#she usually powers through and keeps a straight face

[saduko]

HARD TO MISS

Lando Norris x Driver!Reader 7.9K words

Summary: You had driven sick many times before, but never sick enough to retire from a race. Now Lando was worried about you and how the media was going to react. But maybe this was just about the best thing that could of happened to him. Or in which, reader gets sick during the Spanish GP race and has to face the looming media presence after retiring early with a newfound anger she's never experienced. She was a mess of emotions, acting so different, or maybe it wasn't just her being strange.

Teammates, established relationship, an unexpected surprise?? Note: this unfortunately is a re-upload because my dumbass literally deleted the post the first time I posted it despite it being up for days. Yes I'm mad, and no this isn't edited because of it.

The heat of the Spanish sun beat down on the track, the asphalt shimmering with a relentless intensity that seemed to seep through the cockpit. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, your knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your focus on the race ahead, hot, fast breaths heaving through your helmet like a symphony. The familiar roar of the engine, usually a comforting sound, felt more like a distant hum as yet another wave of nausea rolled through you.

This wasn’t the first time you’d raced under less-than-ideal conditions, but today felt different. The adrenaline that usually sharpened your senses now seemed to amplify the queasiness in your stomach, every bump and turn on the track making it harder to push the discomfort aside. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising bile as you powered through another corner, the car responding to your every command despite the growing turmoil within.

The twisting and turning of the track seemed endless, each lap blurring into the next as your vision narrowed, tunnel-like, around the path ahead. You knew you needed to speak up, to let your team know something was wrong, but the words felt heavy on your tongue, weighted down by the fear of admitting weakness. But you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"I'm not feeling very well."

The twisting and turning of the track was making it hard for you to settle your stomach enough to find your voice, but when you had, there was a long silence on the other end. Ears alert with anticipation as nothing came through, before the thick accent of your engineer, Marlow finally sounded in with a panicked voice, "Are you feeling faint?"

"Not really.” You huffed. “I feel quite nauseous though. My stomach is not cooperating."

There was a short silence through your head piece before a shuffle was heard on the other side, followed by a concerned, "Should we retire the car?"

The suggestion shakes you and a quick puff of air leaves your mouth in order to hopefully settle the turning in your stomach, though you think it might have translated more as annoyance to your team despite the intention. You couldn't help but hope it hadn't come off too harshly, however the forceful tone of your next words certainly didn’t do much to calm the idea. "No! I'm not retiring the car... No, I'm okay."

"Please love, If you can't finish there's no shame in retiring. You're not letting anyone down, we understand-!" He knew how stubborn you were and he really didn't want the question to feel like the hit to the ego he knew you would take it as, but it was hard when everyone knew this race was what was separating you from top 3 and the rest in the championship. They knew it wouldn't be that easy, quickly corroborated by the frustrated grunt you let sound through the line.

Your foot braces against the accelerator, bearing down full force as you take the straight right after corner 4 at full speed, you weren't retiring. Subjective to your own harsh perception of yourself, retiring - no matter the circumstance - was one of the most culpable failures you could commit. It was never a rewarding feeling, and whether or not to retire from a race like this was an indisputable no. Six years into the sport and you had never retired from a race on your own accord. Today would not be the first.

"I'm okay for now."

There was no arguing with a driver going over 300 kilometers an hour, and so the team let your decision chart as they sat back and kept on with their roles, no different than before. Except for one thing, noting the conversation, they all made undisclosed motions to keep an extra close eye on the driver cam.

And so the race continued as 10 laps went by, 10 very shaky laps with countless immoderate wobbles, a few oversteers around a couple corners and a very close call with Carlos who made quick work of letting the communal radio know how exactly he felt about that, words that were quickly relayed to you. Though his accent was warm, his words were anything but kind and usually you would have taken it on the chin, laughed at his profanities and apologized with a quick witty comment to follow, but your team watched as you only let out a harrowing breath and shook your head. You obviously were not on your A-game and your entire team could see that.

So with all this, it came as no surprise when the silence in their headphones was abruptly interrupted with the blaring sound of your wheels against the track, followed by your voice, quick yet strained, echoing through the radio.

"I think I'm gonna be sick, guys."

With not a moment to spare, Marlows eyebrows furrowed down at your words, worry clear in his voice as he pressed down on the radio button. And though his words were mostly phrased as a question emphasizing the choice as your own, it was still hard to miss the pleading tone in his voice as he spoke loudly into the headpiece, "Are we retiring? It’s your call, love."

Your end of the radio was silent as the words rang through your headset, though not for lack of connection as the sound of your wheels barrelling against the tar never ceased. They knew you were still there, just not vocalizing your thoughts. They had no doubt this was a tough decision. A huge part of this sport was pride; pride in your team, pride in your car, pride in your abilities. And being the only woman on the grid meant your pride was strong and the backlash was inevitably more harsh when things went wrong. 

It was already hard enough for a driver to admit they needed to back out of a race, let alone for a driver who had something to prove and everything to lose. It was a decision they knew you were avoiding complying with. You had been complaining about feeling ill for days leading up to the race and yet insisted on racing regardless. They knew this was important to you, and to back out now, after making it so far already? Your heart was strong, and your head stronger. But for this one time, it seems your stomach was the strongest, and your nausea was taking the reins of this particular race. And so you bit your lip, hoping to keep the bile from rising for just a little while longer. “I need to stop. I’m retiring the car. I can't help it.”

As disappointing as ending a race early was, your team couldn’t deny the shred of relief that washed over them as you, for once, chose your health first. As fun as racing was, and as rewarding as a race in points felt, none of it was ever worth the increased risk to your safety. They would much rather you all woozy up in the medic bay with a DNF, than halfway to unconsciousness with a p8 finish. This certainly wasn’t your best race anyways, probably one the lowest you’d been in points this season. 

As you began your way around your last lap towards the pit lane, your mind raced with all the dreadful thoughts a DNF brought, the pit in your stomach rearing into a sizeable hole which would of left you feeling melancholy if the twisting and turning hadn’t trumped the discontent. 

As each second passed, you could feel whatever it was you had eaten for lunch earlier with Lando rising higher and higher. High enough in fact, that you found it necessary to press the radio button once more with a request. “Have a bag ready for me when I pull up, please.”

To which a compliant, “Copy.” sounded suit.

It wasn’t too much longer until your orange car could be seen sweeping down the pit lane, no hesitation in your steering as you made a harsh turn into your spot by the garage door. The pit team were prepared to make haste in their actions, ready to prop your car onto the jack in order to wheel it into the garage only to be stopped when two quick hands extended up as you braced yourself up against the halo and pulled yourself out of the seat.

At this point, you were hyper aware of the all the people surrounding you, as well as the multitude of cameras pointing directly at you, recording your every move for all the judgeful eyes to see, and yet you found not a single cell in yourself which cared as you leaned over the car and called out for your assistant, who quickly met you with a large black bin in tow. 

You quickly grabbed for it, pulling your front over the side of the car as far as you could in order to hide yourself from the view of the cameras. And out it came, a slurry of lunch which you had been so looking forward to at the time, and quickly regretting now as it all escaped your stomach.

What in the world had you feeling so ill in the first place? It felt like it had been lightyears since you had felt sick enough to actually puke, and god did you not miss this feeling. Had you eaten something bad earlier in the day? Maybe. But everything you ate Lando had eaten too, so wouldn’t he be sick as well? Well, it’s not really like you could ask him, you thought as you looked up just in time to see him overtake George on the big screen. He looks a little busy. And you should be busy too.

The thought seared through your mind as you spat into the bin, you should be racing too, but at least you feel a little better now that it’s come out; though not completely. Your stomach still churned a little and now your throat burned but you guessed it was better than crashing. You had already nearly done that just by being on the track a little too long and now you were definitely going to receive an earful from Sainz when he finally crossed the checkered flag and found you inevitably moping. 

However, you quickly realized that Carlos was actually the least of your worries and the only person you really had to fear was Lando, for when he heard about the outcome of your race, you were sure to face the lecture of your life. He had been warning you for days leading up to it not to participate. You were obviously unwell and he was aware of the dangers an unwell driver faced under the taxing conditions of a race but you were stubborn, insisting you would be fine. Look at you now. Head in a bin with cameras all around and a bruised ego. 

There was only a little time now until the race ended to recover before everyone came pummeling at you with questions. 

The wheel was starting to feel heavy in his hands and the rubbing of the HANS device against his neck was really starting to hurt. They were approaching the end stretch of the race and as the last 15 laps commenced, Lando couldn’t help but feel a little relieved knowing this would be over soon. This was undoubtedly a tough race. 

From lights out till now, he’d managed to pull from P5 to P4 and had every intention of passing Lewis for a podium position, soon enough he’d be in DRS range but for the time being, he was focused on catching up. The world around him had become mute, he hadn’t even looked up at the grand screen once, all he knew was the car.

So he had almost jumped in his seat when the chime sounded. Just as he began slowing around the final corner leading up to the line for his next lap, the sound of an incoming radio signal had his ears perking in anticipation. Were they planning on pitting him again? Sure he was definitely pushing a little too hard against his tires- not really doing his best at conserving them but he was so close to a podium position and he just needed a little bit more force-

“Lando mate,” Will’s voice sounded through his ears, his tone a little hesitant which left Lando biting his lip with anticipation. Please don't box. “I’ve just been informed by Marlow that y/n has retired.”

Lando's heart nearly fell into his stomach as the words registered in his brain. You retired?! Now thinking about it, you did start only a single position behind him and he hadn’t really seen all that much of you during the race. What happened? “Did she crash?!”

“No Lando, she's okay, it was voluntary. She wasn’t feeling well, I don’t think.” 

“You don’t think?”

“She’s okay Lando, just under the weather.”

Not feeling well? Under the weather? You’d raced a multitude of times before whilst under the weather. Each time he’d advise you not to race, and each time you’d ignore him, swearing up and down you’d be fine- and to Lando’s consolation each time you were fine. You’d come out the other side with a smile, no qualms or grievances and you would save your complaints for him afterwards, when no one else was around to judge. As you had done before, he expected the same this time. You’d never let a little ailment set you back, especially not let it affect you enough to retire. Not unless it really was bad.

Lando’s thoughts were soon interrupted by Will’s voice once more, his tone dismissive, implying the conversation had reached its end and no more discussion would be had about it. “We will contact you again if anything happens.”

And despite Lando’s dismay, he complies. There were still a good 15 laps left of the race ahead and he had a lot of catching up to do, a lot of competitive driving to be had. His focus couldn’t be elsewhere, but what was he supposed to do knowing his sick fiancé has just pulled herself out of a race? What was he supposed to do when he knew you well enough to understand how prideful you could be, and how poor you had to feel to choose to retire?  

He really tries to not let it bother him. During the next lap, he tries to not let it bother him as he forces himself to look anywhere else but the jumbo screen in hopes of a possible update on your condition. He tries to not let it bother him in the lap after that as the team radios in to discuss possible strategies regarding the oncoming overtake he will perform, and he tries to not let it bother him during the lap after that one when he finally passes Lewis. Now 3 laps have passed but he just can't get the questions about you off his mind. It is bothering him. He shouldn’t be distracted, especially while he’s in a podium position but he can’t help it. 

So as he crosses onto the next straight, he finds himself radioing in with the question that had been eating away at him since the news broke. “Uh.. Any updates on y/n? Is she alright?”

There's a considerable moment of silence on Mclaren’s end of the line, the team were honestly tied on what to tell the man and what not to. You weren’t exactly in optimal condition, and word around was slightly worrisome regarding your state. You were okay, but definitely not well, they knew because they had caught the treacherous sounds of your gags a few more times since the first echoing through the mclaren garage. 

As your fiance, he deserved to know these details, but as a driver, they knew it wasn’t smart to worry him. What were they to say as to not stress him out in an already extremely stressful situation? They could tell him a few of your team members were discussing taking you to the hospital. Or they could keep him from driving the car through the wall in order to meet you there. The decision was clear, they needed him to focus on driving. “She’s okay, she's currently being looked at by the medical team.”

“She has the medical team on her?!” Will’s eyes shut hard as Lando’s reply came through. Definitely not the right choice of words.

“Just a precaution Lando, she isn’t well at the moment.”

Lando’s bottom lip catches between his teeth as he ponders his engineer's words. He finds himself over analyzing every syllable, every infliction with intentions of unpacking whatever truth was seeping between the lines, and he notices that he’s biting his cheek as he rounds the 8th corner with a little less precision than usual. “Is she bad?”

Landos team take quick note of this change in pace, latching onto the clear oversteer he performs around the corner. They quickly find themselves trying to pull away from the topic in order to keep him both figuratively and literally on track and so Will concludes the conversation with a stern tone. “Please Lando, you can see her when you're done racing. We need you to focus on the race.”

He almost wanted to curse the man out purely due to frustration despite knowing deep down that he was right. But what else was he supposed to do when he knows his fiancé is sitting in the medic bay and all he can do to support her is… well, nothing. He just has to finish this race.

Despite your protests, your team was adamant on a visit to the med bay in order to possibly come up with a reason for your sudden onset of race ending symptoms, and after a quick trip down the hall that took a little longer than usual due to your need to stop once more, you were simply told there wasn’t much they could do long term to crack the bilous case. Shocker. They did however hand you something to ease the nausea which you were beyond thankful for.

You had spent so long counting down the seconds until the anti-nausea medication kicked in that you hadn't even noticed that the race had ended, nor did you notice the approaching sound of hasteful footsteps until the door to your driver's room came barrelling open with a thud.

“I told you not to race.” Lando’s voice was so stern it had you stiff. There was a slight indication of anger lingering behind his words but ultimately his face was a dead giveaway to the worried intention etched behind his tone. 

“I thought I’d be okay.”

“You threw up?” His eyebrows came down as he said it, and you noticed it was less of a question and more as if he was trying to confirm a suspicion. Someone from your team must have snitched on you already. No damn loyalties.

“Only a little.” Your words were sheepish.

“You stink.” He deadpanned and you found yourself scoffing, slightly exasperated at the bluntness of his words. The statement had you petty with offense. 

“You don’t smell very good either-”

“-I don’t smell like vomit.”

Finally you let out a sigh, already tired of the back and forth over something so menial, and unworthy of an argument. You were sick. Shit happens. “Lando, I wasn’t feeling well and I’d been feeling it all week with no real problem so I didn’t think there would be a reason to sit this race out. I didn’t think I would actually need to pull over. It’s done now.”

There was a loud silence between the two of you as he onced over your body with intentful eyes. You seemed okay enough and he guessed this really wasn’t the time or place to start an argument, especially over something as stupid as him being worried about you, you were on the same damn side. So instead he just sighed, bit his lip and nodded at you. “Alright.”

“Guys.” Charlotte suddenly peaked her head through the cracked door to glance at you both. “Come on, we need you at Media now.”

This wasn’t going to be easy, that you knew. The media had given you a hard time for things way less than this so you could only imagine what they had in store for you after throwing up on live TV for half the world to see moments after a voluntary DNF. It just about felt like you were being led to your execution with the way you knew they were about to tear into you. But there was no avoiding this, and the grimaced look etched into your features left Lando very aware of this fact.

“I know you don’t wanna do this but you have to go out there, you’ve got no choice. Not unless you’re willing to cop a fat fine.”

You stuck an eyebrow up at Landos voice, the sides of your lips extending out as you conceptualized his words but your expression quickly had him shaking his head alongside a hearty laugh. “No, no. Don’t even look like you’re considering it.”

Your laugh to match his own soon sounded throughout the room, and his hand swiftly found its place at the nape of your neck, to which he gave a quick squeeze and began leading you out the door into the McLaren garage hallway. “We have a wedding to plan and that means a lot of money to spend. You will not be wasting money trying to get out of media duties.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at how exasperated and sarcastic he sounded.

You both found yourselves trailing along Charlotte's path until the hallway quickly opened up into a large room where a few other drivers had already begun their own separate interviews towards the camera crews which littered every corner. The media pen; may as well be your death site.

Whilst waiting for the race to end; and for the nausea to subside, Charlotte had given you a rundown - more like a lecture; regarding what to expect and how to approach the inevitably condescending questions that would soon be thrown your way. 

This was going to be brutal, you knew that. You had finally made a mistake that the male media could exploit to reinforce their stereotypes about damned women in motorsports. Just another day facing the misogyny of the position, except this time, it was your own carelessness that put you in this position. The only damned thing you’d be was a damned liar if you said the upcoming articles tearing into you weren’t already gnawing at your mind. You could just picture it;

‘’Mclaren Princess’ Just Might Throw Her Way Up and Out of Competitive Driving,’

‘Speed Queen’s Weak Stomach Shows Why She’s Better Suited for Other Races,’

‘Too Glamorous For The F1 Track? or Maybe Not Glamorous Enough; - maybe we should leave the fast cars to the men that made them.’ 

This might just be worse than the ‘Revving Engines, not Emotions,’ article from last year when you teared up in Australia after what was the most frustrating race of your career. This was going to be horrible. 

Your actions were always hyper-criticized, but maybe just once you were being too imaginative for your own good. You needed to calm down because words tended to stick with you. A fact that Charlotte knew all too well, because she was sure to speak words she knew would ring through your ears during those interviews; Take it on the chin, stay composed and certainly don't be snappy. One of those was doable.

The moment you passed the threshold beyond the doorway, officially crossing into the media pen, it's as if every set of eyes and every lens of a camera had turned to watch you move. The room hadn’t by any means gone quiet, but there was definitely a shift in volume as the noise settled from a near unbearable buzz to a tolerable chatter, just enough to notice the change. The influx of attention almost had you doubling over once again, especially when you felt the nausea begin to slowly creep up for the second time that day. But you made notable efforts to keep your head high, hoping that a strong demeanor would at least soften the blow which would soon be dealt.

Lando’s arm had split from your neck not long after entering the room. You guys were always light on your PDA, trying to keep as much of your personal relationship as private as possible; as private as an already public relationship could possibly be. But he still managed to give you a small, reassuring squeeze on the hip before you both set off, being led in opposite directions.

A flurry of reporter eyes seemed to trail your path as your personal PR manager led you to a spot right in between Carlos and Charles, and as you started setting yourself up, you unavoidably overheard their journalists trying to wrap up their interviews, which you could only imagine would be to get a shot at you faster. 

However unluckily for those journalists, it seems your first adversary had already taken the stand just directly across from you with a large, heavy mic and aged, gleaming eyes; eyes that had your own widening in alarm. You were quite familiar with this journalist, very familiar with him actually as he had always been quick to criticize you and your skills on many occasions in the past. He was quite ill-mannered towards you, definitely holding a target out with a gun aimed directly for your career, making it clear he was disapproving of your presence as a woman on this grid. You just knew he had been waiting for you. This was going to be hell.

The journalist quickly began setting himself up, the cameraman behind him pointing the lens directly at your sour face, which you admittedly were not doing a great job at masking. Though, if your interviewer had noticed, he thankfully hadn’t commented on it. However that didn’t stop him from wasting any time beginning to comment on the other mistakes you had made today.

“Always a pleasure to speak with you, Speed Queen.” His gravelly voice spat. “Though I think ‘Pit Princess’ may be a little more fitting after today's race.” A sly smirk quickly spread across his mouth, an act that had your hands bracing against the railing separating the two of you from one another. Charles had quickly taken notice of this from his position just beside you. He admittedly felt he was doing quite well at remaining professional and ignoring the exchange between you and the infamous journalist, but now he was on high alert, ears perked in your direction with the intention of intervening at any given moment.

Despite your peeved sentiment, you did well at keeping your face straight and head high at the insult, feeling it necessary to not crack in front of the person trying to get a reaction out of you. Don’t prove his point. 

“I appreciate the creativity, but I think I would prefer to focus on the race itself rather than nicknames. I’m quite happy with the one I have.” There was a moment in which he tried to intervene, however you were determined to move past the subject. “-And, you know, today’s challenges were significant, but that’s a part of the sport, I guess.” Despite the lingering nausea, you still managed to force a professional smile.

“Is it?” He curled an eyebrow condescendingly, a look which nearly had a scowl slipping past your placid facade. But instead you held strong, that sickeningly sweet smile dripping like honey with disdain. “Part of the sport is the unpredictability of it. So I’d say so.”

The man's eyes gleamed on, a small hum escaping his lips as he nodded absently. “It’s just that no other driver seems to have this issue. Do you think maybe your choice to retire has to do with particular limitations a female might have that the men in this sport don’t?”

And as expected, the indirectness wasn’t so indirect anymore, the true misogynistic intentions of his words slowly crept out with ferocity. 

“No.” Your tone was final, like it hadn’t ever crossed your mind, because it really hadn’t. “No I really don’t. Many men before me have gotten sick during races, I guess I just preferred to voluntarily take myself out of the race than spend the rest of it wiping pesto off my visor.” You snarled. 

A small tap against your arm quickly alerted you to the contention of your PR manager, a disapproving gesture silently advising you to reel it in. But god was it hard when his face was so smug. She should understand that being passive aggressive was much more admissible than being violent, so she may as well let you get your anger out in the socially acceptable way, though you admit it was strange of you to feel so angry. You were usually better at keeping your emotions in check. Hm. But alas, you complied, correcting your face and letting him speak; even if you wanted so badly to interrupt him with your thoughts of how horrible a journalist he was. 

“Well, I think a lot of people agree when I say that this sport tends to reward determination and resilience, not quitting.”

Were you hearing this correctly? Was he really implying that you should have thrown up right into your helmet and just continued through the race like nothing? It was getting really hard to remain socially acceptable. What was this new found anger? “Racing may sometimes reward resilience, however, being sharp minded is more important sometimes. I noticed I was unwell enough for it to affect my performance, so I decided it was smarter to take myself out of the race. Especially after nearly taking Carlos out of the race too.” 

Just as you finished answering the (absurd) question, a suave laugh sounded to your left as Carlos suddenly stepped up beside you, sliding his arm across your shoulder. “I did have some choice words prepared for you earlier Mija, but then I learnt what happened and now I forgive you.” His eyes suddenly turned to the journalist, a glint of exaggerated pity in relation to the topic seeping into his expression, almost as if he was speaking with experience to someone who wouldn’t understand; because he was. “Driving whilst sick is not for the weak.”

The journalist's cold eyes squinted slightly as Carlos’ condescending tone registered in his head, yet he kept his expression neutral and mic high as he nodded. “I’m sure it isn’t.” And nothing was said after that. No rebuttal, no argumentative comment, just a plea of agreement. God, how you wished interviews were that easy for you.

A few voices echoing out from somewhere behind had caught the attention of the trio, and it didn’t take long for you to realize it was Carlos’ team instructing him to move onwards to his next position. So with a reassuring smile towards you and a quick quirk of a brow towards the reporter, he was off to his next interview without another word, taking your fleeting moment of security along with him as he left.

Now it was just you and the reporter once more, and you could tell he wasn’t feeling as cordial with you as he was with Carlos, evident by the slight snarl that had crept onto his face by the interruption in your defense. “Friendly words from Sainz there, as always.” he began, his tone dripping with insincerity, “Do you find it degrading that other drivers always have to come to your defense in order to keep your positive reputation, because there are a lot of people that believe you perhaps, ride off the success of others.” 

Your stomach twisted, and if it was from the nausea growing once again or from the sheer audacity of his words, you couldn’t tell. He was essentially implying that the only reason people liked you was because other likable people vouched for you, and not because of your own hard work and valiant achievements. It seems he wanted defense, you were about to show him just how defensive you could be. 

“With all due respect,” you began, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “I don’t defend myself because I don’t have to, because the genuinity of my character extends far past my words.” you paused, thinking about your next words carefully. “My peers defend me because I’ve proven my capabilities time and time again, and they know that one incident doesn’t define my career. However, I don’t think you share the same sentiment, hm?” 

The taunting in your voice was quickly caught on by your PR manager who swiftly grabbed your arm in yet another warning, except this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care as much. The journalist's eyes narrowed at your words, clearly not expecting such a discourteous response and the tugging of your PR manager's grip against your arm was an obvious nonverbal message to wrap it up but you weren't finished, oh no. That new found anger that had been gnawing at you all race was just beginning to trickle out.

“‘Riding off the success of others.’” Your quoted, voice riddled with humor, “And yet you somehow manage to find me every post race interview. Do you write these question’s down in your little notebook while you watch my multi-race winning car fly past you? Or do you wipe the dust from the camera lens instead?”

He quickly opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, your PR manager intervened, her grip on your arm tightening slightly as she stepped forward. “This interview is over,” she announced firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. “McLaren will be utalizing the next few days to help Y/n recover for next week's race. If you have any further questions, you can direct them to our media office.”

Your eyes widened in shock at the intervention. You had overstepped your media training a few times before and yet none had ever led to the end of the interview. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little surprised at your PR manager's swift movements as she tugged you back and away from the journalist. “Let’s move on.” Her voice was disapproving but she was obviously trying to remain calm and professional, understanding there was a job to be done. But your anger wasn’t discriminatory, everyone was a potential outlet, and you weren’t having this. “No, I’m finished.” You didn’t even want to participate in media in the first place, this was obligatory. You had done your part and now you were taking charge of the rest of your night. And so you pulled your arm back and made quick haste towards the exit, leading back to your driver room. 

You were only a few meters from the door now, acutely aware of all the eyes watching you retire early from yet another obligation today, when a hand grazing the small of your back pulled you away from the tormenting feeling of the bile rising once again. This time, it was Charles, his sweet face beaming a reassuring smile at you as he began walking in stride towards the exit alongside you. “Mon cheri, that was something else.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, nausea bubbling once again, expecting yet another lecture from someone else. “If by ‘something else’ you mean a complete disaster, then yeah, I guess.”

Charles kept his tone steady, a touch of amusement in his voice as you both walked in stride. “No, I mean you handled it with a lot of, uhh.. What is the English? Poise.” 

You gave him a skeptical look. “Thanks, but it didn’t feel like handling things with poise, It felt like I was about to lose it.” 

His smile slipped into a small laugh before it fell,  and his bright eyes quickly turned into one’s of worry as he began a once over of your body. “Are you feeling okay?” he began the inevitable conversation. “I’m okay, it’ll pass I'm sure.”

Charles’ brows furrowed down, thick accent sounding with worry as he spoke. “You shouldn’t count on it passing, you should take care of yourself. You’re only gonna have more shit thrown at you if you don’t-”

As sweet as his concern was, you were tired of this conversation today, it was becoming tedious to hear and you really just needed to lie down or something. “-Charles, I really appreciate it and I'll be sure to visit the doctor tomorrow, but I think I’m gonna be sick again, so how about you cover me up to the hallway before I end up in another fight with a reporter, or my head in another bin on TV.”

Your words had Charles’s eyes widening, quickly glancing around from side to side in search of his target who was finishing up from an interview of his own, when your hand came up to press against your mouth, skin turning a tinge green. “Lando!”

The video shook a little as the person on the other end fidgeted with the camera, a slight blur shifting the image and the audio cracking with the movement before the frame finally straightened up. The person took a step back. It was you, which wasn’t all that surprising considering the video had been uploaded onto your own instagram, but it was the first anyone had really heard of you in weeks. 

Ever since your race ending ailment back in Spain, you had essentially gone radio silent. Not posting, not participating in interviews; you had missed 2 more races since then. It was worrisome, especially considering you had assured everyone the day after Spain that you were working on getting better for next week's race, which you never showed up to. 

The races went on and the fans asked about you, the interviewers asked about you too, but it seemed everyone involved in the FIA had no comment on your whereabouts nor your condition. The drivers dodged post interview questions, excelling on to new subjects and only had quick fleeting comments in response to concerned fans around the paddock who were only trying to make sense of it all.

Lando copped the brunt end of it though, scoring a P2 podium in Canada that everyone could more obviously care less about in his post-race interviews. The only topic mentioned was you, your absence from the race and why everyone was so hush-hush about it in the first place. The interviews were so off topic that this time it was Lando who had to leave the media pen early to avoid the questions, though opposingly, McLaren had been the ones to encourage his swift exit.

It was starting to become an issue. People were fretful. Were you still sick? Was it something more serious than you had anticipated and now you couldn’t race anymore?

The view they were looking at suggested that perhaps they were about to find out. 

You retreated away from the camera propped up against what people could only speculate had to be your dressing table, as you found your spot upon the large, luxurious bed the camera was pointing towards. Now cross legged upon it, your body clad in a 2 piece short silky pajama set, finally you began to speak. 

“Hello everyone.” You didn’t sound unwell, not stressed or upset. In fact, there was an edge to your voice that almost seemed cheerful; excited. And yet for now you remained composed, nothing but a small, media trained smile dawning your otherwise expressionless face.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The sentence was humorous, calling attention to the silence you had afflicted, and the lack of news upon your whereabouts. “Lando and I are finally home in Monaco for summer break, though I have to admit that I’ve actually been in Monaco for a few weeks now. I think some of you might feel that was a bit obvious given my absence.”

There was a high pitched chuckle off screen, it obviously being Lando out of frame as your eyes flickered over to the side with a playful yet mischievous smile, encouraging his reaction with your expression. It was a fleeting moment as your smile once again fell into something a little more vacant before straightening up and continuing. “I know a lot of people have questions, and I do want to apologize for the lack of communication on my end, I’ll explain, I promise but first I also want to say please don’t be mad at any of the other drivers for not speaking out, they were all just respecting my wishes in not saying anything until I was ready.”

There was a small pause as you took a breath, no sound emitting except for the slight breeze wafting through the room, further exemplified by the sway of the sheer curtains. This was so nerve racking, were you about to announce your departure from motorsport? Were you about to reveal a sickness you weren't aware of until now? The silence, though short lived, was deafening. 

“I-” Finally you spoke, but quickly caught it with a bite to your lower lip. It really seemed like you were processing your words, debating how to present your next statement carefully enough. “How do I-?”

