#did you cut out enough of her organs yet??????

[goldfades]

friday night lights | JOE BURROW⁹ [010]

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | requested -> how joe and reader met? we know they met in high school, sophomore year but id (and i’m sure everyone else😅) would love a little flashback chapter!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | descriptions of partying, underage drinking, kinda slowburn? shy girl x football player trope, maisie being protective, nothing else!

The first time you met Joe Burrow, he wasn’t Joe Burrow, not yet. He was just a tall, lanky sophomore quarterback with an arm everyone talked about and a quietness that made him feel like a walking question mark. Athens High was small enough that everyone knew everyone—names, faces, family stories that spread like wildfire—but Joe? He wasn’t loud enough to grab the attention of half the school, not until football season started.

You were sitting on the bleachers during a pep rally, Maisie beside you, her commentary on everything from the band’s uneven tempo to the cheerleaders’ synchronized high kicks keeping you thoroughly entertained. The players were being introduced one by one, each jogging onto the gym floor to varying levels of applause. When they called Joe’s name, the cheer was louder, a steady roar that vibrated through the walls, and you found yourself craning to see what the fuss was about.

There he was. Light blond hair a little messy, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, hands tucked into the pockets of his letterman jacket. He didn’t wave or puff out his chest like the others; he just gave the crowd a small nod before retreating to the back of the lineup. Something about him—his quiet confidence, maybe—caught your attention, and you didn’t quite know why.

“You’re staring,” Maisie muttered, not looking up from the doodle she was adding to the corner of her math notebook.

“I’m not,” you whispered back, even as your gaze lingered a second too long.

That was the beginning.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, at a biology lab you’d been forced to pair up in, that he really spoke to you. Joe wasn’t your usual seatmate, but he slid into the stool beside you with a polite nod, his long legs awkwardly folding beneath the too-short lab table. The two of you were tasked with dissecting something unreasonably gross—a frog, maybe? You couldn’t remember now. What you did remember was Joe, his steady hands cutting through the assignment with precision, and the way he chuckled softly when you accidentally dropped a scalpel.

“You’re not a fan of this, huh?” he asked, his voice low but teasing.

You wrinkled your nose. “Not all of us dream of gutting things for a living.”

“I’m not gutting anything for a living.” He smirked, a tiny flash of mischief in his otherwise calm demeanor. “I throw footballs.”

It wasn’t the smoothest line, but it was enough to make you laugh, and that laugh seemed to encourage him.

From then on, he started showing up more. A quick wave in the hallway, a quiet “Hey” as he passed you in class, and the occasional comment during shared group projects. It was nothing monumental, just small moments that began to stack, like bricks in a wall you couldn’t stop building.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Maisie warned one afternoon as the two of you sat on the steps outside the school. “Guys like him don’t date girls like us. They go for easy cheerleaders, not girls who can barely talk during a book report.”

“I can talk during a book report,” you shot back, even though it wasn’t entirely true.

Maisie raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “I’m just saying, keep it realistic. He’s an athlete. You’re… you.”

You knew Maisie didn't mean to be discouraging, she was always the realistic one between the two of you. You watched rom-com's, and was a hopeless romantic—and Maisie, well... she wasn't the romantic type. She meant well, she just didn't want to see her best friend get her heart shattered by a stupid (her words, not yours) blonde quarterback.

But despite her skepticism, you couldn’t stop yourself. Each time Joe said your name or offered a lopsided grin in passing, the crush rooted itself deeper. It was innocent, for now, a quiet hope you kept tucked away like a secret note in your locker.

And then one day, Joe did something that changed everything. Something so small, so simple, that it left you reeling. He stopped you in the hallway between classes, his book bag slung over one shoulder, his blue eyes holding yours for just a beat too long.

“You going to the game Friday?” he asked.

You blinked, startled. “Uh… maybe?”

“You should.” He shrugged, shifting on his feet. “It’s gonna be a good one.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing there, your heart thudding in your chest like a drumline warming up before a halftime show.

The walk to Maisie’s car after school was peppered with her usual commentary about the injustices of teenage life. Something about how the cafeteria's pizza was an actual health violation, how Mr. Harper’s pop quizzes were a form of psychological torture, and how group projects should be banned by law.

You let her vent, only half-listening, your mind replaying Joe’s voice: “You should.” It wasn’t like he’d asked you on a date or anything, but it was the first time he’d gone out of his way to talk to you outside of class. The possibility of seeing him again on Friday made your chest buzz, but Maisie? Convincing her was another story entirely.

“So,” you began casually as you slid into the passenger seat, trying to find the right approach. “Are you going to the game Friday?”

Maisie turned the key in the ignition, her ancient Honda sputtering to life with a groan. She shot you a sidelong glance. “Why? Are you going?”

“Maybe,” you said, a little too quickly.

Her eyebrows rose as she backed out of the parking spot. “What’s this about? You hate football. You called it ‘organized concussion practice’ last month.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “I don’t hate it. And it’s not like I’m going for the game. I just thought it might be fun, you know? Something different.”

Maisie narrowed her eyes, the car bouncing slightly as it hit a pothole. “Different like sitting in the freezing cold with half the school, pretending to care about a sport we don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to pretend to care.” You grinned, nudging her arm. “You can sit there and make fun of people like you always do. It’ll be fun. Besides, you never know, you might actually enjoy it.”

She snorted. “The only thing I’d enjoy is the halftime show. And even that’s debatable.”

“Come on,” you said, dragging out the words in a way you knew would get under her skin. “We haven’t gone to a single game this year. Don’t you think it’s time to show a little school spirit?”

“I have plenty of spirit,” Maisie deadpanned. “It’s just not for sports. My spirit is reserved for things that matter, like protests and pizza Fridays.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the seat. “Maisie, please. Just this once?”

She glanced at you, her expression softening ever so slightly. Maisie might’ve been a certified cynic, but she wasn’t immune to the rare moments when you genuinely wanted something.

“Why are you so set on this?” she asked finally, her tone skeptical but not dismissive.

You hesitated, the truth bubbling at the edge of your lips. “I don’t know. It just… feels like something I should do.”

Her eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the road. She let out a dramatic sigh, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Fine. I’ll go. But if anyone spills nacho cheese on me or tries to talk to me about touchdowns, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.” You grinned, relief flooding through you.

Maisie muttered something under her breath about friendship being a burden, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. You knew she’d show up in her usual no-nonsense way, probably armed with a thermos of hot cocoa and a thousand sarcastic comments, but she’d be there.

And as the two of you drove home, her complaining fading into the background, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, Friday night would be more than you’d ever expected.

┈┈┈

The bleachers were packed, the air alive with the buzz of small-town Friday night energy. The faint smell of concession stand hot dogs wafted through the air, mingling with the sharp chill of early autumn. You tugged your jacket tighter around you, glancing at Maisie, who sat next to you with an impressive scowl already forming on her face.

“See?” she said, motioning to the field where the players were warming up. “Organized concussion practice. Case in point.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “You promised you’d keep the snark to a minimum.”

Maisie held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave. But if someone tries to start a chant near me, all bets are off.”

The two of you settled in with a group from your biology class—a group you hadn’t hung out with outside of school before but were surprisingly easy to be around. They handed out popcorn, passed around a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and made corny jokes that Maisie laughed at more than she’d ever admit. Even you found yourself relaxing, letting the game wash over you as something fun instead of a chore.

“Okay, what’s happening now?” Maisie leaned over to whisper as the players jogged off the field and the marching band took their place.

“Halftime,” you explained. “This is the part you said you might like.”

She raised an eyebrow, watching as the band launched into a spirited rendition of some pop song from two summers ago. “Well,” she said slowly, “it’s not bad. Kind of catchy.”

You grinned, nudging her. “See? Told you this wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she warned, but there was no venom in her tone.

By the fourth quarter, even Maisie seemed invested, clapping lightly when your school scored and muttering curses when the refs made questionable calls. You didn’t know what surprised you more—that Maisie was actually having fun or that you were, too.

But as the clock ticked down to the final minutes, you couldn’t help but scan the sidelines, searching for the number nine jersey. Joe had been on fire all night, his throws sharp and precise, his presence commanding even from this far up in the stands.

When the buzzer sounded, signaling your school’s victory, the bleachers erupted in cheers. Maisie rolled her eyes at the whooping and hollering but clapped politely.

“Alright,” she said, standing and stretching. “You got your football experience. Can we go now?”

“Just a sec,” you said, your gaze locked on the field.

You spotted Joe near the fifty-yard line, surrounded by teammates and fans congratulating him. But it wasn’t the crowd that caught your attention—it was her.

A girl with shiny brown hair and a bright smile leaned in close to Joe, saying something you couldn’t hear from this distance. She had that effortless kind of prettiness that made you feel frumpy in comparison, and the familiarity with which she touched his arm sent a pang through your chest.

Then he hugged her.

It wasn’t a quick, congratulatory pat on the back, either. It was one of those hugs that lingered, the kind that looked like it belonged in a rom-com montage.

Your stomach dropped.

“Hey,” Maisie said, nudging you. “You good?”

You forced yourself to nod, blinking rapidly against the sting in your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Maisie frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. As the two of you made your way down the bleachers, you couldn’t help but glance back one last time. Joe was still standing there, his arm slung casually around the girl’s shoulders, his grin easy and warm.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, you told yourself. He wasn’t yours. Not really.

But as Maisie led you out of the stadium, chattering about the game, you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest—the kind of ache that only comes when you realize you care about someone more than they care about you.

The girls from your biology class caught up with you just as you and Maisie were about to leave the parking lot. They were breathless and giggling, their faces flushed from the cool night air and the excitement of the game.

“Hey!” one of them called, waving you down. “There’s a party at Megan’s house—like, right now. You guys should totally come!”

Maisie raised an eyebrow, already halfway in the car. “A party? At Megan’s? Isn’t she the one who turned the chem lab into a glitter bomb last year?”

“That was iconic,” one of the girls said with a laugh. “Come on, it’ll be fun! You can’t just go home after a game like that.”

You hesitated. Parties weren’t really your thing, and you could already see Maisie gearing up for a sarcastic excuse to say no. But something in you—the part still stinging from seeing Joe hug that girl—felt like rebelling. Like shaking off the evening’s disappointment and pretending, for a little while, that you weren’t someone who usually played it safe.

“Why the hell not?” you said, surprising even yourself.

Maisie froze, her hand on the car door. “Excuse me, what?”

“Come on,” you said, grabbing her arm. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun!”

Maisie groaned but let you pull her along. “You owe me for this.”

Megan’s house was already packed by the time you arrived, music thumping loud enough to shake the front porch. The air was thick with the smell of beer and cheap perfume, and the living room was crowded with people laughing, dancing, and shouting over each other.

It started with a drink—just one, you told yourself, to loosen up. But one turned into two, and before you knew it, the edges of the world felt softer, the music louder, and your inhibitions practically nonexistent.

You danced in the middle of the living room, your arms thrown around the girls from your biology class, laughing so hard your sides ached. Maisie watched from the couch, shaking her head but smiling faintly at your antics.

The party had only grown wilder as the night went on. The living room was now packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the music loud enough to make the floor vibrate under your feet. You were too buzzed to care about the sweaty press of bodies or the occasional elbow that jabbed you in the side.

Maisie was still parked in her corner, sipping from a plastic cup and looking suspiciously at anyone who came too close. Your biology classmates were dancing near the kitchen, laughing so loudly you could hear them over the music.

And then you saw him.

Joe stood by the far wall with a cluster of his teammates, their broad shoulders and easy grins making them look like they owned the room. He was in the middle of laughing at something, his head tilted back and eyes crinkled in that stupidly charming way. You should’ve looked away, walked the other direction, anything.

But you didn’t.

You blinked hard, trying to ignore the ache in your chest, and did the only thing that made sense in the moment—you grabbed another shot from a passing tray and threw it back. The burn of the alcohol made you wince, but it dulled the edges of your hurt just enough to push you back into the safety of your friends.

Hours later, the party had become a blur. Your legs felt like jelly, the walls swayed slightly every time you moved, and even Maisie’s sharp voice sounded muffled through the haze.

“I think I need the bathroom,” you slurred to no one in particular, pushing off the couch and wobbling on unsteady feet.

“You need to sit down,” Maisie snapped, grabbing your arm.

“I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, waving her off. “Just… the bathroom.”

You stumbled into the hallway, squinting at the doors as if one of them might magically open and guide you inside. Instead, you bumped into something solid—someone, actually.

“Oh, crap, sorry—”

It was Joe.

His hands caught your arms gently to steady you, his expression shifting from surprise to concern the moment he got a good look at you. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

You yanked your arm away, wobbling but determined to keep your balance. “I’m fine,” you muttered, glaring up at him.

Joe frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. “You don’t look fine. What’s going on?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business,” you snapped, stumbling past him.

But instead of letting you go, he followed, his concern overriding any annoyance he might have felt at your tone. “You’re drunk,” he said plainly, his voice quieter now. “Where are you trying to go?”

You paused, the fog in your brain making it hard to come up with a snappy reply. “Bathroom,” you finally said, crossing your arms.

Joe nodded, stepping ahead of you. “Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

You wanted to argue, to push him away and tell him you didn’t need his help, but your legs were too wobbly, and the spinning hallway wasn’t exactly making things easier.

He walked a few paces ahead, glancing back every so often to make sure you were following. When you stumbled again, he sighed and offered his arm.

“Just take it,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re gonna fall on your face if you don’t.”

Grudgingly, you grabbed his arm, leaning into his steady warmth as he led you toward the bathroom door.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

Joe paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “Because I care about you, even when you’re mad at me for no reason,” he said softly.

You didn’t have a reply for that. Instead, you pushed the door open and stumbled inside, closing it behind you before he could say anything else.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself breathe.

The bathroom was a blur of fluorescent light and tiled walls, and you were grateful for the brief reprieve from the chaotic party outside. Splashing cold water on your face helped a little, but the dizziness still lingered, and standing upright felt like a Herculean effort.

You took a deep breath, steadied yourself, and opened the door, stepping out with as much dignity as you could muster—which, unfortunately, wasn’t much. Your foot caught the edge of the rug, and before you could even process what was happening, gravity had its way.

But you didn’t hit the ground.

Joe caught you, his hands firm on your arms as he steadied you. “Whoa, easy,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I told you you’d fall if you weren’t careful.”

You glared up at him, more out of stubbornness than actual anger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” He didn’t let go right away, his eyes scanning your face like he was checking for signs of serious damage. “Come on, you need to drink some water.”

“I don’t need anything,” you shot back, trying to pull away.

Joe’s grip loosened, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he reached for a nearby table and grabbed a half-full bottle of water, holding it out to you. “Just drink it. Please.”

You crossed your arms, teetering slightly on your feet. “I said I’m fine.”

“Y/N.” His tone was firmer now, his brow furrowing in that way that made him look unfairly mature for a high schooler. “You’re going to feel worse if you don’t drink this.”

You stared at the bottle like it was some kind of enemy, but the dizziness was getting worse, and deep down, you knew he was right. With a heavy sigh, you snatched it from his hand.

“Fine,” you muttered, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip.

“More than that,” Joe said, crossing his arms as he watched you.

You gave him an exaggerated eye roll but obliged, taking a few bigger gulps. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied dryly, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Before you could respond with another sarcastic remark, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“There you are!” Maisie appeared, her expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though the wobble in your step betrayed you as you tried to stand straighter.

Maisie’s eyes narrowed as she glanced between you and Joe. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Joe nodded, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze on you. “Good. She needs to get home.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know, Burrow,” Maisie snapped, looping her arm around yours to steady you.

Joe ignored her jab, his focus still on you. “Get home safe, okay?”

You hesitated, the mix of hurt and exhaustion making your chest tighten. But something in his tone softened the edges of your frustration.

“Thanks,” you murmured quietly, avoiding his eyes.

Maisie tugged you toward the door, muttering something under her breath about quarterbacks and their egos. And as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air, you couldn’t help but glance back once, catching Joe’s silhouette in the doorway before Maisie pulled you forward, back into the safety of the night.

The weekend had come and gone, leaving behind a swirl of emotions and half-remembered moments that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Every time you thought about the party—about Joe, specifically—you felt a warm flush crawl up your neck, a mixture of embarrassment and residual irritation.

By Monday morning, you were determined to put it behind you. High school wasn’t exactly forgiving, and you didn’t need rumors or awkwardness to complicate things further. But as you moved through the crowded hallways, your resolve was tested.

“Hey, Y/N.”

That voice was unmistakable, and it froze you in your tracks. You turned to see Joe, casually leaning against a locker like he hadn’t caused your entire weekend to spiral into emotional chaos.

“What do you want?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

Joe blinked, surprised by the sharpness in your tone, but he quickly recovered, his calm demeanor intact. “Nothing. Just saying hi. How was your weekend?”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Yeah… why wouldn’t I be?”

It was the last straw. The memory of him laughing with that girl at the game—hugging her—flashed in your mind, and before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out.

“Why don’t you ask your girl instead?” Your voice was biting, louder than you intended, and a couple of students walking by glanced over curiously.

Joe straightened, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl from the game,” you snapped. “You were all over her. Maybe you should talk to her instead of bothering me.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, the hallway noise fading into the background. Then, to your utter disbelief, his lips curved into a slight smirk.

“That?” he said, his tone dripping with casual dismissal. “That wasn’t anything. My teammates set it up, said she wanted to meet me. It was awkward as hell.”

You blinked, thrown off balance. “Oh.”

His smirk deepened, and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “You got all worked up over that, huh?”

“I wasn’t—” you started, but the words died on your tongue. You couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and your silence only seemed to amuse him more.

Joe leaned in just a fraction, his voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of cute when you’re jealous, you know that?”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you muttered, your face heating up.

“Sure you weren’t.”

Before you could respond, the bell rang, signaling the start of class. Joe didn’t wait for you to gather your dignity; he just fell into step beside you as if nothing had happened, launching into some story about his weekend. You were too flustered to do anything but follow along, grateful he wasn’t pressing the issue further.

By the time you slid into your seat in class, the embarrassment had settled into a dull thrum, manageable but still present. Unfortunately for you, Joe wasn’t done.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over slightly so only you could hear. “Do you have a crush on me or something?”

The question was delivered so casually, with that same damn smirk, that it took a second to register. Your head snapped toward him, your eyes wide. “What? No!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” you hissed, your face feeling hotter by the second.

Joe chuckled, leaning back in his chair with an air of victory. “Whatever you say.”

You glared at him, but he just winked, turning his attention to the teacher as if he hadn’t just completely unraveled you.

For the rest of the class, you couldn’t focus on a single thing except the stupid, smug boy sitting next to you. And, much to your chagrin, the smallest part of you couldn’t help but feel a little flattered.

After that Monday, things shifted. Slowly, but surely, you and Joe began spending more time together. It started with small things—casual conversations during passing periods, shared laughs in class, and stolen moments after school. Joe had this way of sneaking past your walls, of making you laugh when you wanted to roll your eyes. And you couldn’t deny how easy it was to be around him, even when Maisie shot you knowing looks, muttering, "Don’t get your hopes up.”

By the end of the football season, it felt natural to meet him after games, even if it was just to say a quick hello or give him a high-five. But one game—toward the end of the season—was different. You could tell something was on his mind, the way he fidgeted and avoided eye contact as you approached him on the field, your jacket pulled tight against the November chill.

“Hey,” he said, his voice unusually soft.

“Hey, good game,” you replied, smiling up at him.

“Thanks.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he did when he was nervous. “Uh… I wanted to ask you something.”

Your heart did a little flip. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours. “Would you… uh, do you want to be my girlfriend?”

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before a wide smile spread across your face. “Yes.”

Joe’s face lit up like you’d just handed him a championship trophy. Without warning, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you off the ground, spinning you in a circle as you laughed, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. When he set you down, he was grinning like an idiot.

“Really?” he asked, still holding onto you.

“Really,” you said, laughing at his excitement.

From that moment on, you were inseparable.

High school with Joe was a whirlwind of late-night drives, studying together at the library (where he mostly distracted you), and cheering him on from the stands. He became your biggest supporter, whether it was at your own events or just encouraging you through tough classes.

Maisie, of course, remained skeptical of Joe for a while, but even she had to admit he wasn’t the worst when he went out of his way to make sure you were happy.

High school was full of memories like that—Joe getting overly competitive during group projects, Maisie rolling her eyes at his antics, and the three of you becoming an unlikely trio. But the sweetest moments were the quiet ones: Joe waiting by your locker with his easy smile, the two of you walking hand-in-hand through the halls, and the way he always made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.

By the time graduation rolled around, you couldn’t imagine your life without him. And from the way he looked at you as you crossed the stage, you knew he felt the same.

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[wraithsoutlaws]

hunting you for sport

[catpriciousmarjara]

DP X DC: Dani Does Things and Leaves, Explains Nothing

Heavily inspired by this dp x dc prompt and the comments and reblogs under it:

Please go check it out and @stealingyourbones entire page. They have some great dp x dc content and meta.

Local Ghost Princess Decides to Help Out Fellow Clone, Leaves Chaos Behind, Heroes Left Concerned and Very Confused, More at 10.

Now Dani knew that this world had superheroes. She knew they had an organization of sorts that had a hate-hate relationship with various government entities and a love-hate relationship with the public, depending on who you asked. However she had no intention of being involved with them. She was on vacation after all. Besides this world was just a stopover anyway. Why bother when she wasn't here on official business? But it seemed that while she didn't want anything to do with the heroes, they, however inadvertently, wanted something to do with her. How else will you explain one of the worst cloning results she had ever seen crash into a tree right in front of her while she was enjoying a nice cup of litchi boba tea in the park?

The botched clone job slid down the branches and hit the ground with a thud. She raised an eyebrow at the the rampant malevolent magical lines running through the body exacerbating the overall instability of the clone's anatomy. Clearly this individual had run into an irate mage who cast some sort of destabilizing curse and shot them right out of the sky. Dani was thankful this was an isolated section of the park and that she had put a rudimentary avoidance ward over the area. Otherwise, a superhero crashing into a tree would've caused quite the ruckus and interrupted her boba time.

She took a sip of her boba and crouched down to examine the conked out hero. This one was the one they called Superboy wasn't he? She grimaced at the state of his engineering. Whoever did his cloning did not know what they were dealing with. Her own cloning went better and she was ectoplasmic goop half the time. And Vlad was dealing with halfa DNA! Probably the most complicated genetic material in existence. Superboy over here was constructed from actual tangible genetic sources and yet...ugh.

Honestly speaking beings of this plane probably wouldn't have noticed anything wrong. A level down in power scale compared to the individual who acted as genetic donor, most likely that Superman guy, and random instances of destabilization would most likely be the extend of their knowledge regarding their faulty cloning. And when those instances of instability gradually ironed themselves out they probably patted themselves on the back and thought all was well. She should cut them some slack.

Dani hummed as she chewed on her boba pearls. Unfortunately she wasn't known to be the most merciful when it came to ensuring the well-being of clones.

Suckers probably didn't pick up the fact they unleashed a possible catastrophe upon their world. Superboy was obviously fashioned from Kryptonian DNA. A species known for becoming near godlike upon absorbing solar energy from a yellow sun. That means that their bodies have mechanisms at play beyond simple biology. Specifically energy pathways and an energy processing core. Superboy wasn't a level down in power from Superman because of some biological imperfection, he was weaker because of flawed energy absorption and storage. And that meant that his energy core was unbalanced, and once it reached a particular threshold...well its gonna be a spectacular light show this side of the galaxy that's for sure. Of course it was just a possibility. There was no guarantee he would reach that threshold in his lifetime. Unless he ran into a white mage who was vicious enough to cast a juiced up imbalance curse that is. And what do you know! Turns out you can organically be that unlucky!

She put down her cup and ran a simple diagnostics. Sure enough the magic had intensified the issue. This man needed help, the kind of help that wasn't usually available in this part of the omniverse. But she just so happened to pass by and just so happened to have expertise in this field so today was somehow simultaneously Superboy's lucky and unlucky day. He really was going through it.

As to why she would interfere that's easy. She was the Guardian of Cloned Beings after all. She can't have a fellow clone suffer could she? And plus, what were the chances that he would end up like this right in front of one of the only beings that would know how to fix the issue? Dani grinned in glee. Truly the laws of causality worked in intriguing ways.

She stood up and let her talons manifest, plucking the strings of SuperboyConnerKon-el's make and striking them one by one in the tune of an old Krytonian melody. Shame what happened to them really, but all things had their fate. It truly was great to see some of them survive and make a home elsewhere. Dani wished them the best.

