#people having powers is nothing new to her

[sweetandsourspam]

held the broom, too prickly in my hand. old, old broom. had to buy a new one. maybe, maybe. if master gives me money, I will buy one tomorrow.

my three fingers tight around the pole. i had to clean, master says so. i have to clean because today is the day the hero dies. he told me nights ago of his plan, good plan, best plan. he is going to kill the hero, the man who walks like he is a god. master says, there are no gods. i do not know, I do not know. i live in the castle. i clean the castle. that is what I do.

I sweep, sweeps the floor, the stairs. i start up, go down. its better that way, master says, faster. i listen, I listens. i start up, where he has his device. the device that will kill the hero. he will be electrocuted, says master. electrocuted and dead, tonight. oh, tonight! how glorious. master has been waiting for a chance to kill him, and tonight is the night.

I sweeps the stairs. nasty, dusty stairs. too many. but I work. it is sundown, I must hurry. hurry because master is pacing upstairs, awaiting. the hero will come, he says, because he has taken something precious from him. i laugh when he laughs, but do not know what is funny. it is funny, master says, because he has a weakness. do not know why its funny, but it's funny. i sweep.

the night goes on. i hear rumbling, the sun hero is near. i seen him shoot light from his hands. mage, mage! master says no, he is not like him, he is different. bad and different. good, good person. he must die. he stands in the way of master's plan to take the crown. what crown, what crown! i know nothing, but I know master is smart and will do it.

oh, stain. on the stairs. not good. everything has to be perfect. master said nothing about mops, but I do. a stain will ruin everything. it will be quick, fast. i know how to do this, quick quicks. i set broom down, walk to my closets. filled with dusters, brooms, rakes, and mops. easy job, too easy. i grab a bucket, fill halfway with water and soap. easy, the stain will be gone soon.

i hear steps, but i have to clean. the hero knows me, knows I do the cleaning. he will not bother me, he never does. if the hero flew, he would have zipped past me, but he does not. he walks.

"wet, wet!"

"hello, odo," says the hero. he is dressed in tunic, hair golden even in the dark. i am mopping, I turn my back.

"wet!"

"there is a mob behind me."

i groans, loud and wailing. mob means people, and people means messes. the castle is already hard to clean, and I am one goblin. my legs hurt and there are too many stairs. too many stairs and too many people who will make a mess! stupid hero!

"It would be wise if the Dark Lord surrenders."

I cannot tell master what to do. i put my mop against the wall.

"Pass, wretched hero, pass!"

"Thank you, odo. I'm sorry, but I must put a stop to whatever devious plan he has constructed now."

"Pass, pass!"

i can hear the crowd climbing up the stairs, heavy steps. they are here to stop master, but I do not intervene. i never do. i clean, I cleans, and then I wait until they leave to begin again. the hero nods at me, one time. he thinks we are friends. we are not. i glower at him, at everyone coming up the stairs.

i was staring at the crowd coming up that I missed it, but everyone stopped in shock. the hero, he does not fly, he walks. he is a man, a real man, but he has powers. but he is a man. his tunic got caught in a splint of my broom. it goes up, up and crosses his ankle. he stumbles up the step, tries to pry the broom away from his feet, but it breaks. he is a strong man. it breaks, and he stumbles again, this time to the side. the crowd gasps. he holds himself up, but the mop, in a disarray, falls and pokes his back. he tried to straighten up, but perhaps the mop in his back scared him, and he went forward again. too forward.

the is no rails in the spiral staircase. i am three feet, small, small. it is hard to walk if you are taller, dizzying. master goes up easy, he's lived here too long. but the hero, he only comes in to stop master. he is not used to the stairs. he stumbles too forward, tries to grab something, and falls. the spiral staircase, filled with his mob, watch as the hero falls down the space, the void. everyone watches, jaws slacked, as he keeps going, going, going, until the thud resonates between the walls.

i grab my broken broom, shouting. he brokes it! he brokes it when I was not finished. the castle would not be clean in time for master's plan, his great plan. I pick up my mop, almost falling into the same void. I shout again.

"Rotten, stupid hero! Rotten, ugly hero! My brooms! My mops!"

"is he dead?" Someone asked.

Murmurs, murmurs. Then they panic, shouting. they are scrambling to leave.

"The Dark Lord!" someone shouts, and their screams are louder. I shout at them.

they are fast, but safe, they go down, downs. until their steps sound far away.

master is at the top of the stars, eyes hard. "Odo," he begins. "Where is he?"

"Bottom, bottoms!"

"Is he alive?"

I looks down. there are people around the hero, picking him up. there is a dark stain around him, too much blood. no broom, but I have mop.

"The hero is dead," someone shouts from below. why, why. i do not know. I scrub the stain on the stairs.

"Odo, you bumbling baffoon!" master shouts. he is rushing down the steps. he is used to them, knows which one is shorter than the others. he does not trip. "You killed him!"

"no, nos! no, master. he fell," I says. master is fast, upon me. his hand raised to hit, i drop my mop. "master, no! honest, honest. he tripped! stupid, stupid hero! he was not looking down! he trips and he fells. he did not look before he stepped! i swears!'

master lowers his hand. he is shaking with anger, eyes red. he wanted to be the one to kill the hero, I knows. i knows because it is all he says.

"Perhaps this is not the way the prophecy fortold," master says. "But, it will do. Odo, you degenerate, deformed. bastard. Come with me," he turned. "We must start the next phase of my plan."

I look at my mop, my broken broom. I need to clean, cleans the blood and the stain on the stairs. i have to cleans, but master yells at me to follow him.

I hobble up the stairs, legs hurting.

"yes, masters. yes. let's finish the plan," I says. it makes master laugh, and I do too, though I do not know why it is funny.

You are a lowly goblin with a mop that accidentally triggers a series of impossible rue goldberg interactions that ends with the demise of the fabled hero of light in the most anti-climatic way possible. Both the hero's party and the evil lord stand in shocked silence.

[prythianpages]

Come Back To Me | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Experiencing some pregnancy complications, Azriel is left with no choice but to seek out Eris for help.

a/n: This is pt 10 and a little under 4.5K words. It's nearly 1am where I live but I couldn't help myself & needed to finish this lol.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, mentions of high risk pregnancy, things get a little tense between Eris and Az

Shadows clouded around Eris, blurring his vision and muffling his hearing. Even his keen sense of smell was dulled as Azriel’s shadows coiled around him further. It infuriated him—the lengths the shadowsinger was going to protect your location from him. Your mate.

Azriel had made certain there would be no trail for Eris to follow after this. Not scent, not sound. Not even magic as Azriel had forced him into a bargain, the ink etched onto his arm fresh and burning. Azriel would bring him to you to aid in your situation, but only under strict conditions: Eris would remain only for as long as Azriel allowed and under no circumstance would he be permitted to take you back with him.

Two of the shadows bound themselves around his wrists like shackles, pulsing faintly. As if the bargain was not enough for Azriel. It didn’t matter. His shadows were not enough to suppress the power simmering just beneath his skin. Eris could have fought against the makeshift shackles, easily burning the dark tendrils away. He didn’t though. If the shadows hadn’t picked up on it, he knew it was smarter to let Azriel think they could actually suppress his power.

When the shadows blinding his sight finally lifted from his eyes, Eris found himself standing in a hallway. The first thing he saw was an older fae woman approaching. She wore plain robes, the symbol of a healer embroidered in silver thread on her sleeve. Her gaze landed on Azriel first, the two of them exchanging a look.

Eris’s patience frayed with each second of silence. Azriel had told him almost nothing—only that it urgently concerned you and the baby. And his mind had done the rest, conjuring horrors, each one worse than the last.

“Where is she?” 

The healer didn’t flinch. She must have heard that tone countless times in her line of work. Her eyes swept over him, calm and assessing. “You must be the father,” she replied simply.

The word hit him like a blow. Father. He was going to be a father. A title he didn’t think he would acquire so soon. Though, this wasn’t the reason why he hesitated to answer.

 It was what him claiming that title meant.

To say the words out loud was to admit a truth that carried weight and danger. It meant putting you and the baby in the crosshairs of enemies who would use them against him. He could only put his trust in Azriel to have picked a discreet and trustworthy healer, even though the paranoia in him was screaming not to trust anyone.

There were very few people Eris trusted and Azriel was not one of them. Not even close. But the way Azriel had held you before he took you away, the unquestionable look in his eyes when he showed up in Autumn to bear the bad news…had the Shadowsinger fallen for you?

Eris couldn’t blame him. You were a precious gem. One he failed to treasure and hold onto as he should’ve. Not because he stopped caring but because he found himself caring too damn much.

And now, he has lost you.

Or as he would rather say, he was losing you. He only had himself to blame, realizing the grave mistake he had made. He would never forgive himself for this, for the way he broke you. He’d give anything to go back, to have been brave enough to say those three words back.

The past was done, and now, he had to fight as he was not ready to admit defeat quite yet. Because even if he’d already shattered whatever future you might’ve had, he had to keep trying with all his might. You meant too much for him not to fight for you back. Especially when the one he was fighting against was Azriel—that Illyrian bastard. 

He could lose you and he would have to live with that, if it’s what you wanted. But Eris could not lose you to him.

“I am,” he finally said quietly. He felt as though his throat was closing. His tone was much less demanding when he spoke next. “Who are you?”

The older woman’s lips curved slightly in a polite greeting. “I’m the healer tending to y/n,” she confirmed. “You can call me Madja.”

His eyes flicked to Azriel, who he had no qualms on restraining his emotion on. So he directed all his anger and frustration to the shadowsinger instead. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

It was Madja who answered, her tone somewhat somber. “Come and see for yourself.”

She moved to the door, painfully slow, and Eris nearly shoved it open himself. His chest ached, heart thudding as he stepped into the room.

The sight stole the breath from his lungs.

The room was warm—too warm— and it seemed, all the heat was coming from you. You were submerged in a porcelain bath that stood out like a sore thumb in the room. Barely conscious, your head rested on a pillow cradled in the lap of a woman, who looked similar in appearance to Azriel.

“‘S’hot…” you murmured, moaning in discomfort.

Eris took a step forward instinctively. The shadows binding his wrists tightened. His stomach twisted as he looked you over.  Your skin was flushed and your breathing shallow. You didn’t look good, you looked….

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

The woman behind you lifted a bucket, pouring ice into the tub. He watched as your body slackened with relief and despite the warning of the shadows, he took another step toward you.

That’s when he saw it. 

It wasn't the clearest view, the rippling of water and ice blurring your body. But there was no denying the mottled, angry marks that were spread across your stomach. You were hurt…and the baby…?

“Your fire gremlin is burning her from the inside,” Azriel snarled, venom lacing each word.

“Azriel!” The woman at your side immediately reprimanded.

Eris’s vision tunneled and flames erupted at his fingertips. The shadows at his wrists let out a sharp hiss, immediately fluttering back to their master. So much for pretending. That bastard—that bastard—had the audacity to call his child a gremlin? 

Eris’s head turned, amber eyes blazing as they locked onto the shadowsinger.

But Azriel didn’t flinch as the shadows around his wrist had. If anything, he took a step closer toward Eris. There was a challenge in his stance, his wings flaring just enough.

Madja stepped between them, diffusing the spark before it could become a wildfire. “At first, I thought it was a fever. I tried everything I could think of. The ice baths help… but only temporarily,” her voice was tired, her gaze lowering to Eris’s burning hand. “It seems your child has inherited the fire in your blood. Y/N is being burned from within.”

Burned. By their child.

Eris’s eyes hadn’t moved at all from Azriel’s.  “How long?”

Azriel hesitated, and that hesitation said more than words ever could. His normally unreadable expression cracked, guilt seeping through the breaks. “Three days.”

Three days. Eris’s rage detonated. Three fucking days. Fire burst from his hands now, licking up his forearms in spiraling flares of molten gold and red.

“You waited that long to come for me?”

Azriel’s guilt twisted swiftly into fury. His eyes darkened as he took another step forward. The two males were no more than a foot apart. “Can you blame me?” he shot back, not wincing when he could feel the dangerous heat radiating off of Eris. “All you’ve ever done is hurt her. She’s like this because of you!”

Flames surged higher around Eris while Azriel’s shadows swarmed in a frenzied storm, like a furious hive on the brink of breaking loose. The room quaked beneath the weight of barely restrained power.

“Well, it doesn’t matter who did and didn’t do what,” Madja cut through, once again diffusing the tension. “The damage is being done as we speak. Y/n is in pain and though I’ve been giving her sedatives to ease it, I don’t know how much longer her body can endure this.”

Eris’s flames went out immediately. His heart squeezed so tightly it ached. That’s why he couldn’t feel you through the bond—why your side of it had gone so still. You’d learned how to shut him out but he felt you every now and then. When your emotions were too much to bear on your own, the bond would crack open just enough. You may or may not have known it but he felt those emotions with you.

“And the baby?” Eris asked, voice barely more than a rasp.

“Restless,” Madja said grimly. “But alive for now. If we can’t find a solution, I fear the child’s life will be in danger. Y/n’s body can no longer safely support the child’s growth.”

Eris swallowed. His gaze turned to you. His mate. The one he had pushed away, trying to protect you from the dangerous politics of his court. He had thought distancing himself would save you.

Instead, all it had done was hurt you. And now, it is killing you.

His thoughts raced back to his mother. To her pregnancies, the sleepless nights she had, the ice baths to keep her from overheating. But his mother had come from a family born of fire. Just like his father. Just like him. 

You were not.

This child growing inside you was made of the same flame and now threatening to consume you. 

His hand trembled at his side, helplessness threatening to take hold. A feeling he absolutely hated. Until a thought struck him. A memory. A possibility. Maybe, just maybe...

“I think I know how to help,” he breathed.

Eris crossed the last of the distance between you, dropping to his knees beside the tub. One hand clutched the porcelain edge with white-knuckled desperation, while the other reached for you. Your skin was searing to the touch. Too hot–far too hot.  And terrifyingly wrong, because your skin had always been much cooler beneath his touch. Always.

You whimpered, wincing away from his touch.

Azriel stepped forward then, his shadows slithering like wild snakes across the floor. “What are you doing—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp, near feral, spoken through clenched teeth. Eris’s eyes did not leave you. Fumes released from his body, providing a barrier between him and Azriel’s shadows. A warning.  

The woman beside you must’ve sensed something in Eris’s gaze. Perhaps, it was his desperation or his determination. She gave him a small nod, shifting her legs and adjusting your head carefully. “Tell me what to do.”

“Just hold her still.”

He tried again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. You winced—again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered with a small frown.

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. For letting you go? For not being here sooner? For giving you a child that was hurting you?

He drew a shaky breath, lifting his hand from your face. He conjured a flame onto his palm. It shimmered and twisted until it gathered into a single, pulsing orb of bright red magic. A kernel of his power. He stared at the orb for a second, sending a prayer to the Cauldron, to the Mother, to anyone or anything that would listen. That this time, he could do something right by you.

Then, he released it. The orb floated from his hand and moved toward you. It hovered above your chest and then, slowly sank into your skin.

There was a stillness. A moment when even Azriel’s shadows held their breath.

Then, you exhaled. A soft, low sigh. Your brows unfurrowed, expression smoothing out. The burn marks on your stomach dulled. The fevered flush began to fade from your cheeks. And finally, the ice in the bath stopped melting so quickly.

Eris felt the bond stir.

You were there on the other side again. 

He bowed his head, overcome with relief. A ragged breath left him, silently thanking all entities who heard his prayer. It worked. It had actually worked.

He hadn’t been sure it would. He’d only ever seen something similar like this once. Under the mountain, when his father had given a spark of life to Feyre after she had saved them all. Eris had only hoped that by sharing a kernel of his own power with you, it might do the same. Might change your body, mold it to help carry the fireborn child.

Eris had seen people burn from the inside out before. His own fire could be a gift or a curse depending on how it was wielded. He had never feared it, never hated it. Until now.

Guilt clawed further into his chest. It seemed never-ending at this point. All he seemed to do was bring you pain—trouble after trouble. It’s not like he planned for this. Becoming a father wasn’t something he expected at all. Not now, not yet. And certainly not like this.

None of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to hate him, to move on. He thought if he was cruel enough, you'd leave and eventually, you’d forget him. You’d go live the life you wanted. The one he couldn’t give you. You’d live free from the curse of loving a man like him.

Eris had never intended for you to carry this burden alone. He had intended to be the only one suffering. 

But this fire had already taken root, whether either of you were ready for it or not. 

Parenthood was no longer a distant concept. It was here, knocking at his door, demanding to be faced. With it, came fear. For you. How could something so small and unborn already wield such power?  How could he not have seen this coming?

He remembered his mother having similar troubles but it wasn’t until her last month of pregnancy that they arose. You couldn’t be that far along. He would’ve definitely noticed then as he could pick up on the shift in your scent now.

Had he known the risks you’d undergo, he would’ve done this for you the moment he found out you were pregnant. Without hesitation, without question. He would’ve handed over every last ember of his power, if it meant you wouldn’t suffer.

Madja was at your side, her hand moving across your fevered skin. First your forehead, then your chest, and finally, she dipped her hand beneath the water to feel your stomach. A look of relief crossed her face as she nodded her head.

“The fever is broken. She seems to be stabilizing now.”

“Thank the Mother,” the woman, still holding you, breathed.

Eris didn’t need Madja to know you were feeling better. He could feel it, the bond awake once more. Your breathing grew more steady. Exhaustion now took over your features, body slumping further against the woman.

“Let’s get her out and dressed,” Madja instructed the other woman.

Eris immediately stood on his feet, ready to help.

Madja stopped him. “We can take it from here.”

Eris told himself to not get upset. It’s clear she meant no harm from it. Though Eris has seen you countless of times, he realized that if you were fully conscious, you may not have wanted him to help you dress. So he took a step back and averted his gaze, letting them help you instead.

His eyes found the shadowsinger’s wings.  Azriel, wanting to also protect your decency, had turned his back, facing the wall. Eris’s ears were attentive to the movement behind him. He listened as the women behind him moved and dressed you, bringing you to bed. 

One of his fists clenched in unease when he finally heard you speak, your voice a faint murmur. 

“My baby…is…okay…?”

“Yes, your baby is okay,” he heard Madja comfort you.

“Good,” you breathed. “M’tired…so, so tired…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he heard the other woman, whose name he still hadn’t bothered to ask for. He should, considering how caring and attentive she’s been to you. “You can rest all you need to.”

A strangled noise came from you, a cry from exhaustion.

Eris hadn’t meant to look. His chest flared with protectiveness at the distressing sound you made, his body moving on instinct. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—just for a second—and they widened.

Your undergarments were in place, the women working together to slip a sleeping gown over your body. It wasn’t the sight of your skin that had his eyes widening. it was what had changed.

He knew your body like the back of his hand, had memorized every inch of it with his eyes and lips. He knew it well enough to immediately pick up on the changes. Your hips had widened and stomach rounded, all to accommodate the baby growing inside you. His baby.

The awe that pierced through him was drowned quickly by guilt as the women blocked his view, settling you further onto the bed. When they drew back from you, he was comforted by the peace slowly easing onto your face. The Illyrian woman smiled down at you as she brushed your hair back.

“I’m going to finish some tonics that she can use to build up her strength again.” Madja said before walking out of the room. 

“It’s time for you to go.” Azriel finally spoke, addressing Eris. “There’s no need for you to be here anymore.”

Eris’s body tensed, that anger from earlier flaring back up. He forced his gaze away from you, though it felt like tearing flesh from bone, and turned slowly to face the shadowsinger. “She needs me.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t want you.”

Eris winced, as if he had been struck. The blow landed deep. He didn’t know if it was true and that was the worst part. 

Though, it didn’t matter if you wanted him or not. What if another complication arose? The power he gave you was a sliver of his but one you never wielded before. He had centuries of mastery while you had none. If something happened, he could help you. Not Azriel. Him. 

And what of the baby? Who would be there to guide them once they were of age? Or if they started manifesting them much sooner as it already was proving to be?

“She’s carrying my child. They need me. She can’t go through this alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Azriel said sharply, stepping forward. His shadows were stirring behind him, emphasizing the bright pulsing of his blue siphons.  “They have me.”

Eris laughed bitterly. A sound with no humor—just disbelief and hidden pain. “You?” His lip curled. “You expect me to trust you? You knew what was happening and still—still—you waited three days to come find me.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, whether in irritation or restraint, Eris couldn’t tell. But the room suddenly felt smaller. Like it might close in under the pressure of their magic. The two males stood nearly toe-to-toe, just as they had before.

“Because you broke her trust,” Azriel shot back, his shadows coiling tighter, like leashed beasts waiting for the order to strike. “And I don’t trust you. Never did and never will. You always have a selfish motive for everything.”