Once again your gaze drifted off to the side of the screen, confused and cautious eyes quickly averting into a bright smile before a laugh escaped your mouth. “Don’t look so excited!” 

Lando, obviously beaming, clear by the tone of his voice, cheerfully yelled back, “Do you want me to say it?!”

“No!” you rebutted quickly with a laugh, “I told you I wanted to be the one to announce it, stop trying to take my shine!”

“Then go on with it!” He was so obviously really excited, impatient to finally announce whatever it was that had him so elevated.

“Okay well-” You stuttered for a moment, quickly catching yourself before continuing. “As many of you saw in Spain, I wasn’t feeling too well,-”

“-Hard to miss-.” Landos voice mumbled, a comment in which you swiftly ignored.  

“-And I hadn’t been for a few days leading up to it but I just took it as a stomach bug and planned to go on with it like usual. What I didn’t plan for however, was the doctor's visit I was forced to go to the day after.”

Your eyes glared off to the side once again, feigning annoyance but evidently not actually upset before looking back at the camera with a smile. “The good news is that we are very much aware of what was making me sick.” Your voice was reassuring, eyes slowly beginning to light up as you continued on. “The bad news is that I unfortunately will not be participating in the rest of the 2024 season, or the 2025 one for that matter.”

It was like you could feel the impending shock of everyone watching radiating through the screen despite it being pre recorded because your pause was almost comically dramatic. And yet it was so wholly conflicting, because regardless of the awful news, you didn’t really seem all that upset despite being such a passionate racer, it felt so out of character. This confusion was only exemplified further when your eyes once again drifted to the left, a large smile engulfing your features as you took notice of what had to be Lando's excited expression once more. “Oh don’t look so happy, you’re the one who still gets to race!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughed that high pitched laugh he does when he just can’t hold it back.

Your eyes flickered back to the camera, sitting straight on with a patient yet humorous smile, a single eyebrow cocked as you waited for Landos laughter to simmer. It took a moment, a moment you thought ended a time or two before he began again, but eventually the room became still again as your face grew just a little more in adoration towards the man everyone could see you loved dearly. It was like the energy had shifted just a little, from what felt so playful before, to something a little more familial and warm. 

“I think some of you may have put the pieces together, but for those who haven’t. Well… I’m pregnant!” Your smile was so big and sheepish, so conscious and just a little shy, it almost felt as if you were announcing it to a friend of many years and it was all just so heartwarming. You were okay! More than that, you were happy, and soon everyone else who would watch this video would be too. Lando's happy laugh from beyond the camera at the announcement finally being made was more than enough to express just how joyous the news was for the two of you.

“As heartbreaking as it will be to not be able to competitively race in the upcoming seasons, I’m not actually that sad about having to step down for a little.” You laughed heartily. “I proudly announce that in my place, the very talented Australian driver Oscar Piastri will be filling my position until I'm off from… maternity leave? I guess. That's a first for this sport.”  You laughed.  “But of course they just had to find the best to replace the best.” You quickly glanced over towards Lando out of frame, clearly expecting an agreement that never came. They could only imagine the disapproving look Lando was sending you.

Your expression never changed, but your tone dropped as you spoke darkly. “I’m carrying your child.” You spat, to which a loud “But of course!” sounded in response, followed by a laugh from the both of you.

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be seeing me around the track a lot considering this muppet,” you pointed to your left, “still gets to race.”

“Don’t be jealous,” the soft voice came from off screen. 

“No, I’ll confidently admit it, I’m so jealous.” You pouted, but the warmth in your eyes belied the playful tone in your voice.

Lando’s hand appeared in the frame for a brief moment, gently squeezing your shoulder before disappearing off-camera again. “We’ll be back out there together soon enough.”

You nodded, your smile returning as you glanced back at the camera, feeling a surge of excitement for what was to come. “In the meantime, I’m looking forward to supporting the team from a different angle. It’s going to be a new experience, but I’m excited to do this as…”

“-As a mother?” Lando finished with a knowing smirk.

“As a mother.” You laughed, a loud one from Lando soon sounded to match your own, one so joyous it left you beaming. Suddenly, Lando jolted in frame, clearly excited as he leaned over the bed to tackle you from your sitting position down into a hug, leaving you both falling back onto the sheets. “Oh my god Lando!” You shout, a hand quickly moving to shield your lower stomach. “God! Nevermind guys, I think Lando just tackled the baby out of me, guess I’ll be seeing you all from my McLaren in Austria.”

“Oh!” Lando gasped. “Not funny!” 

[evilmenenjoyer]

Punishment

Pairing: professor Hwang In-ho x student fem!Reader

Summary: You find a creative, albeit unconventional way to get out of the trouble you're in at university.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: sexual content (minors dni), age gap (legal, reader is implied to be in her early to mid 20s), spanking, corporal punishment, masochism, power dynamics, crying, unresolved sexual tension.

–––

You can tell something’s off the second you walk through the door, when your cheerful “Hello, Mr. Hwang!” is met with a short, courteous “good evening” from the professor.

It’s not rude. It’s not even particularly harsh. It just lacks the usual warmth you’ve come to expect from him, the tiny smile on his lips that always greets you.

Being called to see the strict Mr. Hwang In-ho after class usually meant bad news, leaving most students nervous about what they could’ve done wrong. But not you. You’ve lost count of how many times you stayed in this classroom for hours after class was over, discussing a book he had assigned for class or literature in general. Some days you’d help him grade tests and homework, when you noticed he had too much work on his back. And some days, the ones you cherished the most, you’d talk about things unrelated to class or literature – politics, your interests, your personal life. His personal life.

Saying you were smitten with him was the understatement of the century. You tried not to pay much attention to the crush you developed on him, hoping it would go away if you just ignored it for long enough, but it only seems to be getting stronger.

“You wanted to see me?” you ask, closing the door. It’s generally frowned upon for a student to be alone with a professor with the door closed, but Mr. Hwang never objects. The fact that he’s willing to bend the rules for you pleases you a little too much.

“Yes.” His tone is the same as before, not softening now that it’s just the two of you. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and you wonder what is it that’s got him in such a bad mood, if something happened in his life. “I have something to show you.”

He pulls out a piece of paper, setting it on his desk facing you. You approach, your footsteps slightly more hesitant than usual around him.

“Do you recognize this passage?” he asks, pointing to the highlighted paragraph.

You lean in to read it, an analysis of the similarities between classic English and South Korean literature. You recognize it immediately.

“I wrote it. That’s from my latest assignment.”

“Yes.” He’s still not looking at you, rummaging through a pile of papers. Did he not like the assignment? The thought alone upsets you. You worked so hard on it; not only for the sake of keeping your straight-As, but also to impress him. Maybe even more so to impress him. “How about this one?”

He sets another sheet of paper in front of you, one of the paragraphs highlighted in his same blue marker.

As you read it, your stomach immediately drops. It’s your paragraph, almost word-by-word, with a few differences that are too minor to even count.

“This is from Emily Jones’s paper. I believe the two of you are friends.”

You want to find Emily and strangle her. You told her to change stuff and not just copy from you. Did she really think someone like Mr. Hwang wouldn’t notice? That he’d just let it slide?

“I was the one who wrote the original,” you say. “I didn’t–”

“Oh, I know that. I’m very familiar with your writing style, and Ms. Jones isn’t nearly as gifted as you. I knew something was wrong the second I read it.”

You could play the victim, say Emily copied from you without your knowledge, but you know instantly it wouldn’t work, not with Mr. Hwang’s dark eyes right on you. Even when you’re not in emotional distress, the man can read you better than anyone else.

“I’m sorry.” You lower your gaze in shame. “Emily needed help, and I– she’s in the same exchange student program as I am, I know how much she needed the grade.”

“You could’ve helped her study, not let her copy off you.”

“There wasn’t a lot of time. She came to me last-minute.”

He sighs. “Well, I will have to fail both of you.”

“What?” It should be expected, but the words still sting. He knows how hard you work for your good grades. “But my essay was good.”

“It was great. Worthy of an A, if only you hadn’t helped another student with plagiarism. In fact, both of you should be reported for it.”

“Mr. Hwang, please.” Your eyes are practically begging him for mercy, the pitch of your voice getting ever so slightly higher as your desperation grows. “I can lose my scholarship and my spot at the exchange student program. Do you want me gone?”

You can see something flash across his eyes – regret, maybe, or perhaps that warmth you’ve been missing since you walked in here –, just for a split second before they’re back to normal, even more hardened than before.

“Cheating was your choice, not mine. You should’ve thought of the consequences.”

“What if– what if I wrote a new paper?” you bargain. “For half the grade. I can get it done in just a couple of days!”

“The paper is not the point. The point is how my most promising student would waste her talent to help a classmate cheat, and betray the trust I put in her.”

The praise doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but it fades away so quickly, like trying to hold on to smoke.

“It was a mistake. One that won’t happen again.”

“I’m very sorry, Ms. ____.”

You watch helplessly as he gathers the papers and organizes them back into a folder, the muscles of his arms tensed. He looks angry, but also upset. Disappointed. That sends you into an even bigger panic than a bad grade, or the potential of losing your spot at this university. It grows inside your chest, overwhelming, prompting you to say possibly the worst thing you could’ve come up with in this situation.

“What if I just take a whooping?”

He pauses. For a moment you’re both silent, still as statues as you process your own words, what you just asked for. Heat rises to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.

“What?”

You want to run away from this classroom. You want to go to the airport and take the next plane back to your country, classes and scholarship be damned.

However, now the words are already out, hanging heavy between the two of you. You can’t just back down, show him you spoke without thinking. You force yourself to nod, praying to the gods of every religion you know that your cheeks aren’t red enough that he can notice it.

“Yeah. It’s a good punishment,” you say. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not allowed. And because we are not in the 1930s.”

“You know in a lot of places corporal punishment in schools is still legal.”

“And Seoul isn’t one of them.”

“Please, Mr. Hwang.” You lower your eyes, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to rush to the surface. “I know what I did was wrong. But I’d never– willingly betray your trust. I just want to get my punishment, and for things to be back to normal.”

Above all, you want him to stop looking at you like he is right now. Like you’re just any other student, like he doesn’t admire you for your passion and intelligence. Like you haven’t been spending almost every evening after class with him instead of hanging out with your classmates, trying to make friends your own age. Like you don’t mean anything to him.

Mr. Hwang regards you for several long moments. You try to hold his intense gaze, to figure out what he’s thinking, but both tasks are impossible.

“Would you really put yourself through that for a grade?” he asks.

You shake your head slightly, but that stubborn determination doesn’t leave your eyes. “It’s not just a grade.”

His respect for you. The friendship you two have tentatively built over the past few months. That’s what you truly fear losing.

The seconds tick, stretching for so long it feels like torture. It’s so silent in the room you wonder if Mr. Hwang can hear how fast your heart is beating in your chest.

“Okay,” he says finally, sharply. “Fine.”

“Really?” You’re unable to keep the surprise from your voice, from your face, even though you try.

“If you think you can take it.” Something about his voice as he says it, the low baritone of it, sends a new rush of warmth to your body; this time descending directly between your legs. 

“Of course I can.”

No, you probably can’t, and you’re well aware of that. But his words sound like a challenge, and a feeling claws at your chest – perhaps your pride and stubbornness, or simply embarrassment, or something else entirely that you’re not sure how to name – stops you from taking the words back.

“Alright then.” He gives a short nod, and you’re unsure if it was meant for you or for himself. “Bend over the desk.”

Why is it that a simple order for him makes your insides twitch like you’re about to pass out? Your legs shake as you take a step closer to his desk, looking down at the papers and folders neatly on top of it. Drawing in a breath, you bend your upper body down until your elbows touch the dark wood.

It’s only then that you notice your compromising position. Emily had joked with you about how the length of your skirts had gotten shorter with every visit to Mr. Hwang, and today’s pick was a plaid skirt that didn’t leave much to the imagination as it was. With you bending down like this, you can feel the fabric follow the movement, exposing even more of you to the professor.

The noise of his belt being removed only makes it worse. You shut your eyes, trying not to picture him letting his pants drop to the floor, trying not to think about how much you wish this is what was happening.

“Are you ready?” he asks, giving you one last chance to back down. You should take it.

You shut your eyes and nod your head. "Yes."

There’s a whistle in the air, and you let out a gasp as the first blow lands across your ass. Fuck. You’d seen it coming, and the fabric of the skirt absorbed much of the impact, but it still spreads the first hints of pain over your skin. Another blow directly under the first one, exactly where it should be. You clench your jaw, your mind flying back to childhood memories, to the last spanking you received at eleven years old – well over a decade ago, and yet you feel much more helpless now, a third blow of the belt making you jump in your spot.

The next one breaks the pattern, hitting on a diagonal angle right on top of the other three. It’s harder than the others too, sharper, slicing even deeper into your already stinging skin. You cry out, unable to hold it back, unable to catch your breath in time not to cry out again when the belt comes down on your ass one more time.

He sets a rhythm of harsh, punishing blows. They’re precise and calculated, deliberate, like he really means each and every one of them. Of course he does – when Professor Hwang sets his mind to something, he doesn’t quit until the job is done, down to the littlest details. And right now, he seems intent on making sure no spot of your ass is left untouched by the belt. He gradually picks up speed, until you’re unsure when one strike ends and the next begins.

It fucking hurts. It hurts so bad you don’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed when the fabric of your skirt slides up and out of the way, leaving your bottom and your underwear exposed to him.

The pain is even worse when the leather belt makes contact with your bare skin; sharp and blazing hot, like he’s setting fire to you. You’ve bitten the inside of your lip hard enough to draw blood, but that doesn’t stop the sounds being ripped out of you, whimpers and cries and something that sounds way too close to Mr. Hwang’s name.

He pauses, his breaths heavy behind you. You collapse against the desk, elbows no longer strong enough to keep you propped upwards. With your ear pressed against the surface, you can hear your own heard that thumps wildly inside your chest, all your senses concentrated into a single point in your body.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

His tone isn’t judgmental, but your mind still echoes his words from just a few minutes ago: if you think you can take it. You’re not giving up now.

“I’m fine,” you snap, way too breathless for the statement to have any real impact, although your stubborn defiance is certainly there. “Just fucking finish it.”

His hand, warm and broad, finds its way in between your shoulder blades. He leans in, puts his weight into it, keeping you firmly pressed down over the desk. For some reason, your instinct isn’t to squirm away but to push into the heat, but you can’t move much one way or another under his grip.

“Then stay still.” His voice is so much closer to you, making you wish you had the strength to lift your head up and chase for his eyes.

Half a breath after the words are out, he strikes you again; this time with his other hand.

You sob and buck against the desk, the legs of it scraping against the floor. You can’t tell if his palm is better or worse than the belt. The pain isn’t as biting, but it’s broader and warmer, sending more fire into your already burning flesh. And it’s then that you realize you’re pushing into it, arching your back as best as you can, tilting your ass up to meet the assault. Basically offering it on a silver platter, presenting it to him and his ferocious, punishing hand.

And you’re wet.

You can feel it soak your panties, so much that you’re sure Mr. Hwang will be able to see a wet spot on them if he looks for it. Humiliated tears rise to your eyes, leaving you in a tumbling sob, desperately seeking relief but not wanting this to ever stop.

“M-Mr. Hwang.” The next strike hits you way too close to your core, the tiniest bit of friction that feels like heaven. You hiccup another cry, tears falling down and pooling over the smooth surface of the desk. “Please, I–”

You don’t even know what you’re pleading for anymore, but the word continues to leave your lips, over and over. His fingers come down hard over the sensitive spot where your ass meets your thighs, and you wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you – if he knows you’re on the brink of an orgasm just from this, that if he touches over you even for one second it might be enough to push you over the edge. He keeps going, alternates between one cheek and the other, his open palm covering as much skin as it can.

His hand travels down lower once again, warming your thighs to the same blistering heat as your ass. “God,” you breathe. You hadn’t noticed how hard your fingers are gripping the edges of the desk, your knuckles white, as if holding on could somehow save you.

He pauses again, and you can’t tell if you’re relieved or disappointed. You feel yourself throb inside your panties, wet and hot and neglected.

“Count them,” he orders.

You wince as his hand hits a sore spot, on top of skin that had already been hit too many times. “O-one.”

He lashes again and again.

“Two, three– fuck! F-four– fuck, please. I can’t, I can’t count anymore.” You’re unable to think straight at this point, unable to do anything other than cry and feel and want.

“God,” he sounds wrecked as well and you can’t understand why; you’re the one who feels as if you’re fighting for your life. He watches you, and you can’t decide if you’re embarrassed at your own state, the tears on your face and your ass that’s probably bright red by now, exposed to the professor, or if you’re too desperate for a release to think about that.

“It’s okay.” His hand lands on your hip, but doesn’t strike you again. It only caresses, his touch feather-light and delicate, a stark contrast to the harsh blows. “You did good.”

The light touch is enough to make you moan, breathing a deep sigh of relief. His touch feels unintentional, like he’s mesmerized, not fully aware of what he’s doing as he simply as he tries to ease the sting from the spanking. But when he drops down to press a kiss to the back of your shoulder, his body heat enveloping you – that can’t be accidental.

You lean into his touch as best as you can, and that’s when you feel it; something hard press against your core through layers of clothing, his cock a perfect, undeniable point of heat against you.

Both of you let our a simultaneous moan when you rub yourself back against his length. You want nothing more than for him to split you open, to push into you without a warning, without giving you time to adjust. Not that you’d last a long time, but you’d let him keep thrusting into you, having his way with your body until he was satisfied.

His hand slides under your bodies, inside your underwear.

“In-ho,” you sigh, a weak sound.

The sound of his name seems to pull you from whatever trance he’s stuck in. He stops, fingers just inches from your clit, like he’s only just realizing he’s on top of a student in his classroom. You try to lift yourself up, to rub against him again, but he doesn’t move.

He pulls away from you, and you feel like you could cry again in sheer desperation. Instead, you just stay there against the desk, wondering what the fuck just happened.

After a few moments, he lifts you up gently by the arms, turning you around to face him. He smooths out your sweater, but he doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

“You can go now, Ms. ____.”

You look at him in disbelief – first at his face, then at the tent that’s still very much apparent at the front of his pants.

“But–” you stammer. “Don’t… don’t you want me to–?”

He’s back in professor mode, organizing his papers that had turned into a mess. Still not fucking looking at you. His hair, usually neatly combed back, is now all over the place, and he looks like he’s about to break down himself.

“I’ll take care of the… assignment issue,” he says. “Go back to your dorm. It’s getting late.”

You don’t dare to disobey, even when tears rush to your eyes once again. Maybe it was all just about the assignment to him, and you got it all wrong. Or maybe – the thought hurts before it’s even fully formed in your mind – he regrets everything you’ve done.

It’s a short walk to your dorm, and you’ve never been more grateful that your roommate is not around. You throw yourself into your bed, hissing as your ass lights up in pain. It brings up all the memories back at once; the crack of the belt in the air, his warm hand stinging on your skin, the outline of his cock pressed against you.

You’re still soaked when you bring your own hand past your skirt and into your panties, not bothering to actually take them off. Two fingers slide inside, instantly finding a spot that melts your insides and makes you clench around yourself. Your other hand grips your own hip, intensifying the pain there.

“Mr. Hwang,” you moan, just to say it out loud. Your thumb brushes over your clit, just a hint of a touch and you’re gone, coming so fucking hard around fingers you do your best to pretend are his instead of yours, just at the thought of him doing this to you.

You come down slowly, so dazed you can barely open your eyes, but it doesn't bother you. Your ass has gone from searing hot to a dull, lingering ache, sure to keep you hurting for days to come. Good. You fall asleep thinking about it, thinking of his voice and his hands on you, trying to live in those moments for as long as you can.

[ivohex]

Hello! Hope you're having a good day ☺️🌸

I have a tiny fluffy request if that's alright... What if MC/reader wears a super fluffy oversized hoodie which makes her look super fluffy and cozy (especially when she puts on the hood) and the lnds boys take one look at her and just wants to glomp her in a bear hug? How do they deal with the cuteness aggression?

Cute Aggression || LaDS

Tara gifts you an extremely oversized hoodie. Your boyfriend finds it... cute. Unbearably cute.

Make sure to reblog and tell me who is ur favorite in the tags 🤭🤭

Pairings: Xavier/reader, Zayne/reader, Rafayel/reader, Sylus/reader (separate)

Rating: G-T (slightly suggestive, blame Sylus)

Tags: gender neutral reader, FLUFFFFF, established relationship, maybe ooc for sylus?? i did my best, cute AGGRESSION from raf, xav being sly, zayne being a nerd (thanks wikipedia), me fighting for my life to write hoodie and not hoddie omg

A/N: tysm for this prompt, I giggled while writing these (esp Raf's and Xav's.) I hardly ever write fluff so this was fun for me. Hope you like them!!! <3

Tara got the hoodie for you as a present. The Hoodie, as she formally dubbed it, claimed a mysterious power: one which made the wearer irresistible. The Hoodie had grown so popular they were nearly impossible to find, but Tara had her ways.

She'd presented it to you with a twinkle in her eyes. "I'm serious! This hoodie is magical!"

"Evol?" you questioned, accepting the package from Tara gleefully.

She shook her head. "No. Magic! Just," she'd said, placing a hand on your shoulder, "Trust me."

After work, you head straight to your boyfriend's place...

More below the cut!

"What's this?" Xavier asks, poking the bag with a finger.

"I got a gift," you say, then clarify, "From Tara," before he has a chance to interrogate you further.

You open the package together and stare at the hoodie. It's so big that you could shove Xavier's oversized beanbag chair in it with room to spare.

Xavier brings a thoughtful hand to his chin. "It looks... comfortable."

You agree. Eagerly, you yank it on, wiggling your arms through the sleeves, which are so long they hang off your hands. Then you turn to face Xavier, and nearly stumble backwards, because he's suddenly right in front of you.

"X-Xavier? What's wrong?"

There's a strange gleam in his eyes. He tugs you to the couch, pulls you to his side, and wraps his arms around you.

Blushing, you look up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Checking to see how soft it is." He squeezes you tighter to his chest.

"Ow," you say, even though you don't really mean it.

You end up putting on a silly drama, one you've seen many times. You expect Xavier will just fall asleep partway like usual.

But that doesn't appear to be the case this time. He keeps nuzzling his face into the hoodie, like a giant housecat trying to soak up your body heat. Every so often, he grips your arms or hips or thighs, and you start to worry he'll leave handprints if he keeps it up.

"You're not even watching!" you chide him softly.

He plays with the too-long sleeves. "Hm?"

Huffing, you start to repeat yourself. "I said—"

"I'm cold," he says suddenly, and he adds on a full-body shiver to boot. You aren't sure you buy it, but... "Aren't you cold?"

"How can I be?" you answer, snorting. You make a token effort to writhe out of his grasp, but he just holds you tighter.

"Yeah, your hoodie looks pretty warm," he murmurs, sighing. Then he looks away again, shivering, and rubbing his arms.

"Pfft. Do you want to try it on?"

Really, you should have known better.

He just smiles at you, as if that's what he'd wanted you to say, then suddenly shoves your shoulder. You topple backwards onto the cushion with a gasp, as he pulls the hoodie up and wriggles in alongside you. Then he pushes his arms through the sleeves and entwines his fingers with your own.

Evidently pleased with himself, he sighs happily and leans against you. "Yeah, this is much better."

"I thought you said your friend got you a hoodie," Zayne says. He reaches forward to adjust the hood's collar, which had gotten twisted somehow as you pulled it on. "This looks more like a tent with arms to me."

You lift your arm and look at the comically long sleeve. "It's... Tara said it's magical."

You feel your cheeks warming. You didn't need to say that, only you couldn't think of how else to respond.

"Oh?"

Zayne takes a seat in his recliner, tugging you along with him so that you end up sitting on his lap. Then he takes the hoodie strings and begins quietly winding them around his index finger. He's quiet for a long moment.

You lightly shake his shoulders, blushing. "...You're not saying anything."

"Your face is red," he replies without missing a beat. "What? I thought we were taking turns stating the obvious."

You open your mouth to say something smart when he suddenly hugs you, squeezing you against his chest. Not too firmly, but with enough strength that you begin to put together what's happening.

You push him back so you can look into his eyes, fixing him with a smug grin. "Zayne, have you ever heard of cute aggression?"

He scoffs, but smiles back. "I probably know more than you do. Should I give you a lesson? When a human sees something they think is... cute, activity in the orbitofrontal cortex increases. Then the body produces neurohormones, which may stimulate feelings of both affection and aggression. They can manifest like this," he says, pinching your cheeks.

"I see." The words come out garbled and strange because he's still pulling your cheeks. He chuckles.

"Or," he says, moving his lips to your shoulder. "Like this." Then he bites down, and you can feel his teeth even through the fleece.

You squirm on his lap. "Hey! You can't just bite someone because you think they're cute..."

"I can't, or you don't want me to?"

"...Hmph. Why do you know so much about cute aggression, anyways? You had a whole lecture prepared. Aren't you a heart surgeon, Dr. Zayne?" You poke his chest to emphasize your point.

He captures your hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a small kiss to the back of it. It could be a trick of the light, but you swear that his ears are turning red. "...Finding something cute is a matter of the heart. Wouldn't you agree?"

Rafayel watches you open Tara's gift with a curious eye. You stare at the hoodie together.

Rafayel snorts. "That's a lot of hoodie."

You shrug and pull it on. As you do, you lock eyes again with Rafayel, who just stands here staring at you, a dumb look on his face.

Things snowball from there.

He keeps grabbing your face and squishing your cheeks while muttering under his breath. It's funny at first until he leans forward and nibbles on your cheek, and you realize a little too late that he'd been arguing with himself not to.

"You bit me!" It didn't really hurt, but it did shock you.

"I can't help it," he says, looking as mystified as you feel. "You just look so... biteable. Let me do it again—"

You wrestle playfully until he traps you in his arms, hugging you to his chest so tightly that you actually gasp for air. "Ugh! Rafayel, you big bully—"

"This is your fault! You've turned me into some sort of monster!"

Then, he won't let you go. He holds you against his chest and coos at you like you're a baby. He keeps trying to bite you, and you keep dodging out of the way as best you can.

"Stooop! You're embarrassing me!"

He pays you no mind. "My scrumptious cutie," he says dreamily, giggling. "My succulent pufferfish. My—"

Unable to withstand this torture any further, you yank the hoodie up and draw the strings tight to hide your face.

"Waaaait, you're running away?" he cries. "Is it because I keep squishing you?"

Your answer comes out muffled. "And biting me."

You feel him poking your sides. "Okay, I'll stop! Please come out. Please?"

After much begging and pleading on Rafayel's part, you finally relent. When you push the hood back, you see the guilty look on his face, the tips of his ears bright red. You stare at each other wordlessly for a moment.

You pat his arm in mock sympathy. "Wanna talk about it?"

He leans his head on your shoulder with a groan. "I wasn't myself."

You giggle and card your fingers through his hair. "That's how cats make me feel."

Rafayel shoots you a lighthearted glare. "Don't belittle my feelings. You're a lot cuter than a cat, you know."

Sylus didn't buy your story about the hoodie's supposed power at first, claiming you were always irresistible, so what difference could a piece of clothing make?

Now, he doesn't seem too keen on letting you go, if the hand gripping the small of your back is any indicator. His other hand is petting your hair.

You swat his hand away, but there isn't much fire behind it.

It doesn't matter, anyway. He just reaches his hand forward and pets your hair again. His movements look stiff, almost like he's restraining himself somehow.

At the look on your face, he just laughs. "Sorry, kitten, but you're just asking for it. You look..." He trails off.

You try to play off how flustered you are with a smirk. "I know. I'm dangerously cute in this hoodie."

"You're always cute, sweetie. But you're right on one front. This hoodie is dangerous."

You realize something with a start, and it's like a shock to your system. But then you seize the opportunity to try and fluster him right back. "Are you... blushing right now?"

He ignores you, opting instead to pull you in for a hug that nearly squeezes the life out of you.

"Oof—Sylus—too much—strength—"

"You can handle it," he deflects easily.

After struggling for a bit, you manage to push him back, panting. "Hah, look at you. The big, bad leader of Onychinus, done in by a simple hoodie. Tara was right."

The corners of his mouth turn downward, and you think he's going to pull away, but then he shakes his head with a scoff. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and smirks at you.

"I'm starting to think this hoodie's power is going to your head. Maybe you should take it off."

[tojisbestslut]

YOUR GIRL — [ambessa medarda x afab reader] part 2

∆ CONTAINS: mommy issues, praise, slightly mean/dom ambessa, strap usage, slapping. masterlist

I wish I was your girl — Lana Del Rey • [WC: 700]

She filled the void in your soul you had tried burring deep for years, no success left in sight. The comfort warming your body under her gaze was the perfect experience for your inner child, not having an older woman judge her with disgust like your mother used to. Yet again, she wouldn't look at you with affection, ambessa medarda didn't believe anyone was worthy of that, besides her own children of course.

But it was something about the fact that she was aware of your hard work, noticing you here and there through training, nodding her head slightly in approval where you'd land a good hit (one that had you crying from the pain of your muscles afterwards). It gives you a tingle in your stomach and a warmth in your heart, you were absolutely feeding off of it with no shame. Ambessa medarda was a powerful woman, and to be approved by her was, well, an honor you could say.

But things got different when she started to notice this little emotional rollercoaster you had created in your head. At first you felt insecure about it, feeling like someone found your hideout, your comfort place, and was aiming to destroy it. Your eyes would sparkle like usual as she praised your improvement, and this time, she'd slightly smirk and raise an eyebrow at the stupid happy girl standing in front of her all smiling and giggling, and that caught you off guard. She found it amusing. She had people drooling over her just for the sake of having sex, but this, seeking her attention and approval just to feel enough was something new, and she was willing to walk into it, curious where it'd end.