As she worked, untangling knots, and straightening out blockages, the hero finally began to stir. His eyes opened and they were understandably unfocused. Disoriented and confused, he looked kinda like a bamboozled Cujo and Dani felt her lips twitch up in a toothy smile. For some reason that seemed to startle him. She mentally frowned. Did he expect her not to smile at him? That would've been rude of her. Dani might be a gremlin but she was never impolite.

"I'm just about done with the curse", she told him. "Leaching out the corrosive magic was easy but I need to repair your energy coils and that's tricky. Don't worry though. Everything's on the house. Always did have a soft spot for the House of El ever since my aunt married into it for a short while."

Dani pulled a particularly stubborn power node open. "I would like your permission before doing that through. Body autonomy, informed decisions and and all! So yes or no? You'd detonate like a bomb if I didn't though."

The young hero's eyes widened. He still didn't seem to know what was going on so she hit him with a short term clarity spell. And a small information spell to cover her bases. That got him to gather his wits enough and she watched as he processed the influx of information. His complexion was ashen when he got through the bundle and he finally managed a shaky nod. Good enough.

Dani smiled at the Kryptonian. "Great! Now this would take like twenty minutes give or take five. You can sleep now." She promptly knocked him out cold and cancelled the spells so as to not overload his brain.

And just as she predicted, twenty minutes later, she plucked the last string with a flick of her wrist and surveyed her handiwork. Exemplary if she said so herself. One of her best work! Cheerfully she shot an awakening spell at Kon-el and crouched down again, patting his head.

"You might need to be careful for a few days while your body adjusts to its new energy capacity and conductivity. Your overall system has been optimized as well so be careful", she told the groggy young man.

She paused. "And don't worry. I didn't access your mind. This was all strictly physical repair aimed at preventing you from exploding like a supernova and taking the planet with you."

And once again that part made his eyes widen. Good. He truly understood the urgency. Or that could just be him being loopy after solar energy overload. It was a bright, sunny day after all.

She stood up, creating a portal to the next world on her itinerary. She looked back at the most likely high as a kite Kryptonian. "You kinda owe me for all that extra work hero! I might just come to collect one of these days!", she joked as the portal swallowed her body and she was lost to the spaces between spaces.

She'd already told him it was all on the house so Dani didn't think that anyone would take that last part seriously. However she forgot the fact that one Conner Kent was in her own words 'high as a kite' and hence might miss some crucial details.

She also forgot to leave behind an explanation packet.

And thus she was utterly unaware of the chaos she left in her wake, happily traveling through the multiverse.

..............................................................................................................................

"So you're telling me that not only did someone find me when I was out cold and get rid of the spell, but they also rearranged my guts and gave me an upgrade?"

"...Yeah."

"What the fuck?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Conner, do you remember anything? Anything at all? Whatever they did required some serious magical power. We don't know why they did it or how. For all we know they could've done something dangerous that we can't detect yet."

"Litchi boba tea".

"Kon what the hell?"

..............................................................................................................................

"...Its in bits and pieces...but I'm pretty sure there was a woman?...white hair, green eyes...something something on the house...something about an aunt and the House of El?...and there was this strange white symbol on her chest and this really soft music was playing that went something like this...(confused humming noises)...and something about me owing her?"

"Kara? Why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Let me get this straight, Superboy was healed by the Kryptonian primordial goddess of portals, messengers, travelers and other such domains, and not only did she save him but also gave him a tune up? And explicitly said that he owes her now? And this powerful divine being, who is also supposed to be the daughter of Krypton's Death God according to legends mind you, is most likely still on earth with motives unknown? Plus your entire House is descended from her family?"

"...Yeah that about sums it up."

"..."

..............................................................................................................................

"Oh man why did this happen just when I was going to go on vacation? Why couldn't the Death God or whatever reschedule?"

"Death gods notoriously don't reschedule, they're death gods. Also she's the daughter of a death god, not one herself. Most death gods are also famously fair. If not fair by our standards, fair by theirs".

"...That's good to know?"

"I confess I don't know about the fairness of children of death gods however".

"...great. Thanks anyway J'onn".

"You're welcome".

..............................................................................................................................

"You okay there man? Someone just rifled through your body and did who knows what...that's gotta be terrifying. You want to talk? We're all here for you, you know that right?"

" Thanks guys. And yeah it was freaky. But apparently I would've exploded and blown up the planet with me if she didn't do that so I guess I'm more grateful than scared."

"...Explode and blown up the what now?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Is there anything more we should know about Clark?"

"Legends say she has a brother and he's associated with great calamities?"

"...."

"Bruce? You alright?"

..............................................................................................................................

DPXDC refuses to be done with me. Leave me be accursed crossover! Leave me be!

(Btw Kon didn't make the connection because he was really out of it, and not because Clark and Kara didn't introduce him to Kryptonian culture.)

Thoughts and suggestions are welcome!

[winxanity-ii]

LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?

ship: fashion designer!gojo x fem!model!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (fem. receiving hand-job/fingering; overstimualtion; p in v ; creampie, wrap before you tap kiddos) word count: 6.6k (i'm gagged cuz i swear it wasn't that many words as i was typing 😭😭💀) A/N: Hey, bubbly-bear! just wanted to let you know i've moved from my my alt account to my main one, so i'm posting your request here…

Request:Hello! I had a lil gojo x reader idea but if you aren’t vibing with it please dont feel like you have to write it, or change it how you see fit! BUT I feel like Guess (ft. Billie E.) By Charlie xcx is so Gojo coded and I would love to see a fic based off of it if possible :)

p.s. mwaaaaahhhhh, thx you so much for being my first request, hope i did you justice 😩✨

This line from the song just stood out to me and i just had to write it:

I wanna try it, bite it, lick it, spit it Pull it to the side and get all up in it Kiss it, ride it, can I fit it?

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

"Turn your head like that—yes, perfect! Raise your chin a little more. Hold it!" The head photographer's voice cut through the organized chaos, every word precise and demanding. "Lighting! Can we adjust the back light, it's catching too much glare!" Another barked command as assistants scurried to fix the harsh spotlight casting an overexposed halo on you. "Makeup! Fix the lipstick; it's smudged." The pace had been relentless, as it always was on set. The camera had clicked, capturing each second of your endurance, but all you could focus on was the way your body ached.

Your feet, crammed into designer heels, screamed for relief, and your back burned from holding poses longer than it felt natural. You shifted your weight slightly, hoping no one noticed as the clicks of the camera went on like rapid fire.

"Alright, people, ten-minute break!" Finally, the head photographer clapped his hands, giving everyone the much-needed signal to stop.

A bell rang faintly in the background, and your shoulders slumped as you let out a groan.

You dropped the strained pose you had been holding for what felt like an eternity. You rolled your neck, feeling the tension snap and release in your joints.

The lights dimmed slightly as Kugisaki Nobara and Itadori Yuji sauntered over from the swimwear shoot, and you couldn't help but notice how their outfits screamed for attention—both in completely different ways.

Nobara was in a skimpy two-piece swimsuit, the top barely enough to cover her small bust, accentuating her slim waist. The delicate straps dug into her skin as she pulled at them, clearly annoyed, though the outfit highlighted her toned frame with every step she took.

The bottom piece clung to her hips, just barely covering enough to maintain some modesty, with high-cut sides that emphasized her long legs.

Despite the discomfort written across her face, Nobara moved with confidence, her slender figure not going unnoticed by the photographers still milling around.

She scrunched her nose. "This swimsuit is killing me," she muttered, fingers fidgeting with the ties around her waist. "Honestly, whose idea was it to make swimwear this uncomfortable?"

Yuji, in contrast, had an air of ease about him, rocking a pair of matching swim trunks that coordinated with Nobara's outfit—an intentional design that somehow made their shoot feel like a playful, couples-themed editorial.

His bare chest gleamed under the studio lights, each of his perfectly sculpted abs on display as though carved by a sculptor. His body was toned yet muscular, the kind of physique that didn’t need fancy clothes to stand out.

With sun-kissed skin and that infectious grin, Yuji could have made wearing anything look effortless.

"C'mon, Nobara, we don't have that much longer. Besides, you look great," Yuji said, his voice lighthearted as always.

Nobara rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, says the guy who could wear a trash bag and still smile like it's no big deal."

You let out a quiet chuckle as Yuji gave you a wink before being called away to review some of the shots. He shot you a playful smile over his shoulder as he walked off, his broad back flexing slightly under the pressure of moving around in the hot lights.

"Ugh, I swear, if Yuji keeps this up, I'm going to barf," Nobara muttered, shaking her head as she sidled up next to you, arms crossed over her chest.

The two of you made your way toward the refreshments table, where the scattered models and assistants buzzed like bees around a honey pot.

You could feel the material of your own outfit shift as you moved, the delicate knitted vest you wore slightly hugging your upper body. It was all part of the 'clean girl' aesthetic your stylist had chosen for you—a knitted cream-colored vest over a crisp white blouse, paired with a pleated schoolgirl skirt that swayed with every step.

It was simple, yet chic—the kind of outfit that made you feel both elegant and casual at the same time.

Yet, despite its light, airy look, the long hours standing in the heels were starting to make your feet scream. The snug fit of the vest only heightened the strain on your tired muscles, adding to the sense of exhaustion.

Nobara leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming as if she was about to share the juiciest tidbit of gossip she had yet. "So, did you hear about Kaori and that photographer? Apparently, they got caught in one of the back dressing rooms."

You raised a brow, barely hiding your amusement. "Kaori? The one who's been eyeing everyone since day one?."

"Oh, and you didn't hear this from me," Nobara continued, lowering her voice even more, "but Sumi told me that Yuji's been getting cozy with that new model, Megumi. You know, the quiet one? Well, they—"

You groaned, cutting her off. "Don't you ever get tired of knowing all the messy things?"

Nobara rolled her eyes dramatically, her lips curling into a smirk. "Never~" she said, before nodding toward the side entrance. Her voice took on a mischievous edge as she added, "Just like I know you never get tired of denying that your new stylist wants to fuck you."

You practically choked, your eyes widening as the words hit you. "W-What?" you sputtered, your face heating up. You let out a shaky laugh, then coughed, trying to gather yourself. "Stop saying that…"

Nobara's smirk only grew wider, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Oh, come on. The man practically undresses you with his eyes every time he's around. You can't tell me you don't notice the way he looks at you. The man's got designs on more than just your clothes, babe."

The heat in your cheeks deepened, and you averted your gaze, unsure how to respond.

It was hard to deny that your stylist's hands lingered just a bit too long during fittings, or that his gaze seemed a little too intense when he adjusted the fabrics on your body.

The clean, tailored looks he designed for you always felt more intimate than the pieces he created for other models. But surely, it was just part of his meticulous nature, right?

"I-It's just professional," you stammered, glancing down at the drink in your hand, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the growing knot in your stomach. "He's focused on the designs, Nobara. That's it."

Nobara snorted, giving you a knowing look. "Yeah, okay. If by ‘designs’ you mean figuring out how to get under your clothes, then sure. But I mean, I'm not complaining. If I were in your shoes, I'd fuck him."

Before you could respond, a shadow fell over you both, and you didn't need to look up to know who it was. You felt his presence before you saw him.

There, leaning casually against the side of the refreshment table, was Gojo Satoru, the man in question.

His signature smirk played on his lips as those piercing, ice-blue eyes of his scanned over you over his shades, and you could practically feel the heat of his gaze as it lingered on your skirt.

"Ladies," Satoru drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with charm. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything too scandalous?"

Nobara raised an eyebrow, giving you a teasing look before stepping back. "Oh no, nothing at all. We were just talking about your... designs," she said with a sly grin before stepping back. "Guess, I'll leave you two to it," she teased, nudging you as she walked away.

And just like that, you were left alone with him, heart racing as you met his eyes. His grin only widened, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

"So..." Satoru murmured, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in slightly. "Anything you'd like to confess?"

Your throat went dry, and you could only shake your head, praying that he hadn't overheard Nobara's playful remarks.

But judging by the gleam in his eyes, you had a feeling he probably had.

Your heart raced as you tried to compose yourself, swallowing back the nerves rising in your throat. You forced a smile, though it felt shaky at best. "I don't have anything to confess," you said, attempting to keep your voice light. "Is there anything you need help with?"

Satoru's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming as he straightened up, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers. "As a matter of fact," he drawled, "you could help me with something."

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Before you could ask what he meant, two of Satoru's assistants appeared at his side, as if on cue, each one wearing the kind of professionalism that didn't quite mask the urgency in their steps.

Without explanation, they began to gently but firmly usher you toward the changing quarters.

"W-Wait—what's going on?" you stammered, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru, who followed behind leisurely, his long strides giving him an air of complete control. "Why am I changing? I thought my shoot was almost over?"

"Oh, nothing much," Satoru sing-songed, his lips pulling into a mischievous grin. "I just had a chat with the higher-ups about pushing up the date for a few of our theme releases. Ya'know, rearranging which models get which looks."

Your confusion only deepened, and you blinked owlishly, trying to make sense of his words as you were guided toward a small room at the end of the hallway. "But—what does that have to do with—"

You trailed off as you stepped into the changing room and saw the mannequin sitting in the center. It was draped in an outfit that made your breath catch in your throat. A short leather miniskirt, sleek and shimmering, paired with a crop bodycon top that clung to the mannequin’s torso like a second skin

The entire ensemble was a bold combination of black and silver, with metallic bangles adorning the arms and a choker embedded with silver and black accents.

But what truly caught your attention was the soft sheen of baby blue that ran through the outfit—a shade that was eerily similar to the blue of Satoru's eyes.

You stared at the outfit for a moment, taking in the platform boots that completed the look, their towering heels intimidating yet alluring. The whole ensemble screamed nightlife, clubbing, a world of flashing lights and pulsing music.

It was striking, to say the least.

The assistants wasted no time, setting down various items on a nearby table while preparing the room for your quick change. But you stood frozen, blinking again as realization slowly dawned.

Satoru leaned against the doorframe, watching you with an almost lazy amusement.

"You're joking," you muttered, half in disbelief.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

You glanced back at the mannequin, the black and silver catching the light in a way that made the outfit seem even more eye-catching.

The baby blue accents shimmered faintly, bringing your thoughts right back to Satoru, his confident smirk and those eyes that seemed to follow your every move.

The outfit looked like it had been designed for you—and only you.

The assistants were already moving around, gesturing for you to start changing, but your mind was still reeling. "You... moved up the schedule?"

"Had a feeling this look was perfect for you," Satoru said casually, pushing off the doorframe and walking further into the room. "Wanted to see it on you sooner rather than later."

You bit your lip, nerves fluttering in your chest as you stared at the mannequin once more.

The way Satoru's gaze lingered on you sent a shiver down your spine.

It was as if this entire thing had been orchestrated just for his amusement, his design, his vision.

The assistants handed you the top, a fitted crop that shimmered in the light, the baby blue accents standing out against the metallic silver.

You reluctantly grabbed it from them as they moved off to remove the other pieces from the mannequin.

The room felt warmer all of a sudden, like the air had thickened, and you couldn’t shake the tension prickling at the back of your neck.

You lifted your gaze only to find Satoru already staring at you, his eyes locked on yours in a way that made your breath hitch. You cleared your throat, your voice shaky as you tried to break the spell. "Shouldn't you leave? I need to change."

Instead of moving, his lips curved into that trademark smirk that always made your stomach flip. "I'll have to stay and oversee things. You know, just to make sure nothing goes wrong. I can swoop in and fix anything if needed."

Your face burned, heat rushing to your cheeks as his words lingered in the air.

You weren't naïve. You'd worked with dozens of stylists before, all of them meticulous, always staying to make sure the fit was perfect. But none of them ever made your skin tingle the way Satoru did.

None of them ever watched you like they were imagining a thousand different things beneath the clothes. And none of them ever made you feel like you were burning alive from the inside out with just a look.

Heart pounding, you turned away, hoping to escape his gaze. You began undressing, slipping out of your current outfit.

Each movement felt amplified, like you could feel the air around you, charged with tension. You reached behind yourself, trying to steady your breathing as you fumbled with the zipper.

You could practically feel his eyes on you, mapping out your body, lingering on every curve as if he could see right through the fabric.

Your skin prickled, the sensation of his gaze making it hard to even think straight. Every breath felt labored, every second stretched too long.

As you reached behind to unclip your bralette, your fingers trembling slightly, you felt a pair of hands cover yours—large, warm, and deliberate.

The shock froze you in place, your breath catching in your throat.

"Allow me to help you with that…" His voice was low, velvety, and it sent a shiver down your spine as he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear.

The world narrowed to that moment, the heat of his presence overwhelming your senses. His fingers gently brushed against yours as he unhooked your bralette, the touch feather-light but filled with an unspoken promise.

You couldn't move, couldn't breathe, the room suddenly too small, too hot, with Satoru towering behind you, his hands so close, too close.

Every nerve in your body screamed in protest, but your heart betrayed you, hammering in your chest as a low pulse of desire curled through your veins.

His hands slid away as he stepped back, giving you room, but the mark of his touch lingered long after he'd let go.

It left you breathless, the space between you charged with something dangerous, something unspoken that hung heavy in the air.

Satoru's smirk never wavered, his eyes still locked onto yours in the reflection of the mirror. "There..." he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. "...All done."

You stuttered out a soft, breathless, "Thank you," barely able to get the words out before Satoru turned on his heel. His presence seemed to consume the room, but as he barked an order to one of his assistants, the pressure finally lifted.

"Adjust the lighting for the next setup! And I want the backdrop changed in five minutes!" Satoru's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. With one last glance over his shoulder at you, he strode away, leaving the room in a whirlwind of activity.

As soon as he was gone, it felt like you could finally breathe again. The air in the room cooled, the weight of his lingering presence fading, though not entirely.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you pulled the leather skirt up over your hips, the fabric snug against your skin. Satoru's assistant helped you with the bodycon top, tugging it into place, adjusting the hem and smoothing out the fabric as it clung to your curves.

The outfit was bold—almost too bold—but it fit like a second skin, highlighting every line of your body in the way only Satoru's designs could.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of camera clicks, flashing lights, and endless posing. Hours slipped by, the sun gradually lowering as the shoot continued, stretching longer than expected.

Nanami Kento, the photographer overseeing everything, was a perfectionist. His no-nonsense attitude left no room for error, and his eye for detail was unmatched.

He had insisted on waiting for the natural dusk light, arguing that it would complement the metallic sheen of your outfit and bring out the best in the overall composition.

You had worked with Kento before. His bluntness and unwavering pursuit of perfection made him a tough taskmaster, but he was one of the best in the industry.

Shoots paired with him always led to increased success. His images captured not just the clothes, but the mood, the essence of the model wearing them.

He and Satoru were at the top of their game right now, the dynamic power duo behind many successful campaigns, and you couldn't deny how they both pushed you further than anyone else ever had.

"…And… that's a wrap!" Kento's voice finally cut through the endless camera clicks, sharp and definitive. The faint ring of a bell followed, signaling the end of the shoot.

You exhaled a long, relieved breath, feeling the weight of the day lift off your shoulders.

The shoot had taken the remainder of the day, from midday to the last golden rays of dusk.

The combination of Satoru's exacting demands—making you pose in just the right way to show off the outfit—and Kento's insistence on perfect lighting meant you'd spent hours standing, twisting, and holding uncomfortable poses.

The tightness in your back and shoulders made it clear how long you had been at it. Your feet ached in the platform boots, and your muscles screamed for rest.

As the assistants began to pack away the equipment, the space slowly emptied out. The other models and staff had long since finished their own shoots and left, leaving only you and a skeleton crew behind.

The studio, once alive with chaos, was now eerily quiet, the low hum of final tasks being completed the only sound in the background.

You peeled yourself away from the set and made your way back to the dressing room, feeling the tightness of the leather skirt with every step.

The corridors were deserted now, with most of the team having wrapped up hours ago. The silence was almost jarring after the noise and flurry of the day.

You were exhausted, every muscle in your body protesting as you moved.

Finally, you reached your dressing room, the door creaking slightly as you pushed it open. The sight of the empty space—the vanity mirror now bare, clothes and shoes scattered—was a welcome relief.

The day had been long, but now you could unwind.

As you closed the door behind you, the quiet settled over you like a blanket, offering you the peace you desperately needed.

You stumbled into the room, barely keeping yourself upright as exhaustion weighed down your limbs. Practically dead on your feet, you began peeling off the clothes that had felt glued to your body for the last several hours.

The crop top slipped off first, falling to the floor with a soft thud.

You didn't care where it landed as you walked over to the couch in the center of the room, facing a large squared mirror. Each step felt like a weight being lifted from your sore muscles.

A cool draft brushed against your bare torso, making you shiver slightly as it passed over the sheen of sweat from the long day. Your fingers worked at the accessories next, unfastening the bangles around your wrists and dropping them carelessly.

The metal clanked against the floor, loud in the otherwise quiet space. You massaged your sore wrists, the cool air soothing the raw skin where the jewelry had pressed tight against you.

Your fingers then moved to the choker at your neck, tugging it free and letting it fall beside the rest, relieved to feel the soft touch of air against your throat.

Your mind began to drift, wandering somewhere far away from the chaos of the day. You thought about what you'd do when you got home.

Maybe snack on those yogurt bites you found at the grocery store earlier that week. Or maybe you can finally binge-watch that series you'd been meaning to catch up on.

The thought made you feel a little lighter.

Hell, you can even spend tomorrow doing absolutely nothing, you have nothing booked!

You were right in the middle of imagining your lazy day ahead, fingers working the clasp of your bralette, when the door creaked open behind you.

"Hey! I'm—" Your arms instinctively rose to catch your slipping bra before it could fall completely. Your heart raced, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

You looked up at the large mirror in front of you, eyes wide, only to lock gazes with Satoru, lounging casually against the doorway as if he had all the time in the world.

"—undressing," you finished, your voice dropping to a shaky whisper.

Satoru's lips curved into a faint smirk, his gaze shameless as it raked over your disheveled appearance. He tilted his head slightly, looking over his shades at the scattered accessories and top on the floor. "You know," he said, his voice light with a playful edge, "you really shouldn't leave my designs lying around like that. It's almost disrespectful."

For a moment, you thought he'd bend down to pick up the items—his creations, after all. But instead, he strolled right past them, making his way toward you.

Your breath hitched, your body freezing in place as his steps closed the distance between you.

Satoru's eyes, usually filled with playful mischief, were darker now, more intense as they followed the lines of your form.

He moved with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. And as he reached your side, standing just behind you, his presence loomed, filling the small space with the heat of his gaze.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the cool draft that had once been a relief now doing little to cool the flush rising across your skin.

Satoru stepped even closer, the heat radiating from him making the cool draft on your bare skin feel like a distant memory. His presence was overwhelming, filling the small room until all you could focus on was the warmth seeping from him and the way his gaze lingered on your reflection in the mirror.

"You know," he began, his voice soft, almost idle, "a lot of my best designs… they're not the ones I spend weeks perfecting." His words drifted through the air like a secret. He raised a hand, his fingertips brushing lightly against the faint indents the choker had left on your neck. The touch was barely there, yet it sent a shiver running down your spine. "No… the ones that really stand out," he continued, "are the ones that light up in my mind every time you fall into my vision."

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as he leaned in closer, his chest now just inches from your back.

The heat from his body wrapped around you like a second skin, and you watched him through the mirror, mesmerized by the intensity in his eyes as he spoke.

His hand, warm and deliberate, trailed slowly down your arm, his fingers brushing your skin with a tenderness that felt both comforting and dangerous.

"You're my muse," he said, almost as if speaking to himself, lost in the thought. "Every second I spend watching you, seeing you wear my designs, it's nothing but inspiration." His hand continued to drift lower, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before sliding back up, pulling you just slightly, coaxing your body into his.

Your breath grew heavier, chest rising and falling with each shallow inhale as you were drawn back against him, the solid warmth of his chest pressing into your bare back.

Your gaze flickered to the mirror, watching the scene unfold before you—his hand resting lightly on your waist, his eyes tracing the outline of your form as if committing every curve, every inch of you, to memory.

You could feel his breath, warm and steady, fanning against your ear, and it made your head spin, your thoughts running wild.

"Every touch," he murmured, his lips brushing just above your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Every glance…" His voice dropped, becoming something darker, heavier. "I can't stop thinking about how perfectly you fit into my designs. Like you were made for them—or maybe… they were made for you."

