaving with

user5: omg that is such a lando thing to do

user6: i would not be mad at this couple

landonorris posted a private story

charlesleclerc replied to your story: alex is so mad that she didn't get the chance to meet y/n last night and you guys are just hanging

landonorris: man we are not just hanging, she is like actually perfect

charlesleclerc: oh dear are you what the kids call down bad

landonorris: i will forever hate alex for teaching you that

mclaren: so if you fancied inviting your new "friend" to the dutch gp no one would be mad, especially if she wanted to take part in media day

landonorris: you never miss a trick admin, i'll talk to her

y/ninsta posted a story

written: beach day

y/ninsta

liked by landonorris, sabrinacarpenter, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,384,735 others

y/ninsta: monaco trip dump

view all 23,452 comments

sabrinacarpenter: can't wait for you to be back in la

y/ninsta: girl i have so much shit to tell you

alexandrasaintmleux: meeting you was a dream come true, can't wait until we get to hang out again

y/ninsta: love you so much, will have to visit again soon

landonorris: i made the cut !

y/ninsta: that night was too memorable to not include

user8: y/n what do you mean

user9: lando norris wtf is this crossover episode

user10: didn't she go on holiday alone, who took all these pictures

y/ninsta posted a story

written: first time on a private jet wtf never flying commercial ever again

landonorris posted a story

written: and we arrived, so ready for the next part of the season

charlesleclerc replied to your story: if "we" is who i think it is alex is going to lose her mind

landonorris: tell alex her job is to make sure y/n doesn't get lost in the paddock

f1celebs posted a story

written: actress y/n y/ln has arrived for media day here in the netherlands

y/ninsta posted a story

written: exciting things coming

mclaren posted a story tagging landonorris and y/ninsta

written: lando took actress y/n y/ln on a hot lap, click the link here to watch the whole thing

landonorris

liked by y/ninsta, alexandrasaintmleux, mclaren and 1,453,621 others

tagged: y/ninsta

landonorris: bring your girlfriend to work day

view all 78,934 comments

y/ninsta: i think you mean "almost kill your girlfriend at work day"

landonorris: babe i was actually going slow

alexandrasaintmleux: no you brought MY girlfriend to work

landonorris: well no...

mclaren: next time we will put y/n behind the wheel

y/ninsta: omg really !

landonorris: that is an awful ideal

user10: he has just beaten the norizz allegations by pulling one of the hottest women in hollywood omg way to prove us wrong

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

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[drewsbuzzcut]

Backseats and Ritz Hotel Rooms

Mat Barzal x fem!model!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: alludes to smut, underage alcohol consumption, age gap (5 years)

Takes place April 2023

a/n: This is heavily inspired by Tate McRae’s “Think Later”

The lively club is sort of a comfort for you, reminding you of the life you’re lucky to live. You watch in anticipation the people bumping and grinding around you. You cannot wait for Mat to get there, so you can be the one bumping and grinding against him.

You swallow the last sip of your striking, blue cocktail and check your phone for any messages from Mat. The last one is him letting you know that he’s close by. Blowing out a nervous breath, you shut your phone off and stuff it into your clutch.

The time passes by teasingly slow. With each second you grow more eager, your fingers itching for Mr. Pretty eyes. It’s been close to two weeks since you’ve seen Mat. He’s been on a long roadie and Boston was the last stop before returning home. You couldn’t wait, though. You needed to see him, feel him. Plus, you had a photo shoot opportunity in the city, so why not kill two birds with one stone.

You just happen to look towards the entrance to find your boyfriend, who seems to be arguing with the bouncer. You watch in amusement as he continues to thrust his ID at the man blocking the entryway. His lip is caught between his teeth and his cheeks flush in annoyance or embarrassment. You’re not sure which.

Deciding not to waste anymore time, you stride over to them. “Is something wrong?”

“This guy is saying he’s over the age 21,” the bouncer huffs.

You stifle a laugh behind the palm of your hand, almost failing to hold it in when you see Mat’s bewildered expression.

“Trust me, James, he’s definitely older than 21. Google him, his name is Mat Barzal,” you shout after pulling Mat into the club. The Bostonian won’t be happy to know that his beloved bruins got their ass kicked by the islanders.

“Hey, baby,” Mat hums, bringing your body closer to his with a large hand on your stomach.

“Hi. I missed you,” you lean back and whisper into his ear. Your wandering hands reach back and glide into his growing hair.

You guide him with swaying hips straight to the bar, hollering your order right away. “Two shots of tequila and a-“ you pause and look to Mat for his drink of choice.

“Dirty martini,” he concludes.

“A dirty martini?” You ponder, always knowing your boyfriend to order a beer.

“Trying something new.”

You offer him a little shrug and his shot of tequila, quickly tossing them back. And when Mat finally tries his drink, you don’t hide your giggle at his clear distaste.

“This is definitely more up your alley,” he says, giving you the beverage to finish.

“How the hell did you even get past the bouncer if you’re not 21 yet?” Mat asks with his adorable nose scrunch.

You look down to hide your devilish smirk, but you cannot hide it for long when your boyfriend lifts your chin.

“Mmm it’s probably pretty privilege and my highly convincing fake ID,” you reply nonchalantly with a flip of your hair.

“Oh. Pretty privilege huh?” Mat hooks his fingers through the loops of your jeans, pulling you impossibly closer into his muscly body.

You bite down on your lip and bat your eyelashes innocently as you nod your head. You try not to moan at the way you fall into him and how his hard chest is there for you to lean on. You press a kiss where his heart is, making it stop and his breath hitch in his throat. God, he loves you so much.

“Yeah. What are you going to do about it?” The words are aired out softly, your lips ghosting his and heat building up around you.

He crashes his lips on yours, a hand carding through your hair and the other settling on your ass. You fist his button up and inhale him like he’s the sole thing keeping you alive. You slowly flick your tongue at his bottom lip, exploring his mouth and swallowing his raspy groan.

“Let’s dance,” Mat moans, the way you suck on his jawline making his body shudder and knees weak.

With every ounce of strength in his body, he pulls away and drags you to the dance floor. He spins you out before twirling you back into his arms. Your arms circle his neck and his hands land on the exposed sliver of skin between your baby tee that rises up and your jeans. Mat loves your low rise jeans and the way they hug your irresistible hips.

“I missed you so much, pretty girl. Be prepared for me to spend the night at your place for many days,” he says into your ear, kissing below it.

“Stay as long as you want. You know I love when we sleep in the same bed. I always need your big arms holding me.” You turn in his hold, smiling when you hear his cackle.

Your bodies move in tandem, your ass grinding into his lap. His face finds shelter in your neck, lips finding purchase on your heated flesh. The alcohol diminishes from your system, being replaced with an overwhelming buzz from Mat’s touch.

You bend over, the hockey player’s hands keeping you steady, and shake your hips. He stares at your exposed back dimples and the way they taunt him. He loves kissing on them and letting his tongue flick at the small divots.

You roll your body out and back into him, body vibrating with the way his hands follow your movements with ease. You throw your head side to side, letting your hair whip about. You sing at the top of your lungs and let out the happiest laugh when you feel Mat wrap completely around you.

“You look so beautiful,” Mat voices in your ear once you turn around.

Your hair is matted to your forehead and neck from your sweat and surely it makes your skin appear dewy.

“I love you,” he continues, cupping your face and setting his forehead on yours.

“I love you.” It’s said against his lips, your smile blooming into his similar smile.

“I still have my hotel room at The Ritz. I think we should blow this popsicle stand and just stay locked in. What do you say?” Mat grins and tilts his head towards the exit, his hazel eyes gleaming under the multicolored strobe lights.

“Mmm that’s very tempting,” you squeal as Mat lifts you over his shoulder and hauls you out of the hopping club.

For about 15 minutes you’re carried in Mat’s muscled arms. He spins you around to some random song you’re both singing. Nights like this remind you why you fell in love with him. He holds you like you’re his entire world, looks at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen, and touches you, kisses you, like you’re his lifeline.

“Uber is finally here.” Mat softly settles you into the backseat of the black car and settles in tightly next to you.

“You’re so sexy,” you giggle into his cheek, the longing setting in your bones.

Your hand starts to wander, fixating on his hard abdomen and working its way up to his hair.

“Then what are you?” He asks cheekily, nosing at the pulse of your neck.

“In love with you.”

“You’re so cheesy.”

“Just kiss me already,” you demand and turn into him so you can easily put your mouth on his.

You let your tongue tease its way into where you want it, gliding and licking at his lips. Tilting your head to the side, you delve deep into him. You explore his mouth like it’s something new, and in ways it feels new each time.

“Mmm- shit. Hold on,” Mat grunts, pulling away and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

You pout at him and then just go back in, attaching your lips to his neck and throwing a leg over his thighs.

“Hello.” Mat’s voice comes out raspy. His hand finds the back of your neck, keeping you in your place.

“Beverly, calm down. It’s ok.” His eyes roll to the back of his head, but it’s not because of your best friend on the other end of the line.

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s with me,” the hockey player hisses at your teeth nipping his skin.

“That was Bev. She said she almost called the cops because you weren’t picking up your phone,” he moans, melting into you and the way your tongue soothes the red splotch forming on his collarbone.

You groan into his sharp jawline and pull your hands out from underneath his shirt. “I turned my phone off, but I swear I told her I was going to be busy for the night.”

Mat fixes you with an amused smile, one that you return. He looks like sex personified. His hair is tousled and his lips are still plump and glossy from all the kissing.

“Whatever you say, baby,” he mutters, lips enclosing around the skin of your jaw. Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing gets heavier. The windows of the vehicle start to fog and the humidity curls around you and your boyfriend.

“Yeah, whatever I say,” you sass, tugging on Mat’s lip and letting it snap back into place with a lusty haze in your eyes.

The night is just beginning and you tingle with need and excitement.

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 5- 'Maybe' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11.3k

[Run For The Hills - Tate McRae]

The bathroom was impossibly vast, its marble stretching endlessly beneath your bare feet, cold and grounding against the remnants of heat still pulsing through your body. You lost count of the orgasms and couldn’t count the number of positions. Lust had combusted in the bedroom on the other side of the closed door behind you. But here, the dim, ambient light casted a soft glow over everything, making the room feel dreamlike, unreal. Maybe that’s what this was—some fever dream of pleasure and recklessness, a moment suspended outside of time where nothing else mattered but the way he felt, the way he touched you, the way he ruined you.

But now, in the quiet, in the aftermath, it was just you and your reflection. You gripped the edge of the vanity, its smooth stone cool beneath your fingertips as you studied the girl in the mirror. You looked like you had just been fucked. Thoroughly, deliciously, sinfully so. Your hair was an untamed mess, the strands falling over your shoulders, a testament to the hands that had tangled in them, gripping, tugging, holding you where he wanted. Your mascara had smudged just beneath your lower lash line, little shadows of intensity left in the wake of the night. Your lips—God, your lips—were swollen, their color worn at the edges from too many kisses, from the way he had claimed your mouth like he owned it. You sighed, exhaling slowly, and when your gaze met itself again, something shifted. You didn’t just look like you’d had sex—you looked like you’d had the best fucking sex of your life. Your skin was still flushed, glowing with a warmth that came from something far deeper than physicality. A secret little curl played at the edges of your mouth, an unspoken memory lingering there. Your collarbone was marked with the remnants of his lips, the evidence of where he had worshipped you, where he had let his hunger leave a trail of whispered promises on your skin. And yet… You reached for the faucet, turning it on just to fill the silence, the sound of rushing water a poor distraction for the storm raging inside you. You cupped some in your hands, pressing the coolness to your face, letting it run down your neck, hoping it might wash away the contradictions tightening in your chest.

Because you felt alive—a feverish, aching buzz humming beneath your skin, a lingering echo of pleasure still fluttering in your belly. But with it came the sharp edge of fear, slicing through the warmth like a cruel afterthought. You felt like you wanted to fall in love with him. And you felt like you wanted to run away and never look back. You felt like you were special—the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way he whispered your name like it was sacred. But maybe… maybe you were just one of many. Maybe this was all a game he had mastered, a perfect performance, the same script he’d rehearsed with others before you. You felt taken care of, but was that just part of the act? Worst of all, you felt beautiful. And God help you—you were praying that wasn’t just a lie to get what you had already given.

Trent rolled onto his back, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The sheets were warm, tangled around his legs, still carrying the remnants of your body heat. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his mind was anything but calm. He didn’t reach for his phone. That was unusual. Normally, this would be the part where he disconnected—checked out, let the high fade, let the distance settle before it ever had the chance to turn into something real. But instead, he stayed here, rooted in the moment, yet floating somewhere far away. Because this didn’t feel like usual. Not one bit. And yet, somehow, this felt more real than anything ever had. His fingers grazed absently over the sheets where you had just been, tracing the lingering warmth next to him, the ghost of your presence still imprinted there. His arm outstretched and the scariest bit was that he wished you were there. He used to let out a sigh of relief when a girl left the bed. He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling, unraveling into something that felt dangerously close to too much. The past few hours had been—fuck, what had they been? The best he’d ever felt.The best sex of his life. But more than that, something had shifted, something deep and terrifyingly unguarded. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—he had felt seen. Understood. Not just for his body, not just for what he could give, but for something beyond all that. The way you looked at him, the way you touched him—it was like you weren’t just taking from him, like you were giving too, like you wanted him, not just the idea of him. And that scared the shit out of him. Because this was never supposed to happen. He had walked into this night with a plan—fuck you, get it out of his system, and move on. And now? Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted that. He wasn’t sure he really ever did. But he wasn’t sure he was ready for anything else, either. You were terrifying. Terrifyingly real. Too close to something he hadn’t even known he could want. You were too good, too nice, too fucking stunning. Too good in bed, too nice to look at, too much of a risk to let in. And worst of all—he had no idea what you wanted. The thought gnawed at him, twisted inside his chest like something sharp and unfamiliar. Was this just sex for you? Did you already have one foot out the door, ready to write this off as some reckless night and nothing more? Or were you feeling what he was feeling—this terrifying, unspoken something pressing in from all sides? His eyes flickered around the dimly lit room, landing on your bag and your jacket. You said you didn’t want to lose it. But did you bring those things with you because you planned on staying? Or did you bring them because you were going to leave the second you got your breath back? He sat up against the headboard, running a hand down his face, frustration and anticipation tightening his chest in equal measure. And then— A sliver of light cut into the room as the ensuite door cracked open. He looked up. 

And there you were.

“Hey baby.” The word slipped from his lips in a quiet murmur, but it didn’t sound the way it used to. It almost sounded foreign, even to him. It wasn’t some smooth-talking trick, not a casual, throwaway pet name meant to tease or charm. No, it was softer now—unconscious, instinctive. Something endearing. Something real. His lips curled into a lazy, lopsided smile, one he wasn’t even aware of, but if he caught himself in the mirror, he would’ve recognized it instantly. Your breath hitched at the sound of the word, it was so obviously different than when he said it all that time ago in Spain but you shoved the lump forming in your throat down. 

“Hi…” you echoed, your voice hushed, almost hesitant, like you weren’t sure what came next. A smile flickered across your lips before you bit down lightly on the tip of your finger, a nervous little habit, one he immediately clocked. You glanced around the dimly lit room, eyes searching for the scattered pieces of your clothing. Maybe it was muscle memory. Maybe you were already bracing for the inevitable. Was this the part where you left? Trent watched you carefully, his gaze softening as he took in every detail—your lips, swollen and kiss-bitten; the way his shirt you’d nicked from him, hung off your frame, oversized and impossibly sexy; the warm, post-bliss glow that still lingered on your skin. You were wrecked from him, and yet somehow, you had never looked more beautiful. Then you looked at him. And everything slowed. Your eyes met, holding, lingering. There was no expectation, no pressure, just a quiet understanding stretching between you in the stillness. His fingers flexed against the sheets, a silent war waging within him. The part of him that had always been quick to detach, to create space, to pull away should have told you to gather your things. But another part of him—the part that had been unraveling all night—didn’t want you to leave. Didn’t want distance. So instead, he gave you a lazy, knowing nod. A silent invitation. Come back to me.