You sighed, the sound muffled from biting your lower lip. Seeking approval from the older woman made you listen to her so carefully, even when she was pounding into you like there's no tomorrow.

"You're being so good for me," she hummed, dragging the tip of her nose through your neck, licking the little gap between your collarbones. "Being so quiet, I appreciate it" the movement of her hips keep being steady as your thighs spam uncontrollably.

She seemed so nonchalant about the whole situation, not being out of breath even a little, the sides of your hip turning slightly red from her strong grip. You on the other hand, were trying to look at her gorgeous face through tears, vision blurred and small white dots appearing randomly everywhere.

"Shhh, it's ok" she mumbled in your ear, voice sounding like a lullaby "everything's fine" your breath hitched as she increased the speed of her pounding, filling you so good you felt like you'd die from the pleasure "you're gonna be fine" her deep voice ran through your ears, tingling your fuzzy brain in the best way possible. You felt sleepy at her comfortable voice, eyes slightly closing.

"Don't" a harsh smack was delivered to your right cheek, your eyes widening in process. Sitting up straight again, she kept thrusting into you as her dark gaze took in the helpless look in your face. "You don't sleep when I'm pleasuring you" words tried slipping out of your mouth, being replaced by stupid, barely audible nonsense your foggy mind tried making up.

Your back arched further as you reached your high, closing your eyes in the process and throwing your head back. She finished by delivering a few deep thrusts, staring at the milky liquid spamming out of your abused hole, covering the tip of her strap. Loosening the grip on your hips, your body instantly went limb on the bed, still shaking.

She grabbed your smaller body and caged you between her muscular arms, kissing your damp hair with affection. "My beautiful girl," she'd mumble, her hands creasing your shivering back "You did so well" and that was enough for you to smile ear to ear in her chest, giggling internally at feeling truly fulfilled.

ambessa medarda please beat me [TAGS]:

[liketolaugh-writes]

Thinking about a full ghost Danny AU where he just straight-up dies in the portal. I think there should be more of those. <3

Character death, obviously.

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

The drive back to Fentonworks was a blur in Maddie's memory, keeping Tucker on the line while he sobbed and stammered, trying and failing to keep himself together and explain what happened.

"-doesn't h-have a heartbeat and he's f-freaking out-"

"It just turned on, we don't know w-what happened, he, he said it didn't work-"

"-trying to keep Danny c-calm-"

"Please come home."

Jack's driving was even worse than usual, veering through the streets in an undisguised panic. Maddie hadn't been able to discern much from Tucker's ramble; the portal had finally turned on, but the kids had been messing around with it and Danny had gotten hurt. How hurt? Tucker didn't seem to be sure, but all three of them were in a state.

Jack pulled into their driveway and flung himself out, half the GAV still sprawled across the sidewalk. Maddie was right behind him, hanging up on Tucker with a quick assurance that they'd be right there.

"DANNY!" Jack yelled.

"In here!" Sam called back, from the open lab door. Of course.

Maddie slipped past Jack and got there first, almost falling down the stairs in her haste. What she saw there made her heart stop.

Danny wasn't there. There were three teens crumpled on the ground in front of the activated portal (a part of her sang, it worked, it worked) but Danny wasn't one of them. There was Tucker, staring blankly at the floor, and Sam, with her arm around a strange, glowing white-haired boy that was in tears - a ghost. A ghost? A ghost!

"GHOST!" Jack yelled in delight. The teen sobbed harder.

"Where's Danny?" Maddie demanded. Sam looked up sharply, her eyes wide like Maddie had never seen, her face dead pale under her makeup.

"I'm sorry!" Sam blurted out, looking nearly in tears herself. "I just, I, I thought it would be cool, it was just a picture, I, I didn't think-"

Maddie's heart skipped a beat. "Sam. Where is Danny?"

Sam looked at the crying boy next to her, huddled under her arm as if for comfort. The boy looked up, radioactive eyes swimming with tears and the water on his skin sparkling prismatically, and met Maddie's eyes.

"Mom," he croaked, his voice tripled and echoing with itself like a movie memory. "What happened to me?"

Maddie's knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, unable to take her eyes from the ghost in front of her. In a moment, she understood.

That was Danny. His colors had partially inverted, his hair turning white, the colors of his haz-mat suit - God, that was his haz-mat suit, the one they'd made for him and that he never used - reversing to white-on-black. He'd huddled into Sam, shaking and gasping, but now was pulling away, looking at Maddie like- like he thought she could fix this.

"I think something's wrong," Danny said, his voice trembling somewhere underneath all the alien reverberation. "Should we go to the hospital or, or something?"

"I don't think the hospital can fix this, man," Tucker said weakly, lifting his head just to stare at Danny.

The portal powered down with a whine. Maddie jerked her head up with a gasp, and found Jack at the control box, backing up silently. Jack stared into the portal. Maddie followed his gaze.

She couldn't stop the scream that tore itself from her throat. Jack yelled too, running inside, tripping over the bundled cables, and collapsing unceremoniously short of the body inside. Careless of that, Jack crawled forward the last few feet, scooped up the body, and then started to sob, cradling Danny's burnt and blistered corpse against him.

"...Do we call 911?" Danny asked, voice cracking. Maddie's head snapped back to him from the corpse, watching him stare in bleak, lost confusion at his father and the body he was hugging.

Danny didn't even believe in ghosts. Neither of their kids hid it, treating their profession with a lighthearted exasperation at home and plain embarrassment outside. Somehow, the fact made all of this worse.

"What's happening?" Danny asked helplessly. Shock, the stable part of Maddie's brain told her. He sees what's going on but his mind won't comprehend it. (He wasn't expecting to die today.)

"Y-yes," Maddie said at last, and then forced her voice to stabilize. "I'll... I'll call 911."

But first, she held out her arms, and Danny all but scrambled across the room to throw himself into her arms, still shaking. He was cold as ice, freezing through her haz-mat suit, and that was before he slipped forward with a yelp and tumbled through her. He scrambled back with a cry and tried again, and this time fell solidly against her, hiccupping. She wrapped an arm around him, shushing him softly, and groped for her phone with the other hand. She couldn't take her eyes off Jack, now carrying Danny out of the portal and staring from his corpse to his ghost, looking shattered.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"My son is dead," Maddie heard herself say. Danny hiccupped and clutched at her tighter. There was a brief pause.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am. Where are you? Have you checked his pulse?"

"We're at the Fentonworks building, 18701 northwest..." She rattled off the address mindlessly, and reached down to fumble for Danny's wrist. He let her have it without complaint, too terrified to put up any resistance. She shuddered as she felt nothing, not even the tendons or bone that should be there. Then she looked up at the corpse in Jack's arms and swallowed. "Jack, h-his... his pulse."

Jack nodded mutely and fumbled for Danny's wrist, gingerly running his fingers down the burnt skin until he found the right spot.

"What do you mean, his pulse, his ghost is literally in your lap!" Sam half-shrieked, her mascara running and her fists clenched against her cheeks, her breath coming in short gasps.

"No pulse," Jack croaked hollowly, staring at Danny's ghost.

"Maybe they could..." No, it was a foolish thought, and she wouldn't put false hopes into Danny's head just to put off her own grief. She cradled him closer again, feeling him shudder. She spoke to the operator. "N-no pulse, ma'am."

"Ambulance and police are on their way," the operator said, calm and reassuring. "Can you stay on the line with me?"

"Yes." Maddie felt numb, her own hands trembling as she held Danny close.

"Thank you. Can you tell me your name? Is there anyone else with you?"

"Maddie Fenton," she said. "My husband is with me, and my son's two friends, and... and my son's ghost."

There was another brief pause.

"Alright, Maddie." Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought the operator sounded gentler there. They thought she was crazy, of course. Maddie shut her eyes. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I, I don't know. My son Danny was home with his friends, and they called and..." Deep breath. She started over. "There was an accident in our lab. Danny was electrocuted by one of our in-progress projects."

"Is the device still on?"

"No, ma'am. We had to turn it off to remove the, the body."

Maddie continued answering questions on autopilot, most of her attention on her son, her husband, and the body. Danny had stopped crying, but remained glued to her side, shivering and sniffling. Jack continued to cradle Danny's body, but his eyes were now fixed on Danny, grief spread across his face. Sam and Tucker had both quieted, watching them with fearful, guilt-stricken looks.

It seemed to take forever for the police and ambulance to arrive. Sam got up to show them inside without being asked, staggering up to steps on obviously shaky legs. Maddie was too grateful to insist on her or Jack doing it; with Danny's ghost cradled against her and his corpse in Jack's arms, well...

The paramedics arrived first, sharp-eyed and professional, but the first almost immediately faltered as he laid eyes on the scene. But Jack held up Danny's body beseechingly, his eyes wet and miserable, and they jolted into action.

"Thank you, ma'am," Maddie said to the woman on the line. "They're here now. May I hang up?"

"Yes. The paramedics will take it from here. Take care, Maddie."

Maddie hung up, and looked at the two paramedics as they filed down. They looked at each other, one inclined his head toward Danny, and they split up, one heading for Jack and the body, the other toward Maddie and the ghost. Both of them knelt beside their chosen patient, and Maddie fixed her attention on the one with her.

"Are you Danny?" the paramedic asked, unexpectedly gentle. Danny peeked up and nodded uncertainly, and the paramedic glanced at the body before seeming to make a decision. "Okay, Danny. My coworker June is going to check your body for signs of life to see if you can still be revived. Are you okay with that?" Danny hiccupped and nodded, though a new wave of tears welled up and trickled down his cheeks. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Danny hiccupped again, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "M-my friends wanted to see the p-portal," he managed, voice wavering. Maddie squeezed him, her own eyes welling up while the paramedic listened patiently. "A-and it didn't work so I t-thought it would be f-fine. I went inside a-and I d-didn't check if it was plugged in or anything, a-and then I tripped and fell and I think I hit a button and it turned on!" His voice rose until he was almost wailing. Maddie's throat tightened, and she hugged him closer. Her poor baby.

"You were electrocuted?" the paramedic checked softly.

"I guess," Danny sniffled. "I dunno. It just hurt. And then I felt really cold, and then I..." He looked down at himself and sniffled again, tears slipping nonstop down his cheeks. "Am I dead?"

The paramedic looked at his coworker, who met his eyes and shook her head. Maddie had to swallow a hiccup of her own, trying to be brave for her terrified son. The paramedic did a much better job at it, looking back at Danny and speaking gently.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "There's nothing we can do. June is going to call a coroner and explain the situation-" He caught the other paramedic's eye, and she gave him a nod. "-and we'll have your body taken somewhere it can be prepared for burial or cremation, whichever you prefer." Danny started crying again, and the paramedic exhaled and looked up to meet Maddie's eyes. "Obviously, there's no protocols for this situation. But, as his mother, I think it would still be appropriate for you to make a decision if he doesn't feel able to."

[cyber333angel]

DEALER!BARRY X SPOILED!READER X DEALER!RAFE <3

you get a little too “spoiled” when with your boyfriends — barry and rafe!

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ˚୨୧⋆｡˚

it was the weekend, meaning it was time for shopping spree at the mall! strolling around the coach store of your favorite big building, you struggle to choose which bag your boyfriends would pay for. behind you they walked, talking while watching you happily trudge in front of them. “blueberry or cherry?” you ask holding them both up next to you, posing with them in your pink tracksuit . “you can get both of em mama.” barry tells you and rafe looks at him, “she doesn’t need both, you spoil her too much.” barry rolls his eyes, “s’not like we can’t afford it big bruh, if she wants it she can have it.” you squeal at his retort, and hug him. “thank you bear!” giving him an attack of kisses on his cheek. rafe sighs “that’s not the point. you know how bratty she gets when she thinks she can have anything she wants. don’t act surprised when she throws a tantrum cause she can’t have something.”

“mhm.” barry says walking to the other shelf of jewelry with you, looking back at rafe and stick your tongue at him and say “bleh!” he furrows his eyebrows and power-walks toward you, shrieking at his scariness, you run and hide behind barry.

after shopping, you arrive home at tannyhill. “thank you rafe!” giving him a kiss for funding half the shopping spree “thank you bear!” you give your other boyfriend a kiss for the other half of funding and take your bags up to your room, placing them in your walk in closet.

later on a friday, your sitting on the couch with rafe, watching tv while he scrolls through his phone. bored you say, “rafey can we go to the mall? I smelt this miss dior perfume last week and I really liked it but we never bought it.” he doesn’t look up from his phone. “no. we already went this week, no need to go for a while.” you pout at him, “no but I really need it! im going somewhere with-“ he cuts you off. “what i just say huh? no. getting so fuckin bratty this early in the morning..” you look at him with a vexed face and you mumble. “I bet barry would take me..so infuriating”

rafe looks up at you from his phone. “what’d you say?” trying to escape the scene, you get up and walk to the the kitchen telling him, “s’nothing!”

“what i fucking thought.” he says quietly but harsh enough for you to hear. barry comes home later at night finding rafe in the kitchen opening a can of beer. “yo country club.” he looks for you and doesn’t see you with rafe as you usually are at this time, he asks ” where’s our girl?” rafe chuckles “sleeping off the badass little attitude she had today.”

barry, confused on what attitude you could possibly have, “what’d she do?” sighing, rafe shoots him a look “she started acting like a fucking brat cause I told her she can’t go to the mall again as if we didn’t go this week already. it’s because of you she thinks she can always have her way.”

barry had always been the one to be the most lenient with you, he loved you and would do anything to protect his girl. and of course rafe loves you as well and would do more than anything for you, but someone had to keep you in check and it was always rafe. “well come talk to her with me then. we’ll set her straight.” you wake up to barry picking you up by the armpits, blinking awake and rubbing your eyes with your manicured nails , “mm hi bear..”

“hey princess, we gotta talk so let’s go downstairs and get something t’a eat alright?” he readjusts the satin bonnet sliding off your head, you nod at him still sleepy. gaining energy you sit on the island of your kitchen while barry fixes you some milk and and a grilled cheese. rafe stands in front of you, you roll your eyes following from the earlier argument. he jerks his head back from the sudden sass, “don’t roll your eyes at me, you know your manners.“ he looks back at barry, “ you-you see what im talking about right? she’s getting too fucking rude. what is it, you need some dick? what’s with the attitude?” you look at him with all seriousness in your face “I wanted to go to the mall rafe!” he breathes hard through his nose. “im fed up with you. barry go talk some sense into that girl before i bend her over the table i swear.” barry turns the stove off, finishing your grilled cheese and cuts it diagonally placing it next to you with a glass milk. “what’s going on going on sweet girl? I hear you throwing tantrums round’ this house, what’s that about?” you pout at him “rafes being mean t’me saying I can’t go shopping!”

“well you know if we tell you something your supposed to listen even if it’s something you don’t wanna hear.” he tilts his head at you “hm? now why don’t you gone head and apologize to polo boy over there f’me.” you look up at him and huff, turning your back to rafe sitting on the couch you shout “rafe could you come over here please!” he rises from his seat and walks over to you, “don’t yell in the fucking house. what is it? you gonna apologize for the way you been acting?” you nod, “mhm i just wanted to say m’sorry daddy. I didn’t mean to be a brat, you just get me nice things all the time, and i guess I got carried away! it won’t happen again, promise!” holding up your pinky finger to pinky promise your boyfriend, rafe chuckles, interlocking his pinky with yours. “thanks for the apology baby, your gonna be a good girl for the rest of the week right?” he says nodding his head waiting for you to agree, “mhm.”

barry interjects, “well I think our pretty girl deserves a reward for being a big girl today right?” and rafe bows his head in a agreeing motion diving in to kiss you deeply from the right side of your body. your other boyfriend on your left, slides his rough hands on your thighs. “open your legs f’me mama.” you split your legs apart revealing the wet spot on your pink laced panties and through your thin shorts. barry takes off your short sleeping pants as well as your panties, letting the shorts drop to the floor, he puts your pink lace into his pocket. bending down he kisses you up from your calfs, up to your knees and to your inner thighs. “you gone let me make you feel good angel?” you nod frantically through rafes kisses. barry hooks his biceps under your thighs to bring you now soaked cunt closer to his face. “you smell so fuckin sweet for daddy, love this pussy.” he spits on your bud, sucking it harshly, making you squirm around the table. you whimper into rafes mouth from the intensity of barry’s lapping. rafe lifts up your shirt exposing your breasts and starts to pinch your nipples, with a different hand he unbuckles his pants. he grabs your hand and pulls out his cock letting you stroke his length. whispering “fuck..” under his breath, you paw at him faster. you shiver when barry thrust his tongue into your wet cunt, he takes his tongue out and shoves two fingers in and the other hand rubbing furiously at your clit. you take the one hand you have left and grip at rafes shirt from the extreme stimulation of your cunt. “be a good girl and come for daddy.” your boyfriend below you says, finishing you off. you arch your back, “mmph!” stuttering into rafes mouth, he lets go of your moistened lips, his dick standing tall from your jerking at it. hiccuping you say “that felt so g-good daddy.. I want you in me now please!”

“course mama.” barry gets up and lifts you off the counter, guiding you to the couch in the living room, you take rafes hand and he follows behind you. barry unbuttons his pants and his cock springs out, average height but so unbelievably thick. he sits on the couch and pulls you close to him, you hover over him letting him position his dick into your slick cunt. sinking down he praises you, “goood girl. shit, you taking me so well angel.” you mewl at him “mm it’s so big daddy!” rafe watches the scene and stands in front of you, gripping your jaw to force you to look up at him. “you wanna make daddy feel good too right?” you nod frantically and he lets go of your face, holding up his cock with one hand he slaps it on your cheek and positions it into your mouth. he thrusts his cock into your mouth making you choke, gripping your neck to make your gullet feel tighter. behind you, barry’s fucking up into your cunt with wet sounds heard all around the living room. it makes your head spin and clench harder around his cock “you doing so well for us princess, see how being a good girl gets you a reward?” you can’t answer with your throat being used but you do agree. “this fucking mouth..god you feel so good.” choking, as rafe speeds up the pace, he releases his warm load deep into your throat, thrusting as deep as he can to make it stick. “you better swallow all of it sweetheart..shittt..” he takes his cock out your mouth looking at your face. he grabs you face again “stick out your tongue.” you do as your told, showing him your empty mouth, cum nowhere to be seen but in your stomach. “good girl.” your eyes are half lidded and you smile up at him, still getting pounded from behind. “f-fuck daddy your going too hard..” barry smacks your ass, a firm slap that makes you flinch “don’t say that shit.” you sob at the harsh tone. “m’sorryyy daddy, your just hitting it so deep!”

“yeah I know mama..im bout to finish.” he puts in his last brutal thrust. plap-plap-plap and you cry at the rapid pace, taking your hands and placing them on barry’s thighs, a weak attempt to slow him down. looking up at rafe he tells you to “move your fucking hands.” you flinch, removing them and instead you reach your hands out to rafe, interlocking your hands together. barry at his climax, nuzzles his dick deep into your pussy, burrowing his warm cum into your pussy. “mm felt so good..both make me feel so g-good, oh goddd!” twitching when barry pulls out your cunt, he gets up from under you. they both admire you as the cum leaks out from your abused pussy. “what a fucking view..” after they finish using you, rafe lifts you up “let’s get you cleaned up sweetheart, did so good.” barry cleans up the pillows knocked off from this whole affair and goes to the kitchen, putting your grilled cheese in the microwave for you to eat tomorrow. your boyfriends both clean you up in the tub, they wash you off and clean out the load still buried in your cunt. they change you into one of their shirts, placing you in the shared bed you lay between them. you mumble as you drift to sleep “bear and rafey..can I go shopping now?” they both chuckle at you still acting like spoiled brat. “sure sweet girl.” as you fall asleep in their arms.

<3

[rianemorgan]

Title: Stealing HER Fate

Summary: In an alternate take on the Miraculous Ladybug universe, an outsider wakes up in Marinette's world and steals her fate as Ladybug, determined to claim the life and destiny that wasn’t hers. With manipulative cunning, the reader becomes Paris’ celebrated heroine, earning Adrien’s love and the world’s admiration while ensuring Marinette never steps into the role of Ladybug across all timelines.

⚠️ Warnings ⚠️

Gaslighting and manipulation, Villainous protagonist, Bittersweet outcomes,and Character alteration and reimagination.

Word Count: 3,718

.

.

You never expected to wake up in Paris—not the Paris you knew, but a version straight out of a TV screen. The last thing you remembered was falling asleep after yet another late-night binge of Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Chat Noir, grumbling about how Marinette didn’t deserve the Miraculous of the Ladybug. She was clumsy, obsessive, and a borderline stalker when it came to Adrien.

“She doesn’t deserve it,” you’d mutter to yourself, turning off the screen. “I could do so much better.”

When you woke up, everything felt… different.

You weren’t in your bed, in your small, cozy apartment back in your real life. Instead, you were in a room you didn’t recognize, adorned with pictures of a family you’d never seen before. The soft morning light seeped through lacy curtains, and outside, the faint sound of Parisian streets hummed. Paris.

No. It couldn’t be.

You bolted upright, scanning the room. It was utterly surreal, yet painfully familiar. The pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the smell of croissants wafting through the house—this was Paris. But it wasn’t your Paris. It was the Paris of Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Chat Noir.

You stumbled to the mirror, half-expecting to see your usual face. But no, it was still you, albeit… younger. A moment of panic set in, but the surreal reality quickly overtook it. Somehow, impossibly, you were in the Miraculous universe. And if you were here, you knew exactly what was going to happen next.

Your initial excitement quickly morphed into envy. Marinette, in all her awkwardness, was destined to become the heroine, to wield the Ladybug Miraculous and save Paris. But why? You were smarter, more decisive, and less distracted. If anyone deserved that kind of power, it was you.

And then you realized—you could take it.

The memory of the Origins episode was fresh in your mind. Master Fu would soon be in trouble, and Marinette was supposed to save him. But if you acted first, you could claim the Miraculous and rewrite destiny itself.

The plan was simple: stay close to Marinette, wait for the right moment, and steal her fate.

That morning, your new parents—kind strangers who felt oddly warm—called you down to breakfast. They smiled as though you’d always been their child, and while it was disconcerting, you played along. Over croissants and jam, your mother handed you a small box of mooncake. “For your first day at your new school,” she said with a smile.

You nodded, murmuring your thanks. But your mind was already racing. You knew the plot. You knew what today would bring. You were determined to take the chance Marinette was supposed to have. After all, why not? If fate had given you this opportunity, then wasn’t it meant to be yours?

The streets of Paris were just as lively as you imagined, the sights both foreign and familiar. You approached the school with your cookies in hand, keeping an eye out for the key moment.

At the crosswalk, you saw him: Master Fu, the elderly guardian of the Miraculouses, hobbling across the street. You watched from a distance, your heart pounding as you spotted the scene unfolding. This was the moment. This was where Marinette was supposed to step in.  

But not today.

You ran forward, reaching him just in time. “Sir, watch out!” you shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him to safety. The car whizzed by, the driver honking angrily.

Master Fu looked up at you with a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you, young lady. That was very brave of you.”

You smiled warmly, masking your inner glee. “It was nothing, sir. Are you okay?”

He nodded, adjusting his cane. He wobbled precariously, and you helped steady  him. “Here, let me help you,” you said, guiding him to the sidewalk.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, his voice filled with gratitude.

You noticed Marinette standing a few steps away, her box of macarons clutched tightly. She had seen the whole thing, but she hadn’t had a chance to act. You shot her a quick glance, a small smirk playing on your lips.

Would you like one of these?” you asked, pulling a mooncake from the box and handing it to Master Fu.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it with a smile. “You’re a very thoughtful young lady.”

Marinette hesitated, her eyes darting between you and Master Fu. “Um… I was going to—”

“Oh, were you?” you interrupted, feigning surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Marinette frowned but didn’t respond. She tightened her grip on her macarons and walked away, her excitement from earlier dimmed.

As you made your way to school, a flicker of guilt passed through you. You now destroy Marinette’s chance to be Ladybug. No. You stole her chance to be Ladybug. But she didn’t need to be Ladybug. You were here now, and you would be better.

The classroom buzzed with energy as you entered. Marinette Dupain-Cheng sat near the front, she stares at you but quickly looks away. It's obvious she didn’t like you when a frown curved her mouth. You didn’t care, you're not here to be friends with her anyways. You took a seat a few rows away, watching as the class dynamics played out like clockwork: Chloé Bourgeois asserting her dominance, and Alya standing up for Marinette, But your focus was elsewhere. Your mind was on what would come later.

Later that day, the akuma attack on Stoneheart interrupted class. You feigned fear like everyone else, though inside, you were buzzing with anticipation. This was how the story began.

Because of what happened, school was suspended, sending every student back to the safety of their homes. You returned home to find a small ornate box on your desk. You opened it with trembling hands, revealing the Ladybug Miraculous. Tikki appeared, her tiny figure glowing with excitement.

You fake shout in surprise, asking what she is.

“Hello! I’m Tikki, your kwami. And Y/N, you’ve been chosen to wield the Ladybug Miraculous and protect Paris!”

You feigned shock, though inwardly you were thrilled. “Me? Are you sure? I’m just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

Tikki’s eyes sparkled. “You can. I believe in you. You have the courage and heart to protect Paris! Just wear the earring and say the phrase: Spots On!”

Meanwhile, Marinette couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Her first day had started with such promise, but it had ended with a strange, gnawing emptiness.

She vented to Alya the next day. “It’s just… that girl, she swooped in and saved that man. I wanted to help, but she just… took over.”

Alya raised an eyebrow. “You mean Y/N? I don’t know her that well, but she seemed nice enough. Maybe you’re just thinking too much about it, Marinette.”

Marinette frowned. “Maybe…”

But the doubt lingered.

The battle against Stoneheart played out just as you had anticipated, though with one key difference: you were in control and you already knew what to do. With the help of Chat Noir, you used your Lucky Charm to defeat the villain and purify the akuma, restoring Ivan to normal.

The people of Paris cheered as you stood victorious. You had done it. You were Ladybug.

Days turned into weeks, and you quickly became the perfect hero Paris needed. You saved the city countless times, each victory cementing your role as its protector. Fighting alongside Chat Noir was exhilarating. The people adored you, showering you with praise and gratitude.

But Marinette hated you. She didn’t hide it, either. She avoided you at school, her glares sharp enough to cut glass whenever you crossed paths.

You returned the sentiment. Marinette’s bitterness annoys you to no end. 

“I know you’re hiding something!! You’re not what they say you are!” Marinette snapped one day after school. “I know it!! You stole something from me!!

You smirked, leaning against a wall. “I don’t know what you're talking about Marinette, you can’t just convict me without evidence~ who knows I might slip and suddenly post this to the internet~” You said whilst holding a phone with evidence of Marinette stalking adrien.

Her face turned a lot more pale than it already was, her hands balled into fists, but she said nothing, storming off.

Despite your animosity, you excelled as Ladybug. Every akuma was defeated swiftly, every crisis averted. You were meticulous, calculating, and unyielding. Where Marinette would have hesitated, you acted decisively. 

Paris flourished under your protection, and even Chat Noir—still oblivious to your identity—admired your skill and determination. 

“You’re amazing, Ladybug,” Chat said one night after a battle. “I can’t imagine anyone else doing what you do.”

You smiled, leaning casually against a rooftop ledge. “Thanks, Chat. It’s nice to hear that.”

But deep down, you knew the truth. You hadn’t just stolen Marinette’s fate—you’d rewritten it entirely. And while guilt occasionally gnawed at you, the adoration of Paris drowned it out.

This was your destiny now, and you wouldn’t let anyone take it from you.

Marinette remained an ordinary girl, but something in her seemed to shift. She began to grow more suspicious of you, plagued by dreams where she was Ladybug.

The dreams started weeks later. Marinette woke up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding. In her dreams, she was Ladybug—fighting akumas, swinging through the city, standing beside Chat Noir.

“I am Ladybug..”

But when she woke up, reality hit her like a brick wall. That wasn’t her life. It was yours.

“No!! I am supposed to be Ladybug!!”

Confused and angry, she cornered you one day after class, eyes blazing with determination. “I know,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “I know I was supposed to be Ladybug.”

You tilted your head, a cold smile playing on your lips. “Oh? And what makes you think that?”

“It feels real,” she insisted. “Like it’s a memory, not just a dream. No. I know it's real!! I am Ladybug!! You stole it from me! You're a thief Y/N!!”

You stepped closer, your voice dropping to a low, mocking tone. “Maybe I did. and Maybe I am. But let’s face it, Marinette—you’re no hero. You’re obsessive, and distracted by your crush on Adrien. Your stalker behavior is not something a heroine should possess. Paris deserves better, and that’s me. I already have the Miraculous, and doing a REALLY GREAT job at it, what makes you think you deserve it anymore??”

Her face flushed with anger, but she had no response. You walked away, triumphant. The Miraculous was no longer hers to claim, and you will make sure it stayed that way.

Paris sparkled under the moonlight as you stood on the Eiffel Tower, gazing over the city you had come to love—and rule as its heroine. With the weight of the Ladybug Miraculous and the Guardianship on your shoulders, you felt untouchable.

That was until a glowing portal split the sky open.

Out stepped Bunnix, her expression hard and accusing. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk, Ladybug.”

You crossed your arms, feigning nonchalance. “Bunnix. To what do I owe the pleasure of a time traveler’s visit?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Cut the act. You know why I’m here.”

Chat Noir appeared at your side, his baton at the ready. “What’s going on, Bunnix? You seem… tense.”

Bunnix pointed at you. “She’s not supposed to be Ladybug.”

Chat Noir blinked, stepping protectively in front of you. “What are you talking about? She’s Ladybug. She’s saved Paris more times than we can count!”

“She’s not supposed to be here,” she said, her voice sharp as her glowing portal shimmered behind her. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng was supposed to be Ladybug. This version of reality shouldn’t exist! You’ve disrupted everything!”