Eris’s nostrils flared, pure jealousy flaring beneath his skin now. “And when exactly did you earn her trust, shadowsinger?” 

“Enough, the both of you!” the Illyrian woman snapped, stepping between them with a might of her own. She winced as the bed behind her rustled, you stirring in bed. “If you are going to fight, then do it outside."

Neither male moved at first.

They simply stared at one another. Hate and grief and guilt writ in every tense breath between them. Then, finally, Eris stepped back, muttering a curt “sorry” to the woman. The flames in his hands flickered out, though the heat in his eyes remained.

“Eris.”

It was you calling to him.

Azriel blinked, taken aback, and a small, unexpected victory pulsed through Eris’s veins. 

Azriel reluctantly stepped back, his shadows retreating with him. Still, they lingered close and Eris swore they had eyes of their own as he could feel them staring him down.

“She's been through enough," the woman said with a sigh, her gaze lingering on Eris, as if she were assessing him. She turned to Azriel. “She’ll probably wake up hungry, poor thing hasn’t eaten much either. Won’t you help me prepare something?”

Though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an underlying demand in her tone. One Eris can’t help but feel grateful for.

“Sure,” Azriel replied after a brief pause, his voice taut. He turned to follow, but not before glancing back. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

**

Eris’s eyes caught the clutter on your nightstand as he approached your bed. For a moment, he froze. The letters–his letters– were stacked unevenly, some edges bent from being reopened too many times. There were small things, too. The other gifts he had sent.

None of his letters have been returned and it appeared that the gifts he had sent were unused. 

But they were here. They’d at least been opened and kept. Not thrown away as he feared.

The smallest sliver of hope pushed into the cracks of his chest. Perhaps, there was still a chance. You hadn’t shut him out entirely. He exhaled slowly and then, finally, he turned back to you.

The bed dipped slightly as Eris sat on the edge, and for a moment, he just looked at you. The fever had dropped but it left behind a sickly sheen of exhaustion. Reaching out, his hand hovered over your face. There was a moment of hesitation before he gently lowered his hand to rest against your cheek. You were no longer searing to the touch, just slightly cooler in comparison to him now.

You didn’t flinch like before. Instead, you leaned into his touch and the movement stole the breath from his lungs. His lips parted, a tremor of a smile tugging at one corner. 

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the gown draped across your body. He could see the small curve of your stomach beneath it and it made his chest tighten.

There. Right there. Life–Life the two you had created.

His hand moved from your face to rest lightly on your bump. His touch was featherlight like he feared even pressure might hurt you further. The contact was both grounding and devastating. He really wished things didn’t have to be this way. 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself whispering again. He was full of so much regret and so much yearning.

“Eris,” you rasped, your lashes fluttering faintly. “Is it really you?”

Eris knows it must be the exhaustion. He can see you fighting it, struggling with the weight it pressed upon your eyelids. The hand that had been resting over your stomach drifted lower to reach for your own hand. “Yes,” he replied. His hand tightened around yours, bringing it to rest over his heart. “I’m here.”

You hummed softly, your fingers twitching in his grasp. He watched you, observing every shift of your expression, every flutter of your lashes as if it were some fragile miracle. The tears he’d been holding back finally slipped free, tracking down his cheeks in silence.  

“When Azriel came for me, I thought the worst. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away. I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard and struggling with his words.

He gave you space to respond, though he knew better than to expect it. He wondered if the exhaustion won, sleep finally taking over you. Good, he thought. You probably haven’t been able to properly rest these past couple of days.

Your breathing remained steady and no more words from you followed. Just the soft rhythm of your body. He could hear your heartbeat and he swore he could hear the baby’s too. It was quiet but quicker. A ticking sound, almost.

Before you, he hadn’t believed himself capable of feeling for someone this deeply. But you—you had carved out a place in his heart, built a home there, even when he tried to board it shut. And now, there was someone else nestled in that space too. Someone so small and unseen but already adored with an intensity that terrified him.

The bond between you stirred faintly, dulled by your fatigue. Maybe you wouldn’t remember this. Maybe it would all fade into your dreams. It didn’t matter. He had to say it anyway.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered, pressing your hand to his lips. “I swear it. Even if you never forgive me... I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for and protecting you. The both of you.”

Eris closed his eyes, forehead resting briefly against your joined hands. And then, with a tremble in his chest, he said the three words that had haunted him since the day you spoke them first. The three words he had felt long before you ever gave them breath. The ones he had buried beneath fear and duty and pride.

“I love you.”

It left him in a broken whisper. A confession and a promise all in one. He only hoped he’d get the chance to say them to you when you were awake. He wanted to sit here with you, holding your hand as he waited for you to wake up. He didn’t want to leave. How could he, when everything that made his life worth anything was here in this room?

The tattoo on his arm from the bargain with Azriel flared, as if sensing where his thoughts had headed. It pulsed against his skin like a second heartbeat and it was followed by a knock at the door. Azriel must’ve felt it too.

Eris looked at you one last time, his gaze trailing over your face. Then down to the bump beneath the thin gown, where your hand now rested. You looked at ease now and it made it even harder for him to leave when all he wanted was to curl up beside you. His legs felt heavy, as though the weight of what he was walking away from had rooted him in place. 

He burned the image of you into his mind before he forced himself to stand. He didn’t know how, didn’t know when. He just knew he would find his way back to you. Even if he had to bleed for every step back to you.

And then, he walked away, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t hear the faint words that left your lips moments later, voice cracked and barely there.

“Don’t go.”

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this part! <3 In my head, iI have a little HC that f Eris and reader had consummated the bond, this pregnancy wouldn't have turned high risk so early. I have 2-3 more parts planned but I'm going to take a small break from them so I could write little drabbles/scenes in between them. Basically, it would be scenes I couldn't figure out how to incorporate into the next parts but still wanted to write out.

Help me pick what to focus on here.

If there's anything you'd like to read, let me know! I'm open to suggestions and also love hearing your thoughts.

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@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

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[kikidoul]

── THE MEMORY THAT BLEEDS.

𓍯 synopsis: "He was the love she couldn't kill. Now, he's the monster who doesn't remember her." Years ago, you let Sunghoon live—despite knowing he had become the very thing you were trained to destroy. When he resurfaced as a powerful vampire with no memory of your past, you're forced to face him again... but this time, as strangers on opposite sides of the battlefield. As old feelings stir and dangerous secrets unravel, you must decide: will you protect the man you once loved or end the vampire he's become?

ʚ(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ vampire! 박성훈 x vampire hunter! reader ᥫ᭡ content ex-lovers to strangers hurt no comfort inaccurate vampire lore explicit smut content blood (duh) pussy eating fingering unprotected sex (don't do this) there's way more plot than porn here i'm sorry angst sad ending major character death . . . wc: 8746...!? masterlist.

note. I FINALLY FINISHED... this was a wild rollercoaster for me to write as no words can describe how many times i have to rewrite certain scenes until i was fully satisfied with it... i hope you guys enjoy reading the first fic for desire unleashed!

Everytime you close your eyes, you are greeted with the same, horrifying scene. You prayed to whatever God out there, who was listening to your prayers that it was nothing but just a nightmare. A dream and not reality. But it seems like luck wasn’t on your side. Even if five months had passed, you still remembered the scene like it recently happened. It was like it had been forcefully imprinted into your mind, refusing to let you forget, no matter how hard you tried. 

He’s late. 

You sighed for the unknown time after glancing at the clock, noting how thirty minutes had passed. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration for you and Sunghoon’s third month anniversary. Initially, Sunghoon had planned on having dinner at a fancy restaurant but there was a change of plans when your boyfriend had to meet his client for a sudden appointment. He was tempted to change the date of the appointment but you were nothing but persistent, telling him he shouldn’t keep his client waiting any longer. 

In the end, he agreed and had to cancel your dinner. But you weren’t mad or disappointed, shooing him out of your home and wished him luck. While he was away, you spent the past two to three hours preparing a wide range of dishes. It was a lot of hard work but you didn’t mind, for your love for Sunghoon easily served as motivation to push through.

No words can describe how pleased you were when you finished and wanting to set the mood, you even went to take a much-needed shower before dressing up—a simple dress and light make-up. 

When you were done, you checked your phone to see if Sunghoon had texted you but he didn’t. You brushed it off, assuming he was too busy or his phone had died. That was your first mistake. You decide to pass time by scrolling through your phone while eagerly waiting for your boyfriend to return.

However, as seconds turned to minutes, you were getting anxious. You have heard news about how there was a sudden rise of vampire attacks in the neighbourhood you live in. 

Being a vampire hunter, you were constantly sent on missions to kill vampires. The reason why you chose to be one is so you could protect your loved ones and innocent people from getting killed or worse, turned into a vampire.

You paused when you stumbled upon a news article about how yet another incident happened. Your entire world turned upside down when you recognized the victim’s name reflected on the screen, your surroundings going numb. 

‘The unfortunate victim, who goes by the name of Park Sunghoon, was killed by a vampire. He was about to leave his client’s house, only to get ambushed by a vampire who was roaming around the area. Due to this, Park Sunghoon had risked his life to save the client, resulting in him getting bitten instead.’ 

Your phone slipped from your hands, landing on the carpet as you sat there, dazed. Only for you to snap out of your state when your ears registered the sounds of footsteps approaching your door. Immediately on high alert, you rose to your feet, reaching underneath the couch for your weapon—a dagger to protect yourself.

You slowly but cautiously moved to the closed door, left hand hovering over the doorknob while you looked through the peephole to see who it was. Your body went as still as a statue when you saw it was none other than Sunghoon. 

Your limbs moved before your brain could process, flinging the door open and that was when you saw it. Blood. Dark crimson, thick liquid on his neck. His previously cleaned clothes were stained with blood and dirt. Although, you were certain that the blood belonged to him. You scanned him from head to toe, pure shock written all over your face. 

“Sunghoon, you…” Your voice trailed off, unable to find it in yourself to finish your sentence. But the both of you knew what you meant. 

Your boyfriend nodded, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I know, but I’m still me. So, please, let me in and we can talk about this, alright?” 

He tried to enter but you stopped him, ignoring how hurt flickered in his eyes at your action. “Baby—” 

You firmly shook your head, able to hear how loud your heart was banging against your chest. “I can’t, Sunghoon. You and I know if I let you in, who knows what you might do. You’re no longer human.” 

The way he looked at you made you teared up, tightening your grip on the hilt of your dagger. “You know I won’t hurt you.” 

You shakily exhaled, feeling your warm tears rolling down your face. “I…I’m sorry, Sunghoon. I love you. I really do but you have to go. Please, it’ll be easier for both of us.” 

He barked out a humorless laugh, the light in his eyes gradually dying. “How are you sure about that? What if this makes us worse?” 

You couldn’t hold yourself back and the words slipped from your mouth without hesitation. “I’m sure because you’re not yourself anymore, Sunghoon. You’re my enemy now.”

Silence. 

And just like that, the remaining light in his eyes was extinguished. He was speechless for a moment, feeling hurt by your crude words but a small part of him knew you were right. His words don’t mean a thing now that he had turned into a vampire. And should the headquarters catch wind of you living with a vampire, you will be given a death sentence without question.

Sunghoon remained where he was, eyes fixated on your face as he imprinted your features in his mind, never wanting to forget how you looked. 

“...Fine, I’ll go. But, I hope you know I still love you, forever and always,” he said, sparing you one final glance before turning and walking off. 

Despite how you had fought countless battles, this was one of the hardest battles. You resist the urge to run towards Sunghoon, planting your feet firmly to the ground as you observe his figure getting smaller and smaller, until he is out of sight. On that day, what was supposed to be a joyous occasion turned into a heartbreaking moment for the two of you. 

And that was the last you had seen him. 

~ 

“...ock! Hello, earth to (Name)? Anyone home?” A voice snapped you out of your trance, followed by a light force hitting your head. 

“Ow!” You yelped, protecting the very same spot, rubbing it while glaring at your co-worker, who was grinning like no tomorrow. “Yang Jungwon, you’re dead meat when I get my hands on you.” 

The blonde hummed, unfazed with your threat as he unceremoniously dumped another pile of papers on your already messy desk. “Sure you will. But I think these papers are more important than you trying to kill me. I’d get to work immediately if I were you.” 

You groaned, leaning back in your seat as you ran a hand through your hair. “I didn’t expect paperwork to come with the job of being a vampire hunter. Why do we even have to do this in the first place?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jungwon returned to his desk, which was just as messy as yours. “Don’t ask me, I’m just here to make a living.” 

You have known Jungwon on your first day of joining the company when you were at the mere age of sixteen, blinded by the hunger for vengeance after witnessing a vampire murdering your parents in front of you. Under the management’s instructions, you were placed under Jungwon’s supervision.

Your relationship kicked off with a rocky start and to the others, it was amusing to see him being all smiley and cheerful while you, on the other hand, have never once smiled in your entire life. Your eyes were dull and showed no signs of life.

At first, you disliked his personality. To you, there wasn’t anything to be happy about after watching your parents die in front of you. You tried to push Jungwon away but he was persistent, constantly sticking to you and following you everywhere you go.

The sight reminds people of a young duckling following its mother, much to their unspoken amusement. As time went on, he managed to break down the walls you built around yourself and thanks to him, you were able to see life from a more positive angle. 

Jungwon was always there for you, lending you both a shoulder to lean on and listening ear when you were feeling under the weather. The two of you continued your respective work, silence surrounding your shared office room until it was interrupted with a sound made from the intercoms. 

“To Ms (Name), please come to the main office immediately. I repeat: to Ms (Name), please come to the main office immediately. Thank you.” 

Your shoulders dropped as you let out a long, exhausted sigh when you heard your name. Dropping your pen, you rose to your feet as you grabbed your coat, slipping it on while heading towards the door. 

“Looks like duty calls,” you dryly retorted, patting Jungwon’s shoulders as you walked past him. 

“Good luck and don’t die,” he bid you farewell. You merely flipped him off without looking behind and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind you. 

The walk to the main office was quiet with you gradually getting drowned in your own thoughts. It didn’t take you long to reach your destination, entering only after being granted permission. Stepping into the room, you involuntarily shivered when you felt the temperature in the room dropped a notch. That was the first sign something was wrong. The second sign was the room was eerily dark and quiet. Too quiet for your liking. 

The third sign was you felt a presence behind you. 

You instantly spin around, whipping out your weapon hidden in your pants, only for your wrist to be grabbed in mid-action. Due to the lack of light, you couldn’t see your opponent and had no choice but to rely on your senses. With your wrist still grabbed on, you raised your knee, aiming it at their stomach. Only for them to dodge. You freed yourself the moment you felt their grip loosened, kicking out your feet, forcing them to move back. 

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” You asked but they remained silent.

Then you felt it—the shift in the air. The shuffle of a boot on the carpeted floor. 

Clank! 

You turned just in time to block the incoming strike, able to feel the vibrations running through your entire body. Whoever they were, they were fast. Way faster than you for what a regular human being is capable of. You knew you’re fighting a vampire and the thought of these sickly creatures being able to slip past the defenses made your blood boil. You ducked, twisted, and countered, your blade slicing through empty air as your attacker disappeared into the shadows again. 

Another strike—this time from behind. You stumbled, hitting the ground hard, your weapon skidding across the floor. The next thing you knew, you were being pinned down. They moved in with deadly precision, one hand at your throat while the other raised for the kill. 

And that was when the moonlight caught their face. His face, to be exact.

Your world shattered, heart dropping to the depths of your stomach and bile rising in your throat. You couldn’t focus on anything else but him. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. Or maybe this was some sick, twisted joke the Gods had planned for you. 

“...Sunghoon?” You choked out, disbelief evident in your voice. You stared at him with wide eyes, mouth wide open and jaw slacked. 

He froze in place, shoulders stiffen at the mention of his name. You watched as Sunghoon locked eyes with you, an unreadable expression on his cold, stoic face. He was different from before. You weren’t sure why but something about him feels…wrong.

The way he looked at you was like he never met you before. Like you were nothing but a complete stranger to him. Like this was your very first encounter. He lowered his blade and moved back, unaware of how such a simple action caused your heart to ache. 

“...You’re not the one I came for,” he said in a flat tone, void of any emotion. “Be grateful.” 

And then he turned, wordlessly vanishing into thin air. You sat there in the silence, chest heaving, the sting of his touch still burning on your skin—not from the fight, but from the realization that you were nothing to him.

But, he was still everything you couldn’t let go of. 

~

You were left in a daze after that fateful encounter with Sunghoon. You don’t really remember what happened once he left, only able to vaguely recall the concerned shouts of your name followed by someone carrying you out of the room, bringing you to get your injuries checked. You were shell-shocked, unable to wrap your mind around the mere fact that Sunghoon didn't recognize you. You snap out of your thoughts when something hard and cold nudges your cheek. 

“You alright? You’re unusually quiet,” Jungwon asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Accepting the cold canned soda, you unhooked it, gulping it down without hesitation. Jungwon watched the scene, mildly impressed after you finished it in one go, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Slow down, the drink isn’t going anywhere,” he teased, causing you to chuckle as he playfully bumped his shoulder against yours. 

“I…I met him,” you started, voice soft and timid as you stared at the ground. 

Silence. 

You could feel his gaze on you and you continued, tightening your grip on the empty can of soda, dryly swallowing. “When I was called to the main office, there was no one. It was dark and Sunghoon was there.” 

You went silent, as if unable to continue but Jungwon rested his hand on your shoulder, the mere contact enough to bring you comfort. 

“And then what? What happened back there?” He murmured, eyes fixated on your face. 

“We fought but I didn’t know who he was at that time. And when I found out it was him, God, it felt like something in me broke,” your voice was borderline trembling. Warm, salty tears trickled down your cheeks, leaving a wet trail behind. 

“(Name)...”

You turned to your friend with misty eyes, hurt written all over your face. “He doesn’t remember me, Jungwon. Those past few years we spent together, it’s all gone. Like I have vanished from his mind and life. But, you know what's even worse?” You barked out a bitter, humorless laugh. 

“I was the one who pushed him away. It’s my fault that he ended up like this. Which is why I’m going to kill him,” you continued, tightening your grip on your empty can of soda further until it was crushed into half. 

Jungwon sighed, rubbing circles with his thumb. “(Name), are you sure about that? Can you really kill him the next time you see him? What if he does remember you? What then? What will you do?.” 

You sniffled, raising your left hand to wipe the tears away. “I don’t know, Jungwon. But, I’ve made up my mind.” 

“(Name)—”

You stood up, tossing the can into the nearest rubbish bin with terrifying accuracy, watching as it landed bullseye. “Jungwon, whatever you’re planning to say won’t make me change my mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jungwon pursed his lips. “Are you sure that’s what he wants? To die under your hands?”

You looked ahead of you, unable to find it in yourself to face him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault he turned into a vampire. I have to kill him, even if it’s the last thing I do.” 

After spending the next two hours talking to Jungwon, you decided to finally head home, considering how close it was to midnight. You bid him farewell and went your separate ways. Goosebumps formed on your skin when a gust of wind blew past you, making you curl into yourself as you hugged your coat tighter to your body. You quickened your pace, not wanting to spend another second longer outside in the cold weather. 

Rustle, rustle. 

Stopping, you looked to your right where the sound came from. It leads to a dimly lit alleyway situated between two apartments. The only source of light was the moon hanging high above your head in the abyssal-like sky. Hovering your hand over your sheathed dagger that hung by your hips, you entered the alleyway. You scrunch your nose at the overwhelming stench of rubbish. You visibly jumped out of your skin, startled when you saw a movement in the corner of your eyes, only to sigh when it was just a mouse. 

You continued moving forward and that was when you saw him. 

Sunghoon leans against the wall, cradling his sides with one hand. Unlike his previously emotionless facade, he was gritting his teeth, thick eyebrows furrowed with his canines digging into his lip. 

Snap! 

His head snapped to your direction the moment you accidentally stepped on a twig, alerting him of your presence. He paused, regaining his composure and scowled, pressing himself against the wall but didn’t move away. Although, you weren’t sure if he could even move in the first place. 

“What are you doing here? Are you stupid enough to show up in front of a vampire?” He sneers.

“Shut up, I came here because I thought I needed to save someone,” you retorted, stopping while maintaining a safe distance from him, ignoring how your heart was screaming at you to be closer. “I didn’t expect that it’s you, out of all people.” 

He snorts, shuffling his feet on the spot. “Sorry to disappoint. Now you know it’s me, are you going to leave me alone now?” 

You shot him an incredulous look. “What? You really expect me to just turn around and walk away? And leave you here to bleed to death?” 

“Vampires can’t die,” he hissed, offended at the mere thought of him dying. 

