#that is not her having a say. and she's already been through various stages of her life where everyone gets a say in her life except her.

[bluedesertbruja]

La Oferta de Michel \ Los Planes del Futuro de Betty y Armando

[cloudtransprncy]

Tease

Chaewon x Male Reader | 8k words Tags: manager x idol, secret relationship, pent up, semi-public, sneaking away, horny as fuck, chaewon is hot as fuck, I wish it was me

Chaewon looks too good in that dress. Three weeks without sex. How long before you snap?

Jus sumn quick for yall.

Chaewon [1:42 AM]: I've been touching myself thinking about you every night this week. It's not enough.

Chaewon [1:43 AM]: Good luck keeping it professional tomorrow when you see what they have me wearing for the HOT trailer shoot 😈

You stare at your phone, heat flooding through your body. Three weeks without her. The longest you've gone since you started dating a year ago.

Fuck, she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

Three weeks without her touch has made every message like this a form of exquisite torture. You can practically hear her voice in your head as you read her texts.

You're dating Kim Chaewon. LE SSERAFIM's leader. And you're one of their managers.

It started on a company retreat last spring—a late-night conversation about music that turned into coffee, then dinner a week later, then her pressed against your apartment door, whispering that she'd wanted this since the moment you'd been assigned to their team.

You'd both agreed it would be just once.

That agreement lasted approximately 8 hours.

No one knows. Not the company. Not the members.

Not even Jiyeon, the other manager who works with you handling the girls' schedules.

And right now, your girlfriend is driving you fucking crazy.

The comeback prep for "HOT" has been exactly that—hot, intense, and keeping you both so busy you can barely catch your breath, let alone sneak away to be alone together.

You've tried everything to deal with the frustration. Late-night FaceTiming while she touches herself in her dorm room, biting her pillow to stay quiet. Watching the videos you've made together—her riding you on your couch, her bent over your bathroom sink, her on her knees looking up at you with those eyes.

None of it is enough. You need her. You need to taste her, feel her skin against yours, be inside her.

The warehouse set is all sleek white surfaces and ribbed glass partitions. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in cold natural light that makes everything look clean, sterile, and expensive. The perfect contrast to the fire they're trying to create with this concept.

Staff members in black hurry around with clipboards and equipment, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. This "BORN FIRE" trailer shoot has to be perfect—it's launching LE SSERAFIM's most ambitious album "HOT" yet.

You check your own clipboard, making sure everything's on schedule while trying not to think about Chaewon and whatever outfit has her texting you at 2 AM.

The irony isn't lost on you. Here you are, supervising the filming of a teaser—literally called "BORN FIRE"—while Chaewon herself is the true teaser. She's igniting something in you that's becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The line between her performance for the video and her performance for you is blurring dangerously.

"Manager-oppa, the director wants to run through the toy car scene again," Eunchae says, bouncing up to you in her feathered white outfit. "Have you seen Chaewon unnie? She's next."

"Still in wardrobe," you answer, keeping your voice steady. Like you're not thinking about how Chaewon moaned your name in that hotel in Jeju last month, her body shaking beneath yours as she came for the third time that night.

Sakura walks past with her stylist, the long white dress trailing behind her. You spot Kazuha already positioned on one of the white block structures that fill the set. The whole group is scattered around the space in various stages of preparation.

"Jiyeon-ssi," you call to your fellow manager, "can you check if hair and makeup are done with Chaewon?"

Jiyeon nods and heads toward the dressing area. You turn your attention back to the monitor, where the director is reviewing footage.

Then it happens.

The quiet murmur of the set shifts. You feel it before you see it.

Chaewon walks onto set, and your entire body goes rigid.

Your throat goes dry instantly. God, you love her in white—the way it makes her skin glow, how it emphasizes every curve you've memorized with your hands, your mouth. You force yourself to breathe normally even as memories flood your mind unbidden. She knows what this does to you. She's counting on it.

The white strapless dress is even shorter than it looked in the concept sketches and fittings you'd seen last week. It hugs her body perfectly, showing off shoulders you've kissed a hundred times.

The black belt cinches her waist—the waist you've held in your hands while she rode you until you both saw stars. But it's the boots that kill you. Thigh-high, black, lace-up boots that make her legs look endless.

You force yourself to look away, back at your clipboard. Professional. You're a professional.

But memories flood your mind anyway:

Chaewon straddling you in the backseat of your car, hand pressed against your mouth to keep you quiet while security guards walked past.

Chaewon pressed against your kitchen counter, panties around one ankle, begging you not to stop as you dropped to your knees.

Chaewon in your bed, hair spread across your pillow, eyes locked with yours as you moved inside her, whispering that she loves you.

You still remember the first time she said those words—three months in, both of you sweaty and breathless, her eyes wide with something like surprise at her own admission. You'd felt it too, that terrifying, exhilarating free-fall into something neither of you had planned for.

"You good?" asks one of the camera assistants, noticing how you've been staring at nothing.

"Fine," you say, the word clipped.

On set, Chaewon takes her position. In one scene, she stands tall on a miniature white car, the contrast of the boots against the white making her look like some kind of goddess. In another setup, she holds a diagram against her bare shoulder, eyes focused directly at the camera.

She's perfect. Professional. The director loves every take.

But then, during a lighting adjustment, when everyone's attention is elsewhere, she looks directly at you.

It's quick—barely a second—but in that moment, her professional mask slips. Her eyes darken. The corner of her mouth quirks up.

It's the same look she gave you the first time you told her to get on her knees.

The director calls for the next setup. Chaewon moves into position with the other members, all of them in white, creating a visual that's both innocent and somehow sinful.

You take a deep breath. You've been so good. So professional.

But when she walks past  you, she whispers, "Bet you want to take this off me so bad," so quietly only you can hear it, you know exactly how this day is going to end.

You are completely, totally fucked.

You're in hell.

Not the burning, fire-and-brimstone kind. The sleek, white, glass-walled kind.

A special kind of hell designed with surgical precision by Kim Chaewon—your weakness, your fucking undoing.

The "BORN FIRE" shoot continues. It's been three hours. You've managed to stay professional for exactly none of them.

"Cut! Five minute break," the director calls.

The set erupts into controlled chaos—stylists rushing to touch up makeup, lighting techs adjusting gear, Kazuha and Eunchae huddled near the white blocks watching practice videos on their phones.

You stare at your clipboard like it contains the secrets of the universe.

Chaewon moves through the space like she owns it, boots clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound alone makes your pulse kick.

She stands by the glass partition, sunlight catching on her hair, making it glow against all the sterile white. Your eyes follow her despite your brain screaming not to.

"Manager-oppa," she calls, voice sweet and professional. The sound hits you low in your stomach—the same tone she uses right before she begs you to fuck her harder.

"Can you bring me some water?"

She knows exactly what she's doing. Every staff member sees a hardworking idol asking her manager for a simple favor.

You know better.

You grab a bottle and walk it over to her. That's when she strikes.

Her fingers brush yours as she takes the bottle—deliberate, electric—the touch lasting a half-second too long to be accidental.

"Had a dream about you last night," she murmurs, voice pitched for your ears only.

The cap of the water bottle clicks as she twists it open. She drinks slowly, throat working in a way that triggers a vivid flashback—her on her knees three weeks ago, swallowing around you, looking up with those same dark eyes. You'd gripped her hair so tight she'd moaned around you.

Her tongue darts out to catch a drop on her lower lip. Her eyes never leave yours.

You say nothing. Your grip on the clipboard turns your knuckles white.

Jiyeon passes by, checking her watch. "Chaewon-ah, wardrobe wants to check your outfit before the next shot."

Chaewon nods, all professional sweetness. "Coming!"

She brushes past you, close enough that you catch her scent—something floral and expensive that you've tasted on her skin a hundred times before.

The stylist adjusts something on the back of her dress while she stands in front of the monitor. You try to focus on the schedule, on anything but the curve of her shoulder blades, the way the belt cinches her waist.

"Everything good?" the stylist asks.

Chaewon nods, then turns slightly. Her eyes find yours in the reflection of the monitor. "Perfect."

The tech walks away. You're about to do the same when—

"Woke up so wet this morning."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat that makes you grit your teeth.

She doesn't even look at you. Just keeps checking her reflection, adjusting a strand of hair like she didn't just set you on fire.

You step closer, voice low. "Watch yourself."

She smiles—sweet, sharp, fucking dangerous. "Always do. That's why I look so good."

The director calls everyone back. You retreat to the safety of the production table.

You adjust your clipboard, grateful for its coverage. This is what she reduces you to—a professional with years of industry experience hiding an erection like a teenager. The thought should embarrass you, but instead, there's a twisted pride in how she still affects you this way, even after a year together.

For exactly twelve minutes, you breathe. Focus. Reset.

Then she slides into the chair next to you.

"Can I see the schedule?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear. Professional. Proper.

You hand her your tablet without looking up. Three staff members hover nearby, discussing lighting for the next scene.

Sakura sits across the table, focused on crocheting something delicate and blue, her fingers moving with practiced precision. The click of her crochet hook provides a steady rhythm to the chaos around you.

That's when you feel it—her hand on your thigh under the table. Casual. Like it belongs there.

Your entire body goes rigid.

"Chaewon," you warn, barely a whisper.

"Mmm?" She leans in, pretending to point at something on the screen. Her fingers start to move. Slow strokes up, then down. Teasing.

You inhale sharply, willing your face to stay neutral.

The staff members move away. But Sakura is still there, focused on her project, the hook moving in and out of the yarn.

Chaewon's hand inches higher, bolder than she's ever been. Her pinky grazes dangerously close to where you're already hardening against your will.

"Stop," you hiss.

She leans closer, her breath against your ear. "I'm ovulating, you know."

Your vision blurs. Blood rushes in your ears.

"You'd feel it the moment you were inside me—"

Sakura looks up suddenly, her eyes meeting yours across the table.

Your heart stops.

Chaewon doesn't move her hand. Instead, she laughs at something on the screen, all innocent charm. "Manager-oppa, the schedule looks too tight. Don't you think?"

Sakura tilts her head, then returns to her crocheting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that your girlfriend's hand is still on your thigh, still dangerously high.

You wrap your fingers around her wrist under the table, stopping her hand but not removing it. A dangerous compromise.

Her pupils dilate. That's when you see it—she's not just playing with you. She's affected too. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing just a little too quick.

She's as desperate as you are.

The realization hits you like a kick to the chest.

"Two minutes!" someone calls.

She extracts her hand slowly, deliberately. Stands up, smooths down her dress. The movement pulls the hem even higher on her thigh.

"Think you can last the rest of the day?" she asks, a challenge glinting in her eyes.

Before you can answer, Jiyeon approaches. "Chaewon-ah, they need you for the car shot."

Chaewon nods, all business again. But as she walks away, she glances back—just once. Just enough for you to see the hunger there, mirroring your own.