You crossed your arms, unfazed. “Paris is safe, isn’t it? I’ve done my job. Heck I even did a good job saving this world”

Bunnix stepped closer, her tone accusatory. “You’ve changed it, I’ve seen it. Marinette was supposed to save Master Fu. She was supposed to receive the Miraculous. But you—you interfered. You stole her destiny!!”

Chat Noir stood protectively in front of you. “Hey, back off. Ladybug’s saved this city countless times. Who cares what was ‘supposed’ to happen and who can receive the Miraculous?!”

Bunnix glared at you both. “This isn’t just about this world. The timelines are unraveling because of her!”

You smirked, letting your mask of innocence drop. You gently push Chat noir aside, stepping closer to Bunnix.

“It doesn’t matter what was supposed to happen. I’m Ladybug now. I’m the Guardian, the center of this world. And if Chat Noir protecting me despite what I did isn’t proof enough that her fate as Ladybug now officially belongs to me… *smirk* Haven’t realized it yet? This world is now synchronizing with me, just like how a world favors the protagonist… Marinette wasn’t fit for this responsibility, and I made sure Paris got the hero it deserves. And unfortunately for her, this world agrees, whether you like it or not~” You whispered lowly to her

Bunnix clenched her fists. “You’ve broken the balance. Do you realize what you’ve done? The entire multiverse is at risk!”

You shrugged. “Then I’ll fix it. As the Guardian, I have authority over all the Miraculouses, including yours.”

Bunnix’s eyes widened in realization. “You wouldn’t—”

With a wave of your hand, you summoned the Bunny Miraculous. The portal behind Bunnix flickered and closed as her powers were stripped away. She staggered, powerless, and glared at you with fury.

“You can’t do this!” she shouted as she was returned to the timeline she came from.

“Oh, I can,” you said, your voice icy. “And I will.”

 You donned the Bunny Miraculous and rewrote reality, ensuring Marinette never became Ladybug in any timeline.

You stood tall, the portal you had summoned with Fluff's guidance shimmered with an ethereal glow, its swirling energies casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the rooftop. Beside you, Chat Noir’s green eyes were filled with uncertainty, a rare crack in his usually confident demeanor.

“Ladybug,” Chat Noir said softly, his voice almost pleading, “are you sure this is the right thing to do? I trust you, but... tampering with time feels... dangerous.”

You turned to him, a small, serene smile gracing your lips, the halo of your presence making him instinctively relax. The effect was subtle but undeniable—your words carried weight, as though the universe itself bent to support you. This power, this influence, wasn’t yours initially. You had stolen it, just like Marinette’s fate. But now, it was yours, and you wielded it masterfully.

“Chat Noir,” you began, your voice steady and filled with conviction, “this isn’t about what’s easy. It’s about what’s necessary.”

“But the timeline—changing things could destroy—”

“Destroy what, exactly?” you interrupted gently, your tone laced with practiced sincerity. “I’ve already disrupted it simply by being here. If I don’t act now, the balance will collapse entirely. I’ll vanish, Chat. We’ll vanish.”

He froze, his hands clenching tightly around his staff. “Vanish? What do you mean?”

Your expression softened, your red eyes glistening with what seemed like vulnerability. “I wasn’t meant to be here, remember? If the universe realizes I don’t belong, it’ll correct itself—and I’ll disappear, taking everything we’ve built with me. Paris will lose its Ladybug. You’ll lose me, Chat.”

The thought seemed to strike him deeply. His jaw tensed, his emerald gaze flickering with desperation. “I can’t let that happen. But why go to every timeline? Why stop... Marinette?”

You reached out, placing a gloved hand on his cheek. The gesture was intimate, calculated. “Because Marinette was never meant to have this power. She wasn’t strong enough. Look at what I’ve accomplished, Chat. Paris has never been safer. The people trust us, they trust me. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if someone weaker had been given this responsibility? She would’ve crumbled under the pressure, endangering everyone.”

Chat Noir looked away, guilt and hesitation written all over his face. “But... Marinette never seemed... bad.”

You tilted his chin back to face you, your voice a quiet murmur, dripping with affection and manipulation. “That’s because you don’t know what she would’ve done with this power. Trust me, Chat. I’m not doing this for myself—I’m doing it for Paris. For us.”

His resolve wavered, the pull of your halo overwhelming his doubts. The world revolved around you now, and it was only natural that he would follow your lead.

“I don’t want to lose you, Ladybug,” he finally admitted, his voice barely audible.

“You won’t,” you assured him, your fingers brushing against his. “But I need you to trust me. Together, we’ll ensure that this world—and every other—is safe and whole. I’ll fix everything. I promise.”

With a reluctant nod, Chat Noir stepped back, his staff lowering in submission. “I trust you, Milady. Always.”

The portal grew brighter, illuminating your face with a crimson glow as you stepped forward. Inwardly, you reveled in your triumph. This wasn’t just about fixing timelines or ensuring balance—it was about solidifying your place as the center of this world. The Ladybug. The hero. The one who mattered most.

Marinette would never again have the chance to be Ladybug, not in this timeline or any other. The universes would belong to you now. With one last glance at Chat Noir, you stepped through the portal, ready to rewrite reality itself.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

ADDITIONAL SCENARIO:

The sky above Paris was a canvas of pink and gold hues, a fitting backdrop for the triumphant end of an era. Hawkmoth had been defeated, his Miraculous reclaimed, and the balance of power restored. The Miracle Box was secured, its treasures now beyond the reach of those who would misuse them. For the first time in years, Paris was at peace, its people celebrating the heroes who had brought them here.

Standing atop the Eiffel Tower, you gazed over the city with Adrien by your side. The red and black of your Ladybug suit shimmered faintly in the setting sunlight, a symbol now synonymous with victory, hope, and resilience. Adrien, still in his Chat Noir guise but no longer bearing the same burdens, looked at you with admiration.

“You did it,” he said softly, a smile spreading across his face. “Ladybug, you saved everyone.”

The words should have brought unmitigated joy, and they did—partially. The world was safe, and Paris adored you. People cheered as your identity was revealed, their faith in their heroine unshaken. Even Adrien, your partner in battle and in life, stood unwaveringly by your side, his pride in you radiating like the sun.

Yet, beneath the surface, you couldn’t quite shake an unfamiliar tension. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly. It was a feeling you couldn’t name, a quiet unease that lingered despite the cheers and celebrations.

“Do you think it’s really over?” you asked, your voice barely louder than the wind.

Adrien’s hand found yours, squeezing gently. “It’s over, my Lady. You’ve done more than anyone could have ever asked for. Paris, no—the world owes you everything.” His green eyes met yours, filled with warmth and certainty. “I owe you everything.”

His words should have been enough, and in many ways, they were. You leaned against him, allowing the comfort of his presence to settle over you.

The streets below were alive with celebration. Parisians rejoiced, the weight of fear and uncertainty finally lifted. Even beyond Paris, the world had embraced you as their Ladybug, their symbol of hope. For the first time, everything felt aligned, as though the universe itself had recognized your place at its center.

And yet, in the quiet moments between Adrien’s reassurances and the city’s applause, that tension remained.

Elsewhere in Paris, Marinette sat on the balcony of her cozy apartment, a faint smile playing on her lips as she watched Luka strum his guitar. The melody was soft and soothing, wrapping around her like a warm embrace.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” she said, her voice wistful but not bitter.

Luka glanced up, his expression calm and understanding. “The city is safe now. That’s what matters.”

She nodded, her gaze drifting to the distant Eiffel Tower. She didn’t envy you—not entirely. She had carved out a life for herself, a happy one. The bakery was thriving, her designs were starting to gain recognition, and Luka’s steady presence brought her a sense of peace she hadn’t known she needed.

But deep down, there was an ache she couldn’t quite ignore. She had once dreamed of being Ladybug, of carrying the weight of the Miraculous and protecting Paris. That dream had been taken from her, rewritten in a way she couldn’t change. And while she didn’t begrudge your success—how could she? You had saved them all—there was a part of her that mourned what might have been.

“Do you think she’s happy?” Marinette asked suddenly, surprising even herself.

Luka’s fingers paused on the strings. “I think she did what she believed was right,” he said after a moment. “And I think she’s still figuring out what happiness looks like.”

Marinette nodded, her faint smile returning. It wasn’t the life she had imagined, but it was hers. And with Luka by her side, she could find contentment in that.

Back atop the Eiffel Tower, you stood with Adrien as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, casting the city in twilight. Paris was happy. The world was happy. And you were, too—or at least, you told yourself you were.

“Do you feel it?” Adrien asked, breaking the silence.

“Feel what?”

“The peace,” he said with a soft laugh. “It’s overwhelming. I’ve never seen Paris like this.”

You smiled, his words grounding you. “It’s everything I worked for.”

“And you deserve it,” he said firmly, pulling you into an embrace. “You deserve all of it.”

The weight of his belief in you was as comforting as it was daunting. For now, you let yourself believe it, let yourself bask in the happiness you had fought so hard to create.

Paris was safe, and you were its hero. The world had accepted you, embraced you, celebrated you. Yet, as you looked out over the city, the faint tension lingered—a quiet reminder that even in victory, some battles are never truly won.

THE END

[xoxolilixx]

❤︎𝙇𝙚𝙩'𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙭 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩❤︎

𝙃𝙤𝙗𝙞𝙚 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙭 𝙗𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤 𝙜𝙛!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

✩𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 - Hobie finds out the real reason for you being popular around headquarters, and his honored to fix the problem.

✩𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 - SMUT...with plot. A bit of sexism, name calling (whore, tramp), pet names, virginity taking, oral, unprotected sex(WRAP IT UP), crying

✩𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - this is based on my Hobie brown x bimbo!gf oneshot, but it's not a part two or anything of that nature, but if you want to go back and read that, you can find it here. Anywho, I hope you guys like this story❤️😘

Hobie wasn't a chatter, not even close, but ever since you and him became a thing, he tried to make himself a lot less unapproachable. Instead of sporting a serious, straight-face and expression 24/7, he carried a soft smirk most of the time. The difference sounded small, but honestly it made him seem a lot nicer. More people started conversations with him when they saw him, he was let in on topics that no one bothered to talk to him about before. Topics like you.

Hobie always wondered why it caused such a stir when you and him got together, and it boggled you just as much. If only you knew what people was saying about you. Now, it wasn't a secret to you that people knew you. You were a social person and you talked to a lot of people, but what you didn't know was what people were talking about when you walked away.

Hobie was walking through one of the halls of headquarters, hands in his pocket as he stalked down the hall in his usual attire, the only thing that was different was the bright pink bow that was tied to one of his back belt loops, courtesy of you. "Hey man, you got a little sum back there!" Someone joked as he walked past. He couldn't help but chuckle as he turned to the person who was in the hall. He never cared to learn the names of the people around headquarters, so he definitely didn't know his name, but nonetheless he still interacted with him. "I know, my girl did it," Hobie smirked. "Your girlfriend that real girly one, with the short ass skirt and shit?" The guy smirked, the description of you made him internally twitch with irritation. "Yea, what about it?" Hobie smirked as he tried to keep his cool. "Ya know, almost everybody is plotting on her, right?" He smirked, pushing himself off the wall as he walked closer to Hobie, "she's like…top wanted in all of headquarters." "Really? Why's that?" Hobie's smirk hid his urge to throw him through the wall. "You really don't know? She's the only whore that still has her virginity," the random man laughed, "after that get together last month, everyone been trying to be the first to pop her cherry. It was honestly surprising, giving that she dresses like a complete tramp--" Hobie couldn't help it anymore, one super-powered punch later, and he was laid flat out on the floor. He couldn't help but think this is what he got for trying to be nice to people as he stomped away, his objective now to find you.

You weren't hard to spot, all that glitter and rhinestones made you look like a walking star. You were chatting with Gwen, a sweet smile on your plump, pretty lips as you rambled on about god knows what. It would've made his heart melt if he wasn't so irritated. You barely had time to register his arrival as he came over and scooped you up onto his shoulder like a stack of potatoes, "I gotta borrow her for a second," Hobie uttered to Qwen as he stomped away, a hand holding your skirt down as he carried you away. "Hobs! What's going on?!" You giggled, your legs kicking a little bit as he carried you to a secluded area.

"Love, what happened at the get together?" His rushed tone stirred up worry in your chest, "why?! What happened?" You asked softly, your big doe eyes full of worry as you looked up at him. "Just-- tell me what happened darling. Tell me everything that happened," he sighed softly, realizing that his tone ushered you into a worried state. "Well…nothing really… everyone was chillin', having fun, we started drinking, and we played a few drinking games and after that, gwen took me home cause' i got too drunk," you shrugged. "Then why are people talking about something that happened at the get together and how your a virgin and all this other shit love?" He sighed softly. His hands rested on your hips as a look of embarrassment and realization washed over you. "We were playing put a finger down, and someone said put a finger down if you've had sex, and I was the only one who didn't put a finger down, and everyone made a big ass deal about it," you explained softly as you looked down. He stood there for a second, his expression blank as he processed the information before letting a chuckle out. Was that seriously it? Everyone had the hots for his girl because she admitted to being a virgin?

"Is everyone really still talking about that?" You asked softly, embarrassment evident on your face. He couldn't help but chuckle some more. "Sadly darling, you're a bit of a hot topic~" he said, a sympathetic smile on his face as his thumbs rubbed circles into your hips. You let out a whiny groan as your face fell into your hands, "oh my god~ I was hoping they would forget about that, what's even the big deal?!" You whined as your face fell into his chest, his arms wrapping around your shorter frame as he shook his head at how stupid this whole thing was. People were over sexualizing you because you wasn't sexually active.

Suddenly an idea popped into his head, causing a smirk to spread on his lips. "How about you let me fix it?" He smirked, making you look up at him with a questioning look, but as soon as you see the smirk on his lips you know what he means. Intimacy wasn't hobie's favorite thing, but shit, he willing to do damn there anything for you. "You for real?" You asked softly, your embarrassment melting away into nervousness and excitement. "Of course darling, let me show you how good I can make you feel~" his voice sultry as his big hands gripped your waist "let me fix your problem, love."~

Your head was spinning. You felt hot and everything felt like it was moving too fast and too slow at the same time. Your heart was pounding in your chest and you were a inch away from breaking into a sweat and what made it worse was nothing even happened yet. "Jus' say the word love, and I'll stop, okay?" His tone was lighthearted but his gaze was serious. The nervousness was coming off of you and waves, and he only wanted to make this easier for you. "M'kay hobs~" you uttered with a little nod of your head. You were on your knees atop his bed, looking up at his towering figure. He was trying his absolute best to ignore the mind-numbing throb that was coming from in his dick as he looked down at the sight. He had a perfect view of your cleavage and the way your big pretty doe eyes looked up at him made him wanna shove his dick down your pretty throat.

"Go on and lay back f'me love," he gently ordered, and you mindlessly obligated, sweeping your legs from under your body, swinging them off the edge of the bed as you slowly laid back, giving him a good view of your entire body. Your thick chubby thighs and wide hips paired with the little chubbiness of your tummy and your perky tits sitting prettily in your hot pink bra that peaked out of your white tank top sent him mentally flying. "You ready darling?" He asked, his voice soft and caring.

With a simple nod from you he sprung into action. His hands sliding up your bare thighs, slipping under your sparkly pink skirt as he gently rubbed and gripped them before spreading your knees apart. Your heart thumped out of your chest as you watched him lower himself down to his knees, making his face level with your heat. You propped yourself up onto your elbows as you watch him bunch up your skirt. Hobie's cock twitched in his pants at the sight before him; you were wearing hot pink lacy panties, which matched your hot pink bra, and he could see the outline of your soft pussy lips and swollen clit through the soaked fabric. "Fuckk" he breathed as he paced himself. The sound you let slip past your lips when he gently pressed the pad of his thumb into your clothed clit made it harder for him to control himself. He had to remind himself that this wasn't for him, it was for you.

His thumb circled your clothed clit a few times before gently pushing on your sobbing hole, coaxing a few soft whines out of you before finally hooking his fingers onto the sides of your panties. You eagerly lift your hips as he tugs the flimsy-and damp- fabric down your legs. Hobie was happy to see that your nervousness were slowly melting away, being replaced by eagerness and excitement. Hobie's mind spun wildly as he caught a glimpse of strings of your wetness pulling away with your panties, you were fucking soaked.

You let out a breathy giggle as you watch him pocket your panties, but your giggle quickly turns into a moan when you feel his finger slip in between your folds. He could feel you clenching around nothing, he didn't even have a chance to slip is finger into you. "Relax darling, I got you," he cooed as his other hand reached up to rest on your lower stomach his thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin as he slowly slid his finger in. Fuck you were tight, he could only imagine how your tightness felt wrapped around his cock and he almost came in his pants.

You quickly found out that Hobie was a pussy drunk, his tongue deep in your soaked cunt as his thumb rubbed tight circles into your clit. You couldn't even squirm away from him as he coaxed moans and whines from you, his strong arms were wrapped around your thighs, keeping you right where he wanted you. You thought you were gonna die the first few minutes, but once he found the spot in you that made you moan the loudest, you were a goner. He was a messy eater too, the sound of him suckling hard on your clit only made your walls clench, which only made him suck and lick harder as he groaned deep in your pussy.

By time he finished his meal, you were two orgasms deep and your cunt was filled with slick and spit, the same mess that was on his face. You panted as you watch him get up off of his knees, thankful for the break, but your mind went wild when you heard his belt buckle and his pants zipper. Hobie chuckled at the sight of your eyes widening when you saw how big he was. 8 inches of pure girth. How the hell was that gonna fit in you?! "Hobs, I don't think it's gonna fit~" you whimpered softly as your thighs subconsciously closed. He could see the fear and nervousness written all over your face and he couldn't help but coo at you.

His hand gently grabbed your jaw, forcing you to take your eyes off of his lower region and lock eyes with him before deeply kissing you, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Your eyes rolled back as you tasted yourself on his tongue as it explored your whole mouth, a long string of saliva connecting you both as he pulled away. "Don' worry love, I got you, okay?" He cooed softly, earning a soft nod and a "m'kay" from you. "Remember, jus' say the word, and I'll stop," he reminded you. You were starting to relax again, allowing him to spread your thighs apart with his torso, until he reached down, grabbing his length so he could guide it in you.

His cock was twitching in his hand, leaking precum from the tip. It left you feeling excited and scared. He was just so big, but all your thoughts disappeared out of your mind when you felt his messy, precum slicked tip start to push past your folds, making you clench down as your head lolled back.

You were a complete and utter moaning mess, but Hobie stayed patient with you, pausing whenever you clenched too tightly and constantly comforting you and coaxing you through it. The sight of you under him, face scrunched up with pain and pleasure as strings of moans and whines spilt past your lips as he sunk deeper and deeper into your pussy was enough to make him cum now. "You doin' so good f'me darling, good fucking girl, so wet, so fucking tight," he grunted into your neck, sucking hickeys into your soft skin, his eyes rolling back as you clenched around him at his words. "Hobs! m'cant~ your too big~" you whined as your walls choked his dick. He looked down in between you, you didn't even make it halfway. " shhh i know love, but imma need you to relax for me. It'll fit, jus' stay with me now ," he grunted as you whined out, your cunt milking little bits of cum out of his dick.

By time you got past the halfway mark, you were in tears, clinging onto his arms, which was holding him up on either side of your head. His heart ached slightly as you looked up at him, tears spilling down the sides of your face as you panted, "d-did I do it? Is it in?" You whimpered, making his head spin, it felt disgusting how much it turned him on to see you crying like that. He bit back a groan as he looked down between the two of you again. His whole body momentarily went weak, your small, tight, weeping pussy, stretched wide around his dick. You only had two inches left. "Almost darling, your doing so good f'me, yea? Just a little more, okay? You ready?" He cooed softly, kissing away your tears. "m'kay~" you whimpered.

If he kept dragging this out with you, he was gonna bury before he even got a thrust in. He braced himself before slammed into you, forcing the last two inches into your pussy. Your eyes widened and a silent scream left your parted lips, wincing at the pain as Hobie quickly wrapped a arm around you, holding you close. "Fuckk~ good fucking girl, see love? I got you, its all in now. M'so proud of you darling," he could feel you clenching around him at the praise as you whimpered into his neck, fighting off the urge to scream out.

"Soo fucking big~" you cried softly as you slowly got used to the large intrusion. "Shh I know, I know love, but your doin' so good," he cooed as he waited for the signal to move.

Before you knew it, he was fucking you dumb, jerking your body deeper and deeper into the mattress with each thrust. The mixture of moan, whines, screams, and incoherent babbles left your lips as he held the back of your knees up, giving him the perfect view of your small pussy getting abused by his cock as you left a gorgeous ring of your juices around his base. He watched as your eyes rolled back when he hit that one gummy spot in you, groaning as you clenched down on him tightly. He would sometimes give your cheek a soft tap whenever your watery eyes rolled back, wanting to make sure you were still coherent enough to tell him if you wanted to stop, even if he knew that you wouldn't want to.

It only took a good few more thrusts in the right spot for you to cum all over his dick, clenching so tightly on him that he could move as you screamed out, forcing him to cum too as he groaned into your neck.

You both were a panting mess, your hair messy and hickeys all over your neck, and his arms all scratched up and his mouth and chin still covered in your slick. "m'like when you fix my problems," you panted softly, earning a deep chuckle from him.

[occamstfs]

What You Really Want

Milo mouths off about a man dating his long time crush before immediately learning the lesson that he should be less trusting of strange voices promising to fulfill his desires

Pretty standard straight to gay himbo/jockification! It will also be my final story for some time I believe, so I do hope you enjoy! -Occam

“It’s no fair that they literally have it all.” Like many a ‘nice guy’ Milo has spent an inordinate amount of time skulking social media and disparaging more physically gifted men as he stumbles across them. The root of his despair is not difficult to ascertain, his eyes burning with envy make quite clear the inner monologue of ‘girls always date assholes.’ He sneers as he comes across the most recent post of his friend and crush, Juliet. The jealous man of course knows next to nothing about the character of James, the jock-type now dating her, but judging by the gleaming smirk and the bulky arms of a killer hanging from his shoulders, the judgemental dweeb has more than enough evidence to speculate.

Delving into his memories, Milo’s face burns with embarrassment as he recalls mentioning his crush to Juliet, ‘Oh!’ her bright eyes shift uncomfortably and her cheeks begin to blush enough to match the pink tint she threw on this morning. Milo’s fist clenches as she almost giggles in her discomfort, ‘sorry Milo I guess- Well, I guess I just thought you were gay?’ After this Milo played it cool, he thinks. Hand scratching the back of his head as he asserts his straight identity and the two go on to have a meal far more quiet and awkward than usual. When new-boyfriend James comes to pick up Juliet, Milo forces a smile before staring daggers at his back as the pair walk away. 

This brings us to the present hate scrolling session in which Milo is more than absorbed. Lips curl into a sneer as he traces the impossible to ignore curves of this must-be dullard’s defined body. Milo scoffs as he sees the litany of women that must make up the man’s dating history. “Bet they won’t even last a week, ha! I mean judging by how much the douche spends in the gym I bet he’s just using her as a beard anyway.”

With this final rather homophobic assertion, the nerd’s phone flashes before going dark, “What the-” before he has to determine whatever caused this, he goes stiff as a strange voice resounds through his head. ‘Tired of all the big boys getting what they want, hmm?’ Immediately concerned he’s lost his mind, Milo gets to powering back on his phone to call for help. ‘Now now, Milo. Do not worry your little head. I am here to help. Would you not like the chance to be just like them?’ Just like them. Envy burns through his veins greater than anything. Sensing this immediately, whatever this voice is seizes upon his clearly fragile psyche, its laughter steely and alien, ‘Ah ha ha. I thought so.’

Dropping his phone once more, Milo tries to drill the voice, “Wh- what are you exactly. Are you a dem- hm, an angel?” The voice answers almost before he even finishes the thought, ‘It matters not what I am. All that matters are your desires. Now. Do you wish to be all you desire, all this James embodies? All that he is in your head.” Miles gulps and almost starts drooling at the idea, just like James. Women at his fingertips whenever he wants, a body sculpted by the gods while keeping a far better mind than that oaf could ever afford. With next to no hesitation or forethought, Milo nods and the world goes dark.

When he awakens the poorly mannered man finds it’s the next day. His phone rests in his hand and when opened he finds it zoomed in on a picture of James’ meaty bicep. Milo rolls his eyes and tosses his phone aside before going to stand. Making it halfway up he grunts in pain as he only then discovers morning wood more pressing and turgid than he’s ever encountered. Falling back down he clutches at the pain in his crotch from his cock being forcibly yanked by his underwear. Hands now grasping it he gasps as he finds it filling them far more than it has any right to. 

Well now, while they’re already down there he might as well have some fun right? After briefly struggling to get his waistband over his swollen package his mouth falls open in shock as he’s finally able to appraise the almost unrecognizable cock hanging from his crotch. It’s like none he’s seen before, not that he generally observes dicks of course. Far more impressive than he imagined a dick could be. His fingertips can scarcely meet his palm when he tries to grasp it, and as he begins rubbing it it feels leagues more sensitive than it has before now, as if nerve endings are multiplying. Looking to his awaiting phone he sees the photo of James and what’s her name as he begins masturbating outright.

Seeing a bulge in James’ strained pants he grunts as he returns to stare at his own suddenly substantial cock. More like him. The already thicker rod strains as he reflexively humps into his hand, forcing his grip wider as it expands to simply need more room. The new veins painting the length of his nascent ten inch dick surge higher up its length as he swears he can see them pulse and bulge with each racing heartbeat. Beneath his thrusting hands, bouncing as his hips continue to forcefully thrust with more strength than he has, his balls similarly grow heavier, larger as they send hormones flowing through him enough to metamorphosize and, more immediately, cause pre to stream and coat his fingers. 

Milo leans his head back as he is bursting with a need for release greater than he can understand. He shifts his jaw as it twinges with the pleasure of growth, widening and strengthening into one fit for titan. Below his newly defined chin, his neck thickens and moans grow deeper as an Adam's apple bulges out of his throat. Hearing his voice echo deeper throughout his bedroom, his heady pleasure comes to a head as he is struck with the bizarre urge to lick the pre off his fingers. Before he’s able to acquire or express shock and disgust, his eyes blast open and he is again staring at the image of James, more like- and he blows his load.

The moment of release may as well have shut him down once more, pleasure overloads him like a flashbang as every inch of his body feels at once. Drool drips from his plumper lips as his mind is fried and his hips continue to thrust without any input or awareness, sending stains across his wall and splattering into his darker hair as it begins to pull shorter and tint darker. Eyebrows thicken and cover more of his forehead as his brow hangs lower over his eyes staining brown and growing duller.

His whole form tenses as he finally achieves release, staring at the image of his, uh, competition. Arms flex as his hands crack wider, fingers stretch longer, skin grows rougher. For the first time in his life definition appears on his arms, biceps and triceps compete for which can increase faster, which can catch more eyes, which can rival those alluring arms of James. Beneath shoulders packing on weight are pits that darken with curls now thicker, a deeper brown nearing black as the forest strives to prevent any light from breaking the canopy. Similarly they moisten with the masculine heady musk that they are perfectly designed to disseminate, powerful enough to allure any twink towards his dick, or uh, huh.

Milo moans as this seemingly intrusive thought makes itself at home in his morphing psyche. Barely returning to sentience enough to realize the stray gay thought, he arches his back and stretches as if he were waking up. Mindlessly he wipes the cum staining his larger hands on the new dark treasure trail as it itches and slowly inches up from pubes unshaved. Feeling the hint of an Adonis belt he sits up with a shock, the feeling of something he has long envied bringing back his awareness.

Despite the obvious differences it takes far too long for him to be aware of, to truly notice what has become of him. He struggles to make sense of the effort it takes to move his new larger limbs. He grabs at his new hair and sucks drool through his teeth as he tries to understand how it’s changed texture and color so totally, did he dye it and forget or what? The gears in his mind slowly turn as his fingers move to scratch an itch under his arms, struggling through the dank jungle of curls. Thoughtlessly he brings his sweat-wet fingers to his nose and grimaces. “Fuck man, I smell like an, uh, like a, unnh-” he moans quietly as he’s unable to even finish the sentence, instead an image of James forces its way to the front of his mind and two now-malnourished brain cells spark together and strain to form a thought.

“Oh fuck I’m turning into a imbe-, an uh imbekle? Ugh, an uh- a dumb jock.” Milo bites his lips and flexes an arm to try and assuage his nerves, to get his attention focused on anything but his anxieties. Fortunately to this end, seeing his bulging biceps he feels his larger cock begin to stir. Some semblance of rationality knows ceding to his wanting package is probably what led to this encroaching fog over his mind. His skin begins to prickle as all-around it grows more sensitive. Beyond these skin deep sensations it also seems as if darker hairs are beginning to spread out wherever his follicles will allow.

Seeing hair beginning to prickle his chest and blanket his legs his mind produces images of hairy men he has leered at through the years. His neck twitches as whatever dregs of the pathetic skirtchaser he once was rise up and try to combat his new predilections. He’s straight, he’s always been straight. Right? His mouth goes dry as he tries to remember ever having dated a woman in the past. Barring that, only just able to recall that something is happening to him, only just able to remember that he is transforming into some alien self, Milo tries to produce an image of what he used to look like. And he cannot.

His mouth falls open as it often does whenever he struggles to produce a thought, making it almost his default state. Mouth-breathing mouth ajar he fully experiences the thick air of his bedroom as it fills with his new musk. The room around him begins to dissolve and reform into surroundings that reinforce who he is now, that prove this is who he has always been. Clean pressed laundry dirty and shift into unwashed gym clothes that help cloud the room with his stink. Posters of whatever movies and video games he enjoys corrupt into images celebrating the impressive male form, all distinctly stained from the years of hanging on Milo’s bedroom walls. He hears clanking outside of his bedroom as bookshelves collapse and reform into weights heavier than he would be able to lift.