His hand trailed down your arm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, and you watched him in the mirror, breath hitching in your throat. Then, his lips ghosted over your ear again, the warmth of his breath making you tremble as he purred, "But you know… I keep thinking about something else…"

Your eyes widened slightly, and you felt him shift closer, his chest now flush against your back. The air between you crackled with tension, thick and almost suffocating, and yet you couldn't pull away—you didn't want to.

His hands pressed against your waist as he lowered his voice to something almost sinful. "…How perfectly you'll fit around me."

The words slipped from his lips, dripping with raw, undeniable desire, every word reverberating through your skin, hitting you like a tidal wave. Your breath stilled in your lungs, heat coursing through your body as your mind raced.

Wait a minute—what's… b-but—

His arms tightened around you as his mouth hovered near your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me you feel it too," he groaned, his voice low, growling with need as his fingers dug into your hips. "Tell me you want it… just as badly as I do."

Finally, your mouth seemed to catch up with your thoughts. "S-Satoru—"

Your voice once again falls away as Satoru's arms tightened around you, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. You felt his chest rise and fall rapidly, pressing into your back, his grip around your waist possessive, firm.

Then, in a voice so raw, so desperate it sent a shiver down your spine, he whispered, "Can I... have you?"

The words tumbled from his lips in a near whimper, laden with a hunger that bordered on pleading. His breath hitched, his forehead brushing against the back of your neck as if even he was losing control of the space between you.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your mind trying to process everything, yet failing to hold onto any coherent thought. His words, the way they sounded so needy, left you breathless.

You watched him in the mirror, his reflection almost ghostly in the low light of the room. His eyes were half-lidded, clouded with lust as they lingered on your form, and his lips, parted slightly, looked dangerously close to speaking something sinful, something that would push you over the edge.

The room was silent except for his panting breaths in your ear. You could feel his need in the way his arms wrapped around you, in the way his fingers pressed just a little too tightly into your skin.

"Say yes..." he breathed, his voice low and pleading, his lips now trailing down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of heat with every soft, almost teasing touch. "Please... just say yes."

Your breath caught in your throat, your body frozen in place as your mind blocking out everything else but Satoru.

The sound of him, the feel of him, the way his voice came out in that almost whimpering tone—it consumed you, leaving no room for anything else but him.

Finally, a breathless, barely audible "yes" escaped your lips, the word trembling from your mouth like a whimper, your resolve crumbling under the intensity of the moment.

It was as if a switch had been flipped in Satoru. His wicked smirk grew, a gleam in his eyes as he dipped his head lower, pressing a soft kiss to your neck before dragging his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up your skin.

The heat of his breath against your neck sent shivers racing down your spine, making your entire body tense.

"Good girl~" he purred softly into your ear, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

Before you could even catch your breath, he pulled you down onto the couch, his movements fluid and effortless. You landed in his lap, your back pressed firmly against his chest, legs bent and pulled up on either side of him, facing the mirror.

our thighs immediately began to burn from the stretch, the leather skirt you wore sliding up all the way, exposing the lace underwear beneath—the same light blue that matched the bralette you'd worn earlier.

The delicate fabric contrasted sharply with the heat of the moment, and your face flushed in embarrassment as your eyes caught the sight of a small wet patch there.

Your heart raced as you tried instinctively to close your legs, but before you could, he gently tapped your thighs with his fingers, his smirk never faltering. "Aht aht," he scolded lightly, his tone playful but firm, making it clear that he was in control.

His arms slid under your legs, lifting them slightly and pulling them farther apart.

The stretch made you gasp, thighs burning as he forced you all the way back against his chest, your body now fully reclined into him.

His grip was strong but not painful, holding you in place as his breath ghosted over the side of your face.

In the mirror, you saw it all—your legs spread wide, your flushed face, and Satoru's darkened gaze fixed on you, his expression one of total control. His was voice, low and teasing, rumbling against your ear. "Look at you... perfect," he murmured, holding you tightly against him, his arms securing you in place, his presence overwhelming.

The reflection showed more than just your vulnerability—it was the power he had over you, and the way he reveled in every second of it.

Satoru's left hand slowly trailed down your body, his touch feather-light at first, but purposeful. The cool air kissed your skin as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your underwear, his hand pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot without pulling the fabric to the side.

The sensation made your breath hitch, and your entire body tensed as his fingers began to move, rubbing slow, deliberate circles along your slit, teasing and drawing out every bit of tension you’d been holding inside.

His fingers trailed gently up and down, gliding over your skin as if he were mapping you out, testing your every reaction. He found your clit with ease, rubbing small, teasing circles that sent jolts of heat through you, the slow rhythm making it impossible to think straight.

Your thighs twitched, the stretch around him making the sensation even more intense. The heat of embarrassment flooded through you as your body reacted, and when you turned your face away, unable to watch the reflection of what he was doing to you.

Satoru clicked his tongue softly in disapproval. "Uh-uh," he murmured, his voice dark with command. "Eyes on the mirror. Watch what I do to you."

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as your gaze reluctantly shifted back to the mirror.

His hand kept moving, the slow rhythm intensifying, the way he touched you sending waves of pleasure through your entire body. His reflection was smug, pleased, as he watched you fight to keep your eyes open and focused on what he was doing.

It was an order, and disobeying felt impossible.

When his finger slipped inside you, your body jolted slightly, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His movements were slow, deliberate, each stroke inside you making it harder to think.

One became two, both pumping in and out of your clenching heat with a slow, deep rhythm. He kept his other arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you in place against his chest as he worked his fingers deeper.

His breath was hot against your ear as his grip on your body tightened, his voice a low groan as he spoke. "You know what I can't wait to do?" His words sent a new rush of heat through you, and he chuckled softly at your reaction. "I can't wait to taste you... spend hours learning every inch of my muse's body. Watching you come undone again and again and again."

The promise in his voice made your mind reel, the intensity of his touch and his words leaving you breathless, your chest heaving as your pulse raced.

A particularly well-angled thrust had your back arching, a breathy moan slipping free. "That's it..." he praised, curling his fingers so they can brush against your G-spot again. "You're so wet for me... So responsive."

His thumb joined the fray, rubbing firmer circles over your clit that had your hips rolling mindlessly to meet his touch. He worked you higher and higher, stoking the flames of your pleasure until you were teetering right on the edge.

And still, he demanded you watch. Compelled you to observe the wanton display you made, his dark gaze devouring you from over your shoulder.

"Come for me," Satoru growled against your lips, his fingers pumping furiously now. "Let go. Now."

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath and whiting out your vision. You shook and shuddered in his hold, a cry of ecstasy torn from your throat as he wrung every last bit of pleasure from your spasming body.

Satoru swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply as he continued his ministrations.

Only when you collapsed bonelessly against him did Satoru still his hand, drawing his glistening fingers from your depths. He brought them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact through the mirror as he licked them clean with a shameless moan.

"Delicious~" he purred, voice rough with satisfaction. "My perfect muse."

You felt weightless, the tension from the day—hell, the whole week—melting into nothingness as the lingering echoes of your orgasm left you in a daze. Your body felt loose, relaxed, like all the stress had finally evaporated, and for a moment, you simply existed, floating in the aftermath.

Then, you felt your thighs shift wider, and a small, confused sound escaped you before you even realized it.

Satoru's low chuckle filled the quiet room, dark and amused. "You didn’t think that was it, did you?" His voice dripped with mischief as his hands moved to adjust you in his lap. He shifted beneath you, pulling his pants down slightly as he repositioned you, pulling you higher onto his lap.

The movement pressed you closer to him, allowing you to fully feel him underneath you, hard and insistent. His hand returned to your underwear, the long digits returning to rub away at you.

The sudden pressure made your back arch instinctively, a small whimper escaping your lips from the mix of sensation—equal parts pleasure and the discomfort of being played with beyond your limit.

"Silly girl," he tutted softly into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. His hand returned to your waist, the grip firm yet tender, as he tugged your underwear to the side, filling you in one stroke.

You both froze for different reasons—your legs trembled as you felt the stretch, trying to stay tethered because he had to be the biggest you'd ever had, while Satoru groaned, overwhelmed by the tightness that enveloped him.

"F-Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed.

You let out a broken whimper, arms growing weak and giving out beneath you. You collapsed slightly forward, your forehead resting against his thighs as you tried to adjust, to find some relief from the pressure.

Satoru growled softly at the sight, his hands gripping your waist with more purpose. He pulled you fully down onto him, your hips flush against his.

"S-Satoru..." you moaned, your voice shaking, tears welling in your eyes as the sensation became overwhelming.

His hips jerked forward in short, deliberate movements, and your body responded, helpless to the rhythm he set. "T-that's right, baby, say my name..." he groaned, his voice thick with need as his hands guided you, pulling you back down with each upward thrust.

He lifted his hips to speed up the movements. You could only cling to his thighs, breathless and powerless against the force of his desire.

Satoru kept going, your name spilling from his lips like a prayer, filthy words laced with desire. His grip on your waist was tight, almost bruising, as he held you firmly in place.

The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room—wet, slick noises and the rhythmic squelching with every movement.

The intensity of the moment wrapped around you, heightening every sensation, your body overwhelmed by the pressure building inside you.

Your second orgasm was approaching too quickly, the wave of pleasure rising fast, almost too much to handle. Desperation washed over you, and you tried to scoot forward, to slow things down, but Satoru's response was immediate—he went faster, his thrusts growing erratic.

You let out a choked cry, begging for him to slow down, but he only groaned in response, his pace relentless.

The sensation was overwhelming, and then it hit you, like you were thrown over the edge. Your eyes fluttered closed as the blinding pleasure rocked your entire frame.

Your body shook, every nerve alight as the intensity consumed you. You could hear Satoru cursing under his breath as you trembled in his arms, your body a quivering mess in the aftermath.

And then you felt it—the heat of him filling you, spreading through your lower body in a rush of warmth. Satoru let out a long, drawn-out groan, pressing himself flush against you as he reached his climax. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving as he stayed close, savoring the feeling.

Before you could catch your breath or say anything, Satoru moved again. He pulled you back slightly, and you gasped, the sudden movement sending a mix of pain and pleasure shooting through you.

His hands snaked under your thighs, lifting you carefully from his lap. He groaned softly as he watched his release spilling from you, leaking out as he admired the sight.

Satoru gave a low whistle, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "What a sight to see," he hummed, his voice thick with amusement. One of his hands trailed down to your entrance, his thumb gently grazing over the sensitive skin.

He played with your sticky entrance, his fingers teasing, before pressing back to plug up the fallen release. Your thighs twitched in response, a shiver running through you at the sudden sensation.

You called out his name for what felt like the third time, your voice weak but pleading. "Satoru..."

He let out a tired but satisfied chuckle, his hand pulling away as he finally relented. "Fine, fine," he murmured, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. He settled you down on his lap again, this time pulling you close to his chest, cradling you as his arms wrapped securely around you.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his breathing slowing as he rested his chin on the top of your head.

The night grew quiet, the tension fading into a comfortable stillness, but even as you relaxed against him, your mind wandered.

As the night went on, you couldn't help but think: Nobara was fucking right.

A/N: lolol, sorry for the influx of smut guys, promise this won't be like an everyday thinjg.... 👀 anyways, hope this was up to your standards and wasn't too bad bubbly-bear, i tried my best to make it work to the song...😭

[mikanotes]

up close & personal

hyunsu ? x gn!reader

genre: what. mutual pining?

warnings: sweet home 2 spoilers, mentions of blood, injuries. hyunsu himself is a warning lowkey if u watched the last ep u probably get it… that’s all!

synopsis: You know Hyunsu so well. One year apart couldn’t possibly change that. Except if Hyunsu isn’t alone anymore.

authors note: realized at the end of this fic that i cld compare hyunsu’s current situation to venom like a little bit and that just makes everything so much easier somehow. anyways i don’t really like this but i needed to post smt for him after s2 so!

One year ago, you and Cha Hyunsu would’ve been sitting near the entrance of Green Home apartments, and he would be listening to you talk. One year ago, you would’ve firmly believed that by now, the world would’ve been restored to some kind of peace. It had, in a way, but certainly not in the one your past self would have hoped for. And certainly not the one Hyunsu would’ve wanted for the two of you.

Nevertheless, you remained grateful through everything— As much as you could manage. The shelter was as organized as possible and conflict was a surprisingly rare occurence. Things were alright. As long as you didn’t give time for the grief and terror to catch up to you.

But things couldn’t be calm forever. Especially not in the current state of your world.

When Eunyu disappeared with that man from the military, it only took a day before you grew restless enough to depart from the stadium. After all, Eunyu was the closest thing to a friend you had here, at this point. It only felt right to try and find her. And you did, surprisingly, along with a few familiar faces and an unknown one.

You didn’t expect for the evening you found your friend again to be the very same you would see the person you had considered closest to you at Green Home for the first time in… Over a year.

“Finally asleep.” you sighed quietly, watching Eunyu get the rest her body had probably been begging for. It was difficult to convince her you would stand watch and wait for your friend to wake up in her stead, but her exhaustion made her stop arguing eventually.

You turned towards the room he was in.

Cha Hyunsu.

You crossed your arms and sighed. One year without a single trace of him anywhere. And now he… Just reappears? You wanted to be surprised, but part of you really wasn’t. You were angry, just a little— Spending all this time telling yourself he was gone, only for him to come back as if nothing happened felt like a slap to the face. Still, you couldn’t blame him. Yet. You had no idea what happened to him during that time span.

You felt relieved, if anything.

After some hesitation, you walked over to the glass door. Your hand settled on the handle, pushing it open, before your eyes widened. Hyunsu was sitting on the hospital bed, stretching his neck quietly, not at all perturbed by anything. Hell, he even seemed peaceful.

More peaceful than you’d ever seen him.

You stepped inside quietly and let the door close behind you. Hyunsu continued to move his head, slowly, as if trying to relax, and didn’t acknowledge your presence. His shoulder was bloodstained, still, and his hoodie had cuts here and there. Messy as he appeared, this was your friend from Green Home, there was no denying it. You hadn’t even dared hope he could still be alive, after all this time. You couldn’t give your heart such a high possibility of suffering if he turned out to be gone.

And now he was here. So calm.

He opened his eyes with a soft sigh, before turning his gaze to you. “Finally decided to talk to me?” he asked. His tone was different. Too different. This did not feel like the kind of change that happened in a year. He smiled a little at your silence, tilting his head curiously. “No? Do you need more time? That would be too bad.”

He hopped off the bed with a huff and slowly walked over to you. The closer he got, the clearer it became that his eye color was different. Long gone was the blank, dark brown gaze that looked back at you when you two would talk— Replaced by a vibrant sky blue. A stark contrast from what you were used to, as was everything else about him, apparently. Be it his tone or his mannerisms, it all felt deeply wrong, like it wasn’t him at all. You furrowed your eyebrows but stood still, letting him walk to the very edge of your personal space.

“I’ve been waiting to see you for such a long while.”

“Huh?”

Hyunsu’s eyes widened a little before he grinned. This wasn’t … Him. Not exactly, at least. Not the one you talked to so much. But special-cases, or MH, essentially coexisted in one body. The monster forms around a person’s strongest desire, or whatever it was that scientist at the shelter said.

So perhaps, all the times you and Hyunsu had talked in the past had also been conversations that this side of him had been listening to.

A bit scary. You couldn’t really focus on that, though. You took a deep breath and looked at him.

“Is he well?”

He clicked his tongue, expression growing sour. “He’s fine. Let him get some rest. He’s tired.”

You nodded softly, gaze averting. That sounded fine enough to you. He was right, too, earlier— You had been avoiding talking to him since you met again. With the excuse of focusing on Yikyung and scavenging through the hospital, you had plenty of reasons to act as if you weren’t seeing the person you cared the most for after a whole entire year of thinking he was dead.

But you did feel his gaze on you the whole time. It was heavy, and remorseful. You’d planned to talk to him— In fact, that’s why you decided to come over to the room he was in. You hadn’t expected things to turn out this way, however. Seems like you couldn’t talk to your friend, yet.

“It’s nice to know you care, though.” he hummed, gaze never leaving your face. “He thinks about you so much, too.”

You looked back up at him. If this was the so-called monster part of Hyunsu, then what was his deal? A lot of questions about this situation flooded your head. “What are you playing at?”

He chuckled softly, before backing up just enough to hold up his hands in an innocent gesture. “Nothing as evil as you probably think.” he said, voice steady. “I just wanted us to talk. Just us.”

“Huh.”

“You see, your Hyunsu has an interest in you.” he said, tilting his head slowly. It felt as if he was analyzing you. It was a bit unsettling, but you didn’t bother breaking eye contact this time. “But I do, too. I’d say maybe… Even more than him?” his grin widened at his own words.

“I find it hard to believe you care about people.”

“And yet.” he scoffed, expression dropping to a blank one, seemingly annoyed. He dropped his arms to his sides and sighed. “We decided to work together. Couldn’t have him die on me, it wouldn’t be nice for anyone involved.”

You decided this Hyunsu seemed to mean it when he said they made a deal, just about as much as when he said he had an interest in you. So placing your trust in his bloodied hands for the time being, you tried to be less on guard. He wouldn’t kill you, or most importantly, Hyunsu. That was enough for now.

“Okay.” you sighed, crossing your arms. “So you want to talk?”

He smiled a little. “Yes.” he stated, before taking a step towards you. Only this time, he didn’t bother keeping a safe distance. His face was a touch too close to yours. “I’ve wanted to for a while.”

“You…” you paused for a moment, thinking. “Do you usually go around talking to people while getting so close to them?”

“I don’t go around talking to people.” he mocked your tone before scoffing, a grin pulling at his lips. He brought a hand up to your face, holding your cheek firmly. His focus turned to his hand, eyes narrowing in its direction. You felt his fingers loosen a little, as if he was trying to control how tightly he was holding you.

Which he was. Now it felt gentle. Almost unfitting. Not only that but the Hyunsu you knew was never this comfortable with anything close to physical affection. It felt so out of place.

“Does it bother you?” he whispered, eyes flitting over to meet yours again. He moved in closer, just enough for your noses to touch. He seemed to be having fun switching between looking at your eyes and at your lips. “Am I too close?”

Before you could think of a way to answer, you froze. The unfamiliar color in Hyunsu’s eyes dissipated, the cocky expression you were almost beginning to get used to replaced by a soft, almost startled one. His voice, much quieter now, whispered your name. Your eyes widened and you sighed in something akin to relief.

“Hyunsu.” you breathed out. The latter looked at you with a stunned look, struggling to find anything to say for a while. He looked into your eyes like he was making sure you were okay— Making sure you were really alive. His thumb moved back and forth softly over the skin of your cheek, his gaze scanning you in an almost panicked manner. He sighed shakily, before he brought your face into his shoulder. He seemed to be almost trembling.

“I’m sorry.” he exhaled, wrapping his other arm around your shoulders hesitantly. Still terrible at hugging. You’d missed those awkward displays of affection so much. “I… I’m sorry, it’s been… A very long time.”

“God, you’re so cruel, Cha Hyunsu.”

He tilted his head down into your neck. Now you felt his tears on your skin. He really hasn’t changed, you thought. It was obvious when he came running for help when Yikyung was badly injured, when he did everything to help her and went all the way to look for that kid— Cha Hyunsu hadn’t changed.

“I’m—”

“Quit apologizing.” you huffed, holding him tightly. “I missed you, too.”

Hyunsu sighed quietly, tightening his hold on you a little. He was relieved to finally have you with him again, but he couldn’t shake off his worries.

“You talked to… Him? Right?”

“I did.” you said, pulling away enough to look at him. The concern on his features was undeniable. “And it went fine. It’s okay.”

Hyunsu’s frown deepened. “I don’t know if it’s alright. Me staying… So close to you.”

“Don’t even think about disappearing on me again.” you warned, eyes widening. “I don’t care about any reason you give me— Don’t leave again.”

The boy sighed, averting his gaze for a moment, before slowly bringing it back to you.

“I won’t.” he assured, “I won’t leave you again.”

He closed his eyes and pulled you into another hug. He had to believe his existence on its own wouldn’t cause more problems for you to deal with. He had to trust that even if it did, you meant it when you said you didn’t mind. He knew you did. You always meant it.

He opened his eyes and looked at his reflection in the glass door just a bit further away. Seeing you in his arms should have been reassuring. But the blue hue of one of his eyes and the nagging voice in his head seemed to be laughing at his naivety. He pressed his eyes shut again and buried his face in your shoulder.

This is our priority, now. (I know.) No one else comes first. (I know.) Don’t let them get hurt.

I won’t.

[natalievoncatte]

“Director Danvers, Lena Luthor is here.”

Alex stared at the speaker on her desk for a moment, feeling her anger rise. She didn’t need this now. Whatever stunt Lena was pulling, now was not the time. She had fires to put out and Supergirl was out of the fight.

Kara, a voice whispered. Kara, your sister.

Alex’s prime directive was take care of Kara. Yet here she was, again, dealing wit the aftermath of Kara being knocked down and beaten to a pulp in service of people she didn’t even know. Half of them hated and feared her now.

How had she let this happen? By small allowances. Step A led to Step B and then on to Step C. It started with looking the other way while Kara foiled robberies and rescued cats from trees and led to Kara defacto joining an organization whose mandate was, on paper, to imprison her or worse. She told herself that she was doing good, that between her and J’onn, they had become the wolves keeping the wolves from the door. Under the right leadership, an organization mandated to “control” aliens could help and protect them.

It gave her no comfort when Kara was lying in the sunroom unconscious, and the government was breathing down Alex’s neck while J’onn was off finding himself on some pacifist bullshit quest.

(Why did their fathers always leave them? Were the Danvers girls doomed to face everything alone?)

Now Lena was here. Luthor’s sister. Alex had let herself trust this woman and she wasn’t sure how that happened either.

Might have been because her kid sister, her precious dumbass kid sister, was over the moon for her Lena and didn’t even know it.

It was Luthor who did this to Kara, Luthor and his allies. Alex had enough of this. There would be no trial this time. No public spectacle. She didn’t care if it ended her career or even her freedom, she was going to kill him, because Kara couldn’t. Kara would always look for the other way, the perfect solution. She was beautiful and good, a hero who came from the heaven to set things right. A saint.

Alex was not and she never pretended she could be.

She drummed her fingers on the desk and stared at the speaker and said, “Keep her in the lobby.”

“No, Director, I mean she’s here, outside your door. We… she can be persuasive.”

Alex reached over wearily and hit the button to open the doors.

Lena marched in, and the sight of her took Alex aback. The boardroom predator with the razor sharp hairstyle, flawless makeup and fuck me pumps was gone, replaced by what Alex would think was Lena’s kid sister under other circumstances. She looked her age, for once, dressed in faded jeans and a threadbare MIT sweatshirt, carrying a battered messenger bag.

Alex had never seen Lena so bedraggled. Her hair was a chaos of unkempt curls pulled into a low ponytail and she was sans makeup, and for good reason. Her eyes were painfully red and the tracks of her tears were as livid as if they’d been left by claws. Her bottom lip was trembling and she fiddled with the strap of her bag.

“Close the door,” said Lena. “Can we talk here? Is this room secure?”

Alex pushed the button and closed the doors.

She had barely said “Yes”.

“Where’s Kara?”

“Not here. Why would she be at the-“

“Don’t fuck with me, Alex.”

Alex looked at her sharply. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish here with this, after you started working with Lex again.”

Lena stormed forward and slammed her palms on the desk, rattling Alex’s possessions. She leaned forward and glared with Alex with a furious, teeth-baring demand.

“The clone almost killed her. Where is she?”

Alex swallowed hard. “I’m not sure what-“

Lena cut her off. “I know Kara is Supergirl, Alex. I need to see her. Please.”

Alex rocked back in her chair as if struck by a physical force. The words slam into her chest like a brick into her sternum.

She knows.

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve know for months. But you have to listen to me. Lex knew. He told me her identity, tried to throw it in my face so I’d turn on her. He knew her real name, he knew about you, he knew about your mother. You have to do something now.”

“Oh my God,” Alex said, standing. Mom.

“He wasn’t going to stop, Alex!” Lena blurted, almost hysterical. “He was never going to stop. He was going to kill her, he swore to me that she was going to die. I had to do it!”

“Do what?” Alex whispered.

“I had to kill him,” Lena wailed, balling her fists impotently as if she were trying to choke her own soul. “I had to!”

The reality of it slams into Alex and before she knows it she’s rushed around the desk to throw her arms around her friend, all thoughts of Luthors and loyalty and everything else going out the window as Lena sobs into her should.

“I killed my big brother.”

Lena’s voice so so small, so broken, that Alex can’t help but sob with her.