You rolled your eyes, closing the distance with five large strides. Sunghoon went as still as a statue the moment you placed your hands on his shoulders, like he was allergic to the touch of you. The thought of it shattered your heart. His reaction was a huge contrast to how he was previously—clinging onto you like a koala bear, refusing to let you go and always whining about how he wants your attention. You dryly swallowed, rapidly blinking back the pre-formed tears and clearing your throat. 

“Getting help from someone doesn’t mean you’re weak,” you said in a soft tone.

He barks out a humorless laugh, eyeing you with something unreadable. “And what do you know about being weak, human?”

“I know more than you think,” you replied, able to hear how loud your heart was pounding against your chest.

His eyes narrow, a flicker of something, curiosity, maybe, flashed across his face before he schooled it into indifference. “Let me guess. A tragic past? Lost family? Betrayal?” He sneers, words dripping with disdain. “You wear your grief like a badge and call it strength.”

“I know what it’s like to lose someone,” you say quietly. “To look them in the eyes and not recognize who they’ve become.”

Silence. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said, defensive and laced with a certain sharpness that could easily sliced a rope into half. 

But I do. I knew you before all of this happened. 

You swallowed the words and instead, replied with something else. “No, I don’t. I’m just a stranger who managed to see you. Now, are you going to let me help you or not? I hope you know that if you don’t get any blood soon, you’re really going to die.” 

“I know that,” he bit back, sending you a sharp glare. If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the spot. “And how are you going to help me? By letting me drink your blood?” 

“Well, yeah. That’s kinda the point,” you answered, blinking. 

Sunghoon recoiled, acting like a disgusted cat that was sprayed with water. “Are you insane? You don’t even know me and you’re already offering me your blood? Are all humans as crazy as you are?” 

You rolled your eyes, running a hand through your hair. “I’m just trying to help you. Why are you being difficult?” 

The vampire muttered something inaudible under his breath before relenting. “Fine, I’ll accept your…generous offer, but on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not drinking your blood while we’re in an alleyway,” he continued.

“...You cannot be serious,” you deadpanned. 

Sunghoon scrunched his nose, in the same exact way he used to do when he faked his disgust. “I am serious. Do you know how unhygienic it is here? And mind you, drinking blood from someone is a rather intimate act. I’d rather not do that in public.”

Your cheeks flushed red at his words, despite knowing about it. “Fine, let’s go to my place then.” 

~ 

The walk to your apartment was filled with nothing but tense, awkward silence. Thankfully, it was late at night which means there weren’t anyone around to be the unfortunate ones witnessing a pale-looking man bleeding until his clothes were soaked in blood. You tried your best to ignore his eyes boring holes into the back of your head as you unlocked your front door. The silence thickens once both of you are in your apartment. A startled gasp left your lips when you were pinned against your door the moment it closed. 

Your keys dropped to the floor with a loud series of noises but it was muffled with a desperate growl from the vampire. Shivers ran down your spine and heat stirred in your lower stomach at the sight of Sunghoon’s eyes glowing slightly, making him look rather intimidating. His fangs had peaked out from his lips, gleaming underneath the dim lights. 

“Sunghoon, you—!?” Your voice dies in your throat when he leans in, his nose brushing against the expanse of your neck. 

An involuntary whimper slipped from your lips when you felt his soft lips graze your skin. You swore he smirked against your skin. Reaching out, you blindly tried to push him away but Sunghoon was one step ahead of you.

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other tilted your head back, forcing you to expose your neck. You felt unusually warm at how vulnerable you were in your current position. You could sense the vampire’s grip on you was loose—giving you a chance to back out. 

But you didn’t. Or maybe, you couldn’t back out even if you wanted to? 

You held your breath in anticipation at the fleeting sensation of Sunghoon planting kisses along your neck, trying to find the perfect spot where your blood smells the strongest. When he finds it, his eyes flickered to your face for a brief moment—searching for any signs of hesitance. Only for him to find none. He took that as a sign to proceed, more of his fangs poking out as he aimed at a certain spot on your neck. 

You've heard from other people on how it's like to get bitten, able to feel their blood being drawn out by a vampire. You've also read reports and articles about people describing it. Some described it as a pleasant feeling. Some said it feels like a quick vaccine and you won't be able to feel anything. But they were wrong. The moment you felt Sunghoon sink his sharp fangs into your skin, something in you exploded.

A white-hot shock lanced through your veins. It wasn’t from pain, that you were certain. Heat surged from your spine, your pulse roaring loudly in your ears and your knees buckled as you felt light-headed. Sunghoon had long released your wrists, now holding you by your waist as he firmly pressed you against the door behind you.

You weren’t sure when Sunghoon had released your wrists but you were grateful. For it allows you to clutch at the sleeves of his shirt—to push him away or to hold him close, you weren’t sure. 

Your heartbeat pounded against his lips, and for a split second, you felt his grip on your waist falter. His once firm and deliberate hold on you trembled. A low sound rumbled from the depths of his throat, halfway between a growl and something softer. Almost as if he was…startled with how sweet you taste. Like he wasn’t expecting you to taste like this. 

Opening your eyes, breathing shallow and ragged, you caught the moment his expression shifts. His perfectly thick eyebrows knitted, bloodstained lips hovering over your neck, but what took your breath away was his eyes. They were clouded with pure desire. 

“Sunghoon, stop. You’re not in your right mind,” you weakly protested, only for your voice to be borderline trembling as he slid his chilling hands underneath your shirt, tracing along your spine. 

“You tell me to stop but I can smell how much you want me,” he murmured, hands trailing down but never moving past the hems of your pants. But it was enough to remind you of how easily he can reduce you to a pliant and flustered mess. 

You whimpered, head tilting back with whatever remaining space there is left as the vampire pulls you closer. You nervously gulped when you felt something hard poking your thighs, lighting your senses. The final push comes in the form of Sunghoon cupping your face, thumb tracing the skin underneath your left eye, forcing you to face him. 

“Tell me to stop and I will. Because I don’t think I can control myself anymore,” he murmured, lips grazing against yours with every word uttered. 

“Then don’t, take me.”

The moment you finished speaking, Sunghoon crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was intense, messy and fiery. It was nothing compared to the sweet, loving and languid kisses you shared previously. You felt like you were being devoured whole, like a prey being caught by a predator, who has no intentions of letting you go. A startled hiss left your lips when he bit down on your bottom lip, allowing you to feel a metallic taste. The vampire apologetically licks the new wound with his tongue, like a cat demanding for affection from its owner. 

Sunghoon tapped twice on your thighs and you jumped without hesitation. No words were needed. He easily carries you, moving you to the living room and unceremoniously tossed you onto the couch. He was quick to hover over you, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from you for another second.

Once again, he kissed you but with the addition of tongues. He swallows your angelic sounds, briefly wondering if this was how Heaven feels like for a cursed species like him.  

His hands had a mind of its own; tracing your body and touching you wherever he could. Sunghoon made a move to remove your denim jacket, followed by your inner black shirt and bra, leaving you in your pants. You squirmed about on the couch, head laying on the armrest at his unwavering gaze. You attempted to cover your chest, only to be stopped by him. 

“Don’t hide from me, I want to see all of you,” he murmured, sincerity evident in his voice, something you were taken aback by. 

In another life, your heart will skip a beat at your sweet, loving boyfriend’s words. But right now, you weren’t sure what to think. Not wanting to let your mind run wild, you tugged  him closer and kissed him squarely on the mouth, feeling him reciprocate immediately. Unlike you, Sunghoon doesn’t need to breathe and if possible, he’d prefer to keep kissing you but you had to break it, leaving a string of saliva that snapped into half when you leaned away.

He didn’t give you time to breathe, ducking his head to trail butterfly kisses down your neck, lips lingering longer than usual over the slightly faded bite mark. 

“Sunghoon, please…” You whined, arching your chest into his when he wrapped his lips around your left hardened nipple, eliciting a high-pitched cry. 

You gripped onto the armrest with one hand while the other desperately grabbed a fistful of his pitch-black hair. Sunghoon moved the sensitive bud with his tongue in circular movements, his free hand trying to pull your pants and panties down. You lifted your hips off the couch, granting him an easier time and just like that, you were completely naked.

Tugging on his shirt, the vampire gets the hint. He pressed a gentle kiss on your now swollen red nipple before moving back, making quick work of his shirt. 

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the faint muscles on his stomach, only for your chin to be tilted up, making eye contact with him. 

“Eyes up here, princess,” he coos. 

“Shut up and do something,” you snapped. 

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes at your tone, grabbing your legs and spreading them apart, revealing your glistening, throbbing pussy. You cried out when he lowered his head, his tongue darting out to give quick, kitten licks at your puffy folds. You instinctively kicked out your legs but he held you down with a firm grip but it wasn’t tight enough to leave marks behind. 

“Oh god,” you moaned at the feeling of him spreading your pussy lips apart, followed by his tongue sliding in. You twitched when he pushed one long, thick and slender finger in, easily going in until he was knuckles deep. 

A cacophony of sounds spilled endlessly from your lips, along with the loud squelching sounds of Sunghoon fucking you with his finger. He felt light-headed at how tight you felt, making him wonder how it’d feel once his cock was inside you. Unable to wait any longer, he pulled out, ignoring the sound of protest you made.

You raised your head, clenching down on thin air at the sight of his lips glistening with your slick. Some were dripping down his chin, staining the couch, making the sight even more obscene than it already is. 

He didn’t bother in completely removing his pants and boxers, only pulling them down just so he could free his cock. The sight of it standing upright, already in an angry shade of red due to lack of attention made you clenched your fists. Sure, you’ve taken him before but you weren’t certain if it could fit, considering how he had turned into a vampire. 

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” He arched an eyebrow, shifting to a more comfortable position as he aligns himself against your entrance, rubbing the head against your folds to collect the slick. 

“N-Nothing, just hurry up and put it in,” you stuttered, head tilting back when he finally pushed in. 

Inch by inch, you felt a stinging pain that eventually melted into pure pleasure at the insatiable feeling of you being stuffed full with his cock. Sunghoon’s eyes landed on your neck, his fangs itching to sink into your skin, wanting to get another taste of your blood. Normally, he would’ve asked for permission but with how tight your walls are hugging him, he was beginning to lose himself.

After what felt like years, he bottomed out. He readjusted his position, hands on your waist and he leaned forward until your hardened nipples brushed against his firm chest. 

“Lemme have a taste again, please?” He pleads and you already knew what he was referring to, nodding your head in agreement. 

What you didn’t expect was for him to start thrusting into you at the same time as him digging his fangs into your neck. The combined feeling of the vampire drinking your blood and his cock sliding in and out made your eyes roll up. The living room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, along with your whimpers and pants. The couch had shifted slightly from its original position, nearly knocking into the coffee table placed in front of it. 

“F-Fuck, taste ‘o good,” Sunghoon groans, licking at the new bitemark he left behind and he moved upwards to kiss you, giving you another taste of your own blood. The kiss was filthy and bloody but none of you cared, getting drunk on your bodies being connected. 

“G-Gonna cum, fuck,” you whimpered against his lips, tightening around him when he gave a harsh suck to your tongue. 

“Yeah? You wanna cum?” 

You frantically nodded your head, wrapping your legs around his waist to lock him in place, not wanting him to pull out. Your stomach tightened, thighs trembling as he moved your legs over his shoulders instead. The slight change allows him to hit deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with every thrust. 

“P-Please,” you begged and who was he to say no? 

All it took was one final, hard thrust and you came with a loud, hitch-pitched cry. Sunghoon was quick to follow suit, releasing his hot, thick cum inside you, pumping you full of it. Your bodies were sticky and sweaty. Silence engulfed the two of you as you caught your breath.

You hissed when the vampire slowly pulled out, not used to the sudden feeling of emptiness. You closed your legs, able to feel his cum slowly dripping from your stretched-out cunt. You remained laying on the couch while Sunghoon moved about in your home, like he owns the place. 

He vanished from your sight, only to reappear a few seconds later with a damp cloth. He used it to wipe you down and when that was done, he aided you in wearing your clothes again, before doing the same for himself. At this rate, you were beyond exhausted, causing you to fall asleep once you were fully clothed. 

Seeing this, Sunghoon quietly carried you in his arms. For some reason, he knows where your bedroom is. He gently placed you down on the bed, pulling the sheets up and stared at your peaceful, sleeping state. He didn’t really care about the fact that he just had sex with you. What was more astounding was the fact that he feels like he knew you before. 

Which is impossible. How could he, a vampire, have known a human before? 

“Just who are you and what have you done to me?” He muttered, leaning down to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your left ear. He spares you one final glance before leaving, gently closing the door behind him. 

~

The next morning, you woke up to find yourself in your bed. You weren’t sure why your heart sank at the sight of emptiness on your side. Sighing, you rolled onto your back to stare at the ceiling of your bedroom. Brief memories of what happened last night flashes in your mind, making your chest tightened. You didn’t know how to feel after that.

Closing your eyes, you could visualize Sunghoon over you, faint bloodstains on his swollen, bruised lips and the lust in his eyes. You remembered the way he held you, like how a pair of lovers are during their most intimate moments. You remembered the way he kissed you, like how he did before he turned. 

You told yourself that you were supposed to kill him. That was a promise, an oath. But now, you weren’t sure anymore. You felt lost because when you remembered the way he looked at you yesterday—lust, desire and yearning, your resolve was shaken. You pulled the sheets up, covering you from head to toe, as if doing that will block out the world—something you wish could happen and drifted back to sleep.

~

“Sunghoon, have you ever wondered what you’d do if you turned into a vampire?” 

You asked, breaking the silence that had engulfed the two of you. At this rate, you weren’t paying attention to the movie playing on the television right now, tilting your head up to look at your boyfriend. Sunghoon glanced down, the frames of his glasses reflecting the movie as he rubs circles on your clothed shoulder. You welcomed his touch, pressing yourself further into him with your cheek resting against his shoulder. 

“Why the sudden question?” He questioned, curious.

You sighed and straightened yourself, hands resting on his thigh and fully turned to face him. Sunghoon pushed himself up when he saw you change your position, his entire attention now on you. 

“I saw another body today. It was a kid this time and her body was drained completely, like the others. I couldn’t even identify her face. I know I chose this job. I know what I was signing up for when I became a hunter. But lately, I…”

You paused, hesitant to continue your sentence. Frowning, Sunghoon rested his hands above yours, intertwining your fingers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. You knew what he meant behind that small action.

“I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I ever found you like that. If you ever— I don’t want to lose you,” you confessed, tears brimming in your eyes and the sight of it made your boyfriend’s heart shattered. 

He pulls you in, embracing you with his arms that never fails to make you feel safe. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms hanging loosely on his shoulders. He chuckled at your clinginess, leaning his head back so he could kiss your forehead and brushed his hand through your hair. 

“If I did turn into one, then I’d want you to kill me,” he confessed, watching as you jerked your head back, disbelief written all over your face. He shushed you by placing his finger on your lips when you were about to protest. 

“Sunghoon—”

“I mean it. If I lose myself or if I turn, I want you to end it. It has to be you.” 

Tears rolled down your face, your vision turning blurry. “Don’t say that… Please, Sunghoon, don’t do this to me…”

“I need you to promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t hesitate.” 

You shook your head, now a sobbing mess. “You’re asking me to kill the person I love.” 

“I’m asking you to protect the part of me that still remembers who I am.” 

He leaned in then, kissing you softly—a promise, a plea, a final moment sealed in fragile hope. You gripped onto the front of his shirt, unable to stop yourself from crying as you returned the kiss. 

~

You woke up for the second time, realising it was already late noon. Thankfully, you didn’t have to report to work today as it was one of your rare off-days. You pushed yourself up, walking over to the vanity table where a few framed photos were placed on top of it. You stopped, picking a particular photo up to look at it.

The image was captured during your first date with Sunghoon. He had brought you to an open-air park where you had a picnic together. You faintly smiled when you remembered how nervous he was, resulting in you squishing his cheeks out of pure cute aggression. 

Your thumb traced Sunghoon’s face in the picture, who was grinning from eye to eye but he wasn’t looking at the camera. No, he was looking at you. The way he looked at you was like you were his entire world right there. 

“I mean it. If I lose myself or if I turn, I want you to end it. It has to be you.” 

His voice echoed in your head like a curse. You didn’t know why that memory surfaced now. Maybe it was a sign from the Gods watching you from above. A gentle push of guidance, guiding you to the right direction. He had asked you to do this. Not out of fear, but trust. He trusted you more than anyone to put an end to the misery. A long, shaky breath escaped your lips, now filled with certainty. You moved to where your sheathed weapon laid, brushing your hand over the hilt of the blade and dagger. 

The part of you that agreed to that promise, the you who cried over him, was ready now. This was your burden to carry. With that in mind, you changed out of your clothes and stepped out, getting ready to hunt him down. 

~

You spent the next few days and weeks throwing yourself into monitoring Sunghoon’s movements. Your already messy work table was filled with discarded reports, laptop showing surveillance footage and whatever information you were able to get your hands on. Jungwon was concerned but he knew you were too stubborn to listen to him. All he could do was watch from the sidelines, only stepping in when you were on the verge of fainting. After what felt like forever, the pattern clicked. 

Sunghoon was circling back. He was always returning to the same part of the city: Sector Nine, just near the industrial outskirts, where the street lights flickered more often they worked and buildings stood like forgotten skeletons.

You couldn’t figure out the motive for his patterns but you didn’t care. All that matters was you had found him. You get to action the very next night, arriving at one of an abandoned warehouse. According to your research, this warehouse was the one he frequents the most. 

You hide behind a crumbling ware of the warehouse, gripe on your blade tightening as it was hidden beneath your coat. It was quiet, too quiet that you could even hear your own breathing. Then, you heard it. 

Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

Footsteps that are too silent and smooth for a human. You risked your life by peeking around the wall and you saw him. Sunghoon stepped out from the shadows, his form lit by the faint yellow glow of a rusted streetlamp. His coat billowed with his movement, black as night and his pitch-black hair fell into his eyes. 

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You could ambush him, take him down before he had the time to react. You have the advantage—the element of surprise. 

But, you couldn’t move. 

Instead, you observed him, the way his gaze swept the street, slow and searching. For a moment, he looked…lost. He doesn’t look like the cold vampire you had bumped into during your first encounter or a vampire who has something against the alleyway during your second encounter. Your mind was screaming at you, to do it now but you couldn’t move an inch, like your legs were rooted to the ground. 

Then, his head snapped up and his eyes met yours. 

It was too late. 

In a blink of an eye, Sunghoon appeared before you. You barely had the time to dodge when he struck. Metal clanged against metal as you tumbled, rolling to your feet just in time to block his next attack. Your blades clashed, yours forged of silver and rage, his hands crackling with inhuman speed and precision. Invisible sparks lit between you as the warehouse air thickened with tension. 

“Why did you follow me? Couldn’t get enough?” He sneered, fangs peeking through parted lips as he backed away. 

You didn’t answer, studying him—searching for any signs of weakness you could exploit. 

“I asked you a question,” he growled, voice darker this time. 

You raised your blade, narrowing your eyes. “You’re a threat.” 

He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “Really? Then why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Your hands trembled—just barely but Sunghoon saw it. 

“You know me,” he said softly, testing the words on his tongue. “Don’t you?” 

Again, you remained silent. But unlike before, your silence was the loudest answer of all. For a moment, everything came to a halt. The wind howled through the broken windows. Your heart banged against your chest. And then, slowly, he said it, the words you dreaded up to this day.

“...Have we met before?”

His question struck deeper than they should have. Your grip on the blade tightened and your knuckles turned white. You couldn’t afford to waver now—not when you had come this far. Not when you were close to fulfilling your promise to him. You swallowed hard, swallowing the emotions threatening to spill from the depths of your throat. 

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” you lied through your teeth. 

Sunghoon didn’t buy it, stepping forward, slow and cautious. This time, the sharp edge of his usual hostility was dulled by confusion. “You knew my name last time.” 

“That’s public knowledge,” you replied. “You were reported missing a year ago and I saw your name on the news.” 

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “But you looked at me like you knew me. Like that night.”

You forced out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, I look at every monster that way.”

He flinched. And it tore something in you, the way pain flashed across his face like he didn’t quite understand why that word: monster, hurts so much.

“Is that what I am to you?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

“That’s what you are,” you said. “You don’t get to play innocent. You drink blood. You kill. Don’t act like you’re still human.”

Sunghoon’s lips parted like he wanted to say something else, only to get interrupted when your ears registered a sound. The scuffs of boots against gravel followed by snarling that grew louder and louder. Your hunter instincts flared too late. Multiple figures burst from the shadows: pale, fast and snarling. They were rogue vampires and by the looks of them, they have gone feral, due to the lack of blood for a long period of time.