Milo stumbles to his larger feet and ignores the hefty weight of his balls and cock bobbing in the air as he drags himself out of his bedroom to find a mirror. He leaves sweaty footprints larger than any shoes he owns on the tile of the bathroom as he bumbles in. Leaning over the sink his lips quiver as he sees a razor clogged with hair darker than he feels he should have. Sooner than the doubts arrive they vacate as a thick, stubbled beard rapidly bursts onto his face. Looking up he smirks as he sees a thick mustache surges over his upper lip, looking just like the ones he appreciates,  just like he has always been into. His eye twitches and he grunts as his hair retracts once more into something far more intentional and stylish. At the same time pecs suddenly bulge larger and hang lower as Milo leans heavier over the bathroom sink. 

His eyes glaze over as complex thoughts once more become too elusive in the face of his rising lusts. Muscles bulge larger as his back and legs creak, stretching him taller as thighs and shoulders widen and continue putting on mass. Feet spread like fins on the floor as his hands widen and sweatily slide on the ceramic sink. His mouth continues to water as he inspects all these increasingly masculine changes and his cock continues to throb. Milo bites his lip as new sensations arise from his cock once more, this time the change is apparent as his foreskin regrows, making his cock look even thicker as its head grows hooded and he struggles not to immediately break into masturbation at the powerful image of his own seductive form.

Milo’s barely functioning mind struggles to argue for any reason to not just return to the immeasurable delights of gratifying his all-encompassing urges. He stays his hands for a moment before the greatest horror yet rears its head. A monologue begins in his mind that is not his own, that cannot be his own. Dull laughter echoes through his increasingly vacant mind as a voice even slower and deeper than that which sounds from his new vocal chords, “Yooo broo come onnnnn. Give up, give in. This is what you wanted, ‘s what we wanted huhuhuh.”

He feels a pressure in his balls as they almost churn with the otherworldly need that seemingly always flows through him. He can’t help but imagine the men he’s going to bed with his new endowment, how many cocks he’s going to take in his new powerful ass. Drool trickles from his lips through the dense black stubble that coats his face denser with each second, with each breath. Spit continues down the length of his more defined face before dripping onto weighty, similarly furred pecs. His heavier hands slowly creep towards the hardening cock standing tall and long from the jungle of pubes. Before he’s able to assist his thrusting hips however, his lusty haze is interrupted by his phone chiming. His mind immediately thinks it must be James which fills him with conflicting emotions of rage and giddiness. “Ohh bro maybe he’s inviting us over. It’s been toooo long since we fucked huhuh-”

Milo pointedly tries to ignore his hairier, bulkier reflection as he stumbles out of the bathroom to check his phone. Unfortunately he catches a glimpse which makes it all the more difficult to ignore the throbbing weight dripping, almost pouring, pre onto the floor. Despite it all he stands strong, quieting this other voice as it urgently tries to convince him to give in before he’s able to pick up his phone. In a final act of resistance, or perhaps impotence, he has the lofty idea of calling for help before his mind goes completely blank and, seeing the notification, he instinctually goes to his messages to find who texted him. It’s Juliet! 

First his heart flutters before he’s absolutely confused at the sensation. She’s just his bestie? Weird. He shakes off whatever that was and gets on to reading the message, “heyy girlie- which of these do you want me to post? Oh ya and lmao, are you and james cool if I do the last one?” At the mention of James his pulse again races and there are butterflies in his stomach far more powerful than whatever bizarre feelings he had but moments ago. No time to dwell, Milo starts swiping through the images sent. They’re a photoset of their little group outing to a halloween party last week, the trio, Milo, James and Jules dressed up as a group, as X-men! Respectively dressed as Wolverine, Cyclops and Jean Grey.

He smirks as he starts chubbing up again thinking of how easily he was able to pass as the hairy beast. His eyes then return to see James’ bubble butt in trademark spandex, which only makes it harder to not lose control then and there, moaning as he imagines playing with that ass. Holding to whatever well of willpower remains within him Milo holds strong and keeps his hands above waist level. Finally he gets to the specific image Juliet mentioned, one of him and James messily making out on the dance floor. James yanks at the hairy Milo’s hair, visor half hanging off as Milo reciprocates by shoving his hand into James’ pants. Fuck that’s hot.

Without even touching his needy cock, without any pleading from the new voice in his head, without a single chance to hold back. Simply from seeing the steamy image of him and James, Milo’s mind is overrun with memories and desires of the new man he is. The man he ever was and always will be. And for the second time today, but not the last, he loses control. Cum splatters against his phone as his mind goes blank anew with rushing pleasure. Painting himself once more with his most-used utensil he laughs dumbly as he realizes how swiftly he just came. Almost with pathetic haste, though now he’s quite unfamiliar with any sense of shame. The voice that only just wormed its way into his head spills from his mouth as it fully and forevermore wrests control as the true Milo.

“Huhuhuh guess I should work on my hair trigger,” He grunts as he looks at his phone and texts back some variation of ‘girl that’s porn you can’t post that!!!’ he turns his mind where it goes more often than anywhere in his new life. He wonders what James is doing and immediately texts him. Waiting for a reply Milo heads off to the gym to get a pump in before presumably going to meet him, not worrying about cleaning up or covering his scent. The gym’s for smelling like a man right? He certainly wouldn’t mind if everyone else followed his lead huhuh. Milo bites his lip trying to ignore his hardening cock as he makes his way out of the apartment clad in too-tight, stained gym clothes. 

Before he even makes it out the complex he gets a text from James and promptly changes course. Immediately Milo’s racing down the street to his lover’s apartment. Cock already snaking down his shorts and creating a stain at its nadir, Milo hopes he can keep his needy cock at bay until he makes it. Thinking of the alternative work out he’s to enjoy in bed with James, Milo struggles to not moan obscenely as he waddles as quickly as he can into the lobby of James’ building. Heart racing with excitement he can’t wait to see James in person. Jittery with nerves, it feels like he’s going to meet the man for the first time. Hah! Milo promptly ignores the idea and starts to get some stretching in before their session. Trying to practice mindfulness with a mind thicker than mud he quickly finds himself possessed with memories of their countless times fucking in the past. Easy enough as the pair have been doing so for years. Still nerves assail him as his cock continues to strain his shorts. As the elevator doors click open he smirks as he was able to make it this far without blowing his third load of the day. His cock throbs with anticipation for its release soon to come, and impatiently awaits each and every similar session to follow.

[bbkoolkatz]

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　mama... I fucked a criminal! k. bakugo!

pairing: prisoner katsuki x prison guard reader!

cw: porn with plot? female reader, explicit adult content, strong sexual themes, profanity, power dynamics, imprisoned!katsuki!, verbal teasing and taunting, consensual sexual acts, embarrassment, spanking, groping, mentions of getting caught! reader discretion is advised.

2.3k+ words!

MDNI!!!

there was nothing that really got to you. you've grown used to the criminals in their cells telling you all the nasty things they'd do to you, if you let them out or if you came in. but it never hit your skull like the way his words did...

"oi, sweets, y' just gonna stand there all day, or y' gonna come in 'n keep me comp'ny?" him —the man behind the reinforced glass, infamous traitor, the explosive ex-hero Dynamight—

you didn't even glance at him, staring straight ahead at the blank wall across from you. you knew better than to feed into his games. yet, somehow... he always managed to get under your skin.

"silent treatment, huh?" he mocked, words rolling off his tongue oh so smoothly. " 's fine. I can talk enough fer both of us." it's like second nature to him with how often he taunted you, feeding off of every little reaction you gave.

you clenched your jaw, refusing to let his words phase you. It had been like this every shift since they assigned you to guard this cell where, the Dynamight, was locked away, and for reasons you couldn't fathom, it was your job to keep him in line.

"yer real cute when yer all serious, y'know that?" he drawled, the grin in his voice clear even if you refused to look. "bet yer just dyin' t' say somethin' t' me."

your grip on your firearm tightened. "shut up."

his laughter was low and raspy, echoing off the cell walls. "oh, there she isss. knew you couldn't resist me, sweets."

you turned your head slightly, glaring at him through the glass. his orange jumpsuit was tight on his arms, veins bulging from them, his blond spikes of hair messier than usual, hanging right above his crimson eyes, that sparkled with mischief. he was lounging on the narrow bed in his cell like he didn't have a care in the world, one arm draped behind his head as he smirked at you.

"don't call me that," you snapped.

"what, sweets?" he teased, leaning forward just enough to rest his elbows on his knees. "would ya' prefer somethin' else? Doll? Babe? Honey? y' gotta tell me what gets ya goin', princess."

your face burned, and you turned away quickly, cursing yourself for reacting, as you squeezed your thighs together. you could feel his gaze like a physical weight on your back, and you knew he was loving every second of it.

"aw don' be like that," he cooed, voice softer but no less taunting. "yer my only entertainment in this place. least y' could do is let me have some fun."

"this isn't fun," you muttered, trying to sound firm, but all he heard was, cute... "this is my job."

"n' yer real good at it, too," he goaded, standing and moving closer to the glass where you stood. "but yer not exactly subtle, y'know." he teased, "I see the way yer hands shake when I talk t' ya', the way yer cheeks get all red." and he glaced down your body, "n' the way those fuckin' thighs squeeze t'gether... y' like it, don'tcha?"

you spun around to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "I do not."

he grinned wider, pressing his palm flat against the glass. "yer a terrible liar, princess."

the way he said it, so smug and self-assured, made you want to scream. but you knew that's exactly what he wanted. he thrived on your frustration, on the little cracks in your composure, even if he only saw it for a split second.

"shift exchange." a voice crackled over the speaker, clipped and monotonous.

you exhaled a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, turning your gaze back to the glass. katsuki's smirk was nothing short of devilish as he leaned against the barrier, his perfectly crimson eyes locking onto yours like a predator savoring his prey.

"that's my cue," you muttered, hoping the tremor in your voice wasn't as obvious as it felt.

"aww, don' look so disappointed," he drawled, "yer playin' with my feelin's here." his tone was mocking but dangerously, dangerously smooth. "i'll be right here, waitin' for ya, sweets. same time, same place. maybe next time, i'll even sweeten the deal fer ya."

you rolled your eyes, stepping back as another guard arrived to relieve you. his eyes followed you as you left, grin widening when you hesitated at the door.

"don' forget about me, sweetcheeks," he rasped, voice dripping with amusement. "i'll be thinkin' of ya."

you didn't look back. how could you forget about him? you spent months guarding his ass... your boots echoed against the cold floor as you walked away, but his words followed you, curling around and suffocating you like smoke.

you rubbed your temples. katsuki had this uncanny ability to irritate you, to pick apart your defenses with precision. and it was maddening.

yet… there was a heat that refused to dissipate, a knot forming in your lower belly that you couldn't quite shake. the sound of his voice replaying in your mind like a broken record.

"get a grip," you muttered to yourself, but even as you said it, you knew it wouldn't be that simple. there was already an itch he created inside you... 'cause he was as far under your skin as he could get, and he wasn't leaving anytime soon...

the other day, they called you in early, for god knows what reason, and he hasn't shut his mouth from the moment he saw you, till now.

"why don'tcha just admit it?" he teased, in almost a purr as he leaned his head on the glass... "admit y' like the way I talk t' ya... the way I look at yer ass in those tight pants... admit y' thought about openin' this door and lettin' me—"

"that's enough." you cut him off, your voice sharper than you intended. and you took a deep breath, trying to ease the ache he made you feel in the pit of your stomach, "you're wasting your breath."

"am i?" he asked, tilting his head, leaning forward, and studying you like you were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

you tilted your head in the opposite direction and subconsciously leaned closer... like you were leaning in for a kiss, "yes..." you whispered, fogging the glass with the heat of your breath.

-

"i've fucked ya' a hundred times over in my head," he leaned over and groaned in your ear, "watching yer uniform hug them pretty fuckin' thighs instead o' me..." he smacked your plump ass and smirked when it rippled under his palm, plowing himself into you, scratching that itch he embedded deep in your cunt.

"such a pretty fuckin' thing aren't ya," he prodded, landing another stinging smack on the reddened flesh that he couldn't stop grabbing at. his fingers dug into the curve of your waist, pressing you down on the soft material of the makeshift mattress he spent all day and night on, thinking about fucking you.

the sounds of your squelching cunt filled his cell as his hips thwacked mindlessly into yours. and the salty sting of tears pricked at your eyes, as he had you bent over the edge of the platform jutting out from the wall, that he'd called his bed.

"i needa know, sweetcheeks," he huffed, "di'ja fuck yerself t' me when y' left?" and the feeling of him pumping his fat cock inside you stopped...

you hesitantly nodded, whining under him, as a series of incoherent babbles fell through your lips. "use yer words, baby." he encouraged, grinding his hips against you.

you turned away from him, soft moans leaving your throat, "m-mhmm," you whimpered, hoping he'll take that answer... he didn't... smack!

"uh-uhh babe," he goaded, "words, not whimpers." he slowly pulled his length out of your drippy pussy, running two fingers up and down between your lips.

"ahh- y-yes, hah," you whispered, burying your face into his pillow, to hide your embarrassment.

" 'm not hearin' ya baby, louder." he slapped your puffy clit, rubbing his fingers harder and faster between your sloppy folds.

... how did you end up here? well...

"c'mon sweets, jus' confess. promise I won' tell anyone," he playfully pouted, leaning on the barrier between you both, with an arm over his head as he looked down at you.

"you're insufferable," you muttered, turning back to face the dirty white wall.

"maybe," he said, laughing softly. "but ya can't get enough of it."

you tried to focus on your breathing, on calming the rapid beating of your heart sending throbs between your legs, on anything but the man behind you. but then he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"y'know," he said, "y' should loosen up a little. let yerself have a bit o' fun. life's too short to be so uptight, sweets."

you refused to respond, refused to give him the satisfaction. but his words lingered and replayed in your brain.

after a long pause, he chuckled again, the sound softer but no less infuriating. "i'll break through that wall o' yers eventually. n' when I do, yer not gonna know what hit ya'."

"keep dreaming." you said, your voice steady despite the heat still burning in your cheeks.

"oh I will." he replied, and you could hear the grin behind his words. "n' guess what? yer always the star o' the show."

now you're here, a pretty little mess pressed up under him as the tip of cock prods at your sopping wet entrance. " 'm not hearin' ya dollface," he crooned, pushing just his fat tip in and out of you, "won' put it back in 'til ya say it loud and clear f'me."

"mh- yes! alright! hah~" you groaned, frustrated with yourself that you gave into him, that he had this kind of hold on you... that it felt sooo fucking good when his veiny cock was stretching your tight pussy out...

"yes what? baby?" he sinks himself into you, inch by painstaking inch, stretching you open again.

"ahg- yes, I touch myself -hngh- thinkin' 'bout you..." your whining was music to his ears, hearing those words fall through your saliva covered lips, only making him grow harder inside you. smack! if only you could see how fucking hot you were as you looked back at him while he thrusted into your aching cunt.

"atta girl~" he grunted, with sloppy thrusts, hands bruising your hips with the hot grip he had on them. you reached a hand back trying to pry them off, but he grabbed your wrist, holding it hostage, using it to plow deeper into you. "don' try t' get my hands off." smack! "been watchin' y' through that fuckin' glass -ugh- fer too fuckin' long fer me t' not leave a few marks."

"shift exchange." . . . fuck. . .

"oh this is gonna be fuckin' sweet." he drawled, dragging you over to the same glass wall that separated you from him, "how long d'ya think we got 'til someone comes in?" he teased, grabbing handfuls of your tits as he rammed you into the glass.

"m-'bout, 5 -hngh- minutes?" you moaned, "l-less?- ahh~" rubbing at your wet sensitive clit.

"want me to stop?" he purred, sucking on the soft of your neck, pinching your perky nipples, "y'could come back t'mo-"

"no!" you gasped, repeatedly shaking your head, desperation taking you over, "please... i-i'm close..."

"didn't take ya fer such a freak sweetcheeks," he mused, using your neck to pull you back, for him to lock his lips with yours, his tongue shoving past yours to explore every crevice of your mouth, and by fuck, you're sweet as hell... you were driving him more insane than he already was.

he didn't care if anyone came in and saw him fucking your brains out and apparently, neither did you... kinda... all he cared for, was making you cum, whining and crying on his throbbing dick. "if ya' beg nice enough maybe i'll let ya'."

"huh?" you groaned, hasn't he embarrassed you enough already? no. "i'm not gonna-"

"'pretty pretty pretty please', 's all y' gotta say princess," he whispered, slowing his thrusts. "n' I'll make sure you cum all over my cock."

you groaned, trying to shove yourself back into him, and he chuckled at your attempt, firmly holding you in place, "mmh- p-pretty, pretty, pretty please?" a single tear fell down your cheek. "please make me cum!" he lapped at your cheek savoring the salty taste of the tears that followed the first.

"good girl~" he cooed, picking up his pace once more, drinking in each moan he fucked out of you, throwing in some of his own grunts and growls. he snaked his hand down your body, to rub and pinch at your swollen pleasure button, bringing you closer to climax.

" 'm c-cumming! ffuck!~" you clenched around him, feeling each ridge and vein of his pulsing hot dick and your legs gave out from under you as he rode you through your high. the only thing keeping you from falling to the cold floor was his toned body pressing yours into the glass, with your tits squished between his pair of musclebound arms. his head dropped to rest in the crook of your neck, as he heaved a series of pleasure filled curses.

"on your feet," he rasped, finally pulling away and out of you, making you whine a little with how abrupt he was, "ya' needa put yer uniform back on," he grinned, picking it up off the floor to throw it at you. " 'm keepin' these." his hands held up the little fabric of your underwear as he shoved them into his jumpsuit.

"huh? i need those!" you complained, reaching to get them back only for him to pull you into another tongue hungry kiss, leaving a string of saliva when he pulled away.

he licked the plump surface of your now pink lips, "i need 'em more, sweetcheeks." and he left one last smack on your sore ass before you got dressed and your shift ended... ꨄ

didn't know how to end it... :/ mlist

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Yandere young Justice x villain reader

The night was alive with tension, shadows dancing in the flickering glow of streetlights, as Young Justice faced you once more. You were the storm they could never predict, the haunting melody that lingered long after the music stopped. Their nemesis since the team’s inception, you had become something far more dangerous—a fixation, a flaw in the armor of their resolve.

“Give it up,” Robin growled, his staff twirling with precision. He stood at the center of the team, their ever-stoic leader, though his sharp eyes betrayed a storm brewing beneath the surface. “We end this tonight.”

Your laugh spilled into the air like silk, smooth and dangerous. “End it?” you echoed, stepping forward with a lazy grace. “My dear, we’ve barely begun.”

Every word dripped with a taunting charm, a velvet dagger aimed straight at their hearts. Robin’s jaw tightened, his composure threatening to crack. You weren’t just an enemy. You were his enemy—the one he couldn’t quite unravel, couldn’t quite forget.

Superboy lunged, his movements raw and forceful, like a hurricane desperate to prove its strength. “Stop talking,” he snapped, his fists swinging with earth-shattering power.

But you sidestepped him with a predator’s ease, your fingertips grazing his arm as you passed. “Oh, Kon,” you purred, your voice as sweet as it was venomous. “So quick to anger. What’s the matter? Afraid of how much you want me to keep talking?”

The growl that tore from his throat was animalistic, but it didn’t mask the flush creeping up his neck.

Above, Miss Martian hovered, her hands glowing with psychic energy, her voice soft and imploring. “You don’t have to do this,” she said, her words brushing against your mind like a fragile promise. “There’s still good in you. I can feel it.”

You turned your gaze upward, your eyes catching hers with a look that felt like a snare. “Feel it, do you?” you asked, your voice lilting like a melody that didn’t belong in the battlefield. “Or is that just wishful thinking, Megan? Tell me—” you stepped closer, your tone softening to a whisper that somehow felt louder than the chaos around you—“do you want to save me, or do you just want me?”

Her power faltered, her focus breaking as she stumbled back to the ground.

“You’re insufferable,” Artemis hissed, her bowstring taut as she loosed an arrow aimed directly at you.

You caught the movement out of the corner of your eye and dodged, the arrow slicing through the air where you had just been. “Ah, Artemis,” you said with a sly grin. “Always so sharp. But tell me, is it hatred I see in those eyes... or something else entirely?”

She fired another arrow in response, her hands trembling even as her aim stayed true.

Kid Flash zipped around you, a blur of speed and frustration. “Why don’t you ever shut up?” he asked, though his words lacked their usual bite.

You chuckled, spinning just in time to trip him with a precise kick. He tumbled to the ground, groaning as you crouched beside him. “Oh, Wally,” you murmured, your voice low and warm. “If I stopped, you’d miss me too much.”

He didn’t respond, his face red as he scrambled to his feet, but the way his gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat too long said enough.

“Enough!” Aqualad’s voice rang out, his water-bearers crackling with energy. He stepped forward, the anchor of their team, his every movement deliberate. “This ends now.”

You tilted your head, your smirk softening into something almost wistful. “You always think you’re in control, don’t you, Kaldur?” you said, your voice quieter now, almost tender. “But tell me—what do you do when the tides turn against you?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond, his silence betraying the weight of your words.

The battle raged on, but it was clear you weren’t just fighting them—you were unmaking them. Every word, every taunt, was a thread pulled loose from the fabric of their unity.

“You’re all so predictable,” you said as you danced through their attacks, your movements like liquid poetry. “So desperate to catch me. But tell me—” you paused, your gaze sweeping over them, a glint of mischief in your eyes—“do you want justice? Or do you just want me?”

The silence that followed was deafening, your words cutting deeper than any blade.

Robin stepped forward, his shoulders tense, his voice low and dangerous. “We’re going to stop you,” he said, though his words sounded more like a promise to himself than to you.

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you, your voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. “Oh, little bird,” you murmured, your smirk curling into something sharper. “You’ve already lost. The moment you let me in, you lost.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the world around you blurring into nothingness. Then, with a final glance at the team, you stepped back into the shadows, your voice carrying through the stillness like a haunting melody.

“Until next time, my darlings. Don’t miss me too much.”

And just like that, you were gone.

The team stood in the aftermath, battered and breathless, their thoughts filled not with the fight but with you. You were their nemesis, their obsession, the fault line that fractured them.

And in the silence that followed, they all thought the same thing:

They hated you.

They wanted you.

And they would destroy anyone who tried to take you from them.

(A/n: hey send request 😿)

[deadsetobsessions]

Can try a fic on: Dick adopting danny? Danny runs away from amity park his parents found out he is phantom and jazz told him to run.

Ooh! I can't do a full blown fic (I barely have the motivation to finish the ones I’ve started) but I can give you a one-shot?

---

Jasmine Fenton has always been a responsible young woman. That's what happens when your mildly neglectful and emotionally oblivious parents parentified you at a young age. Them’s the breaks. Anyways, Jasmine "Jazz" Fenton had raised her baby brother from, well, a baby to the scrawny teenager he is now and is therefore in the right to call herself his parent, even if it was a weight she wished her parents were adult enough to carry. Thus, it was a protective fury like no other that threaded through her vision when Jazz saw a terrified Danny hunched over himself in a way she'd not seen for a long time.

"Danny? Is everything okay?" Jazz quickly stepped inside of her room, taking in the amount of Boo-merangs laying broken and discarded on her floor. She locked the door. This was a locked door conversation, clearly.

"They found out." Danny curled up even more. His words were muffled into the tattered denim of his jeans. Jazz's body went cold as the stark red and green splotches made themselves apparent to her eyes. "They're hunting me."

Breathe. Danny needs you. Break down later. When he’s not around to watch you shatter at how his voice broke.

"Are you injured?" Danny nods meekly. It broke her heart to see him so removed from his usual and mildly ironic lively self.

She patched him up, keeping the red at the edge of her sight at bay when she catches sight of the blaster burns and the cuts.

"Good?" Danny nodded silently back. "Okay. Here's what you're gonna do."

Jazz strode over to her closet and dug out the gotta-dip bag. "Emergency escape bag. Sam saved up enough money to put a down payment and then some on an apartment in Bludhaven through cash, so you're gonna go there."

“What? Jazz, I’m not leaving you here-!”

“Danny, if you die- shut up, you know what I mean- permanently, you’ll be leaving me forever. And that’s not happening.”

Danny winced. Jazz used Pissed Off Mom Voice and it was super effective! Danny loses 50 points of bullheadedness.

“Yeah, okay.” He said weakly, in part because of the lost argument and because he also had ten different blaster scorches.

A loud thump. The siblings jolted, eyes widening in fear. Jazz’s face quickly morphed into the singular determination of getting her parents the fuck away from her baby brother.

“Go. I got this.”

Danny swallowed before grabbing Jazz in one final, desperate hug.

“PHANTOM! I KNOW YOU’RE THERE. GIVE ME MY BABY BOY BACK!”

“Mom!” Jazz shouted back, letting go of Danny and ushering him out of the window. “MOM! PHANTOM JUST FLEW TOWARDS THE TOWN CENTER!!”

“THANKS, JAZZY-PANTS!”

Once the explosive sounds of the GAV rocketed away, and Danny had disappeared into the waiting arms of Amity Park’s mystical forests, did Jasmine Fenton allow herself to sink to the ground and scream.

——

Blüdhaven wasn’t so bad. Sure, Danny’s injured to the hells and back but with the ambient ectoplasm Blud's got powering him, he's not even winded while walking home. His apartment was a bit ratty, but so was the rest of the city. At least his food’s not attacking him, and Danny learned that he’s not a bad cook. The city rats don’t even try to rob him anymore!

Really, it’s not too bad.

[Danny tried optimism. It failed critically.]

“Isn’t it too late for you to be out alone, kiddo?”

Danny whirled around, heart going straight up into the stratosphere. Which, for the halfa, was about 75 beats per minute.

“Who are you?!” Danny slid backwards, hunching in on himself to protect the injured parts of himself. He had gotten injured as Phantom, so his living form was mostly fine. It’s just being living as a scrawny 15 year old in Blüdhaven meant he had to dodge pickpockets, looters, and murderers more often than the locals did. And now, he faced his greatest evasion challenge yet, some weirdo in a sparkly blue Elvis costume. “Elvis-con was three months ago!”

The vigilante’s face, for lack of a better descriptor, smushed into a look of either great consternation or intense focus. Danny swore to himself that he wasn’t about to get offed by Bling Bling the third today. He wasn’t going down like that! Not to a the second coming of a disco ball! Sam would never let it die. Unlike how he will, if he doesn’t focus.

“I’m not impersonating Elvis!” Blue weirdo muttered.

“Of course not, you don’t have the hair.” Danny agreed, shifting back. Keep the costumed weirdo happy and Danny might get out of here safe and sound.

“Excuse you, my hair is the best-! You know what, I’m not doing this right now. I’m a whole adult.” Blue weirdo took an exaggerated breath before introducing himself, like he should have done before approaching Danny like a vaguely threatening circus performer. Danny hates the circus. “I’m the vigilante, Nightwing? You must be new to Blüdhaven.”

“How would I know if you’re a vigilante and not a villain?” Because the child dressed in brightly colored clothes and covered in blood following behind him does not inspire confidence or safety in Danny.

“Would a villain do this?!” ‘Nightwing’ flipped midair and did jazz hands. Danny crossed his arms, the movement adding much needed pressure against the ache in his chest. He levels Nightwing with an unimpressed stare.

“Yes.” Vlad did plenty of those things while trying to either adopt or murder Danny. The vigilante wilts, the ghost tearing up. and Danny tries hard not to feel guilty. He fails. Danny’s failing at things a lot lately. “I guess you get points for not trying to kidnap me, yet.”

“Really?” Nightwing grins, blinding and reflecting off of his pretty sparkly blue suit. That’s one hell of an outfit. Danny had to respect the dedication. “That’s great! So, what are you doing out here alone? Blüdhaven’s got a curfew— more like a suggestion, really, but most people follow it— and if you’re out too late, people will try to rob you!”

Personally, Danny felt like that shouldn’t have been said with a kind smile. There was something off about this guy and Danny was proven right in a few scant moments later, when a robber tries to hold Danny at gun point.

Nightwing all but flies into action, beating the absolute dogshit out of the guy. His ecrisma sticks fire up with a voltage level that raised the hairs on Danny’s neck. Was that safe for the living? Danny inched further away. “Right. You clearly have some issues to clear out on your own. I’ll… leave you to that.”

“Well, I’ll get you home safe, first.” Again, someone who sounded that nice should not be as intimidating as he is. Danny threw up his hands, hiding the wince that drew from him, and allowed the vigilante to escort him home. Even if Nightwing knows where he lives, Danny doubted he’d be able to do anything, even if the electric sticks make Danny wary.

“You live here?”

The ghost child face palms, muttering stuff about “Wing, holy shit where the fuck are your manners?!”

Honestly, Danny was feeling kind of upset too.

“Well, damn, you don’t have to be so judgmental about it. I’m trying my best, holy shit.”

——

Dick is trying his best to not lose his shit. The sparkles in his costume help him with that, reminding him there’s brightness in a world he wants to break with his bare hands. Brightness, like the kid in front of him. Danny.

The wounds were so fresh, Jason’s haunting hallucination following him so closely, that Dick had thought he was seeing another hallucination when he spied Danny from the rooftops. He was half sure he was imagining the conversation, staring at a stranger that reminded him so strongly of Jason. Clear blue eyes, black hair, and a weariness that a child shouldn’t ever have. The mugger made it clear it wasn’t fake, though, and Dick lost it.

Jason’s image overlayed with Danny’s and Dick’s big brother instinct kicked in. They kicked in, right in the mugger’s face, that is.