The next hour is psychological warfare.

Around you, the set buzzes with activity. Makeup artists touch up the members between shots. The director argues with the cinematographer about lighting. A production assistant nearly trips over a cable, sending everyone scrambling.

And through it all, Chaewon wages her private campaign against your sanity.

This is high-stakes chess played under fluorescent lights.

Every staff member represents a potential career-ending leak. The director who's worked with three generations of idol groups and has seen every possible scandal. The company photographer who reports directly to the CEO. The stylists who know every whispered secret in the industry.

One wrong move, one lingering glance held too long, and everything you've both worked for collapses.

She steps onto the miniature white car, boots planted wide, the dress riding up her thighs as she poses. The camera loves her. Every angle is perfection.

You remember the first time you took her for a drive, six months into your secret relationship. She'd climbed into your lap at a deserted scenic point, the gear shift digging into her leg as she rode you, both of you half-clothed, desperate, her breath fogging the windows as she came.

Now, as she stands on that toy car, her eyes find yours between every take.

During the group shot with the white blocks, she trails her fingers along the edge of the structure, the same way she's traced paths across your chest in the dark of your bedroom. Her fingernails scrape lightly against the white surface, and you swear you can feel phantom scratches down your back.

Each pose becomes more provocative. Each glance more daring.

When the stylist adjusts her dress between shots, Chaewon stretches her arms overhead, making the hem ride dangerously high. The movement fills your nostrils with the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something deeper—that clings to your sheets for days after she leaves.

In the solo shot with the diagram pressed against her bare shoulder, she turns just enough that only you can see how her teeth catch her bottom lip—the same way they do when you're deep inside her.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your skin feels too tight. Every minute is torture, and the fact that you're surrounded by people—Jiyeon checking the time, Eunchae asking you questions, staff members constantly brushing past—only makes it worse.

This isn't just teasing anymore. This is Chaewon pushing both of you to the edge.

Then comes the final blow.

During the last break, when the set is buzzing with activity, she passes by the narrow space between the equipment cases where you're checking inventory.

No one can see you here. Just a sliver of space hidden from the main floor.

She stops, just for a second. Leans in.

"Just fuck me in the changing room already."

The clipboard nearly snaps in your grip.

She walks away, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

And something in you—the last thread of your control—finally snaps.

You count to ten. Wait until she's back in position on set.

Then you move through the space with purpose, face composed, steps measured.

Professional.

You reach her just as the director calls for a lighting check.

Your fingers wrap around her wrist—firm, decisive.

She looks up, triumph flashing in her eyes.

"Do you wanna get caught, you stupid bitch?" you whisper, the words harsh but your tone almost loving.

Her lips part. A small gasp that only you can hear.

"Manager-nim, is something wrong?" the director asks.

"Wardrobe issue," you say smoothly. "Won't take long."

You pull her away from the set, past curious eyes, past Jiyeon's raised eyebrow.

The changing room is too exposed. Too many people.

Five years in this industry has taught you one thing: discretion isn't just preferred, it's survival.

You've built your reputation on professionalism, on being the manager who anticipates problems before they happen.

Chaewon is the one variable you can never fully calculate, the one risk you can't mitigate. And God help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You spot it—a storage room door, slightly ajar. Dark. Empty.

Perfect.

Her breath catches as you change direction, leading her toward it.

"What are you—"

You push the door open. Pull her inside  The storage room door closes with a soft click.

And finally—fucking finally—you're alone.

One second passes.

Two.

Then Chaewon launches herself at you.

Her hands grab your face with bruising intensity, fingernails digging into your scalp, your jaw, anywhere she can grip. The heat of her palms sears your skin as her mouth finds yours with desperate precision. The kiss is nuclear—all teeth and tongue and hunger. She bites your lower lip, hard enough to make you taste the metallic hint of blood, then soothes it with the velvety warmth of her tongue, exploring your mouth like she's trying to devour you whole.

Her body presses against yours, tits crushed against your chest, her hips grinding with shameless need. She grabs your hands and places them on her ass, demanding your touch without saying a word.

"Fuck, I missed your mouth," she gasps, her breath hot against your lips as she pulls at your clothes, fingers trembling and scrabbling at your belt, nails occasionally scraping against your abdomen. She can't seem to decide where to touch you—her hands moving from your chest to your shoulders to your neck, back to your belt, frantic and greedy. "Missed your hands. Missed your cock."

You slam her against the shelves, the metal rattling with a satisfying clang that echoes her gasp. Your hands are everywhere—her face, flushed and warm beneath your palms; her throat, pulse hammering wildly under your fingertips; the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath; the dramatic curve of her waist that fits perfectly in your grip. Every touch relearns the terrain you've been starved of for three endless weeks.

She reaches behind and grabs your wrists, dragging your hands to her ass, forcing you to squeeze the firm flesh. "Touch me everywhere," she demands, voice thick with need. "I've been dying for it."

"You took too fucking long," she pants against your lips, her voice vibrating through you as her hands finally get your pants open, the sudden coolness of air a sharp contrast to the heat of her touch. Her fingers brush against your cock, a teasing touch that makes your jaw clench.

The storage room closes around you—metal shelves on one wall digging into her back, garment racks crowded with costumes exhaling the scent of fabric softener and makeup, cardboard boxes stacked in the corner threatening to topple with each movement. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows that carve her features into something almost feral with need, highlighting the sheen of sweat beginning to form at her temples, at the hollow of her throat.

She makes quick work of the black safety shorts beneath her dress, the fabric making a soft whisper as it slides down her legs before she kicks them away. The movement is so fluid, so urgent, that your mouth goes dry with anticipation. She grabs your hand, guiding it between her legs, letting you feel how ready she is. "See what you do to me?" she whispers, eyes locked on yours.

You spin her around, the quick motion making her gasp. For a moment, you just look at her—the elegant column of her neck where a few baby hairs escape her bob cut, curling with perspiration; the delicate slope of her shoulders, pale and perfect under the harsh light; the dramatic curve where her waist meets the swell of her ass, emphasized by the black belt that begs to be gripped. The white dress clings to every inch, revealing the heat she's generating beneath it. Your mouth waters just looking at her, tongue dragging across suddenly parched lips.

Your hand comes down on her ass with a sharp crack, the sound startlingly loud in the confined space. She jerks forward, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. The pale skin instantly flushes pink under your palm.

"Hurry up," she demands, looking back at you over her shoulder, eyes dark and glassy with impatience, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of brown remains. She arches her back, pushing her ass against your hand, silently begging for more.

You grip her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave impressions. "Shut the fuck up."

Her breath catches with an audible hitch. You know she loves it when you talk to her like this—can feel it in the goosebumps that rise under your touch, in the way her thighs tremble slightly.

You run your hands up her sides, feeling the heat radiating through the thin fabric, then down to the hem of her dress, bunching the material as you start to lift it. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound that seems obscenely loud in the small space. Your hands slide up her thighs, skin like silk beneath your calloused palms, finding the lace edge of her panties. Black, of course. The contrast against her pale skin is stark and mouthwatering.

Another smack lands on her ass, harder this time. You watch the flesh jiggle under the impact, the imprint of your hand blooming pink against her porcelain skin. "You like that?" you ask, already knowing the answer as she pushes back against you.

"Yes," she hisses, grinding back against your hand. "Again. Harder."

You comply, landing another sharp slap, watching the way her body jerks forward before pressing back, seeking more. "Look at you," you murmur, "So perfect for the cameras, but in here, you're just a dirty little slut who gets wet from being spanked."

She moans at your words, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Only for you," she whispers, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.

Spinning her back around, you claim her mouth again, tasting mint and desperation on her tongue as your hand slips between her legs, pressing the lace against her. The fabric is soaked through, warm and clinging to her folds. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your shoulders, sliding down your chest, grabbing at your ass to pull you closer, like she can't get enough of touching you.

"Goddamn," you mutter against her lips, the words a vibration between your connected mouths. "Your pussy's fucking drenched."

You hook your fingers into the lace and yank it aside, the elastic snapping against her thigh. Your middle finger slides through her folds, gathering her wetness, feeling how swollen and ready she is—hot and slick and perfect against your fingertips.

"Look how fucking wet you are," you murmur, watching her face contort with pleasure as you circle her clit, feeling it harden beneath your touch. "Been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"

She whimpers, a high, needy sound that goes straight to your cock as she grinds against your hand. "I told you I've been wet since I woke up," she pants, her breath coming in short, hot puffs against your face. "Thinking about you. About this. About you bending me over and fucking me until I can't remember my own name."

She tries to reach for you, but you catch her wrist with your free hand, her pulse jumping beneath your grip as you pin it above her head against the shelves. The metal is cold against her skin, making her hiss.

"Not yet," you tell her, voice dropping to a growl. "I want you desperate first."

"I'm already desperate," she hisses, trying to rock against your hand, the movement making her belt buckle clink against itself. Her free hand grabs at your shirt, your arm, anywhere she can reach. "Just fuck me already."

You turn her again, pressing her face-first against the metal shelving. The cold surface makes her gasp, back arching instinctively away from it. She braces herself, legs automatically spreading wider on the concrete floor, the heel of her boots making a sharp click as she repositions.

You grab her belt from behind, leather warm from her body heat, using it to arch her back, positioning her ass higher. The positioning makes the dress ride up further, exposing more of her thighs, making her stance more obscene, more perfect.

Another smack lands on her exposed ass, harder than before, the sound cracking through the small room. She jerks forward, a moan ripping from her throat.

"Fucking perfect," you mutter, kneading the flesh you just struck, watching the pink handprint fade and bloom again under your touch. You land another blow on the opposite cheek, evening her out, making her squirm.

The scent of her arousal hits you fully now—musky, sweet, unmistakable. Your mouth waters at the smell of her, cock throbbing painfully in response.

You reach up, fingers finding her hair, gripping the short strands of her bob at the nape of her neck. Not pulling, just holding, controlling. The sensation makes her moan, her head falling back into your grip.

"Please," she whispers, the word a broken, ragged thing as she tries to push back against you.

You keep her in place with your dual grip on her belt and hair. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me," she begs, all teasing gone from her voice, replaced with raw need. "I need your cock inside me. Now."

You release her hair to lean over her, your chest pressing against her back, trapping her heat between your bodies. Your mouth finds her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "After all that teasing? All those filthy little comments with people right fucking there?"

You land another hard slap on her ass, watching the flesh redden under your palm. "This what you wanted? Getting your ass slapped while the whole crew is just outside?"

"Yes," she admits, voice small but sure. "Needed it so bad."

You drag the head of your cock through her slick folds, the sensation making both of you groan—her wetness hot and silky against you, making everything gloriously frictionless. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't make you wait longer."

"Because," she pants, voice vibrating with need, "you want this as bad as I do."