And just like that, you let go of whatever instinct had you looking for your clothes, padding barefoot across the plush carpet, crawling back into the warmth of tangled white sheets and soft duvets, and—most importantly—him. Trent barely breathed as you settled beside him. You didn’t intentionally do it, it was like your body was magnetic to his. Drawn immediately to his side by force, not will.

 The weight of you in his hotel bed, the warmth of your body pressing close—it should’ve felt foreign, wrong even, but it didn’t. It felt effortless. It felt like something he wanted. When you curled into him, rolling onto your side and tucking your cheek against his shoulder, one hand splayed wide across his chest, a lifetime of old instincts screamed that he should stiffen, should create space, should make this easier when the morning inevitably came. But he didn’t. Instead, his body melted instinctually. His arm wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you in tighter, closer, like he needed you there. And suddenly, it wasn’t terrifying at all. Not with you. This wasn’t some mistake he’d regret in the morning. This wasn’t a risk. It was the safest he’d ever felt.

“C’mere, you alright?” His voice was low, thick with something softer than exhaustion, something deeper than satisfaction. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer, guiding you effortlessly until your cheek rested against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his heartbeat a slow, grounding rhythm in the quiet of the dimly lit room. You had draped an arm over him, your elbow bent just enough for your fingers to find their rightful place against his bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over the toned plane of his chest. A hum of contentment left your lips, a quiet little sound that made him exhale, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding melting away. Your presence alleviating it all. You pressed a delicate kiss to his chest, and his lips followed suit, brushing against the crown of your head. “Did so good for me,” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath, but heavy with meaning. His hand slipped beneath the hem of the shirt you’d stolen—the same one he’d stripped off hours ago in a haze of urgency—fingertips ghosting up and down the length of your spine in slow, soothing strokes. You shivered, not from cold but from the intimacy of it, from the way he was still touching you like he wanted to, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

“Not just saying that?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, the weight of the question pressing between you. It hung in the space like an exposed wire, open to interpretation—was it teasing? A playful jab? Or was it something rawer, something that bled from the quietest, most vulnerable parts of you? Trent stilled for a beat, then let out a slow, quiet sigh. 

“Nah,” he said, his voice rich with sincerity, deep and sure in the darkness. “You’re perfect, beautiful.” He nuzzled against your hair, inhaling softly, his hold on you tightening just for a second. Like he needed you to know that he meant it. You fit against him too well. Like something designed just for him. A breath hitched in his throat before he spoke again, his voice softer, laced with a rare hesitance. “I’m sorry I didn’t get up and take care of you…” He exhaled sharply, like the words felt foreign in his mouth, like he was stepping onto unfamiliar ground. “I didn’t know if you wanted that. I know it got a little rough so are you– And I— If you wanted me—” Your sleepy voice cut him off before he could spiral further.

“I want you,” you murmured, like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then, softer, “But I have you right here. That’s good for me.” You punctuated the words with a slow, lazy kiss against his chest. Then another. And another. Each one seeping into his skin, settling into the places that had been untouched for far too long. The kisses you pressed against his bare chest weren’t just kisses—they were something more, something searing. Each press of your lips burned into his skin like the heated edge of a brand, shaping the ghost of your mouth against him, a mark he knew he’d carry long after this night was over. Trent wondered if you knew. If you realized what you were doing. Did you understand that you were sending him back into the city with your touch still clinging to him, invisible yet inescapable? That beneath his shirt, beneath the smooth facade he wore so well, he would carry you like a secret wound, raw and humming? He could already feel it—that phantom ache, the slow, smoldering imprint of you, of this. No one else would see it, but he would. He would feel it in every breath, in every shift, in every brush of his fingers over the places where you had left yourself behind. He sighed, rubbing his thumb over your spine, shutting his eyes for a moment, realization settling over him like smoke from a fire he had no intention of putting out—maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he’d let you cover him in a searing blaze of burning kisses, branding him over and over again, if it meant that when he looked down, he’d still find you there. Just like you were now—soft against him, innocent in the way only dreams and illusions could be, your lashes fluttering like quiet whispers, your skin warm, silken, pressed to his like you belonged there. Your scent wrapped around him, sweet and inescapable, dragging him deeper into this delusional euphoria where even the burns felt like pleasure, where the ache of you was something he never wanted to fade. If pain was the price of keeping you with him, etched into him, then so be it. He would wear you like a scar, like a masterpiece painted in fire, and call it love. Love? What was he thinking? Trent was spinning out in a mental war with himself before you hummed again. “That alright?” You whispered as your fingertips traced slow, delicate shapes against his skin, patterns he wished he could memorize but he was distracted. He didn’t know what they meant, but maybe they didn’t have to mean anything at all—maybe it was just the way you touched him, with ease, with a quiet tenderness that made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t sure he had the words for.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice calmer now, but laced with something unspoken, something just a little unsure. He glanced down at you, eyes soft as they took in the way you looked beneath the glow of the city lights spilling faintly through the curtains. Your lashes fluttered, your features relaxed, beautifully undone. You fit against him like you belonged there.

“This is perfect,” you murmured, slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, caught in the haze of post-bliss vulnerability, the push and pull of uncertainty, and the deep, inexplicable comfort of being right where you were. “Right here…” Then, as if some part of you still feared the weight of your own words, you whispered, “That okay?” You asked for his approval twice and you felt silly but Trent felt his heart clench, something foreign yet undeniably warm curling in his chest.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice softer than he intended, but truer than anything he’d ever said. “That’s okay too. Like you right here with me.” He kissed your hair, his arm tightening around you as his eyes fluttered shut, this time in acceptance. He liked you here with him. More than he knew how to tell you.

“T?” you murmured, your voice wrapped in the weight of sleep, thick with the pull of exhaustion and something softer—contentment, maybe. Trent hummed in response, his fingertips still tracing slow, languid strokes down your spine, mapping the curve of it like he was memorizing you. His touch was featherlight, a quiet kind of reverence, a contrast to the hunger he had devoured you with hours before. You shifted slightly against him, pressing closer, hesitating before you spoke again. “Can I take this off?” Your words were earnest, but there was something deeper beneath them, something unspoken. Maybe it was because the shirt smelled of cologne and a long night, because it wasn’t truly yours, but mostly—mostly, you just wanted to be closer to him. You wanted to feel him, skin to skin, nothing between you. Trent’s lips curled into a slow, lazy smile, one he didn’t bother to even open his eyes for, like he already knew he’d say yes before you even finished speaking. Like you were doing him a favor…and you were.

“’Course.” He shifted beneath you, adjusting so he could sit up slightly, rolling you just enough to meet your gaze. There was a softness in the way he looked at you, something patient, something teasing but entirely fond. “C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep, hands already reaching for you. “Let me help you.” You lifted yourself slightly as his fingers found the hem, peeling the fabric from your body with a slowness that felt intentional, reverent. The shirt slipped over your head, and Trent’s eyes raked over you, dark and glittering with something caught between admiration and lust. He took the shirt and tossed it somewhere into the abyss of the dimly lit room, not bothering to check where it landed. “Don’t need that anymore,” he muttered, smirking. You tried to bite back your smile, tried to keep the heat from rushing to your cheeks, but it was useless. A quiet exhale left your nose, a shy little giggle barely contained, and for a fleeting second, something like nervousness flickered in your chest. It was different now. Post-bliss, post-clarity, lying bare in every way—physically, emotionally—it made you feel… seen. And maybe that was scarier than anything else. 

“Okay,” you quietly muttered. You rolled ever so slightly away from him, as if some part of you still wanted to hide, but Trent was quicker, his hands greedy and sure as they reached for you, dragging you effortlessly back into his arms.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “You come right here looking like this” He shook his head in teasing disapproval of your antics but also in disbelief at how good you looked. His grip was firm but gentle, pulling you flush against him until your cheek found its place against the warmth of his chest again, your body practically melting into his. The feeling of you against him was inexplicably good before and now with no barrier, your boobs pressed against him, your naked bodies tangled again, it was impossibly better. 

“Better, huh?” you teased, your lips brushing his skin in the softest of kisses, your voice tinged with bashful affection.

“Mmm,” he hummed, his deep chuckle vibrating through you. “Much better.” His fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. The room fell impossibly still, save for the slow, measured sound of his breathing, of yours, of the quiet space where you met in between. Then he kissed you. And it was perfect. Not just because of the way his lips moved against yours, or the way he tasted, or the way his hands held you like you were something delicate, something precious. It was perfect because you both felt it. Like maybe this wasn’t just a moment. Maybe this was something more. And maybe that was the cruelest part. That long after you had drifted into sleep, soft and spent laying on him, he was still awake, still burning, still yours.

-

Morning came like a whisper. The soft, golden light of the Parisian sun stretched its way into the hotel room, catching on dust particles, reflecting off the sheer white curtains that billowed faintly with the early breeze from a cracked window. It was the kind of light that turned everything it touched into something more beautiful, more ethereal. It kissed the walls, the crisp linen sheets, and most devastatingly, him. Trent lay beneath you, his body cast in a gilded glow, bronzed skin shimmering like he had been sculpted from sunlight itself. He looked godly like this—untouchable—and yet, you were wrapped in him, tethered to his warmth like he belonged to you. Your cheek was nestled against his chest, where the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart echoed against your skin. His arm still held you, albeit looser now, his grip sleep-heavy and effortless, resting low on your waist. His fingers, lax but familiar, traced absentminded shapes against your bare back, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. Your legs tangled in ways that made it impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

And it was perfect.

Too perfect. That was the problem. Your body felt a peace so rare it unsettled you, a calmness that ran deeper than exhaustion or comfort—it was something found, something offered. This felt like slipping into water the exact temperature of your skin, like existing without resistance, and that kind of comfort was terrifying. Your mind rebelled against it, against the sheer ease of him, because how could something that felt this good, this natural, ever be real? Your fingers, splayed across his chest, moved idly, tracing gentle, meaningless patterns over his skin. But your thoughts were anything but gentle. They spiraled, unraveling like thread slipping through grasping fingers. It shouldn’t feel this easy. Not with him. Not for you.

The games of the night before—lust and teasing, push and pull—those were easy to understand. This game of cat and mouse, the raw sexual attraction was easy to navigate. Sure, it took a moment to get up to bed since you met in Ibiza, but they made sense, had rules, boundaries. But this? The safety, the way he fit around you, the way he felt like home when you didn’t even know you’d been looking for one? It didn’t make sense at all.  You looked up at his face through your tired eyes and sighed. He was so pretty. His features had gone softer, his long dark eyelashes rested on his cheeks, his perfectly pink plump lips, slightly ajar. He just looked gentler this morning and it almost made you sad. You exhaled softly, willing the thoughts away, and in that moment, Trent stirred beneath you. A low, sleepy groan vibrated through his chest, his arm tightening around you instinctively, pulling you impossibly closer. His face nuzzled into your hair, warm breath fanning against your skin, and just like that, every fear, every reason to run, flickered—burned. Seriously… You thought, exasperated by the way he could ruin every last piece of doubt, even in his sleep. And then, with a sleepy, rumbling hum, he kissed your hair. And unfortunately for you and your current dilemma between mind and body, it felt perfect, he was perfect.

“Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, lazy and deep, the kind of voice that wrapped around you like silk. His hand drifted lower, palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before sliding down your thigh, dragging it over his body more as he pulled you impossibly closer, entangling your limbs further—your body, your thoughts, your heart. You swallowed hard. “Sleep alright?” he asked, his lips ghosting over your temple as he shifted beneath you. You forced a small hum of agreement, scared to speak, scared of what might spill out if you did. Because the words in your throat—the ones clawing to be freed—didn’t know whether they’d come out as I love you or this is too much. Trent let out a quiet chuckle, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “Don’t sound so sure,” he teased, the warmth of his amusement curling around you like a beckoning hand. You breathed in deep, trying to steady yourself, but all it did was fill your lungs with him. That faint scent of his skin, a mixture of warmth and something clean, something inherently Trent. And so you sighed, letting go. Just for now. Just under the weight of hotel sheets and morning light.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, the words barely there, but felt. Trent stiffened—not in fear, not in hesitation, but in something else, something deeper. Because he felt it too. The way your lips lingered, the way it was something more than the ghosts of the night before, something real, something neither of you could ignore. The raw wounds of your branding still stinging and now you were rubbing salt in them. His fingers skimmed up your back, slow and deliberate, to the back of your neck,  before tilting your chin up so he could see you, really see you. His dark eyes searched yours, studying every shift, every hesitation. 

“You’ll stay and eat breakfast with me?” He asked you with a slow, lazy smirk. Your breath hitched, because he was asking. Not telling, not assuming, but asking. And in that moment, your body and your mind warred against each other, one screaming yes, the other screaming run. Trent tilted his head, watching you deliberate, and his smile grew, devastatingly boyish, impossibly endearing. “C’mon, please,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to hope. “Last time was good fun, no?” His smirk obliterated every last rational thought, every excuse, every plan of escape. There was only him, only this moment, only the way the morning light kissed his skin and the way you’d never felt more held than in his arms. And the only word left on your tongue, the only one that mattered, was—

“Yeah.”

-

The remnants of breakfast lay strewn across the small table in the room—an abandoned cappuccino, its frothy heart long since dissipated, a single crumb of croissant clinging to the edge of a porcelain plate. The sun had climbed higher, spilling golden light through the windows, turning the cobblestone street outside into a mosaic of light and shadow. Paris hummed around you, alive, indifferent, as if it didn’t know that time was slipping through your fingers. Or maybe it did, and simply didn’t care.

Your departure loomed, a quiet specter in the air between you, but neither of you acknowledged it. Instead, you stretched out the moment, weaving it into something longer than it was meant to be. The conversations meandered, looping in circles around something as trivial as why Waitrose was the superior grocer. There wasn’t even a disagreement, no real debate, just unnecessary elaboration—because neither of you wanted to stop talking. You wanted to hear his voice, to tuck every inflection, every low hum of amusement into the folds of your memory, like pressing wildflowers between the pages of a book. As if you were trying to preserve something fragile, something you knew would fade the moment distance stretched between you. It felt like he was playing with your heart like he knew exactly how much power he held over it. Every smirk, every dimpled grin, every lazy wink sent it lurching, free-falling, as if he were dangling it between his fingers just to see how far he could take it before you broke. But you weren’t ready to break. Not yet. So you smiled back, even as your chest ached, even as the city outside kept moving, uncaring of how desperately you wished the world would pause—just for a little while longer.

The morning light bled into the afternoons, soft and golden through the sheer hotel curtains, casting delicate patterns over tangled sheets and discarded clothes. Paris stretched beyond the window, quiet in the lingering hush of the early afternoon now, as if the city itself knew better than to rush whatever this was—this in-between, this unspoken thing neither of you dared name. Trent sat on the edge of the bed, effortlessly at ease, his bare chest dappled with the faintest glow, his fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you to stand between his legs. You let him, for a moment, the heat of his skin a slow-burning temptation against yours.

“So, photography?” he mused, watching you with something close to awe, something dangerously tender, as you slipped back into last night’s outfit. 

“Photography,” you confirmed, smoothing your hands over your mini skirt, adjusting it in the mirror like it wasn’t the only thing in the room that needed straightening out.