Great. Danny thinks he has issues. He does, of course, but… to see him wary made Dick’s heart break a little. Still…

“You live here?!” Dick shoved his foot into his mouth, shocked that Danny lived so close by, and immediately cringed at his own tone. His Jason hallucination facepalmed, telling him Alfred would kick his ass for being so thoughtless. The dirty look Danny shot him kicked his ass plenty, Dick thought, grimacing.

“Well, damn, you don’t have to be so judgmental about it. I’m trying my best, holy shit.”

“Sorry, that came out wrong.” He apologized. New plan. He was going to pull a— he grimaced again— Bruce. He was going to adopt Danny. He’ll work through the guilt later, Dick lived here and he knew how much of a shithole it was. To leave Danny alone, defenseless? Blasphemy.

Danny inched away again and Dick wilted. Why can’t he do anything right?

[monkebearness]

A Cold Summer Fling

Lynn (tripleS) x Male Reader

Tags: smut, angst, (light) fluff, heartbreak, first love, fling

Word count: 9.5k

a/n: this one is more on the angst side, so it may or may not be for you. regardless, if you do wanna give it a try, I hope you like it.

Neither of them knew how he’d reached this point. They did, but the ‘why’ still keeps on running in his mind while Junghoon has his arms wrapped around Lynn’s waist as they lie down on the couch, staring in front of the television playing a music show in the past half an hour. Idols dancing has never been his most favorite content to watch in general, but he has always admired their singing, hard work, and overall talent.

Nuzzling her head on his chest, the woman turns to his direction. “Oppa.”

He looks down—seeing her face him—with an earnest and clueless smile. “Hmm?”

“I know I've mentioned it a few times before, but we have a performance coming up at the Summer Festival. If, uhh, you have the time—”

He hesitates for a second. “Of course! I’m sure that I have time to watch. Maybe I'll finally get to see what you and your crew have been cooking up for months.”

“Hmmm… I don't think it's too different from what you're seeing,” she teases him, her fingers delicately trailing from his chin down to chest. “Well, except for one thing.”

“What's that?” He entertains her suggestive cadence with his soft and suave delivery, his fingers trailing across her smooth shoulders to match the mood she’s setting up.

Her smile turns into a smirk, leaning closer. “Only you can touch me,” she whispers.

With a wide smile, the woman closes her eyes and lovingly leans her lips into Junghoon, which he welcomes as she turns the rest of her body around to face him, deepening the kiss while he tightens his arms around her, with his fingers trailing down her curves.

“I want it now, oppa,” she gasps in-between their kiss, holding his chin. “Please…”

“Of course,” he grunts as he continues taking over her mouth with his dominant tongue. 

With Lynn’s fingers ticking his crotch, excitement drives him to use one hand to slide off his joggers, unveiling his hog right before Lynn's eyes, further amplifying her excitement towards him in an instant. She quickly takes her skirt and panties off and gets up to sit on his lap. Their timing couldn’t have been better—sensing his cock erecting in almost an instant at the same time she takes off her top, revealing her plump breasts without a bra to hold them. With his salivating mouth, he prowls straight to her mounds, inciting a prolonged yelp that she can't contain. “Nggggghhh, so good… Fuck! Opp—augghhh...”

“Jamkkanman.” He parts from her breast, holding her hand. “I’ll just get a condom—”

“No need,” the woman piles her hand over his, her smile glowing with lust. “I'm safe tonight, oppa…” She leans closer to his cheek, giving it a cool lick before whispering. “Just do it.” next to his ear.

Within seconds, he aligns his member into her entrance without hesitation and struggle. Sliding in her tight hole. With his rod now inside throbbing her tight walls, a determined Junghoon holds onto Lynn’s hips and begins thrusting in and out of her. In seconds, his movements find Lynn's sweet spots, as he usually does. Hearing his sweet whispers, the woman can only respond to him through her growing moans, matching the movement of his robust rams with her smooth grinds. Until now, this act hasn't gotten any older, even though it’s what they’ve been doing almost every time they hang out here.

The woman’s nails dig through his skin, her grinds on his member intensifies with each second until her tits begin to bounce. “You're so… fucking goooo—auugghhhppa!” With such a spectacle in sight, Junghoon falls into the temptation of taking a second dip with his mouth, feeling the vibrations while sucking. “Su…ssugoi!” she howls out of the blue.

“W–what… is it?” he mutters, himself still powering through their strenuous movement while feeling the contrast of pleasure of his balls deep inside her at the same time. The woman can only giggle playfully—as if she’s lost all her sanity while being impaled.

The ticking of the clock and their skins sync to their ears. The woman looks up, gasping for air as her eyes roll back to the side. “I’m… I’m close!” she groans from the top of her lungs, closing her eyes and bracing herself for her own juices to slowly spurt out. At the same time, her thirst slowly forces her tongue to stick out, her jaw opening like a shark.

“Me too,” the man huffs, tightening his embrace around his partner while his mouth continues to nibble and suck on her neck, triggering a note that prolongs her moans while they maintain their movement with every powerful thrust against each other. Finding her own primal noises as harmonious to his lust-driven senses, Junghoon cannot help but relish by rewarding Lynn a sloppy kiss as their movements begin slowing down with their stamina.

With three more thrusts, Junghoon stops and shoots his load into Lynn’s womb while the latter squeals with jubilation with her back arched, unable to contain herself from basking in the wave of pleasure which is now transmitting across her quivering body.

They stay in place on the sofa, only left with a smile of satisfaction on their faces. Lynn lays her head on his shoulder, giggling, while Junghoon steals a kiss on her cheek. As they catch their breaths beside each other, the wall clock strikes nine in the evening.

After wearing her top once again, Lynn puts her panties back on as she gets up from the sofa and heads to the kitchen. “I’ll just have a glass of water. You want a glass too?”

“I’m good.” From his seat, Junghoon looks back at her. “But thanks, Lynn-ah.”

He reminisces about how he’s gotten to this point, with this wonderful woman beside him. He has promised to sleep over her place for the night, though he was hesitant to decline her offer at first. Needless to say, he’s quite glad that he didn't turn her down.

They’ve been seeing each other for three months, not long after Junghoon returned to the university campus after a year, although he wasn’t the only one who has made this decision in mind. He simply took advantage of the situation, and now, he’s reaped the fruits of his labor. For better or worse.

His eyes glance at the calendar on the wall, it’s already May. His graduation is coming up in less than a month. Slowly, his smile fades as his mind goes blank, but it will turn out to be a calm right before the thunderstorm of his misgivings has come flooding in.

= = =

Four months earlier, the campus of Seoul State University reopens after winter break. Tons of snow have accumulated on all of the building rooftops, yet that doesn’t stop students from reuniting with their buddies in this first week of classes of this new semester, especially the ones they haven't seen even before the long, cold break.

“You two have grown up so much!” Kotone coos each of her two friends with a quite melodramatic, motherly pitch. She pinches Honggi’s shoulder, before moving on to pinch Junghoon’s left cheek. “Aww… There’s not much I can pinch there anymore.”

Their hairs have grown inches since they first enlisted, still a few inches halfway to their usual look. Their overall body shape appears more ‘toned,’ as their posture is straighter.

“Yeah, yeah,” Junghoon politely pushed her touchy hands, although the sight of his friends warms his heart. “But, I gotta say, I am glad that we’re back with you guys.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Honggi places his palm on his shoulder. “But we’re mostly gonna be on our own for this year, bud. But again, I’m glad we still have each other.”

“Yeah, but I think it’ll be fine. I don’t think being a senior should be any different.” Kotone and Myungsoo can only smile at their close friend’s wholesome optimism.

“Except for our thesis,” Honggi adds as he forms a smirk, which weirds out Kotone and Myungsoo with their raised eyebrows and tilted heads. Who even smiles at the mention of the word thesis? As Honggi nudges Junghoon’s shoulder, he only rolls his eyes with a chuckle, knowing exactly what his friend is insinuating. “Isn’t that right, Jung-ah?”

��Yah, yah… Is it what I think it is? Just because we’re all friends, you better not dare freeload our maknae!” Kotone exclaims, raising her fist right at Honggi. “Both your grades and graduation will be at stake here if you ever mess up his concentration.”

“As if I’ve ever!” He raises his hands in the air. “We rarely get paired up because most of our classes were different, but whenever we were partners, I was the only one who stood up to him. I have only met up and worked with him, whenever he wasn’t busy working!”

“That’s fair, but then again, you’re not Sohyun-sunbae,” Kotone shoots back.

“I’m pretty sure she was the freeloader to Junghoon, remember?” Honggi counters her.

“Come on, guys! Enough arguing,” Junghoon burns their fuse with his voice, something that he rarely raises. At least not when he really has to. “It’s already past noon and it's still freezing here… Plus, I’m kinda starving. Aren’t y’all?”

“Finally, someone’s thinking straight!” Myungsoo backs him up, lightly holding onto his shoulder. “You heard the soldier. Today, we’ll have the almost-veterans take their pick.”

That day, seeing his closest friends was the start of his routine going back to normal.

“Oppa!” He hears the cheery greetings from two familiar voices he hasn’t heard in the last several months since they visited him at their training center with all his buddies.

Gong Yubin and Jeong Hyerin would catch on to his return later that afternoon. They may no longer have a little club to meet up, but they didn’t want to miss out on their sunbae and old friend returning. “Omo! It’s been long, you two. How’ve you been?”

“Still kicking through a couple of semesters now… And somehow, Mad Money has yet to reunite!” Yubin confesses, running her hands through her hair. “The rest of us anyway.”

“Well… I’m sure the spirit of the club still lives on with you girls,” Junghoon hopes, even though he understands what she meant. The more their unnies and fellow members had left or graduated, the rest could no longer keep up with the passage of time and stacks of priorities weighing them. “From what I heard, you’d still meet even without the club.”

“We have.” A warm smile leaves Hyerin’s face, just before a sigh of  weariness follows. “By next week, Kae-chan and I are gonna practice all night for some event our leaders aren’t even telling us about yet. Yubin-unnie here is probably gonna be sent off by her parents to culinary school in the summer.”

“Wow…” They’ve come this far. Deep down, he feels a sense of pride for them. “I don’t know what else to say, other than I know that you’ll do well.”

“And you, oppa?” Yubin chimes in with curiosity. “Were things well at the center?”

“I mean… I did pretty okay?” He answers with half the confidence, shrugging at her. “All things considered.”

“We’re just glad that you’re back,” Yubin admits, playfully squishing his shoulder. “Even if you still have the rest of your semester.” She counts with her fingers, starting with her pinky. “To finish your training, your internship, and your thesis.”

“I'm sure it's doable. It just takes a little planning and a lot more effort,” Junghoon humbly retorts. “After all, I've learned from the best club.”

Yubin only exhales a smile, shaking her head as a few blissful memories of their old crew flashes back to her.

“We know, but whenever you’re having a problem, you better ask for our help!” Hyerin slowly points her finger at Junghoon as if she’s giving him a threat, which scares him a little. “The club may be done, but we wanna repay you somehow for being there for us, with our unnies.”

“Gomawo…” Looking back, he believes more that, without the Mad Money Club, and the considerate people in it, he would not even be here, and he’ll always wear that mentality.

“By the way, your cousin has been a handful, you know that?” Hyerin adds, inciting a nod and chortle from Yubin while she crosses her arms.

“Yah… You’re the ones who volunteered—begged me even—to take her the moment she got here,” he defends himself, keeping his cadence relaxed while holding in a somewhat smug smile. “Even though Tone-yah was the first one who offered to give her a tour.”

“Oh, she still joined unnie’s club since they’re still hanging around,” Yubin corrects him. “And we’re pretty sure it was Yooyeon-unnie who really got to her without doing much.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “I guess she gets to have the best of both worlds.”

But joyous reunions aside, he knows that not everything is the same. And it won’t be. Still, even with this truth, he moves on with his life in many ways he can. Sentiments about the past will not help him get through it. If he has to do it alone, he’ll have to.

Back to being a senior, awaiting his graduation in the following year. Despite him having stepped down from the student council, he was able to win over his old batchmates since they knew his capabilities as an aide. By the end of the month after his return, Junghoon managed to land a gig at their University Library, agreeing to shift for two to three times a week due to his ongoing service. Afternoon and night shifts, to be precise. It pays a little, but it's enough for him to compensate for his old part-time gigs. He’s even surprised that it pays at all.

From six to ten, the library gives him a haven to study and spend more time outside his dorm so he can work on his academics in their counter without much of a disturbance.

“Annyeonghaseyo, sunbaenim. I'd like to borrow these books.”

For the most part. Though, it's not this process that bothers him, since it's his job after all. Rather, it's this familiar person right in front of him.

“Soomin-ah… What are you doing here? It’s late.”

Thankfully, his patience is better than most folks.

“Come on. I’m exercising my rights as a recent college sophomore, oppa!”

“Do that elsewhere then. Namely, your dorm.”

She pouts at him, placing her knuckles on her waist, like a whiny kid. “Hmm… That’s not a nice way to treat your little cousin.”

“Your brother does that too,” he shoots back. Of course, he can’t be angry at family.

“Hmph. That’s the problem.” She crosses her arms. “You're not Hyungmin-oppa. You’re you, which I need... And I’m here to support you on your late shifts! You didn’t complain whenever we came to visit you at your training center.”

She's done it. Talking her out of going home is no longer an option. She’s not in middle or high school anymore. “Well, you’ve proved your point. But… you can start ‘showing your support’ by keeping your voice down first, arasseo?”

“Hwaiting!” She keeps her voice down, but not without making herself sound sardonic. A few minutes later, Soomin would venture to another area in the building. The lounge where she can still bring herself out of her boredom with her laptop and a few manhwa books. Meanwhile, Junghoon is given a new task from his superior.

“Junghoon-ssi… Do you mind returning the books to the shelves? I know we still have an hour left, but it’d be better if you only got a few things to do before you wrap up.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he complies in an instant, walking to the book cart with alertness. “I'll get to it now.”

It took him about ten minutes to return all fifty books to seven sections, but as soon as he finishes his task, his eyes catch something else that's lost. Walking inside the Korean Literature Section, he sees an I.D. has been left lying on the floor. Approaching the item forward, he picks it up, finding the face of a woman. By the looks of her identification number, she’s more likely a junior. Kawakami Lynn, from the Department of Dance. Feeling that privacy has just been violated, he quickly looks away, only for his gaze to land back at the counter, seeing three women talking to the main librarian.

The first two women are about the same height, though the one that stands out with her strangely high pitched voice, while the other’s hair is dyed brown. But finding familiarity with the third woman unleashes a surge of relief over him. Thank God she hasn’t left the building. She faces him just as he walks to her. Astonishment towards her height arises. Seeing the woman a few meters apart, she appears to be about two centimeters shorter than him, but still tall nevertheless, he almost forgets how to initiate the conversation until the woman’s friends shift their gaze towards him, giving more pressure to him.

He gives a few light taps on her shoulder. “Ma’am..? Jamkkanmanyo…”

In front of his presence, her gaze remains just as stunned as he was. “Ne?”

He raises his hand. “May I ask if this is yours?”

“Ne!” she almost raised her voice in surprise. “That is mine. Omo! Kamsahamnida!”

But she's not done. “May I ask what your name is?”

He offers his right hand to her. “My name’s Geum Junghoon. I'm a senior.”

But something tells him his own gesture might be too much. His own hesitation.

“I know you already saw it from my I.D., but…” She catches his hand quickly before he can pull it back. “I’m Kawakami Lynn. I am a junior.”

Her rush of explanation makes him chuckle. “I have, but it’s nice to meet you, Lynn.”

Whether or not her memory was shrouded in her own romantic butterflies swarming her mind and body, Lynn definitely remembers feeling a spark of electricity the longer their hands touch and slowly shake. Scanning Junghoon’s appearance from head to toe, she notices his I.D., instinctively comparing both faces in front of her eyes. His nose. His lips. His physique. Her common sense knows they're the same person, yet she can’t help but give him a second look, in awe with the finding. Junghoon awaits her response with a simper. On her left, Lynn’s brown-haired friend nudges her on the shoulder. “Psssst!” while the black-haired one giggles, shaking her head with her eyes closed.

“Mianhae! It’s, uhhhh, nice meeting you too, Junghoon-sunbae…” Her smile widens the more her butterflies start to fill her stomach. Still beside her, Lynn’s friends can only shake their heads while holding their grins and chuckles. “And these two are my friends, Hayeon and Sion,” she continues, hoping it will conceal her sudden fit of panic.

Did she just check me out? is the immediate question that pops up, since meeting her that night, but her presence has already enticed him just as well. Her smile. Her eyes. Her height, still. But he reciprocates her formalities, bowing to both her friends while such intrigue about her still lingers on. “It’s nice meeting all of you. I’ll just be here.”

Even before they leave the counter, Lynn steals a glance at her sunbae from a distance. Whether it's through his peripherals, senses, or both, Junghoon also feels her gaze from afar, but the moment his hands look back, he finds her rushing to her friends as they all exit the room. A snortle exhales through his nose, shaking his head in disbelief while he returns the book cart next to the counter desk.

= = =

Weeks have passed. Junghoon thought it was a silly encounter he and his friends would look back on and have a laugh at or wonder about what ifs. He couldn’t be more wrong, considering how the same woman would often cross paths with him since that night.

Several meetups on campus might not be the fanciest dates they’ve had in mind (even though they weren’t dating), but they made the most of their time. Aside from his bud Honggi with their thesis revisions, Junghoon didn’t have anyone else visit him in the library except for Lynn, which he didn’t mind that much. Discomfort is far from the word he would describe her presence. It was more or less fascinating. She’d ask for books whenever she can’t find something. He would comply in almost an instant.

“Have some, sunbae,” she hands him a cold bottle of caffeinated green tea.

In fact, he appreciated it, even before he realized what her moves were suggesting. He is that slow, but he managed to catch it, for her own sake.

“Oh…” He takes the bottle with some hesitation, but his own thirst has compelled him to crack it open with a sense of urgency. “Kamsahaeyo, Lynn-ah.”

Having someone as company wasn’t new to him. But it was refreshing, to put it simply. Not just because she’s a new face, but it is because she stayed with him during his late night shifts when anyone else in his life was occupied with their own personal affairs.

“If you’re gonna be here every night, you don’t have to keep calling me sunbae.”

She places her finger on her chin as she ponders. “Soooooooo… Junghoon-oppa, then?”

His sip hits the wrong pipe, causing him to let out a few coughs. Lynn rushes to her bag, unzipping the lowermost compartment to get a pack of wipes.

“Gomawo,” Junghoon takes them from her hand, quickly wiping the juice off his lips.

“Mianhaeyo, sunbaenim,” she can't help but slightly bow her head out of guilt.

“Gwenchana, gwenchana, Lynn,” he waves his hand. “It’s not your fault, it’s just…”

She keeps her hands clasped. “It’s because I like you, Geum-sunbaenim…”

And there she goes. The man’s been silenced by her words, mentally and verbally.

Her heartbeat grows even louder, having confessed those words to him. Junghoon’s heart is not that different—his palms slowly sweating around the already damp bottle. Lynn’s eyes suddenly become more captivating. Her lips appear redder. He knows well that her body isn't his business, but his eyes are already trapped by how striking, even a bit more revealing than before, her dress is; not to mention her stronger and enchanting spring-themed perfume. The woman’s confidence has captured him, and he’s more than willing to surrender to it. “I, umm, I like you too, Lynn…” Slowly, his lips curve upwards.

= = =

April and May became their courtship period, if that's still even a thing that people call.

For a start, proper dates have started to become a weekly thing for them after classes or outside their part-times. The first one was like most first dates. Awkward at first, but it ended smoothly. What made it more special was the fact it was on Lynn’s birthday. The second was a bit rough, not because of either one’s faults, but it’s more on their personal priorities clashing with their plans. It ended with their first kiss, so that compensated for it. The third date was better, even though they've only met up on campus that night.

Within those two months, the two learned a few more things about each other. Their mannerisms, habits, favorites. Junghoon would open the door for her whenever they entered the same building; Lynn would often buy him drinks or snacks whenever he’s working late. Still they always preferred meeting at affordable diners outside campus.

Now on their fourth date, they're no strangers to surprising each other with flirtations while facing each other on their table—but everything diverges the moment Lynn asks him the question: “Do you wanna head into my place?”

Junghoon’s eyes can only grow at the same time as he feels his parched throat.

As far as most of the dorm rooms he’s visited, Lynn’s place is pretty tidy, definitely more organized than most of his friends, Kotone included, though she lives with her family, so hers doesn’t count. Besides them, he hasn’t visited a tidier place since… The Mad Money Club. He brushes them off, reverting his attention back to his date while she’s watching the television… And stealing a few glances at him beside her… Just waiting and hoping for something, anything, while they’re on the sofa in the last seventeen minutes.

Lynn’s look has always enthralled him. Even if he couldn’t read her mind, something in Junghoon’s body pushes him to make the first move—leaning closer into her lips in the silence. With the remote control still in her hand, she extends her left hand without looking and presses the off button before tossing it on the floor, as her focus now shifts on his lips by placing both hands on each of his cheeks. Only following the desires of their bodies, Lynn’s lustful curiosity compels her tongue to stick out and touch his lips. Immediately sensing the sticky and slithery yet irresistible sensation from the woman’s mouth, Junghoon complies by widening his mouth, allowing his partner to initiate a dance between their tongues, having a taste of each other’s meals and drinks tonight.

With Lynn’s arms wrapping around his neck, their bodies lower down on the sofa, inadvertently pushing two pillows on the carpet below.

“Can I?” He asks first, even though the woman’s hands have already reached his crotch. Still, she nods at his question, allowing him to take the lead this moment. Taking off her shirt, he allows her to do the same to him. Junghoon leans to give her another kiss while his fingers trail up to his bra, unlocking them as they lock lips. Her breasts astound him, a reaction that even garners a giggle from Lynn herself. “Don’t just look…”

“Oh, majayo…” he stutters, forming an embarrassed smile. “Mianhae.”

He gives each mound a kiss, which tickles the woman with a titter. He stops to stand up from his seat, much to her confusion until she sees him unbuckle his belt and pull down his pants in front of her, also encouraging her to unzip her skirt while remaining seated, lifting up her legs in the air while taking her panties off.

With all their clothes on the floor, both parties are now in their bare forms, awaiting for one to take the other to the next step. Junghoon’s pubic hair is slightly trimmed, but his partner can't take her eyes off it nonetheless. Seeing something real up this close is just different from whatever she has watched through her phone screen, accidentally or not. Her cunt is also unshaven, but it doesn't faze him. Yet, a sudden thought is only making him hesitate—because of one unresolved question.

Before going in, he wants to make sure. He has to. “Is, uhh, this your first time?”

With a look of hesitation and embarrassment, Lynn only nods in silence a second time while turning her eyes from her partner, whose mouth slightly opens at her revelation.

“Gwenchana...” Deep down, he knows he has to say those words to her. “I’ll be gentle.” Hoping to provide more comfort and assurance, Junghoon slides his right hand across her shoulder, inciting a relaxing yet tingling sensation to Lynn as she braces herself with another nod, instinctively biting her lower lip, as Junghoon reaches to his pants lying on the floor. Pulling out one packet of condom—he can only thank his overthinking self that he even bought one from the convenience store on their way here. Lynn’s eyes are mixed with excitement and hesitation as she watches him wrap the latex around his erect shaft. He guides her on the edge of the sofa with his hand on her head, holding his other hand.

His cock has aligned with her entrance. “I’m putting it in, okay?” he reminds her gently. She nods for the third time, just as he slides inside her. “Auuuuggghhhh,” Lynn moans, unable to contain her mixed sensations of discomfort and arousal, her walls tightening around this foreign object as a quarter of it has entered her. It’s as tight as—No—don’t compare, he snaps into his thoughts, fixing his eyes only to this mesmerizing woman.

“I’ll start,” he reminds her again. “Just let me know if it hurts—”

“Just do it, please,” she whispers. He senses tension and desperation in her voice.

Junghoon nods and, with his hands gripped on the sofa’s arms, he makes his first thrust. “Nggggghhh,” Lynn’s teeth tightens its grip on her lower lip, mirroring the sensation of her cunt’s response to the movement of his shaft, feeling the motion around her walls. Her hands latch onto his waist before begging “Keep… going” with her soft cadence.

The longer he maintains his rhythm, the more he can feel her walls loosening. With this, her growing pleasure gradually diminishes the pain she initially felt upon his entry—her body finally giving into her libido. Now that Junghoon is reaching deeper with stronger and faster thrusts, he finds more of her sensitive spots, as if his tip was able to find and plucks invisible strings with every plunge, triggering moans from Lynn as their volume grows by the minute until pleasure overwhelms her senses. It’s a sensation she never expected she’d feel with someone. “Oppa… I–I can feel it. I'm c--close!” she howls.

The man triples his own speed, desperate to catch up with the woman’s nearing climax. Without much thought, he leans into her face, latching on his lips with hers in hopes of slowing her down until he begins to feel the buildup rising on his shaft. As his voice of reason strikes fear through his mind in the final thrust, he tightens his grip on the sofa arm—before pulling his cock out with a grunt, spilling his seed inside the condom. As he examines it, it's soaked with little blood. Thankfully the latex didn't break, he concludes with a sigh of relief. But, I’ve gotten a little rough than I should have. He takes a look at Lynn, as she huffs and puffs with her eyes half closed and a smile on her face. Seeing her cunt also leaking with fluid, Junghoon leans close to her forehead, giving it a smooch.

Both gasping for breath in the afterglow of their hard night work, having overcome their own lingering misgivings and hesitations and felt each other’s bodies for the first time.

Aside from her smile, Lynn's eyes appear to water, yet no tears are pouring. “H-how… How was I, oppa?” her smile remains uncontained.

“You were… amazing… Lynn,” Junghoon wheezes in disbelief. “I hope… I didn’t disappoint… You,” he continues, still voicing his concern for her. “Or hurt you.”

She places her hand on his left cheek, feeling each other’s warmth through her touch.

“You didn’t…” she chuckles. “Oppa, I'm glad… my first time… was with you.”

She moves her head upward, reaching his lips one more time, fueled with more passion, expressing her exhilaration, now that they have reached this point in their relationship. It may have been her first, but it’s the first of their many private adventures, exploring almost every corner of their bodies inside this safe space in the months that followed.

= = =

Two months later. The Seoul State Summer Festival has begun. It’s only been an hour since Lynn’s performance with the rest of her team had concluded, a special event that received a thunderous series of cheers and applause from the audience. And no thanks to his own training and errands outside campus, Junghoon barely managed to make it in time, but even up to this point, he still can’t get that sense of discontent off his skin, holding a red cup and standing inside a clubhouse living room, where dozens of other students have been celebrating in the past half an hour.

“You made it!” Lynn cheerfully runs to him with her wide smile.

“Thankfully, I did,” he chuckles. “But I almost missed your performance, Lynn… I didn't want that to happen.”

“It didn't, oppa…” she reassures him, reaching out to his hands. From her eyes, his face radiates uncertainty, perhaps discomfort, trying to be concealed by his usual easy going gestures. “But, I know what’ll make you feel better,” she softens and deepens her voice.

He raises his eyebrow, sensing the strands of his hair stand up at her tone. “What will?”

She leans to his ear, whispering “Follow me.” Without another word, the woman walks out of the almost crowded room, compelling Junghoon to start following her before he can lose track of Lynn amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces.

This afternoon has been a wild celebration for everyone present. As they walk outside the living room, he finds the pool filled with crazed and naked folks, some of whom are drunk under the sunlight. After a minute of following the leader, Junghoon tracks Lynn down inside a storage room.

She locks it in as soon as he enters, surprising him with a new look, albeit one he's already seen earlier. The rest of her clothes are hanging on the coat rack next to the shelf. “You like it, oppa?”

Under her attire, she’s wearing the same outfit from her performance. “I saw how wide your mouth was when I had my solo performance…” Junghoon tries to deny it, but his stutters have gotten in the way. “So I thought, why not give you a little surprise..?”

Without his restraints and through her kittenish move, he gives his answer by hungrily pouncing on her lips, mindlessly pinning her into the shelf of cleaning supplies behind her, immediately moving her to the wall on their right before they break something.

While their lips remain locked and their tongues tangled, Lynn gently pushes him to the other side of the room, pulling down his cargo pants from his garter in anticipation just as he also pulls down hers. At this point, it's open season with what they’ll do, with the only restraint that’s been holding themselves back being their own imaginations. Lynn makes her next move; the heat within the closed space compels her to take off her top.

“If it's alright with you,” Junghoon stops Lynn with his gentle hands, guiding them until their clothes are only halfway off her chest, accentuating them. “Keep ‘em… Like this.”

His move intrigues her, but she welcomes it nevertheless. She looks down on her own breasts, making her lips curve upwards. “Where do you get these kinds of ideas?”

“I’m not sure,” he confesses. “I just thought you'd look good in it. Try something new.”

As minutes have passed, Lynn keeps her hands gripped on both the edges of the shelf, while her lover gives her cunt a wild and somewhat rageful pounding. He takes turns putting her breasts into his salivating mouth, as he nibbles on both nipples while his hands make their way to her ass, doubling the volume of her moans. Alerted by her, Junghoon takes one hand to cover her mouth while continuing his deeper plunges. Eventually, he catches her mumbling through his hand. “What is it?” he whimpers, releasing his hand to fix her scruffy and now sweaty hair to the side of her left ear.

“I’m safe—today,” she murmurs before mustering enough breath to yell, “Please, do it!”

Holding her onto her tender cheek as firm as he can, he gives a final thrust and fires his load inside her womb. Lynn’s final orgasm-triggered holler stops as her voice creaks into silence and heaves with peace—exchanging each other’s breath without complaint. Their bodies remain in embrace, with his member still inside her. Lynn tightens her hold of her, with her arms wrapped around his back, feeling the warmth of their seeds leaking while their chests are compressed together.