The fucking bastard just wouldn’t stop hurting them, even in death. Alex didn’t believe in hell but she wished she did for Lex Luthor.

Lena’s sobbing ebbed but did not fade entirely. There was only one cure for that.

“Come on, let’s go see our girl.”

Alex led Lena outside. First, she flagged down Brainy and gave quick, clipped orders: Get Eliza and get her here now, and find Nia and do the same. Then make a list of anyone Lex might have targeted and find them and get them secured.

Then she took Lena to the sunroom. They stopped outside and Alex handed her a pair of silly looking goggles.

“We can’t stay long, the light is too intense even with sunscreen, and you look like you burn.”

“Like a lobster,” Lena choked, pitifully.

Alex entered the code and opened the door.

Kara lay on the padded bed in a paper gown, bathed in sunlight. She was a mass of bruises and her right arm and left leg were in casts, a collar wound her neck. She’d been unconscious for three days now, possibly in the same kind of healing hibernation she’d fallen into after her first fight with Reign.

Lena rushed to Kara’s side and cupped her cheeks with her hands, brushing back sweat-dampened hair.

“Oh God,” Lena blurted, “oh please oh God Kara wake up.”

“She’s been out for days,” said Alex. “She’s stable, just not coming around. This has happened before. We think it’s part of how her body heals serious injuries. It just takes time. She’ll wake on her own when she’s ready.”

Lena didn’t even seem to hear her. She leaned down with an intensity and intimacy that shocked Alex to the core, and then shocked her further. Lena loosed three words in a language from a dead world that she has no business knowing.

“Zhao w rrip.”

Alex was thunderstruck. Lena knew Kryptonian?

“Lex had a translation dictionary,” said Lena. “I just hope I pronounced it right.”

“We need to go,” Alex said, glumly. “You can stay at the DEO. We could use your help and it’s safer for you here anyway.”

“Just let me stay another minute. Please.”

“If I do, your face will be peeling off tomorrow. We can visit again later. Come on.”

“I can’t,” Lena choked out. “I can’t leave her.”

Alex was an about to say something else when her mother fell open. Kara’s eyes fluttered open and she immediately turned to Lena, bleary-eyed.

“Did you mean that?”

“Yes, Kara, I meant it.”

“But zhao means-“

“I know what it means,” Lena insisted, so full of joy now. “I know what it means, darling. That’s how I meant it. I love you, Kara.”

Oh.

Alex swallowed hard. She didn’t want to interrupt but Lena, and not to mention Alex herself, would get very sick very fast if they didn’t leave this room.

Lena grasped Kara’s uninjured hand.

“You have to go. It’s not safe for humans in here.”

Lena swallowed hard, her throat bobbing.

“Before I… can I…?”

“Yes,” Kara whispered.

Lena darted down and gave Kara a quick, soft kiss on her lips, lingering for just a moment. Kara smiled at her and their hands slid apart as Alex half dragged Lena out of the room and closed the door, then ripped off her sun shades and stared.

“How long?” she breathed.

“I’ve been in love with her for at least for years now,” Lena said, her voice cracking a little. “I’ve wanted to tell her for so long.”

Lips trembling, Alex was besieged. She remembered every time that she told Kara to stay away, not to trust her, not to tell her. The weight of what she has done presses her down as firmly as the knowledge that Kara will be healed soon lifts her up. There’s only one thing she can do.

She swept Lena into a bear hug.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for doubting you and pushing you apart. I’m sorry I didn’t see sooner.”

Lena, at last, fully broke down in Alex’s arms. Later, when Eliza arrived, she passed off Lena-hugging duties to her mother until Kara was fully awake and can leave the sunroom.

Then, Alex went and did what you do for family.

She got rid of the body.

[queenshelby]

AMERICAN GIRL (PART THREE)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace's Stepdaughter!Reader

Warning: Grace is a bully, infidelity, taboo

The following day, Tommy had, indeed , arranged for a tutor to come to the mansion and work with Emma and, much to the dislike of Grace, he had offered you a position in one of his many legitimate establishments where, unbeknownst to you, he could keep an eye on you.

Usurpingly, he did not trust you yet, seeing how Grace had betrayed your father by sleeping with him. As such he believed that you were nothing but a wildcard, a force that could not be calculated, and therefore potentially presented a threat to him and his livelihood. 

And yet, despite himself, Tommy found himself intrigued by you nonetheless. There was an allure about you that could not be ignored and, moreover, there was a quiet strength in your eyes, a fiery spirit that he found incredibly attractive.

The work that you had been assigned to do under supervision was simple enough - organizing and cataloguing items in one of his stores down in Birmingham - but the time you spent there was never mundane.

One of the women who worked there with you for the time being was no other than Ada Shelby herself, Tommy's sister who was clearly there to spy on you until you could be trusted. Yet, despite the hidden animosity between you two, you quickly became friends.

Ada was a woman of few words but much wit, a firecracker hiding beneath a quiet, steely demeanor. Her dark eyes held a thousand stories, most of which she would never openly share with anyone and you respected her for that.

Ada had a child of her own, but no man by her side to help her raise her young son Karl. Her husband Freddy had passed on several years ago and a tragic loss like this was something you both shared in your lives. 

Just like she looked after her son, you were looking after your sister and  , therefore the two of you found a strong bond between yourselves.

Unlike Ada, you were not shy about sharing stories from your life with her, although they weren't many and, in turn, she spoke about her brother Tommy, about whom you happened to have many questions, none of which she refused to answer.

You wanted to know what kind of man he was and when Ada told you that he did bad things to a good end, you couldn't help but feel intrigued by his many motives. It was during those long hours at work that Ada shared the story of Thomas Shelby and his family, painting a vivid picture of his past that you couldn't help but find utterly captivating.

You learned that Tommy had been in France, and, in spite of his achievements, he threw his medals in the Cut. He was a tunneller during the Great War and, when he came back home, he had seen too much to be able to return to the man he was before.

The war had changed him fundamentally, and this did not surprise you. It had changed your father too, and you remembered, as a little girl, witnessing the way the man you loved dearly had returned from the trenches of Europe battered and emotionally destroyed. 

Ada told you how her brother had started Shelby Company Ltd. with his brothers, how they had built it together and turned it into a formidable force that controlled large portions of the city's trade without giving away the family secrets. Tommy was at the helm of all this, and you could understand why Ada once said that she saw both heaven and hell in his eyes.

He was capable of immense cruelty and merciless violence, but the kind heart he reserved for those closest to him remained hidden behind the tough and unyielding exterior.

You worked at the shop three days a week and, at least once every day, Tommy would come by to check on you before, occasionally, visiting a woman by the name of Lizzie Stark at her nearby lodging. 

You followed them once and found out that Lizzie Stark was a prostitute who worked for Tommy. She was, as far as you could gather, rather smitten by him. It was obvious to you that her and Tommy regularly engaged in intimate relations with each other but, even so, there was something distant in the way he looked at her, as though he was always preoccupied by thoughts far beyond his current reach.

Lizzie didn't seem to notice this while, yet she considered you as her biggest thread and, in spite of your better judgment, you found the thought amusing more than anything else. After all, it should have been Grace who she was jealous of, not you but then again, perhaps she knew as well as you did that Tommy didn't love either of them. As he had told you himself, he didn't have the capacity for love, or so it seemed. 

The first time you saw Tommy with Lizzie however, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of something akin to disappointment. But you weren't disappointed about the fact that he was unfaithful to Grace, but rather , you were disappointed in the way your own heart reacted when you saw them together.

Eventually, four weeks had passed since you started working at the shop, and you've had ample opportunity to observe Tommy's interactions with Lizzie and others. She wasn't the only one he had been seeing and, for some reason, even despite his misgivings, that strange fascination you felt towards him kept growing, albeit slowly.

You couldn't put your finger on what it was that made him so magnetic. His brooding nature and hardened exterior were part of it, but there was more to it than that.

He was a man of many contradictions, and that intrigued you.

That same night, just like many others, you passed him inside the corridors of the large house you were now living in, giving him a knowing glance as if to say 'I know what you did today' without uttering a single word. And he always returned the look with an exasperating half-smile that both maddened and thrilled you. He knew that you knew about his infidelity and, yet he did not seem to care. 

You didn't hate Thomas Shelby or any of the members of his family, but you despised Grace with every fiber of your being.

The day your father died, your whole world had crumbled before your very eyes, leaving you and Emma at the mercy of a woman who couldn't bear the sight of you. She made no secret of this hatred and had been eagerly waiting for your father's fortune to be handed down to her hands.

As such, you really wanted to tell her about her partner's unfaithfulness. You wanted to rub it in and let her know that he was doing to her what she had done to your father all long. But yet, something stopped you.

Some unspoken code of honor, perhaps, or maybe just the small sliver of compassion that still lingered within your wounded heart. You pitied Grace and feared her in equal measure, and you couldn't bring yourself to interfere and risk your own wellbeing and the wellbeing of your little sister Emma who, only in the past week, had started sleeping in her own room. 

Besides, Thomas Shelby was not your concern. He was a grown man who made his own choices, and it was not your place to pass judgment on him. But somehow, you found yourself doing it anyway.

Occasionally, Tommy kept you company when neither of you could sleep and it were those nightly interactions that slowly, almost unknowingly, began to brew a forbidden chemistry between you and him.

Leaning against the banisters, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he puffed on his cigarette, you couldn't help but feel your heart flutter when he asked you about your day.

His gaze followed your every action, lingering on the gentle curve of your waist or the crook of your neck as you spoke. It was that same raw intensity that made your skin tingle and your breath hitch - a silent conversation of want and need.

You would meet by chance most nights, either in the library or outside, by the stables, after Grace had gone to bed and whilst your interactions were innocent enough, your conversations were deep and meaningful.  You found Tommy to be intelligent and well-educated, with a passion for literature and fine art, topics that you would discuss at length, fuelled by the desire to learn more about him - and yourself.

Occasionally, you would catch him outside the lavatory in the staff quarters, listening intently as you sang while having a bath or shower. This was something that had always irritated Grace, hearing you sing, but Tommy seemed to enjoy it - or, at least, he never let on if he didn't.

One late night, as you were making use of the large piano near the library,  Tommy entered the room. You hadn't heard him come in, but you felt his gaze on you, watching intently as your fingers danced across the keys.

You paused for a moment, turning to face him before continuing your musical journey with another melody.

"You have a quite a talent for music,"  Tommy commented, his gaze cast downward to the floor.

Tommy leaned against one of the tall, mahogany shelves that lined the room. The soft amber glow from the fireplace illuminated one side of his face, granting him a certain warmth in his usually stoic features.

"I learned from my mother," you stated simply, continuing to play. Your gaze remained focused on the falling notes you were creating on the piano, not daring to turn your head and meet his gaze.

But, oh, how you wanted to! His presence made you feel all kinds of things, some you'd never experienced before, like unsettling excitement and an irrepressible craving for that forbidden fruit.

"I sometimes come to the staffing quarters just to hear you sing in the shower," he  murmured, his eyes locked on yours as he confessed.

You felt your cheeks heat up, your pulse quickened as you continued to playing the piano, the melody now more dramatic. You couldn't believe what you were hearing; he must have been joking, being so direct but if this was the game he wanted to play, then you would oblige.

"I have noticed, and so have the maids. You should be more cautious," you teased, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as the corners of your eyes crinkled with amusement.

Tommy pushed off the shelf, moving closer to you, the space between you shortening rapidly. He leaned on the piano now  , effectively entrapping you between him and the instrument. You could feel the warmth emanating from his body, and it made your heart race.

"Perhaps I wanted you to notice," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze bore into yours, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed.

"And perhaps I wanted you to listen,"  you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension in the room grew thicker, filling the air with a palpable energy that neither of you seemed capable of breaking. The only sound in the room was the gentle strumming of the piano keys beneath your fingertips.

Tommy leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath he took, his eyes never leaving yours as he leaned over you and turned the page on the book in front of you.  You were acutely aware of the proximity between you, the way his body seemed to align perfectly with yours as if you were two halves of a whole. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a spark that threatened to consume you whole.

"Can you play this?"  Thomas asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he pointed to the new sheet music. His proximity still had your heart pounding, the wild beat echoing in your ears.

"Yes, of course I can. I can play anything," you winked  playfully before turning your attention back to the music sheet, your fingers dancing gracefully over the keys. You felt Tommy's gaze on you as you played, his presence making your heart race.

You continued to play, the melody filling the library with its enchanting sound. You could feel the weight of Tommy's gaze on you, and it sparked a fire within you that you couldn't ignore. Your fingers moved faster over the keys, your body swaying gently to the rhythm of the music.

Tommy watched you in awe, your talent and beauty captivating him completely until, suddenly, the door swung open .

Grace swept into the room, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Tommy standing so close to you, his hands hovering near yours.

"What is going on here?" she demanded, her voice tight with anger as Tommy stepped away from you.

"I am listening to Y/N play the piano," Tommy replied smoothly, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment. 

Grace's gaze flicked from you to Tommy and back again, her jaw tightening as she clearly struggled to maintain her composure. "I can see that, but I wonder why? Why are you listen to her play the piano at this hour?" she  pressed, her voice dripping with suspicion.

Tom's eyes remained locked onto yours, a silent message passing between you, a promise of something unspoken that only the two of you could understand.

"Because she plays beautifully, Grace. And, as usual, I can't fucking sleep, eh" Tommy replied, his nonchalant tone grating on Grace's nerves. She stared daggers at him, her eyes narrowed to slits.

"Well, wrap it up, because I cannot sleep either because of it," Grace said, her voice tight with anger, causing Tommy to look at her with a mix of irritation and mild amusement before standing up.

"I will see you tomorrow, Y/N. Have a good night," he told you, ignoring Grace's outburst and leaving you in a state of confusion and frustration.

You watched him leave, his presence leaving an ache in your core that took you by surprise while Grace told you to be quite and to go to bed. You didn't object, you knew better.

Tags:

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[pers1st]

let down - leah williamson x reader

pairing: barca!reader x leah williamson

warnings: barça being broke

In truth, you shouldn't be nervous.

This conversation had been going on for months - it was no secret that Barça had many financial problems, and paying you, Alexia and Aitana as their midfield would always have been difficult. You had had countless conversations like these before - negotiating your new contract, negotiating your new wage, which you knew would be significantly lower. It didn't bother you, though. You would've picked up a second job if it meant playing for your childhood club, even if they refused to pay you.

This setting, however, seemed a lot more official than it should've, in your opinion.

You were still dressed in your clothes from training, and so was Jona, but the rest of Barça's management was dressed properly - in suits and leather shoes. They shouldn't have even been there yet. This conversation was meant to simply verbalize your new contract, not to sign it yet. You were in no conditions to take the usual photos and sit in front of the camera for an interview after the contract extension. It confused you.

"Y/N, we are so sorry."

That was how Jona started, and in that particular moment, your heart stopped. No, this couldn't- they wouldn't dare-

"We can't renew your contract."

Silence followed. Then, your shaky voice. Barely above a whisper.

"What?"

This whole situation seemed too surreal to be true. Maybe in a few seconds, your eyes would open and you would find out that this was just a horrible dream. If it hadn't been for your manager's piercing gaze on you, you might've pinched yourself under the table.

"We don't have the financial means to pay you enough to stay. I know it's not what you want to hear, but-"

"No, Jona, we talked about this. You can cut my wage, I don't mind. I'll stay here, whatever it takes. Alexia said she would-"

But the man in front of you didn't let you finish.

"You are right, we talked about this. And I told you that you deserve more than what we can give you, and that you cannot let us undermine you. It's not fair to you, it's not fair to all the women who are-"

This time, you were the one to interrupt him.

"But this? This isn't fair to me!"

That was how the argument unfolded, and only after your voice was hoarse from crying and pleading, your cheeks stained with tears and your manager stained with guilt, did you leave the office to fall into Alexia's arms, who had been listening in from the other side of the door for God knew how long.

It was January currently, which meant that as soon as you silently agreed with them to sign you to whatever club payed the most, you were out.

Just like that, the chance to play in front of the Culers for one last time was ripped away from you. They received a half-hearted announcement via Instagram, you received twenty women in your apartment, ready to pack your things. In all honesty, you had wished for no one to see as you organized your life into moving boxes and shipped them over the sea for whoever from Arsenal to receive, mostly because it would've felt even less real. Mostly because then, the goodbye wouldn't have hit you as hard. Ona tried to offer you advice on how to get by in England, telling you all about her experience abroad. Mapi tried to lift the spirits by joking around. Ingrid held you as you allowed tears to fall, and Alexia made sure you didn't forget anything, offering to take care of the things you would leave behind in Barcelona.

It was only you and Alexia at the airport. Your best friend, since the day you had been selected to play for the senior team of Barcelona, had shared many angry words with the management, and at one point even threatened to leave if you really had to. But the papers were signed, and the boxes were packed, and there was nothing left to do for Alexia besides holding your shaky frame as tears clouded your vision for what felt like the millionth time.

"You'll be okay, bebita. You'll enjoy London, and then you'll come back. I promise, you'll come back."

The both of you knew that there was no way she could ever promise that - Barça's financial difficulties were far too severe to sign you back soon - the most expensive player in the world, currently. When, or if the smoke would clear up, neither of you could know. Still, her words soothed you the tiniest as you held onto the glimpse of hope your best friend gave you as if it was a lifeline.

"Enjoy London, okay?"

You nodded, although you knew that you wouldn't. What good was London compared to Barcelona? What good was the capital of England compared to your lifelong home?

"Vamos, carino", Alexia huffed as she let go of you, gently pushing you towards your gate.

"Call me, okay? ¡Te amo!", she yelled after you as you turned away from her, and the hurt in her voice made a new layer of tears stream down on your cheeks, but you knew that if you looked back at her now, you would never board that plane. If leaving to England was what it took for your club to keep functioning, you would. If playing for Arsenal meant that you would be back in blaugrana one day, you would wear that ugly red shirt and call yourself a Gunner. You wouldn't do it happily, though.

London looked ugly when you flew over it, and London looked ugly when you landed in Heathrow Airport. You had expected people from the club to be there to pick you up, wearing Arsenal clothes and a sign with your name on it. It was apparently standard procedure, as Alexia had told you, though neither of you could really know because neither of you had never left the country to play football if it wasn't with the Spanish national team. What you hadn't expected, however, was Laia waving at you excitedly from across the hall, with two women dressed in the same hoodie as her, one significantly smaller (you guessed she was Kim) and one Leah Williamson.

You had never followed English football much, likely why you hadn't recognized Kim when you'd first searched up your new team on the internet, but Leah was the kind of footballer everyone was just.. aware of.

Admittedly, she was even prettier in real life.

"¡Hola, guapa!", Laia shrieked as you strolled over to your new teammates (the word 'teammate' along with 'new' still left a bitter taste in your mouth), dragging your suitcase behind you tiredly. The plain ride had worn you out - in all honesty, the entire past week had worn you out. Ever since you'd been told that you would leave the club that you had bled for, you hadn't been able to close half an eye.

Still, Laia's excitement was unmatched as she pulled you into a tight hug, allowing your face to sag against her shoulder. You didn't allow yourself to cry anymore, and so you could see Leah and Kim smile at you softly from a few steps behind the other Spanish woman without tears clouding your vision.

Laia continued to speak in Spanish, asking you about the flight, about how the Barça girls were, about how excited she was that you were finally here and she wasn't the only Spaniard at the Arsenal.

If Kim and Leah thought it was rude that they were left out of the conversation entirely, they didn't say so. Still, you pushed Laia off gently, mustering the smallest of smiles you could.

"Hello."

Your English wasn't very good, but even you winced ever so slightly at the realization of how truly cold you sounded. You didn't want to be here, didn't want any of them to show you your new apartment, didn't want them to show you the club, to bring you to training, to give you a red jersey and call you a Gunner.

But you needed to suck it up. Life wasn't fair. And if Alexia's words held any truth, this would merely be a temporal situation.

"Hey", Kim smiled at you. Her English sounded funny, but her smile was more genuine than yours as she introduced herself and Leah. You hadn't needed her to, but it was a nice gesture anyways.

"It's good to have you here", Leah smiled as she gently lay her arm across your shoulder.

"Wanna see your new flat?", you nodded as Leah guided you out of the hall, your luggage left with Laia who strolled behind you alongside Kim.

Leah's confidence and her proximity to you, your side pressed against hers, was making your head spin ever so slightly. You had, admittedly, hoped that Leah, as co-captain and being about to return to the pitch, would understand how badly you didn't want to be at Arsenal, seeing as she bled for the club the way you did for Barcelona. Maybe she could grasp the idea of being forced out of her home, and sympathize with you in the slightest. And it seemed she did, as she pointed towards what you guessed was Kim's car, leaving you and Laia in the backseats as you drove through the city. London was different from Barcelona.

It was slightly less ugly now, with impressive buildings and a few bits of nature sprawled around as Kim maneuvered the car through the streets. It was cold, though, and as you were shivering slightly, Kim put the heat just a bit higher. It was grey, as well. Not a single ray of sunshine was able to break through the barrier of clouds in the sky, and it reminded you a lot of your current mood, though you were hesitant to show it.

Leah and Kim seemed genuine in their efforts to make this transition as easy for you as possible, given the fact that your apprehension to leave Barcelona was a very well known fact. You had dedicated an Instagram post with a very heartfelt caption to your departure, which made it very clear that you did not leave on your own accord.

Their dedication to welcome you, though, made you feel the tiniest bit of unfair. The women were genuinely trying, and they promised you during the car ride, when asking whether or not you were nervous, that the whole team was excited to meet you. Maybe you could try a little bit. Maybe you could enjoy this for the time being.

"Here we are."

You could see Kim's smile through the rearview mirror as she parked her car in front of an old building which you guessed was your new apartment complex. The car had left the central of London around twenty minutes ago, and at your confused expression, Laia had huffed that the club was in North London, not Central London.

"¿Es un poco feo, no?", (It's a bit ugly) you asked Laia as you stared at the shabby building. The walls were grey, and the parking lot was grey, and it seemed like everything in London was just.. grey. Plain.

"¡No, Y/N! Leah vida aquí también", (Leah lives here too) Laia huffed at your comment, shaking her head while chuckling at your statement. You shrugged, ignoring the way Leah and Kim furrowed their brows at your Spanish conversation while climbing out of your seat to retrieve your luggage.

You insisted on carrying your suitcase up the small flight of stairs as well, though Laia offered to do it for you. The two of you hadn't been super close when she'd still played at Barcelona, but you had been quite good friends, and having at least one familiar face soothed you.

"This is it", Leah smiled softly as the four of you stepped into the hallway, following your curious steps into the flat. It was plain as well, of course it was. For the first time since calming down on the plane, you had to fight tears again. The flat was nice, sure. The club had organized a quite spacious place, with lots of room and comfortable-looking furniture. But it was bare. You knew that shopping for furniture would be a hassle in the middle of the season, so you had rented it furnitured.

You missed your green couch, the thrifted, quite antique sideboard, the golden-framed mirror. You missed the framed shirts on your wall, the clothing rack with all of the shirts you had swapped with other players. All of those things were now packed away in a storage room somewhere in Barcelona. You missed Barcelona.

"Es pretty", you mumbled, dropping your keys on the white coffee table and turning around to look at Leah, who was still holding on to your large bag, the Barcelona badge imprinted on it. The look she gave you, eyebrows slightly raised, eyes looking somewhat defeated, told you that you hadn't been able to fool her.

Laia and Kim left quickly, with the excuse of having early training tomorrow and needing to run whatever errands, but Leah stayed.

"I live in the same building, so I could help you unpack if you want?"

In truth, you didn't want her to help. You didn't want her to swoop through your things, eyeing all of your personal belongings, all of the tokens of your previous home that you had left so promptly, but you didn't have the heart to tell her no. So, the two of you got to work, after a small tour through the whole unit, finding the bedroom, the bathroom and another room that you guessed you would use for storage. Your kitchen was small, after all, and it was filled with things you didn't know how to use.

"What's this?", you asked as you held up a scoop of some sort, that you had found while rummaging through your cupboards.

"It's a tea scoop, for making loose tea", Leah explained with a chuckle, taking the utensil from your hand to showcase how one scoops.

"I don't drink tea", you huffed, taking the scoop back and shoving it into the back of the cupboard before closing it a little harsher than you would have expected.

"You're in England now, you're gonna drink tea."

You decided to ignore her comment, instead opening the next drawer.

"I have a microwave", you pointed out, moving slightly to the side so that Leah could look. She was awfully close to you again, and it made you nervous.