“Maybe you can take my picture sometime,” he smirked, boyish, impossibly endearing. And though you’d never admit it, butterflies stirred low in your stomach at the sight. But you were cooler than that. You had to be.

“Oh, you’d love that, huh, pretty boy?” You cooed, turning slightly in his embrace, reaching out, fingertips stroking his cheek—just to tease, just to keep the power balanced. But his hand was quicker, larger, capturing yours and holding it there, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“I would. I’m asking.” He earnestly replied.

“No, you offered,” you countered, lips curling, still playing, still keeping this game alive, keeping yourself safe.

“C’mon.” He pouted then, full lips tilting into something exaggerated, something purposefully soft, purposefully lethal. And you almost caved. Almost.

“If you’re lucky,” you hummed, slipping from his grasp with a shake of your head, something deliberately disapproving in the way you did it, as if you hadn’t kissed him breathless hours ago. As if your lips hadn’t wiped away the jam on his own over breakfast. As if you hadn’t fallen asleep wrapped in him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world. It made no sense to him—how you could burn so hot and then retreat into something cool, distant, untouched by the fire you both knew was there. Like you were fighting against gravity, against inevitability. Like you were pretending the world hadn’t stopped spinning the second you stepped into this room together. He didn’t get it. It was terrifying, this uncertainty, but he wasn’t running from it. Not yet. 

You were jumping from yes to no, no to yes, and all he wanted was for you to sit with him in maybe. To exist in this liminal space where nothing had to be decided. Where maybe was a hotel room in Paris, where maybe tasted like room service coffee and the sweetest, laziest kind of morning. Maybe was the way you stretched against his sheets after a night that still lived on your skin. Maybe was the best sex of his life, the best kind of ache, the best kind of question. And he would stay in maybe as long as you let him.

The room felt suspended in time, bathed in the fading glow of late afternoon, the sheer curtains shifting lazily in the breeze from the open window. Paris murmured outside—distant horns, laughter floating up from the streets, the occasional hum of a passing moped—but none of it touched the quiet cocoon you had built inside these walls. Trent swayed with you in his arms, the heat of his hands kneading the soft curve of your ass, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Like he wasn’t ready to let go. And neither were you. You’d been trying to say goodbye for an hour, maybe more, but every time you tried to pull away, something pulled you back. Another kiss. Another laugh. Another moment of watching him, sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes wide with a big smile as he paced the room, telling you some animated story with wild gestures, his grin so boyish, so effortless, you thought for a second you might drown in it. You’d ended up in his lap again talking about nothings, nestled into his arms as he showed you something on his phone, and it was all just so easy. He was light. That was the thing about him. He carried himself like the world hadn’t touched him, like he hadn’t let it. And when you were with him, you felt lighter, too. Like there was no weight to anything, no looming consequence, no inevitable ending waiting just around the corner. And then, like a rubber band snapping against your neck, reality came barreling back. It always did. It always would.

"Going to let me see you again?" His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something beneath it, something that tightened around your ribs and made it harder to breathe. You sighed, forced a soft, knowing smile, running your hands up his arms as if that would make this easier. 

“I don’t think that’s what this is.” As the words fell out you didn’t even recognize them. It was like your lips were moving but you had no idea what was coming out. His eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising as if he might fight you on it, might demand to know why you were so determined to keep him at arm’s length when it was so obvious you didn’t want to. But instead, he exhaled, slow and measured, before his lips curled into something softer, something almost resigned. And then, instead of letting go, he pulled you in tighter.

"It can be. Let me take you out.” His head tilted, his smile coaxing, but there was something deeper in his eyes. No, he wasn’t teasing anymore. He was asking, begging you to just sit with him in maybe. To let yourself stay in this perfect limbo—where maybe was a hotel room in Paris, where maybe was the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, where maybe was a stolen morning that neither of you wanted to end.

"I’m not really the pay-for-sex girlie,” you teased, lips curling as you watched his face shift into playful exasperation. He rolled his eyes, unimpressed but still grinning. But then his voice dipped lower, smooth and warm, threaded with something serious beneath all that charm. 

"Nah, c’mon. We don’t have to have sex.” He mused and you raised your brows with a smile, teasingly surprised by the comment. “I mean, I’d like to.” He laughed at the obvious, gripping you a bit firmer, sending a shiver down your spine. “But I just want to see you again, yeah?" His brown eyes were dark, knowing, daring you to say no, daring you to pretend you didn’t want to see him just as much. You inhaled sharply, your resolve wavering. And then, with a small, exasperated sigh, you gave in. 

“Maybe.” It was barely more than a whisper, but it was enough, admitting your defeat. But it wasn’t a defeat, not to Trent, no. This was it. His smile broke wide, bright, victorious. Maybe had never felt so much like a win.

"Give me your number. I won’t hold you hostage today, but I’ll convince you.” His words were smooth, almost too smooth, but his expression betrayed him—earnest, hopeful, just a little vulnerable in a way that made something twist deep in your chest. That was the thing about Trent. You didn’t know him well, not really, but even now, you could tell when something mattered to him, the earnest sincerity. You could feel it in the way he softened just slightly, in the way he didn’t push—just offered.

"Maybe," you murmured again, smiling as you held out your hand, silently asking for his phone. His grin was unstoppable as he handed it to you, the metal cool against your palm. But there was a certain heat in the way he watched you type in your number, like he knew, even if you didn’t, that you were giving him more than just digits. That you were giving him a piece of yourself.

"Till then," he whispered. He tossed his phone tumbling onto the bed, forgotten, as he pulled you in one last time. His body pressed against yours, firm, warm, intoxicating. His lips hovered over yours, breath fanning against your skin, waiting. Allowing you the space to decide—one final kiss, or none at all. And God, those lips—just like his eyes, they taunted you, as if daring you to walk away, as if reminding you how absolutely idiotic you’d be to refuse him.

"Maybe if you’re lucky…” you whispered. And then you kissed him.

And when the elevator doors slid shut, when you were finally alone again, the ache of leaving him settled deep in your bones. Because for a moment—for just one suspended, stolen moment—the world had stopped spinning.

—

[Bad Habit - Steve Lacey]

Once back home in England, Trent felt like he was seventeen again—heart unsteady, palms damp, staring at his phone like it held the key to something he wasn’t sure he was ready to open. Your number was burned into his screen, into his brain, into the spaces between his ribs where the memory of you lingered like an ache. He looked at it every day, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing out messages only to delete them before they had the chance to breathe.

Something cheeky? No, too douchey. Something simple? No, too dry. Something sincere? God, too cringe.

He had told you he’d convince you, charm you into seeing him again, but here he was—silent. Not because he didn’t want to, but because what if he messed it up? At home, stretched across the sofa, phone resting on his chest, he thought of you. 

In his car, parked outside training, he sat gripping his phone, willing himself to press send, tapping the steering wheel, debating, overthinking, sighing, he thought of you. His pulse pounded like a matchstick ready to strike, but the flame never came. 

Thirty thousand feet in the air, en route to an away game, he scrolled through your Instagram, torturing himself with glimpses of you, your smile, your world—a world he was desperate to be a part of but didn’t know how to step into without falling.

Surrounded by his friends, laughter ringing around him like background noise, he was somewhere else entirely, lost in thoughts of you, playing out every version of a text in his head—only to say nothing at all. The silence stretched, stretched, stretched—despite his heart screaming. 

Trent’s last real relationship had been when he was seventeen, maybe eighteen.  Love, or something like it, had been easy, thoughtless, fleeting. And even then, it hadn’t felt like this. This was terrifying. He didn’t know you. But the potential alone was different. This wasn’t a game he knew how to play. He was used to the short ones, the ones that burned bright and fizzled out before morning, the ones that ended with tangled sheets and casual goodbyes. The ones that left no room for real feelings. But you—you made him forget the rules entirely.

When it came to you, nothing about this felt casual. You made him feel like himself, and yet, someone completely unrecognizable. The stupid smirk he couldn’t wipe off his face when he thought of you, the fluttering unease in his stomach, the way his heart felt too full and too exposed. It was painfully pleasant, a sensation he didn’t know how to hold. You made him feel too much. Made him feel like himself, but in a way that was unsettling. And maybe that was the problem. So he let fear win. 

A week and a half passed. No message. No call. Paris felt like a fever dream, one that left your skin tingling long after you woke up. But the silence that followed? That was real. Just down A56, you held your phone like it might tell you something different, like maybe if you stared at it long enough, his name would appear. But it didn’t. And your heart fractured, little by little, under the weight of a silence that spoke louder than any words ever could, shattered with every unspoken syllable. You heard nothing. It was radio silence. And the thing about silence is that it isn’t empty—it’s deafening. It fills the space between your ribs, settles heavy in your lungs, lingers in the quiet moments when you reach for your phone expecting something, anything. But there’s nothing.

He had said he wanted to see you again. He had looked at you with those eyes, held you in a way that made you believe—maybe, just maybe, this was different. But words without action were just illusions, and illusions shattered under the weight of reality. You were scared of giving him your number in the first place because it had gotten your hopes up, and it ultimately felt like all it did was let them down. You tried to convince yourself it was fine. That it hadn’t meant anything. That he was just another story you’d tell yourself late at night, another fleeting moment caught in the aperture of your life—one you could adjust, control, blur out. But he was the light.

No matter how hard you tried to narrow the opening, to dim his effect, he seeped in anyway. A golden glow spilling into places you had kept dark for so long. And now, without him, winter was approaching, and England felt even colder, even greyer. The days stretched long and colorless, shadows creeping in where his warmth had been. And when the ache became unbearable—when you wanted to feel it, to let the hurt settle into your bones just so you could understand it—you’d open his Instagram. An account you didn’t even follow, one that you knew you’d get lost amongst the millions of other names if you ever did. You’d stare at his feed and your depth of focus would shift. The world around you blurred, dissolving into an indistinct haze. But him—his face, his smile, his presence—was crystal clear. It made you feel sick. Because in that frozen moment, he was there, in perfect clarity, yet impossibly out of reach.

-

This was torture. Trent barely heard anything that night, every conversation around him reduced to a low hum, a muffled buzz, as if he were submerged underwater while everyone else sat comfortably on dry land. He was there, physically—nursing a drink, nodding at the right times—but his mind was miles away, trapped somewhere between Paris and his own hesitation. Then, like a breach to the surface, a single word pulled him back.

"...said she’s a photographer, I think." Leon’s words had barely landed before Trent leaned forward, the hunger in his eyes betraying the nonchalance he wanted to feign. 

“Who?” He asked too quickly, too eagerly. He couldn’t even pretend to be uninterested.

"One of Foster’s friends… She was in Ibiza this summer at the same time I think. I don’t know… I just was hearing Foster’s gonna be in London this weekend with her, I forgot her name – erm…” Leon squinted one eye trying to recall your name. “Fuck she texted it to me hold on.." But Leon’s search was unnecessary as Trent’s pulse spiked.

“Y/N?” The name left his lips before he could catch it. Leon barely had time to confirm before Kieren smirked, his body facing forward but his sharp gaze flickering sideways, watching Trent squirm. Trent leaned in some, curious, hungry for more information immediately but Leon wasn’t speaking nearly quick enough for his liking. He needed to know… now.  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it. She’s a photographer I guess and has work so I was gonna head down, meet Foster.” Leon casually tossed out.  Leon looked at Kieren and his brow furrowed for a moment confused by the response. He frowned for a beat, slower to catch on—until Kieren gave a knowing nod toward Trent’s obvious intrigue. Then it clicked, and Leon’s lips curled into an o of realization. “Heard she’s a pretty big deal. Hard to get ting, y’know?" Leon teed up a tease for Kieren. He was talking about your career, but the implication lingered in the air like smoke. Trent tensed. 

"Yeah, bro," Kieren added smoothly, dragging out the moment. "Heard few do it the way she can." He piled on, both boys with smug smiles as they took sips of their drinks waiting for Trent. Trent exhaled sharply through his nose, picking up his water just to keep his hands busy.

"Heard something like that…" he muttered, then paused. He could feel Kieren and Leon watching him, waiting. He had to act fast, needed action before they called his bluff. "Erm, Lee, Imma be down there… I’ve got Palace on Saturday. You want tickets?” Trent said slowly, as if testing the waters hoping linking with Leon would give him the opportunity to see you. Leon, ever the instigator, took an excruciatingly slow sip of his drink before responding, just to let Trent squirm. Trent couldn’t take the silence. He pressed on, his words tripping over themselves. "Like, you know, mate, can invite Foster—if any of her friends wanna come, just an offer." Trent babbled at a pace that only he could speak at.  His stomach flipped. It was desperate, too obvious. His mates clocked it immediately.

"Wait," Kieren drawled, the smirk deepening. "Didn’t your brother say you lot ran into Foster’s friend in Paris?" Trent’s grip tightened around his glass. His heart pounded a little harder.

"Oh really?" Leon’s eyes flickered with interest, his voice laced with both genuine curiosity and a slight taunt.

"Yeah, brief thing, you know." Trent shrugged, lifting his water to his lips, acting as though the mere mention of your name hadn’t sent his pulse into overdrive. Leon leaned back, as if deliberating. Then, casually—like he hadn’t just thrown Trent into a crisis.

"You know what, bro? Shoot her a message, invite her, and then we can all link up." Leon broached the idea and Trent’s head spun. The room tilted—caught between relief at finally having a reason to text you, sheer terror at the thought of seeing you again, and frustration at his friends for pushing him straight into the fire. The ball was in his court now. And for the first time in years, Trent had no idea how to play it.

-

[Naked - Ayzha Nyree]

You were seeing things. You had to be. There was no other explanation for the unknown number flashing across your screen, for the way your breath hitched in your throat, for the way your entire body tensed as you stared at it—motionless, hesitant. It couldn’t be him. It had been too long. Too much silence, too much nothing, too much proof that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. And yet your heart betrayed you, hammering wildly against your ribs as if trying to break free. You sat down on your bed, inhaling deeply, pressing your fingertips into the mattress as if grounding yourself might stop the free fall. The air in your room felt suddenly heavier, thick with anticipation and the scent of rain from the open window. The soft hum of the city outside, cars passing in the distance, the muffled sounds from the street below—it all blurred into irrelevance as you finally tapped open the message.

‘Not better late, but it was never going to be never with you. Took me a minute to get the courage to text a girl like you. Been thinking about you. You gonna be in London anytime soon?’

Your stomach twisted. It was everything you had wanted to hear, everything your heart had been aching for. It was cheeky, it was sweet, it was honest. It was him. It was a plan—finally, a plan. And yet, the ghost of two weeks’ silence still lingered in the spaces between his words, in the void he had left you in. You swallowed, fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing:

‘I would say it’s nice to know you’re still alive, thought something bad might’ve happened to you but you’re on the telly every weekend.’

Play it cool. Be cool. Be fucking cool. You tried. You really did. But no matter how nonchalant you sounded, the truth was written all over your face—your lips betraying you with the way they curled into a smile, your body giving you away as you rolled onto your stomach, phone clutched in your hands, breath held hostage as you waited for his reply. And then it came.

‘Let me make it up to you. I gotta game down in London, any chance a pretty girl like you will be around?’

Something inside you deflated. The excitement, the hope, the warmth that had been building inside you fizzled out in an instant. No. No, this wasn’t what you wanted. This wasn’t making it up to you. This was convenient for him. This was easy. A ticket to his game? A seat among thousands? Watching him from a distance for ninety minutes? No mention of after. No mention of you. You stared at the screen, the light from your phone casting a cold glow over your face as the weight of realization settled in your chest. He had done this before. The confirmation you never wanted proof of. You weren’t special. You were just another girl he sent tickets to, and an away game too. Was that part of the plan too? Your fingers hovered, then hesitantly typed that you’d try to make it. A lie. You didn’t even want to try.  He replied with something relatively cheeky, suggestive, but then said he’d have a ticket sent to you and more logistical things and it left a bad taste in your mouth.