Junghoon leans in to give her another long kiss, which neither of them hope would end, if only his phone didn’t start flickering and buzzing loudly inside his pants, on the floor. He pulls his shaft out of her carefully to reach the device, leaving his partner with a look of concern towards him.

Putting his right ear on the phone, Lynn can only watch and listen to his polite responses. “Ne, ne, I understand. I'll be there in five minutes… Joesonghamnida, gyosunim.”

As the call ends after half a minute, Junghoon faces her with a face that she has and can only read as one expression. “We’re supposed to have a consultation with our thesis advisor. Mianhae.” Disappointment emerges on both parts, albeit different ways of expressing it. “I promise that I'll make it up to you next time, okay?” he tells her while putting on his underwear and pants. “I'm really, really sorry, Lynn-ah.”

“It’s…” She wants him to stay. Just a couple more minutes. Introduce him to her friends. Have a late lunch, even by themselves. Hang out back at her place. “It’s okay, oppa. Just work on your final requirements. Hwaiting!” she cheers on him with a raised fist.

“Gomawo,” he tells her. After giving Lynn a quick peck to her lips, Junghoon walks out of the storage room, caring little about any passersby in the hallway, and rushes outside the venue. Thankfully, there aren't any, for Lynn’s sake while she dresses up.

Left inside the room, she stares right at the door, with her mind going blank. Her index and middle slowly touch her own lips, forming only one deduction. His lips don't feel as warm as they used to. On the other hand, her sense of optimism hopes that this will be the only time she’s felt him ‘like this,’ but hope… It can only get someone so far.

= = =

June. Only a month has passed since their most intimate time, yet things between them have become… Colder, to say the least, as it’s blistering through the summer heat. Their routines would continue, but not always together. Junghoon ended his library duties. They would only text each other. Lynn finds more time to hang out with her closest friends, at least more than she usually does in the past few months. And despite his physical absence, Junghoon kept lingering in her mind the longer they parted in person. As her patience runs thin, Lynn would ask around some of his friends whenever she crossed paths with them on campus.

“I haven’t seen him today, no. Not even last week,” Hyerin told her on Monday, moments after their practice. “Is everything alright with you two, unnie?”

“Unfortunately, no, Lynn-ssi. We’ve only been texting lately, ‘cause our schedules are too different.” On Tuesday, she asked Kim Myungsoo, whom she only knew was taking his masters degree. “Do you want me to call him up? I can tell him you—” She politely declined, realizing that she’s not the only one who he has been seeing a lot less lately.

“Oppa’s been very busy, unnie.” Soomin didn’t have much to tell her on Wednesday. “Even after his thesis with Honggi-oppa worked out, he kept working and working. My parents tried to talk him out of it, but I’m not sure if he even listened... Wait, did he not tell you?” Of course, she wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t have told her either. But Soomin is his family. She’s his cousin, her mind justifies.

On Thursday, she spotted Honggi outside the Tourism and Hotel Management Building. “He didn’t tell you? He’s been cooking for the training center for a month now. Most of his training ended in April, but he wanted a gig until graduation.”

On Friday, she stopped when Sion and Hayeon had asked to meet up at a campus café.

“I know I said that I liked you with him before, but I also said it to you before, unnie. With what's been going with you lately, I’ll say it. Junghoon-sunbae may not be that different from other men.”

She’s in a state of limbo, stuck with unresolved and unanswered questions about him.

“Hayeon-ah!” Sion slightly raises her voice at Hayeon, snapping Lynn back to their concerning conversation. “This isn't helping anyone.”

“It's okay, girls,” Lynn tries to de-escalate the tension between the two with her gentle tone. “He must have been working and training a lot...” She remembers all the things Junghoon’s friends have answered, yet doubt already takes over her mind.

“So have you,” Hayeon interjects, maintaining her firm tone. “You're a freaking dance major. You’ve been practicing for almost three years now, and yet—you still spent most of your time meeting up with him for three months, for some reason! Where's his effort to meet with you?”

“We’ve gone on a few dates this—”

“All you do is go on dates or ‘hang out’ elsewhere… But are you guys going anywhere?”

Not even Sion can keep raising her tone. She heard Hayeon loud and clear. “As much as Hayeon is too out of line… she still has a point. We just don't want you to get hurt.”

“Majayo, unnie,” Hayeon adds, lowering her voice out of respect as her eyes beg Lynn’s. “Think about yourself too, unnie.”

“I'm doing fine, Sion-ie… Hayeon-ah, we’re doing fine.” She keeps telling them, just as she keeps telling herself those three words.

Unbeknownst to the two, Lynn has seen a few glimpses of Junghoon having his own nightmares to deal with, but she was too hesitant to ask him about it. And he's not letting her in while his own phantoms and nightmares tear him up from the inside, making it more burdensome for her since her frantic mind can't help but speculate and speculate for days and weeks, while her friends can only watch her make up excused and voice out their worries for her during their hangouts or virtual conversations.

Ding. She finally receives a text, opening it within a second.

[Junghoon-oppa: Hey…]

[Can we talk?]

The woman swallows her throat, feeling mixes of relief, irritation, and nervousness.

Both the two senses her unease. “What's the matter?” Sion asks first.

“Is that him?” Hayeon asks, before taking another sip of her milk tea. Rolling her eyes, Lynn only types her response to him in silence. Sion slowly shakes her head at Hayeon, only glancing at their friend with concern while she takes a smaller bite of her croissant, unlike she usually does. As much as they’re compelled to help, they let this one play out.

[Lynn: Sure, oppa]

[Where do you wanna meet?]

= = =

Later that afternoon, they meet up at the restaurant. One they had their first ‘proper’ date in. There's no orders from either, only each a glass of water on their side of the table. Awkwardness and uncertainty spread across the air-conditioned atmosphere.

She takes a risk by shooting a certain question at him. “Have you been cheating on me?”

“No,” he answers. She looks deep into his dead eyes, he doesn’t seem fazed by her interrogation, even if they both know it came out of nowhere. “I wasn't.”

“Who is Hyerin-ssi to you?” she continues pushing through. “And that other woman?”

She herself has known Hyerin. But not as much as Hyerin knows Junghoon. As much as she knows Junghoon from Hyerin, or any other friends he’s had on campus. Since their second date, a lot of new things she’s heard and learned about him were from them.

“Yubin? They’re both my friends… Lynn, I've known them since I was a sophomore.”

Lynn is aware of that, considering Junghoon has told her since they first got acquainted. Nothing she’s learned about him seems to raise a red flag, because she’s witnessed those things about him, and it’s what’s been bothering her for a while—eating her from inside.

She knows this won't lead anywhere else, even if she keeps accusing him of things. Even if he is only opening up now and answering all her questions, it is not helping her regain her trust towards him. Towards herself. If they’ve only talked about these things earlier.

“Oh…” She freezes in silence, slowly realizing her own misstep. “But I don’t know if I can believe that. Believe you.” Yet her pride keeps her going. Going past her voices of reason.

“You don’t have to…” he shoots back, maintaining his lower tone. Her eyes slowly darted at him, trying to read his face. Through his soul, it’s as if she feels Junghoon’s loneliness. “And I know we haven't spent more time lately, but can we just talk—”

“Talk about what?” A hint of annoyance and bitterness mixes in with her tone, having had enough of his innocent voice, which kept on enticing her since the night they met.

“About this,” he sighs. “About whatever’s going on with us.”

Her eyes widened. Hearing those words It's inevitable, he realizes. “What about us?”

He clenches his hands under the table, mirroring the feeling of his own tightening heart. “What do you feel about us..? About me?”

She wants to tell him how much she has loved his company. His touch. His voice. His presence. “You've barely opened up to me.” She’s realized what his question insinuates. “I just, I don’t even know how to feel because you wouldn’t tell me what’s been worrying you whenever I see you worried… I don’t even know how you're feeling or what you have been up to lately.”

The moments they’ve had throughout the months, she’s explored every corner of his face and body. Yet as a person, she knows little of him, beyond some of his favorite things or his interests. Just this point—a realization strikes her. She doesn't know what they are. Everything in the last couple of months has felt mundane, overindulgent—incomplete.

“I know,” he mutters, still holding his stone cold front together with her. “I messed up.”

“Why are you agreeing to everything I'm saying?” almost raising her voice, clawing the wooden surface of the table. As her hands clench, her long nails leave their marks. The customers nearest to them can only peek a glance at them, but this pair can’t care less.

“Because you're right…” His voice almost cracks. “You didn't deserve any of this. You're a sweet and kind woman, Lynn-ah. And I took you for granted… I was being selfish. I’m at fault for not paying attention, for not finding and making more time to be with you as much as you have with me. For not being open with you enough.”

Silence follows their table for a moment. He has taken her words right out of her mouth, and she can only let him speak out with a disheartened spirit. He’s given up, she dreads.

“Look me in the eye… And tell me if this is still something that you wanna keep going.”

Through his eyes, she catches a glimpse of his soul. There’s nothing to read between the lines. Just hints of fatigue, loneliness, insecurity. There are no words for her to counter. Her beating heart yearns to say ‘yes’ till her mind stops her from doing so, encouraging her instead to consider his sincere words. For her to listen to her own reason.

“You know too,” he surmises in her absence of a response. “There's nothing to have from this. I don't want you to keep getting hurt and disappointed because of my excuses.”

“They weren't excuses,” she tries to defend him, quickly picking up the shrapnel of his crumbling façade, even if his continuous barrage of discouragement keeps on prickling and piercing her confidence from the inside. “They’re not even lies.”

“What do you call them then? False promises?” he sighs in discontent. “In the last few months, that’s all I could give you while you gave more than company and attention.”

Even if her mouth can’t say it to him, her heart doesn't regret any of it. ”So have you. Did you just throw away all those memories, all those moments we’ve had, from your mind?”

“I didn’t…” he looks down, still racked with guilt. “But will those things be all that we do? Will you be fine with that, Lynn? Will your friends even be okay with that?”

A burning sensation surges through her voice. “Why the hell would my friends care if—”

Lynn halts herself, realizing the error of her own words. Even Junghoon is in disbelief. The woman can only cover her face with both her palms—groaning at her own actions. Sion or Hayeon will let it slide if they hear her say it, but she won’t ever forgive herself. She knows that leaving her best friends for some guy she’s seeing is the last thing she’s doing. Even if it’s someone like Junghoon.

She lets out a chuckle. “We've been pretending like things are fine, aren’t we? At least, I am. And we still kept on going, dinners, sleepovers, sex, and all that... For a second, I’ve forgotten my friends, while we forgot how to act like a normal couple. I’m not even sure if we were one to begin with.”

Junghoon himself doesn't have an answer for her last sentiment. He can only hear his own heart beating faster.

“What am I to you, oppa?” she continues, her deepest, more hopeful yet desperate self craving words and phrases. Someone he wants to spend more time with. Someone he wants to fight for. Someone he wants to make up with. Someone he wants to love.

But he looks up to her, his eyes now radiating with guilt and sorrow. “I—I’m not sure…”

She feels a pang in her heart, hurting with every beat the longer she faces him. Voices in her think in various ways to cope with the inevitable, as facts and her speculations clash. Cheating would have been better. Maybe he is, we should keep going. It doesn't matter. He's leaving, anyway. But that doesn't mean we can't stay together! I hate this feeling, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels like shit right now, even though I’m the one getting dumped after all. There’s no point in fighting him over this. She thought she’d felt something special with him. Now, she realizes… They’re not different from others.

Yet, with all the conflict going on in her mind and heart, she simply straightens her posture and looks up to him with a soft smile on her face. “Geurae… Let's end this.”

Her response confounds Junghoon, contrary to what he’s been bracing himself for. Her smile doesn’t match with her watery eyes, racking him up with more guilt as he pushes through, feeling that whatever he could’ve done better wouldn’t make much difference.

“I felt like I was using you, and I didn't keep up with you… I'm sorry for not being—”

“You weren’t,” she interrupts him. “I could argue the same thing with myself… I know you weren't my first, but you were still the first one who treated me like I was enough. Like I was worthy of being loved.”

His eyes widened at her confession, the impulsive region of his mind urging him to say that she’s worthy of love. But not the other way around, as it's something he can't give.

“Still, I understand what you mean,” she continues. “About us not spending too much time together. Our lives haven't been aligning with our plans, I get it. With whatever I wanted to see ourselves... With whatever we don’t… I think it’s better this way, oppa.”

They both knew whatever they had wasn’t love. But they’ll have to live with that truth. They rushed in, and they made a fool of themselves for not handling the consequences now that they’ve reached this point.

She offers his hand, much to his surprise. “It was nice knowing you, Geum Junghoon.” She has nothing left to gain if she keeps up this front, only what remains of her pride. Even though it's already been shattered by their cold and rough yet honest exchange.

Junghoon hesitantly takes her hand. Slowly, he gets up from his seat, his somber face remains as he looks down to face her. “Take care, Lynn-ah…”

Lynn gives him one final look, hiding through her smile. “You too, Junghoon-oppa...”

Without him around, Lynn slowly feels moisture building up on her vision while the beats on her chest slows down, becoming heavier—like an anchor plummeting on the seafloor, over and over again. She knows this feeling will pass; she knows there was no love between them, but she has already been overwhelmed by the silent yet tumultuous clashing of different emotions in her heart. Outside, Junghoon walks along the sidewalk as his tears drip down, yet his face remains stone cold. He knows he's broken someone's heart, and he can't take that back. Inside the restaurant, muffled whimpers grow louder.

The sun starts to sink on the horizon as the purple skies hover above a sleepless Seoul.

= = =

A couple of weeks later, Junghoon finally graduates with flying colors, accompanied by his closest friends and relatives with a humble smile. Lynn goes with her morning class with her friends, but not without catching his presence from afar. From the fourth floor of their building, she looks at the window, seeing the outdoor stage, still swarming with graduates yet somehow, her eyes catch Junghoon walking with joyful faces she can only recognize as Kotone, Honggi, Myungsoo, and Soomin, while the rest appear new to her. She barely knew any of them. Maybe in another life, that was the case. In a warmer, less rushed, and more balanced season, she’d probably get along well with him and his small social circle.

Such a wishful thought allows a soft smile to form on her face, trying to ease the pain that is now simmering through her still recovering heart.

“Lynn-chan!” She hears Sion’s high-pitched voice before turning around to see her and Hayeon standing next to the pair of doors, waiting for her while the remainder of their classmates flock outside. “It’s lunch break… You coming with us or not..? They have a new milk tea at the bakery. I don’t wanna miss out on their restacked soufflés either!”

But enough what ifs… Enough of him and his friends. She has her own.

She chuckles out of embarrassment, pushing herself to wrap up her bags in a rush and rush to their spot. “Mianhae, mianhae, girls… It’ll be my treat, arasseo? Both of you.”

“Daebak! You should know that’s one deal we definitely can’t say no to now, unnie,” Hayeon cheers on just as she rushes out through the open doors while wearing her brown, spiky-textured backpack. “Gaja!”

Sion can only give her friend a comforting and empathetic smile, rubbing her back. Lynn expresses her gratitude with a smile and her watery eyes, yet not a drop of tear has fallen out of them. “You doing okay?” she asks.

“I—uhhh—I don’t know,” she admits. “But… I am feeling better, I guess.”

“It will get better, Lynn-chan,” she reassures. “Don’t hesitate to tell us about it, okay?”

“Gomawo,” Lynn nods, pulling herself and wrapping her arms around her dear friend. “You know, I don't think I can get through this without having you two around, right?”

“Of course,” Sion murmurs, offering the warmth of her embrace in hopes that it will heal Lynn's broken heart. “We’re always gonna be here for you, Lynnie… Whether you meet some tolerable bad boy or another nice guy with baggage, we’re not letting you forget your worth.”

They chuckle at her remark, before taking a glance at the hallway to see Hayeon still walking fast, now a few meters away from them. “Come on,” Sion takes a step forward. “You better not let Hayeon wait for us in the lobby downstairs... Otherwise, she’s gonna try and double your treat.”

“Hayeon-ah!” Sion hollers as they both follow Hayeon’s steps through the hallway. “Yah, just wait up, you hungry hedgehog!”

“The deal's off once you've made it to the elevator!” Lynn chimes in with a wide smile, remembering Sion’s advice just then. “Maja!” Sion adds. “You heard that, Hayeon-ah?”

Within seconds, they see their friend rushing back to their direction, prompting the two to slow down their pace as they cackle at Hayeon’s instant change of movement. “Fine!” she whines with a pout. “But now that I'm here, no more backsies, arasseo?”

To others, their short-lived relationship might as well be simplified as a spring and summer fling, and they’re not entirely wrong. But, to themselves, it is one that would shape their futures. Their seasons of memories and mistakes would mold them with their decisions on how they would perceive love, how they would act on it. How they would learn from it and live with it, even if it may hurt them in the end. Perhaps it’s better to feel the thrills of lust, the pains of heartbreak, and the hardships of romance—even if it may not be “true love”—than to never feel those things at all.

= = =

This went longer than I originally intended. it may also feel rushed in some parts, but I just wanted to get it done, even if it may not have come out amazingly.

Although this fic has always been my plan, I'll also write a lynn fic that's more hopeful down the line. I know it's a fic, but I still kinda feel bad lol, though this is my attempt at an angst-slash-smut fic.

Still, my next one (about someone else) will def be less angsty than this. However, for now, thanks for reading, and have a nice day!

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 2 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

I do not see Wednesday for the rest of the day, going through my classes as usual before stealing a freshly baked roll and some cheese from the dining hall and heading to my room.

I do not want to risk seeing her again, because our bizarre encounter this morning—if you can even call it that—has left me a little unnerved.

The gossip and buzz around her has not died down either. If anything, it has ramped up now, with rumors spreading like wildfire which has once again left me overstimulated by all the students’ excitement and nervousness.

I hardly believe that Wednesday murdered and ate some of the kids at her old school, like everyone is saying, but she must have done something to get expelled. I would not put it past her that it was something pretty bad, even if it was not exactly murder or cannibalism.

Now I am on the floor in front of my bed, doing push-ups in an attempt to distract myself from the buzz still lingering in the air that makes my chest feel tight.

I have been going at it for ten minutes straight now—perks of my abnormal strength—but no matter how many I do, it is not exactly working the way I hoped.

Sure, it is making me breathe a little heavier, making me feel the way my muscles stretch and burn, but it does nothing to quiet the fact that I keep hearing a familiar heartbeat pounding steadily from the other side of the school.

I have absolutely no clue why my ears keep picking up on it. Ever since I heard it for the first time this morning, it has been there. Quiet, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

I have never had this issue before. I am usually good at keeping my hearing in check, not letting it stray too far, but this time? It is like it has latched onto something. Or rather, someone.

Wednesday Addams.

“Four hundred and twenty… four hundred and twenty-one…” I keep counting under my breath as I push myself off the floor and lower down again, trying to stay grounded.

But it is the impatient knock at my door that finally snaps my ears back to my own room. The sudden change in volume—from a heartbeat across the school to a sharp knock right in front of me—makes me wince and flinch.

I move so I’m sitting cross-legged with my back against the bottom of the bed and run my hands down my face.

“Come in.”

The door swings open almost instantly, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Enid storming in. Her usual energy fills the room the moment she enters, but this time, it’s different. It’s laced with anger, which is very unlike her, so I drop my hands into my lap and raise an eyebrow.

She’s got her arms crossed, now wearing one of her colorful sweaters and a pair of leggings instead of her uniform, and she’s looking around the room, quietly fuming, clearly searching for the right words.

“What’s wrong?” I prompt after a moment, when she still hasn’t spoken. That makes her look at me.

“Everything!” she exclaims dramatically, before flopping onto the floor in front of me and mirroring my position against the wall.

“Wednesday Addams is a nightmare.”

I get the feeling there’s more to it than that, so I ask “How come?” Even though I already have a pretty good guess.

The two of them must’ve had a fight because they’re on opposite ends of literally every spectrum imaginable. Personality, looks, hobbies? You name it…

“She ruined my window!” she whines. “Peeled off all the colorful foil on her side.”

I get why that would agitate Enid. She lives for her colors, and maybe Wednesday did not go about removing it in the nicest way. But technically, it is her room too, and half of the spiderweb window does belong to her.

“And she literally divided the room with tape on the floor,” she goes on. Again, I know that is not the most socially acceptable way to share a room, but like I said, it is Wednesday’s room too.

“And she insulted my blog! Said she’s read serial killer diaries with better punctuation.”

I can’t help the little snort of amusement that escapes me, and when Enid looks at me with bewildered eyes, I just shake my head with a chuckle and try to ease her offense by saying, “Sorry, but she kind of has a point. And yes, I know you write in your voice, which is what makes your blog special, but you and I both know you can’t put an exclamation point in the middle of a sentence just to emphasize your point.”

Enid huffs and crosses her arms, but I can feel the frustration inside her subsiding, so I know she is not really mad.

I understand where she is coming from though, so I try to coax some more information out of her to maybe let her air out a little more of her anger before she returns to her room and potentially explodes on Wednesday. “Come on, she can’t be that bad, right?”

“Are you kidding?” Enid deadpans, though she already lacks the intensity with which she stormed into my room just a moment ago.

“She turned her side of the room into a colorless goth cave. She’s got an old-timey record player and vinyls of classical music. And she’s got this annoying-ass typewriter she uses to write her novel. Like, hello? We live in the twenty-first century, just use a laptop? But no. Miss girl-with-literal-serial-killer-vibes has to use old-time technology that annoys everyone around her. And she doesn’t even have a phone. Who doesn’t have a phone?!”

“Well…”

Well, what am I supposed to say? Those are all valid arguments on Enid’s part. She could not survive without her phone, and she listens to nothing but K-pop. But again, Wednesday is allowed to like her own things. And if old-timey typewriters and classical music are some of them, then so be it. Even if it is a little weird that she doesn’t even have a phone.

“Exactly.” Enid drops her hands into her lap, taking my silence for agreement. It’s not, but I don’t correct her.

After a moment, I get up and offer her a hand. She accepts it with a questioning look, and I pull her to her feet.

“I know she isn’t exactly who you thought she’d be, but maybe just give her a chance?”

Enid’s lips thin, and I can tell she is about to object, so I raise my eyebrows and add, “It’s only fair.”

She contemplates it for a moment before giving in with a nod and a sigh. “Fine.”

“Good. Now you better get back to your room unless you want Thornhill to give you detention for being out past curfew.”

She grumbles, but agrees, and leaves quietly after mumbling a thank you.

Once she is gone, I strip off my clothes and head into my ensuite bathroom, stepping into the shower while trying—again—to ignore the heartbeat steadily pounding away on the other side of the school which is accompanied by the the soft clicking of what I now know is a typewriter.

It’s Friday afternoon, which means Wednesday has been here for less than a day, and yet she has already shaken up the entire school.

Not just because of her presence, but because she literally challenged Bianca to a fencing match.

I am usually not interested in gossip, but when the news spread during lunch, I actually indulged in it for once, listening to Yoko tell Enid all about it.

Apparently, Wednesday is an impressive fencer. It looked like she had Bianca beat at first, but then she invoked military challenge and lost when Bianca managed to nick her forehead.

Why she would go ahead and challenge Bianca in the first place, I have no idea. But it seems like they both have an ego problem, and fencing was the only way to determine the social hierarchy.

For now…

Much more surprising than Wednesday challenging Bianca, though, is her apparent skill. She is small and unassuming. So if she managed to hold her ground against Bianca, she must really know a thing or two about combat, which makes me wonder…

What else is she hiding under that mask of composure?

The bell signaling the end of my last class is so loud and unexpected, I actually wince and accidentally snap my pencil in half. A couple of students eye me warily.

I don’t feed into their curiosity by being embarrassed or making a big deal out of it, and instead quickly pack my things before leaving the classroom.

The sound of the rain against the windows in the hallway is louder than usual, a clear sign of my heightened senses. Everyone around me is still tense because of Wednesday’s arrival, which in turn is making me extra sensitive.

“Y/N, wait up.”

I stop involuntarily at the sound of a familiar voice and push myself against the wall to stay out of the steady stream of students excited about the upcoming weekend.

“Ajax,” I acknowledge the boy with a gentle smile as he catches up to me. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay after…” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, obviously referring to the pencil incident in class. “You know?”

“Oh… Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for asking, though,” I say quietly.

Ajax and I aren’t exactly friends, but because we both live fairly isolated lives, we understand each other. He, like Enid, has known about my super hearing for quite some time now and always notices when it gets the better of me or when I start getting overwhelmed.

It’s actually really sweet. He’s smart too, and it makes me want to be his friend, but Enid is already a little too close for comfort. I can’t risk him finding out what I truly am, so I usually keep him at arm’s length.

“You sure?” he asks, genuinely concerned, tucking a tiny snake’s head back under his beanie before it can make a full appearance.

I just nod and mumble a soft yeah, followed by a see you around? before walking off. I want nothing more than to get to my room, put on my headphones, and drown the world out with music.

I brush past students and hurry down the stairs toward the empty courtyard, only to hesitate when I realize I didn’t bring an umbrella.

It’s raining cats and dogs, and I’ll be soaking wet by the time I cross to the other side, but I don’t really have a choice. I brace myself to step into the rain—then stop dead in my tracks when I realize the courtyard isn’t as empty as I thought it was.

Standing there, with an umbrella and staring up at the roof, is Wednesday Addams in her custom black and white school uniform.

I’ve only seen glimpses of her since her arrival yesterday, which made me forget how elegant and regal she actually looks with her pale skin, dark hair and calculating eyes. A bandaid covers the spot where Bianca cut her forehead and yet, she still looks composed and untouchable.

For a second, I just watch her, but then I notice she hasn’t stopped looking up so I follow her eyes up to one of the gargoyles perched on the edge of the roof.

It’s shifting, like someone is tugging on it with an invisible rope and then, my heart drops and I move before I can think twice about it.

“Look out!”

I dart forward just as the gargoyle tips over the edge. From the other side of the courtyard, I see Xavier has spotted it too. He’s also trying to reach her, but I’m faster. Even without tapping into my full speed, I’m faster.

I crash into Wednesday and tackle her to the ground. The gargoyle clips my shoulder on the way down but it doesn’t injure me. It shatters into a hundred tiny pieces behind us.

Fuck. That was close.

I pull back from on top of Wednesday to check if she’s okay, but she’s passed out from the force of the impact. I go to wake her with a gentle tap to her cheek but then the pendant on my necklace, which has slipped out from under my uniform, starts glowing gold.

It hasn’t done that since I had a panic attack the night my adoptive parents dropped me off at Nevermore.

“Is she okay?!” Xavier drops to his knees beside me, looking between Wednesday and me. “Are you?!”

Frantic, I shove the pendant back beneath my clothes and scramble off her. “Y-Yeah, I think so.”

Xavier nods, but still taps Wednesday’s cheek. When her eyelids flutter slightly, he frowns and looks at me again. “Let’s get her to the med ward.”

I want to help him, I really do, but the pendant is still warm against my skin—probably still glowing—which makes me shake my head. “I… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I back away, confused and overwhelmed by what just happened. I know Xavier is strong enough to carry her since we’re around the same height and he’s tough, so without another word, I turn and run.

What just happened?

Why did my pendant glow when I touched Wednesday? And why did that gargoyle fall in the first place?

I saw it moving before it tipped… someone must have tampered with it somehow which means someone is out to kill Wednesday.

The real question is… why?

After seeing her for the first time, I knew things would change around here, but I didn’t think they’d change like this. Not with someone literally trying to kill her.

Isn’t it enough that there’s already some monster roaming the forest, killing normies?

I make it to my room in record time and slam the door shut behind me. Then, I immediately change out of my soaking uniform, towel-dry my hair, and stare down at my pendant, which is still glowing faintly, pulsing ever so slightly in rhythm with my still frantic heartbeat.

What is going on?

First, I can’t stop subconsciously listening to Wednesday’s heartbeat, and now, the moment I touch her, my pendant starts glowing and it feels like the rug has been pulled out from beneath me.

I don’t know Wednesday. And yet… the moment she was in danger, I threw all caution to the wind, risking exposing some of my powers to anyone watching just to make sure she was okay.

And now my pendant won’t stop glowing.

It’s small, no bigger than the pad of a finger, and carved from a smooth, dark metal that almost looks black until the light hits it just right, revealing the faintest sheen of deep gold beneath the surface.

Etched into the center is a delicate symbol: three parallel lines cutting through a single circle, the one in the middle slightly longer than the others.

I don’t know where it came from, but I’ve had it since I was born, and it’s the only thing that connects me to my birth parents, who I’ve never met.

I was raised in foster care until I was eight, before getting adopted. I was finally living a nice, secure life for five years or so, but then my powers showed up and I accidentally ripped a door off its hinges during a game of hide and seek.

It scared my adoptive parents so badly, they immediately took me to Nevermore and left me here, fearing I would someday hurt them or my, what I considered, younger sister Lara, who was their biological child.

Of course I told them I never would, but they weren’t willing to take a chance on me, choosing instead to hand me over to Weems like I was a problem to be dealt with.

Luckily, Weems took me in with open arms.

She made me feel welcome and wanted, despite being literally abandoned for the second time in my life

She even helped me figure out what kind of outcast I actually am.

It took a while, but when we finally did figure it out, she turned pale and told me never to tell anyone else because it would put me in danger.

She got rid of every book in the library that even hinted at what I am because the risk was too high. Well… she got rid of all but one book.

It’s hidden in the Nightshades’ library, just in case I ever have questions, like right now.

I’m too shaken up to make my way all the way there tonight though, so I tuck my necklace back beneath my shirt, climb into bed, and put on my headphones to try and drown out the outside world.