"So you can make paellas", Leah snickered, nudging her hips against yours playfully. At that, you turned towards her, taking a shocked step back.

"Joder, you don't microwave paellas! What is wrong with you? Mujer loca", (crazy woman) you exclaimed, nudging her back playfully before diving into the next cupboard. Maybe London wouldn't be as horrible as you thought.

notes: this is baaaaad honestly but we move

[kuromochimi]

Of weddings and what ifs

sakusa kiyoomi x wedding organizer f!reader

♡ You loved your job and the joy of being able to bring to life the weddings that couples could only dream of, before they had met you. The only downside to it was that your job sometimes reminded you of a certain ex fiancé. Fortunately, he hasn’t made an appearance in your life since you broke the engagement off. But with the red string of fate connecting you and your ex fiancé not being totally severed yet, it was only a matter of time before it brought you back into each other’s lives. Only this time, he’s tied to another.

Content Warnings: ONE SHOT, angst, little fluff and comfort, no closure break ups, not proof read, a small hint for an open ending, lmk if I missed any!

With the final arrangements settled, you finally felt free enough to take a breath and appreciate the (once again) perfect event you’d managed to organize. It was exhausting to say the least, but the happy couples who would often tear up out of joy while thanking you? Yes, it was definitely worth it. And it was a job that paid fairly well too. Moments after you’ve had the time to look around the venue, a notification from your phone caught your attention. It was a notice from your secretary about new clients. She reminded you that you had to meet them the following day. You then made sure to set up alarms and reminders as you were sure you would oversleep otherwise, after all, the current event would definitely last til the late hours. And that it did.

The following day, you tried your best to make yourself look freshened up and awake. You arrived at the meeting place quite early. You double checked all the files and documents which you might need. Thankfully, not long after you finished fixing your papers, the client arrived. She approached gently before speaking “Hi! I’m keiko. You’re yn, right? I saw your picture on the pamphlet” she smiled shyly. You noticed just how soft spoken and beautiful this lady was. She definitely has that “soon to be married” glow. “Hello, yes! It’s me. I’m glad to finally meet you, keiko!” You stood up to shake her hand. You both settled down after the introductions. “Will it be just you for today?” You asked her before you started discussing anything. “Oh my fiancé will be here soon. He just suddenly had to run an errand for his mom. He’s..” she grabbed her phone to check on something, probably a message. “Oh he’s just parking his car now” you gave a nod of acknowledgment at that. With your seat facing the entrance, you could clearly see the people who walked in and out of the cafe. Which meant that when sakusa kiyoomi walked in, your eyes immediately gravitated towards him. He started looking around, eyes landing on you. Or at least you thought they did, before keiko looked back from her seat, immediately getting up to hug sakusa once she was made aware of his presence. She guided the man back to your table. You tried your best to mask whatever feeling was forcing its way out of you. “Yn, this is my fiancé. You can just call him k-“ . “sakusa, you can call me sakusa” he cut her off. Keiko was a bit taken aback by her fiancé’s interruption but she was quick to ward off the confusion. While the discussion went on, you couldn’t help but feel anxious and even more tired. You weren’t sure if it was because of last night’s event execution or if it was because in front of you was your ex-fiancé, asking you to organize his wedding. The fiancé who was too busy for wedding planning. The fiancé who thought he couldn’t give you what you deserved. The fiancé who left.

The world felt like it was nothing but air. You couldn’t feel much at all and you were probably only functioning out of pure muscle memory acquired from all the times you’ve done this pre-planning orientation for engaged couples. Your consciousness was jolted awake when keiko stood up. “Yn I’m really sorry but I’m being called in for work. One of my patients had an emergency. Please just settle the rest with kiyoomi, I’ll see you again soon!” She hurriedly left. Her absence immediately making way for the awkward silence filled with all of the unspoken thoughts you and sakusa tried to keep in for the last hour or so.

“I’m sorry”. The words felt unreal. They felt empty, and fake though you were sure kiyoomi would never say something he didn’t mean. “What are you sorry for, sakusa?” He visibly flinched at the name he suggested you called him by, not even an hour ago. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be.. all this for you” the moment made your ring finger feel heavy despite the absence of the ring that used to wrap itself around it.

His words brought you back to the day he left after he’d had enough of your complaints about having to plan the wedding all by yourself. He was starting off as a doctor back then, a new resident who wanted to do all that he could to establish his career. You were both fairly young back then, which was probably why you both thought getting married at that point of your lives was surreal. For some, maybe it was so. But for you two? Apparently not. Because not long after he proposed, he soon found that the demands of being a surgical resident wasn’t something to take lightly. While you were also working, you never failed to make time for wedding planning. Of course, you knew that his schedule was much more taxing than yours but it still pained you to make invitations on your own, taste test cakes by yourself. “I want whatever you want” was what he’d said as compensation for his absence. But when you were trying on dresses and you looked at yourself in the mirror gown and all, the weight of keeping everything in came crashing down because “he should be here” was all you could think. Sakusa wasn’t superstitious so he certainly wouldn’t give a fuck about seeing you in your wedding dress before the wedding day. Heck, he even said he’d love to pick one out with you. But he wasn’t with you. So when he came home from work, tired and not thinking straight, he was met with your equally tired looking figure, sitting on the couch, crying. He didn’t even get a word out before you spoke your mind and while he did understand, he didn’t have the energy to argue further. Because in his head, you should’ve understood why he couldn’t be there. And even when you both reconciled that night, nothing had changed. The same cycle continued until neither of you found enough reason to keep the promise of getting married. Though you wished he would’ve at least said goodbye instead of leaving a shitty sorry note on top of your counter, along with the apartment keys.

“It’s fine. Let’s just forget about it” you tried your best to sound sincere but you couldn’t exactly lie your way out of a confrontation with someone with whom you literally intended to spend the rest of your life with at some point in time. “Do you.. do you want me to find another planner? I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was gonna be you, yn. I promise I never intended to-“ he stops as you held your hand up to signal your request for silence. “Sakusa, it’s fine. Like I said, let’s just forget about it. I promise not to let what happened get in the way of your wedding planning.” The day went by very slowly, both you and kiyoomi moving and speaking like virtual characters merely accomplishing tasks assigned to them. “Well, that’s about it. Please let your fiancé know about the details she missed and… congratulations for the engagement” you chimed before briskly walking out of the cafe where sakusa was left dumbfounded and extremely confused as to how he was going to address this wild turn of events.

Throughout the planning, you’ve come to learn that keiko was an amazing person. She was passionate about her work advocacies, she was kind and soft spoken, extremely understanding, and though you didn’t mean to have such thoughts, whenever she spoke of kiyoomi, you never seem to miss the times she’d tell stories about how busy the man was and that she understood him anyway. Because she loved him. Because she was the same way sometimes. Something you weren’t able to do for him during such a challenging time in his life. It caused conflict in your heart to learn all of those things. Because it warmed your heart to see such a happy bride to be. She radiated happiness and everything in between whenever she was with kiyoomi and kiyoomi looked at ease whenever he was with her and that’s something because kiyoomi rarely looked at ease. They were happy but as much as you wanted to take that happiness as a sign to let your hurt go, it just didn’t work that way. To be quite frank, until now, you still harbored a little (or more) hurt from the fact that someone you had initially agreed to marry, was capable of leaving you without even saying it to your face. Before you came home to an empty apartment with his goodbye note, you were even going to propose the idea that maybe you guys should just postpone the wedding and maybe wait for things to settle in before you resume planning. Instead, you were met with your ex-fiancé’s absence. His clothes missing from the closet, medical books out of the shelves, even his favorite mug was nowhere to be found. It was as if only the note he left behind could serve as proof that you were once in a relationship with him. You tried contacting his family and closest friends but most of them ignored your calls and those of them who answered obviously tried their best to dodge answering your questions. You were at your lowest then. You took a long leave from work, barely ate, barely showered, was often sick, and would constantly wonder how things could have been had you just kept your mouth shut instead of nagging a tired kiyoomi.

It wasn’t helping that you were thinking about all of this a few minutes before the couple’s consultation with you. The wedding was moving closer and closer and you’ve been spending more and more time with them and it still honestly feels like the world is caving in every single time. It’s an unexplainable feeling. You wanted nothing more than to see them get married, sincerely congratulate the couple, let go of all that’s been bugging you in the past, and finally move on with your life, something you haven’t been able to do since you and kiyoomi broke things off. Your thoughts were cut short when someone entered your office. It was keiko and she was alone. “Yn? Hi, I just wanted to talk to you real quick” “quick? but we have so much to do” she smiles gently before taking a seat across your desk. “I don’t know how else to put it but… I know about you and kiyoomi. I didn’t know when I first met you but he told me everything and I just want to tell you that it’s okay if you want to talk to him about it. You both need it, yn. I know it’s none of my business but I hope you think about it. Don’t worry, I understand.” Ah. You see it. This is the woman he fell in love with. This was the woman worth the change and this was the woman able to match him perfectly. There’s no fighting that. “Keiko I don’t know, you don’t have to” she softly reached for your hand to hold it in both of hers. “You deserve an explanation, yn. Kiyoomi might have changed since then but I’m not about to marry someone who’s able to leave someone just like that. If you feel like you don’t need to speak with him, I respect that. But if you want to talk to him, let him know, it’s okay, don’t worry about me.”

You took up the offer. Maybe if keiko didn’t come up to you to say that it was okay to look for closure, you would have spent the rest of your life swallowing your need for an explanation from your ex.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk, yn.” You only gave him a light nod as you looked far into the expanse of trees ahead. View from where you were seated at a nice private little cafe. “Kiyoomi I just want to know. Why did you leave like that?” With fidgety hands, you tried to calm down. “I just felt like I didn’t deserve you anymore. I hurt you after I asked you to marry me. I didn’t deserve that ‘yes’ anymore” after a nod, you responded “So you just? Wrote a note then dipped? Kiyoomi I still wanted to marry you then. I was going to postpone it but I still wanted to marry you.” He knew that. “It’s exactly why I left. Because you still wanted to marry me even after what I did. I didn’t deserve you anymore.” “Kiyoomi, for the longest time, I wanted to tell you that I was willing to wait for you and that I was sorry for nagging you that day. Then I was obsessed with trying to find out which one of us was at fault. I wanted someone to be at fault because how does it happen that two people love each other so much but still end up separating just like that? But it’s been a while now and I think… I think maybe we should forgive each other now. I honestly felt bitter lots of times even til only recently but seeing you with keiko.. she’s a great girl and she deserves all the happiness. We should close this part of our lives now, shouldn’t we?” Kiyoomi stood up and you thought he was about to walk out but he pulled your arm to get you to stand up before he gave you a tight, warm, and sincere hug. One unlike any other he had given before. It wasn’t an I missed you hug but not a goodbye one either. It was one of acceptance and peace. Though it didn’t feel familiar, none of his embraces have felt as warm as this one. After pulling away from the hug, you grabbed your purse, as you got ready to leave. “Omi, I sincerely wish you and keiko the best” this time, you said it with utmost sincerity.

Wedding day

With flowers and good food and genuine smiles, the wedding went by without a hitch. Much to your relief. You decided to stay a little but longer for the reception, snack on a fee things before leaving. With a glass of champagne in one hand and your purse in the other, you walked around the venue, checking on things here and there. Well, not until someone bumped into you knocking the glass of champagne off your hand, spilling champagne on your dress, shattering the glass on the pavement, and causing you to fall on your bum all at once. “Hey, you okay? Come here” the tall man gently guided you to stand up. He immediately removed his coat to wrap it around your frame to hide at least a little bit of the stain. “You hurt anywhere?” It took a while for you to respond. “Oh- oh yeah I’m okay, no worries, sir” “it’s Suna. Suna Rintaro”

[porcelainseashore]

They Don't Make Them Like Her Anymore - VTM Bloodlines 20th Anniversary

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: I wrote this to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines and for a Gallery Noir server event by @vampemoqueen and @bigswordenergy.

Step into the shoes of our favorite sick freak, Vandal Cleaver, as he ruminates on the recent happenings in his life. Pliers and blowtorch included. Terms and conditions apply.

Content Warnings: Violence, torture, self-harm, body horror, mild gore, mild sexual content, obsessive behavior, blood bond, Hannah Glazer and Therese Voerman mentions, murder.

Hannah, Hannah… oh, Hannah. They don’t make them like her anymore, do they? It was sad actually—tragic—well no more tragic than another dead hooker found in a soulless apartment Downtown. Nothing that would make the headlines, not even worthy of a back page obituary in the local paper. Heh, I may be a sap for saying this, but she was good enough for me.

You see, they don’t make them like her anymore. No shit. The new girl? She can’t quite do the job like Hannah did, but since when were beggars choosers? Yeah, I know my place in the pecking order. At least she has the stomach for what I request of her. Doesn’t outright scream, “You fucking freak!” in my face, leaving me high and dry. I need my fix afterall, like the rest of you… Hiding dirty little secrets to dig out between your sorry sack of bones with a scalpel—do you know what a skilled hand can do with a scalpel? Have you ever run your finger across the edge of a blade? Any blade—come on, don’t lie to me now, we’re friends, aren’t we? Everyone’s done it once in their life, lost their innocence as blood blooms from the vulvic slit like a bouquet of roses. Sometimes it gushes like a torrent, depending on how deep you sliced. Shh, it’s okay to get carried away. Your secret’s safe with me.

Anyway, she does as I ask, like a good enough girl, then pukes her guts out—politely—in the bathroom next door. I know, because I hear it. Her chest concave and hollowed, heaving, organ crushing against organ as she squeezes her lungs, gagging on saliva and air. They don’t make them like her anymore, you get what I’m saying?

Earlier, I watched as the flimsy fabric of my skin peeled away, acid pink flesh melting from bone, and the charred layers curling under the blue flame like burning plastic. What remains blisters and festers. I’ve done it so many times I think all that can be salvaged from me are deadened nerves and an empty husk. I like being empty though. Sprawled out on the floor, naked and clean as a newborn while the world around me spins in circles. For a moment, everything feels attainable and unattainable. 

My queen… queen of all queens—

And just like that, it’s gone. I’m left with the chick who has a blowtorch in one hand and her nose in the other, pinching it as though the fumes are toxic. Her hands are always trembling, like an addle-brained patient, maybe because I don’t know whether I’m laughing or screaming half of the time.

My body is already mending at twice the speed when she brings out the pliers. I am a god and a shitty mistake all in one—not quite like the bitch goddess who owns me, but almost. Give it another hundred years, and I’ll be standing in this exact room, cutting myself open with my bare hands, alive and kicking to see the process. Imagine tucking my fingers under the sagging flaps, flaying skin from tissue as I pull it apart. Wet, stinking clumps of flesh and its sinewy tendons will stick between my nails, overstaying their welcome, yet impossible to scrub out. And that smell—mmm, that smell! A putrid, cloying tang of filthy pennies, assaulting my senses like a hammer to the head. I want to untangle my entrails like the wires in my brain that got crossed somewhere, just to check and see if they’re the same as everyone else.

Oh, so the new girl needs a bit of encouragement, does she? Lingering there slack-jawed and taking her sweet time. The missus—no, I mean, Hannah never needed to be told twice. Deep down, I think she even enjoyed it, the sick fuck. They don’t make them like her—

“Do it,” I hiss, saliva drooling from my lips like a rabid dog.

I hear bones snapping before the pain hits me, rattling my teeth as an excruciating jolt shoots up my arm. For a split second, I’m blinded by a searing white light. My thumb is dangling at an awkward angle and I must be howling, because the look on that girl’s face… well, what wouldn’t I give to have a picture as a keepsake? Frame it up on the wall like a goddamn Picasso.

Sometimes I feel the hairy legs of spiders skittering around my skull. It tickles like the high strings of a violin being plucked—faintly, daintily, as if it were never there. Sometimes I say things, but my words aren’t my own. And it’s happening right now. The girl before me is no longer a girl, but the queen bitch herself.

“Therese,” I weep and moan. It’s lewd and urgent like a fever prayer falling from my lips. I swear I could cum from her name alone, and I hate myself for it.

“What did you just call me?”

Therese in body and blood, spirit and flesh. Therese in all her unbearable glory. The cold metal clamps down on my trigger finger and her grin is so wicked I can only grovel and lick the dirt off her boots. She’s inside of me. When I hurt myself, she hurts too, and I enjoy it.

“Yes, please! Oh, mistress, oh fuck—”

My eyes shut as I throw my head back, mouth in the shape of an “O” that’s simply ridiculous. I try not to imagine how it looks like one of those snuff tape suckers in post-coital, or should I say, post-feast bliss. Disgusting and vile. I remember mocking them with Phil as I forced him to watch every single Death Mask film in that dingy basement of the Santa Monica Clinic.

When I come to, my balls are no longer heavy and aching, like an oppressive, shameful need. Semen trickles down my leg, pooling in my pants as though I wet myself. It smells of rotting fish and I’m trying not to cry. I wish it were the Nectar of the Gods instead.

A flash of anger rears up in my chest and I tear my eyes open. Therese—no, the new girl lies like a crumpled doll on the floor, mouth agape in that stupid “O.” Good enough like a pair of single-use gloves to dispose of in the trash without a second thought. Except, I used mine again and again. What’s the point if they break apart so easily? They don’t make them—

I yank her face towards me. The whites of her eyes loll back as I squash the fat of her cheeks within my bloodied hand, and her lips mime a fish sucking in breath.

“Tell me I’m good enough! Say it!” something that sounds more akin to a pig squealing explodes like a burst tap.

The stumps of my fingers move her mouth like a ventriloquist, but she says nothing. Blood smears across her dull skin. She doesn’t wake up. That can only mean one thing: useless. They don’t—

I let her body fall to the ground with a thud. Whipping a phone out from my back pocket, what’s left of my fingers fly over the keypad, punching in a line I’ve rehearsed a thousand times.

“A special order for the mistress.”

Tears cloud my eyes as I hear my quivering breath. It’s shallow and erratic. I still can’t tell if I’m laughing or crying half of the time.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[goldfades]

PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

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for this request

─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

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Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

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[gguk-n]

The Sky Between Us (Charles Leclerc x Reader)

Summary- Meeting Charles was an accident, but being with him was a choice. Did Y/N have any say in keeping Charles by her side tho?

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1- Whispers of Adventure

If someone was to tell Y/N 2 years ago that she would be standing in a hotel in Austria involved in a heated argument with her boyfriend, she surely wouldn't have believed you. But here she was, eyes red, mouth dry and tears ready to spill. It wasn't always like that she reminisced.

Y/N was on a girls trip to Monaco, a trip that took months to plan and a lot of saving on their part. But Y/N was happy to be there, between all the glitz and glam. Everyone seemed so rich and wealthy, the 5 girls felt embarrassed asking for the prices of stuff before making the purchase, so they kept to sight seeing and eating food. On the second day of the trip, Y/N was out grabbing coffee for herself while her friends caught up with some sleep when she ran into a man, quite literally. It was like in the movies, her coffee cup, now cold but still half full, had landed smack in the middle of a man's white shirt. It looked horrible, this would stain and she had just ruined a strangers white shirt in all of this. Y/N profusely apologised and offered to either pay for the dry cleaning or buy him a new shirt. He seemed amused at the proposition. "I'm Charles, by the way." he said. "I would like to know the name of the woman about to buy me a new shirt." he asked. Flustered, Y/N raised her hand forward and introduced herself, he was quite attractive, she wasn't going to lie and probably around her age.

There was a garment store down the street, Y/N didn't really pay much heed to the store, how much could a plain white shirt cost, she thought. As the sales clerk pulled the same white shirt he was wearing out of the rack to ring it up, she asked, "Just wondering, it's a dress shirt, right? Must be slightly expensive, hmm." She nodded mostly to herself. Only moments later, Y/N was about to find out that the shirt cost almost 5000 euros, her mouth lay open in shock. She quickly collected herself and moved Charles away from the cashier, "What kind of job do you do that your shirt costs how much I make in a month?" she looked perplexed. "I travel the world due to my work." he replied. "I got that much, but damn dude, I want to apologise to you for ruining your shirt worth 5000 euros, I'll get on my knees and beg but I wouldn't be able to buy you that shirt. Any way I can pay for the dry cleaning. I'm pretty sure it costs in 1000s of euros, anyways." she rambled on. Charles laughed at the anguish of the woman in front of him. "This isn't funny Charles. Fucking hell. I had to go and bump into the hot rich white man while in Monaco at that." she mumbled while running a hand through her hair. Charles smirked, "I have a proposition" he began. "I'm not selling my organs for a shirt. You are fucking loaded, buy it yourself." Y/N cut him off. "Hear me out for a minute" the french accent thick. "Go on a date with me and that's the shirt sorted." he continued. Y/N seemed to mull her options over and agreed to the date.

It had been 6 months since the eventful day when Y/N spilt coffee all over Charles shirt. A quick google after the date let her know that he was a driver for Ferrari in F1; that explained his luxurious taste. Charles had yet to officially tell her about his profession. He kept the answers vague when asked about his work, enough that he didn't give it away but enough to not tell the complete truth. Y/N wasn't going to end his fun, he could tell her when he wanted to, she decided.

Charles wanted to show her what he did and finally stop lying about his career, he thought. So a week before a GP he called her; Y/N answered immediately. "HI CHARLIE" Y/N's voice echoed through the phone. "I missed you," she continued. " Not as much as I missed you." Charles cooed. "That's why I was hoping maybe you would like to come see me." Charles asked hopefully. Y/N smiled. She wouldn't give up the opportunity to see her boyfriend but she wouldn't be able to buy a flight ticket on such short notice. "Ahh, baby, as much as I would love to see you and hug you and kiss you; I won't be able to fly out to Monaco anytime soon." Y/N added. "Who said anything about Monaco?" Charles questioned. "I'm gonna be in Monza, Italy for work, this weekend. You can join me too." Charles said. "Won't your bosses hate me, for disturbing your work trip." Y/N joked. "They wouldn't dare" Charles declared. "On one condition." Y/N said. "And what is that?" Charles asked. "Dinner date at the most fanciest restaurant in Monza on Sunday?!" Y/N said hesitantly. That was the easiest thing. Charles wouldn't mind spending the night with his girlfriend. The perfect end to Ferrari's home race, he thought. "By the way, there's a race this weekend, you might want to keep some casual clothes for the race." Charles said in the most nonchalant way as possible. "OOhhh, races aren't really my thing." Y/N chided. She was in the mood to mess with her Charlie. "Its so boring to watch rich men drive around in circles" she moaned. "I promise you, you'll have fun. Don't worry." Charles tried to reason with her. "If it's required for your 'work' thing, than I can be a supportive partner I guess." she groaned while looking like she was in deep thought.

Friday came around a lot quicker than Y/N expected. Charles had flown her out. At the hotel, they got dressed to leave for media day for the race. "I don't see the charm of going on a day when there are no races." Y/N said as she fixed her white shirt. She had looked up all the Pinterest mood boards for how a Ferrari driver's girlfriend should look and did a bit of shopping. Who knew a Ferrari jacket cost that much, she thought. This was the last time she was gonna tease Charles; she took the Red Bulls Racing hat out and put it on her head. Charles mouth dropped open, "Are you wearing that?" he stuttered out. "My friend said I should support a team, so she lend me her RedBull's hat" Y/N read out from the cap. "I can get you stuff, don't worry about that." Charles was out of words, how could his girlfriend be wearing the opponents merch. He quickly rummaged through his stuff to get his Ferrari shirt out and on himself before his girlfriend jumped ships. Watching Charles made Y/N burst out laughing. "God, I can't keep this up. I was gonna wait for you to tell me." Y/N said in between laughs while putting the Ferrari jacket on and keeping the RedBulls cap away. Charles was now standing in front of her. She knew; the whole time. "I know you are an F1 driver for Ferrari. One quick google search and your face is plastered all over my screen." Y/N said while cupping his face. "Why didn't you tell me that you knew?" Charles enquired. "I was hoping you would tell me what you do, like I told you what I did." Y/N replied matter-of-factly. Charles closed the distance between them and kissed her lips.