-

You said you’d try and that’s where you left things. The morning felt heavier than it should have. Saturday crept in like an unwanted guest, settling over you with a weight that made it hard to move, hard to breathe. The invitation had lingered in your mind all week, festering, growing into something that felt hollow. By now, it wasn’t even about going or not going—it was about what it meant. And it meant nothing to him. You found out from Foster that Trent’s mate, Leon, was also going. He had extended the same invitation to her, casual and easy. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just another name on a list. But like the good friend she was, she saw right through it. She had lied—said she might have to help you with work, might not make it. 

Only, neither of you were working. You were tucked into a small coffee shop, a few stops on the Victoria Line away from Selhurst Park, where rain drizzled against the windows and pooled in the grooves of the pavement. The scent of espresso and cinnamon curled in the air, but nothing felt warm. You stirred your drink absentmindedly, a spoon clinking against ceramic, while Foster listened—patient, understanding, letting you unravel even though you both knew it was redundant. You’d been talking for ages and ages and god bless her because it was just repetitive. You didn’t like that you were one of many to Trent. And a part of you felt a little naive to believe that maybe he understood you enough to know that but here you were, proven otherwise. 

“I just—” You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “I’m not interested in this. If he wanted to take me out, it’d be different…” You repeated for the fifteenth time, Foster nodding.  You had been replaying it in your head over and over again. The club in Ibiza. The way he had moved through that night with ease, the way he had known exactly what to say, how to touch, how to leave you breathless. He had a playbook, a script, a pattern. And the worst part? You had felt it. Even then. The voice in the back of your head whispering that you were just another name he knew how to make sound special. It took you fifteen minutes into the first half of the match to decide you weren’t going.

“He said, ‘Let me take you out.’ Those were his words,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you mimicked his Scouse accent saying the phrase, exaggerated and mocking. It wasn’t even bad, but Foster still chuckled, squeezing your knee beneath the table.

“Good accent, babe,” she teased lightly, and normally you’d smile, but today everything felt off. You hadn’t even dressed like you were going to see him—not that you ever planned to really. The outfit [ref index] was cute, but not one you were wearing to impress a boy. Your jeans, oversized sweater, the way you hadn’t even bothered with much makeup. You had told yourself it was because you didn’t care. But didn’t you, the lace bralette and heeled boots implied otherwise. Because if you didn’t care, why did everything feel so heavy? “No, but seriously, I agree with you,” Foster said, shaking her head. “Like, asking to see someone again—implying it would be a date after all his talk in Paris, after Ibiza—and then this? He’s basically just asking you to watch him at work. In the pouring rain. Like, sorry, but that’s a favor to him.” She said calmly, able to keep her composure unlike you. 

“Right!?” You threw your hands up, relief flooding your chest that she understood. “I mean, yeah, he texted me, and I guess that’s something. But it also has been two weeks with nothing from someone who was calling me baby in bed. And still—don’t you think it kind of loses all meaning if he was inviting other people too? Like, cool, watch me run after a ball like the other 20,000 people who are also there to see him. I know I’m kicking off, but it’s just—” You trailed off. Because what was the point in even saying it? The words felt childish, petty, but the ache in your chest was very real. The disappointment sat heavy, bitter on your tongue, the confirmation of everything you had tried to ignore. Foster sighed, her expression softening. 

“Babe, I think this is when boys are just fucking stupid.” You let out a humorless laugh, picking at the corner of your napkin. “Like, yeah, it’s nice he finally texted, and that first message was sweet. He obviously likes you enough to invite you—” she emphasized when you made a face, “—and the fact that he’d want you there with his friends? I mean, that is a compliment. But at the same time… he’s stupid for thinking that would be enough.” The words sat with you. Not wrong. Not exactly right, either. But still, they pressed against something tender inside you. Your breath wavered, your vision going slightly blurry. Shit. “Babe…” Foster cooed, leaning in, but you shook your head quickly.

“No, it’s fine.” You swiped at your eyes before anything could actually fall, waving her off as if you could dismiss the feeling itself. “It genuinely isn’t a big deal. I don’t even know the kid. We move.” Foster didn’t argue, but she didn’t look convinced. She just squeezed your knee again. “Go meet Leon after, Foss,” you said, with glossy eyes, clearing your throat as you laid your hand over hers. “Really. It’ll be fun, and then it also won’t look like I’m a total mess.” She hesitated, searching your face, but you must have given her something that passed for okay, because she sighed again.

“Kay… You sure?” She asked you knowing you wouldn’t accept anything but a yes. You nodded quickly, swallowing down every emotion that had threatened to surface. Foster pursed her lips, then sat back with a little smirk. “Want to like go get something stronger than coffee… I’m nervous to meet him.” She giggled. You rolled your head already standing up. You exhaled, already grabbing your purse and jacket.

“Please god.” You smiled sadly at her.

-

The rain hadn’t stopped all night. Trent sat in his usual window seat on the team flight back to Liverpool, forehead resting against the cool glass as the city lights of London faded beneath them. His knee bounced restlessly, jaw tight, fingers gripping his phone, though there was nothing new to check. No text from you. No last-minute excuse, no apology, not even a half-hearted lie. Nothing. It didn’t make sense. You’d said you’d try to make it. He’d imagined seeing you in the stands, imagined the way you’d look at him, maybe even waiting for him after. He’d thought—hoped—it meant something. That this was the start of… something. But instead, he’d been left scanning the crowd for a face that was never there. And you hadn’t even told him. It pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

He should’ve gone out, should’ve let the boys drag him somewhere loud, somewhere distracting, stay in London for the night. Instead, he’d sat on this flight, arms crossed, head full of questions he didn’t want to ask. The hum of the engines did nothing to quiet the buzzing frustration under his skin. He kept telling himself he wouldn’t text, that he wouldn’t be that guy—desperate, chasing, waiting. But by the time he got home, alone in his bed, the silence of his room made it impossible to think about anything else. What the fuck had happened? The sheets were cool beneath him as he lay on his back, phone in his hand, the screen dimly lighting his face. He scrolled absently, past the messages, rereading your last text. He could’ve let it go, could’ve pretended it didn’t bother him. But it did. It really did.

When Trent woke up the next day he rolled over in bed, sore from the match and hurt by you. He let out a sharp sigh and he gave in.

‘Didn’t see you yesterday… Checking to make sure you’re all good.’

He stared at the message for a second before hitting send, then let his phone drop onto his chest with a frustrated exhale. He hated this. Hated feeling like he cared more than he should. But the thing was—he did care. And you? You saw the text blinking against the glow of your screen as you sat curled up on your sofa, a blanket wrapped around you. Your heart sank. Not because you weren’t expecting it—but because it was too late. He was already back up north, sending a half-hearted check-in after the fact. If he had really cared, wouldn’t he have texted last night? Wouldn’t he have asked sooner? Instead, he’d left London without a word, and now he was messaging like it was an afterthought, like you were a platonic friend. And your mind—stupid, reckless, wounded—spun in circles. Had he gone out after the match? Found someone else to fill the void you left? The idea made your stomach twist. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter. But it did. And so, you didn’t reply. Not because you wanted to be petty. Not because you wanted to hurt him. But because you wanted him to sit with the silence he’d given to you just the same.

-

The restaurant was buzzing with conversation, the air thick with the scent of grilled steak and something citrusy from the cocktails circling the room. Trent sat at the long, dimly lit table, swirling the ice in his lowball glass, barely hearing the voices around him. He wasn’t in the mood for this. Not for the music pulsing faintly through the speakers, not for the half-hearted banter, and definitely not for the girls who kept side-eyeing him, waiting for an opening. He should’ve stayed home. His form in training had been off all week. Sloppy passes, slow reactions, his head anywhere but where it needed to be. And no matter how many times he told himself to shake it off, the irritation only deepened. You still hadn’t texted him back. Not even a one-word answer, nothing to let him know where he stood. He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—the fact that you didn’t come to the game or the fact that you hadn’t even acknowledged his messages. It was making him restless. So, against his better judgment, he pulled out his phone.

'I’m going to Cassie’s party tonight… you going?'

As soon as he hit send, he regretted it. Fuck. His jaw tensed, fingers tapping against the screen as he watched the message turn from sent to delivered. He felt like a fucking idiot. A desperate one at that. Cassie’s name, the casual invitation—it looked like he was trying to bait you, like he was trying to make you wonder. He wasn’t, not really. He just wanted to see you, wanted something from you, even if it was just a sharp-tongued reply telling him to fuck off. At least that would be something. Instead, the silence pressed in heavier. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before quickly typing again.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you down in London. Hoping you’re alright.’

He meant it. But he knew how it would read. How you’d see the first message—the name of another girl, no matter his relationship with her, the half-hearted you going?—before the apology landed. It was damage control, whether he liked it or not. And you? You saw it all. The two messages stacked on top of each other, your stomach twisting instantly. First, Cassie’s party. A name you knew but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care.  It was enough to light a spark of something ugly in your chest, even though you told yourself it shouldn’t. And then, the second message—an apology that only made the first feel even more hollow. You wanted to scream. You were right in that Marina in Ibiza. It was exactly what you had been trying to convince yourself of since meeting him. That he wasn’t good for you. That he lived behind this film that made everything a little glossier but in reality it was all the same. That you were setting yourself up for failure, for heartache, for something that would only end with you feeling small. And yet, here you were, fighting every urge to respond. You gritted your teeth, locking your phone and throwing it face down onto your bed like it burned you. He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to worm his way into your head, making you question everything. You barely knew each other, and still, he had you on the verge of tears in coffee shops, staring at your phone like it held the answer to something unspeakably important. No. You weren’t going to do this. So, you did the only thing you could. You aired him. Again.

-

Another day, another restaurant alive with the hum of conversation, mocked him. The clinking of silverware against plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table felt like white noise, merely background noise one ping from his phone he was desperate for. Trent wasn’t really there, though. He was physically present, sipping on his drink, nodding when appropriate, but his mind was tangled in something else—someone else. You. He wanted to give up. Should give up. But he couldn’t shake the frustration gnawing at him, the way his stomach twisted every time he unlocked his phone only to see nothing from you. He wasn’t used to this. To silence. To being shut out so completely. He’d invited you to London, reached out after the game, even tried to catch you on a night out, and still—nothing. Cassie’s birthday came and went, no sign of life. And now, here he was, out for dinner with his friends, meant to be enjoying the night, but instead, he was restless. Then he saw her. 

Campbell. She was waiting by the bar, scrolling on her phone, her posture relaxed in a way that told him she had no idea she was about to be ambushed. He moved on instinct, weaving through tables until he was right beside her, his hand gripping her arm discreetly. She startled slightly, her brows raising before she caught sight of him and let out a knowing sigh. Trent didn’t even have to say anything. She knew. You had already spilled your thoughts to her in the same way you had to Foster, to Delaney. Rambling, dissecting, trying—and failing—to convince yourself that this thing between you and Trent was nothing. That it should be nothing. And yet, here he was, desperate for answers.

"Cam, what’s the deal with Y/N?" he asked in a hushed tone, mindful of the buzzing restaurant around them. Campbell blinked, playing dumb. His desperation palpable.

“Erm.. hello to you too." She smiled at him but his expression didn't change. "What do you mean her deal, T?” She asked him knowingly. Trent exhaled sharply. He exhaled looking past her as if he was too afraid to look her in the eye.

"Like... I invited her and nothing. I texted her and nothing..." His voice was tight, his frustration bleeding into every word. Then in a moment of vulnerability his gaze snapped back to her. His eyes searched Campbell’s face, desperate for some kind of explanation. What did he do wrong? Campbell hesitated. She could feel the weight of your words, the things you hadn’t explicitly said but had implied through every frustrated sigh, every conversation about him that always ended in some variation of this isn’t what I want.

"Maybe she was busy then..." she offered carefully, her tone unreadable but apologetic. Trent’s jaw tensed. 

"Busy..." he muttered, repeating the word like he was trying to make sense of it. And for the first time, it occurred to him. Maybe you just didn’t want this. Maybe he meant nothing to you. If you were busy, then of course you wouldn’t reply. That’s what people did when something wasn’t a priority, right? When something wasn’t important. His chest tightened. The thought felt foreign. Impossible. His face fell into an unintentional pout, the weight of rejection settling deep in his stomach. It was one thing to have a girl lose interest—it happened, he wasn’t stupid—but this? This wasn’t just disinterest. This felt like something else. Campbell sighed, shifting her weight in her heels before finally deciding to throw him a lifeline.

"T, look. I won’t speak for her, but just something to consider. Some food for thought, if you will…" She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Maybe huge public events aren’t everyone’s thing when they want to get to know someone properly." She cooed and Trent stilled. It hit him like a slow, creeping realization. When was the last time he had actually gotten to know someone—properly? His mind flashed back to the yacht in Ibiza. The way conversation had flowed between you two like it was the most natural thing in the world. No crowd, no cameras, no distractions. Just you, giving as good as you got, challenging him, making him want to chase you even when he didn’t understand why. And before that? He couldn’t even place a time. His throat felt dry. Fuck. Campbell watched him carefully, hoping—praying—he’d take the hint. She wasn’t about to push him, but she also wasn’t going to stand here and watch him fumble something that was so obviously important to him. Finally, he nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever so slightly. 

"Alright. Thanks, Campbell… Sorry, have a good night, yeah?" He turned to walk away, looking—feeling—defeated, his brain still scrambled. Campbell sighed, leaning against the bar with a slow exhale. She felt like a damn live wire connecting the two of you, but she could only do so much. The rest? That was on Trent.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 6 - Staying In

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[gingerteafairy]

𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

"I’d die and kill for you. I just don’t want to see you suffer, ever again.”

tags n warnings: ghost!tate, est. relationship, heavy angst, hurt/comfort(?), depression, suicide attempt, drugging, male validation, oc's, death, toxic relationship, murder, blood, daddy/mommy issues, language. word count: 4.8k. masterlist

You kept your eyes fixed on the clock, as if each second was dragging on purpose, like time itself was mocking your patience during this endless shift. 10:34. The display blinked. Finally, another minute passed, and you sighed, feeling the weight of the moment. 10:35.

It was strange, because normally you’d be staring down at your phone, lost in it, looking for anything to distract you — any distraction, just like the emptiness you knew others could see in you. A deep ego, a soul rotting from the inside out.

You’d made a mistake on the machine an hour ago. A simple mistake, but a crucial one. It hadn’t reset. The supervisor, with that cold stare, had reprimanded you. And deep down, you knew you should apologize, but you didn’t have the courage. Something froze you. The second you opened your mouth, you felt like you’d break. Cry, beg for forgiveness, like that one mistake was the only thing that could shatter what was already fragile inside.

"Hey." Cecília’s voice cut through your thoughts, interrupting the whirlwind in your head. She gestured with her hands, signaling that it was time for a break, time to step away for a bit.

You glanced at the clock again. 10:37. It was well past the usual break time, but who cared? This place, this job, was so flavorless, so lifeless, that if you passed out right there, the most anyone would do was check your blood pressure, or maybe run the machine with their own blood sample.

"Let’s go," you murmured, standing up with little enthusiasm. You followed Cecília to the kitchen, feeling your muscles tense, like your own energy was up for sale and no one was buying.

Once inside the break room, you slumped into a chair, the plastic of the seat almost cracking under the weight of your tired body. Cecília, always quick, began rummaging through her bag. A carrot cake, you noticed, when she held out the container to you — a silent offering, but loaded with unspoken intentions.