You barely had time to shout before the first vampire lunged at you, fangs and claws aimed at your throat. Steel met flash as you blocked the strike. You were being pushed back with their strength easily overwhelming yours. Another vampire came from your blind spot, knowing you’re nothing but a sitting duck—

“Look out!” 

You twisted just in time to see him stabbed his blade into one of the rogues, killing them on the spot. Sunghoon’s movements were too fast for the naked eye to follow as he ducked . Your breath hitched. He was fighting for you. You jumped in, blade swinging. Your movements synced with his, despite how you’ve never fought on the battlefield with him before. However, there were too many of them. No matter how many you had cut down, more seemed to spawn from the shadows. 

One vampire managed to move past your defense, gashing your arm, drawing blood at the same time. You cried out as pain surged through your veins. 

And then, it happened. 

A flash of movement. 

A blur of black and red. 

CRACK! 

Sunghoon had stepped in front of you but this time, with claws pierced straight through his back. Your entire world came crashing down. His eyes widened in shock—not from the pain, but from the realization: he had protected you, like he always would.

“NO!” You screamed, slashing the remaining vampires with everything you had. Your weapon sang through the air, silver flashing in pure fury, until the vampires were finally dead. You dropped to your knees, casting your bloodstained blade aside and pulled him into your lap. 

“No, nono, stay with me, Sunghoon, please,” your voice trembled violently, hands shaking as you cradled him against you. His blood soaked into your jacket, sticky and slow, like time itself was trying to drag him away from you, inch by inch. 

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and then settled on your face. “You’re… crying.” 

You let out a broken, teary laugh. Your tear droplets landed on his face but he didn’t wipe them away, no longer having the strength to do so. “Of course I’m crying, you idiot.” you sobbed, brushing blood-matted hair away from his face. “Why did you do that?” 

His lips quirked up but the smile didn’t last. 

“It… felt right,” he whispered. “Like something I couldn’t ignore. Like I had to… keep you safe.”

Your throat closed up. He may not remember you anymore but something in him still chose you. And that itself hurts worse than anything else. 

“But why?” You choked out. “Why did you have to be the one to save me?”

Sunghoon was growing cold in your arms. You clutched onto him tighter, trying to keep him warm. Trying to keep him here, not wanting him to leave. His gaze softened as his fingers, already losing strength, reached out to touch your face. You grabbed his hand, pressing them to your cheek instead, biting down on your lips to stifle the sobs. 

“Your voice…” He croaked out. “I remembered how you used to sing me to sleep when I was having nightmares.” 

You lowered your head, eyes squeezed shut as you tighten your grip on his hand.

“I don’t remember your name,” he continued, voice borderline trembling. “But I remember… how I loved you.” 

A sound cracked from your chest, something between a cry and a gasp. He smiled faintly, though his eyes were starting to lose focus. 

“You were mine.. weren’t you?” 

More tears rolled down your cheeks. Nodding your head, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “Always, and you were mine too.” 

His hand slipped from your cheek, falling to your lap like a leaf on water.

“Will I… remember you… when I wake up again…?”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t say that—Sunghoon, no—don’t you dare—”

But he was already fading.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I promised I’d never leave you…”

You clutched him like he’d disappear if you let go. “Please don’t—please, Sunghoon, please—just hold on—!”

“But…thank you for loving me.”

There was no miracle. 

No heartbeat. 

No second chance.

Just silence. 

And then, the world collapsed. 

You screamed his name like the sound might bring him back, like the sheer force of love and agony could restart the heart that once beat only for you. But there was only the echo of your voice… and the boy who died in your arms, still trying to remember the name of the girl he loved.

~

The sky was a quiet gray, not stormy but heavy. It was like even the heavens knew silence was more fitting as compared to rain. Jungwon walked slowly through the overgrown path, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. A gentle gust of wind blew past, kissing his cheeks as he stopped before a pair of headstones that were resting side by side. The names had weathered slightly over the years, but he still traced them with a gloved hand, like it was a ritual. 

Park Sunghoon 199X – 20XX "To be remembered is to never truly vanish."

Beside it:

[Your Name] 199X – 20XX "She followed the stars, even when they led her into the dark."

The flowers he bought were fresh: simple white lilies. He laid them down carefully, brushing a fallen leaf from your name with a tenderness that made his throat tighten. 

“You always said you’d handle it yourself,” Jungwon murmured, crouching between the graves. “And you did.”

His gaze shifted to Sunghoon’s.

“And you proved her wrong... You weren’t just a vampire. You were still you.”

The breeze whispered through the stones like a sigh. He let out a quiet breath, sitting back on his heels.

“I think about you two a lot,” he admitted. “The way you looked at each other... even at the end. It was like the world could’ve ended and you still would’ve chosen each other.”

A slight pause. 

“I used to think we’re all just pawns in some cruel cycle,” Jungwon added. “But maybe... just maybe, love really can change something.”

He stood up slowly, dusting the dirt off his knees.

“I hope that wherever you are... you’re together now.”

The wind picked up slightly — a soft gust that brushed past his cheek like a whisper, like laughter carried from a distant memory. And Jungwon, for once, allowed himself to smile. Then, with one last glance at the names carved in stone, he turned and walked away.

taglist: @byshens, @yourislandgirl, @cutehoons02, @nugwon, @blooqz. @elairah, @sofiafromvenus, @mi-nyeo, @m1kkso, @dreamiestay, @baedreamverse, @hoonstqr, @rustymoons, @cripplinghooman, @in-somnias-world, @firstclassjaylee, @starfallia, @kryllea, @chaewonmyheartt, @iamliacamila, @semi-wife, @fancypeacepersona, @ilovhoonie, @woniescheeks, @jungwonswife4life, @ikeugirly, @jakessrealwife

[fic-girlie]

Hidden in plain sight

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Summary: While promoting Gladiator II, you and Pedro keep your three-year relationship low-key, playing it cool in public. But behind closed doors—especially after the London premiere—passion and love overflow in a night full of intensity, comfort, and quiet devotion. Warnings: fluff, established relationship, explicit smut (18+), soft dom!pedro, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, language, dirty talk A/N: Thank you @kellyxo1 for the idea, again!

The lighting in the suite is too bright, as always. Cameras click. Laptops clack. The endless rhythm of press junket days, where the same questions are folded into new words and passed across the table like shiny candy. You’re seated on the left, angled ever so slightly toward Pedro, as always. There’s something in that small tilt of your body that comforts him—you don’t say it, but he knows it.

You’ve learned how to make each other laugh without a single word.

Today, he’s in a white button up. Curls tamed but not conquered. He’s got that easy charm dialed up, eyes soft, smile sharp, the kind of presence that people describe as “effortless” even though you know exactly how much effort he puts into staying calm in rooms like this.

The interviewer is young and clearly nervous. She fumbles through a question about character dynamics, some half-formed thought about power and vulnerability, and Pedro saves her with a warm chuckle and that gentle charisma that got him cast in this movie—and half the world’s hearts.

“She throws me to the ground in our second scene together,” he says, tossing a thumb in your direction. His voice is light, playful, but the way he glances at you—quick, fond, proud—makes your stomach flip.

You smirk. “I did not throw you to the ground. I gave you a gentle push. With force.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “And people wonder why I have trust issues.”

The room laughs. It’s easy. You make it look easy, the way your rhythms lock into each other like pieces that were always meant to fit. It’s not fake. It’s just not everything.

Because when you two share a look like that—one filled with years of stolen mornings, late-night scripts read aloud from opposite ends of a hotel bed, silent dinners when the exhaustion was too much to speak—it’s too much to explain to strangers. So you don’t. You let them see what you want them to see: a friendship that feels alive and quick and perfectly believable. And if someone catches a flicker of something more behind your eyes, that’s their business.

“I will say this,” Pedro continues, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees in that way he does when he’s feeling a little too exposed. “This one—” he gestures toward you, “—she’s dangerous with a sword and devastating with sarcasm. The duality is… genuinely terrifying.”

You laugh again, but the heat crawling up your neck is real. The way he praises you—quietly, gently, under the guise of teasing—always hits harder than it should.

“Better terrifying than boring,” you say smoothly, nudging your knee against his under the table. A soft pressure, fleeting. But he doesn’t shift away.

Your names trend together on social media almost daily now, not because of PDA or big declarations, but because people love trying to decode you. The inside jokes. The way he watches you when you speak, like he’s still discovering new things in your voice. How he sometimes interrupts interviews just to say, “Wait, tell the story about Morocco—the falcon one,” even when it has nothing to do with the question asked.

It’s a game you never meant to play, but now you both know the rules. Keep it fun. Keep it light. Let the world believe they’re watching something spark in real time.

Only you and Pedro know it’s been burning steady for years.

——

The boat had been someone’s spontaneous idea—Fred, probably, or maybe Pedro himself. A rare day off during the Italy shoot, too precious to waste indoors. You’d all been running on fumes, eyelids sunburned, costumes stiff with dust and leather, so the idea of turquoise water and cold drinks had seemed almost holy.

The boat was bigger than you’d expected, but still cozy enough that no one could pretend not to hear the conversations happening across it. A small crew kept to their business, steering and serving and politely pretending not to notice when someone made a bad joke or took too long choosing a playlist.

You wore a black one-piece under an airy linen cover-up. Pedro’s sunglasses had slid low on his nose. He hadn’t stopped smiling since his bare feet hit the deck.

From the start, it was easy. Laughter. Music. Connie swaying to Stevie Nicks with a drink in each hand. Joseph sitting on the edge of the deck, feet dangling above the sea, narrating dramatic fake scenes from the “Gladiator III: Vacation in Capri” as if the camera crew were rolling.

And then there was Pedro.

He hadn’t left your side since you boarded.

His hand brushed the small of your back when you walked. His fingers threaded with yours when you sat. It wasn’t deliberate—at least not for show. It was just who he was around you when no one was watching. Or when he forgot they were.

You found a spot in the bow, a patch of smooth wood catching full sunlight, and settled there with a drink in one hand and Pedro’s thigh beneath the other. He stretched out beside you, skin warm, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to the lines of his chest from a splash he'd taken earlier when someone dared him to jump in.

At one point, you laid your head on his shoulder, and his arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. Like it always had.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed,” you murmured, watching the sunlight scatter diamonds across the waves.

“I’m not,” he said, glancing at you with a lazy smile. “I’m just pretending for your sake.”

“Convincing performance.”

“That’s what the Oscar’s for,” he whispered, and kissed your hair.

It wasn’t until the boat stilled—anchor dropped in some hidden cove off the coast—that the warmth lulled you fully under. Pedro’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath your cheek, and the ocean hummed a lullaby. You meant to just rest your eyes, just for a moment.

But you drifted. The boat rocked softly. The breeze lifted the hem of your cover-up. And you melted into him like he was home.

You woke to hushed voices and a shutter click that made Pedro flinch. One of the crew members quickly apologized, but Pedro just waved it off and tightened his arm around you.

“Sorry,” he whispered when he felt you stir. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice was rough with sleep, lips warm against your temple. He hadn’t moved at all. You realized that—your body had molded to his side, your legs tangled lightly with his, one of your hands curled into the hem of his shirt. He could’ve shifted. He could’ve gotten up. But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed.

“They’re talking about us,” you murmured, voice groggy, heart quickened more from the closeness than the attention.

“They always do,” he said softly. Then, after a beat: “Let ’em.”

You stayed curled against him until the sun dipped low and someone called for group photos. Pedro helped you up, pressed a hand to the small of your back like he was still afraid you’d topple over.

Later that night, back at the little hotel, the whole group gathered around a fire pit in the courtyard. Someone opened wine. Someone else dragged a guitar out of nowhere. You sat beside Pedro again, this time in a dry T-shirt of his and shorts that didn’t quite reach your knees, and the others pretended not to notice how much of the evening you spent tucked into the crook of his arm.

Connie snapped a picture—your legs over Pedro’s lap, his hand on your bare knee, the soft flicker of firelight between you. You didn’t see it until weeks later, posted with the caption “Sunset stunners. Starring: these two, in love and annoying about it.”

The clip started circulating almost immediately. Cast members retelling the boat story on talk shows. Paul grumbling playfully, “I thought I was the romantic lead, but apparently Pedro and his girl stole the whole damn film.” Joseph teasing Pedro about turning to mush the second you fell asleep on him. Connie calling you “the most disgustingly smitten couple on water.”

And every time it came up in interviews, Pedro would laugh. Blush, maybe. Pretend to wave it off. But he never denied a thing.

Not once.

And neither did you.

——

A few months later you were standing in the hotel room, shared with Pedro, getting ready for the London premiere. Of course, you’ve been to red carpets and premieres before, but this one was different. It wasn’t only your movie or his, it was a movie where you both played big roles.

You were looking at yourself in the mirror. You were wearing a black dress with some red details which clung to you perfectly, highlighting the curves of your body. You choose a natural makeup, not wanting to push it too far.

You were just fixing the straps of the dress when Pedro came out of the bathroom. And when you saw him in the mirror you had to take a double look.

The black shirt clung to him like it was made just for him, the V-neck showing the slight dip of his solid chest, making you go feral. The little red pins on his shoulder emphasizing him, but just enough to not stole the spotlight, and the black slacks he was wearing completely tailored for him. His hair was styled perfectly, some silver strands showing and shining in their place.

You turned around and looked at him with admiration in your eyes. He looked like one of those old statues, like a God, who fell from heaven.

“You good?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but it’s a lie.

You know that look. You’ve seen it at events before—press junkets, big tables—when the crowd is too loud and the stakes too high. When the world expects Pedro Pascal to be Pedro Pascal, and some part of him just wants to disappear.

“I will be,” he says.

You walk to him in heels that click softly on marble, stopping close enough to smell the cedar in his cologne and the faint trace of peppermint on his breath.

Your fingers brush the edge of his lapel, straightening it, pretending it needs fixing. “You look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome or ridiculously nervous?”

You raise an eyebrow.

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose and looks down. “I hate these things.”

“I know.”

“You make them better.”

Your hand slides gently down his chest, lingering over his sternum, right where his heartbeat stutters beneath your touch.

“I’ll be close the whole time.”

He meets your gaze, and the rawness there almost undoes you.

You kiss his cheek. Not the kind that means I love you. The kind that says I know who you are when no one’s looking.

——

The car ride over is quiet.

The city glows wet and golden through the tinted windows — streetlamps like fireflies, crowds already pressing against barricades. You sit with your hands in your lap, and his are resting just inches from yours on the seat, his knee occasionally brushing yours when the car turns.

You don’t speak.

He closes his eyes once, briefly. You reach over without thinking and slide your pinkie around his, just for a second. He exhales.

The carpet is blinding.

A river of flashing lights and calling voices, umbrellas twirling in the crowd, velvet ropes separating fans from stars. You feel the heat of cameras, the electric buzz of names being shouted, the press’s hunger for something worth posting.

You both step out, not quite together.

Pedro takes a moment to square his shoulders. He looks calm again — perfectly composed — but you feel the shift.

You walk a few paces behind, giving the illusion of independence. Of separation. It's part of the game.

Until the angle shifts.

Until the interviewer from Vanity Fair — the one who asked that question last time — waves you both over.

You settle beside him. Close, but not touching.

He glances down at you, voice low enough that it’s lost in the noise: “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The interview starts light. Jokes. Banter. You’re both good at that. Your timing fits like puzzle pieces — his sarcasm soft and dry, yours sharp and playful. You toss each other softballs, grin at the same questions, answer with that carefully rehearsed mix of camaraderie and mystery.

But then the question shifts.

“What was the most surprising part of working together on this film?”

Pedro looks at you.

Really looks.

And the pause stretches longer than it should.

You meet his gaze and offer the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

He speaks slowly. Thoughtfully. “I think… the way she carried so much of the weight. Quietly. The emotion she brings—it changes the air around her. I think I forgot how to breathe sometimes.”

The interviewer laughs lightly, not sure if he’s joking.

But he’s not.

You don’t say anything. Just smile—soft, knowing—and step slightly closer. Not enough to raise eyebrows. But enough for him to feel your arm brush his as you walk away from the mic.

He doesn’t let the distance open up again.

You glide through the rest of the carpet like two satellites orbiting the same star. Separate in appearance, but always pulled toward each other when no one’s looking.

When the cameras shift.

When the lights tilt.

And later—when the lights go down inside the theater and the film begins—his fingers find yours in the dark. Silently. Desperately.

You hold on tight.

Because this is how you survive the noise.

Together.

——

You don't even remember crossing the room. One moment he's teasing you about the shirt, about the way you were staring, and the next you’re walking backward as he follows, one slow step at a time, his eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. The soft click of the door sealing shut behind him feels like it closes off the entire world.

The low hum of London still murmurs outside the tall windows, but in here, it’s all dark wood and soft light and the quiet intensity in his gaze.

Pedro doesn't say another word at first. He just watches you with that look—the one that makes your breath catch low in your throat. The one that says he’s seen every part of you and still wants more.

He stands there in that damn shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. The contrast of the crimson buttons against the dark fabric makes him look sharper somehow, more dangerous. Like he’s the one pulling every invisible string in the room.

And maybe he is.

You shift slightly under the weight of his silence, heat rising behind your ribs. You open your mouth to say something—maybe a joke, maybe nothing at all—but you never get the chance.

He steps in.

His hand curves around your jaw with practiced ease, not rough, not rushed—just firm. Sure. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

"You have any idea how hard it was not to touch you all night?” he murmurs, voice low, thick with restraint. “You, standing next to me in that dress, smiling like that…"

You try to respond, but he’s already kissing you, slow and hot, the kind that robs the breath right out of your lungs. His mouth moves with intent, just enough pressure to make your head spin. He doesn't waste time—his hands are already sliding down your back, finding the zipper, and when he breaks the kiss it’s only to speak against your skin.

“You wore that for me, didn’t you?” he asks, lips brushing your throat. “Knowing I couldn’t do a damn thing about it until we got here.”

Your answer is a shaky inhale. You feel his smirk as he pulls the zipper down, one slow inch at a time.

“I should make you beg for it,” he says, still behind you now, his breath against your neck. “After the way you looked at me all night. Like you knew what you were doing.”

You tilt your head, letting him push the dress from your shoulders. It pools at your feet like a sigh.

“I did know,” you whisper.

Pedro chuckles, low and dark, and his hands are on your hips now—pulling you back against him. You can feel him already, hard through his trousers, and the sound that slips from your mouth makes him groan.

“Then don’t pretend you’re not going to let me have you exactly how I want,” he mutters, one hand skimming up your stomach, the other sliding between your thighs.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, teasing you with maddening patience. Just the graze of his knuckles, slow and purposeful, as if he has all night to unmake you.

"Already wet," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and approving. "You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you?"

You nod, but he doesn’t let that slide.

"Use your words, cariño," he says, his tone darkening just enough to make you shiver. "You know I want to hear it."

"Yes," you breathe, barely holding on. "I like it… I like when you talk to me like that."

He rewards your honesty with a low growl and two fingers slipping through your slick heat—slow, precise, stroking you just enough to make your knees go weak. His free arm wraps around your waist to steady you, holding you flush to his chest like he’s claiming you in the quiet of this high-rise hotel room.

"You’ve been driving me fucking crazy for weeks," he mutters. "These press tours, pretending we’re just friends. Watching you laugh with the others like you don’t crawl into my bed every night."

His words hit you low in your belly, the possessiveness curling into arousal as his fingers begin to move in earnest—deep, steady, controlled. You moan into the air, unable to keep quiet, and that only spurs him on. He bites gently at your shoulder, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp.

"Think they know?" he asks against your skin. "Think they’d still see you as sweet if they knew how you sound when I make you come?"

The words drag another helpless sound from your lips. You press back against him, needing more—needing all of him—but he still doesn’t give it. Not yet.

Instead, he pulls his hand away, and before you can beg, he turns you around and kisses you hard—mouth greedy, tongue insistent, as if he's trying to taste every sound you’ve ever made for him.

"Bed," he says roughly, guiding you backward without looking. His hands are already unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off like it’s nothing, like he isn’t the best-looking man you’ve ever seen with his skin flushed and jaw tense and eyes dark.

You’re still in nothing but your underwear when the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Pedro follows you down, catching your mouth again before trailing kisses to your collarbone, your chest, licking a slow path between your breasts as he peels the last scrap of fabric from your body.

“You’re mine tonight,” he says, looking up at you from between your thighs with something between reverence and hunger. “And I’m going to make sure you feel it tomorrow when we’re pretending again.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, unrelenting, skilled. He devours you like a man starved, moaning softly against you, like your taste is better than anything the night could offer. His tongue flicks, circles, dives—he doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t give you space to breathe. Just pleasure, building faster than you can process.