All of these good memories seemed to have been over shadowed in both Charles and Y/N's mind as the two stood in the hotel in Austria, 2 years later. Y/N had only told Charles that work was gonna be hectic for the next couple months and she wanted to focus on it since she could be promoted. Charles wasn't willing to reason, he kept up the demand that Y/N drop everything for him. "Why can't you be like the other girlfriends? Who are there to support their boyfriend? I literally have to beg you to be there for me." Charles shouted. Y/N was taken aback, "Baby, I've been there as much as I could be, you know me and work." she tried to reason. "No, I don't and I don't wanna know either. If you love work so much, then why are you even dating me?" Charles asked. "You did not just say that, Charlie, I love you and that's why I take the time out to spend it with you. Obviously, I wanna be there as much as I can but it isn't possible with work and stuff." Y/N answered. "If you can't be there for me when I need you, then I don't need you" Charles said. "You don't mean that" Y/N lips quivered and the tears threatened to spill. "We are done Y/N, have fun with work and all the things more important to you than me." with that Charles left their shared hotel room with all his stuff.

[celerifleuri]

i'm gonna sound SO stupid but I need to know what the HELL that snuggle ending was about. I feel like I'm just holding onto a thread of understanding. Like, I feel like I'm able to comprehend what happened but that's just unconsciously. If someone asked for me to explain it then I cannot. SO WHAT HAPPENED?!?!?!

under the cut you're getting the short answer and then a longer one with some lines straight from the script (both contain spoilers)

with the base of the wing made of wood surrounded by intestine, his body couldn't reject what was foreign. it forcibly tried to assimilate the wing and that's why he ended up rotting (dying)

bones, organs can be assimilated by his body while wood can't

but why didn't this happen with the little branch + intestine test then?

because it wasn't as big and heavy, his body wouldn't react so fast, so badly and because the organ didn't fully trap the branch in

(see when he sews the intestine around the actual branch, he makes sure it's properly sewn/covered)

now ill be bringing up a couple lines

starting with the ones right before the branching

first sentence there, she was on the right track! but right after, her thoughts shift because of what eric taught her (not physically, he did not break her bones), and because of how she views bones as weak. if weak and flawed humans have them, they can't be that strong now can they?

she's not objective and she doesn't test any more than that. after the eric line she simply lets him choose because she herself doesn't feel like she can/should

there you learn that nothing is visibly wrong, yet clearly something must be.

this goes back to the fact that the foreign is completely trapped between the intestine and his body (see silly drawings). nothing is showing there because the rotting is still happening inside for now, it hasn't spread enough to be visible on his skin

but how do you actually know that he's rotting inside? well!

opening him up leads you to the answer!

that "rotten cage of his" comes from eric thinking 'starling isn't that much better, he has bad intentions, he won't let you free' but it also hints at a) rot being the cause of starling's current state and b) his ribcage weakening, decaying

it's confirmed right when she's able to break his bones to fit in!

(slightly unrelated but i am a bit obsessed with this idea of breaking a cage to willingly trap yourself/be a part of something)

as for his death itself, it's confirmed by the lines that follow and of course eric had to blame her for it ("How suffocating.") right after she put her cheek on one of his lungs...

i could go on for longer but ill stop there before this gets too out of hand

hope that answered the question and if it didn't, feel free to tell me!

[coffeebanana]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Some nightmares refuse to fade.

***

[Read the full fic below the cut or on Ao3!! CW: panic attacks, dissociation, depression]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Please, no.

Chat squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid himself of a sudden, blinding panic pounding through his skull. But it was too late. Ladybug’s slate-stained image was seared into his mind, her face frozen in pain, devoid of everything that had once painted comfort across his soul. 

Her mask was half-torn, such that Marinette's bare cheek was cradled closest to his chest. Like maybe he'd tried in vain to protect her from the blast.

From his own destruction.

A choked sound ripped itself from his throat, a painful lump following in its wake. He had no way to fix this, nothing to do but pull her in closer. To tighten his arms around her precious, fragile remains.

Another mistake. 

She crumbled in his grip; ashes floated up like a mosaic, blinding his vision. Frantically, he pawed at the air—trying to gather her fragments, to force her back together. If he caught enough, perhaps he could papier-mâché her likeness. He could use his tears as glue.

But there was no time for that before a fiery breeze tore through the street. Marinette’s remains were swept away, and only Chat’s strangled cries could follow. 

The further away they fled, the more he came undone. There was nothing left to tie his mind together, to keep his pain from exploding like a supernova.

Nothing to keep the world from collapsing in on him.

“What did you expect?” Nightormentor’s voice sliced through the smoke. “You’ve always been poison to the ones you loved most.”

NO!

With a frigid gasp—one that curdled his tar-slicked insides—Adrien awoke. Once again, there was a darling weight in his arms. Only this Marinette was warm and solid. Her limbs were tangled in the blankets she'd pulled to her side of his bed, and one of her hands curled slightly into his T-shirt as her breath tickled the fabric.

She was alive.

Adrien just wasn't sure his heart still knew how to beat.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, both drenched in sweat and trembling. His chest felt like someone had trampled it, and every attempt to breathe sliced further into the wound. 

When he closed his eyes, the world was still on fire.

Stomach lurching, he carefully rolled Marinette’s weight off his chest. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t listen to the even sounds of her breath without hearing echoes of his own sobs slip between them. 

The room spun around him as he stumbled to the bathroom; the world still appeared as though through smoke—muted and unreliable, the air too thick to breathe. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, his empty stomach convulsing, only to realize the sickness inside him wasn’t the kind he could expel.

He remained there, braced against the toilet seat, until his limbs eased their shaking enough for him to crawl away. Even so, he barely made it to the wall beside the sink before one of his arms gave out, and his cheek slammed a little too hard into the handle of one of the cupboards he twisted into a seated position. Hissing in pain, he let his face press against the wood there, shuddering at the way the cold surface shocked some life inside of him.

Time ceased to make sense after that. One moment, his chest was burning, pain reverberating through his back as he struggled to fill his lungs. The next, it seemed he’d become a giant cloud. A numb expanse of icy droplets, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.

Light gradually awakened the room, a subtle warmth flickering near the edge of his awareness. He only fully realized the day had come when, somewhere beyond the door he’d left ajar, the bed creaked.

“Adrien?” Marinette called. Her voice was gentle, but pierced through him all the same. “Everything okay?”

No.

Panic set in anew as footsteps approached. He swore he could somehow taste the blood pounding in his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. To keep from breathing, even.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe, if he held his breath until his lungs screamed again, he’d remain concealed in his lifeless fog.

But ironically, it was harder to keep from breathing when that was his actual goal. He sucked in sharp breaths, timed to his heartbeats, and hid his face in his hands.

“Oh, Chaton...” Marinette’s slippers scraped across the bathroom tiles, coming to a stop within his sight. Too close. “Did it happen again?”

He managed a nod, bottom lip quivering as he bit back a sob.

A long exhale piqued his attention; it started as a noise from above and ended as a warm breath against his cheek. Kneeling at his side, Marinette rubbed her hands against her thighs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Adrien shifted his jaw from side to side, guilt hooking its talons into his gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

It wasn’t a lie; he felt plenty bad about inadvertently dragging her here every night. She deserved the comfort of her own bed, regardless of whether he could actually get any sleep without her. So the least he could do was actually let her get enough rest.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And as she took his hand, carefully smoothing his fingers over hers, he had a feeling she knew it.

“Adrien…” She tugged his arm upwards, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Biting his lip to keep from disagreeing, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. With one less sense at his disposal, he was all too aware of the way she lifted his hand further, unfolding his fingers to press against her cheek.

“See?” she whispered, breath tickling the inside of his wrist. Her head twisted to the side, lips planting a kiss on the heel of his palm. “Everything’s fine.”

He swore he could feel the remnants of destruction prickling against her cheek. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away.

Nothing was fine.

No matter how he’d come into this world, and no matter how much he despised the fact, Adrien would always be—in some way or another—his father’s son. Sometimes he swore he saw a glimpse of the man when he turned too fast in the mirror. Other times, a flash of fury would seize him; with a sickening sense of satisfaction, he’d know what it might felt like to be a villain.

Even worse, he was his mother’s son. His very existence had killed her.

He’d killed both his parents, in the end. 

So no matter how much Marinette tried to console him, Adrien knew the voice of his nightmares had a point. He was a danger to her, to himself, to the world.

It might not even end up being his choice. All it would take was someone finding out what he was, and stealing the two rings he still couldn’t stand the sight of.

He was, at most, a liability. And Marinette deserved more than that.

She never agreed with him on that point.

“Look at me,” she said now. An edge crept into her voice, one that shocked him into listening.

His heart jumped at the blue of her eyes—filled with all the warmth that the fiery world of his nightmares had failed to hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. 

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, okay?”

Adrien couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t find enough truth to shove into the sentiment—not when that was all buried beneath his own misery. It was like he’d returned to his nightmare, with smoke charring his throat and one all-consuming fear.

Just the tiniest wrong movement could ruin everything.

But if he didn’t give some kind of response, Marinette would only worry. So he tugged on her hand—maybe a little too hard considering her yelp of surprise—and guided her to sit between his legs. She moved readily into place, and Adrien forced himself to ignore the fear spiking through his veins, hugging her back to his chest.

Once settled, she twisted around and tried to crane her neck upwards, reaching a hand half-blindly up to his cheek. Heart squeezing in his chest, he tightened his grip around and pressed a kiss to her head. 

She remained tense for a moment too long, but finally sighed and melted back against his chest. Her hand trailed lazily back down to her side, and her breath spilled into a hum of contentment. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, Adrien could finally breathe again.

He didn’t want her to see the few tears he’d finally let slip down his cheeks—even if she’d no doubt hear his sniffles or feel the way the cries rumbled in his chest. And he didn't want her to examine him to deeply, to discover what he already knew.

One day, he would surely disappoint her.

[v-o-i-d-e-d]

Seeing Blind - DBH Connor x reader

This is not a request but I watched a play through recently and it reignited my love for the android sent by Cyberlife ❤️

Warnings: Some language, mentions of blue blood

Word count: 4423 🤪

The broadcasting tower was buzzing with law enforcement. Much to the chagrin of Hank Anderson, the FBI had been called in to look at the case. Detective (Y/N) (L/N) could not have cared less about the FBI presence. Was she a fan of how they treated her and her colleagues? Absolutely not. However, it’s not like her dislike will change anything and it’s not worth the added tension. Hank, (Y/N), and Connor walked out of the elevator and were greeted by a DPD officer. He gave them the run down: 4 androids hijacked the tower and broadcasted a live message before escaping from the roof. 

(Y/N) eyebrows furrowed as she followed slightly behind her partners. The deviants had organized, She thought. It was becoming more and more clear that these android are no longer just machines. (Y/N) shook her head. That didn’t change what happened. People were killed in this highjacking and, alive or not, what the androids did was a crime. 

The three of them entered the main control room and were introduced to Special Agent Perkins - the head of the case for the FBI. (Y/N) could tell that Hank made an effort to hide his disdain, but not a huge one. Perkins regarded both of them with a condescending glance before moving his gaze over to Connor. 

“What’s that?”

Before either of his human companions could answer, “I’m Connor. I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.” 

“Android investigating androids, huh?” He scoffed, “Are you sure you want an android hanging around? After everything that’s happened?” 

(Y/N) glared, grinding her teeth together to stay silent, while Hank gave a sardonic smile. 

“Whatever. The FBI will be taking over soon and you’ll soon be off the case-”

“Nice meeting you, have a nice day,” Hank cut him off and started walking away when Perkins stopped him, 

“And you watch your step,” Hank and (Y/N) glared at him and he looked directly into (Y/N)’s eyes as he continued, “Don’t fuck up my crime scene.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to reply, but a hand on her shoulder gave her pause. She glanced over to see Hank shaking his head. It’s not worth the trouble. She huffed and moved away to talk to a group of officers closer to the door. 

Connor watched for a moment as (Y/N) walked away. Her steps were heavier than normal and her right hand clenched and unclenched in time with her stride. 

“Detective (L/N) is upset.” He said. The android continued to watch the detective as she took in information from the officers.  

“Yeah, people tend to get upset when they feel insulted.” Hank quipped as he started looking around the control panel. 

“Detective Reed insults Detective (L/N) often, yet she doesn’t get upset with him.” 

“That’s cause Reed is irrelevant.” 

Connor’s LED circled yellow for a moment as he processed Hank’s answer but before he could ask him to elaborate, he began to walk away. 

“Alright, enough fuckin’ around. Let’s look around the place. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Ok, Lieutenant.”

(Y/N) had been looking around on her own for a few minutes. She had watched the message that the deviants had broadcast and found herself unable to ignore the reality that was fast approaching. Revelations about life aside, she hadn’t been able to find anything useful. Just as she began to walk out into the hallway, there was a loud crash from one of the other rooms. Confusion settled over her features as she jogged over. Suddenly, a figure rushed out of the door as she was going in, knocking straight into her and sending her to the ground with a grunt. It was a deviant! As she hurried to recover from the impact, she happened to see into the room the android ran out of, and what she saw made her stomach wrench. It was Connor, but he was leaking thirium from a hole in his chest and was attempting to haul himself across the floor with one hand. 

“Connor!” (Y/N) shouted as she rushed over to him. His brown eyes flitted over to her as she slid to her knees beside him. “Connor, can you hear me? What happened? What do you need?” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him onto his back. He let out a groan that made it seem like he was in pain. Androids can’t feel pain. Right?

Connor attempted to speak but the words came out in garbled static. He vaguely pointed a few feet in front of them and (Y/N) 's frantic eyes looked in that direction to see some kind of cylindrical biocomponent. She reached out with a shaking hand and snatched up the piece. When she looked back at Connor, he was blurry. She blinked back the tears she hadn’t realized were building up and took a deep breath. 

“What do I do? Where does this go?” 

This time Connor didn’t try to speak at all. He grabbed (Y/N) 's hand and helped guide the biocomponent into place. She twisted it in and it clicked. Connor blinked rapidly before standing up as quickly as a flash. He was out of the door before (Y/N) could even stand. She quickly followed him out and into the hallway leading to the broadcasting room. She skidded to a stop beside Connor and stared at the scene in front of her. The android had been grabbed by a few officers but had just managed to break free and steal a gun. He shot one of the officers holding him and then swung his aim down the hallway: directly at Detective (L/N). 

||Software Instability ^^||

The moment Connor saw the barrel of that gun aimed at (Y/N) he could feel his software going into overdrive. His LED circled red as several options popped up in his predictive software- 

|Take cover| - Hank’s survival probability: 60% - (Y/N)’s survival probability: 5%

|Attempt negotiation| - Hank’s survival probability: 50% - (Y/N)’s survival probability: 10%

|Take officer’s gun| - Hank’s survival probability: 40% - (Y/N)’s survival probability: 40%

Connor turned and practically ripped the gun off of the officer beside him before quickly landing three shots in the android’s head. As the android fell to its knees everyone turned to look at Connor, including Hank and (Y/N). Connor handed the gun back to its owner without taking his eyes off the lifeless deviant. His face wore a hard, unreadable expression. His LED flickered yellow then back to the steady blue.

“Nice shot, Connor,” Hank said as he helped an officer to his feet. 

“I wanted it alive.” 

“You saved human lives. You saved mine and (Y/N)’s  lives.” 

||Hank ^^||

(Y/N) squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and took in a deep breath. When she opened them she saw that Connor was already looking at her. He still had his own thirium splattered all over him. Seeing that reminded her that his thirium was also all over her hands which both folded into fists unconsciously. 

“I’m sorry, Connor. I know that probably wasn’t the best outcome for your mission.” 

Connor’s LED flashed yellow. Even after almost being shot, she was being considerate of his mission. 

||Software Instability ^^||

||(Y/N)^^||

Connor remained silent and walked away, leaving Hank and (Y/N) to stare after him.

The next morning, (Y/N) woke in a cold sweat from a nightmare that felt so real its hazy images were still sinking their claws into her mind. Images of Connor’s lifeless body lying in a pool of his own blue blood. The feeling of helplessness as she kneels over him, the hot trail of tears carving through the skin of her cheek. (Y/N) shook her head and shoved the covers off before swiping her hands down her face. A firm knock at her front door caused her to groan and slowly make her way out of her bedroom. 

Connor could faintly hear (Y/N) 's feet shuffle across the floor as she came closer. He briefly cast a look over his shoulder to Hank, who was sitting in the car with his head leaned back and his mouth slightly agape - sleeping. The sound of the deadbolt sliding open pulled his attention back to the door. The door swung open to reveal a very tired-looking (Y/N). Connor noted the sweat that dampened the neck of her shirt and the light bags beneath her eyes. 

“Good morning, Detective,” he greeted. “Lieutenant Anderson thinks it would be beneficial to meet with Elijah Kamski, founder of Cyberlife, to learn more about the deviants.” 

(Y/N) blinked blearily at Connor. Her face was softly scrunched in sleepy confusion and she huffed a sigh. 

“Okay,” She said as she turned and walked back into her house, “Just gimme a minute to get myself together.” 

She hadn’t bothered to close the door, so Connor took that as an invitation to come inside. He walked further into the small house, shutting the door behind him, and took note of decorations and pictures that seemed to give the house life. Pictures of (Y/N) with friends, family, and even one of her and Hank. Hank was not smiling in the photo, in fact, it seemed as though the photo was taken against his will but here it sat: framed on the living room end table. 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right out,” (Y/N) grumbled as she disappeared around a corner. 

The house smelled faintly of vanilla as well as the perfume (Y/N) often wears. Connor liked that smell. It made him feel nice. 

“Detective?” 

“Hm?” 

Connor picked up a picture of (Y/N) holding a child who looked to be around four or five. “I did not thank you for your help yesterday. In the tower I mean.” When you saved my life, is what he wanted to say but life felt like the wrong word in his mind. There was a long stretch of silence before (Y/N) answered, 

“Anyone would have done the same.”

Liar.

Both of them knew that was not true. There were plenty of people in that room alone that wouldn’t have cared less if Connor had bled out and shut down right in that room as long as they didn’t have to clean up the mess. Just as Connor placed the picture back where he found it, (Y/N) emerged from what he had assumed to be her bedroom. Her eyes widened a fraction when she saw the picture Connor was looking at but didn’t mention it. 

“Come on, don’t want to keep Hank waiting.” She nodded her head toward the front door but made no move to leave. Connor’s LED twitched yellow, then returned to its natural blue. 

“Why did you do it?” He asked. 

“Do what?” She glanced away. She already knew the answer. 

“Save me. If I had shut down I would have just been replaced. It’s happened before.” 

(Y/N) knew it had happened before. She was there when he was shot in the head by that deviant. It rattled her and upon seeing him walk in the next morning completely unscathed she realized that she had been sad that he was gone. 

“It was just instinct. I guess I wasn’t really thinking about the fact that you could just…come back.”

Connor thought about this for a moment. Her statement made it seem like she had forgotten he was just a machine. A piece of equipment that can be replaced. She was saying that at that moment she thought of him as a person.

||Software Instability^^||

“Now, let’s go. I don’t want Hank banging on my door yelling about us wasting his time.” This time she turned around and headed for the door with Connor not far behind. 

The ride out to Kamski’s estate was a quiet one. Hank had grumbled about how long (Y/N) and Connor had taken when they first got in the car, then turned the radio on and fell into silence. (Y/N) stared out of the back window watching a snow-covered Detroit blur past her. Connor sat with his eyes shut in the front seat. He had originally been making a report to Cyberlife but now he was thinking about (Y/N). She was a question he couldn’t quite answer. In his research for the mission he had focused on Hank since, technically, he was his superior officer. However, now he wishes he had looked a little deeper into (Y/N)’s file as well. As he thought about her more, he could feel his internal processors heating up more than normal. He noticed that happening around the female detective more and more. He didn’t understand why. All his systems are running as they should be and his diagnostic program detects no issues yet his body temperature has noticeably increased. His thoughts were interrupted by Hank's car door slamming shut. 

“Hey, are you okay?” (Y/N) asked. Connor opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder at her. 

“Yes. I was making a report to Cyberlife.”

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “No, you weren’t”

Connor tilted his head.

“When you ‘make a report to Cyberlife’,” she used her fingers as air quotes, “your little light blinks yellow. It stopped doing that about ten minutes ago.”

“You are very observant.” Connor didn’t know what to say in response to being caught in a lie. He was feeling uncomfortable. If he didn’t know better he would think he was feeling embarrassed. 

“And you are not a good liar,” (Y/N) chuckled as she exited the vehicle. 

Hank rolled his eyes as he watched the two talk in the car. Something was going on between them that made Hank’s skin crawl. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Connor himself was becoming a deviant and even more obvious that it was all (Y/N)’s fault. Cyberlife had taken everything into account in Connor’s design except for the idea that genuine human connection could reach across wiring. The older man crossed his arms and fought off a shiver. If these two don’t hurry it up, he thought just as (Y/N) stepped out of the car. 

“God damn, it’s fucking cold!” She said as she vigorously rubbed her hands up and down her arms. 

“No shit. Let’s hurry up and get inside.” 

The three of them walked up to the door and Hank rang the doorbell. 

“Why did we want to speak to Kamski, anyway? He had resigned long before deviants had become an issue,” (Y/N) said through chattering teeth. 

“Because he was the first person to make a robot that passed the Turing Test. He created Cyberlife. If anyone knows about what could make an android deviant, it’s him.”

The door opened and a pretty, blonde android greeted them and led them inside. (Y/N) sighed in relief as she was engulfed in warmth. 

“Please take a seat. I’ll let Elijah know you’re here.”

Instead of sitting, Connor elected to look around the foyer. (Y/N) noticed that he stopped for a few moments looking at a photo of Kamski with a woman. Connor muttered something under his breath and confusion crossed his face before he moved on. Hank and (Y/N) sat in the two available chairs and both gazed around the room. 

“This is a nice place. I guess androids haven’t been a bad thing for everybody,” Hank said.

(Y/N) snorted out a laugh, “You would be the one to say that. This place feels…empty. Cold, I guess.” 

“The room is 75 degrees Fahrenheit. How is the room cold?” Connor asked. He was now standing beside (Y/N)’s chair and the familiar smell of her perfume narrowed his focus. Hank scoffed and shook his head and (Y/N) pursed her lips before responding, 

“I don’t mean that it’s literally cold in here I mean that it’s,” she paused and scratched the bridge of her nose, “I don’t know how to explain it to you. I guess it just doesn’t feel like a home.”

Connor nodded slowly as he attempted to understand. He looked around again, this time comparing it to when he entered (Y/N)’s house earlier. It was a very different experience. The harsh, white lighting of Kamski’s foyer did seem extreme when compared to the soft, yellow lamp light of (Y/N)’s living room. 

“Well, you’re about to meet your maker, Connor. How’s it feel?” Hank called his attention back to the present. 

“I don’t know,” the android answered truthfully, “I’ll tell you when I see him.”

“Sometimes I wish I could meet my creator face to face,” Hank rubbed his hands on his thighs and looked off into the distance, “I’d have a couple of things I’d want to tell him.”

Just then, the android woman came back to get them, “Elijah will see you now.” 

The room the three investigators were led to was a pool room. (Y/N) noted - with much distaste - that the tile of the pool was a deep red. The color made it look like Kamski was doing laps in a pool of blood. 

“Mr. Kamski?” She called out. 

“Just a moment, please,” He said. Kamski finished a few more laps in the pool before climbing out. His android brought him a robe and tied it on for him - (Y/N) sneered at that - before he finally walked over to speak to the three investigators. 

“I’m Lieutenant Anderson, this is detective (L/N) and Connor.”

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” 

“Sir, we’re investigating deviants. We are aware of your departure from Cyberlife but we were hoping that you could tell us something we don’t know.” It was (Y/N) that answered his question. Her voice was a little louder than it needed to be and she had tightly clasped her hands behind her back to hide her fidgeting. Kamski’s eyes swept over her with a cold, calculating stare. She fought back the urge to cower. 

“Deviants,” He began, “fascinating, aren’t they? Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they have free will.” He briefly glanced at the android woman standing obediently beside him before continuing, “Machines are so superior to us; confrontation was inevitable. Humanity’s greatest achievement threatens to be its downfall.” he scoffs, “isn’t it ironic?” 

“We need to understand how androids become deviants. Do you know anything that could help us?” Connor asked.

Kamski shrugged his shoulders, “All ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics.”

(Y/N) turned to Hank and rolled her eyes. Hank held back a scoff.

“Is the desire to be free a contagious disease?” Kamski finished. 

“Look I didn’t come here to talk philosophy. The machines you created may be planning a revolution. Either you can tell us something that’ll be helpful or we can be on our way,” Hank vaguely gestured toward the door as he finished. There was a silent pause in the room before Kamski walked over to Connor. 

“What about you, Connor?” He started, “Whose side are you on?” 

“It’s not about me, Mr. Kamski,” Connor answered after a short pause, “All I want is to solve this case.”