She's right, and you both know it.

You guide yourself to her entrance and thrust in with one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, clinging heat.

The sound she makes is primal—half gasp, half moan, pure fucking need. Your hand clamps over her mouth immediately, palm registering the warm wetness of her breath, the softness of her lips.

"Shhh," you warn even as you pull back and drive in again, the slick sound of your joining obscenely loud in the small space. "You want the whole fucking staff to hear how you take cock? How their perfect Kim Chaewon is just a dirty little whore in here?"

She shakes her head, but her pussy clenches around you at the words, a vice-like grip that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You know she loves the risk, the filth, the knowledge that just outside this door, she's Kim Chaewon of LE SSERAFIM, but in here, she's just yours to use.

"That's what gets you off, isn't it?" you growl against her ear, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "Knowing they all think you're so sweet, so professional, when really you're in here letting me fuck you raw in a storage room."

Moving your hand from her mouth to her throat, you feel her swallow against your palm, her pulse racing beneath your fingers. You don't squeeze, just hold, feeling the vibrations of her moans traveling through her slender neck.

"That's right," you growl against her ear, teeth scraping the shell. "Remember who you belong to."

Her response is a full-body shudder, her inner walls clenching around you, making you groan at the sensation.

You fuck her hard, each thrust making her body jolt against the shelves. The metal creaks ominously, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin, the harsh sounds of your combined breathing. Your hand comes down on her ass again, the sting making her gasp, her pussy clenching around you in response.

"You love that, don't you?" you murmur, watching the red handprint bloom on her pale skin. "Love getting your ass slapped while your tight little pussy gets stretched around my cock."

"Yes," she admits, voice breaking around the word. "Love it. Love everything you do to me."

Without pulling out, you grab her left thigh and lift it, the smooth leather of her boot sliding against your palm as you plant her foot against a lower shelf. The new position opens her up, lets you sink even deeper into her molten core.

"Fuck," she whimpers, head falling forward against her braced arm, the tendons in her neck standing out in sharp relief.

"That's it," you growl, watching yourself disappear inside her over and over, mesmerized by the sight of her taking you, by the glistening evidence of her arousal coating you. "Take it deeper."

You grip her belt with one hand, bunching her dress even higher with the other until it's completely out of the way. The sight of her perfect ass jiggling with each impact makes your head swim, blood rushing in your ears. It's already pink from your earlier attention, the skin warm to the touch.

Your hand slides up her spine to grip her hair again, this time with purpose. You gather the short strands in your fist, tugging just enough to make her back arch further, to make her gasp, throat exposed and vulnerable.

"Look at you," you say, voice rough with exertion, the words punched out of you with each thrust. "LE SSERAFIM's perfect leader, taking cock in a storage room, being such a whore. Such a pretty little slut with your ass all red from my hands, your pussy dripping all over my cock."

She pushes back against you, taking you deeper, her body greedily swallowing every inch. "Harder," she demands, voice breaking on the word. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."

You grip both her hips now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and pick up the pace. The new angle has you hitting that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble, makes her walls flutter and clench around you. The wet sounds of her pussy taking your cock fill the small space—obscene, filthy, perfect.

"You're so fucking tight," you groan, feeling her walls grip you like a silken vice. "Squeezing my cock like you're trying to milk it dry."

You switch your grip, one hand finding her throat again, feeling her swallow against your palm as you apply the gentlest pressure. Just enough to remind her who's in control, to make her breath catch. Your other hand comes down hard on her ass again, the smack loud enough to make you both freeze for a second, worried it might have been heard outside.

"You've been a fucking menace all day," you growl, your pace relentless, the sound of your bodies coming together a wet percussion. "Strutting around in this dress, whispering that shit in my ear, touching me under the table."

Your grip on her throat tightens fractionally, making her pulse jump against your fingers. Her only response is to push back harder, taking you deeper, her body yielding and demanding all at once.

"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" you ask, voice low and rough in her ear. "Slap your ass, pull your hair, fuck you where anyone could walk in and see you—see what a desperate little whore you really are."

"Yes," she admits, the confession barely audible. "Anything. Everything."

The tension builds between you, a tangible thing in the small, overheated room. The air is thick with the scent of sex, with the sounds of pleasure barely contained, with the electric certainty that this is exactly where you both need to be.

You change the angle again, leaning over her back to reach around to her front. The new position grinds your pelvis against her ass with each thrust, your cock hitting new spots inside her. Your fingers find her clit, circling it in tight, firm motions, feeling it swell and harden under your touch.

"Oh fuck," she gasps, her inner walls fluttering around you like wings. "Right there, don't stop."

You don't stop. You keep up the relentless pace, feeling her get wetter around you with each stroke, her arousal making everything slick and hot and perfect. Your fingers on her clit get slicker, the combination of her arousal and your spit making obscene wet sounds that mix with the slap of skin on skin.

"That's right, take it just like that," you encourage, voice strained. "Take it like the cock-hungry little slut you are."

Instead of being offended, she moans louder, her body responding to your words as much as to your touch. You know exactly what she likes to hear, exactly how far to push the fantasy of degradation that excites her so much.

The pleasure is so intense you have to grit your teeth to keep from coming too soon. Three weeks without this—without her tight heat squeezing you, without her desperate little sounds, without the feeling of being buried inside her—has left you balanced on a knife's edge of control.

"You close?" you ask, voice strained, the words feeling like they're being ripped from your chest.

"Yes," she pants, the word almost a sob. "So close."

You reach up with your free hand, tangling your fingers in her hair again, carefully pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her neck, watching the muscles work beneath the skin as she swallows. You bend to press open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, right where the dress leaves her skin bare, tasting salt and sweetness.

"Think about this tomorrow," you murmur against her skin, lips dragging over the goosebumps your breath creates. "When you're sitting in meetings, when you're in practice, when you're smiling for the cameras—remember how fucked you look right now. Remember how your ass felt getting spanked while my cock was inside you. Remember what a perfect little whore you are for me."

Her breath catches. Her pussy clenches around you. She's right on the edge, her body wound tight as a bowstring.

"Remember you're fucking mine," you growl, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes her cry out before she can stop herself, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet room.

You cover her mouth again, palm feeling the heat of her breath, the wetness of her lips, but it's too late—the sound echoed in the small room. Both of you freeze, hearts pounding, listening for any reaction from outside.

Nothing. Just the continued sounds of the busy set.

The moment of fear transforms quickly back into desperate need. Your thrusts become harder, deeper, more deliberate. Her body responds with renewed hunger, pushing back to meet you stroke for stroke, the rhythm between you perfect and instinctive.

Your hand slips from her mouth to her throat, not squeezing, just feeling her pulse race under your palm, feeling the vibrations of her moans travel through your fingertips.

"You gonna come for me?" you ask, feeling your own orgasm building at the base of your spine, heat coiling tight and insistent. "Gonna come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are?"

She nods frantically, beyond words now. Her body tightens around you, clenching with each thrust, the pressure building visibly in the arch of her back, the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers curl against the metal shelf.

You can feel your own release building, the tight grip of her pussy dragging you toward the edge. You've been thinking about this for weeks—dreaming about it, jerking off to memories of it—and now you're finally here, buried inside her, both of you desperate and filthy and perfect.

Her breath hitches. Her pussy flutters around your cock. You know the signs—she's right there, teetering on the precipice.

One more hard slap on her ass, the sting making her gasp, her inner walls clenching around you in response.

You lower her leg from the shelf, repositioning her with both feet on the ground, but spread wide. You grip her belt again with one hand, keeping up the pressure on her clit with the other. The new angle has you grinding against that spot inside her that makes her go crazy, makes her whole body tremble.

"Come on," you urge, your own control slipping, voice rough and broken. "Come on my cock, Chaewon. Let me feel it. Let me feel what a fucking whore you are for me."

Her body responds instantly, like your words were the final trigger she needed. She buries her face against her arm to muffle the sound as her orgasm rips through her, her pussy clamping down on you in rhythmic pulses, a flood of warmth surrounding you. Her legs shake so hard you have to hold her up with the grip on her belt, feeling the tremors travel through her entire body.

The sight of her completely wrecked, the feel of her convulsing around you, the knowledge that you did this to her—it all sends you over the edge. You thrust deep one last time, grinding against her ass as you come, filling her up with pulse after pulse, the pleasure so intense it's almost pain, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers, the backs of your knees, the top of your skull.

"Fuck, Chaewon, fuck," you chant, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself inside her, feeling the way she milks every drop from you, her body greedy even in its exhaustion.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of ragged breathing, your heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace, the distant muffled voices of the set filtering back into your awareness.

You're still inside her, softening but reluctant to break the connection. Her body occasionally trembles with aftershocks, her pussy giving your cock little squeezes that make you hiss with oversensitivity, the sensation bordering on too much.

You run your hand gently over her ass, soothing the skin you'd been striking moments ago. It's still warm to the touch, a faint pink that will fade before she has to be back on set. Your touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the roughness from before.

"You okay?" you murmur against her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

"Better than okay," she whispers back, voice wrecked but satisfied.

Eventually, you pull out slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. You watch as a trickle of your come leaks from her, sliding down her inner thigh. The sight sends a possessive thrill through you, primal and satisfying.

She straightens, turning to face you. Her makeup is smeared, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes have that dazed, satisfied look that only comes after she's been thoroughly fucked. A thin sheen of sweat makes her skin glow under the fluorescent light. Her short hair is disheveled where you'd gripped it, sticking up in places that you smooth down with gentle fingers.

You grab tissues from a box on the shelf, gently cleaning between her legs. She watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips—so different from the smirk she's been tormenting you with all day.

"Did I hurt you?" you ask, suddenly aware of how rough you were, eyes searching for marks on her throat, her wrists, her hips, ghosting your fingers over her ass where you'd struck her.

She shakes her head, running her fingers through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. "Babe, It was perfect."

You retrieve her safety shorts from the floor and help her back into them, then smooth down her dress. Your hands linger on her waist, not quite ready to let go, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric.

A smirk forms slowly on her face, eyes glittering with mischief as she leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Think they heard?"

You press a final kiss to her shoulder, lingering there, inhaling deeply—tasting salt and perfume and her, that essence that's uniquely Chaewon beneath the expensive fragrance. Your lips trace a path to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her pulse still racing beneath your mouth.

"Not if you keep your mouth shut next time," you murmur against her skin, unable to resist giving her one more gentle bite.

She hums, the sound vibrating against your lips. "But where's the fun in that?" she whispers, that familiar playful defiance in her voice.

As she attempts to take a step back, her legs buckle. She grabs your shoulders to steady herself, her usual composure completely absent, the bratty confidence from seconds ago vanishing.

"I can't move," she whispers, voice wrecked, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes. All the sharp edges of her personality momentarily dissolved, leaving her soft and vulnerable in a way no one else ever sees. "My legs won't work."