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Five

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

CW: Drinking,mild sexual content (no smut you freaks…yet)

WC: 5.1k

Notes: Annndddd we’re back. You guys should like this chapter probably. Lmk what you think 😊

The wind at Silverstone always felt like it had an attitude, like it knew it was hosting one of the biggest races of the year and wanted everyone to feel it. Paige pulled her jacket tighter around her as she crossed the paddock toward the Ferrari garage, her eyes narrowed against the cool breeze.

It was early still, but Mercedes had already sent a message. Their car was fast. Maybe not on raw one-lap pace, but over a race distance? Dangerous. Paige had seen the data. She didn’t need Luca to tell her that if Ferrari didn’t find something extra, this weekend was going to be a fight.

She found him exactly where she expected — leaned up against the pit wall, tablet in hand, scrolling through sector times like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His hood was up against the cold and he looked about as happy as she felt.

“Morning,” Paige said, tugging her gloves on.

Luca glanced up briefly, offering a grunt that passed as a greeting. He tapped a few things on the screen and flipped it around to show her.

“They’re quick,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious.

Paige studied the graph, then sighed. “Long runs look worse than quali sims.”

“Yeah.” Luca smirked. “Your favorite.”

Paige shot him a look but didn’t bother arguing. He was right. She could handle a fast lap. Managing tires and fuel while fending off a Mercedes breathing down her neck for fifty laps? Different story.

She shifted her weight, glancing over toward the garage. Mechanics were moving around like usual, but there was a weird energy. Like something was missing.

“Where’s Azzi?” she asked, frowning.

Luca hesitated. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sick. Flu or something. She’s not running practice today.”

Paige straightened immediately. “Wait. She’s sick sick? Is she gonna race?”

He shrugged, a motion that somehow said both I hope so and no clue. “Depends how bad it is. Doctors are with her.”

Paige pressed her lips together. Silverstone wasn’t just another track — it was Azzi’s track. If she couldn’t race, that would be an issue.

Before she could ask anything else, a voice cut through the buzz of the garage. Chiara, Ferrari’s head of PR, appeared, tablet in hand and moving with the kind of urgency that always made Paige suspicious.

“Paige,” Chiara said, in that polished tone she used when she was about to ruin your day. “We’ve scheduled a meeting for you. In a few weeks.”

Paige blinked. “Okay… with who?”

Chiara smiled tightly, like she was about to hand over a corporate gift bag. “Dirk van de Meer.”

There was a half-second where the name didn’t register, then it hit her. Van de Meer. Adrian van de Meer. Former Ferrari driver from the early 2000s. Legend in his own right. Which meant—

Paige fought back a groan. PR boyfriend alert. She didn’t even have to ask. She could see it already — some clean-cut golden boy from the Netherlands, shoved into her orbit for “optics” and “future potential” and whatever other nonsense PR liked to throw around.

“Awesome,” Paige said dryly. She caught Luca’s glance out of the corner of her eye. He was trying — and failing — to keep a straight face.

She crossed her arms. “How old is this guy, anyway?”

Chiara didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-seven.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. Older than her, but not by much. Old enough that if this was some weird matchmaking attempt, it wasn’t technically creepy. Still. She could already picture it: the cameras, the rumors, the endless speculation about Ferrari’s future power couple.

Fantastic.

Luca coughed into his hand, and she shot him a death glare. He only shrugged, like hey, don’t shoot the messenger.

Paige exhaled slowly and looked back at Chiara. “Fine. I’ll meet him. Just… after Silverstone.”

“Of course,” Chiara said with a bright smile, before disappearing back into the chaos of the paddock like a storm had passed through.

Left alone again, Paige leaned against the wall next to Luca. For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then Luca said, deadpan, “You’re gonna love him.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Shut up.”

–

Paige Qualified third

It wasn’t that third was bad.

It was that third at Silverstone, when you knew you could’ve had more, felt like a punch to the ribs.

Paige yanked off her gloves the second she pulled into the garage, her jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a molar. She didn’t even look up at the screens flashing provisional results across the pit lane. She didn’t need to. She knew it already — Mercedes locked out the front row, Ferrari in third.

Behind her, the red garage buzzed with energy, trying to spin it as a good result. And technically, it was. Ferrari was miles ahead in the Constructors’ standings. They could afford a race or two where they weren’t perfect.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting like hell.

Paige hopped out of the car and tugged her helmet off, running a hand through her sweaty hair. As the adrenaline faded, the other weight settled back on her shoulders — because, of course, qualifying frustrations weren’t enough.

No. She also had Dirk van de Meer waiting for her.

Apparently, PR Boy couldn’t even wait until after the race. Chiara had texted her mid-morning: “Dirk will be joining us today. Please meet him before media commitments.”

Translation: Smile for the cameras, be friendly, and don’t scare off our sponsor’s golden child.

Paige set her jaw and stalked toward the back of the garage, her race suit half unzipped and tied around her waist. The second she turned the corner, she spotted him.

Dirk. Tall, blond, textbook Dutch features. White Ferrari polo shirt like he belonged there already, laughing too loud at something Chiara said. He had the same easy, polished look that always seemed to follow sons of ex-drivers around — born to be here, even if he hadn’t earned a damn thing yet.

Paige slowed her steps, dragging out the inevitable. She caught sight of Luca off to the side, pretending to busy himself with a laptop but definitely watching the whole thing unfold like it was reality TV. Paige gave him a look that said I will murder you in your sleep and kept walking.

And then, a little farther down, she saw Azzi.

Azzi was sitting on one of the spare tires near the wall, still in her race suit, helmet resting beside her. She looked pale, miserable, and more frustrated than Paige had ever seen her. Normally, Azzi at Silverstone was a weapon — sharp, deadly, untouchable. Today, she looked like she was barely hanging on.

Their eyes met for a split second, and Paige’s heart twisted. Azzi didn’t have to say anything. Paige could see it — the sickness still weighing her down, the frustration of knowing her body was betraying her at one of the biggest races of the year.

Paige hesitated, torn between storming over to check on Azzi and dealing with the PR nightmare standing a few feet away. Chiara, naturally, solved it for her.

“Paige! Over here,” she called, bright and fake.

Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Dirk. He stuck out a hand like they were old friends.

“Dirk van de Meer,” he said, flashing a perfect grin.

“Paige,” she said shortly, shaking his hand once before dropping it like it burned. Her voice was calm, but her mind was still with Azzi, still furious at herself for not putting the lap together, still pissed she had to deal with this circus instead of being able to focus.

Dirk didn’t seem to notice the iciness. Or if he did, he powered through it with PR training so thick you could smell it. He asked some polite question about her qualifying — she didn’t even remember what — and she answered automatically, her eyes flickering back toward Azzi every few seconds.

Azzi hadn’t moved. She was just sitting there, staring at the floor, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

Luca finally drifted closer, mercifully inserting himself into the conversation under the guise of checking her data screen. Paige barely registered what he said, only that it gave her an excuse to pull away from Dirk.

She muttered something about media duties and ducked toward the garage exit, not waiting for permission.

She needed a second. Away from cameras. Away from fake smiles. Away from the growing pressure in her chest that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Silverstone was supposed to be a statement. And now it felt like they were barely surviving it.

–

Paige barely made it to her little room off the back of the Ferrari motorhome before she collapsed face-first onto the narrow bed.

It wasn’t exactly glamorous — a twin mattress, a chair, a tiny desk piled with unopened water bottles and a couple half-eaten protein bars — but it was hers for the weekend. A place to disappear for five minutes and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

She kicked her shoes off and stretched out with a groan. Every part of her body felt heavy — the adrenaline crash from qualifying, the pressure, the PR nonsense — it all layered over her like a second fireproof suit she couldn’t peel off.

And somewhere, at the back of her mind, a new and very real fear was setting in: if Azzi gave her the flu, she would kill her.

Paige flipped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, arms sprawled out like a crime scene.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, voice rough, “if I get sick and have to race like that, I’m taking her out at Turn Three. I don’t care. Straight up.”

She was halfway considering napping — just a quick reset — when she heard the faint sound of someone moving next door.

The shuffle of feet. A door closing quietly.

Azzi.

Paige blinked up at the ceiling for a second, debating. She should probably stay here. Germs. Sanity. Self-preservation.

But… it was Azzi. And Paige couldn’t just ignore her.

Grumbling under her breath, Paige hauled herself up and wandered over. She rapped her knuckles lightly against the doorframe.

“Hey,” she said, voice still low from exhaustion. “You alive in there?”

The door cracked open, and there was Azzi — messy bun barely hanging on, race suit half undone, a hoodie pulled on over the top. She looked like hell. Pale, tired, dark circles under her eyes. Still, she managed a half-smirk.

“You sure you wanna risk it?” Azzi said, voice scratchy but teasing. “I’m like… one step away from biohazard level.”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah, well, if I get sick, I’m running you off track tomorrow. Fair warning.”

Azzi snorted and stepped back to let her in. Paige followed, already regretting it a little because holy hell, it smelled like Vicks and cough drops in here.

“You already look sick, bro,” Azzi said, dropping onto the edge of her bed with a wince.

Paige froze. “What?”

Azzi looked up at her, half amused, half serious. “Yeah. You’re all pale and sweaty. Gross.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “That’s just… qualifying stress.”

“Mmhmm.” Azzi wrapped herself tighter in her hoodie like a burrito. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Paige huffed and sat down in the only chair, immediately regretting how much her legs ached. Now that Azzi mentioned it… she did feel kind of weird. But it was probably just adrenaline.

They sat in silence for a minute, the quiet hum of the paddock barely leaking in from outside. It wasn’t awkward. It never was with Azzi. Even sick and miserable, she was still Azzi — the one person who didn’t make Paige feel like she had to perform every second she was wearing red.

Paige leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Just don’t breathe directly on me,” she muttered.

Azzi laughed weakly. “No promises.”

–

From the second Paige opened her eyes, she knew it wasn’t going to be a good day.

It wasn’t the flu — not yet, anyway — but something gnawed at her edges. A bad mood, raw and restless under her skin, tightening everything until her muscles ached before she even got in the car.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was the fact that Azzi was apparently going to race today, despite what every medical professional in the country of Britain had advised.

Paige dragged herself through morning meetings and media duties on autopilot, nodding at the right times, signing autographs, posing for the same pictures she always did.

It all felt distant. Like she was wading through static.

By the time she was strapping into the car on the grid, helmet already steaming with her own breath, she forced herself to focus. Third place. Good start position. Damage control today. Don’t do anything stupid.

The lights went out, and Silverstone roared to life.

Paige got off the line clean, tucking neatly behind the two Mercedes and immediately slamming the door on the McLaren trying to sneak up the inside. She held her position through the first lap, her car heavy and twitchy with fuel, the tires screaming on cold asphalt.

By Lap 10, she was in a rhythm. Controlled. Mechanical.

3rd. Still 3rd.

“Update on Azzi?” Paige asked over the radio, voice steady even if her stomach twisted at the question.

A crackle of static, and then Luca’s voice, clear and professional:

“Currently 7th. She’s holding pace but dropping a little.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. Good enough, she guessed. Azzi had no business being in the car today, but if she could survive the race, that was all they needed.

Turn One came up fast, Silverstone’s brutal high-speed right-hander. Paige flicked the wheel in — and the front end didn’t bite the way it should.

Understeer. Subtle, but real.

“Understeer, Turn One,” she said calmly into the radio, adjusting her steering mid-corner.

There was a pause. Then Luca:

“Sorry? You’re feeling understeer?”

Paige blinked, irritation flaring hotter than it should have. “What? No. There is understeer. In Turn One. Track’s getting greasy or the wind’s shifted or something, I don’t know. Figure it out, Luca.”

Another beat of static.

“Copy,” Luca said, way too neutral for Paige’s liking.

She gritted her teeth and kept pushing, heart pounding harder than it should for Lap 11 of 52. Every time she turned the wheel, it felt like the car was a second behind her, lazy and stubborn. Every time she thought about Azzi, still fighting through fever and muscle aches, it twisted something deeper in her gut.

She wasn’t sick.

She wasn’t tired.

She wasn’t anything.

She was just angry.

At the track. At the car. At herself for caring so much.

At Azzi for racing when she shouldn’t.

At Dirk and his stupid PR smiles.

At the universe for daring to make her feel anything today at all.

Paige slammed the car over the curbs and punched out of the corner, engine screaming under her.

3rd. Still 3rd.

But it felt like barely holding on.

–

Fourth place.

Not a disaster. Not a win, either.

Paige went through the media gauntlet like she was sleepwalking — same questions, same fake smiles. How was the car? Was she happy with the result? How’s the team morale heading into the break?

Smile. Nod. Say the right things. Don’t think too hard.

She hadn’t seen Azzi since the cooldown room. Actually, she wasn’t even sure Azzi made it through the whole race. Someone said she finished, someone else said she got hauled straight to medical. Paige pretended she didn’t care. Pretended really hard.

After the last interview, Paige peeled off her race suit in the garage, pulled on a hoodie and leggings, shoved her duffel bag over her shoulder, and left without another word.

Hotel.

Shower.

Flight.

Forget Silverstone ever happened.

The two-week break stretched out in front of her like a life raft. She hadn’t been home to Minneapolis for longer than a few days since preseason testing. All she wanted was to sleep in her own bed, see her family, remind herself she was still a person and not just a Ferrari-branded robot.

Paige got to the private terminal just after sunset, the Silverstone sky bleeding into deep blue and gold.

And there it was — Azzi’s jet.

It looked exactly how Paige expected it to: sleek, polished, expensive enough to make her bones ache.

She wasn’t even sure if she was invited on it. But someone from logistics had just said, “Yeah, you’re flying with Azzi back to the States,” like it was no big deal. So here she was.

Paige climbed the short set of stairs and ducked inside, half expecting to be tackled by security or something.

Instead, Azzi was sprawled across one of the big leather couches, hoodie up, headphones half-on. She looked up when Paige entered, blinking like she was still coming back to reality.

“Hey,” Azzi said, voice rough but better than yesterday.

“Hey,” Paige answered, shoving her bag into an overhead compartment before flopping down across from her.

The engines started to hum underfoot. A flight attendant offered water, snacks, blankets — all of which Paige awkwardly declined. She wasn’t used to flying like this. It felt like stepping into someone else’s life.

The jet taxied and lifted off with barely a bump, angling toward the U.S. East Coast.

Azzi pulled off her headphones and tossed them onto the seat beside her.

“You headed home?” she asked, voice casual.

“Yeah. Minneapolis,” Paige said, stretching her legs out.

Azzi smiled faintly. “Two weeks of peace and quiet.”

“Hopefully.”

They sat there for a while, the noise of the engines soft and steady around them.

Paige realized it was the first time since that night in New York they’d really talked without helmets on, without the garage screaming around them, without strategists hovering nearby like vultures.

Azzi looked different outside of a race suit — softer, almost. Still competitive under the surface, but quieter about it.

And Paige… Paige didn’t know who she was right now. Just tired, probably. Or maybe remembering there was a real world out there, somewhere beyond press conferences and tire compounds.

“First time on a private jet?” Azzi asked, smirking.

Paige rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Azzi chuckled, low and scratchy. “Not bad, right?”

Paige leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “Not bad at all.”

–

The hours blurred together in the kind of quiet that didn’t feel awkward.

The hum of the engines, the soft lighting, the low, steady rhythm of flight — it all made it easy to forget everything they were usually supposed to be.

Paige stared out the window for a while, watching the stars scatter across the dark sky.

When she turned back, Azzi was still sitting there, hood pulled low, looking half-asleep but not quite gone.

“You got family back home?” Azzi asked finally, voice rough but curious.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. My little brother, Drew. Probably taller than me by the time I land.”

Azzi grinned a little at that. “They grow fast when you’re not looking.”

“Tell me about it,” Paige said, smiling despite herself. “And my dad’s there too. He’s — he’s great. Still thinks he knows more about Formula One than he does.”

“Classic.”

Paige laughed under her breath, feeling herself loosen up. “My mom… she’s out in Montana now. Bought a ranch or something after the divorce. Not really in the picture anymore, but it’s fine. I think she’s happier that way.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she understood without needing all the messy details.

Paige shifted, pulling one leg up onto the seat. “What about you?”

Azzi smiled faintly, her fingers tugging at the hem of her hoodie. “Parents are still in D.C. I’ve got two younger brothers. Jon and Jose.”

“Yeah? You close with them?”

Azzi shrugged. “In the way brothers and sisters are. They were always around growing up — annoying me, taking my stuff. Pretty classic younger brother stuff.”

Paige laughed again, genuinely this time. “Sounds about right.”

Azzi tilted her head back against the couch, looking at Paige through half-lidded eyes. “You probably would’ve fit right in.”

Paige smirked. “Probably would’ve been grounded every weekend.”

“Definitely,” Azzi said, smiling wider.

For a minute, they just sat there, letting the conversation breathe. Then something clicked in Paige’s brain.

“Wait,” Paige said, sitting up straighter. “If your whole family’s in D.C., why the hell do you live in New York?”

Azzi blinked, like she hadn’t expected the question. “Wanted some space. After I signed with Ferrari, it just… made sense to be closer to everything. Europe flights, brand stuff, whatever. Plus, D.C.’s a little too — I don’t know — perfect sometimes. New York’s real. Loud. Messy. I like it.”

Paige thought about that, nodding slowly. She couldn’t blame her.

There was something about New York that made you feel small and big at the same time. Like you could be nobody and still belong there.

“Besides,” Azzi added, grinning lazily, “I wouldn’t survive another Christmas with my mom setting up matching pajamas.”

Paige snorted, shaking her head. “God. I feel that.”

The conversation slipped into another lull, but it wasn’t heavy. Just comfortable.

Until Paige sighed and slumped further into her seat, muttering, “Fucking Dirk.”

Azzi’s eyebrow arched, sharp and amused. “Dirk, huh?”

Paige groaned into her sleeve. “Yeah. Fucking Dirk. Ferrari’s latest genius PR move.”

Azzi laughed, coughing a little. “The Netherlands guy?”

“Yep,” Paige said, popping the p. “Supposed to be some golden boy. Son of a former Ferrari driver. I’m probably supposed to be fake-dating him for sponsor points or some shit.”

Azzi looked way too entertained. “You gonna?”

“God, no.” Paige rubbed her face. “The guy probably irons his jeans.”

Azzi cracked up at that, the sound low and a little raspy but real. Paige smiled despite herself, basking for a second in the normalcy of it all.

No helmets. No pressure. No cameras.

Just two girls, exhausted and flying through the night sky toward something that — for a little while — wasn’t racing.

–

It had been one week. Well, a little less

Five whole days of pretending she was a normal person again — seeing family, catching up with friends, trying to remember how to sleep past 7 A.M. without an alarm screaming at her.

And now here Paige was, back in New York, standing at some bougie rooftop event she didn’t even want to be at, pretending she cared about fancy cars and overpriced champagne… all because of fucking Dirk.

Dirk van something.

He was as punchable in person as Paige remembered. Tall, hair slicked back like he thought he was stepping onto a magazine cover. He smiled too much, laughed too loud, and kept finding excuses to stand just a little too close.

Ferrari’s PR dreamboy.

Paige’s personal nightmare.

She had been texting Azzi under the table all night.

PB5: i will kill him

PB5: i swear to god azzi i will catch a charge tonight

Azzi’s responses came quick, like she was laughing from wherever she was.

AF35: sounds like a u problem

AF35: i have more tequila tho

AF35: come over after

Paige didn’t even hesitate.

PB5: bet.

She stuck it out another forty-five miserable minutes — posed for a few pictures, shook a few hands, gave Dirk exactly zero smiles — and then slipped out of the event the second no one was looking.

Her heels clicked sharply against the Manhattan sidewalk as she texted Azzi again.

PB5: omw. u better have limes.

Azzi just sent back a thumbs-up emoji. Paige smirked, already feeling the weight of the night start to peel off her shoulders.

–

By the time she got to Azzi’s place, Paige was looking ridiculous — and she knew it.

Loose pink sweater. Hair slicked back. Earrings she didn't even like that much.

She looked like she was still walking into something actually important, not an impromptu tequila night with a friend who probably hadn’t changed out of sweatpants.

Paige knocked once, then let herself in when she heard Azzi call, “It’s open!”

The apartment was half lit, music low, and Azzi was curled up on the giant couch in athletic shorts and a hoodie, hair thrown into a messy bun.

“Hey,” Azzi said when she looked up. “You’re awfully dressed up.”

Paige dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes dramatically.

“I had to survive Dirk for three hours. I deserve to look hot.”

Azzi laughed, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “Fair. Very fair.”

Paige flopped onto the couch, feeling her spine crack in about twelve different places. A minute later, Azzi came back balancing two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.

“You really came through,” Paige said, impressed.

Azzi grinned. “Told you. I don’t mess around.”

They poured shots — no measuring, just vibes — and clinked glasses sloppily before knocking them back.

It burned, sharp and fast. Paige winced and then smiled, the first real smile she’d had all day.

They settled into the couch, trading war stories from the past week — Paige about Dirk and the PR people trying to wrangle her into “joint photos,” Azzi about a family dinner that ended with her mom trying to set her up with someone Azzi definitely would never be into.

Paige wiped tears from her eyes at that one. “What is it with moms and matchmaking?”

Azzi shrugged, smirking. “Control issues, probably.”

Another shot. Another laugh.

Somewhere between complaining about PR nightmares and arguing about who had the worse fake dating prospects, Paige realized how easy this felt — how stupidly normal it was to be here, tequila loose in her veins, her hair slipping out of its sleek style, laughing until her ribs hurt.

Azzi nudged her with a socked foot. “Hey. You survived Dick, I mean, Dirk. That’s something.”

“Barely,” Paige muttered, tipping her head back against the couch cushions.

Azzi just smiled — a real smile, tired but genuine — and poured them another round.

–

The tequila was working its way into every limb, slow and warm, making the whole room feel softer at the edges.

Paige was stretched out on the couch, feet up, hair a mess. She wasn’t about to admit it, but she was way too comfortable here.

Azzi refilled both their glasses — smaller pours this time — and flopped down next to her, bumping Paige’s knee with her own.

“Remember the last time you were here?” Azzi asked, voice low and teasing.

Paige hummed, pretending to think. “Mhm.”

Azzi smirked. “You swore you could beat me at cards. Got your ass kicked. Twice.”

“I let you win,” Paige said lazily, grinning sideways at her.

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Sure you did.”

She reached over and grabbed a deck off the coffee table. Just sitting there like it had been waiting for this. She held it up between two fingers. “Wanna run it back?”

Paige shrugged, not really caring about the cards but liking the way Azzi looked at her — half-challenging, half-daring. “Why not.”

Azzi started shuffling, but it was half-assed, the cards slipping between her fingers like she wasn’t paying attention. Paige watched her, feeling the air between them shift — slower, heavier.

It wasn’t the tequila. Or maybe it was. But it wasn’t just that.

They barely made it through one hand.

Paige couldn’t even remember who was supposed to be winning.

Because somewhere between Azzi leaning closer to toss a card down and Paige reaching across to grab another, the game stopped mattering completely.

Azzi looked at her — really looked at her — and Paige felt it like a pull under her skin. The kind of look you didn’t just brush off.

“You’re really bad at this,” Azzi murmured, her voice all soft edges.

Paige smiled lazily, heart kicking a little harder against her ribs. “Maybe I’m just distracted.”

Azzi didn’t move for a second. Just held her there, suspended.

Then, almost like it wasn’t even a choice, she closed the distance — a hand brushing Paige’s knee, the casual touch sparking hotter than it had any right to.

Paige tilted her head, smirking without thinking. “You distracted?”

Azzi’s fingers curled slightly against her leg. “Maybe.”

The cards slid off the couch, forgotten completely, a fluttering mess on the floor.

Neither of them noticed.

Azzi’s hand slid higher on Paige’s thigh, slow, deliberate — and that was it.

Paige moved first, grabbing Azzi’s hoodie by the collar and pulling her in hard.

The kiss was messy. Too much teeth, too much desperation.

Azzi pushed back into her, hands everywhere — Paige’s hip, her waist, the bare skin at the back of her neck.

It wasn’t like the last time.

It wasn’t like the first time either.

Not like the drunken, half-laughing kiss they’d had after a podium party in Monaco when they were still teenagers — both pretending it didn’t mean anything.

This was different.

This had intent.

Paige gasped into Azzi’s mouth as she felt herself pulled across the couch, practically into Azzi’s lap. She kissed Azzi harder, tilting her head, demanding more.

Azzi gave it to her without hesitation.

Their hands fumbled — over clothes, skin, fabric — too fast, too much.

Paige shoved Azzi’s hoodie up, palms flat against the warmth of her stomach, feeling the slight tremble there.

Azzi swore under her breath and tugged at Paige’s sweater, unbuttoning it with rough hands. Paige arched into her, breath hitching when Azzi’s fingers skimmed along her abs.

“Fuck,” Azzi muttered, voice breaking, mouth moving down Paige’s neck. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” Paige said, biting back a shudder.

The sweater slipped off her shoulders and hit the floor, forgotten. Azzi kissed lower, open-mouthed against the skin of her collarbone, and Paige let her head fall back, her hands tangling in Azzi’s hair to keep herself grounded.

It was frantic — months of racing side by side, arguing, shoving, pretending not to notice the way they looked at each other when they thought no one else was watching.

Years of it, really — ever since they were seventeen and F3 teammates and too stupid to do anything about it.

Azzi’s hands were rough and sure, sliding down Paige’s bare sides, making her breath stutter.

“You sure?” Azzi asked, voice wrecked, a thread of restraint still hanging on somehow.

Paige opened her eyes — dark, heavy-lidded — and smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Azzi kissed her again — hard, deep, hungry — and Paige didn’t think after that.

There was only heat and skin and the sound of Azzi breathing her name against her throat.

Only the weight of Azzi’s body pressing her into the couch cushions.

Only the wild, dizzy feeling that maybe this wasn’t just some drunk, stupid mistake — maybe it never had been.

[venjras]

CHEATING TROPE - GOJO SATORU.

not my usual cup of tea but here we are. sfw, mention of cheating,

his gaze was always on you. whenever you were in the same room, even from opposite sides, his attentive eyes did not miss even the smallest of your movements.

funny considering the fact that he had a girlfriend. you had met him when they were already a couple, you had heard from megumi that they weren’t going to last long. opposite characters, in the worst possible combination ever, the only great thing was sex and as an answer that was already enough. probably the pressure from the parents had something to do with it too, hers was a powerful family that would benefit their business immensely. since one day it would become his.

anyway, now you were at the fushiguro house, you were there for a group assignment, the house was empty except for you and that raven head immersed in books. a small snort escaped your lips, continuing to write down the results of the research you two had taken the last two hours. you were sure that your head would end up exploding keeping up like this.

“toruuuuu, i don’t want to stay here. let’s go home, my parents are waiting us for dinner.” fuck, no. that high-pitched voice was capable of piercing your eardrums like nothing. a roll of eyes and the kitchen door swinging open revealing their figures behind it. gojo and his bimbo girlfriend who was clinging to his arm, almost as if she were an extension of him and depended on it to survive. now the idea of ​​going back to your house was even more inviting. he went to ruffle his younger cousin’s hair, who muttered something inaudible in response. “you’re such a nerd, at this rate you’ll become a book yourself.” he added with a laugh, then pointed his gaze at you from under the thick sunglasses he always wore. time to realize it and the girl was already pulling him by the arm, muttering as if she were a child extremely in need of attention.

breathe, breathe, breathe.

“do you still keep the chemistry book in your room? we might need it for a more in-depth study of the last part.” you don’t even bother waiting for an answer, leaving the room, which had become too narrow by now, and heading upstairs. running away was your only chance, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten out alive. there was something that was digging under your skin every time you met them, you still had to figure out what, but when you thought you were getting the solution it was as if your mind refused to process it. now you were safe, in megumi’s room looking for a book that you remembered perfectly well that he had forgotten at school, the perfect excuse to waste more time looking for it.

“running away won’t get you anywhere, you know that right sweetheart?” the deep voice echoed in your ears, hitting straight to your head. straightening your back and continuing to search on the desk, moving various papers. “it will definitely take me away from the beautiful voice of your girlfriend who, in my personal opinion, isn’t particularly pleasant.” the answer was immediate, spontaneous, perhaps too much so. seeing out of the corner of your eyes that a sly smile was making its way onto his lips. “actually, if you allow me, I’d go down and save gumi before his eardrums shatter in a million pieces.”

you go to the door but his figure doesn’t move, taking up the entire frame and preventing you from passing. now you were face to face, the perfect moment to realize how he had abandoned his glasses and now his crystalline eyes were fixed on you only. bad, bad idea. you try to pass through the small gap on the right but he promptly covers it with his long torso, making your eyebrows gather. “may i?” you move closer but nothing, he doesn’t show any signs of moving back, on the contrary. he crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking at you amused. “and what if i don’t want to?” he tilted his head to the side, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. you could do nothing but sigh, placing a hand on his chest, trying to move him but instead feeling only the mass of muscles stiffen. marble, that's what it could be compared to. this must have been the result of who knows how much training.

hold your thoughts, hold your thoughts.

“i want a kiss.” he said it so calmly that you almost had a fit, you must have heard wrong and your expression clearly betrayed your confusion. you saw him lower himself to your height, remaining just a few centimeters from your face, you felt his breath on your cheek. “i want a really nice kiss and after that i’ll move." this time the words reached your ears clearly, there was no possible misunderstanding.

and everything happened too quickly to even realize. his breathing getting closer and closer, the bodies that seemed to attract each other like magnets, he finally detached from the doorframe and obviously you saw an opportunity and took it. you took advantage and moved him enough to have a space to pass, exiting the room and with your foot on the first step. “you can do much better than that, toru.” you said that name purposely with the cadence of his girlfriend, shooting him a wink and rejoining the two in the living room.

the cheating trope had never been your favorite anyway.

maybe i’ll do a part two, i don’t know yet.

©️ venjras.