Kamski chuckled, “Well, that’s what you’re programmed to say. But you…” Kamski took a step closer, “What do you really want?” 

Connor felt himself fighting a sudden urge to look for (Y/N)’s eyes. He knew that if he could just meet her gaze, he wouldn’t be feeling so unsteady, so…lost.

||Software Instability^^||

(Y/N) stared at Connor’s profile as he stared down at Kamski. He looked so self-assured just a moment ago, but now he seemed to be a bit thrown off by Kamski’s line of questioning. 

“What I want…is not important.”

Even Hank was surprised by the uncertainty in Connor’s voice. Kamski nodded, then looked over his shoulder, 

“Chloe,” he called for the android woman to join him in front of Connor. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Turing Test. It’s a bit of a formality - a simple question of algorithms and computing capacity.” Kamski adjusts Chloe so that she faces the three investigators. Her blank expression was on full display. “What interests me is whether machines are capable of empathy.”

(Y/N) felt her stomach turn and she clenched her fists. She looked from Hank to Connor to find them eyeing Kamski curiously. Hank, of course, seemed more wary than Connor was. It was likely that he was feeling the same thing (Y/N) felt: dread.

“I call it the Kamski Test. It’s very simple, you’ll see.” Kamski turned to look at Chloe as he continued, “Magnificent, isn’t it? One of the first intelligent models built by Cyberlife.” He caressed the android’s cheek, “Young and beautiful forever. A flower that will never wither.”

(Y/N)’s feeling of dread deepened and she took a subconscious step toward Connor. She didn’t notice that she did, but Connor noticed. 

“But what is it, really?” Kamski continued and moved to grab something out of a drawer from the table behind him, “A piece of plastic imitating a human? Or a living being with a soul.” When he turned back around he had a gun in one hand. Both hands were up showing that he had no intention of using it. He used his empty hand to push Chloe to her knees and then handed the gun to Connor, “It’s up to you to answer that fascinating question.”

“Hey, wait a minute-”

“Destroy this machine and I’ll tell you everything I know,” Kamski interrupted (Y/N)’s protest by walking in between her and Connor. She lightly stumbled to get out of his way and Connor’s eyes briefly strayed to her before returning to the kneeling android. 

“Or, spare it - if you feel it’s alive.” Kamski lifted Connor’s arm to aim the gun at the android’s forehead. “But you’ll leave here without having learned anything from me.”

“Okay, I think we’re done here. Connor, let’s go. Sorry to get you out of your pool-” Hank started to walk but was interrupted by Kamski speaking again. 

“What’s more important to you, Connor? Your investigation, or the life of this android?”

Connor’s LED was flashing yellow as he stared into the eyes of the android. He should shoot it. That would be better for the investigation. He should shoot it…her?”

“Connor, you don’t have to do that. Whatever we need to know we can find out without killing anyone,” (Y/N) said. 

“Decide who you are, Connor. Obedient machine, or a living being endowed with free will.”

“That’s enough! Connor we’re leaving.” Hank just about shouted. 

“Yeah, come on, Connor, let’s go,” (Y/N) pleaded.

“Pull the trigger and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Connor, don’t!”

‘Connor, please!” 

Connor stared at the android on the other end of the barrel. What was wrong with him? If he had been given this ultimatum three days ago, he would have pulled the trigger with no hesitation, but now? 

||Software Instability^^||

He can’t do it. His LED glared red as he handed Kamski the gun. Connor’s eyes never left Chloe’s.

“Fascinating,” Kamski breathed, “Cyberlife’s last chance to save humanity, is itself a deviant.”

“I’m-” Connor paused, his LED back to flashing yellow, “I’m not a deviant.”

“You preferred to spare a machine than accomplish your mission,” Kamski helped the android to her feet, “You saw a living being in this android. You showed empathy.” He sent Chloe away and stepped closer to Connor again. ‘There’s a war coming. You’ll have to choose your side: will you betray your own people, or will you stand up to your creators? What could be worse than having to choose between two evils?” 

(Y/N) had had enough. She stomped her way over to Connor and grabbed his hand. She tugged on it to get him to walk with her, “We’re leaving. Come on, Connor.” Her voice held gravel as if she was on the verge of crying. 

Connor allowed (Y/N) to lead him past Hank, who followed after them but not before glaring at Kamski. (Y/N)’s grip on Connor's hand was strong and the android would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a bit better. Just before the trio made it out of the room, Kamski said one last thing, 

“By the way, I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know.”

It was Connor who now led the way down the front walk of Kamski’s home. His hand was still firmly grasping (Y/N)’s as he practically dragged her toward the car. 

“Connor, slow down!” (Y/N) urged as she almost slipped on the snow. 

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Hank suddenly asked. Connor stopped causing (Y/N) to almost stumble into his back. 

“I just saw that girl’s eyes and I couldn’t. That’s all…” He trails off. 

“You were always saying you would do anything to accomplish your mission. That was our chance to learn something and you let it go,” Hank said. His tone was quiet without an iota of accusation. Connor turned around, finally dropping (Y/N)’s hand to gesture with his own. 

“Yeah, I know what I should’ve done! I told you: I couldn’t!” His shoulders were tense. They did not rise and fall like he was breathing heavily, of course, but (Y/N) and Hank knew that if they could, they would. Connor was clearly experiencing panic. He was confused and probably scared. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

Hank’s lips twitched up into a rare smile, “Well, maybe you did the right thing.”

||Hank^^||

Connor’s LED blinked yellow as Hank walked past him toward the car. He stared at the place he once stood until (Y/N) moved into view. She was smiling at him. One of those proud smiles she usually had after getting Hank to come into work on time. 

“That was a big choice back there. Are you okay?” 

Her question was an echo from earlier. Connor’s mouth opened to reply but no words came out. Am I malfunctioning? He thought to himself. (Y/N)’s smile only widened when she noticed a faint tinge of blue on the android’s cheeks. 

“Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.” She walked past him and brushed her hand down his arm. Connor found himself reaching out for her hand, just barely missing it as she walked toward the car. 

||(Y/N)^^||

[chimcess]

Waterlog || pjm (6)

Pairing: Jimin x Reader Other tags: Olympic Swimmer!Jimin, Ex Olympic Swimmer! Reader, Swim Coach!Reader Genre: Strangers to Friends to Lovers!AU, Coach!AU, Swimming!AU, HEAVY Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, fluff, eventual smut, I'm so soft for these two it's crazy. Word Count: 9.4K+ Synopsis: After a car accident ends her athletic career, Y/N has slowly started rebuilding her life again as a high school swim coach. That’s until she gets a request from an old friend and finds herself back in the spotlight as the new coach of Olympic swimmer, Park Jimin. Warnings: ANGST, crying, mental health issues, talking about mental health, I'm so soft for them it's actually wild, angst, trauma, panic attacks, kissing, ableism, mention of past alcohol abuse, talk of previous sexual encounters, talks of bullying, probably poor swimming terminology, I also have no idea how swim events work so might be wrong about that too, talks of possible inappropriate coach-athlete relationship, lots of insecurities, survivor's guilt, lots of guilt and shame actually, reader needs to be kinder to herself, we all deserve a Jimin, he's still best boyfriend, SMUT, smut warnings under the cut...

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Smut Warnings: virgin!Jimin, both of them are inexperienced, bad past sexual experiences, vaginal fingering, praise, public sexual contact, denied orgasm (unintentional), very vanilla and tame all things considered

Jimin stood a few feet away, his hands tangled in his hair as he smeared a thick layer of gelatin through the strands. The sight of him working so meticulously brought a smile to my face. It was a familiar scene for synchronized swimmers, their hair slicked down with the sticky goo to ward off chlorine’s wrath. But I knew a few racers who swore by it too. Jimin had never bothered before I pointed out how his hair was looking increasingly parched from our relentless days in the pool. I had shown him how to do it a few weeks ago, and now it was a daily ritual for him.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, fighting the urge to reach out and trace my fingers over the smooth expanse of his back. The phases of the moon inked down his spine were an irresistible temptation; I longed to press my lips against the artwork.

The event had been a last-minute switcheroo—originally slated for solo swimmers covering 250 yards (10 laps in this community pool), but changed when the organizers realized the length of the meet would be an endurance test in itself. Now, competitors were grouped into teams of five, each swimmer tackling two laps. Jimin was content with his team but jittery about being assigned breaststroke, his weakest stroke. Yet, I had no doubts. After months of grueling practice, his team wasn’t about to falter.

“It is what it is,” he muttered, rinsing the gelatin from his hands. “I’m more bummed about having to redirect our donations, but at least it’s still going to cancer research. Can’t complain too much.”

“Just have fun,” I offered. “Trey got to pick the charity because he pulled in the most personal donations from your team. Just do your thing and it’ll be great.”

I fiddled with the collar of my polo shirt, still struggling to accept the coach’s uniform of polo and jeans. It seemed every other coach in the pool wore it, but I felt more like a middle-aged man at a barbecue than a swim coach. The Sketchers I wore didn’t help. Jimin had picked the dark blue color for me, which was comfy enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked ridiculous.

“You look great,” Jimin said, catching my eye in the mirror.

I snorted, rolling my eyes. He’d been saying that all day, but I struggled to take him seriously. My reflection told a different story—frumpy and awkward. At least the bit of makeup I’d applied managed to make me look somewhat alive.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, adjusting his swim cap. “You look nice in that color. I even like the eyeliner thing you did. You look pretty. You always look pretty.”

I smiled, wanting desperately to kiss him but feeling too on edge. We’d sworn to keep our relationship under wraps. This year was bound to be chaotic, and the last thing we needed was reporters sniffing around if the word got out. We were confident we could manage it, but as I let my eyes roam over his mostly naked body, and with the thrill of his compliment still fresh, I wasn’t so sure.

How was I supposed to keep my hands to myself when he looked like that? His presence was almost a tangible force, and the temptation was just too great. 

“Thanks,” I said, trying to mask the tension in my voice. “Are you almost ready to join the others? William seemed really excited to work with you.”

He shook his head, a pout forming on his lips, and the sight of it made my heart race. 

“Socializing is important,” I teased, reaching out to touch his arm. “What would people think if you spent all your time locked up in your changing room with your coach?”

A mischievous grin spread across his face before he leaned in and stole a quick kiss. I gave him a warning look, though the smile I couldn't suppress gave away my true feelings. 

“I think they’d take one look at you and understand.”

I giggled, “Such a flirt.”

Jimin wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. The heat of his bare skin against mine sent shivers down my spine. It had never really occurred to me that he might be doing this on purpose. Hoseok’s words still echoed in my mind. Right now, Jimin seemed at ease with physical intimacy, but I knew better. If I tried to take things further, he would retreat and change the subject. 

This was something we’d have to address when we got home. For now, I wanted to see how far we could push things. If he wanted to stop, we would. But I didn’t mind being the guinea pig for this exploration.

I hopped onto the bathroom sink, wrapping my legs around one of his. We had taken over the family restroom at the event center, Jimin having convinced the others he needed solitude to get “in the zone” before his swim. I trailed behind him dutifully, my sunglasses barely hiding my excitement.

Jimin’s hands traced down my sides as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He fit against me like a perfect puzzle piece. When his fingers slid under my shirt to grip my waist, I couldn’t help but grind my hips against his thigh. The jeans dulled the sensation, but I sighed in pleasure. Jimin froze.

“Sorry,” I murmured, nuzzling into his neck, mortified. “Got carried away.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice deep and rugged, stirring something primal within me. I bit back the more selfish, needy side of me and just held him. If he couldn’t see my face, maybe he wouldn’t know how desperate I was. “Do you want to do it again?”

I leaned back to look at him. His shyness was evident, but he wasn’t scared. I needed to be sure before getting excited.

“Do you want me to?”

He nodded, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? We can talk about it later if you want.”

Jimin shook his head, his grip on my waist tightening. The sensation was almost too much to bear. I suppressed the intense arousal for his sake. I wasn’t going to get off on his thigh, especially with these jeans on, but I was willing to go along if it meant something to him.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said softly, as though confessing a secret. “I just don’t know if I’ll be good at it.”

“Baby,” I cooed, gently caressing his face. He avoided eye contact. “Hey, look at me.”

He did.

“Don’t worry about that stuff,” I whispered, kissing the tip of his nose. “Whatever we do together is going to feel good because we’re together.”

He shook his head, resting his forehead against mine. He seemed anxious, almost sad. I wished he’d open up more; it might ease his burden.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he groaned. “I want you so bad but I get nervous.”

I nodded. “That’s okay. You make me nervous too.”

We stood there, both caught in our tangled emotions. We had arrived early so Jimin could scout and time his warm-up routine before the event. I felt conflicted—my body was slick with desire, and despite knowing he was upset, I still wanted him to touch me. The fact that I was even keeping track of time for a quickie was almost criminal.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Chim,” I breathed, kissing his cheek. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Is it because you don’t want to or because you’re worried about me?”

I didn’t have a good answer. I didn’t want to make him feel guilty, but I was so afraid of hurting him that I struggled to articulate what I wanted. My fear of rejection was overshadowed by concern for him.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.

I nodded, “Of course you can. I’m just worried about you right now. You seem upset.”

His hands slowly traveled up my shirt. I leaned back slightly, granting him better access. His hands ventured higher, and he admitted, “I’m not very experienced. It makes me feel insecure.”

His hands stopped just below my bra. “I know you’re older and have been with more people.”

I nodded, understanding his hesitation. I didn’t need the whole story to grasp what he was trying to tell me.

“I’ve only been with one person,” I confessed. “You don’t have a reason to be insecure. It’s just me. Just us.”

He kissed me, and my fingernails dug into his shoulders. He pulled away, and I nearly cried out in frustration. He was driving me insane.

“It was one for me too,” he said, his hands tracing down my back. “It couldn’t… perform.”

The pieces fell into place. He was a virgin. It all made sense now.

“Did you ever…?” I asked, kissing up his neck.

“No. She told a bunch of her friends, and I got picked on for a while. I never tried again. Swimming took up so much of my time that it never came up.”

My heart broke for him. I wanted to know who had hurt my beautiful boy. I took a moment to calm myself, planting gentle kisses on his skin to soothe him.

“Fuck her,” I said softly.

He chuckled, his hands moving back to my stomach, then lower. I bit his ear playfully, and he moaned, slipping his hand into my pants. I could barely contain my pleasure. 

“We’re not having sex here,” I said, trying to ease the pressure. “I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

He nodded, his gaze focused on my lap. He was still touching me over my panties, and the sensation was almost unbearable. I was almost ashamed of how wet I was, but after months of frustration, it felt almost justified.

“What time is it?” he asked.

I lifted my wrist. “We have twenty minutes before warm-ups.”

He nodded, slipping a finger into my panties. I jolted at the cold touch. He leaned in and kissed my cheek.

“Do you want to stop?”

I shook my head, “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looked into my eyes as his finger gently traced up and down my folds. I sighed in relief, letting my eyes slip shut, focusing on the pleasure he was giving me. 

His finger pressed against my entrance, and when he felt no resistance, he pushed it in all the way. I moaned, opening my legs wider. His movements were tentative at first, but soon became more confident, his strokes deep and deliberate. My body was on fire with need.

“Right there,” I choked out, leaning back into the mirror.

His fingers hit the same spot again, and I shuddered, trying to muffle my cries. Jimin’s touches were more assured now, making my toes curl.

“Yeah?” he cooed, adding another finger. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy. “You’re so perfect.”

I could feel myself shaking, my hands gripping his arm for support. I was so close, and my muffled moans were becoming harder to control.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My eyes flew open. I looked at Jimin, then the door, and back to him. His pupils were almost entirely dilated, and he was flushed a pretty pink. His fingers were still deep inside me.

“Tara?” a voice called out. “Are you in there?”

“Wrong bathroom,” Jimin called out, fingers still moving. I watched him, biting my lip to keep quiet. “Sorry.”

“Oh! My bad.”

The man’s footsteps faded away.

“Time?” he asked.

I checked my watch and sighed. Jimin slowly withdrew his fingers, and I almost choked on my own breath when he put them in his mouth. 

“Later,” he promised.

It was a promise that weighed heavily. I fought between being his girlfriend and his coach. The girlfriend wanted to forget everything else and keep him here. The coach knew better and that I would regret keeping him from something so important to him. 

“Let’s go kick some ass,” I said, kissing him one last time before sliding off the counter. “You leave first. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He scoffed and took my hand. “I’m not leaving you after what we just did.”

“Such a gentleman,” I giggled, leaning into his side. “Make sure no one’s around, and we’ll leave together.”

We were the first ones at the pool, a handful of reporters already lurking around the bleachers, eager to catch the first glimpse of the swimmers. Jimin and I had let go of each other before entering the pool room, our roles as coach and trainee now firmly back in place. My steps slowed as I turned to him.

“I’ll hang back,” I said, my weariness of the press still gripping me. No one seemed to recognize me yet, and Jimin was an effective buffer. “Go and play nice.”

He flashed me a grin. “I’m an American sweetheart, angel. The people love me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, sweetheart, you better start talking. We’ve got warm-ups to do. Unless you want to cramp up and lose. If that’s your plan, be my guest.”

As Jimin charmed the cameras, I mentally reviewed our plan for the day. Regardless of the outcome, we were hitting the town for food and drinks. It was a perfect way to build rapport and expand our network. The more connections we made, the more likely someone would pass our name to a sponsor.

It struck me as odd that Jimin wasn’t a sponsor or ambassador for any major brands despite his popularity. When I asked him about it, he mentioned Hamilton’s belief that endorsements would be a distraction. His mother thought Hamilton was just jealous of Jimin’s success. I had to side with Nayeon on this one.

I was already working on securing a deal with Nike or Adidas. Their sportswear was among the most recognized worldwide, and getting Jimin’s face out there would set him up nicely for life after the Olympics. He had at least one, maybe two, more Olympics before retirement, and sponsors could provide the financial cushion he needed while he focused on swimming.

I’d reached out to an old contact at Speedo, who was eager to get the endorsement process rolling. Miguel, the rep I’d always dealt with, was thrilled about the newest hot swimmer in town. A shipment of gear was on its way, and I was awaiting confirmation from advertising about a potential campaign. I hadn’t anticipated this, but Speedo seemed eager to be one of Jimin’s first endorsements. I planned to discuss it with him once the charity event was over.

“Ready?”

I jumped, Jimin’s laugh ringing in my ears. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I teased. “Laugh it up. Just take off your clothes and get in the water.”

Jimin stuck his tongue out at me, peeling off his jacket and tossing it on his gear bag. His flip-flops followed, and before long, he was in the water. I stood at the edge, watching him as he began his laps. This was more about stretching than training, and I reminded him to take it slow.

The pool began to fill with other swimmers practicing their strokes. Jimin and the others tagged each other in and out, getting used to the relay transitions. I watched with pride. His breaststroke was impressive. His progress was a testament to his hard work, and I felt honored to be part of his journey. Relationship aside, he was dedicated, and it was a pleasure to work with him.

“He looks good,” Coach Tyler Moore said, his gaze fixed on Jimin. “Better than when he was with that other guy. Kid’s a beast.”

“Good for a short guy,” Nicole, another coach, joked.

Jimin’s height was always a topic of discussion. His shorter stature seemed to be a disadvantage, especially against the taller Olympic swimmers. Most of the men in the category were at least six feet tall, and the women were often taller than Park, myself included.

“He’s a great swimmer,” I replied. “He’s fast and strong. Could probably bench-press a bear if he tried.”

Tyler chuckled. “Do you think he’ll place at the Olympics?”

I nodded. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Girl’s a recluse,” a familiar dry voice drawled beside me.

I chuckled. Summer Lewis, an old friend from high school, had unexpectedly shown up. It was a welcome surprise that eased some of my nerves.

“Thought hell would freeze over before she was back in public,” Summer said. “Do you even leave the house?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Obviously. I’m here right now.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing at me as the others dispersed to speak with reporters. “Leg holding up?”

“Yeah. I still get some pain, especially in the cold, but I’m managing. Alive, so I can’t complain too much.”

The same couldn’t be said for Namjoon. I pushed that thought aside. There was no room for survivor’s guilt today. I was happy. Everything was coming together. He would be happy for me. But he’s dead.

I took a deep breath, my anxiety escalating. The reporters were closing in, and the thought of interacting with them made me physically ill. My stomach churned, and I fought to keep the panic at bay. It was irrational, but I was sweating like a pig.

“Do you miss it?” Summer asked, gesturing toward the pool.

“All the time,” I admitted, a bead of sweat trickling down my neck. “Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick. Let Park know if he starts looking for me.”

Summer nodded. “We’ll be starting in ten.”

“I’ll be back before then.”

Jimin looked my way as I glanced back at him. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I nodded in return, signaling that I’d be back shortly. He needed to stay focused on the water and his team.

I squeezed my hand into a fist, tucking my thumb underneath my index finger and popping it through the other side. I waved my wrist, signaling that I needed to use the restroom. He nodded, and I saw him relax a bit. Good. I just needed a few minutes to collect myself.

I splashed water on my face, my reflection in the bathroom mirror staring back at me. Today was overwhelming. My anxiety was through the roof, and the makeup on my face felt like a mask. It looked fine, as it always did, but it only made me feel more insecure. I looked like I was trying too hard, and everyone knew it. God, I was such an idiot.

And then there was Jimin.

I let a single tear slip. It was inappropriate and disrespectful. He was so nervous and scared, and I’d brushed off his vulnerability because of what? I hadn’t had any in a while? I was no better than the men I despised.

I gave myself two minutes to cry, letting the guilt and shame flow out. Once my watch beeped, I dabbed my face with tissues and fixed my hair. Whatever was going on with me would have to wait. Jimin was counting on me.

As I opened the bathroom door, I collided with a solid chest. I stumbled back, barely catching myself on the wall. The person I bumped into remained still.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, adjusting my clothes. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

The voice was unmistakable. 

Standing in front of me was Matthew Hamilton, his blonde hair starting to silver and slicked back with too much hairspray. His pale blue eyes, devoid of warmth, still unsettled me. He was built like an ox and as healthy as ever, but age was catching up.

“Good to see you, Otter,” he said, his tone dripping with boredom. “Seems like you got stuck with my leftovers.”

I was too furious to speak. How dare he speak about Jimin like that? I had to hold myself together before I lost control. I was already at my breaking point, and his condescending attitude was the last straw.

“Too bad they couldn’t find a swimmer up to your caliber,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the offense. “Even with a limp, you deserve better than Park. Kid’s got no spirit, and don’t even get me started on the drinking.”

I scoffed. “Jimin doesn’t drink.”

“Not anymore, maybe,” Hamilton said casually, as if trying to make small talk. “He used to drink like a fish until his brother died. Working with him was a nightmare. Glad you’re not dealing with that shit with your bum leg.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my leg,” I snapped, at least making him look slightly chastised. “And for the record, that ‘nightmare’ you keep talking about beat your personal best in his last competition. So if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to a has-been who doesn’t know when to shut up.”

I shoved past him, barely moving him an inch. My steps were heavy as I stalked down the hallway, my anger searing through me. I knew my face betrayed my emotions, and the cameras would catch every detail. It was almost enough to make me turn back and hide in the bathroom.

But I had someone counting on me, and he was far more important than protecting my pride.

Jimin was standing with the group when I returned, three minutes to spare. He clocked something was off right away, and so did Summer.

“What crawled up your ass?” she asked.

“Some dumb bitch,” I huffed, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself. “I bumped into an asshole on my way out of the bathroom.”

“Are you okay?” Nicole asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Do we need to tell security?”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. I think I gave him enough of an earful to keep him the hell away from me.”

I didn’t want to reveal who had bothered me. It would only cause unnecessary drama and upset Jimin. We had an event to focus on. 

“Let's go over the plan one more time.” 

Taking over as head coach, I directed the team. The others were happy to hand over the reins, and the boys took direction well. We reviewed the order of events, their best times, and their confidence levels. After a pep talk and some words of encouragement, it was time for the boys to swim.

Jimin was third in our group of four, and I watched him intensely. How well he performed today would set the tone for the rest of the season. He was signed up to compete in the breaststroke event at the Olympics, along with other solo swimming events. I knew just how skeptical people were about his chances. Today’s performance could reignite interest in him, which was crucial for securing sponsors.

Jimin took his place on the block, laser-focused and ready to dive in as soon as Trey tagged him. Trey was the fastest in the pool today, giving Jimin a head start before the others were halfway back across.

I held my breath. Jimin was a bullet in the water. Not as perfect as I wanted, but much improved. He reached the touchpad and pushed himself back across the pool. Team 3 was catching up, but Jimin would finish first. I watched as he gave one final push and tagged in D’Angelo.