"Good," you murmur, unable to hide your satisfaction as you press a kiss to her forehead, supporting her weight. You hold her close for a moment, feeling the way she melts against you, completely undone.

After a moment, that familiar glint of mischief gradually returns to her eyes. The transformation is beginning; the desperate, wrecked woman slowly rebuilding herself into the polished idol.

In this moment, with her guard completely down, she looks younger, softer. The harsh fluorescent lighting should be unflattering, but somehow it just makes her look more real—smudged eyeshadow, faint red marks on her throat where your fingers were, her hair disheveled despite her attempts to smooth it. For a few seconds more, she's just yours.

She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness. Her eyes, usually sharp and mischievous, soften as she looks at you. She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—so different from the desperate ones you shared minutes ago. This one is deliberate, unhurried.

"I love you," she whispers against your mouth, the words barely audible but unmistakable. It's not something she says often—both of you knowing how dangerous those words can be in your situation.

Your hand comes up to cover hers where it rests against your face, holding her there for a moment. "I love you too," you reply quietly, the words filling the small space between you. "Even when you're being a menace."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Especially when I'm being a menace," she corrects, and you can't help but smile.

You glare at her playfully, and she giggles—the sound at complete odds with what just happened, with the filthy things you both just did, with the woman who was begging for your cock and calling herself your whore minutes ago. The contrast is jarring and perfect; this duality of hers that only you get to witness.

She leans in and kisses you deeply, but without the desperate edge from before. This kiss is softer, a promise.

When she pulls back, you can see the clock ticking in her head. Reality intruding.

"You go first," you say, checking your watch. "They'll be looking for you. The shoot needs to wrap in twenty minutes."

She nods, takes a deep breath, and you watch in fascination as she transforms back into LE SSERAFIM's leader right before your eyes. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, her expression becomes more controlled. It's like watching an actress step into character—except you know both versions are equally real.

She checks her reflection in her phone, adjusts her belt, smooths her hair with practiced precision. Only you would notice the slight tremble in her fingers, the pink marks on her hips where your hands were, the satisfied glow in her eyes that the camera won't quite catch but you can see clearly.

"How do I look?" she asks, voice steady now, almost back to the professional tone she uses with everyone else.

Like she's just been thoroughly fucked. Like her thighs are still sticky with both of you. Like she's hiding a universe of secrets behind that poised expression. Like she's yours.

"Perfect," you say instead, swallowing the possessive thoughts.

She smiles—not the coy smirk from before, but something genuine that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished mask she wears for everyone else.

Just as you think she's about to leave, she presses one last kiss to your jaw, her fingers trailing down your chest with deliberate slowness. Her lips move to your ear, breath hot against your skin.

"I'll be thinking about this all night," she whispers, voice dropping to that register that makes your pulse quicken despite your recent release. Then, even lower, just for you: "And touching myself the second I get back to the dorm."

Before you can respond, she's slipped out the door with a final squeeze of your hand, leaving you alone in the storage room with her promise echoing in your mind, the scent of sex still hanging in the air, mingling with her perfume.

You give it two minutes before following, clipboard held strategically in front of you, expression carefully neutral as you adjust your own mask—the efficient manager, all business.

By the time you return, Chaewon is already back on set, taking direction for the next shot, nodding professionally at the photographer's instructions. Her posture is immaculate, her expression perfectly calibrated—looking as composed and professional as if she'd just been touching up her makeup instead of being bent over a shelf with your hand prints on her ass.

No one looks at her twice. No one notices the way she stands slightly differently, favoring one leg. No one sees the slight darkening at the base of her throat where your mouth had been.

You watch from behind the monitor, maintaining a careful distance, occasionally checking your phone or making notes on your clipboard. The perfect picture of professionalism.

She gets into position, poised and beautiful under the lights, following direction flawlessly. The camera loves her—captures her elegance, her poise, but misses completely the woman you know.

Then she glances directly at the camera, and for just a second—

The look she gives—half-lidded eyes, the barest hint of teeth catching her lower lip, a fleeting microexpression of remembered pleasure—that's just for you.

And you know, watching her seamlessly return to her perfect idol persona, that you'll both be counting the minutes until you can be alone again.

...

AN: Yes I'm a certified CHAEWON simp. This is strike 3 chaewon from me with more coming.

[cuteandhughesy]

Secrets I Have Held In My Heart | Jonathan Kovacevic

summary: you and johnathan are left to deal with the aftermath of your secret relationship as tabloids get a whiff of the forbidden romance, all while johnathan is dealing with a nagging injury.

[word count] 3.5k

warnings: NSFW! coach!reader | mentions of injury and surgery | swearing | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | smut | undisclosed p in v intercourse | read at your own discretion

a/n: after some amazing ideas and suggestions from @hockeyjunkieblog I knew I had to re-visit this story. everyone go give her some love because she is truly the mastermind behind this two part kovy story ❤️❤️ as well, thank you so much for 1500!

read part one here !

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the anti climactic sound of moderate beeping from various hospital machines invade your mind, all while your leg bounces and twitches with nervous anticipation.

hospitals always have you feeling this way though—because besides babies being born and the ding of a cancer free bell, what kind of positive noises come from a hospital? exactly.

it doesn't help that johnathan lounges on his hospital bed, seemingly cool as a cucumber as he waits for his surgeon, flipping through tv channels like it's just another day of being lazy on your apartment couch.

the cherry on top is the arm behind his messy head of hair—the good kind of messy that he gets anytime he's between your legs and you've been pulling and tugging on his locks like a starved woman. if it wasn't for the anxiety coursing through your veins, the hospital gown wrapped around his body would be sexy. especially in the way it's gotten so tight around his bicep that it's practically ripping stitches.

but it's not sexy, because your boyfriend is about to have a huge surgery, one that will put him out well into the beginning of next season—and you're positive that you're more frightened about it then he is.

like johnathan can sense your weary, his warm eyes flicker away from the tv in the corner of the stark white hospital room, and find your hunched over figure.

"take your thumb out of your mouth baby. you're gunna bite your skin raw."

like a scolded child, you quickly pull your thumb out from between your teeth and slide your hand between your thighs—you hadn't even noticed the nervous habit you'd been caught in until johnathan pointed it. you’d been too focused on his vitals and the sound of rolling beds in the hallway to worry about your damn cuticle.

but of course, your boyfriend noticed.

your straighten your posture and with wide eyes, you just stare back at johnathan, unsure what else to say. because since that injury sustained during the playoffs, your boyfriend has been hearing the same questions and pity answers from everyone around him.

are you worried?

everything will be alright, kovy.

will you be back before the season?

keep your head up.

what's recovery going to look like?

and you're really trying your best to just chill the fuck out, and just be there for him—even though all you want to do is coddle him and kiss his knee like that will magically heal him.

you blink, all doe eyed and sweet, and johnathan can't help the way his lips slowly slide upwards in the beginning stages of a smirk.

"how are you so calm right now?" you blurt out before you can properly think the brazen response, a half amused expression on your face. the other half? complete disbelief.

he shrugs a shoulder while sliding the small tv remote back onto the top of the side table, leaving the marathon of how I met your mother to play quietly through out the room.

johnathan pats the sliver of space his gigantic body doesn't take up, "come here."

you shoot your boyfriend a tentative look, which only makes his smirk grow. regardless, johnathan doesn't need to ask again, because you're already getting to your feet and shuffling towards the crisp hospital bed.

as your thighs hit the edge of the cheap, foam mattress, you hesitate, arms crossed over your gray sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—your gaze naturally falling to his surgery prepped knee, propped up on a pillow and wrapped in some sort of bandage that looks way too tight.

you really have to fight the urge to check it.

but johnathan is grabbing your elbow before you get the chance, unwinding your crossed arms before pulling you down to the bed, practically tucking you into his lap. and because he's a pain in your ass, he winces, all dramatic and like he's in pain.

"oh god," you jump, twisting yourself out of his hold in an attempt to get off the bed. "your knee!"

"relax," johnathan snickers, easily pulling you back down. "i'm just messing with you."

you grumble like you're annoyed even though your body relaxes from his soothing words. "that's not funny johnathan," you smack his chest with a hearty thump—he barley feels it. "this is serious stuff."

"johnathan?" he repeats, "what happened to johnny?"

"you're only johnny when you're not pissing me off."

he laughs but doesn't say anything yet, opting to press a lingering kiss to the side of your head before further pestering you. "am I pissing you off because i'm trying to make you laugh? or is it because you're nervous?"

your head naturally finds the dip between johnathan's neck and broad shoulder, and even if you're not in a state of relaxation, the feeling of his hard body under your cheek has you sighing out all low and content.

your lips part, unsure what you want to say. the last thing you want to do is make johnathan nervous when he's clearly not. as well, you don't want him to feel like you're trying to take attention away from his injury. not that you are, and not that johnathan would ever think that—but still.

subconsciously, you begin tracing little patterns on his chest over the material of the blue hospital gown, "I just want everything to go smoothly for you."

your tone is so cautious and heavy that it makes johnathan frown. "it will be okay, baby," he tells you warmly, lips brushing against your makeup free forehead as he speaks.

the softness of it all has a pleasant shiver rolling over your skin. "I know, i'm just...worried about you."

"don't be." he shrugs and squeezes around your ribs.

you laugh incredulously, tilting your head back just enough so you can look up at him. your neck pulls in protest, but it's all worth it when you see that your boyfriend is already looking down at you with a fond grin on his face.

"kind of hard not to when i'm in love with you." you huff lightly.

"awh, my pretty girl." johnathan's compliment trails off in a way that has your belly swooping. he closed the small distance between you and steals a familiar kiss.

"at least say it back," you chime once you separate, "you know, just in case you die in surgery."

"it's a knee surgery, babe."

you squint, "anything can happen johnny."

your nickname for him has johnathan smiling in a boyish way. "I love you," he mutters, thick fingers absentmindedly raking through your hair. "and when we get home you can coddle me and kiss me and make me soup like I know you are dying to do."

at first, you jaw goes slack with disbelief—because, yeah, that's quite literally all you've been yearning to do. after a beat, you drop your head back to his collarbone, "ugh, you know me so well it's sickening."

a firm, quick rap on the hospital door as you sitting up. a young nurse, no older than 25 with curly hair tightly pulled back, and beautiful skin, pokes her head in after johnathan permits her entrance, her dark eyes wide and eager.

"mr. kovacevic? the surgeon is making his rounds and will be with your shortly to go over the final details of your procedure."

your boyfriend nods and sends the young girl a polite smile, "perfect, thank you."

the nurse closes the door once more, the choatic sounds of the hospital hallway dulling as the entrance closes. you sigh again, eyes flickering back towards your boyfriend.

you reach out and push your hand through his thick, dark hair, running your nails over his scalp. you bite into your bottom lip cautiously.

johnathan gives you a look, one that tells you to chill out and stop being such a worry wart. you can only shrug sheepishly.