Something was off, you could feel it. The way Cecília’s green eyes fixed on you seemed to overflow with something deeper than simple concern. And when you met her gaze, you realized there were traces of last night's argument, the tension still hanging between you two. You hadn’t eaten anything all day, and you were starting to feel lightheaded. Even so, your blood had been taken to help the newer interns. Cecília was pissed. You could feel you were losing a friend, and you feared, rightfully so, that you might lose another — especially one who’d been by your side for so long, since college.

"I brought cake," you said, your voice quiet, as if just mentioning food could ease the tension in the air.

"Nice," Cecília responded, the word falling like a stone as she tried to force a smile, her eyes drifting to the small piece of orange cake with a thin layer of chocolate. You tried to smile back, forcing your eyes to look away from the floor and focus on the simple sweetness of that cake.

"It’s good. Bought a bunch," her voice was flat, like she didn’t have the energy to care about what was happening around her. She took a distracted bite, tasting it without really savoring it, while her eyes wandered back to the break room floor.

"Cecília..." You said louder, your voice sounding strange after the heavy silence that had settled between you. Your body shrank, like your own shame had become physical. You noticed the hallway door was open. A whisper wasn’t enough anymore. "Thanks for yesterday. For saying that... about me messing up and hurting myself. Thanks for caring."

Cecília fell silent, her hands resting at her sides as she let out a long sigh. The tension seemed to grow, as if the unspoken words piled up between you two, heavy and hard to untangle.

"I’m always worried." She remarked, the lump in her throat a warning of the depth of her words, like she was still shouting the same thing she had yesterday. "About my friends..."

"I... I’m not okay..." you finally confessed, what Cecília had suspected from your empty stare and dark circles. "My depression is worse, I feel like nothing makes sense. Nothing can be fixed. I…" 

You stopped, you couldn't tell Cecília that you tried to commit suicide on Saturday and that's why you didn't answer any messages. You wanted to say goodbye with a letter or message when you started taking your insomnia medication, but you stopped you. Wondering if it was all worth it. If you were going to die or it would just be a scare, where you would sleep for a whole day. It wasn't worth it.

"I didn’t know it was like this," Cecília whispered, her eyes fixed on the cake, which now tasted bitter, like earth and ashes. You smiled, but it was a hollow, bitter smile, slow to reach your eyes.

"I can’t talk about it," you answered, clenching your fists like that physical force could stop the tears from coming. "I’m just withering away... without anyone knowing."

"I’m here for you." Cecília’s voice, always so firm, echoed a comfort you knew would be useless. But somehow, it still felt like relief. You had never known how to deal with comforting words, but at that moment, they were a balm.

"Thanks for caring, really," your voice was soft, almost breaking the rigidity you’d been holding onto.

"I’m here for you." She repeated, this time stepping closer. Cecília crouched down, getting on your level, her eyes just inches from yours. "Whatever you need, we’re in this together."

You didn’t quite know what to do with those words, how to fit that kind of support into the mess inside you. But still, you smiled. A tired smile, but genuine. "Thanks," you murmured again.

You decided not to eat. Maybe it was better this way. The juice you’d had an hour and twenty minutes ago, with the supervisor, already felt like enough for your body. It was strange, but something inside you felt more satisfied just by watching Cecília eat, smiling every now and then, as if her happiness had the power to fill the empty spaces within you.

10:50. Time seemed to stick to your skin, like each second was a constant reminder of your decline, an unrelenting countdown since you were fifteen. It was time to get back to work, try not to freak out with the feeling of failure. But when you ran another test, you messed up again. Christian had to redo it for you.

"You’re trouble. Wasting my time," he joked, his laugh slightly forced, while he fiddled with the test tubes. When he noticed the silence, he shrank, embarrassment painting his face. Maybe he wasn’t so good with jokes. "I was just kidding."

"I know." You hurried to respond, trying not to sound too shaken. You watched how Christian did everything with such precision, a skill that seemed to come so naturally to him. How was it that you couldn’t be like that?

"What time is it?" He asked, putting the small glass back in the machine — that same machine you had failed earlier.

"10:55."

"11:10, we’ll be done, okay?"

"Okay."

You gave in, once again, to the temptation of your phone, waiting for the digital reading. The screen lit up, and you opened your private social network, checking if Alexandre had accepted your friend request. You wanted him to respond to your funny post about gastritis. He didn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t. Instead, he had seen the ridiculous post you made about your issues with your dad, with rock music playing in the background, making it even more pathetic. He didn’t comment. Great. Perfect.

Jonathan didn’t respond either, just saw it. It wasn’t unusual, he was used to your depressive and self-deprecating rants. Even though he understood the deeper meaning behind it, he did nothing but leave a like.

Maybe it was too heavy. Gastritis and daddy issues. You laughed at your own choice of topic, but deep down, there was something bitter in that laugh. It was an attempt not to cry over how ridiculous you felt, desperately wishing to get any male attention, any way you could.

Lucy liked it. Maybe that was enough. A small gesture, a comment from your sister about how the song you’d chosen reminded her of herself. That could have been enough, but somehow, you still expected more. You wanted Alexandre to comment, to start a conversation, to care about what you posted. Or maybe Jonathan, with his unpredictable way, would use that information to jump into the conversation, like he always did. Or even Professor Ivanovich, with his harsh and Russian demeanor, might like the post and give it a touch of authenticity. But no. None of that happened.

It was already 11:12, and time seemed to crumble on top of you. You still hadn’t retrieved the machine’s result in time. Desperate, you tried to rush everything, but haste only led to more mistakes. Christian noticed the shadow of disaster before you did, as always, and rushed to fix it. In the end, he had to redo everything himself. You, on the other hand, just withdrew, shoulders slumped, without looking at Cecília. You didn’t know if you should or if you even could. The goodbye was quick, almost impersonal. The exhaustion, the weight of the day, it all seemed to drain through your veins, leaving you empty.

Going home felt like torture. Being in the lab, at least, was easier. In fact, being anywhere else seemed simpler than that suffocating reality. Constant arguments, yelling, cutting words. The house was a battlefield, and you didn’t know where to hide anymore.

Your dad, intense and loaded with cruel words, always made you feel like trash, as if it was impossible to please him. He said the worst things, things that cut deep, and then... then he’d send a message:

"Hey, I don’t want to be on your back. I care about you. Talk to me, I’ll try to understand. I promise."

It was funny, in a bitter way. The coward never said what needed to be said face to face. All that was left was the emptiness, the bitter taste of the fight that still burned in your throat, as you tried to drown it all out with your headphones, the muffled sound blending with the external noise, until everything became an unbearable mix.

When you got home, the door creaked, announcing your arrival. Your mom was there, as always, with a hug. But her touch, which should have been a comfort, felt more like a sickness, like her fingerprints were invisible bacteria, microscopic, spreading across your skin.

"What happened? You look down." She asked, touching your face, and you did your best to smile. But it was a forced smile, masking the deep disgust, the gastric acid churning in your stomach.

I’m so fucking tired of being here. That was the answer echoing inside you, but what came out was a simple, "I’m tired." And with that, you went up the stairs of that creepy house, which reflected, in its dark corners and dusty furniture, everything you felt inside. It was as if the walls were alive, absorbing the despair you carried.

Your room always felt the coldest in the house, and whenever you passed the door, a chill ran up your spine. But then you knew exactly what was waiting for you. Turning inside, you found Tate, smiling at you with that sweet, almost innocent smile, his arms outstretched for a tight hug. He was your secret, the only place you could hide from everything and everyone.

You couldn’t share the happiness with anyone, you couldn’t let the world know, or it could all disappear. He had been seen by your parents, but only on the important occasions when he insisted on showing up and proving himself to be a good man. He didn’t tell them everything, of course. After all, dating a ghost, someone as broken as you, was a dangerous kind of happiness.

It worked, though, since everyone liked Tate, even if he was the embodiment of darkness itself. But still, you knew you couldn’t live without him.

"I missed you," he confessed, pulling back just enough to look at your face, holding it in his calloused hands, which seemed made to comfort and destroy at the same time.

"I couldn’t stand being without you." You smiled, leaning your face into the coldness of his hands, feeling the relief of his presence.

"Good thing we have an eternity together," Tate softened, kissing your forehead with the tenderness of someone who had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re feeling better, I think I can offer you a game. I’ve been waiting for you all day."

Tate was sweet. Everyone liked him. Almost perfect, like a rare phenomenon, a celestial sight that anyone on the street would stop and admire. But you knew that Tate, behind those dark eyes and golden hair, wasn’t what he seemed. There was something much darker inside him. Something you felt, but didn’t have the courage to question. Because deep down, you loved that darkness as much as you loved the light he could still show.

You loved him for his darkness. For the way everything you thought and felt materialized in his actions. He was the nail, and you, the flesh, so fragile, so vulnerable to everything happening in the outside world. But with him, you felt whole. Even when the world around you seemed to be falling apart.

While you were caught up in the card game, you heard his unmistakable footsteps. With a subtle gesture, you motioned for Tate to hide, and you, without hurry, began to organize the colorful cards, some of them personalized with the drawings Tate had made, trying to look as normal as possible.

“Did you manage to study yesterday?” Your father asked, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway, a critical look that no longer surprised you.

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes were fixed on the little dinosaur drawn by Tate, trying to focus on the cards and not on the tension that was building in the air. “No.”

“Did you study today?” He repeated, with that annoying insistence, as if you were just a reflection of his expectations, a piece of paper that needed to be filled out in the right way.

“No.” The answer was automatic, without desire. You continued shuffling the cards, as if that were the most important thing in the world, but in reality you were just trying to avoid confrontation. You were exhausted from the last fight, the reason for it being trivial: you had fun with your friends and arrived late. “Yesterday I arrived very tired. Today, the same thing happened.”

“You really are unbelievable.” He laughed, shaking his head in disdain, searching the room as if he knew something you didn’t, as if the walls held secrets. “You can’t do something without making mistakes. You have to go back to those worthless friends of yours. It almost seems like you have no purpose. You have everything, but you keep complaining. You don’t have to blame anyone for your misery.”

“Yes, I don’t have to blame anyone.” You replied, exhaustion finally reflecting in your voice. Before, you fought, but now everything seemed like a tiring theater, a scenario that you no longer had the strength to change. You just left everything as it was, too lazy to make any effort.

“I’m glad you know.” He shrugged, his tone arrogant. “You should be like that boyfriend of yours, Tate. I want to see what he thinks of his girlfriend being a slut walking the streets at night.” He hissed, already leaving the room, closing the door with force, making the sound echo through the house. You turned your head quickly, seeing Tate locking the door behind him, as if he wanted to protect you from something invisible.

“You know he doesn’t mean it…” Tate tried to soften, sitting next to you on the mattress. “He’s just… weird. At least he takes care of you. My father would leave the house and let my mother beat me saying she’d have aborted me when she had the chance.” He spoke with a sigh, as if this was his reality, something so far from yours, but that somehow connected with the pain.

“Great care. They give me a place to stay and food. Quality service.” You scoffed, your voice sour, your eyes rolling, irritation rising to the surface.

Tate grimaced, pressing his lips together and sighing, before touching your hair, with a gentle gesture, trying to calm you down. “Hey, don’t be like that. Forget it…” He whispered, getting closer and kissing your cheek, as if that gesture would be able to dissipate the pain. “You’re not getting in the way of anything and you’re not an idiot... you’re perfect for me, you know that.”

“But I’ll never be perfect for them, Tate.” You murmured, letting the weight of the words fall on you. You lay down, trying to close your eyes, but the tears began to roll, silent and constant. He understood. It was your moment to be alone. Tate disappeared completely into the coldness of the room, leaving you alone with your own thoughts.

Another day began, and with it, the same endless cycle: work, college, fights. But this time, something had broken for good. The screams were louder, more threatening, and you had the feeling that, for a moment, he might actually hit you. Your mother didn’t say anything, she was as distant as ever, and your sister just stepped back, as if nothing had happened, as if it was nothing more than another episode that would vanish into thin air, without a trace.

It was just another family fight, the kind that made you lock yourself in your room, burying yourself under the covers, wishing you could be transported to another dimension—anywhere but here. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the screams still pierced through the walls, each sharp word making you cringe. Your chest tightened, your breath coming in quick gasps. You needed something—someone—to hold on to.

And as if he could hear your thoughts, Tate’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his warmth as your tears soaked into the pillow.

“I’m getting out of here,” you mumbled, your nails digging into his arm as your body curled into itself. “I swear to God, I’m leaving this fucking house and never coming back to this shithole again.”

“Shhh, I’m here. Shhh,” he mumbled into your hair, holding you tighter, his other hand making slow, gentle strokes across your scalp. “I’m getting you out of here. It’s going to be okay, okay? You know that. I’m working on it. You’re not who they say you are. They don’t deserve you.”

“Nobody deserves to be stuck with someone like me,” you choked out between sobs. “Nobody, Tate. Nobody. I’m nothing—I’m insufferable. I’m fucked up, I’m everything they say I am!”

“Hey, stop.” His voice cut through the air, firm but calm. Before you could react, he moved, hovering over you, his eyes burning into yours. “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t believe that shit.” His voice was low, intense, like a storm about to explode. “Don’t ever say that. It’s not fair—to you or to me!”

You choked back another sob, your eyes locked on his. He looked on the verge of breaking too, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw clenched as if he were holding back a scream. His throat worked, swallowing emotions too big to contain.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely reached your own ears, scraping against your throat like glass. “I’m sorry for being like this, Tate. For doing this to you.”

He shook his head instantly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Without another word, he leaned in, pressing a desperate kiss against your lips, the taste of salt mingling between you. When he pulled away, he sniffed, running his thumb over your damp cheek.

“You’re nothing like that,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, then your temple, then your cheeks, as if he could kiss the sadness out of you. “You matter to me. You’re everything to me. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m sorry,” you tried again.

“Stop fucking apologizing,” he murmured, his face twisting with something that resembled pain.

“I’ve been apologizing for things that aren’t even my fault for so long,” you admitted, closing your swollen eyes as fresh tears fell. “I don’t even know how to stop.”

“Well, don’t do this to me,” he said, squeezing your hands tighter, lacing his fingers with yours. “Don’t do this to anyone. You don’t owe anyone an apology for simply being you.”

“I’m afraid of losing everything, Tate.”

“You won’t lose everything,” he said firmly, his grip tightening as if he were making a promise with more than words. “You’ll always have me. It may not be much, but I promise—you’ll have me.”

“This means everything to me.” Your lips trembled, forming the faintest smile, almost invisible, but Tate caught it.

“You should stop crying,” he teased softly, brushing his nose against yours.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, your voice still hoarse.

“Forget about them,” he whispered, shifting to wrap himself completely around you, like a human shield. “Those days? They’re not coming back. Stay with me, lean on me. For anything, everything. Always and forever.”

“I’m afraid to depend on you.”

“It’s hard,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your neck before pulling away enough to look you in the eyes. “But no amount of softness will change the fact that you’re strong. A hammer doesn’t turn into a nail.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, small but real. Tate’s face lit up like the sun breaking through the clouds.

“You’re so damn beautiful when you smile, my sunshine,” he murmured, his voice thick with something tender, something that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t painful. He traced his fingers along your jaw, as if trying to memorize you. “And I swear, I’ll do anything to see that smile every day. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll take you with me. I’ll be your peace.”

That night, you slept with an overwhelming serenity, an unexpected peace that seemed to wrap your body in a comforting embrace, but something woke you in the middle of the night. An agonizing, desperate scream tore through the silence of the house, followed by the muffled, dry sound of a gunshot.