Take that, you old bastard, I sneered internally. My anger surprised me; Hamilton deserved my contempt. No one gets to talk about Jimin like that. Ever.

D’Angelo butterflied us to victory. Our team hugged each other as the announcer declared our win to the cheering crowd. The bleachers were filled, the audience screaming their praise at the four men. They basked in the glory. All I could do was stare at my pretty boy’s smile in awe.

I really did love him.

Even if I didn’t tell him right now, I knew in my heart that I did. I went up against Matthew fucking Hamilton for him, came to this charity function, and kept it together. Now, I was going to talk to some news reporters, all because I loved him.

I love him, I love him, I love him…

“You’re a damn good coach, Y/N.”

I turned to smile at Summer. She was beautiful, her brown eyes warm and kind. She reminded me of Giselle, but her features were sharper, her nose broader. I remembered us cutting up after placing in nationals right after we turned 21. I hadn’t thought about her in so long I forgot what it was like to miss her.

“So are you. D’Angelo is one of the best I’ve seen for his age group. How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Turning seventeen next month. Hope he’ll be Olympics-ready next time, but I don’t know if he’ll stick with it.”

“He will. You can see it in his eyes.”

D’Angelo was talking to Jimin, the high schooler bubbly and starry-eyed. He had a slight stutter and kept apologizing about his tics. D’Angelo had Tourette’s and clicked his tongue and winked a lot. He attached himself to Jimin once they got comfortable, and my boyfriend told me he had followed the younger swimmer on social media.

“Where does he go to school?”

“Pioneer High,” she replied. “His family moved to Ann Arbor a few weeks ago. He was going to school out here in Allendale.”

What a small world.

“Does he need a new coach?” I asked. “I’m out in Saline. It’s only twenty minutes away from Ann Arbor.”

Summer seemed excited about the prospect of us working together. She said this was their last meet as coach and student, and she was sad to see him go since he was the only person serious about swimming professionally on their team. I gave her my contact information and asked her to pass it on to D’Angelo’s parents. I saw potential in him and wanted to keep that fire in his eyes.

“He’s going to be so excited.”

“Well, he’ll have to wait until after the Olympics,” I reminded her. “I’m up to my neck in work right now.”

“What about weekends?” she countered.

“Maybe Saturday,” I sighed. “We’ll see. I’m not sure if I want to commit to it right now. I’ll be in hell until July. Between Nationals and all the other competitions Hamilton signed him up for, we’re not getting any breaks.”

Summer hummed, eyeing the reporters. They had gone to speak with the boys, all of whom seemed eager to share their happiness about the win. St. Jude’s would be getting a hundred thousand dollars from today’s event. Reaching into my pocket, I asked Summer if she had recorded the race.

“Nicole did,” she told me. “She sent it to the group chat already.”

“Excellent,” I grinned. “Jimin’s mom wanted to see him swim. She was so disappointed she couldn’t come.”

I felt Summer watching me as I unlocked my phone. Watching the video, I was pleased at how well-shot it was. You could see all of our boys on full display. I thanked Nicole for the video and saved it. Pulling up Neyeon’s number, I sent the video and promised her to have Jimin call her as soon as he was available.

“You two together?”

I looked at Summer, keeping my face neutral.

“Sorry if I’m overstepping,” she laughed. “It’s just…you two seem very close.”

I raised an eyebrow. Lying wasn’t something I did often, and this felt wrong but necessary. I didn’t want anyone to know about us. It took one person saying the wrong thing, and we’d be up shit’s creek come July. Our relationship was frowned upon by SafeSport and would be considered imbalanced.

“We’re not.”

Summer did not look convinced.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Y/N. You’re just a trainer while he’s still in Michigan. A stand-in until Bunch finds him a new coach. We all know that, and you’re not breaking the code of conduct.”

“I’m not a temp,” I sighed. “We haven’t disclosed anything yet. I wanted to wait until after the Olympics, but I’m afraid I’ll have to step down before that happens.”

Summer placed a hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be in Colorado in April, right? Tell Bunch your job as coach is over and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

“You don’t get it,” I shook my head. “Ozzie wants me to be his permanent coach. That’s been the expectation this entire time, and I know Jimin would want the same.”

“Well, he can’t have his cake and eat it too,” she said, glancing at the reporters. “Get him to understand the position you’d be in. I’m sure if you told him your romantic relationship would make you look bad, then he’d be more willing to get help elsewhere.”

“He wants to finish the season with me by his side. It was the only compromise he was willing to listen to.”

“Put your foot down. Find other options. Christmas is around the corner. Spring won’t be too long after that. You should step down before Oswald finds out. Don’t screw yourself over, babe. You’ve worked too hard for this to let some kid take it away from you.”

I snorted, “He’s not doing anything wrong.”

“No,” she argued. “He’s being selfish. You both are.”

I knew she was right. I should have waited until I was no longer attached to him in this way before starting anything. I knew it from the beginning, and I still allowed myself to be in this position. Summer had a point. Finding him a permanent coach before we went to Colorado in April was a good idea. If I was just a trainer, then nothing would be inappropriate, and I could still help him out in the gym.

“Are you looking for anything?” I joked.

Summer laughed. “Girl, I’d love to work with that boy, but I don’t think we’d line up this year. I have kids now. I can email you a few recommendations.”

“Thanks, Summer. I don’t know how big of a deal it’s going to be, but I’ll talk to Bunch about it.”

“Anytime, Otter. I’m just speaking from my experiences. He might tell you something different. Don’t spiral over it. I know you.”

I always hated that stupid nickname, but I had to put on a smile. Cameras were coming our way, and I needed to be sure I was on my best behavior. For Jimin’s sake.

The interview went better than I expected. I didn’t have to talk about myself a single time, and it didn’t look like any of the reporters here knew who I was. It wasn’t pleasant, but I couldn’t complain. We spoke for five minutes before they moved on to the others. Taking that as my cue, I went to collect my athlete.

We had a lot to talk about tonight.

Jimin smiled when I approached. The other three boys greeted me just as eagerly, and I was more than happy to hand out my praises. D’Angelo and Trey went to mingle with the losing teams. Paul went to find Nicole, leaving Jimin and me alone.

“You look upset,” he said, handing his duffle bag over when I held out my hand. “Something the matter?”

“No,” I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to you later.”

“Is it bad?”

“Not bad,” I reassured him. “Something private. I don’t want to do it here.”

“Okay, Coach.”

That night, as I lay in bed, I thumbed through the email Summer had sent me earlier. Jimin had been invited out with the other boys, and I had pushed him to go. I told him I had paperwork and reports to handle, that he should enjoy his night off. He seemed reluctant but left anyway.

The truth was, I wasn't ready to have this conversation with him. Every time I tried to bring up our relationship, he brushed it off, saying he was fine with waiting until after the Olympics. But I knew better. It would look worse if we waited until he won a medal to disclose everything. I was his coach, temporary or otherwise, and it was my responsibility to make sure boundaries weren't crossed.

I should have never come here. Not when I knew exactly how I felt about him before I did. I was such an idiot.

Finally, ready to face the music, I called Ozzie. It was still early in Colorado, but I knew he'd answer. I never called him unless it was important. Maybe, if I was lucky, Whitney would pick up, and I could chat with her first. She always had a way of helping me get my head straight before unleashing my worries on Ozzie.

"Hello?" No such luck tonight.

"Hey, Oz," I greeted, the worry in my voice making me want to hang up. "How are you?"

"Fine. What's wrong, Otter?"

I sighed, "I fucked up."

"Tell me about it."

So I did. I spent half an hour unloading everything that had happened since I moved to Michigan. How attracted I was to Jimin, but how I pushed those feelings aside to coach him. The months of slowly building longing. Sushi night in Detroit. The date when I came back from visiting home. The kiss on his couch. The brief sexual encounter this morning (though I left out most of those details). I told him everything.

To his credit, Oswald just listened. He only spoke every so often to clarify something or ask about a small detail I left out. As my story came to a close, the pit in my stomach felt like someone was sitting on me. My hands began to tremble.

"I'm so sorry, Ozzie," I cried. "You trusted me, and I fucked it all up."

"You didn't do anything wrong," he finally said, his voice soft and gentle. "Summer was being dramatic earlier. What you two do is your business as long as you disclose it."

"But-"

"Katinka Hosszú and Shane Tusup are married. Coach-athlete relationship. They've disclosed it, and they're fine. You and Park are doing the same thing. I'll let everyone else know, and you'll be fine once the Olympics come around."

"I just don't want to be a bad person, Oz."

"You're not," he soothed. "You did the right thing by telling me. I'm happy for you, Y/N. You've been alone for too long, and that kid needs someone like you in his corner. He's been through a lot."

Wiping my face, his words brought back my encounter with Hamilton. The words he used to describe Jimin were so far from reality, but I still couldn't find it in me to not believe him. Matthew was a jerk, a stupid one at that, but he was sincere in his annoyance.

"I ran into Hamilton today. He said some shitty things about Jimin. Called him a drunk."

Ozzie cursed under his breath.

My heart rate sped up. So it was true? But that didn't make sense. Jimin didn't even drink. I had never heard of a drunk who didn't drink. Unless he was in recovery.

I thought about my dad. He'd been sober for five years now. It was one of the only compliments I could give his new wife. She kept him on the straight and narrow. Imagining Jimin in my childhood basement, too drunk to stand up, crying for a wife that wasn't coming back felt wrong. I could never put him in that position. That wasn't him at all.

"That's something you should talk to him about."

"But it's true?"

"To an extent," Ozzie admitted. "I wouldn't call him a drunk, but the kid can hold his liquor. He was worse a few years ago, but he's been great for a long time. Hamilton is just exaggerating."

But I had a gut feeling he wasn't.

"Thanks for talking to me, Oz."

"Anytime, Y/N," he chuckled. "And delete that damn email. He doesn't need a new coach. You're working magic on him."

"Night."

"Night."

Tossing my phone on the bed, I slammed my laptop shut and put it on the nightstand. Today had been a disaster. We came here and won, did exactly as well as I had hoped, but it felt hollow. I didn't know who to believe. Summer's concerns were valid from an academic coach's perspective, and I understood her worries. It was strange to me as well. Ozzie was a far more reliable source, but it felt too easy. Things were never that simple for me, and it was difficult to calm down enough to believe what he said.

Curling into a ball, I stared at the front door. He'd be back soon, and I'd have to explain my strange mood. I knew he'd be upset with me for sending him away after saying we needed to talk, but I hoped he'd forgive me once I explained why I needed space to think. So many decisions needed to be made, and I knew I would only hurt him if I tried to do anything before screwing my head back on.

For now, I decided to go by Ozzie's advice. If any issues came up, we'd deal with them together. As a team. Jimin would prefer it that way, and I could take some of the pressure off my shoulders.

A beep. A wiggle. Another beep. The door opened.

"Stupid keycard doesn't work right," Jimin grumbled to himself, slipping out of his shoes. "I knew there was a reason it was so cheap."

I slowly sat up and watched him. His hair was in his eyes, and his skin looked a little pale, but he seemed to be in a good mood. I couldn't smell alcohol either.

I wanted to punch myself in the face.

I wasn't ready for that conversation yet, but I knew avoiding it would only make things worse. If I let my mind wander, it would spin the worst story ever told, and I'd constantly be checking to make sure he wasn't drunk.

Jimin didn't drink, I told myself. Jimin's been doing great.

He went straight to the bathroom, giving me a few minutes to collect myself. I needed to be honest but cautious. If I told him word-for-word what Hamilton had said, it would only make him feel bad. Starting with the good news first might help. Maybe learning that we didn't have to hide our relationship status going forward would ease the sting of his old coach's words.

I would have to approach this delicately. The toilet flushed. The water ran. The bathroom door opened. It was showtime.

"Had fun?" I asked him, knees pressed against my chest.

He smiled at me, "They're all really nice. Wish you were there."

"Next time," I promised. "Want to put the TV on?"

Jimin shrugged, "Sure. Food Network?"

"Chopped might be on."

It was actually Iron Chef, but we both liked that show too, so we kept it on. I tried not to stare at Jimin as he got undressed. He only wore a shirt and boxers to sleep, so it was very distracting. I needed to be focused and ready for anything.

Climbing into bed, he wrapped an arm around my waist and buried his face into my side. I was still sitting up, cradling my legs, but Jimin's whining finally got me to relax. Sliding down, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him throw the blanket over me.

This was my happy place.

"I missed you," he mumbled, fingers playing with my hair.

"I missed you too," I told him. "Sorry I've been weird."

"What's wrong, angel?"

I felt my eyes welling up. "Good or bad?"

"Good."

I took a deep breath.

"I told Coach Bunch about our relationship. He said we'll be fine, and he's going to put in a disclosure form with the board for us. We'll probably get an email to sign a few documents in a couple of days."

He kissed my forehead, a large, toothy grin overtaking his entire face. I couldn't help but smile back. I knew it would make him happy. Gripping my hair, he yanked my head forward for a kiss. He couldn't stop smiling even as our lips collided. His joy eased some of my anxiety about the conversation that was to come.

"I'm so happy right now," he giggled, kissing me again. "I can finally show you off like the pretty girl you are."

Relenting, I tightened my grip around him. I needed to focus on the good. Jimin wasn't going to get mad at me for being honest, and I had to hope Hamilton being a jerk wouldn't burst our perfectly formed bubble.

"I ran into Coach Hamilton today."

Jimin's smile dropped in sync with my heart.

"He said some things," I averted my gaze. "It upset me. That was my issue when I came back from the bathroom."

"What did he say?"

I shook my head, "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."

Jimin cupped my cheek.

"You were upset before you went. Why?"

I sighed, burying my face in his neck. It was easier to talk to him when I didn't feel his eyes on me. It never ended. The anxiety. The shame. The guilt.

"I just felt so bad about the bathroom thing. You told me to drop it, but it's still there. I don't want to make you feel pressured. I want you to feel loved when I touch you. I just want to make you feel good, Jimin."

"You do," he soothed, kissing my head. "You make me feel amazing. There's nothing wrong with the things we do. We're going to be okay."

I couldn't help but cry. I loved him so much. I could never, ever, let him go. He was everything I ever wanted. Perfect.

"And then, here comes this goddamn asshole," I cried, the words spilling out of me like a busted dam. I was past the point of no return, the fury and frustration rolling off me in waves. Any semblance of calm had fled, replaced by a raw, unfiltered torrent of emotion. 

"He kept yammering about my 'bum leg,' saying you were no good, calling you a drunk. I don't know what came over me, but I just snapped. I never lose it like that, but I did. And now, I feel like I've ruined everything—your meet, your moment. And to top it all off, I went behind your back and talked to Ozzie—"

"Stop." Jimin's hands were on my face, his grip firm but gentle, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Stop it. Please, don't hide from me. You didn't ruin anything, angel. I promise. I'm so happy we won, and you talking to Bunch is the best gift anyone’s ever given me."

I shook my head, unable to accept his words. The day had spiraled into a nightmare, and I felt responsible for every second of it. I couldn't celebrate with him, couldn't touch him, couldn't even look at him. I was a failure. I was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. I was going to ruin his career. His life. His—

"One," he took a deep breath. "Two," then another. "Three," he kissed my forehead. "Come on, angel girl. Breathe with me."

I blinked, following his lead. One deep breath in. One big exhale out. One breath in. One breath out. One, two, three, four; five. Ten, nine, eight, seven; six. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

"There you go," Jimin mumbled. "Just calm down. I'm not mad. I promise you I'm not mad."

I nodded, my breath catching up with me. With my head cleared, the weight of my earlier words hit me like a sledgehammer. So much for being gentle and kind. I wanted to punch myself in the face. God, I was a horrible girlfriend.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "That was unnecessary. And selfish. And wrong. I promised myself I'd stay calm, and then I just freaked out on you."

Sitting up, I wiped my face roughly, angry at my tears. I was too old to act like this when I was upset. I needed to learn how to stay composed and communicate. No one wants to deal with a crybaby who explodes all the time.

"It's okay to be upset," he replied. "That's a lot to handle alone, and you did so well today. I want you to know you can have these moments with me. It's what I'm here for."

"But you shouldn’t have to."

"I want to," he said, grabbing my face again. I hadn’t realized I had looked away. "I want to because I love you."

Automatically, I laughed. My disbelief was so great I was positive Ashton Kutcher would jump out of the bathroom and tell me I was getting Punk’d. But this wasn’t 2003. It was 2024, and no one had thought about that blemish on MTV’s record in over a decade. This was just me and Jimin in our hotel room, and he was telling me something profound, and all I could do was laugh.

He cracked a smile. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I shook my head, almost giddy with joy. "Nothing. I don’t know why I can’t stop laughing."

His smile widened. Sitting up, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. I squeaked, giggled, and threw myself at him.

My mood swings had to be exhausting. I knew I had to be as well.

But he loved me. Jimin loved me. Even if I was the most exhausting girlfriend, he loved me.

"I love you," he repeated, his eyes soft and glowing with unmistakable fondness. "I don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that."

"I love you, too," I whispered back like a secret. "I’m sorry."

He shook his head. "Don’t feel bad for telling me these things. You’re not ruining anything for me. I’m just happy you’re giving me the privilege to hold you when you’re down. You’re a suffer-in-silence type."

I snorted. "Woe is me."

Jimin leaned back and took me with him. Laying across his chest, I got comfortable and stared at him. He was the prettiest man I had ever seen. He needed a haircut soon. It was past his ears and too hard for him to manage. I’d let him go early next week so he could fit in a trip to the barber.

"There’s nothing wrong with your leg, by the way."

I snickered. "I told him the same thing. May or may not have called him a has-been, too."

That made Jimin laugh. The sound was like music. I loved it when he was happy. I was worried he was putting his feelings aside to make me feel better, but I had to force myself to let him come to me on his own time. Whatever Jimin wanted was what I wanted, and if he wasn’t ready to tell me about his past yet, I would accept that.

Because I loved him. And he loved me. I smiled. He loves me.

"You have questions, right?"

"About the drunk comment? Sure, but you don’t have to say anything. You can talk to me or not, and I’ll still be here."

He regarded me for a moment before nodding. "Thank you."

I simpered. "You’re welcome."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Wanting to break the tension, I made a show of stretching my arms above my head. Yawning melodramatically, I curled up against his side. Jimin’s arms wrapped around my waist as if they were always meant to be there. As it turned out, a new episode of Chopped had come on.

Jimin was very pleased with this, and we lapsed into a comfortable silence as we watched the chefs open their baskets. We had gotten lucky enough to only miss the introductions. For their appetizer basket, they got mofongo (something I had never heard of before), English peas, sparkling cider, and catfish filets. I marveled at the ingredients. I would have been utterly clueless.

"What’s mofongo made of?" I asked Jimin.

"Mashed up fried plantains," he replied calmly. "They put garlic paste and chicharron in it. You’d usually eat it with beef broth, but it can change depending on the recipe. It’s a Puerto Rican dish. I only heard about it after swimming with Luis Rivera at Nationals. It’s really good."

"It sounds good. Summer? Her family is Nigerian, and if we were lucky, her mother would bring these massive pots of food to our training sessions when we were in the U.S. Olympic swimming team back in 2012. I dream about her jollof rice. And the soups? Don't even get me started."

I watched as one chef used the mofongo to create a marinade for his catfish and raised an eyebrow. Points off for lack of creativity. Another person had taken the mofongo and turned it into a thick gravy. Both seemed like safe choices, but at least they were using it. The other chef hadn’t even touched it. They were very focused on a pot of boiling potatoes and frying the fish.

"Boiling more potatoes seems pointless," I muttered.

"Let him cook."

I snorted. "Yes, sir."

Jimin was right, of course. A few moments later, the man was mixing the potatoes and mofongo together to make a hybrid of sorts. After that, he assembled his fish pie. He used the cider to make a base gravy for the fish and peas, added in a few other veggies for more flavor, and piled on the potatoes. I did not think I would like the flavor of fish with heaps of mash on them, but it looked delicious as he plated them. Far better than the other two’s strange and avant-garde style.

It just wasn’t something I would consider an appetizer.

"That’s an entire meal," Jimin scoffed. "He’s going home."

"Get out of my head, kid."

He kissed my cheek. "Make me."

"Punk."

"You love me."

"I do."

"Say it again," he giggled.

I rolled my eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he sighed happily. "I’m so happy I can just say that now. You have no idea how hard it’s been to just... not say it."

I thought about the semi-panic attack I had in Hoseok’s car and laughed. He had no idea how much I understood where he was coming from.

"Say it as much as you want, love," I kissed the underside of his chin.

We had both been right. The judges thought the pie was too much to be an appetizer. 

The hiss of the shower jolted me awake, the sound slicing through the thick, restless silence of the early morning. I fumbled groggily for my phone. The screen lit up: 3:17 AM. The bed beside me was a cold, empty expanse, and a tight knot of worry coiled in my gut. I slipped out of bed, the chill of the floor biting at my feet, and crept toward the bathroom door.

“Chim?” I called softly, barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile night.

“Yeah?” His voice was close, too close to the door for him to be in the shower. 

“Can I come in?” 

The moment of silence that followed was heavy, like the air before a storm. Then came the soft click of the lock, and the door creaked open just enough for me to see him. As I’d feared, he was still fully clothed, slumped on the toilet with that distant, haunted look I’d hoped never to see again. It had been months since he’d looked this lost.

I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, the small space barely accommodating us. We were so close our knees touched, but I didn’t care. He needed me, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on some dark chasm only he could see. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady drip of the showerhead. Eventually, he reached over and turned off the water. The steam billowed around us, wrapping us in a dense fog.

"Her name was Jackie," he said finally, his voice a whisper lost in the fog. "She was a friend of Annie’s. We were in college, and Annie practically forced us to go out so she could double date with Tom."

I hummed softly, encouraging him to continue. I didn’t understand why Jackie was surfacing now, but I had a sinking feeling she was the girl he’d mentioned earlier—the one who had made him feel small and worthless. Jackie. What a godawful name.

“She was one of those people who wore a mask around her friends and was someone else entirely when we were alone. I was 18, and she was pretty, so I let it slide. We had things in common, and we laughed a lot.”

He paused, drawing a shaky breath. “Her friends thought I was weird and didn’t want her with me. They’d been tight since middle school and still acted like high school mean girls. I didn’t care much for them either, but Jackie always said she didn’t care what they thought.”

My heart twisted in my chest. I had a gut-wrenching feeling where this was going, and it made me sick. My poor baby. I placed a hand on his knee in a futile attempt to comfort him.

“We’d been seeing each other for a few months, but we hadn’t done more than a few kisses and hugs. I was gearing up for my first professional championship swim meet, and she was buried in schoolwork. Double major or something, I don’t really remember.”

He took another deep breath. “Our clothes were off, and I was so nervous. She seemed okay with it. We just got dressed and watched a movie. We both knew that things weren’t going anywhere.”

“That’s normal, Jimin,” I murmured, trying to fill the void of silence. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He shook his head. “She told her friends, who told their friends, who then told everyone in my frat about what happened. Then she was too much of a coward to face me and acted like nothing had ever happened. I was humiliated, mortified. I just didn’t want to have sex anymore. The drinking started after, but that was more a side effect of being in a fraternity with undiagnosed depression.”

I was at a loss for words, so I stood up. Jimin watched me as I lowered myself onto his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him tight.

Even if it wasn’t some grotesque horror story, it was still a deep, festering wound. Trauma was trauma, regardless of its shape or size. This morning had uncovered more than either of us was willing to admit.

For Jimin, it was confronting his fears of rejection. For me, it was the struggle to finally move on from guilt and shame. Namjoon's face came to mind, and I had to make my brain stop itself from going there. He would want me to be happy. He would want me to live. I relaxed into him, hoping that we could both find a way to heal.

Jimin sucked in a few deep breaths before his arms enveloped my waist. He hiccuped once, then twice, and finally, he began to cry.

I buried my face in his hair, my own tears mingling with his. It was heart-wrenching to see him in such pain, but I felt deeply honored that he was finally allowing his walls to come down. For all my talk about suffering in silence, Jimin was far more adept at hiding his pain than I was.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He cried harder and nodded. “I know,” he wailed.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. Holding him in my arms, this beautiful, broken boy, I wished I could keep him locked away in this bathroom forever, safe from the cruelties of the world. I didn’t care if my legs went numb from sitting or if the grip he had on my ribs was starting to hurt. Jimin cried, and I stayed in his lap, a silent promise to be there, come what may.

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