"you ready?" he prompts, taking ahold of your hand.

"are you?"

"fuck yeah I am—ready to get back to normal."

you shake your head slowly, "you're ridiculous."

"you're pretty."

"that's not getting you out of this."

the left side of his mouth quirks up, "I love you."

"I love you." you drawl dramatically. "I guess."

johnathan scoffs, "you better give me a kiss after that—I might die in there you know."

he's clearly teasing, but your eyes widen all the same. "johnathan!"

—

your hands pause on the sudsy dishes when the sound of johnathan's sock covered feet, followed by the clicking of crutches, sluggishly sound down the hall.

he's not long back from his overnight stay at the hospital—which, thankfully the surgery went as good as the doctors hoped, and if everything else goes smoothly, johnathan will be back at the rink next season—and he's supposed to not be walking around. not with a wrapped up knee. and certainly not without your assistance.

especially if it’s for something stupid like the last then—when he claimed he needed more berries in his yogurt.

"baby," you start firmly, wiping your wet hands on the rubber duck dish towel johnathan insisted he needed on your last trip to TJ MAXX. "you're not supposed to get out of bed."

you spin just as he emerges from your hallway, hazelnut following behind him like the attentive cat she is—sliding between his legs and crutches in a way that makes you nervous.

both you and johnathan decided that while he's on bed rest, that him staying at your place would be the most comfortable option. it was closer to his doctors office, and if he's in your space, you're able to hover him and baby him. it's really a win win.

you're expecting a half smirk and some childish excuse about being bored when you face your boyfriend, but instead johnathan is sporting a set of panic riddled eyes and a ghostly pale face. his cellphone, which has been his saving grace during his bed rest, clutched tightly in his big hand.

instantly, your stomach drops. "what's wrong?" you take two cautious but quick steps towards him, beginning to close the distance between you. "are you in pain?" you prompt, voice wavering while your eyes subconsciously dart down to his leg—bandage concealed under his oversized sweatpants.

"no," johnathan swallows, voice an octave lower than usual. it only makes your worry grow tenfold. "it's, uh—" he trails off with another rough gulp. a loaded beat passes, nothing but hazelnuts claws clicking on the floor as she switches between your and johnathan's legs, and then he juts the phone in your direction.

confused, you take his cellphone. you let your eyes linger on his sickly expression for a second before they dart down towards the phone. you read the tweet lighting up the screen—and just when you thought your stomach couldn’t churn anymore, it practically jumps to your throat, bile threatening to escape.

because there, on twitter with more activity than you can count, is a collection of pictures, all containing you and johnathan. together.

they're from a few days ago, outside the hospital after surgery. johnathan, in a wheelchair with his knee all tucked and swollen under his wrap, accompanied by you.

you who's pushing his hair pack and holding your tote bag full of johnathan's essentials.

and johnathan who's staring up at you, lips puckered asking for a kiss. and because god has decided that he wants you to suffer, there's also a photo of you giving him said kiss.

you're going to be sick.

fan spotted devils kovacevic leaving the hospital after planned surgery looking very close to devils assistant coach, y/l/n.

there's been rumours. of course there's been rumours. you're a young, female coach in the national hockey league. surrounded by young, rich men. if reports and fans weren't questioning you about your team, they were questioning you about a look you gave to hischier, or why you sat so close to hughes during team breakfast.

and that's not to say your relationship with johnathan is a complete secret. you both disclosed your intimacy to the head of the devils management mere weeks after you and johnathan reconciled from your weird half breakup. you'd fully expected to be fired, but surprisingly you weren't.

obviously, you both promised to keep it strictly professional—with your plans to eventually move down to the farm team to coach once all the pieces fell into place. and management was fine with it, as long is it remained under wraps.

they didn't want the drama. they wanted to protect the integrity of the organization.

but as you stare at these no less than incriminating photos, you know you've failed them.

rumours are easy.

rumours can be denied, and most of the time, are too ridiculous to be believable.

but pictures? pictures were you're kissing and touching and just being a couple? that's just straight up proof.

you're not sure how long you stand there, finger tips wrinkled from the dish water and bare toes on display while you stare at the comments and headlines coming in—calls and texts from johnathan's teammates flashing on his screen as the pictures spread across platforms.

all you know is that your mouth is so dry that your tongue feels stuck in place.

johnathan slowly pry's the phone from your fingers, and that's when you see that your hands have started to tremble. "it's okay," he tells you, pocketing the device without so much as a second glance at it.

tears well in your eyes, lips parting is disbelief and violation. you didn't even notice the eyes on you outside the hospital—why would you l when your boyfriend was freshly out of surgery and starting his recovery?

regardless, you should've been more careful. smarter.

"it's not okay," you croak helplessly.

johnathan slowly shuffles the final step towards you, mindful of his leg. he pulls you into his chest so tenderly that it hurts your heart, arms wrapping around your shoulders and just holding you there.

he kisses your head and keeps his lips there, unwilling to separate himself from your warmth. johnathan inhales your scent, basking in the way it immediately soothes his whirling thoughts.

you can't help but to cry pathetically into his chest, eyes clenched tightly while you fist the fabric of his hoodie. the rug you've been balancing on has been completely pulled from under your feet, leaving you a wobbly, uncertain mess.

the pictures flash behind your eyes, making you open them once again.

"we'll be okay," johnathan mumbles into your hair, palm sweeping up and down your spine. "we've got each other. everything will be alright."

—

the past week has been hell.

every time you eyes close, you're transported into a dark, never ending hole of despair.

you've always been good at turning a blind eye, and keeping your chin held high in regards to derogatory and misogynistic comments retaining your job position.

mostly stemming from the fact that these no good trolls had nothing on you but their own sick, disgusting assumptions. but now—with pictures and proof floating around online—these comments have gotten worse. and worst of all, they’ve become true.

you've been a walking zombie since that day twitter blew up with those collection of photos. handling nothing more than your daily routine of feeding johnathan and the cat—usually forgetting to eat yourself unless your boyfriend sits you down and forces food down your throat—making sure his medication is in order, cleaning, showering and then going to bed.

you just feel...weird about everything going on. you feel like a phoney. and you know you shouldn't, because your relationship with johnathan overshadows everything else in contention to this messy situation. but you can't help it.

it's not until you and johnathan are both called into a meeting with management that you start to feel normal again. because it's there where you're told that there's nothing you could've done. it's not your fault.

it's unfortunate, of course, but there's nothing else to it besides that.

it's the biggest weight lifted of your shoulders when those words come from managements mouth. because when its johnathan telling you those things, it's different. he has to say that because he loves you. but management honestly couldn't give a fuck less.

which means yeah, you're definitely not retuning to your position behind the devils bench next season, but that's to be expected.

johnathan had been a little upset about you loosing your job, but once again, like you've done many times, reassured him—and yourself—that the job isn't your dream. he is.

management puts out a difficult statement the following day regarding the photos and your resignation.

and truthfully, that's when you expected the heavy feeling to return to your chest—when the comments started again and you were confirmed to bed this painted puck bunny—but it never came.

oddly enough, you felt free.

when you had expressed your new found feelings to johnathan on your couch, hazelnut curled up on his strong thigh while you rested your head on his even stronger shoulder, he started to grin.

"well," he breathed, scratching your scalp absentmindedly, "now I have a whole new excuse to love you louder."

and yeah, you think, he does.

—

johnathan's weight is delicious on top of you. his body is pressed so tightly against yours that it's almost suffocating, but you invite the pressure in like no tomorrow.

the first thing johnathan did after his doctor gave him the all clear to ditch the crutches and begin using his legs normally, was that he took a slow jog around your dining room table—because he’s 5 years old, apparently.

but after that he threw you down to the mattress and climbed right on top of you.

because according to johnathan, and you quote, 'I am sick of only being able to do cowgirl—not that i'm complaining about having your tits in my face, but you know.'

to which you responded, 'you're lucky I gave you sex at all with that bum ass knee.'

which had johnathan cutting you off with a firm lick up your slick slit, sucking on your clit in the way that makes you cry out every time.

he's already made you cum three times, and if it wasn't for the way your legs were currently shaking around his thrusting hips, you'd wipe that smug smirk off his face. or kiss it off. whatever.

"fucking hell baby," he grunts, lips brushing your sweat smeared forehead, "can feel you fluttering again."

you whine, pathetically at that, back arching off the mattress until your chest is even tighter against his—nipples brushing against his dusting of chest hair oh so perfectly. "oh, gunna come again."

and isn't that the truth. it's only been a few minutes since your last climax, but you've been teetering on that blurry in between line ever since.

when johnathan slips his hand between your intertwined bodies to rub quick, firm circles on your puffy clit, you cry out in pleasure—orgasm washing over you and heating your already scorching body.

that fourth orgasm seems to be the final push johnathan needs. his abs tighten and clench in a way that, if you were looking, would surely having you drooling, before he cums. warm ropes of sticky seed filling your spent entrance.

"holy fuck." he breathes roughly, "you feel so good. you okay?" his warm eyes flicker away from where your bodies are connected and up to your blissed out gaze.

you’re panting as you quirk a brow, "are you? knee bugging you at all?"

johnathan pulls out slowly, but you still whine like a sad kitten at the feeling. he is momentarily distracted by the sight of your mixed fluids seeping out of your entrance, a boyish smile pulling at his lips as the cum pools on the bedding.

you hit his torso with your knee.

his eyes dart up to yours again, smile only growing. "don't worry 'bout me baby." he crawls back over you and captures your slick lips in a dizzy, slow kiss.

you sigh into it, shaky hands sliding to the back of his neck to hold him closer—painted toes curling happily when johnathan slowly slips his tongue along yours.

"don't worry about anything," he hums after a beat, forehead pressed to yours once again. "not my knee, not your job and not those stupid fucking comments and articles."

your chest falls with a long exhale, "I can't help it. and I feel fine—I do! but with everything still swirling and circulating, it's just hard not to get in my head about everything."

he hums thoughtfully, pushing some of your damp hair away from your cheek. "I know, but it will all blow over soon."

curious, your brows tug inwards. "does it bother you?"

a beat passes before johnathan shrugs a lazy shoulder. "it bothers me only because it bothers you. but what they're saying—we know it's all bullshit. so they can say what they want." he trails off with a playful squint. "like, i'm planning to put a ring on that finger and pump you full of babies—"

"johnny-"

"—im serious. I don't care about anything but you. so let them talk because it really doesn't matter."

eventually, you nod, leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss against johnathan's soft lips. "okay. you've got me?"

he kisses you back, longer and firmer than the previous one. "i've got you."