The scream was your mother’s. Your stomach churned, and a cold sensation ran down your spine. You jumped out of bed, your feet slamming against the floor in an uncontrolled rush, nearly tripping over your own legs as you ran down the stairs. Each heavy step echoed in your mind, but it was the scene in the kitchen that made your body stop, as if time had slowed down.

Your mother was on the floor, covered in blood, her face pale and lifeless, her glassy eyes fixed on an eternal void. Beside her, your father was lying, the pistol lying next to his limp hand. The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, mixed with the blood that stained the kitchen floor. Your heart raced, your legs shaking beneath you as terror took over your body.

You staggered backwards, almost breathless, until your eyes met Tate's, who was standing in the corner of the room. He was smiling. But it wasn't a smile of relief or empathy. It was a smile between tears, a tortured and manic smile that made your stomach turn even more.

“Tate…” you sobbed, your voice shaking, your hands cold, your fingers barely able to move. Fear seeped into your bones, making every movement harder to make. You were shaking so hard that you felt your legs buckle under the weight of the scene before you. 

Your eyes roamed over Tate’s body, settling on the green sweater you loved so much, now stained with fresh warm blood. It was your mother’s blood. It was your own family’s blood. The shock was so intense that you could do nothing but take a step back, your body now pressed against the wall as if it were your only lifeline.

“You… What did you do?” Your voice came out as a broken whisper, each word leaving your mouth as if it were being ripped out by force, the terror visible in your wide eyes. Panic was taking over you, and a wave of nausea rose in your throat, but you couldn’t look away from Tate, even though you knew it was the gaze of a monster disguised as an angel.

He smiled, his eyes watering as he approached you, his steps slow, as if he were savoring every movement. “I told you I would help you,” he said, the words coming out with a smile that bordered on madness. Blood still stained his fingers, and you could see the tears rolling down his face, but they weren’t tears of regret. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of twisted happiness. “I told you I’d give you the peace you so desperately need, baby.”

Those words. They echoed inside your head like a death sentence. “Peace” wasn’t what you felt. What you felt was dread. Dread of the person who had once made you feel safe, but who now seemed like a living nightmare. The sweater he wore, the touch of your hair—everything was a reminder of what he had become. You stared at him, eyes wide, breathing fast, trying desperately to get away from his presence, but the weight of what was happening paralyzed you. The blood was fresh, still dripping from your body as if it had been extracted from your family’s very life.

Noticing the terror in your eyes, Tate paused for a moment, his arms opening wide, as if it were his only way to offer you comfort. As if it was the only thing he could do to calm you.

“I said I’d be your peace, I promised,” he murmured, the tears now falling more heavily, but the smile remained. He seemed to be in ecstasy, as if he were carrying out a divine plan, something greater than the two of you. His smile was as grotesque as it was beautiful, a mix of twisted love and madness. “I always said I would do anything for you, and I always do what I promise.”

Terror took over every cell in your body, your voice cracking as you murmured, “I didn’t ask for any of this… I didn’t fucking ask you to do this…” The words came out slurred, almost like a cry for help, but Tate didn’t seem to understand.

"What? What... do you mean?" He stuttered, tearing apart. He stepped even closer, each step heavy and determined.

"TATE YOU FUCKING KILLED MY PARENTS."

“YOU CALLED FOR FUCKING HELP, DAMMIT!” he shouted, the fury and pain in his voice.

His voice made the walls of the house seem to vibrate. Anger and despair intertwined in his voice, as he calmed himself, running a hand through his hair, a desperate attempt to control himself.

“I’m sorry, darl’… I… ’m so fucking sorry for yelling at you. I promise, everything will be okay. I just wanted to help you…wanted to get you out of all this fucking bullshit. I’d do anything, I’d die and kill for you. I just don’t want to see you suffer, ever again.” It was a mantra, a manic justification that you didn’t know if you could believe anymore. 

Fear still tighten your chest, but something inside you begins to give in. Tate’s words were starting to make sense in a distorted way. The small possibility that you had ignored was now expanding, growing like a poisonous plant. He was right, wasn’t he? He had always been right. He loved you. He would protect you. You should trust him. Her breathing calmed, and her shoulders relaxed, as the horror of what was happening seemed to dissolve beneath the weight of his embrace.

He wrapped his arms around you, pressing your body against his, and you had no strength to resist. Deep down, you knew that you were now hopelessly trapped, but something inside you, a sick part of you, did not want to be saved. Over Tate’s shoulder, you saw your parents lying in the kitchen, their bodies inert, your father immobilized by the fallen pistol, your mother in eternal silence. Your sister was not there. There was no more screaming, no more mocking. There was no one left to hurt you. There was nothing left but Tate and you, and he was whispering to you:

“You’re my life,” he muttered, burying his face in your neck, his touch warm and possessive. “And you will depend on me. Now and forever. There’s no one else but the two of us, my dear. Not anymore.”

Those words sounded like a condemnation and a promise, at the same time. And you knew, without a doubt, that you were lost. Forever.

[spoilerslibrary]

Tate Brombal you're going to kill me! (I am going insane!!!)

The three people Cass thinks about when she leaves in order, Steph, Bruce, and Babs (feels odd, Cass historically has called her Oracle or Barbara. But I nitpick.) The three Gothamites who have had the most compelling effect on her life.

Steph Stephanie. The first and most immediate thought. Cass's first friend and the first person to really get her to open up and relax. The one who introduced her to playing. The one she's spent decades enjoying homoerotic tension with, to the editor's continual anguish. (queer coded Stephcass always.) (You'd be textual and dating if the editors weren't cowards.) With Barbara continually being associated with the rest of the family, Cass is usually paired with Steph. They've spent many of the last few years of cannon tied at the hip. Her closest current relationship. When she has to leave Gotham, Steph is the first person she realises she's leaving behind. (Are they still living together? Is Steph going to realise after a few hours that Cass is usually home by now? That she's suddenly alone?)

Bruce The most powerful driving force in her life. Her redemption. Her lifeline. When she was wandering aimlessly after years, stewing in her own guilt, The Bat is what gave her a new purpose. She wants to be The Bat. She wants to be Bruce. He's been a mentor, a somewhat father (Post Death in the Family Bruce Wayne show healthy familial affection challenge, Level: Impossible) and one of her pillars in life. He adopted her, giving her the stability and promise of belonging and support she's long missed (We don't talk about what happened next) (Dan Dildo when I get you) Bruce is not the first person to spring to mind when she has to flee Gotham, nor the most poignant, but by leaving Gotham in some ways she's leaving her family, the bat, and the strongest reminder of her purpose, Batman.

Barbara Barbara Gordon. Her pseudo, almost, not-quite, sort-of mother figure. The first one to reach out to the silent girl with the guilt of murder dragging her down and laid the first stones to her new path. (New-Earth Origin Superiority!!!) The one whose legacy Cass now lives and wears. From the time she took up the mantle of Batgirl to the end of Wargames (Why must Wargames exist? And worse, why must it be so important to Steph's story that you can't just remove it?!??) (Wargames my beloathed) and leaving for Bludhaven, Cass lived with Barbara in the Clocktower. Babs was the one who tried to reign her in, to protect her in ways she wasn't even aware she needed protection. Who, somewhat futilely, tried to push her away from the self-destructive path that Bruce was laying even as she charged down it with no regard for herself. (or the bullets coming directly at her.) Even as they argued, they both care so much. Her first (known) ally, friend, parent?, in around 9 years. The one who's always been there for her when she needed her. Barbara Gordon. Even if she's not the first one Cass thinks of, she is the one who resonates most soundly.

[v1ctor1asecretangel]

Beneath The Midnight Veil

Pre Death!Tate Langdon x Reader

song i recommend listening to: shades of cool by lana del rey

warnings: drug use (alcohol, marijuana and pills), sexual content (make out scene and sexual tension), mature themes (emotional and psychological tension, references to personal struggles, and darker themes)

word count: 1.5k

notes: hey guys!! this is my first fanfic i've written, and i apologize for any mistakes, english is not my first language. and i also apologize if tate it a little ooc, its really hard for me to write EXACTLY like how a character is played! But thank you so much for reading i truly appreciate it so much!! please leave constructive criticism!!

Tate was the embodiment of intrigue and danger. His tousled blonde hair framed his sharp featured face, and those big brown eyes seemed to pierce through the heavy haze of the night. There was a darkness about him that was both terrifying and intoxicating, like an alluring siren calling me closer. He stood against the wall, indifferent to the chaos around him, inhaling from a joint as if seeking solace in the smoke.

I had to remind myself to breathe as I made my way through the throng of bodies. When I finally reached him, he turned his gaze to me, and the world slipped away, leaving the two of us suspended in that moment. 

“Hey.” I said, letting a playful lilt enter my voice, hoping he would break that impenetrable facade. “You’ve been a ghost all night.” (see what i did there😏)

“Maybe I like it better here.” he replied, a smirk creeping onto his lips. His voice was smooth, like velvet, with an edge of rebellion that slipped just beneath my skin. 

I shivered, not from the cold but from the tension radiating between us. “You know that’s not true. You're just running from something.” I challenged, crossing my arms defiantly.

He chuckled darkly as he took another drag from the joint. “What if I am?” He leaned closer, his breath mingling with the smoke. “What if I don’t want to be found?”

“Then why did you let me find you?” I shot back, unwilling to step down. 

In response, he flicked the joint, letting the ash fall onto the old wood flooring, his eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d care enough to look.”

The tension between us thrummed heavily in the air, a tangible connection that both exhilarated and terrified me. I could see the shadows lurking in his eyes, the hints of pain that spoke volumes without uttering a word. It was then that I made a decision. The world of alcohol and loud music faded away as I took his hand, tugging him gently towards the door.

“Let’s get some air.” I suggested, my heart racing with anticipation as he complied without protest.

The cool night air enveloped us as we stepped outside, releasing us from the chaos of the party. The moon hung low, casting silvery light over everything, illuminating the edges of Tate’s sharp features. He leaned back against the crumbling stone wall, the weight of the world seemingly resting on his shoulders, and for a moment, the facade dropped. 

“Nice out here.” he murmured, inhaling deeply, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, it is.” I replied softly, taking a seat beside him on the cool stone. I could feel the tension building again, the anticipation crackling like electricity between us.

“Do you wanna try?” he asked, pulling out a small bag of pills. My heart raced faster at the sight. The blue tint of the pills shimmering under the moonlit sky.

I hesitated, but then nodded my head, a part of me craving the excitement and escape. “Just this once.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He grinned, that familiar wicked smile that always sent a shiver down my spine, handing me one of the pills while he popped one into his mouth. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”

I knew I shouldn’t indulge, but the rebellious urge to impress him took over. I swallowed it dry, feeling it dissolve on my tongue, and watched as he did the same, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes.

Moments passed, the world around us fading into a dreamy blur as the effects of the drug kicked in. I felt weightless, my anxieties and fears melting away like frost under the sun. Tate hovered close, our shoulders brushing as he turned to me, his icy blue gaze intense. “You feel it?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I replied, my heart pounding harder as he leaned closer, those perfect lips just inches from mine.

The city of angels lights glimmered in the distance, but all I could focus on was Tate. His allure, his glide into temptation. I leaned into him, our lips meeting softly at first, hesitant. Though as the world around us spiraled into euphoria, that hesitation faded. 

The kiss spiraled deeper, a dance of passion and desperation, our mouths moving against each other like whispers of promises that needed no words. The cool night wrapped around us like a blanket, shielding us from everything else as he pulled me closer.

“Tate.” I gasped against his mouth, the thrill of the moment crashing into me like waves against the shore. 

“Just hold on.” he murmured, his breath hitching. “Just let it happen.” 

I pressed against him harder, desperation igniting the fire between us, my fingers threading through his hair as I drew him closer until there was no space left. It was wild and messy, our breaths mingling with the remnants of smoke and the hint of drugs. 

Tate’s hands traveled down, gripping my hips as he lifted me, pressing me against the wall. The cold bite of the stone against my back blended with the heat radiating from his body, and I moaned softly, leaning my head back as his lips trailed down my neck.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this.” he breathed against my skin, pausing for just a moment to meet my gaze, those beautiful dark brown eyes swirling with something deeper. But there was no way I could pull away. 

“I don’t care.” I managed, breathless as he found my lips again, kissing me with passion. 

In the haze of the night, the world around us transformed into nothing but shadows and light. I lost myself completely in him, our kisses becoming more frantic, more desperate, as if the universe had paused for this moment alone. His hands slipped beneath my shirt, fingers trailing up my skin, igniting sparks wherever he touched. 

I gasped as he explored my waist and my breasts, feeling electric currents where he held me. “Tate…” I breathed, each kiss becoming an insatiable hunger, each touch a plea for more. 

He pulled away briefly, fixing me with a look that made my heart race even faster. “I don’t want this to be just a high, you know? You understand?” His voice was low, serious, but laced with that familiar hint of darkness that was so quintessentially Tate.

“I understand.” I whispered, feeling the weight of the moment. “But right now, I just want you.”

The way I said it seemed to plunge him deeper into himself, that familiar war raging in his eyes. “You might regret it, sweet girl.” he warned, but the way he leaned in told me otherwise. 

“Maybe.” I replied, melting at the nickname and my confidence blooming under the haze of the night. “But I don't care.”

With a swift movement, he captured my mouth again, deeper this time, as if to drown every doubt growing between us. And I surrendered completely, the adrenaline flooding my system. 

Gradually, he began to push my shirt up, and I gasped at the sensation of him against my bare skin as the cool air hit me. The exchange felt electric, like lighting a fuse that sent shivers running down my spine. I wanted him to touch me like this, to break the barriers that lay between us, and I could feel his desperation to do the same.

“God, you’re beautiful.” he breathed against my neck, and I shivered under the weight of his words, sending a thrill through my veins.

Suddenly, the world seemed to slow. As our bodies moved together, as fingers explored and lips whispered against the skin, it felt like we were the only two souls left in existence. Everything else faded. A distant echo of laughter, the soft pulse of music. Until it was just us, dancing in the shadows of the night.

But then I paused, the warmth of his hands suddenly burning against my skin. I could see the tension rising in his gaze, the remnants of his demons flickering behind those piercing eyes. Reality crashed in, reminding me that I couldn’t get lost in this fantasy forever.

“Wait.” I breathed, pulling back slightly. “Tate, we can’t… what if the others—”

“Shh.” he whispered, brushing his thumb across my lips. “Don’t think right now. Just feel.” 

In that moment, the blend of drugs and desire won, and I nodded, letting him pull me back into him. There was a heaviness in the air, the feeling of crossing uncharted boundaries, and it thrilled me to my core. I could almost taste the connection. The lust pouring from us like smoke. Before he captured my mouth again, the kiss consuming everything else.

As the night deepened, we melted into each other, our bodies finding a synchronicity that felt insurmountable, like we were both too scared to break the spell. We paused only to breathe, laughter escaping my lips as I pulled him close, the shadows whispering secrets around us.

“Stay with me.” I murmured against his skin as I felt his fingers weaving their way through my hair, feeling the heat radiating from his body. 

“Always,” he replied softly, and for a brief moment, I believed him.

Then, as dawn crept closer, the reality of the night began to settle, the thrill giving way to uncertainty. The fleeting happiness felt like a firework, bright, beautiful, but inevitably fading. I saw it in the way he held me, the apprehension etched in the corner of his eyes when he pulled back to really look at me, and the clarity hit hard. 

He was struggling with something darker, a burden I knew all too well. I reached for him, brushing my fingertips against his cheek. “Don’t pull away.” I pleaded softly. “We can work through this.”

He hesitated, the weight of his past looming like a shadow over us. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Maybe I don’t, but I’m here, Tate. I want to be here.” 