You cry out, your hands tangling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head—but he doesn’t let up. Not until you’re trembling, choking on your own gasps, your orgasm crashing over you with brutal, blinding force.

Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on you like he’s not nearly done.

“You still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, dazed, still panting.

“Good,” he says, undoing his belt with one smooth pull. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

You watch him strip the rest of the way, every inch of him revealed in the golden lamplight. His chest rising and falling with quiet tension, his hands still clenched like he’s barely holding himself back.

You sit up slightly on your elbows, eyes trailing over the defined lines of his torso, the heat that rolls off him. His gaze finds yours as he comes forward, slow and purposeful.

“You gonna lay there lookin’ at me like that,” he says lowly, “or are you gonna get up on your knees like a good girl?”

The words hit you like a spark to dry kindling.

You move, heart pounding, turning onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed as he comes behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight, feel his warm palm drag slowly down your back, his fingers tracing your spine with almost-too-gentle pressure. Then his hand grips your hip firmly, pulling you back, adjusting your angle like he’s positioning you exactly how he wants.

“You know how beautiful you look like this?” he murmurs, voice ragged. “How good you are for me?”

You start to say something—anything—but then you feel him against you, thick and hard, sliding along your folds without pushing in. Teasing.

You whimper, push back slightly, silently begging, and he chuckles behind you.

“Desperate now?” he says, leaning over your back, his mouth warm against your ear. “I warned you, didn’t I? You show up in that dress and expect me to behave?”

And then—finally—he pushes into you.

A long, slow thrust that fills you completely, taking his time so you feel every inch. Your hands twist in the sheets, a broken sound tumbling from your lips.

“Fuck,” Pedro groans behind you, grip tightening on your hips. “You’re perfect—always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

He pulls out just enough to make you ache before thrusting in again—deeper this time, more force behind it. His pace builds gradually, controlled but hungry, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the quiet room.

You arch your back, moaning with every stroke, and his hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly in place. Not hurting—just anchoring you. Letting you know exactly who’s in control.

"You take me so well," he growls, hips snapping harder now. “Every fuckin’ time.”

His other hand slides down between your legs, his fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, circling in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s too much and not enough, your body strung tight between the way he’s fucking you and the words spilling from his mouth—rough, reverent, utterly unfiltered.

You can feel your second orgasm rising sharp and fast, your body clenching around him, and he knows. He always knows.

“That’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

You do—helpless and loud and shaking apart beneath him as he rides you through it, his rhythm never faltering. He fucks you through the waves until your legs give out and your arms collapse beneath you, face pressing into the mattress.

Pedro slows just enough to pull you back upright, wrapping one arm around your waist and dragging your body against his chest as he thrusts up into you from behind, now deeper, rougher, needier.

His mouth finds your neck again, his voice broken with restraint.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m so close—wanna come inside you, baby.”

You nod, gasping, grinding back against him.

“Please,” you manage. “Want it… want you to—”

And with a deep, guttural groan, Pedro buries himself to the hilt, his whole body tightening as he comes hard inside you, holding you there, letting you feel every pulsing wave of it.

You both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sweat and breathless sounds. His arms curl around you as you come down, his hand sliding up your stomach, holding you close like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.

You can still feel the press of him inside you, warm and full, and the slow kiss he plants behind your ear is a silent promise—one that says this isn’t just about lust or need.

It’s him. It's you. It’s always been more than what anyone sees at a premiere.

[germesthegenie]

Ward Era Tattletale has a coat in my head

Finished Ward Arc 11 (plus the rest of Arc 10), thoughts below:

The Rest of Arc 10

Damsel, Swansong, and Victoria sharing an apartment together feels like a good setup for a sitcom

Wonder if the Anelace subplot’s gonna go anywhere. Kinda interesting to have a love interest not even in the main group (as opposed to Rachel Brian), but also that’s a recipe for a fairly irrelevant one most of the time.

(10.12) “Some of my allies were shot” IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO THE MAJOR MALFUNCTIONS I WILL-

(10.12) If these are the anti-parahuman people, I’m starting to wonder if it’s a psyop play to just make the opposition to parahuman rule look ridiculous and violent.

(10.13) Ah, so Theo reminded us some people deserve being beaten up so we could have Antares go pretty brutal on these guys

Close enough, welcome back Hatchet Face. Admittedly cooler because its actually fair

(10.13) Sveta :( it really was self defense bc damn these assassins were no joke

Finale’s wail formed the bulk of the background noise.  I spared a glance, even though I didn’t want to see.  Her teammates were hurt, not dead

(10.13) DO NOT TOY WITH ME LIKE THAT WILDBOW

(10.13) So probably not the anti parahumans, but doesn’t quite seem like Teacher either, at least not his power.

(10.y) Chris living the baby turtle experience and having a million things trying to kill him from the moment of birth lmao

(10.y) Lab Rat? The ball?? How far ahead was Wildbow setting up Ward damn

(10.y) Is that the most direct Taylor cameo so far? Original Lab Rat was kinda funny for pausing in the middle of passing out these devices at the end of the world to go “hehe bug box for the bug girl”

(10.y) Also yeah he definitely won the bet

(10.y) Amy. Amy you better not be considering that latter offer. AMY-

Interesting backstory for Chris overall. Looks like he’ll be building something up in the background for now

(10.z) Chicken Little really is the Telemachus to Taylor’s Odysseus (in the Epic the Musical sense). Inexperienced, but with a similar spirit in some ways, and kinder heart.

The Heartbroken kids also seem neat. Liking the variety in the powers, the similarities to Regent, Cherie, and Heartbreaker are there but they still stand out.

(10.z) The kids are friends yay! Now I’m reminded of the post I saw before about the Undersiders and the Brockton Wards if Imp and Vista became friends and the groups had to be begrudgingly friendly to each other as a result. Is that whats in store for Breakthrough?

(10.z) CHICKEN LARGE?? Please let nothing bad happen to this boy 😭

(10.z) Tattletale really in her mom era. Again, third time’s the charm hopefully

(10.z) Bogeyman captured?? Contessa what are you cooking?

(10.z) Also Dinah compromised??

Arc 11

I like how Victoria’s aura makes her more intimidating, Goddess’ aura makes her worshipped, and Rain’s aura makes him look like even more of a pathetic wet cat (ik thats not the only thing it does but its funny)

Some rather dark tactics on Victoria’s part to get Bitter Pill’s team to abide by her terms. Still a long way to go to reach Taylor’s war crime count, though

Kenzie’s reaction to the news about Chris :(

Also damn didn’t think about the implications of “the transformations don’t undo all the way” thing of Chris’ when it comes to Lab Rat’s victims. Wonder if he ever got framed for the C53s like Manton was

(11.3) The Ashley-Damsel-Victoria roommate situation continues to sound like a sitcom, too bad it sounds like its coming to an end

Oh no what awful person would do this to Victoria’s stuff- oh hi Imp!! nvm she deserves to do a little arson /s

I was wondering there for a second like “hey Wildbow why are you going so overboard on the scene breaks” but now it makes sense

(11.3) Not Chicken Little sharing sensitive documents over earth gimel’s facebook messenger 😭

Ah I missed how funny Imp is

(11.3) I’m guessing this is where all the Imp/Vista stuff comes from? Does seem like the most likely of the Brockton Bay Wards (aside from maybe like Kid Win). Though considering it’s Imp saying it, there’s like a 50% chance she’s bullshitting to throw off Victoria. Funny if true though

Sidepiece’s interlude has exactly the blend of wholesome, sad, and freaky I expected from the character

(11.a) “Romantic but in a platonic way” exactly what I’d expect atp Mr Mccrae

(11.4) Time bubbled people getting similar blindspots to Eidolon, GU, and the Endbringers? That can’t be good

(11.4) Weld. Weld. My boy. My temporary fav post-Amy pre-Cuff. The fuck are you doing???

Like I get it. He has his own wants, he simply isn’t built freaky enough. It isn’t a Parahumans couple without something being messed up (unless you’re Golem/Cuff). There have to better ways of handling things than just dumping the poor girl, though. Also hopefully imagining things but is there some kind of setup being done between Weld and Victoria? The whole “forcefield made him feel something” bit? Please no. If there’s anyone in this couple she’s getting with post breakup, it aint you my guy

(11.5) Oh boy the Heartbroken are like having 3-4 freakier Alecs (the older ones anyway, the kids skew more Aisha-like). Poor Rain. But also like nice he has people who can somewhat relate to him

(11.5) Victoria witnessing average hormonal teen behavior: “This must be the work of an enemy stand cape”

(11.5) Well, about time we get the “midgame rematch with the starting boss you lost to” moment

(11.6) …What the fuck

(11.6) Victoria getting tricked by a decently observant child: “This must be the work of a Thinker”

(11.6) Victoria thats bank fraud

(11.6) WHY DOES HE TYPE LIKE THAT 😭

(11.6) Never trusting a fridge in a parahumans story what the hell is this

(11.6) Suddenly glad Golem and Cuff aren’t more prevalent if this is how they’re treating rebel-sqrrl’s faves damn (oh nvm this is one of her favorite arcs apparently)

(11.7) “I think there are lines” he says as he becomes a bunch of lines Lord of Loss is so funny actually

(11.8) Wildbow this is the third mpreg power you’ve made, is there something you want to share with the class 🤨

(11.8) I feel like between the Goddess stuff and Rain’s aura that Victoria associating all doubts with powers is gonna either be really handy or really bad for her self control

(11.8) Terrible day to have eyes and ears to read this chapter good lord

(11.8) What do you mean Lord of Loss is 30??? Typing like that as a grown ass man????

Also people joke about Taylor killing a baby (who was actually a toddler by that time) meanwhile Victoria is out here actually killing a fetus and we have no funny “Slaughterhouse Nine and Under” jokes for her smh 😔 as far as I’ve seen anyway

(11.b) Nailbiter really just trauma dumping to this kid and then went “anyway, drugs?”

(11.b) Oh, guess it was good timing to research Breaker triggers. Assuming that’s what Colt has now. Interesting thing with the “greater power over a pit”. Would taking that have been the difference between whatever she got and a Broken Trigger?

(11.c) Darlene vs Operator Red was neat. Bro got killed by a kid with no weapons whatever Thinker rating he was knock it down by 1 😭

(11.c) I should be horrified at what happened to Capricorn and Tattletale but all I can think of is how cool that basically lightsaber whip is and how it’d be way cooler if wielded by anyone but Cradle

(11.9) Ok now that is a scary power. PTSD beam that puts voices in your head for 3 months. The fact the voices still behave like the person as you remember them and not just being angry is interesting

(11.9) Rachel!! I love the sharp contrast of her siccing her dog on the mercenary immediately followed by being Good Auntie Rachel to the Heartbroken. She’s come so far from how she was in Early Worm, but is still recognizably Rachel. Taylor would be proud

(11.9) Welp, should’ve figured Coil’s mercs (if they haven’t all been replaced by this point) wouldn’t stay loyal once the money stopped coming in. Same reason they betrayed their old boss, after all

Return to Brockton Bay! Should’ve seen it coming with all the reunions leading up to this. Hoping for more Golem there in that case

(11.10) Colt got added to the mall group chat??

(11.11) Foil using guns by shooting the bullets through a hole in her hand?? Taken up Grue’s/Skitter’s role as the Undersiders’ Crazy Ass

Speaking of Taylor, she would be like almost fully unfazed by getting Cradled. Just reforms herself and speaks using the bugs. Would suck for Brian though having his senses spread out in several pieces would be horrifically familiar.

(11.11) Yknow what back in Arc 1 I thought Carol would remain at least like top 3 hated characters until the end but she’s getting pushed out of top 10 jfc Cradle?? Love Lost?? Not even to Rain, literally kids, kids who were already incapacitated or surrendered????

(11.12) Vista with an empty Earth practically has worldedit damn.

Looks like a hell of an upcoming arc. Lets look at the table of contents… Starting off with an interlude? 12.All?? 12.None??? This is about to go crazy isn’t it

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

butterflygirl738 (5)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

This is what you wanted, isn't it? For things to get easier? For some godsend to come and save you from the deepening pit of debt and despair?

Is that what S is? Is he really going to save you? And your mother? Can his money do that? Or are you just dragging out the inevitable? Is this also just denial? False hope? What do you call it?

There's some things you can see clearly he isn't lying about. The money. It's already in your account like he said. And his car screams rich. Richer than you could ever hope to be. A rental but not the type they give to someone with nothing in the bank.

You look out at your apartment building. Those second thoughts already have you nervously picking at the edges of your nails. You take a deep breath and look straight to the windshield.

"You okay?" S asks, startling you from your doubt.

"Yeah, yeah, I... I've never lied to my mom before. Not as big as this. I mean yeah, I lied about losing her pearl earrings in grade school but that lasted all of two hours..." You frame your face and sit back in the seat. "I'm rambling. I'm sorry." You drop your arms. "And I've wasted enough of your time."

"Not wasted. Honest," He leans his hand on the steering wheel. "I'm headed to the hotel to eat room service alone." He scoffs and gives a sardonic smile. "Exciting stuff. But uh... it's a nice suite."

"Hah, yeah. Must be weird being away from home," you sniff.

"Not much different. Still empty." He shrugs.

"Uh huh," you hum thoughtfully.

"Well, you can tell your mom you went for an interview? Got something new? That could explain... things as they come up."

You pick at your lip and nod. "Makes sense."

"I could mock stuff up for you. I mean, I have letterhead," he chuckles and rubs his neck. "I'm not a great liar either, sorry."

You chuckle thinly. "It feels... hopeless." You shake your head. "Not you. Just... alright. Gotta face the music." You look at him. "S, thank you. For lunch and being patient with me. Sometimes I feel like a piece of my brain is not there." You exhale and grab the door.

"Uh, wait, before you go," he grabs your other arm then quickly lets go. You sit back and look at him. "I'm gonna be in town for a few days. So, I was hoping tomorrow we could... spend some more time together."

Your lips part. That's a surprise. You just assumed you'd have more time to adjust. To process. Time. It's precious and you don't know how much you truly have.

"Oh, right," you breathe.

"Unless... " he draws out.

"Oh, oh, I... I thought maybe you had to go back. For your business," you say as you wring your hands. Your skin is raw. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking and... you know, I have work but, I guess I'll be calling in."

"Sure, I didn't mean to blindside you. Sometimes I think things and just assume other people know," he clears his throat. "So, I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," you agree and pull the handle, pushing the door out. "Please, go get some rest. You flew out here, it must've been a long day."

"It's sweet of you to think of me," he says.

"Good night," you smile and stand straight. You shut the door and turn to look up at the dingy apartment building.

You drag your feet forward. Your lips move silently as you rehearse your lies. You purse them and slant your mouth one way than the other.

You almost collide with someone else as they come out of the building. You step out of their way and wait. You glance back. S idles at the curb. You wave before you go inside.

You climb the stairs one at a time. You're wading through molasses. As you get to the apartment door, you hesitate. Stop. Get yourself together. This isn't against her, it's for her. This could save your mom.

You enter and the deja vu makes you feel out of place. Everything is as it should be yet it feels like it's all changed. Your mom is on the couch, reading, her head in her hand, her finger feeling the edge of her scarf. You shut the door gently.

"Hi mom," you say as you put your bag down. You sanitize your hands before you go any further. "How was your day?"

"Good," she sits up. "You were gone a while. I thought it was your day off."

"I'm sorry, I didn't... say." You linger by the entryway. "So, uh, I really didn't want to get my hopes up and... I thought I'd surprise you..." you let the words dangle. You watch her, waiting for her to challenge you. She looks tired. "I went for an interview and er, I got it."

"An interview?" She echoes.

"Yeah. It pays better, so I said yes... and... yeah."

"Another store?"

"Um... admin?" You say.

Her lashes flutter and she smiles. "Wow, that's great, pie. Very good." The book closes in her lap and she brings her hands up to her face. "Can you help me to bed? I'm feeling nauseous."

"Oh, of course, mom."

You near her and offer your arm. She gets up and you help her around the couch. She doesn't even have the energy to doubt you. She has bigger problems. She's staring down that abyss and you're worried about a little white lie. She doesn't need to know, she doesn't need to worry. She just needs to get better.

🦋

S arrives at nine. You're outside waiting. You're anxious, not excited. You feel bad enough leaving your mom for work, but this feels wrong. Not just that you're lying to her, but about what.

You get in the car as he smiles at you. "Good morning, I brought coffee," he announces proudly.

You look at the paper cups. You smile back. It feels strangely normal. This is what you see on TV. Real couples do this. This isn't real.

"Thanks, that's so nice," you say. You buckle in and peer around. You feel like you're being watched. Like one of the neighbours will tattle on you. "H--How was your night?"

"Not too bad. Watched a movie. Fell asleep before it ended," he snorts as he pulls away from the curb. "Old man hours."

"Ah," you nod. "I just read a bit. Checked on the butterflies."

"They getting close?" He asks.

"Yeah. Should be soon I think."

"Hm. Nice. You eat yet?" He asks.

"I had some toast." You answer.

"Cool. I hope you don't mind a bit of a road trip? I found this place in the next town. Has good reviews."

"Oh, it's totally up to you but... I don't want to be too much," you scratch your neck.

"This is the deal, right? Spending time together. So don't worry about being too much. Just try to enjoy yourself," he girds.

"Right, yes, I just... guess it's been a while since I did anything for fun. God, that sounds lame, doesn't it?" You ask.

"Lame or it means you've been working hard." He says.

"I guess so," you agree.

He drives on and you stare through the window. It's better that you leave town. It's not like you're well-known but you don't need to chance anyone seeing you with him. Out-of-towners always tend to inspire gossip. Mom doesn't go out much but...

Your mind won't stop. You try to calm it as the minutes tick by. Your worries are replaced by curiosity. Where exactly is he taking you?

Before you can assume the worst, you recognise the large stone behind the town sign. You haven't been around this way in years. He steers past the green park and through town square.

As he pulls in at the vaguely familiar yellow brick building, you can't help but pinch yourself. How could he know? Maybe just a lucky guess. You went to the conservatory once as a child. You realised later how expensive that birthday trip was.

"Here we are," S says. "I know it's nothing fancy."

"It's... it's great," you say. "I love this place."

"You've been here?"

"Not in ages but once," you answer.

"Ah, I should've figured."

He grabs his phone and wallet as the engine quiets. He gets out and slides them into his back pockets. You undo your belt and climb out as he comes around the car.

We waves you ahead of him toward the arched front doors. He pulls one open and lets you through first. He approaches the desk and takes out his phone. He has them scan his passes and puts it away again.

He turns to you and offers his hand. You stare for a moment before you accept. His skin is warm.

He takes you through the entryway to the first wing. Here they have all the antiquated inventions; funky looking glasses with stacked lenses and scientific tools you couldn't guess at the purpose of. You stop to read the placards as S leans in to admire the objects.

"Probably not your favourite part," he says.

"I don't mind. I like old things."

"Ah, me too. Maybe one day... well, who knows, I might take you to the museum in New York... but... who knows," he shrugs.

"Maybe," you say. You don't know about all that. That's a long way away.

You continue on around the winding exhibits and into the room with the live exhibits. Insects of all kinds. You let go of S and stop to watch the bees in the hive with a tunnel to the outside world. There's a little sign explaining that the conservatory houses the hive as a protective effort.

"They have a new part to it," S says. "I saw it on the website. Down that way."

"Oh," you back up. "Sure, whatever you want to do."

He leads you on. You admire the windows that look onto colonies and tunnels of different insects. You stop short at the next door. 'Butterfly Room.' You look at S. The last time you came, you remember there was one tiny little exhibit of unhatched chrysalis.

You rush through ahead of him in excitement. A blue flutter brushes over your forehead and another flap of yellow sweeps by. You spin as the lazy wings beat around you, others still as butterflies rest on petals or branches. It's a menagerie. A garden full of colours.

You turn and look all around. You're breathless and amazed. In that moment, there's nothing else but the beauty of those creatures.

You smile and tilt your head up. A monarch lands on your nose and you freeze. S laughs and you look over at him as he aims his phone at you. The butterfly flees.

He turns the screen to show you the picture. You blush and rock bashfully. "That's cute."

"It is," he agrees."

"S," you gasp, "this is amazing."

"It is." He looks around and lowers his phone. "It's nice to have someone to enjoy it with."

"It is," you cheep. You turn and follow the path of a white flutter.

You go to the bench and sit. It's bittersweet. It's nice to not be alone, but you wish it was your mom here with you. She's all you have but with her being sick, it only sinks in then, how lonely you've really been. She's there but not really. She's fighting a battle you can't understand.

S sits beside you. He's quiet. You blink away a glaze of tears.