[kaciidubs]

for the LOVE of me… i cannot stop thinking about polyOT8! skz x fem reader where they have a bulge kink 🤭 Lee know and Reader were caught on the sofa whilst the others were finishing up at jyp and then it hit the boys.. there was a visible bulge in your abdomen where minho was BURRIED inside of you (you were basically fucking like rabbits and the boys kinda joined in afterwards) 😽🫶🏻

Darling, OT8 x Reader is my bread and butter, I shit you not - and pair it with exhibitionism/voyeurism? You're out to kill me, I'm convinced.

-

You were never more grateful for owning so many throw blankets, or else you'd be the main reason why the couch cleaning market skyrocketed.

"M-Minho! Fuck, right there!"

Your hands twisted into the soft cotton, knuckles turning white as your body rocked against the covered cushions.

Above you hovered one of your eight boyfriends, face glistening with sweat and black hair messily swept back - his annoyance with it getting in his face was palpable the minute you two started your little fuck-fest.

His face lit up an a maniacal grin, tongue poking out to lick at the corner of his lips, "Right there? Tch, you're saying that as if I don't already know where all your spots are - such a bold little kitten." A breathless chuckle escaped from him as he hiked your right leg higher on his chest, keeping your left straddled between his own muscular thighs. "Since you think I don't know what I'm doing, maybe I shouldn't let you come again, hm?"

Your pussy clenched at the prospect, mind reeling at the thought of being left dry after so, so many highs. "No! Please, please don't, I'll-"

"You'll what?" He challenged, dark eyes sparkling with mischief, "You'll go crazy without having a cock to keep you full? You'll seek out our other partners and beg them to finish what you started?"

Your eyes rolled, body writhing as much as it could in his vice grip, keeping you pinned and open for anyone to see - for anyone to observe the way you were diminished to nothing but a hole for him to use.

"Finish what she started, huh?"

The new voice brought you back to yourself, your gaze focusing on Changbin walking into the living room with Seungmin and Jeongin in hot pursuit. Soon, the space was filled with each of your significant others, crowding around the couch where Minho was - still - driving into you as if nothing had changed.

"You got him all riled up again, huh, princess?" Chris cooed, amusement evident on his face.

"Princess?" Minho scoffed, hooking your leg into the crook of his arm and using his thumb to rub tight circles around your swollen clit, "She's been a brat - thinks what she says goes. I wonder why."

Before either one of them could comment, Hyunjin hissed out a short breath, "Fuck, look at her." To which Felix and Han followed up with a choked gasp of their own. "Holy shit."

Even through your delirium, you could see that his eyes weren't focused on your face - no, they were currently trained on where you and Minho were connected, and it didn't click until you snaked a hand down to your abdomen to feel a difference.

Fucking hell.

On each rough inward thrust, you could feel the shape of Minho's dick bulge against your abdomen and press against the lower part of your stomach.

"Noona, your hand," Jeongin whined, coaxing you into moving your hand back to it's previous position with a sobbed moan.

"Min- Min- I'm gonna-"

"Come for me," he gritted, rutting his hips against yours until your body shook, coming with a sound you could only hope was an attractive moan to say the least.

It took some time for you to come back to your senses, and when you did you were met with the guys in various stages of undress - a new wave of heavy lust dampening the atmosphere.

Blinking up at the second eldest, your eyebrows furrowed, "Min?"

Chuckling softly, he nodded knowingly at your tone, "I finished too, kitten - now, how about we let the others have a go, hm?"

[unedited]

[zaczenemiji]

Curtain Calls and Curveballs III

Kenji Sato x Actress!Reader

Synopsis: Your long-standing feud transformed into a legendary public dynamic where you navigate your high-profile careers, and confront your true feelings.

Word Count: 1,629

Genre/Warning: Confessions, Enemies to Lover, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn

Author’s Note: The last part aaaaaa im gonna miss this 🤧

PART ONE | PART TWO

MASTERLIST

With every passing year, you were getting a step closer to your dream. The stage became a set and curtain calls became wrap parties. You no longer had rehearsals, you had takes.

There’s no audience, there’s cameras instead. Your live performances were now edited ones, and changing costumes didn’t have to be done so quickly anymore.

Projected voices and exaggerated gestures were no longer your thing. You were now more subtle—nuanced. Micro-expressions and quieter dialogues became your new thing.

These are the many changes you went through to become who you are today, the It Girl of Hollywood. You were known for your sharp wit and an even sharper tongue; thanks to the thorn on your side since high school.

Your rivalry with Kenji became the stuff of tabloid legend. Your public feud became a part of your brands. This time around, though, it was you who had the unerring knack for getting under his skin.

How the tables have turned, indeed. And Kenji looked forward to your verbal sparring matches even more so than before.

Whenever Kenji had a big game, you would inevitably tweet something snarky. And whenever you had a new movie release, he would make a point to mock you in interviews.

It was a dance you two perfected through the years; one that hid the truth neither was willing to admit. The world knows, oh they do. “The more you hate, the more you love,” as they said.

Your one-of-a-kind relationship with Kenji is all over social media, with fans and fellow celebrities alike piqued by your long-standing rivalry of sorts.

“Okay, (y/n),” your manager said. "I need to brief you on something before we get to the studio."

The two of you are headed to an interview with your one and only enemy, Kenji Sato. The limo you were on glided smoothly through the bustling streets of LA.

"What is it this time?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. “Another last-minute change?"

"Not exactly," she answered. "There's been a lot of buzz on social media about you and Kenji."

“Buzz?” your eyes widened. "What kind of buzz?”

"Well, let's just say the world is very interested in your... dynamic," she replied, smirking.

You took your phone out and started scrolling through tweets, heart racing as you read the comments from various celebrities.

You couldn't help but smile at the comments, a mix of embarrassment and amusement swirling inside you. "Wow, they really think we're... in love?"

It seems like the world ships you two. You can’t blame them. Sometimes you wonder if you’re giving too much away that they’re starting to notice.

But everyone knew already. They have done so since high school. The only ones who didn’t know, or rather, didn’t admit, were you and Kenji.

You were a study-first type of girl when you were a student. And now, you’re a career woman who loves her job. Somehow, there is currently no spot in your life for dating.

Your agency tried, they really did. They tried putting you in a love team with other actors but for every interaction with Kenji, the fans seemed to love it more.

But no matter how you deny it—to others and to yourself—there is something that you refuse to face, a repressed admiration blanketed by faux hate.

Meanwhile, in the studio, bright lights were beaming down on Kenji as he adjusted his jacket. He’s tossing a baseball form hand-to-hand as he waits for you.

In a short while, the door swung open. You walked in with the grace of a seasoned actress, smile dazzling and eyes sharp. You made your way to the stage, commanding attention.

Kenji’s smirk widened as you approached. You looked elegant and sophisticated in the chic dress that you wore. You always did. You were always so beautiful and smart, and all so dense.

“Kenji!” you said with a mock sweetness. “I didn’t know they let amateurs in the show.” You sat down on the couch next to him.

Kenji leaned back in his chair, still tossing the ball. “Well, they needed someone to balance out your overacting,” he replied.

The host, catching the vibe, jumped in with a chuckle, "Welcome, both of you. The dynamic duo, or should I say the dynamic rivals. How are you feeling today?"

Kenji shrugged, his eyes never leaving you. "Feeling great,” he answered. “Especially now that I know (y/n) here is going to try and one-up me."

You crossed your legs and leaned back, matching his intensity. "Oh, Kenji, it's not about one-upping,” you said. “It's about showing the world who truly deserves the spotlight."

The host laughed, clearly enjoying the energy between them, "Well, let's dive right into it. You two have a practically legendary history. Care to share how it all started?"

Kenji glanced at you, his expression playful. "It's simple,” he answered. “(Y/n) has always had a talent for annoying me."

You rolled her eyes, "And Kenji has always had a talent for being easily annoyed."

The host leaned forward, sensing an opportunity. "But there's got to be more to it than that,” he said. “You both always seem to have this... chemistry."

Kenji smirked, leaning closer to you, "Chemistry that explodes, you mean."

You shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Yeah, the kind that blows up in your face."

The host laughed, clapping his hands together. "So, Kenji," the host said. "You’ve got a big game coming up. How do you feel about (y/n) always commenting on your games?"

Kenji chuckled, glancing at you. “Honestly?” He replied. “ I look forward to it. Keeps me on my toes."

You smiled, a genuine one this time. "And I watch every game,” you said. “Gotta make sure l have enough material to roast you."

The host raised an eyebrow, "Sounds like you two are more invested in each other than you let on."

He then turned to you. "What about you?” He asked. “How do you feel about Kenji's constant critiques of your acting?"

"I think he's secretly a fan,” you laughed. “Why else would he watch all my movies?"

Kenji leaned closer, his voice low, "Maybe I am. Or maybe I just like seeing you try so hard."

“You wish,” you met his gaze, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Please, Kenji, you couldn't handle me if you tried."

Kenji leaned ever closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Is that a challenge, (l/n)?"

“Maybe it is,” you met his gaze, heart skipping a beat. "Do you think I do not know about the flowers being delivered to my set—where they come from?”

Kenji was silenced, blush creeping on his cheeks. “Like, come on, Kenji,” you continued. “Flowers, seriously? For who knows since when—just ask me out already!”

The people in the studio gasped at the revelation. Everyone else was on the edge of their seats.

You weren’t dumb to not know where those flowers came from. It started with the very first movie you filmed and it continues until now with the latest one that has just been released.

“If you knew, then why didn’t you say anyt—“ Kenji was cut off by you, “Because I was waiting for you!”

The tension in the air seemed palpable. No one said anything, no one made a move.

“You were too busy chasing a ball! And you were so happy with it, I didn’t want to interfere!” you continued.

“Yeah, well!” Kenji said, thinking of a good comeback. “You were always paired up with another man, I didn’t wanna ruin your love team!”

“Then I’m glad none of them ever worked!”

“Thank heavens! Dinner, later at 7PM, Michelin-starred restaurant, your pick!”

“Fine!”

At that moment, everyone in the room burst into squeals. The floor beneath you shook with the intensity of people jumping up and down at the same time. Even the host stood and did a victory dance in front of the camera.

It felt as if the world rejoiced in unity. This was a memorable day for all the fans that were watching live.

The celebration of each person in the room had blurred as you and Kenji stared at each other. “Took you long enough,” you said softly. Kenji chuckled, “You weren’t so dense, after all.”

Without hesitation, you leaned close and threw your arms over his shoulder, hugging him. He hugged back, tighter, for he was also waiting for this moment for what felt like an eternity.

The screaming in the background loudened at your interaction but none of you paid mind. To you, Kenji’s hug felt warm and comfy and oh-so lovely.

The years, no matter how long it has been, were all worth it for this moment. If there was anyone who knew you best, it was Kenji. The same goes for him.

Your phone, in your manager’s care, beeped with so many notifications. Checking your account on her tablet, she was greeted by over a hundred thousand tweets in just a few minutes.