The honesty in my voice seemed to evoke something raw within him, something he both wanted to embrace and resist. He was a storm, chaotic and dark, but raging with passion. 

“Just don’t let me hurt you.” he murmured, placing a delicate kiss on my forehead, making me shiver once again. 

And as I looked up into his eyes, I whispered, “You won’t.”

But deep down, that doubt lingered, gnawing at us like the shadows creeping closer. The night brought moments of joy and reckless love, but no matter how pure this connection felt, I knew it came with a price.

As we stood there wrapped in each other, I felt the world shift around us. There was magic in the night, but reality would come crashing down eventually, and when it did, I could only hope we would rise to meet it. Together. 

For now, though, I let the moment drown us. A stunning blend of love and chaos, forever suspended in the shades of cool, as the dawn snuck up behind us, threatening to unveil the truth.

[queeranarchism]

I never really understood the call for non-toxic masculinity. Shouldn't the goal be to build a world in which people are just not judged along the axis of masculinity at all? And to help men navigate such a world by constructing a sense of self which rests on things other than masculinity? How is a new and different masculinity gonna help with that?

Also, when people list traits of non-toxic masculinity, they're usually just traits of like ... a good person. Why even keep calling it masculinity when it's so far removed from traditional masculinity that you would advice women to adopt 100% the same traits? Teenagers aren't stupid, they'll see right through it. Might as well be honest.

Emulating traditional masculinity as Tate does is ridiculous and pathetic, and that's about all teenage boys need to understand about it.

On the one hand I think 'masculinity doesn't need to be defined around misogyny and you are not less of a man if you're less misogynistic and violent' is often a first stepping stone towards 'masculinity doesn't need to be defined at all' and an easier step to take for people still figuring out who they are and how that relates to their gender and the social expectations around their gender.

On the other hand, I think neither idea is going to be remotely appealing to most teenage boys because they exist within a group context that violently polices adherence to hegemonic masculinity and most of them would rather die than face social rejection.

Unless you can change the social context teenage boys exist in, you're going to be fighting an uphill struggle against guys like Tate who confirm hegemonic masculinity.

So, changing society as a whole is mostly where it's at.

[grimoireofhayley]

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, eventual Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA (rape), Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ content, Stalking, Possessiveness (let me know down below if there's more to be added, please and thank you)

Word Count: 1.4k

Tag List: @ev3ningrain

A/n: Oh my gosh, I didn't think the first part would get so many hits already! Thank you so much for reading this current series! I've decided that this story is going to be my main focus and I'm putting the others on hold for now. Let me know in the comments below if you want to be added to the tag list. Also, keep in mind this story takes place in SCREAM 1996 (The Original) so some or a lot of the plot will be in it. Thank you :)

All chapter links 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 2

Monday, the first day of the week, the day that everyone dreaded. It meant the end of a great Weekend and the start of a long and exhausting forthcoming week ahead. 

You pulled into the driveway of Woodsboro High school, your ‘67 Chevy glistened in the sun’s light. You rolled the windows up, opened the door and stepped out, grabbing your bag in the process. 

Double clicking your keys’  button, your car beeped, indicating it was now locked.

The parking lot was littered with News Vans, Journalists and their Cameramen, along with police cars and Officers. You narrowed your eyes, confused, seeing all the commotion. 

“What the fu--” You uttered, cutting yourself off, seeing the auditorium sealed off. 

“(Y/n)! Over here!” You hear Tatum shout and you jerk your head in the direction.

“Hey, Tate..” You trailed, seeing Sidney next to her, “Hi, Sid..” You nodded, greeting them. “Do you two have any idea what is going on?” You asked, gesturing to everything around you.

Just as Tatum was about to answer, Gale Weathers, and her annoyingly pitched voice began talking. 

“The small town of Woodsboro, California, was devastated last night, when two young teenagers were found brutally murdered.” Gale took a breath before continuing her speech in front of her cameraman. “Authorities have yet to issue a statement, but our sources tell us that no arrest has been made, and the murderer could strike again..” 

Your head was filled with questions, who were the students that were killed? What if you were the next victim? Why hasn’t the killer been found yet? 

You gulped and your face tinted pink from nerves. 

“Do you believe this shit?” Tatum suddenly spoke, jolting both you and Sidney from your thoughts. 

“Tatum what is going on?” You and Sidney both asked in unison. 

“I was going to answer earlier, but Gale seemed to have your attention more.” Tatum licked her lips, and adjusted her bag over her shoulder. The blonde glanced at you and Sidney, “Wait, so you really don’t know?” She asked, her eyes wide. 

“Yeah, no shit, why else would I be asking?” You rolled your eyes, sarcasm evident in your voice. 

“Okay, okay…” Tatum mumbled, “Casey Becker and Steve Orth were killed last night.” 

“What?” Sidney began, “No way…” You finished Sidney’s sentence for her. 

“And we’re not just talking killed. We’re talking splatter-movie killed.” Tatum made hand motions and began walking, you and Sidney followed her lead. 

“Ripped open from end to end.” The blonde looked at you, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Casey Becker, she sits next to me in English.” Sidney gasped.

“Her boyfriend, Steve Orth, sat next to me in Drama..” You frowned, looking at Sidney. 

“Well, not anymore…” Tatum sputtered. 

“Ugh, that’s too bad…” You sighed, rubbing the back of your head.

“It’s so sad…” Tatum looked at the ground, kicking at a stone in her way. “Her mom and dad, they found her hanging from a tree, her insides on the outside…” Tatum placed her hands behind her back, rubbing the soles of her arm. “And Steve, God, he was found bound to a chair and his stomach ripped open..” 

“Oh, my God..” You groaned, sadness lingering in your voice. “Do they know who did it?” You asked, side-eyeing Tatum.

“They have no idea. They’re fuckin’ clueless.” 

You, Tatum and Sidney walked up the school’s steps. 

“They’re interrogating the entire school…” Tatum exhaled before listing off people, “Teachers, students, janitors--”

You butted in, “They think it’s school related?” You raised a brow, gripping the side of your arm, nails digging into your flesh. The anxiety of it all, started building up in the pit of your stomach. You felt nauseous.

Tatum stopped in front of you and Sidney, “They don’t know…” Tatum glanced into your hues before looking at Sidney, “I mean, Dewey was saying this is the worst crime they’ve seen in years. Even worse then--”

“Tate…” You warned, gesturing for her to choose her words carefully when speaking to Sidney. Yes, you may not like Sidney as much, but she doesn’t deserve to be reminded of her mother’s rape and murder. 

The bell rings, signaling the start of class, making the conversation dwindle. 

Tatum sighed, jabbing her two index fingers together, out of nervousness. “Well.. It’s bad.” 

--

You tapped your pencil against your desk, staring beside you. 

Little do your friends know, Steve was also your ex-boyfriend. After you guys had a falling out, he had left you for Casey. You didn’t want to suffer the embarrassment of anyone knowing you were the dumpee and not the dumper, plus, he was secretly seeing you while he was in another relationship before Becker. You didn’t want anyone to judge you for it. You felt guilty as is, but the way he was able to charm you with his words and physical touch, you couldn’t help yourself, but keep going for more. However, as far as anyone else knows, you guys were just close friends.

You moaned, letting your head droop, “Jesus…” You whispered, drumming your fingers, trying to settle the sick feeling in your gut. 

“(Y/n) (L/n), it would appear to be your turn.” The teacher said, looking at you, and the rest of the class turned their heads to meet your gaze.

You nodded, looking one last time at the empty desk next to you, where Steve used to sit. 

You grabbed your books, pencil case and water bottle, shoving them quickly into your bag. 

--

“Who’s up next?” The principal asked.

“Um, (Y/n) (l/n)..” Dewey looked over his papers.

“Wait, wasn’t she the one who found Maureen Prescott last year--” The principal began, but stopped, seeing you in the doorway. 

“Ah, (Y/n). How have you been?” He asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m okay.” You smiled half-heartedly, sitting down on the blue-cushioned chair. 

“Hi, (Y/n)..” 

“Hello, Sheriff Burke, Dewey…” You inhaled, feeling the nerves begin to rile back up. You tapped your foot off the ground, shaking your leg, feeling your hands sweat.

“Uh, that’s Deputy Riley today, (Nickname).” Dewey winked. 

“How is Everything?” Sheriff Burke looked you over, seeing how anxious you were. 

“Um, could be better…” You mumbled, looking down. 

“Huh, why’s that?” Burke leaned forward. You sank in your chair, feeling rather intimidated. 

“Look, we’re gonna keep this very brief, (Y/n), alright?” The principal placed a broad hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The police just want to ask you a few questions, okay?” 

You nodded. 

“(Y/n), were you very close to Steve Orth?”

‘Shit..’ You thought. 

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I was…” You wiped your hands off your jeans, trying to dry them off.

“How close?” Burke, scribbled down on his board, awaiting your answer.

You gulped, looking at Dewey, silently praying he’d step in, seeing how apprehensive you were, but he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t, he was doing his job.

“We dated…” You started, “Last year for a couple months…” 

���How come the relationship ended?” 

“Uh, we--, um, we had a falling out.” 

“What type?” 

“Jesus--” You groaned, rubbing your thighs with your hands, “He was seeing me behind his then girlfriend's back, we slept together a few times, okay?” You came clean, “He wanted it to end, but I didn’t, but he ended up leaving anyway, leaving for Casey. That’s it, I swear.” You teared up, “I feel so bad about the whole situation as it is, poor Brooke, she didn’t know anything, but he left both of us for Casey..” You placed your hands over your face as quiet sobs escaped your lips. “Am I in trouble?” You peaked through the creases of your fingers, a blush forming across your face. 

“For having an affair with him? No, of course not, but that does move you on top of my suspect list.” 

You whined, misery coating your mind, “Why? I didn’t kill him..” You uttered, wiping your nose with your light-blue sleeve. “I was hurt, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill him for being scorned…” You trailed, meeting Sheriff Burke's eyes. “I couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a human being…” 

“Uh, Sheriff?” Dewey stepped in, “I mean, she’s right, there’s no way she could do something like that.” Dewey glanced at you. 

The Sheriff sighed, “We just have to ask you a few extra questions, that’s it.. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that, I should’ve worded it differently. It’s only because you were close with him, you were his mistress at one point, so it’s somewhat suspicious.” He rubbed his chin, “Mistress was upset by Steve breaking relations off, so Mistress sets a plan for revenge. You catch my drift?” He looked at you, and you slouched.

“Yeah..” Was all you could muster out, you sniffled, hugging yourself, waiting for more questions to be asked. “Alright, let’s get this over with…” 

<-Previous Next->

[slut4celebs]

Birthday Girl

Olivia Rodrigo x Reader

Word Count: 1,105

Trigger Warnings: flirting, a bunchhhh of fluff

Synopsis: It's Olivia's birthday, and the reader helps throw a surprise party to celebrate her girlfriend. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OLIVIA RODRIGO. <3

request here | masterlist

(Y/n) was a bit exhausted, but it was all worth it. She had been in touch with three people the weekend before Olivia's birthday, trying to get the party set up: Conan, Iris, and Madison. She had got the venue set up, and they were all a part of the plan. Conan was going to take Olivia to this 'hip, new club' where Iris was going to meet them. What Olivia didn't know was that Madison was picking up (Y/n) at the airport since she was currently in Vancouver, filming a movie. Thankfully, she managed to get a couple of days off to spend with Olivia. She just had to give up Valentine's Day, settling on sending gifts and a card and spending an hour on a call with Olivia instead of being there with her in person. She wouldn't complain though, she was grateful to be able to throw this party for Olivia.

When she arrived at LAX, she almost squealed when she saw Madison. "I just have a couple of gifts to pick up at my mom's house. She wrapped the gifts I got for Olivia. She also picked up the cake for us. The picture she sent looks perfect. It's Twilight-themed." She said, knowing her mom was also going to want to see her for a small amount of time. Two birds, one stone, and Madison was okay with helping a friend out. "Thank you so much for picking me up and helping me with this party. Who all RSVPed? Did Conan or Iris let you know?" She asked, excitement bubbling in her chest. She was ecstatic about this party. She loved having the chance to celebrate her girlfriend, and she knew Olivia would be happy to be surrounded by the people she loved.

"I know for a fact Tate and Laroi will be there, Jenna, Gracie, Joe Locke…" She trailed off from the list. "Pretty much every one of her close friends. She's probably going to be most excited to see you though." Madison gently nudged the girl beside her with a wink as she pulled up to the address that she was given. "She misses you a lot, you know? Every time we've been out since you've been gone, she goes on and on about the selfies and little texts she receives from you."

Picking up the gifts and cake from her mom didn't take too long. It was thankfully just a couple of hugs and a birthday gift for Olivia from her mom. She put them all in the car while Madison carried the cake. They got in the car and headed to set up the venue. A few people arrived early to help, which (Y/n) was grateful for. Tate, upon seeing her, pulled her into a big hug, asking how Canada was. The two of them chatted as they continued to decorate when eventually (Y/n) received a text that Olivia was coming soon. She grinned when he also sent his location, meaning she'd be able to see where they were better.

"Hey," Iris came in cheerily with some gifts and some more Twilight decorations that (Y/n) asked for. The two hugged and put the finishing touches on the venue when (Y/n) checked her phone to see if they were coming. "(Y/n) go light the candles and hide." she ushered Olivia's girlfriend from the room. (Y/n) did as she was told, and went to the kitchen area that was used as a makeshift bar for alcohol and some finger foods. There was a sound of cheers and everyone started to sing Happy Birthday. (Y/n) took this as her cue and headed out to sing with the others. When Olivia made eye contact with her, her eyes lit up.

(Y/n) was grateful to see Conan recording the whole thing as she made her way to Olivia. She wanted that video in her camera roll and added it to her favorites because Olivia looked so happy and beautiful. She was so excited as the song ended and she blew out the candles. "Seeing you was all I wished for today." She said softly as Tate took the cake and Olivia was able to kiss her deeply. There was more applause as (Y/n) pulled her in close. "Thank you for all of this." Olivia knew that this was all (Y/n) because it screamed (Y/n) in the little details that she knew Olivia would like.

"Olivia, I would do anything for you. Happy twenty-second birthday, my love. You deserve the absolute world and more." She told her as she gently went to the back to pull out some drinks for everyone, kissing Olivia when she handed her the Buzz Ball. Olivia smiled into the kiss as she started talking to her friends. After a plethora of pictures were taken, several gifts were opened, and many hugs goodbye, it was eventually just Conan, Tate, Iris, Madison, and (Y/n).

(Y/n) slung an arm around her girlfriend's shoulder, pressing a kiss to her temple. "How did you enjoy the party?" She asked before she and the others slowly took down the décor. Olivia couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with happiness, her heart swelling, watching as her girlfriend put away the cake in a take-out box.

"This has been one of my best parties yet. Thank you again. Thank you so, so much. And thank you all for being here." Olivia said, hugging her friends and helping by putting some of the gifts in a bigger box that (Y/n) brought for them to go in. She knew after the party, that Conan would be taking them back to their apartment. So, she made sure it would only take a couple of trips. She didn't want Conan to have to wait too long for them (even though he'd be quick to help them out). "I just honestly can't believe you're here. You always know what I want and what I need. I am so grateful to have you in my life."

(Y/n) turned back to her as they all carried the items to Conan's vehicle. "Olivia, like I said, I would do anything for you. You mean the absolute world to me. I wanted to do something special for your birthday. I had been planning this birthday party for months. I've been so excited. I love making you smile. You deserved this birthday gift, sweetheart. You deserve every good thing that this world has to offer." She finished, kissing her again as they finished up and got in the car to leave. Olivia sat in the back, resting her head on (Y/n)'s shoulder as they were driven home.