"It's really beautiful," you say. "Thank you so much. I can't... I can't even begin to tell you how much..." You sniff. "How much I appreciate this."

"You don't have to say it," he assures you.

"But I should. There's so much I never say. So much to say. So much I might never have the chance..." you lower your head. "I'm really trying. I don't want to be sad. I don't want to ruin this day." You exhale. "You didn't pay to watch me mope."

"I did. I paid to be close to you. To be with you," he shifts closer. "And whatever that means, is fine with me." He puts his hand on yours, like the day before. It doesn't feel as strange anymore. "I don't want you to think about that. The money. I want you to have a nice day. With me."

You nod and gulp. You breathe out the emotion and look at him.

"Why?" You croak.

He stares at you. His cheek dimples. "I got lucky. I took a chance... and I met you."

He squeezes your hand and you look down. His hand wraps easily around yours. It makes you feel safe. It's been so long since you felt anything close to that.

[god-syndicate-if]

Sigourney Drabbles

[Wrote a bit on the car trip here. I also have one in the bank for Harper. I’ll end up posting drabbles for the other characters who haven’t got a mini game, enjoy the unedited mess. ❤️]

Shortness of breath. Increased heart rate. Sweating. Chills.

Symptoms too irregular to diagnose as any one ailment, too frequent to ignore. Unfortunately the pattern suggests that the present symptoms only happen in the vicinity of…

The obvious cure would be to separate from the source, stop talking to it, stop thinking about it. She wouldn’t give this advice to her patients, of course. But she’s a surgeon, not a therapist, and as a surgeon cutting things out of people is her specialty. A scalpel for skin, scissors for muscles, a saw for bone. Nothing so clean for this though. It would be so easy to cut out… the source of these feelings. But it would be messy. Evidence suggests increased time away from the source only seems to cause a variety of new symptoms. Melancholy. Irritability. Chest pains. Stomach aches.

If a cure will only give worse symptoms, then Sigourney fails to see that as an option.

The cause of her symptoms lies beside her. She wasn’t an insomniac but she felt like one tonight. Grand. Difficulty sleeping added to the symptoms you cause. Surely there’s a logical explanation for all of this. She’s no hypochondriac but watching you sleep felt like an infection was taking hold of her.

The warmth of your body. Your fluttering, dreaming eyes. Your parted lips.

You probably didn’t feel the ways she did. You slept soundly whilst she could not. You were cool whilst she was not. You were divine.

Could divinity feel as humans do? Would it not make sense if they felt more than humans? Less? It’s a question she asked herself for years, a question she forgot about until you. Surely you feel less about her than she feels about you. You’re a god. She’s mortal. Gods could not… like mortals. Not the same as she… likes you. She wants you to feel the same way as she did. Even now she wishes to kneel at your altar and pray. A suitable desire to have about a god she supposes. But her desires only spiral as the thought persists. She doesn’t have an altar yet she wants to see you kneeling at one for her, head raised, fingers pressed against her thighs, tongue-

Was this blasphemy? She was raised too catholic to have an unbiased view of religion. Lingering fears poison most thoughts she has about your very nature. The nature she’s studied very intimately. But humans had relations with gods in your day. Wanting to fuck in a temple, on an altar, it’s only natural. Anyone in her position would feel the same.

She needs to focus. This wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t about worship either. Whatever was causing these feelings was clearly an illness, something she was used to dealing with. That’s all this was. Just because it’s name eluded her didn’t mean it wasn’t curable. If she just found the right disease maybe she’d be able to get rid of the symptoms.

Perhaps she should consult a colleague. Right. That’s what she’ll do. She needs a gameplan. Something to get rid of this. Something to make her normal again. Doctor Cassidy was an asshole but he’d at least take it seriously. She couldn’t trust him to keep a secret though. Maybe not him. Doctor Rahal was a bit too flirty for her to typically go to him. But he’d keep a secret for her.

Maybe none of her colleagues were right for this. She’d schedule an appointment with someone in midstate. No. Upstate. Far away, with good reviews. Someone who will tell it to her straight and someone who wouldn’t start blabbing to the first group of vaguely bored nurses they see. Or at least if they do talk it wouldn’t make it to the hospital.

“You’re spiraling again.” Somehow your voice makes things worse and better. It’s infuriating. Soothing and scaring her. Another reason why gods frustrate her. No mortal has done this to her, it's clearly some weird power you must have.

She turns and sees you, features soft and lazy from sleep. She shouldn’t look at you but she does, the little hum of energy inside of her exploding as you meet her eyes. “I’m not.” Her voice is firm, almost clipped, but you’re not deterred.

“You are. I can practically feel it.” Annoying. “You’re like a ball of static, Sig.” The way you drawl out her name makes her want to kiss you. Or bite you. Probably both.

“It’s winter. The air’s dry and we’re under a wool blanket. Of course I’m going to be staticky.” She says dismissively, words coming out quick and chaotic. Though she knows she’s wrong to do so. You can’t dismiss a god but you can turn your back on one. So she does, literally it seems. Turning to face away from you.

Infuriatingly you take this as an invitation, moving up behind her, nuzzling your face into her hair and wrapping your arms around her waist. “Mh.” You moan quietly behind her. “Tell me about it.” You whisper.

Ha! Like that would get her talking about her feelings. “I’m anxious.” Fuck. Where did that come from? She thinks quickly and continues. “About a patient.” It’s not a lie, there are only a few laws saying you can’t be your own patient, she can ignore those for this.

You run a hand over her stomach, pulling her closer. She can feel your breath hot on her back, it makes something in the pit of her stomach turn. “What’s happened?” You ask, voice still thick with sleep.

She shakes her head a bit. “She’s just sick. With something strange. She’s been dating this person and every time she’s near them she feels ill. Feverish symptoms, increased heart rate, sweating. And I don’t know what it could be.”

“Mh.” You moan quietly again. “Life threatening?”

She gently shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” Though it felt like it all too often.

“Sounds like love.” You whisper.

Her back tightens, going rigid under the words. If you hadn’t been holding her she would have run. “This is serious.” She says.

You laugh in that annoyingly fantastic laugh. “Sorry. Then maybe it’s allergies?”

“No.” She says. You don’t have any pets, after all. That wouldn’t make any sense.

“You should rest.” Your voice is a whisper, you press your lips to the back of her neck and the heat you bring makes her sink. “You’ll have a clear mind in the morning.”

She won’t. Not with you.

[inkolnito]

The Piastri Special- Prologue: The Swan and The Jackaroo

Pairing: Jack Doohan/Genevieve Ashworth (Original Female Character)

Summary:

Jack Doohan's rookie F1 season implodes when Alpine shockingly replaces him mid-year. At his lowest, Jack finds an unwavering ally in Genevieve Ashworth – his childhood friend, sponsor's daughter, and "The Silver Swan," a world champion figure skater whose own career was defined by public heartbreak.

As their lifelong bond deepens into love amidst the turmoil, they, with her influential father, launch "Exemplar Foedus"—a daring plan to secure Jack a new F1 seat.

Warnings:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships within this story are fictionalized.

The story explores harsh motorsport realities like sporting injustice, F1 politics, and challenging contract negotiations, significant angst from career setbacks, public scrutiny, and emotional distress (including self-doubt and fear of failure). Expect potential F1-typical strong language, subtle references to past disordered eating/body image issues

Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort (mutual trauma support), Mutual Pining, initial Slow Burn Romance.

Franco being the antagonist for obvious reason. i don't hate him, this is just for the plot

Author's Note: This story is born from pure cope, I apologize for nothing

The air in the arena crackled, thick with anticipation and the faint, metallic scent of shaved ice. Jack sat hunched forward, hands clasped so tightly between his knees they ached, a knot of anxiety more acute than any pre-race jitters twisting in his gut. This wasn't his world – the hushed reverence, the glittering costumes, the almost painful elegance unfolding below – but tonight, it felt more terrifying than any race start he’d ever faced. Tonight, Genevieve Ashworth, "The Silver Swan," was skating for World Championship gold.

He was nineteen then, caught in the relentless grind of Formula 3, stealing precious days between races to be here. The journey itself, a seamless transition from a dusty European track to the crisp air of this Scandinavian capital, had been orchestrated with the quiet convenience of an Ashworth Industries private jet. He wouldn’t have missed it. Genevieve, his childhood friend, the girl who understood the pressure cooker of his own life with unnerving, silent empathy, was attempting the impossible.

Again.

Her reputation preceded her: the quad queen, whose elegance was matched only by her audacious technicality. She pushed boundaries with fierce, defiant grace, landing multiple quad types, yet the World gold remained elusive, often snatched by skaters with lower technical content but higher, more subjectively awarded, component scores. It was a system that, to Jack’s admittedly untrained eye, seemed almost perversely designed to penalize her raw power and daring.

Tonight was the free skate.

Second after the short program, she needed near-perfection. As her name was announced, a wave of sound washed over the arena. She glided onto the ice, a vision in ice-blue and silver, the costume a masterpiece of understated artistry, its crystals catching the light like scattered diamonds on a frozen lake. Her usual pre-performance intensity was palpable, her blue eyes narrowed, radiating an almost intimidating concentration.

The music began, powerful and dramatic, and then she moved. It wasn’t just skating; it was controlled violence, explosive power wrapped in impossible, swan-like elegance.

Quad Lutz – landed. The crowd roared.

Quad Salchow – landed.

Quad toe loop – landed, a fractional check, but landed.

Triple Axel – effortless.

Her spins were dizzying blurs, her step sequences intricate and passionate. She attacked every element with breathtaking ferocity. Then came the final two quads, back-to-back, a gamble only she would dare.

Another quad toe loop – solid.

And finally, a second quad Lutz. She launched, an ice-blue and silver comet, rotated four times, and came down hard, a jarring impact, but held the edge with sheer willpower.

Landed. Five quads.

Unprecedented.

The final notes echoed as she struck her pose, chest heaving, sweat glistening, her expression a mixture of utter exhaustion and fierce, savage triumph. Flowers rained down.

It had to be enough.

She disappeared towards the "Kiss and Cry," where her stern-faced Russian coach, Dimitri, waited. Jack watched the monitors, palms sweating, as the camera zoomed in on her face – flushed cheeks, bright, hopeful eyes wide with nervous anticipation, a vulnerability that made Jack’s chest ache with a strange tenderness.

The technical score flashed: Huge. Monumental. A new world record. A radiant smile lit Genevieve’s face, and Jack felt a surge of elation. This was it.

Then, the component scores. Good, but not stratospheric. Lower than her rival’s. Jack’s stomach plummeted. He saw the calculation in Genevieve’s eyes, the dawning, sickening horror. The final score appeared. Second place.

Silver.

Again.

Silence in the Kiss and Cry. Genevieve stared, frozen in disbelief, the light in her eyes extinguished. Then, her face crumpled. The camera, unforgiving, zoomed closer.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, tears welling. “No. No.” Dimitri put an arm around her; she shrugged him off.

“I landed five quads!” Her voice, caught by the microphone, cracked with raw, incredulous emotion.

“Five! Five! What more could I possibly do?” Tears streamed, hot and angry.

“Everyone else gets gold! Everyone! Why not me? Why is it never me? I hate it! I hate this sport! I hate what it does to me!” Her voice broke on a sob.

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking, the champion’s composure shattered, revealing the raw, wounded heart of a young woman who had poured her soul into her craft only to be told, yet again, it wasn’t enough.

That she wasn’t enough.

The world witnessed a champion's raw despair, a public crucible that would forge within her an indelible understanding of an athlete's ultimate sacrifice and the profound desolation of a dream unrewarded.

Jack watched, frozen, his heart aching with helpless empathy. He wanted to smash the cameras, shield her, tell her how incredible she was, how unfair it all felt. A surge of white-hot anger at the judges, at the subjective nature of the sport, coursed through him.

A fury that mirrored the frustration he would one day feel at the political machinations of Formula 1.

The medal ceremony was excruciating. Genevieve, pale and swollen-eyed, wore a mask of stoic politeness, her eyes hollow.

Jack slipped out, needing air. He waited outside, pacing in the cold. When she finally emerged, her father at her side, she looked small, fragile. Richard Ashworth, a man whose Savile Row suit and quiet, authoritative air spoke of generations of influence, gave Jack a weary nod. His expression was one of carefully controlled disappointment, the kind honed over years of navigating high-stakes environments where emotion was a liability.

Genevieve’s gaze flickered towards Jack – a fleeting, haunted look of recognition, perhaps gratitude, a silent acknowledgment that tightened the knot in his chest.

.

Later, outside her hotel room, he hesitated.

The air in the corridor felt sterile, chilled, a stark contrast to the emotional inferno he’d just witnessed. What words could possibly touch a grief so monumental? His own throat felt tight, his palms slick with a nervous sweat.

But the image of her face crumpling in despair, the raw, desolate echo of her cry – “Why not me?” – was a current too strong to resist. It pulled him forward, and his knuckles, almost of their own accord, brushed against the polished wood of her door.

The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of the dimly lit room beyond. Genevieve stood there, still in her team jacket, the vibrant ice-blue and silver now seeming to mock her. Her face, scrubbed clean of makeup, was pale, almost translucent, her eyes puffy and shadowed, the luminous blue clouded with a pain that made his own chest constrict.

“Jack?” Her voice was a rough whisper, a fragile sound, like shattered glass.

The scent of stale arena air and something uniquely her – that subtle, expensive fragrance of citrus and white tea, now laced with the salt of tears – drifted out.

“Hey,” he said softly, his own voice sounding inadequate, lost in the cavern of her sorrow. “Can I… Can I come in for a minute?”

She nodded wordlessly, her movements slow, heavy, as if wading through deep water. The room was hushed, the only light a pale wash from the city outside the window. Her skates lay discarded by the bed like fallen soldiers, blades dulled by effort, their silver glinting accusingly. The medal itself lay on the nightstand, a cold, indifferent circle of metal.

She didn’t look at him, just walked to the window, her silhouette small and forlorn against the indifferent city lights. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, a desperate attempt to hold the splintering pieces of her world together. He could see the sharp angle of her shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric of her jacket, a stark reminder of the years she’d starved herself for this sport, for the lightness, the ethereal grace it demanded, for moments like tonight that had culminated in this crushing emptiness.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken emotion, with the suffocating weight of her disappointment. He wanted to find the right words, the magic phrase that would ease her pain, but he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that there weren’t any. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, yearning to offer solace he didn't know how to give.

“Gen,” he began, his voice rougher than he intended, the sound raw in the quiet room. “You were… you were beyond incredible tonight. Absolutely, breathtakingly incredible. Those jumps… no one else on this planet can do that.”

She didn’t turn, but he saw her shoulders tense, her knuckles white where she gripped her arms, her body a taut wire of suppressed agony.

“Incredible wasn’t enough, was it?” she said, her voice flat, dead, devoid of all emotion, each word a tiny shard of ice.

“Again. It’s never enough.” The words, a chilling premonition of the battles for recognition and fairness that lay ahead, not just for her, but for him too.

“It should have been,” he said fiercely, taking a step closer, then another, drawn by an invisible current, an overwhelming urge to protect her from this crushing unfairness, to absorb some of the desolation that radiated from her like a physical force. “It was robbery. Pure and simple. Everyone saw it. What you did out there… it was legendary. They were blind.”

She finally turned, and her eyes, when they met his, were filled with a bleak, desolate emptiness that terrified him. It was like looking into a void, all the light, all the fire he associated with her, extinguished.

“What’s the point of legendary, Jack?” she whispered, her voice trembling, on the verge of shattering completely.

“What’s the point of landing five quads, of pushing myself until I break, of sacrificing everything – every meal, every normal teenage moment, every ounce of myself – if it’s never, ever good enough for them? If the gold always, always goes to someone who plays it safe, who doesn't dare? Am I just… a fool for trying?” The raw honesty of her pain, the years of disciplined denial laid bare in that question, lanced through him.

“It’s not fair,” he said, the words feeling like pebbles in his mouth, so small, so useless against the magnitude of her pain.

“No,” she agreed, a single tear tracing a slow, painful path down her cheek, leaving a glistening track on her pale skin.

“It’s not fair.” Her breath hitched. “And I… I just don’t know if I can do it anymore.”

A choked, ragged sob escaped her, then another, and suddenly she was collapsing, folding in on herself as if her bones had turned to water, the carefully constructed dam of her composure finally, catastrophically, bursting.

He reacted without thinking, instinct taking over, closing the distance between them in two strides, his arms reaching for her as her knees buckled. She fell into him, a dead weight of despair, clinging to him as if he were the last solid thing in a world that had just dissolved into chaos. Her face buried itself in his chest, her body shaking with the force of her sobs, deep, ragged gasps tearing from her throat, each one a fresh wave of anguish.

He held her tightly, his hand automatically going to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft, damp hair, murmuring meaningless words of comfort – "It's okay," "I'm here," "You were robbed, Gen, you were," "Let it out" – feeling utterly helpless yet fiercely, overwhelmingly protective.

He could feel the tremors running through her slim, deceptively strong frame, the dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt, the faint, clean scent of her hair mixed with the lingering aroma of ice and effort, a scent that was suddenly, achingly, the most intimate thing he’d ever known. In that moment, holding her fragile, trembling body, feeling the raw, unfiltered weight of her heartbreak against his own chest, something shifted irrevocably, seismically, within him.

This wasn’t just his friend Genevieve anymore, the girl he’d grown up with, shared secrets with. This was the brilliant, fierce, exquisitely vulnerable woman who pushed herself beyond limits he could barely comprehend, only to be met with what felt like calculated cruelty. This was the person whose strength amazed him, whose fragility now broke his heart into a thousand pieces.

Holding her like this, feeling her cling to him for support, her fingers digging into his back as if he were her only anchor in a raging sea, ignited a fierce, possessive tenderness within him, a desperate, aching longing to shield her, to be her refuge, to somehow make the world right for her, a world that seemed determined to misunderstand her brilliance.

The lines of friendship, once so clear and comfortable, blurred, dissolved, reformed into something deeper, more complex, more intensely personal, something that made his own heart ache with a strange, new sweetness. He breathed in the scent of her, a mixture of hairspray, ice, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Genevieve, and it felt like the most precious, painful thing in the world.

Gradually, the storm passed.

Her sobs quieted into shuddering breaths, her grip on his shirt loosened slightly, though she didn’t pull away, instead nestling closer, her head heavy against his shoulder, a profound, exhausted surrender. The tremors lessened, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that seemed to emanate from her very soul. Her breathing evened out, becoming slow and deep, and he realized, with a pang of tenderness so sharp it stole his breath, that she had cried herself to sleep, utterly spent, still cradled in his arms like a child.

He moved with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, careful not to wake her as he maneuvered her towards the bed. Though surprisingly light, she felt like the most precious, fragile burden he’d ever carried.

Gently, he laid her down. Her head lolled against the pillows, limbs pliant. Even in sleep, her face was tear-stained, etched with an exhaustion and lingering sadness that made his chest ache with an almost primal, protective urge. Her blonde hair, usually so perfectly styled, lay in a tangled, soft halo around her.

A moment of hesitation, then his fingers, trembling slightly, reached out. Tenderly, he brushed a stray strand from her forehead. His touch lingered on her cool skin, a feather-light contact, sending a jolt through him—a spark of awareness, both terrifying and exhilarating.

He pulled the duvet up, tucking it gently around her shoulders. The silver medal still lay on the nightstand, a cold, indifferent sentinel. Hepicked it up, its weight surprisingly substantial in his palm, its surface cold, almost accusatory. It felt like a betrayal, a symbol of everything she’d fought for, and everything that had been so cruelly denied her. With a surge of quiet anger, he placed it back down, further away from her, almost hidden behind a water glass, out of her immediate sight.

He stood there for a long time, just watching her sleep, a tumult of emotions churning within him. Anger at the injustice of it all. And a deep, burgeoning tenderness, a yearning so new, so powerful, it almost frightened him with its intensity.

He wanted to stay, to watch over her, to be there when she woke up, to see even a flicker of a smile return to her lips. But he knew he shouldn’t. This was a private grief, a sacred space, and he was, despite the profound intimacy of the last hour, still just a friend.

Or was he?

The lines felt so blurred now, so irrevocably, wonderfully, terrifyingly altered. He was about to quietly let himself out, his heart heavy with these new, confusing emotions, when a soft knock came at the door. His heart leaped into his throat. He glanced at Genevieve, still deeply asleep, then moved to the door, opening it a crack. Richard Ashworth stood in the hallway, his usually immaculate suit slightly rumpled, his expression etched with a father’s weary concern.

“Jack?” Mr. Ashworth’s voice was low, questioning, a hint of alarm in it. “Is Genevieve… is she alright?”

Jack stepped into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind him, shielding the sleeping Genevieve from view.