That night, the two of you didn’t go out for dinner as said on TV. Instead, you treated your team to the dinner at the Michelin-starred restaurant you picked while you, with Kenji, stayed at home.

You found yourselves dancing together in the comfort of your living room. The air was filled with a soft melody, and as you swayed to the music. Kenji realized how natural it felt to have you in his arms.

"You know," he murmured, "I never imagined we'd be here." You remembered high school, the graduation ball, your first dance with each other.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” you said, head on his chest.

“Wow you’re even dense with yourself,” he chuckled.

“Shut up,” you replied. “And you’ve always been a dork.”

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@hismistresss @sweetangle8 @aerivina

@eternallyvenus @puppyminnnie @wattpadsuckssohard @sakura-onesan @reggies-eyeliner @buggs-1 @miffysoo @spencerrxids @stupidbutsmart @marimargirlies @mixvchelle @lannnu @lailuv21 @christiinee @abracarabbit @youngbananamilkshake @flutterfly365 @o-schist @brazilsho @arrozyfrijoles23 @finestflora @mmeerraa @mianbaobaoo @themourningfox

[charmercharm3r]

Masterlist

warnings: 9th member brain rot, kissing, body image? hardly proof read don’t come for me

prev: two, next: four

☆ﾟ

“Honestly? I hate it. I hate it a lot.”

None of your costume fittings were going well. Pants too tight, boots too big, couldn’t lift your arms or else your top would rise too high. Nothing worked. Did it at least look good? Meh.

“What’s wrong with it?” Chan asked as he stood beside you, looking at you through the practice room mirror.

“I dunno, it just… doesn’t feel right. Something…” You tried reaching around to feel the zippers and pins that held your outfit in place. Chan, ever observant, stepping to help unclip various pieces of the outfit. By the time he was done, it was a bit more revealing.

You were in the same leather pants as the rest of the group, but your top was the most modified out of everyone. A long sleeved body suite that followed the same black and white bedazzled color schemes with triangular cut outs down the shoulders and arms, rising a little too high on your hips. It was supposed to be a sexy piece, definitely not fit for a performance outfit. The stylists had it pinned to the leather pants to keep from revealing how exposing it was, saying how everything was so pretty and perfect for the concept, except this.

The pants rested a little lower on your hips, more comfortably. Chan looked at you again, “how’s that?”

You hopped and moved around, “a lot better.”

“It looks better too!” Hyunjin casually strolled into the conversation. He reached out to trace the seam that exposed your upper hips, “sexy.”

You swatted his hand away, “don’t be weird.”

“I meant it in a good way!” He threw his hands up and side stepped behind Chan and disappeared.

"If you're comfortable with it, this is much better. But it's a bit more than what you're used to showing," the older ignored Hyunjin and played with the pins in his hand.

Admiring yourself in the mirror, you realized it was a lot more than you're used to. The bodysuit was tight, which was okay because it was stretchy. But it outlined your body more than the other member's costume, therefore it stood out exponentially. "Do you think it'll be okay... y'know, in front of people?" The lowered tone of your voice, the question was shaky.

Chan paused to look at you with hints of concern, and he knew what you were talking about. He copied the hushed syntax of the conversation, "if you're worried about bad press, don't. You're part of us, like the biggest part. It's been how many years and if people can't handle that... well, that's their problem."

He lent you an encouraging smile before his attention was pulled away by a screaming Jeongin, then a thud following with Hyunjin piling on top of the younger. Chan had turned away to make sure the two were okay, and in within your lone thoughts, you figured he was right. Other people's opinions are not your problem. This was a step in the right direction.

And Chan was right, as he always is! The outfit was a smash during tour, people loved it and you felt confident. By the time the Japan tours were announced, you were ready to ask for something a bit more. Solo stages meant you were able to show more personality. You didn't have many solo projects, so it was already nerve wracking picking a song and getting help with the choreography.

The other members weren't around for your fitting with the solo stage outfit, just you and the stylist who started to enjoy your newfound excitement for experimentation. She had jumped for joy and brought out racks of different pieces, "I've waited five years for this day! It's like dress up and you're my barbie doll."

It was a large compliment coming from her, her enthusiasm made your energy spike. So you let her put you in different outfits and go over different mood boards to find what it is you wanted. The one-on-one time with her felt like turning a new leaf for your career and confidence. "I'm glad that you want to do this. I never wanted to push you to do something you're uncomfortable with, I'm so excited for you!" Aside from the usual encouragement from your members, her approval was the icing on the cake. After all, dressing people is her entire livelihood.

You hadn't given so much as a hint to the boys as to what your concept was, and it made them annoyed to no end. As they all talked about colors and themes, you kept your cards close to your chest to only let them know what you wanted them to know.

"You're being mean! Tell us! My nosy heart can't take not knowing!" Jisung pestered you the most, though you knew it came from a good place. They were all anticipating it.

When the dress rehearsal came, you put on your outfit last just so that they could all stew in their curiosity a little longer. They had all gathered on the sides of the stage to watch your run through, all of them still in their own costumes.

Your solo began with lifted from below the stage, that alone got howls from the members and also scolds from your manager to be quiet. It was hard not to glance over at them literally toppling over themselves to see your outfit up close, you laughed all throughout the run-through because of the little comments they'd make as if they were the audience.

"That's my bias!" from Jisung and a, "I'll treat you to dinner for being so cute!" from Minho.

Some other barrages of compliments later, the rehearsal intermission gave them time to rush onto the stage and tackle you to the ground. Physically dog pile on top of you so that you had no choice but to stay put. You couldn't even tell who was talking as everyone spoke at the same time. But soon enough, your manager walked over to get everyone under control once more.

Felix held out his hand for you to take and stand up. "Y/N'ie, you should've been dressing like this the entire time. You've been holding out on everyone," he teased, playing with the hem of your top.

It wasn't an outrageously different outfit to what you're used to, but also it was so brand new. An outfit made of repurposed denim in different shades, stitched together to make a halter-styled cropped top and skirt with denim arm and leg warmers to match. It was comfortable, and not to mention shorts built into the skirt.

"Just cus you said that, I'm gonna wear a track suit for the actual concert and bury this outfit in the basement," you lightly punched his arm.

"If you do, it'd be a crime against humanity. I'll have you arrested, I’ve got connections," Seungmin offhandedly mentioned. He looked indifferent, but the blush tinting his ears was a dead giveaway.

"To who? You don't talk to anyone except us," Jeongin spoke up.

"Your mom."

"Ouch," you and Felix giggle as the two youngest continued to bicker, hanging on each other's arms until it was time to finish the dress rehearsal.

Felix was always a person of comfort for you. Sort of like the baby blanket that you refused to give up because it's the one thing you know will always be there waiting for you to come home. That's not to compare him to a ratty old blanket, but more the sentiment behind it. Even after all of the praise from your members, you still found yourself looking for him to cling on to. Felix lets you, placing a hand over yours as you wrap around his arm like a vine that won't let go.

It wasn't until rehearsals were over and everyone were to change out of their outfits did you leave to let him gather his stuff. The others made jokes and poked fun, as they always did, but never Felix. Sure, he liked to tease, but even the way he did that was sweet and kind.

He could see the way you grimaced when looking at the outfit as you handed it back to the stylists for safe keeping, coming to your side unrushed as not to startle you. Wrapping an arm over your shoulder, Felix went with you to finish up small tasks before it was time to head back to the hotel.

Actually, Felix didn't leave you alone the rest of the day off, as well. He'd went with you back to your hotel room where the both of you took a short nap- you'd gone to the bathroom to find him passed out in the spare bed. Then when you woke up, it was also his idea to check out the restaurant and pool the hotel offered. You both did ask the other members if anyone wanted to join, however they were all off doing their own thing, except Hyunjin asked for you to ask him again in another hour. Something about taking a bath?

As Felix left to change into his swim suit, you silently kicked yourself for remembering to bring one in the first place. Initially, you had attempted to get out the activity by saying you didn't bring one. But then he went into your suitcase, taking everything out just to see it buried at the bottom. This was bound to happen, knowing how (affectionately) invasive all of the members are, you took caution by putting your undergarments in separate bags. Reliving the last fiasco with you in your underwear was something you avoided at all costs, now.

So now you had no choice but to go swimming, despite the sun going down and the temperature dropping.

The two of you grabbed an order of French fries and some drinks for dinner to take poolside. There was no one, thankfully. You don't think you'd be able to take your top off if there was even one other person there to see. Felix acted like this was normal. Because it should be. He's one of your best friends and has nothing but love for you, so why is this so difficult?

You've come to terms with your body and living in your skin. At least, you thought you did.

"One step at a time," the deep bass of a voice said softly over your shoulder. Felix had opened the to-go box of food and was taking a seat at one of the outdoor tables. "Let's just eat, for now."

Hesitant, you sat beside him, picking at the fries while staring at the reflective lights within the hotel. Comfortable silence besides the occasional water splashing against the concrete. "We don't have to go in," Felix offered with a sympathetic smile. "I'm just glad I got you out of your room."

"What do you mean, I always hang out with you guys when we're traveling."

"Yeah, in the hotel!" The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled was cute. Felix is cute. "I mean going to dinner, sight seeing, doing fun things."

"I have fun! Like," you blanked for a second, grabbing a fry and shoving it in your mouth to buy some time. "Scrolling through the foreign tv channels and trying to figure out what's happening."

"You can't be serious." You shrugged and he rolled his eyes. "Well now we have to go in the pool. There is no way we are leaving when all you've done is try to find the Japanese discovery channel."

Felix stood and immediately stripped off his shirt, tossing it at your face cockily. Spitting the fabric out of your mouth, you were tempted to gag yourself with it again when you saw him shirtless. It's not like you'd never seen any of them without a top before, it's just that you always had to hide it. Felix wiggled his eyebrows at you, "how much do you love me?"

Flustered. You were flustered. "...A lot, I guess? What does that have to do w-"

"I jump, you jump kind of love?"

"What are you talking ab-"

He took off in a sprint towards the pool, quickly spinning to yell back, "You love me, so jump!" And he cannonballed into the deep end. The impact made the water splash over the edge and wet your feet. You stood to peer into the water where you could see his blonde hair bobbing before breaking the surface again for air. His skin glistened and glowed from the warm pool lights, ethereal. "If you don't come in, I'm gonna hold a grudge against you for the rest of our lives."

"Is that a threat?"

Felix nodded, "a very serious one that I'll make the rest of the guys get in on and annoy you for all of eternity."

They already annoy you, but like Felix said, I jump, you jump applies to all of you.

You looked around the area, not another soul in sight. Felix flicked some water at you, taunting. The smug look on his face, you wanted to slap it off of him, or kiss. Probably both.