[secrettyrant]

Full Name: Tate Stone

Age & Birthday: 29 years old, June 24th

Hometown: Clearwater, Wyoming

Current Residence: Willow Creek Condo

Occupation: New Horizon Motel - Night Shift

DETAILS

Family Legacy: The Stone's are known for better or for worse. Mainly worse. There's too many of them, in the end their individual reputations all tangle together whether they like it or not.

Favorite Spot in Town: The Music Hall

Hidden Talent or Hobby: Tate is fairly unassuming and laid back, which means his shadier connections can be quite surprising. His phone is full of mysterious contacts, most of them in Ridgeview. If someone needs something, Tate always strangely and vaguely knows someone who knows someone. He's not exactly loud about it. In terms of hobbies, Tate loves playing guitar but never in front of anyone else.

PERSONALITY

Core Traits: Laid back, Observant, Impulsive, Lackluster, Creative, Reserved, Protective, Loyal

Strengths: Tate is a relaxed person, or in the very least his more lazy, disinterest in the world makes him seem relaxed. But, because of this, he can be the voice of reason that comes steadily and almost patiently. He's protective and loyal, primarily to his family and the Vaismans above all else.

Weaknesses: In the same way his relaxed demeanor is a strength, it's also Tate's weakness. Nothing really bothers him, even if it should. He gives up easily, resigns himself from any outcome and he never gives 100%. He can be pessimistic at times, more inwardly than outward where he doesn't see the point in trying.

What Keeps Them Up at Night, If Anything?: Tate makes sure he smokes enough weed so nothing keeps him up at night. In general, he's a heavy sleeper. It's weird. He's slept through storms, and even when the washing machine exploded and flooded the condo. However, mere minutes before he falls asleep, he worries he's just going to die alone like his father probably did. But then, he's out like a light.

How Do They Handle Conflict?: Tate's a Stone, so the capability of meeting conflict head on is not out of the equation. However, it takes a lot for Tate to reach the point of throwing any punches. It's not unheard of, though. If anything is too close to home, he's been known to snap with a surprising outcome of temper.

HISTORY

Backstory: When Tate looks back on his life, it always comes back to his brothers and sister. Memories of climbing over one another to reach a cupboard, slipping each other through windows when the front door was locked. Copying homework and still getting it all wrong. There were food fights, water pistol wars, days spent scraping their knees up trees, moments that might seem nostalgic if they weren’t just survival in disguise. Ian and Tanya Stone had a different idea of parenting. Less about raising kids, more about keeping them alive in the loosest sense. They had a good time, and while their children fended for themselves. Tate never wasted time blaming them. Maybe if he had kids of his own, he would be the same hands-off kind of parent. The way he saw it, life was what it was. He learned early not to waste energy wanting things to be different. If someone asked where his parents were, he'd only ever shrug. He learned that if he needed anything, he would have to figure it out himself. When their mother left town without a word, it wasn't surprising. When their father started showing up just to shake them down for cash, it was expected. When they finally told him to fuck off for good, that was just another day. Tate had long since stopped believing in people changing. He didn't make the most of life, he just let it happen to him. It wasn't a shock to anyone that Tate never amounted to much. He had talent for things, sure, but no motivation. He's worked all over town, doing just enough to get by before he either got fired or quit because he was bored. The only job that stuck was helping out at the Vaismans' motel, mostly because they never asked for much, and it gave him enough cash to keep a fridge full and his options open. Somewhere along the way, he started falling into different crowds. It was never intentional. Tate wasn't a dealer, wasn't really anything. He just knew people, and people liked knowing people. A name passed along at a party, a favor traded, a connection made. He'd link one person to another, get a little kickback, move on. It was easy, and as far as Tate was concerned, harmless. He didn't ask questions, and he's never owed anyone anything. But sometimes, in the dead quiet of the night, he thinks about how thin the ice is beneath his feet. How one wrong move, someone ratting him out, one curious cop digging a little too deep, and suddenly all those casual connections turn into something more permanent. Tate tells himself not to worry. Life, after all, is what it is. Until it isn't.

Current Situation: tbd.

How Do They Feel About the Changes in Clearwater?: Tate doesn't care, not really. He just parrots whoever he's talking to at the time. If Kenzie rants about Bluebird cafe, Tate will be nodding his head. If someone says the changes are amazing, he's nodding his head.

CONNECTIONS AND RELATIONSHIPS

Reputation in Clearwater: Tate's laidback personality doesn't mean he's not without trouble. His mischief is usually harmless, but his reputation will still be tied closely to the Stone's even if he was on his best behavior. Some people might even judge him for how quickly they've seen him lose his patience in the past.

Important Relationships: Leo, Luke, Tyler and Tizzy, Kenzie, Allie, Evelyn, Koda, Felix, Jakob, Astra, Nova

Potential Story Hooks: Things that push Tate out of his comfort zone are great threads, also amusing. Anything that makes Tate stop being so complacent. Things that push him to react further than a shrug or a laugh. Something more serious that makes him realize he's tangled in something dangerous, more than he wants to be.

[batbabydamian]

DC April 2024 Solicitations - Comics Featuring Damian! 🦇

BATMAN AND ROBIN #8

4/9/24

Written by Joshua Williamson

Art and Cover by Simone Di Meo

Variant Covers: Kael Ngu, Ejikure, Jim Lee, Nikola Čižmešija (1:25)

As Batman finds himself in the clutches of a new cult that worships Man-Bat, Robin continues his own investigation into his High School's connections to Shush! Can the father and son dynamic duo uncover Man-Bat and Shush's master plans before Gotham pays the price?!

WONDER WOMAN #6

4/16/24

Written by Tom King

Art by Daniel Sampere and Belén Ortega

Variant Covers: Julian Totino Tedesco, Pablo Villalobos, Joshua “Sway” Swaby (1:25)

Wonder Woman vs. The Sovereign! After being captured by a team of villains, Diana finds herself at the mercy of the scariest of them all. Unbeknownst to our hero, the Sovereign has been pulling her strings since the very beginning of our tale, and now it's time for her to see the world his way as she falls under the influence of the Lasso of Lies! Plus, Trinity visits the past and unexpectedly changes the future!

NIGHTWING #113/Legacy #300

4/16/2024

Written by Tom Taylor

Art by Various

Variant Covers: Bruno Redondo (original cover+1:25), Dan Mora, Jim Lee (Artist Spotlight), Jamal Campbell, Serg Acuna

Since the 1940's, you've seen him go from acrobat to orphan; from Dick Grayson to Robin; from Robin to Nightwing. You've seen him work alongside the universe's most powerful heroes, against existence's most sinister villains. You have seen Dick Grayson do so many things, but now, in his 300th issue, you will see him.. well, you'll just have to pick up the issue and find out. Join us for this legacy 300 milestone!

*DC’S SPRING BREAKOUT!

*Cover feature - Damian hang gliding in the bg :)

4/30/2024

Written by Meghan Fitzmartin, Cameron Chittok, Joey Esposito, Morgan Hampton, Patrick R. Young, Tom Krajewski, Mike Barr, and more!

Art by Kenya Danino, Vasco Georgiev, Paul Pellietier, Nico Bascuñan, and more!

Cover by John Timms

Variant Covers by Dan Mora

Spring has sprung! Flowers are blooming, bees are buzzing, Harley is breaking King Shark out of Belle Reve prison. all is right in the DCU as both heroes and villains face all sorts of different spring breaks. Breaking out of a coffin? Lex Luthor has that covered. Spring break training? Send in Superman! Breaking out of your shell? Batman and Mr. Freeze explore that possibility through a connection in their shared past. Breaking down a worthy adversary? Katana and her sword of souls might just be able to tackle that. And it wouldn't be a spring break without a Teen Titans beach trip! All these and more in DC's Spring Breakout! -eight breakout stories to put a spring in your step (is there a zit breakout story? You'll have to read to find out!)

TEEN TITANS: STARFIRE

7/2/2024

Written by Kami Garcia

Art by Gabriel Picolo

Kori Anders' summer job at a ritzy Santa Monica beach club is fun, but she doesn't care about keeping up with the current trends, and she's not interested in rushing around to all the parties. She'd rather explore her inexplicable draw to the stars or hang out with her new friend, Victor Stone. Her sister, Kira, on the other hand, is the most popular girl around. With the hottest clothes, an even hotter boyfriend (the Tate Fairweather), and a take-no-prisoners attitude, she's Kori's opposite in every way. Their summer heats up when Tate's uncle asks the girls to participate in an EDS study his pharmaceutical company is running. During treatment, Kori develops some strange powers she never had before...and she might not be the only one. Can Kori persuade her sister to trust her before it's too late? And when a carload of teens with their own powers come looking for her to warn her about a creepy stalker, she'll learn that trust is a two-way street!

[takaraphoenix]

Stiles Summer Stories 2024!

So I have decided to dedicated my @writersmonth to Stiles. But there is so much I want to write about him and the Hale Pack that it's hard to put it in order and decide, so I am open to suggestions!

Pick a prompt duo from the list that's not crossed out yet and make me a Stiles-centric suggestion:

romantically only: Sterek, Steter, or both in a "Stiles has two hands" sense

platonically, especially anything Hale Pack (Derek, Peter, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Cora, Jackson, I'm throwing Lydia and Danny in there too, and depending on canon divergence also Allison and Scott. Also the sheriff), either the whole pack or any individual dynamic

general Stiles concepts like Pack Mom Stiles, human Alpha Stiles, Spark Stiles, post-nogitsune angst, whatever else you can think of

a combination of any of these

destiny | creek; "Camping & Bonding, Part 1", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

running | penthouse; "Small But Good", Steter post s2 finale h/c

laughter | car; "Camping & Bonding, Part 2", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

fairy | stage; "A Midsummer Night's Mischief"; Sterek fluff

choice | movie set; "Movie Madness"; Sterek jealous!Derek

flame | forest; "Camping & Bonding, Part 3", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

passion | tattoo parlor; "London Calling", post-series Sterek

dawn | castle; "Castle of Glass"; Sterek post pool scene

clock | museum; "Tutoring and Teasing"; Steter single-dad Peter + Malia's tutor Stiles

season | school; "Camping & Bonding, Part 4", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

snow | flower shop; "The Tate Sisters", Stetopher with married Petopher meeting Stiles through their daughters

birds | library; "The Birds and the Wolves", Steter

dark | bakery; "What Kept Me Going", post-Nogitsune h/c Stetopher

lonely | college; "Missing Pack", Stiles-Jackson-Danny

glow | lake; "Camping & Bonding, Part 5", Sterek Hale Pack fluff

ache | ship; "What Lydia Wants (She Gets)", Jackstydia on a cruise

red | kitchen; "My Kitchen, My Rules", Sterek human Alpha Stiles

bell | attic; "Warning Bells", Steter BDSM smut

chess | park; "How Chris and Peter Got a Kitten", Stetopher + Stiles cursed into a kitten

stone | train; "What Lydia Wants (Lydia Gets) II", Jackstydia BDSM smut sequel

wish | hospital; "A Brighter Future", Steter hurt/comfort + Sterica bromance

beast | motel; "Away Game", Stackson 'there is only one bed' during an away lacrosse game

lost | basement; "What Happens in the Basement", Sterek kidnapping

petal | theater; "Twelve Truths (and a Lie)", Stetopher + Stiles being forced by the Seelie Queen to bare twelve truths in front of the pack

faith | bar; "A Selfish Gift", Sterek + a salmon ladder

fur | farm; "Home at the Hale Farm", Stetopher post-Nogitsune h/c

lightning | office; "Guns and Gags", Stetopher + gun shop owner Chris/sex shop owner Peter

sketch | plane; "Sugar for the Secretary", Stetopher sugar daddies Petopher post-series

sense | bus; "Colds and Comfort", Stetopher sick!Stiles getting taken care of

mischief | mountain; "Shot Through the Heart", Stetopher + Chris being really into Stiles being a good shot

double | beach; "Murder Triad", Nogitsune/Steter

[spleenthecat]

guys im so sorry for posting angst on fiddleford friday but like... i have to talk about this can you imagine how stressful weirdmageddon was for him?? like dude. it would be like 15x as bad as during the construction of the portal. the entire town was counting on him to build this robot. not only does that include ford but probably most importantly tate. if he failed then his best friend and his kid would be trapped in stone forever, or destroyed, or whatever bill was going to do to them. and he wouldnt even get the chance to say goodbye or make up for his previous mistakes. if he was quintuple checking his equations for the portal, then imagine how many times he checked his equations when building the shack-a-tron. its also a really horrible loop because working on the thing made him stressed out about messing up, but building is also kind of his coping mechanism, so he builds to cope while stressing himself out even more. dude. give this man a hug. he should get a hug.

[miharuki]

𝕽𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖘 𝕳𝖊𝖗𝖊/ 𝕾𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖈𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖈𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝕬𝖖𝖚𝖎

𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:hi, I'm miharuki or just uki, and I make fanfic requests, my English isn't the best but I do it in English and Portuguese (Eng/ptbr)

𝐏𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐀 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐀̃𝐎:oi, eu sou miharuki ou só uki, e eu faço pedidos de fanfic, meu inglês não dos melhores mas eu faço pedidos em inglês e em português (Eng/ptbr)

𝕬𝖓𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖘:

★Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler

★Tate no yūsha no nariagari/The rising of the Shield hero

★Tensei shitara slime datta Ken/that time i got reincarnated as a slime

★Jujutsu kaisen

★Dr. Stone

★Tondemo Skill de Isekai Hourou Meshi Online

★Blue Exorcism

★Kimetsu no Yaiba/Demon Slayer

★Tokyo revengers

★Mashle:Magic and Muscle

★Uramichi Oniisan/Life Lessons with the Uramichi Oniisan

★Saiki kusuo no psi-nan/The disastrous Life of Saiki kusuo

★Death note

★Hypnosis Mic

★Kaiju no 8

★Diabolik lovers

★Hunter x Hunter

★Marginal #4

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ────── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ──

𝕲𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘:

★The legend of zelda (linked universe)

★Genshin impact

★Undertale

★Omori

★Yandere aimulator

★Sally face

★Yanderes games

★Amor doce/My Candy Love

★ the kid ind the back

★ 14 days with you

★The Coffin of Andy and Leyley

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ────── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ──

𝕮𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖓𝖘:

★The owl house/a casa coruja

★Miraculos

★Hora de aventura/Adventure Time

★South park

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ────── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ──

𝕺𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒/𝕺𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖘 𝕱𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒:

★Creepypasta

★Happypasta

★Vocaloid

★Yanderes

★Crush boyfriend

𝕽𝖚𝖑𝖊/𝕽𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖘

•I don't do characters x characters/eu não faço personagens x personagens

•I don't make smut content about underage characters /eu não faço smut de personagens menores de idade

•I don't do any underage characters, the maximum will be between (Teen only (12+)/eu não faço personagens menores,o máximo será adolescente (12+)

•I only place orders in private /faço pedidos somente no privado

•Yandere characters are different from ocs yanderes or boy/girl yanderes/personagens yanderes são diferentes dos yanderes ocs ou yanderes garoto/garota

•I don't do fem x fem (I don't have much experience with that)

•Orders may take time due to me studying/os pedidos podem demorar por eu estar estudando

•I WILL NOT make fanfiction about characters from series or films/actors or etc., I don't do that and I will refuse to do any kind /•NÃO farei fanfics sobre personagens de séries ou filmes/atores ou etc., não faço isso e me recusarei a fazer qualquer tipo

[memecucker]

In the clip viewed by Rolling Stone, Ross appears to be reading direct messages from Tate. “Andrew had hit me up. He said, ‘Hey, I’m gonna be leaving Romania soon and probably never coming back…”