“She’s asleep, sir,” he said quietly. “She was… pretty upset. Understandably. Cried herself out, I think.”

Richard’s shoulders sagged with a mixture of relief and renewed worry. He ran a hand through his silvered hair, a gesture of fatigue and stress.

“I see. I came to check on her. Dimitri said she was… distraught. Utterly.” He looked at Jack, a new, sharper understanding dawning in his eyes. “You were with her?”

“Yeah,” Jack admitted, feeling a little awkward under the older man's scrutiny, yet also strangely unwilling to hide the depth of his concern. “I just… I wanted to make sure she was okay. She needed someone.”

Richard looked past Jack, towards the closed door, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, then back at him, his gaze searching, lingering.

“Thank you, Jack. For being there for her. She… she puts on such a brave face, but this one… this one cut deep. Deeper than the others, I think. She’s a fighter, my Genevieve, always has been. Pours every ounce of herself into everything she does. And when the world doesn’t play fair…” He trailed off, shaking his head, the frustration and helplessness of a father evident in his eyes.

“She was incredible tonight, sir,” Jack said, the words heartfelt, imbued with an admiration that was almost reverent. “What she did out there… it was beyond anything I’ve ever seen. It was magic.”

A flicker of pride, fierce and profoundly paternal, lit Richard’s tired eyes.

“She is, isn’t she? A true original. The Silver Swan who dares to fly higher than anyone else, then wonders why the judges don’t appreciate the pieces.” He sighed, a heavy sound.

“This sport… it can be a cruel mistress. Much like yours, I imagine, young man.”

They stood in silence for a moment, two men from different worlds, different generations, united by their deep concern and affection for the young woman sleeping just a few feet away.

Richard Ashworth looked at the young man before him.

Jack Doohan. Mick’s boy.

He’d known him since he was a scruffy, intense youngster, all elbows and knees, radiating an almost unnerving focus even then, a seriousness that belied his tender years.

He’d watched him mature, witnessed the burgeoning raw talent, the inherent grit, that quiet, steely determination that so uncannily mirrored his own daughter’s. He’d always held a fondness for Jack, approving of the easy, genuine friendship he shared with Genevieve. They possessed an understanding of each other, those two, a connection few others could fathom, as if they spoke a silent language forged in the shared crucible of elite sport.

Seeing him now, standing almost as a sentinel outside Genevieve’s room, his young face etched with a concern so profound it seemed to add years to his frame, Richard felt a complex tapestry of emotions unfurl within him. Immense gratitude, certainly. His daughter was hurting, shattered by a familiar injustice, and this boy, this young racer carrying his own considerable burdens, had been there for her, had offered a steadfast shoulder when even her own father hadn’t known how to breach the wall of her disappointment.

But there was something more, too, a flicker of… recognition? A dawning awareness. He observed the way Jack’s gaze kept darting towards Genevieve’s closed door, the subtle, protective, almost possessive set of his shoulders, the undeniable softness that lingered in his eyes when he spoke of her. He recalled Genevieve’s face earlier, that brief, almost imperceptible glance she’d cast Jack’s way as she’d been swept from the arena, a silent, desperate plea for understanding that Richard, in his own distress, had nearly missed.

He had always known their bond was strong, unusually so for childhood friends. But tonight, witnessing the sheer depth of Jack’s devotion, the raw empathy that radiated from him, Richard found himself wondering if it wasn’t something more profound. Or at least, something precariously, beautifully, on the cusp of becoming so.

The thought, surprisingly, wasn’t unwelcome. Jack was a good lad – grounded, fiercely loyal, possessing a core of integrity and a quiet strength. These were qualities Richard valued above all else, qualities he’d always hoped Genevieve would find in a partner. And God knows, his daughter deserved some uncomplicated happiness, some unwavering affection and steadfast support in her life, a refuge from the relentless pressure and the subjective, often cruel, judgments of her demanding sport.

The kind of steadfastness that money, even Ashworth money, couldn't always buy.

He made a mental note. A quiet word with Mick Doohan was in order. Not to meddle, of course not. Just… to compare notes. Father to father.

“Well,” Richard said, his voice regaining some of its usual briskness, though his eyes remained soft, thoughtful.

“I’ll let her sleep. No point waking her now. She needs it more than anything.” He looked at Jack again, a genuine warmth, almost an approval, in his expression. “Thank you again, son. For being a good friend to her. A true friend. It means a lot. To both of us.”

“Of course, sir,” Jack said, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him at Richard’s quiet, significant approval.

“Get some rest yourself,” Richard said, clapping him briefly, firmly on the shoulder.

"You young athletes, you burn the candle at both ends and then some.” He turned to leave, then paused, his hand on the corridor wall. “Jack?”

“Sir?”

“She’ll bounce back,” Richard said, his voice firm with a father’s unwavering, absolute conviction. “She always does. She’s an Ashworth, after all. And more importantly, she’s Genevieve. Made of something… stronger than steel.”

With a final, lingering nod, he was gone, leaving Jack alone in the quiet, sterile hallway. He stood there for another moment, looking at Genevieve’s door, Richard’s words echoing in his mind. She’ll bounce back.

She always does. He knew it was true. Genevieve was the strongest, most resilient person he knew. But tonight, he’d seen the cracks in the armour, the raw, vulnerable heart beneath the champion’s fierce exterior. And the fierce, protective tenderness that had bloomed so unexpectedly, so powerfully within him, the undeniable, almost painful yearning to be the one to help her gather the pieces, to shield her, to simply be there for her, was a revelation.

It was terrifying.

The next morning, Jack woke with a jolt, the image of Genevieve’s tear-streaked, sleeping face still vivid in his mind. The emotions from the previous night – her raw, unraveled grief, his own fierce, almost primal protectiveness, that strange, new, overwhelming tenderness – churned within him, a confusing, potent cocktail that left him feeling exposed, changed. Their friendship, always a comfortable, easy, foundational thing in his life, now felt charged, fragile, infinitely precious. He was acutely, thrillingly aware of a shift, a line crossed, even if only in the silent, tumultuous landscape of his own heart.

He showered and dressed, his mind racing, replaying every moment from the hotel room. He had to see her, make sure she was okay, but the thought of facing her after last night’s profound intimacy, her complete emotional surrender in his arms, made him inexplicably nervous, his palms damp.

What did you say to someone after that? How did you act when the very ground beneath your relationship had shifted?

He found her in the hotel’s breakfast room – a grand, sun-drenched space with soaring ceilings and the quiet clinking of silver on bone china – already a whirlwind of quiet efficiency despite the lingering shadows under her eyes, a testament to her resilience. She was on her phone, speaking in rapid, low, professional tones to someone – her agent, perhaps, or a team official – her expression composed, controlled.

The champion was back, or at least, the public facade of one, meticulously reconstructed.

But Jack saw the slight tremor in her hand as she held her coffee cup, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, a subtle hollowness there, when she looked up and saw him approaching.

“Morning,” he said, trying to sound casual, normal, as if last night hadn’t happened, as if his world hadn’t tilted on its axis and shown him a new horizon.

“Jack. Morning.” Her voice was a little hoarse, a faint echo of last night's tears. She ended her call quickly, with a crisp efficiency that felt like a shield. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah, fine. You?” A blatant lie. He’d barely slept, his mind replaying the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair, the soft sound of her breathing as she finally slept.

“Like a log, eventually,” she said, though the faint puffiness around her eyes, the slight bruising of fatigue, told a different story. An awkward, charged silence descended. He wanted to ask her how she was really feeling, to tell her again how magnificent she’d been, how much he admired her, but the words felt clumsy, inadequate, potentially intrusive.

The hotel lobby, with its polished marble floors and discreetly placed arrangements of hothouse flowers, was already buzzing with activity. Athletes, coaches, officials, and a surprising, unwelcome number of media. As they walked towards the exit, a pack of journalists, like wolves sensing a wounded deer, alerted to Genevieve’s presence, descended. Microphones were thrust in her face, cameras flashed, their sudden glare harsh and invasive.

“Genevieve, your reaction to last night’s result?”

“Five quads, a new world record technical score, but still silver. How do you feel about the judging? Do you feel it was fair?”

“That emotional moment in the Kiss and Cry, can you tell us what was going through your mind? Some are calling it unsportsmanlike.”

Jack instinctively moved closer to her, a half-step in front, a subtle but definite protective shield. He saw her jaw tighten, her eyes flash with a familiar, dangerous fire before she smoothed her expression into one of polite, professional composure, a mask he now knew intimately.

“I skated my best,” she said, her voice clear, steady, though Jack, attuned to her every nuance now, could hear the underlying strain, the carefully suppressed tremor.

“I pushed the boundaries, I left everything on the ice. The judges make their decisions. Of course, I’m disappointed not to win gold, but I’m proud of my performance.”

She handled the questions with a practiced, almost chilling grace, deflecting the more pointed, baiting inquiries about the judging, refusing to be drawn into controversy. But Jack saw the effort it cost her, the way her fingers were clenched so tightly around the strap of her impeccably crafted, logo-free leather handbag that her knuckles were white.

He wanted to pull her away, to snarl at them to leave her alone, to physically stand between her and their relentless questioning. But this was her world, her battle, and he knew she had to fight it her own way. His role, he was beginning to understand, was to be her anchor, not her sword.

Later that day, before his own flight back to his F3 team base, he found her staring out the window of the exclusive airport lounge, a distant, preoccupied look on her face, the earlier composure fraying slightly at the edges. The initial media storm had subsided, but the articles were already online, headlines dissecting her performance, her emotional reaction, often with a cruel lack of understanding.

"ASHWORTH'S AGONY," one blared.

"QUAD QUEEN DENIED GOLD AGAIN: A MELTDOWN ON ICE?" screamed another.

Many included a still frame from the broadcast – her face contorted in that moment of raw grief in the Kiss and Cry. It made Jack’s blood boil with a cold fury.

He sat down beside her, their shoulders almost touching.

“Don’t read that rubbish,” he said quietly, his voice rough with an anger he didn’t try to suppress.

She jumped slightly, startled from her reverie. “Oh. Hey.” She offered a weak, tired smile. “Hard to avoid it. It’s everywhere.”

“They don’t get it,” he said, his voice low and intense. “They don’t see what it takes, what you put into it, the sheer guts it requires. They just want the drama, the tears.”

Genevieve sighed, a long, weary exhalation, turning to look at him. There were new lines of strain around her eyes, a subtle hardening to her gaze.

“It’s part of the game, Jack. You know that. High stakes, high emotions… it sells.” There was a weariness in her voice that hadn’t been there before, a new layer of cynicism that pained him to hear.

“It’s still not right,” he insisted, stubbornly.

He wanted to make it right for her, to somehow erase the pain, the unfairness, the public dissection of her private anguish. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to reach for her hand, to intertwine his fingers with hers, to offer some tangible comfort, but he hesitated. The memory of holding her last night, the profound intimacy of it, was too vivid, too potent. The lines had blurred, and he didn't know how to navigate this new, uncharted terrain between them.

“Maybe we should get out of here,” he suggested abruptly, desperate to change the atmosphere, to see her smile again, a real smile, to chase away the shadows from her eyes.

“This airport lounge is depressing. We’ve got a couple of hours. We could… I don’t know… find the most ridiculous, overpriced tourist trap in this city and laugh at it until we forget all this crap?”

She looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then a slow, tentative smile, the first genuine one he’d seen all day, began to spread across her face, chasing away some of the shadows, warming the blue of her eyes.

“The most ridiculous tourist trap?” she repeated, a hint of her old sparkle, her fighting spirit, returning. “You’re on, Doohan. But you’re buying the tacky, overpriced souvenirs. All of them.”

And for a few precious hours, they did just that.

They found a bizarre museum dedicated to something Jack couldn’t quite understand, bought ludicrously oversized novelty hats that made them look certifiable, and ate questionable street food from a vendor who winked conspiratorially, laughing until their sides ached and tears – this time, tears of mirth – streamed down their faces. He saw the tension slowly ease from her shoulders, the haunted look in her eyes recede, replaced by a familiar, mischievous glint.

He focused all his energy on making her laugh, on distracting her, on creating a small, silly, sacred bubble of normalcy in the midst of her very public heartbreak. He was intensely, constantly aware of her: of the way her hair caught the light when she threw her head back to laugh, of the brush of her arm against his as they navigated crowded streets, of the shared glances that lingered a fraction of a second too long, charged with unspoken words.

The yearning he felt was a constant, powerful thrum beneath the surface of their banter, a new, exhilarating, terrifying current in the deep river of their friendship.

He didn’t know what it meant, or where it was going, but as he watched Genevieve playfully try on a pair of enormous, glitter-encrusted sunglasses, her genuine, unrestrained laughter echoing in the crowded marketplace, a sound that felt like sunshine after a storm, he knew one thing with absolute, heart-stopping certainty: his world had changed. And Genevieve Ashworth, in all her fierce, fragile, brilliant complexity, was, more than ever, at the very vibrant, beating heart of it. Their laughter, a fragile melody against the city’s hum, felt like a promise, a defiant spark against the encroaching shadows of their respective worlds.

He couldn't shake the feeling that this day, born of her despair and their shared escape, was more than just a fleeting comfort; it was a quiet prelude, the first note in a far more complex, demanding symphony yet to be composed, a symphony that would require all their strength, all their trust, and every ounce of the unspoken thing that now bound them together.

The echoes of her pain, and his desperate need to soothe it, would resonate long after the city faded behind them, shaping battles neither could yet foresee.

Next chapter

[missredherring]

Set Up

Javi Gutiérrez x Harry Castillo

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.1k

Contents: kissing, frottage.

Summary: Matchmaker AU. What are the odds a matchmaker sets you up with a former hook up? Asking for a friend.

A/N: I loved the parallels in the gifs and this idea quickly followed. Thanks to @perotovar for their encouragement.

Not beta read.

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Javi takes a deep pull of wine and barely tastes it before he swallows. It's not how he was taught one should enjoy wine, but enjoying isn't his goal right now. Maybe he should've gotten something stronger if he really wanted to dull some of the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He's dressed nicely in a fancy restaurant whose waiting list goes out years rather than weeks or months. That he made this reservation a couple of days ago is a testament to the power of an old family name like his, but it makes him feel like even more of a failure.

It'd been a secret wish to find a partner organically. A chance encounter set up by fate where interest sparked with a moment of eye contact, a brush of the hand, an exchange of shy smiles. He knows real life is nothing like the idyllic movies he adores, but the small hope clings to his heartstrings and pulls at the worst times. Besides, when was the last time he's spent enough time in a coffee shop to have a proper meet-cute?

He'd thought Gabriela was the one for a few sweet months of heated kisses and whispered daydreams of a better future out from the thumb of his family. In the end he couldn't bare to trap her in his golden cage just because he was lonely and desperate for companionship. She understood better than he did that his family would never approve of them together.

The pressure to marry and marry well only increased after Lucas' failed coup d'état. The family needed to repair its reputation and present a stable, powerful image to the rest of the world. What better way to do that than with a wedding?

Javi's orders were clear: marry soon or they'd marry him off themselves by the end of the year and he would have no say in the union.

He understands. It's the least he can do to repay the wealth and power that's let him live such a carefree and privileged life, but that hope swings like a pendulum in his chest and he wants one last chance to find love for himself. That's happened before, right? There are a fair few movies that have the protagonists finding true love with the threat of an arranged marriage hanging overhead. Of course they also portray those marriages as a soul-crushing union that's a fate worse than death. He doesn't want to crush anyone or be crushed himself.

Hope swings away and he had to admit that maybe his family isn't wrong about the arrangement idea. So he negotiated one last chance to find a partner for himself and reached out to Nic for advice. His friend (his friend Nic Cage) had offered up the name of a New York-based matchmaker who he swore was one of the best. Some of the successful Hollywood couples? Her doing.

It was a strange experience to trust a total stranger to match him up with another stranger based on a form he filled out, but Javi is the kind of person who wants to trust other people, no matter how many times life delighted in proving him wrong.

Harry C.

He hadn't wanted to see pictures, charmed by the idea of a true blind date, but maybe that had been a mistake. The matchmaker had assured him they matched on the important things and now it was up to them to see if there was any potential in person. He hoped this whole thing wouldn't turn into a disappointment his family would see as another failure.

Javi reaches for his glass again but redirects to the water instead.

His phone vibrates from where he'd placed it next to the table setting. The phone going off during the date would be rude, wouldn't it? He turns the sound off before checking the message. It was from the matchmaker:

"I hope you have a wonderful time with Harry. Of course, if you're not feeling it let me know and I'll get you out of there!"

The emojis depicting a person running away makes him smile. He replies with a thank you and the fingers crossed emoji.

He starts to put the phone back on the table, but should he put it in a pocket instead? Would the phone on the table signal that he wasn't wiling to give his date his full attention? Should he have left his phone at home? No, meeting a stranger in a city he was only passingly familiar with was too naive even for him.

"Javier?" a voice asks as shined leather shoes come into his line of sight just beyond the table.

Javi finishes the movement of slipping his phone into his pocket and stands to greet his date.

"Please, call me 'Javi.'"

"Javi," Harry confirms and doesn't hesitate when Javi takes his outstretched hand and uses it to pull him in for a quick embrace. He lets Javi guide his face to the left and right for two presses of smooth skin against his cheeks. It's over in seconds, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of warmth and a pleasant, familiar cologne.

"Ah, please, have a seat," Javi says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite of him before sitting back down at the table.

It's a nice restaurant with packed tables spaced far enough apart for privacy in low lighting. It would be easy to forget about the city outside when all you can hear is the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional clink of silverware.

With his prize in his sights, Harry's patience feels boundless as he watches Javi finally settle in his seat and look him in the eyes for the first time that night.

Belt buckles rattle and the hiss of zippers are echoed in exhalations as ruddy cocks are freed from pants.

The recognition is slow but steady as Javi studies his face, his eyes darting from feature to feature before landing on his lips when Harry can't hold back his smile.

Harry could spit, but the other man takes his hand and licks along his palm and fingers instead, grunting when Harry uses it to press and hold their dicks together while he kisses him again and again, dizzy with the taste of alcohol and wedding cake.

"I finally get to know your name and of all people a matchmaker is the one to give it to me. What do you think the odds of that are, Javi?"

Seeing Javi's face among the candidates had been a shock. Harry had never expected to see the man he'd hooked up with at his brother's wedding again, but there he was, smiling at the camera wide enough to bring out the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, just as he had when they'd locked eyes across the room at the reception.

"Small," Javi croaks, taking what can only be described as a 'swig' from his wine glass. "but apparently not impossible."

[ilikekidsshows]

It's funny when people are like "Marinette is gonna be PISSED when she finds out that Marc and Nathaniel revealed themselves to each other" cause no, she won't lol there is only one person Marinette strictly enforces all rules upon and with no willingness to make a single compromise and that person is and has always been Chat Noir.

Her friends have always ranked MUCH higher than Chat Noir in the team's hierarchy regarding how well, supportive, and fairly Ladybug treats them. Her real friends can do whatever the hell wrong they please and all she'll do is groan a bit and then start another round of "teaching Chat Noir why only HE doesn't get to have anything or anyone and how that makes her the greatest leader ever". That has been the consistent way she was written as leader. She doesn't have actual rules, she pulls new rules out of her ass on a whim and will promote and favour whoever she wants in an given moment.

She invents new rules on a whim to make Chat Noir shut up (her randomly deciding that only guardians get to give out or take back Miraculous. A rule that CONVENIENTLY didn't exist when SHE wasn't the guardian bc that would have limited HER, now wouldn't it?)

And she goes back on any rule enforced on her the second she doesn't like it

- no one should know who you are.

- Miraculous holders shouldn't be guardians.

- Giving out information about the Miraculous, their secrets, and powers and privileges entirely dependent on what and whom SHE deems convenient to herself and not what's actually fair and is the best for her mission to defeat the Butterfly (which, big surprise, she utterly failed at bc she never prioritized her actual MISSION)

- Whoever is publicly revealed doesn't get to keep their Miraculous

- And no using of Miraculous powers for personal gain, which Marinette constantly goes against by still treating the Miraculous powers as a way to solve her (civilian) problems (including giving Miraculous out like candy to her friends just so she can have them by her side which is inherently of self-serving nature).

It's HILARIOUS that people think Marinette will be upset about Marc and Nathaniel revealing themselves. Marinette won't give a damn. That's the problem and has always been. That Marinette is an unfair and hypocritical leader who strictly enforces all the rules only on ONE person while doing whatever the hell she pleases and giving all her real friends all the freedom they like cause she plays favourites and abuses her leader/ guardian privileges.

---

Yeah, like, Marinette might give a lot of orders to everybody, but there's no evidence she'll actually enforce them for any of her friends. Like, the new rules about not engaging Akumas without her there first? You bet the instant someone other than Cat Noir does that, she won't even notice, but if she finds him fighting an Akuma without first calling her, she'll take time during the fight to rip him a new one.

These are both things that have happened before. Alya broke every single order Marinette gave her in season four and Marinette's reaction was to ignore it and later give her a kwagatama and promote her to full backup Guardian status. Meanwhile, when Cat Noir wasn't where he was supposed to be in the New York Special, she distracted them both during the fight to yell at him, which directly led to Aeon getting killed. She also yelled at him for trying to help in season 4 and when he wasn't "around enough" in season 6.

The rest of the team has been given the freedom to do whatever they want, their only instruction is not to engage Akumas without Ladybug, which I doubt will be enforced. Meanwhile, Cat Noir has to be always available on Ladybug's whim, show up to every fight, to act as bait and take hits for the team with two other holders with literally BLOCKING HITS as their power and protect the other half of the power to rewrite reality while still being considered nothing more than a standard teammate. Cat Noir has the most reponsibility after the literal team leaders, and Ladybug is only adding to his stress by holding him to standards that no one else, even said leaders, are held to.

Sure, Marinette will totally be mad her pet shippers if they go against her direct orders. She wouldn't even care. You can only get that kind of disappointed mad at someone if you first hold them to any standard of behavior, and Marinette provably holds neither herself nor her real-life friends to any standards. The only teammate she's gotten mad at is Cat Noir, therefore the only one she expects to reach her standards is also Cat Noir.

[starcat1701]

Unpopular opinion, but I think the actors involved in Thunderbolts* shouldn't get a free pass from us regarding their involvement in Marvel's marketing of the film.

Yes, yes, I know, they're under contract, etc. etc., but ultimately? They do still have a choice. And they are choosing, repeatedly, to side with Marvel's deliberate erasure of Sam Wilson.

This new poster?

You know, the one where they put Steve's shadow under Walker's? This is the last straw for me.

Don't tell me everyone in the film made fun of Walker for sucking at being Captain America. Don't tell me that the 'New Avengers' are supposed to be a joke and the headlines and satirical images in the credits sequence were supposed to establish that. I don't care what happened in the film, Marvel has leaned hard into the narrative in the real world that this 'team' are the next gen Avengers, the heirs to the OG six. Don't tell me they're supposed to be illegitimate and 'everyone knows Sam has the real Avengers' when everything Marvel's done in the past week has presented them as the real Avengers.

Their marketing campaign is doing real, measurable harm to Sam Wilson as a character (and Anthony Mackie by extension). I don't care if this is all somehow going to be magically fixed in Doomsday (and I don't trust that it will be), that will not erase the damage that is being done right now. And I don't think it's unfair to criticize the actors for just standing by and letting it happen.

Thing is, a lot of garbage is happening right now because a lot of people are just standing by and letting it happen. Choosing to do nothing is still a choice.

Yes, if the actors publicly spoke out and said they were uncomfortable with the marketing, that they didn't like how it sidelined and ignored Sam Wilson, that they did not want to be part of a publicity campaign that was enabling (and, let's face it, full on encouraging) racist comments, there might well be consequences.

Guess what? There are news articles every day about people losing their jobs because they refused to ignore what was happening, because they spoke up, even though they knew there would be consequences.

Bill Owens, the executive producer of 60 Minutes, resigned once he was no longer able to 'make independent decisions based on what was right for 60 Minutes, right for the audience'.

Ann Telnaes, an editorial cartoonist at the Washington Post, resigned in January after her editors refused to publish her cartoon (rough cut below, from her Substack), writing 'As an editorial cartoonist, my job is to hold powerful people and institutions accountable. For the first time, my editor prevented me from doing that critical job.' (She just won a Pulitzer, btw.)

'It's just a movie,' you tell me. 'It's no big deal,' you tell me. 'This has nothing to do with US politics,' you tell me.

See the Mouse genuflecting in that rough draft of Telnaes' cartoon?

Of course it's connected.

We are at a point in history where if you are in a position to do so safely, and you do not speak up, if you do not protest, if you do not actively resist, you are complicit. There is no such thing anymore as 'not being political' because if you use 'not being political' to ignore everything that is happening, that is a political choice.

So, no, I don't think it's too much to ask that the actors take a good hard look at themselves in the mirror and find the courage to speak up, even if that's going to upset tptb at Marvel and Disney.

[aingeal98]

I haven't read any comics w Jay in them, but all I hear about it is that they're a bland nothing character made only so they can advertise Jon as queer. But since YOURE a fan of JayJon and one of the realest people on this site, i dont think that's v accurate (the bland part, at the very least) and I'm curious about what they're like :3 (also the panel they chose for the poll is not flattering at all T.T why does Jon look like that)

Awww thank you! I can't promise they're everyone's taste, and I understand people's hesitation due to the double whammy of Tom Taylor and Jon Kent, and initially when Jay was introduced I didn't have any interest in them at all. What got me intrigued was the ongoing Secret Six run, which is a book absolutely chock full of messy gay drama. And that got me to go back and deep dive into Jayjon.

The basic summary that I can give as propaganda is that Jay is a seventeen year old anarchist who successfully convinced Jon Kent to go along with his plan to overthrow a dictatorship. He's much more active a partner than a generic love interest, and in a lot of ways he's helping Jon define who he is outside of "Superman's son." Despite being created by Tom Taylor, the more comics Jay appears in the more it becomes clear that he's not a two dimensional sweet supportive love interest. That boy is a Hater. It's literally one of my favourite things about him.

(And also I think people saw Tom Taylor's name, Jon Kent as the protagonist, and Jay's pink hair and made a whole bunch of assumptions about him and Jayjon that lumped them in with Tim Drake and Bernard under the "DC doesn't care they're just throwing these heroes with random boring gay love interests" take. Which I disagree with especially when it comes to Jay tbh.)

But to understand my own personal love for jayjon, as someone who doesn't really care about male characters in general, you gotta understand the third part of this messy triangle: Nia Nal aka Dreamer. Spoilers for everything involving the three of them below.

Her backstory is written in Bad Dream: A Dreamer's Story but basically Nia is a half alien trans girl who grew up in a hidden alien sanctuary in America, until her powers manifested and she left and after some drama and tragedy, she became a hero. She shows up in Jon's Superman run to help Jon and Jay out because of future visions she had in her dreams. Why? Well now we get deep into Jay.

Jay Nakamura is a refugee from Gamorra, an Asian Island nation located in the Pacific. His mother used to be president of Gamorra, but when her successor was elected he turned the island into a dictatorship and began experimenting to create metahumans. Jay was tortured and experimented on, gaining the power to turn intangible. He fled and made his way to America, where he began running an underground news site attempting to expose the news mainstream media ignores, such as the Gamorran refugees. Jon during this run is struggling with the weight of being Superman and what kind of hero he wants to be, and decides to help Jay and the Gamorrans. They fall in love, kiss, and end up saving Gamorra with Nia's help. It's very Tom Taylor as in the ideas are interesting but he's limited to everyone getting an uncomplicated happy ending. Luckily, the characters aren't limited to his run. So instead of being a simple happy ending, things get a lot more complicated.

Then comes the one two whammy of Suicide Squad Dream Team and Absolute Power, which is a terrible comic for Amanda Waller but a great comic for Jon, Jay and Nia. Really enjoyable if you pretend Waller is possessed by an evil magic force the entire time. In Suicide Squad, Waller assembles a team in order to infiltrate Gamorra and take control. She blackmails Nia into being a part of the team first by threatening to expose her hometown of aliens to all of America, and later on by holding the life of her family hostage so that she does Waller's bidding. This leads to Nia using her powers to get the Suicide Squad into Gamorra, where they then assassinate the president.

... Aka Jay's mom.

Nia does end up flipping sides and helping Jon in Absolute Power after he's possessed by Braniac, but despite that Jay still despises her, and understandably so! Jon is caught in the middle between this girl he likes who he knows is a good person, and the boyfriend he loves who understandably hates her. And on top of that his fear of his powers being used to harm others came true and he is NOT coping well after his first time being possessed. And also Nia seems to be crushing on him.

So we come to Secret Six, which three issues in is just gay drama from top to bottom. You've got Deadshot and Catman for old man yaoi, Jon Jay and Nia all forced to work together and full of messy emotions, and Black Alice who was also part of the team who killed Jay's mom but is far less openly remorseful compared to Nia.

And thanks to all that, I've grown very fond of Jon/Jay/Nia. Trans girl who's OK with killing certain assholes vs Anarchist gay guy from a discriminated minority vs Jon Kent liberal flirting with leftism while also dealing with superpowered trauma. It's a powder keg and an entertaining one!

Bonus reading list by bobbinalong on twitter. And bonus extra fun panels.

^^ Guy who is definitely doing OK and his boyfriend who definitely does not feel personally responsible for calming him down

They're very gen z and the Tom Taylor does shine through at first but I still enjoyed them a lot. Secret Six is one of the current ongoings I'm loving and need more of. Might not be everyone's cup of tea, but definitely mine!

[underneathitalldeepdives]

FRUO interview highlights

Some of the sweet things Blake has said about Gwen during the new album press cycle:

I don’t feel like I want to make a record without a duet with Gwen on it anymore. She’s my favorite person to sing with. (Today)

I'm married to Gwen Stefani, who the hell wouldn't shout that from the mountains? When you think of Gwen Stefani you think of the pop star and the icon she is, and I don't think people ever really have given her the credit of being an incredible vocalist. When you listen to some of the stuff she's done in the last couple of years, you can hear all the different nuances and just how powerful of a vocalist she is. It's pretty amazing, I think she has just gotten better and better over time. I never want to cast any kind of a shadow or weirdness on the thing that I'm most proud of in my life which is Gwen and my relationship with her. Everything else takes a backseat to that - music or this album or a tour - the thing I'm most proud of is that, of course I'm going to shout it from the mountains. I'm proud of it. (eTalk CTV)

The cool factor of Gwen Stefani. I know she’s my wife and we’ve been together 10 years now, but I still get starstruck by her if I haven’t seen her in a week. I’m like “Oh my God," she has this thing about her, you know. To be able to bring that to my albums, I'm going to ask her to do it every freaking time. (City News)

Gwen Stefani, my favorite person in the world, and she also happens to be a brilliant songwriter and a brilliant singer. It's been a pleasure for me to have been around her these last 10 years and see how she works and her process. I think people will be surprised to know it's nothing more than an absolute open heart and passion to write down the truth of whatever's going on in her life in that moment. It's just the truth. (Pandora)

(All My Love) leans into Gwen and I and the fact that we didn’t meet each other until later on in life and we wish we could go back and meet each other back in our twenties, and have a total lifetime together. (Pandora)

"It honestly does [feel like time is flying by]. Some of the things that we talk about, we're to the point in our relationship that it's like, 'Oh, remember what happened...' and you realize, 'Oh my God, that was 8 years ago!' It's like, how did this happen so quickly?" says Shelton, 48. But while Shelton acknowledges that "10 years is a long time," the singer — who teamed up with Stefani for a new duet on his latest album For Recreational Use Only (out May 9) — says the relationship "still feels new for me." "I feel like that might be the key to happiness, is that it feels just as exciting and new and happy," he says. (People Magazine)

[dammit-tazmuir]

No. What makes me sad is when other people see Paul as something primarily sad.

What makes me sad is that when I got my own QPP to listen to NtN with me and we got to Paul's birth, they were sad, and got upset when I quoted "to love someone is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be, and a thousand births of the people they become." Because there was a time when we wanted to be Garnet, and I thought they'd love Paul too. In that way, I understand that they too are not who they used to be, but that in and of itself is fine, and I still love them. Because Paul is an unusual spin and a speedrun, but people not being who you used to know is just a real immutable part of life. It's scary to think they could become someone you don't like, but you don't stop loving them just because change happened.

What makes me sad is that no one else seems to look at Paul and see something beautiful, something amazing, something Palamedes and Camilla desperately wanted, something that made Camilla cry with relief and brought them both overwhelming peace. Paul is not Palamedes, and Paul is not Camilla, but Paul IS Palamedes-and-Camilla, and remembers being Palamedes, and remembers being Camilla. Theirs was ego death, but not death in all ways, and for the part that was once Palamedes it was Resurrection in the purest way it has ever been done. Or rather, to use Tamsyn's distinguishment, it was Rebirth. They are more alive than ever, and they are happy.

There IS beauty and freedom in never being complete, and there is different beauty and freedom IN seeing something to completion. Neither is better or worse, they just suit different people. Some people choose Resurrection, trying to bring back and preserve what used to be. Some choose Rebirth, coming back as something new. Nona certainly preferred Rebirth to her Resurrection, but now Alecto has an opportunity to choose who she wants to be this time, too, to reject her Resurrection in favor of another Rebirth.

They are also a rejection of the entire system that led them here. They were born into an empire that ran on the sacrifice of others and on conquest and oppression, an empire that discouraged personal bonds and asked for unquestioning devotion to the state and to God, and they were raised as heirs to perpetuate that cycle. Camilla was raised to die for Palamedes and would have in a heartbeat, and he was raised to let her, but Pal said No, so she had to live for him and for both of them instead. ("All any of you ever knew how to do was die for her. You could have lived for her, but you didn't know how.")

That doesn't change the objective truth that they live in a world where real magical power is derived from death and from fucking around with souls. So they found a way to do it on their own terms, without physically or spiritually harming anybody else, a way that took nothing and gave everything, and now they intend to use it to protect and help others in a way they never could have before. And they'll never have to worry about losing sight of each other again. They'll never be separated again. They'll experience the rest of their now-nigh-immortal life as one chaotic yet composed and endlessly curious demigod.

Palamedes and Camilla were never free, and Paul will not be entirely either, because there are still many people they love, and they wouldn't have it any other way. But on some level Paul also might be the greatest combination of free and happy that any person has ever been, and I envy them. I'm happy for them. They are comforting and indulgent to me. And I wish more people could see them the way I do.

I love Paul.

Hello fellow locked tomb fans, do you ever think about these three lines in juxtaposition and about Paul in general and get really really sad?

[jukeboxsweethearttt]

Introducing Coconut!Reader

You can call it sleeping around. I call it strategic networking.

Paired with Rafe and Ward Cameron

content warning: Cheating? if you consider that but mostly just father and son sharing the same woman

Requests for this au OPEN/closed

Divider by THE QUEEN @starfxkrinc

Coconut is all bounce and gloss silk robes, ballet pink nails, designer heels with bows, rollers in her hair, and gloss on her pout.

Think “Barbie meets bombshell” all soft curves, plush lips, and giggles. People see her and assume she’s just another pretty face who majored in “how to smile pretty.”

But the bitch has a 4.0 GPA, graduated top of her class in pre-law as summa cum laude. and she’s currently securing her degree in urban development with a business minor. Brains so sharp they could cut glass.

Former Miss North Carolina Teen and a Miss USA Top 5 finalist. Her pageant walk is so precise it could hypnotize a room, and she’s got a terrifyingly sweet voice she uses like a weapon.

She knows how to network, flirt, disarm, and charm thank you, pageant training. That’s how she landed her internship at Cameron Development.

She flutters her lashes in interviews but hits harder than any other candidate in data analytics. Ward said, “You’re too pretty to know what zoning codes are.” She replied with the entire state regulation index from memory.

Ward is intrigued first by her body, then by her mind, then back to her body. When he offers her a “bonus” for working late, she acts shy, but takes it.

She starts sleeping with Ward because he throws money at her like she’s a damn trust fund. Cashmere sets, vintage pearls, a new Cartier bracelet “for being such a good little intern.”

She lets him call her “doll,” but only if she gets the black Amex when she wants it. She’s not ashamed he’s the one panting at her feet.

Rafe catches her sneaking out of his dad’s office in smeared lipstick and thigh highs. She tries to lie. He laughs.

“You’re not even subtle,” he growls, cornering her in the elevator. “You’re gonna fuck him and not me?”

She’s cocky about it until he makes her beg on her knees right in Ward’s office chair. After that, Rafe makes Ward share.

Now she’s their perfect little secret silk and lace between two generations of Cameron power.

Her biggest kink? Making men underestimate her and then owning their entire business plan in one sentence.

She wears pastels and keeps her voice sweet, but she’s vicious behind a keyboard.

Ward lets her sit in on meetings just for the view, but she ends up correcting his executives mid presentation.

Rafe starts letting her take calls for him because she negotiates harder than he does.

Ward calls her “Sugar,” “Princess,” and “Sweet girl.” He likes her docile, on his lap, brushing her curls while he sips bourbon.

Rafe calls her “My little intern,” “Pretty bitch,” and “Cameron Property.” He likes to wreck her lipstick before board meetings.

She lets them think they own her when really, she owns them both.

She’s a pillow princess with Ward, soft moans and legs open while he worships her like a dirty church prayer.

With Rafe? It’s rougher. Meaner. Messier. He likes to see the lipgloss smeared, the pageant girl ruined.

They both think she belongs to them but she’s got their names memorized in her planner like appointments:

9am: Blow Ward before morning meeting.

1pm: Let Rafe bend you over the desk.

6pm: Pretend like nothing happened and look pretty at the fundraiser.

Ward buys her a house. Rafe buys her a car.

Ward wants to take her to Europe for “company expansion.” Rafe threatens to move her to his penthouse just to keep her close.

She smiles through it all, files her nails, and books both flights. Who said you couldn’t have sugar from two sides of the spoon?

She’s using all of this for her thesis: “Gender, Power, and Capitalism: Sleeping With The American Elite.”

And yes she plans to publish it anonymously, after graduation, once she’s long gone… with the Camerons’ secrets and their money.

ALTERNATE ENDING I couldn’t decide which one so requests are open for Both!

Eventually, Ward proposes. Of course he does. She’s the perfect southern wife on paper, smart, stunning, obedient in public.

The engagement is a society spectacle thousand dollar cake tastings, Vogue coverage, diamonds bigger than her ego. She says yes with teary eyes and crossed legs. It’s what she was raised for to secure a name, a legacy, a life of luxury.

The ring never stops her. On the night of her engagement party, Rafe sneaks into the bathroom and takes her from behind while she moans into the marble.

The pearl necklace she wore to the dinner is still around her throat when he finishes. Ward knows. He always knows. He just doesn’t care not as long as she comes home to his bed at the end of the night, looking like money and ruin.

She’s a wife, a whore, a scholar, and a mastermind. She knows Ward will die loving her and Rafe will die chasing her. She keeps both. Rafe calls her a slut when he’s buried inside her. Ward calls her Mrs. Cameron. She lets both speak. She never loses.

In the end?

She doesn’t just have the crown.

She is the empire.

[cattofwatt]

Headcanon’s Part 6

I hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am. I’m putting so much effort into this and brain power lol

Funniest fucking enemy in the game

1-Clyde was so paranoid and he absolutely snuck those weapons in

2-he isn’t crazy because of his curse he’s just acting like he did whenever anyone walked in to greet him. He has a lot of death on his hands

3-I’m sorry this guy is so funny

She does act like a Jennifer…

1-I think she looks very cool at least. I imagine she worked at the convenience store with the guy who ran it. I only say this because their cursed forms look similar

Why is this guy the one who gets the “Run!” Theme.

1-it’s like a hive mind with each bug and each person absorbed is a new bug

2-seriously why is this the run one

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?!

1-literally just met him today while I was replaying. Most effective jumpscare in this game

2-I have nothing on him but I think I’m one of the first to mention him here

Remember how Frankie had to update this guy to actually want to run from him. And how no one listened to that

1-idk why but I think he may of been one of Placide’s friends

2-probably goes around fixing stuff out of sheer instinct

3-I love how this guy looks

Does anyone else think Frankie went so hard with this design it feels like a separate style?

1-I honestly have no fucking clue how this happened in this way.

2-but I gotta say…it’s pretty hot

One of the best themes

1-I said this already in a reply but. I think this is the result of some extremely edgy satanist seeing the visitor while in his equally edgy car

2-If it could talk I feel like it would say things like “AWWWWW YEAH! FUCK THE COPS WOOOOOO”

Again the style thing

1-I really think this is just the result of some worm being exposed to the visitor

2-are those fucking brushes for limbs

3-epic

Very intriguing. I hope someone made a story of this *cough cough nudge nudge* (check it out. Ok I’ll stop bringing it up lol)

1-I practically said my headcanons on her in the story anyway

I like the wooly mammoth inspiration on this guy

1-does creepy things but not for creepy reasons

2-you guys doing stalker art of the stalkers who stalk Sam. Add this guy. He’s literally seen Sam naked in the SHOWE-

Well that’s that! Next part is probably going to be mostly the door encounter people