Either way, you raised an eyebrow in challenge and slid off your shorts and shirt at record speed, barreling towards the pool to follow him with a leap. The water was cold, but refreshing. It wasn't hard to open your eyes beneath it to see Felix also dipping his head below, smiling widely at you. His hands reached out to guide you both back to the surface, inhaling deeply while he laughed gleefully.

Suddenly, you were being lifted in a warm pair of arms and smothered into his body. The two of you were in fits of giggles at both of your lacks in impulse control. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders while he held you closer.

The laughter slowly died down, but Felix didn't let you go. Though, his hands did slide a little lower. Barely grazing down your back, over your bathing suit bottoms and hooking beneath your thighs to urge you to wrap them around him. His plush lips were the pinkest you'd ever seen them, matching prettily with the blush on his cheeks.

You were almost weightless in the water, taking away the small fear factor that you'd be too heavy for him to carry like this, although it didn't go away entirely. You couldn't resist looking down at yourself, specifically in the stupidly small bikini that was the only one you brought. It was like your entire thought process was being narrated to him, Felix let go of one leg to tip your chin up to face him again. You met his eyes with a hint of embarrassment, but mostly bemused by the way he was looking at you.

There was lingering moment where you caught him staring at your lips, as well. The same hand beneath your chin trailed to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth.

"I thought we were supposed to be swimming," you whispered out of nervousness.

“Were we?” He didn’t give you time to respond, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. There was a small moment before they fully connected where you could’ve backed out, you could’ve pulled away and acted like nothing happened.

Instead, you pushed into him to fully melt against his lips. Felix tangled his hand in your hair to make sure there was less than oxygen between your bodies, water sloshing around as he reciprocated the heat behind the kiss. He molded against you like a perfect puzzle piece, following your lead in tracing his lower lip with your tongue. Hands grabbed at your thigh, your ass, the one in your hair trailing behind to wrap around your shoulder. His eagerness made you just as needy, just as desperate that you followed in threading your fingers through his blonde locks and raking your nails from there, down his neck and back. Felix’s body shivered at the feeling.

You could tell he was holding back when he groaned softly against you and his hold on your lower half tightened enough that you should be concerned there’d be bruises.

The other thing you should be concerned about was the water beginning to rise. Or, you were sinking? He still kept a firm grasp on you, and the water beginning to creep up your back didn’t seem to concern him, nor when it finally reached your neck and suddenly you were holding your breath and submerged all over again.

Only when the both of you were beneath the surface did he pull away to look at you. Felix smiled, cheeky and warm, he kissed you again, slower this time. A little more passionate and past the initial frenzy.

But air was an unfortunate necessity, and he lifted the both of you up again. His lips moved to the side of your cheek, placing supple pecks as you regained your breaths. You couldn’t suppress the small bits of laughter as your body relaxed and mind catches up with what had just happened.

Reluctant, Felix pulled away to brush the hair from your forehead. “Were we supposed to be swimming or something?”

“You were supposed to call me in a hour!”

The third voice broke your small bubble of bliss to see Hyunjin standing at the edge of the pool. He was only in a bathrobe and slippers, pajama pants peaking out from underneath while his hair fell into his face out of the ponytail.

You couldn’t even be bothered to let go of Felix, who in result of his shock actually held you closer.

“And why did he get to kiss you first?! That’s not fair.” Hyunjin started to untie his bathrobe, tossing it onto the table where the rest of your stuff was.

“What is happening right now?” You softly mutter as the only dry person present also pulled off his pajama pants to leave him in just his boxers. Entirely stunned and far too flustered to understand why he was stripping, you reached out to stop him, “Hyun, you just took a bath.”

“If getting in the pool is what I have to do, I’ll take a million showers. After I kiss you,” as he broke into a run towards the edge of the pool.

☆ﾟ

tags: @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @alexis-reads-fics @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @iadorethemskz @skyvastbunny @mamabymychem @katsukis1wife @woozarts @noellllslut @straykids5star @like-a-diamondinthesky

[ladykailitha]

One in a Million

Welcome to fic three in my 1 million words in the Steddie fandom. This week has been so amazing!

Summary: Sequel to Oh, For a Muse of Fire! Steve is still painting the most beautiful works but still is struggling with coming out as Eddie's husband and that it's okay to sell his artwork and still be a teacher. Eddie comes up with a solution that will help Steve with both. A gallery opening and silent auction where all the proceeds go to charity. Steve might just learn that he's one in a million.

~

Eddie walked into his husband’s studio and shook his head ruefully. He knew that Steve had always wanted to be an art teacher, but these works deserved to be in museums and art galleries not languishing in a studio in Upper Manhattan.

The band was on their third album and while Steve had done the cover art for all their albums none of them had been credited to him. And other that that interview with Max Mayfield, Steve hadn’t been brought up since.

Some of the more eagle-eyed fans had spotted Steve and connected the figure with the Max Mayfield interview, but everyone had been super respectful about his privacy.

So far.

He wandered through the stacks and piles of canvases of art in various stages of completion until he found what he was looking for.

Steve Harrington. His beautiful husband. He was in a dirty, old t-shirt and raggedy jeans with an apron over top. His feet were bare as he was hunched over a painting that when it was completed would be Orpheus and Eurydice on the stair.

As he got closer, a grin spread out over Eddie’s face. Orpheus had honey colored hair that brushed just above his shoulders and Eurydice had long, dark curls.

“You are absolutely the biggest sap,” Eddie whispered into Steve’s ear.

Steve leaned back into Eddie’s chest and then tilted his head back to look him in the eye. “Says the man who wrote an entire album about how much he loves me.”

“Don’t tell the band that,” Eddie said with a chuckle, “they’re all ready think I was too much of a sap writing Thorns & Thistles about you. They would absolutely throw hands if they new the third album was all about you.”

Steve sat up and rubbed his hands together. “I wonder what I could get for my silence!”

Eddie shoved him off the stool, Steve landing on the floor with a thud and a laugh. “Like I wouldn’t already give you the moon if you asked, asshole.”

He reached down to help Steve back to his feet and Steve gave him a peck on the cheek. He settled back down on the stool.

“It looks good, babe,” Eddie said earnestly. “I’ve noticed you’ve been on a Greek myth kick lately, what prompted that?”

Steve shrugged. “I was looking at the piece I did of you and was reminded that it was supposed to be Psyche coming to Eros while he was asleep. And that spawned the weaving battle between Arachne and Athena, which lead to lead to the kidnapping of Persephone, which lead to this...”

“I really liked the Arachne one,” he replied with a grin. “I liked how it showed her fear changing her into a spider. I bet it would sell well too.”

Steve sighed and swung around to face Eddie. “You know I don’t want to sell my artwork, Eds. I don’t know why you keep insisting I do.”

Eddie took his face in his hands. “Because people deserve to see your work and not just at some dinky university showing either. I know you think it will interfere with your teaching. But that’s only if you take commissions, which you don’t have to. You can have Robin be your agent even. She would love that. You put your work in a gallery and if people want to buy it they go through her and presto, you sell your art and you still get to teach.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Steve huffed closing his eyes.

“Because it is,” Eddie kissed him deeply. “I assure you there are several art teachers out there selling their work. I bet that’s how they can still be teachers. They don’t have rich rockstar husbands to make sure they have everything they could ever desire, like a kilo of phthalo green paint.”

Steve opened his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. “I guess I never really thought of it that way.”

Eddie kissed his lips and then his forehead, both cheeks and then finally his nose.

“I actually have been putting some serious thought in this,” he purred. “I know you’ve been wanting to come out as partners to the public but didn’t want to do a red carpet event.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “I think all the cameras would make me freak out, if I’m honest.”

Eddie nodded. It was the one thing that Steve couldn’t get over. The constant barrage of flashing in his face. Especially with his trauma regarding his scars.

“So why don’t we have an auction selling off some of your works,” he suggested. “You can debut being my partner, you get to clear out some of your studio, and there won’t be any pictures taken. The bonus is that the money goes to a couple of good charities.”

Steve blinked at him for a moment. “Charity you say?”

Eddie grinned. He knew that would be the real hook for him. Whatever else Steve was, he loved giving what he had to others.

“Yeah, babe,” he confirmed. “Youth music programs country-wide.”

Steve’s lip quivered and he chomped down on it to make it stop. He hung his head between Eddie’s hands and Eddie wrapped him up in a tight hug.

“Will I get to pick out fancy clothes?” he whispered, shyly.

Eddie wanted to throw his head back and laugh, but to Steve this was no laughing matter. He could tease him for it later, but now? It was an honest question.

“Black tie, by invitation only,” he confirmed sternly. He had the biggest smile on his face. He couldn’t help it. He was so in love with this man. Even with their very rocky start, he couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

Steve lifted his head to look Eddie in the eyes. “Yeah, okay. I don’t trust myself, but I trust you and I trust Robin.”

Eddie kissed him soundly. “That’s a really big thing to admit, I think Dr. Owens would be proud of that one.”

Steve snorted. With Eddie making rockstar money, he got Steve into proper therapy. How to manage his panic attacks, what to do when he does get them, how to identify triggers and how to avoid them.

It was one of the reasons Steve was doing so well. He was getting the help he needed. Eddie also had sessions with a different therapist to make sure there weren’t any lingering feelings over the broken jaw incident. He wanted to be the best boyfriend Steve ever had, bar none.

Which was why he was pushing this, if he was honest. He knew Steve had thought he had gone as far as he could, but both Eddie and Dr. Owens knew that he just needed permission to color outside the lines once in awhile. And this charity auction was certainly help in that regard.

He looked around the room and licked his lips slowly. “Why don’t we do a theme so that you don’t have to feel like you’re choosing your favorites out of your children?”

“Max.”

Eddie burst out laughing. Yeah, okay. That was fair. Out of all of Steve’s ‘kids’, Max was definitely Steve’s favorite. Dustin probably came in close second, but Max wasn’t as pushy as he was.

Eddie had met all of the Party as they called themselves. Dustin and Will he had met before, but he was introduced to Mike and Lucas, too. And those two brought the ladies, Max, Ellie, and Erica. Well, Ellie was technically Hopper’s adopted daughter, so that was brought into the mix.

His life had been very chaotic for a bit there. But thanks Murray’s quick thinking everything had smoothed out quite nicely.

“What’s the theme then?” Steve asked when Eddie finally caught his breath.

“I figure you’ve got a least a dozen or so myth related paintings,” he pointed out. “Greek, Nordic, Egyptian, and a couple others thrown in there fun, we can sell those.”

Steve’s brow furrowed as he thought about it. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

Eddie jumped up and down, whooping and cheering.

“Yes!”

~

Steve stood next to the painting that started it all. Eddie had convinced him to do a showing of his other works as well as the auction. There were two distinct rooms that were separated by the main hall where the reception and auction would be held.

There were drinks being served as guests admired the artwork and decided what they wanted to bid on.

There were already a couple people who had tried to bully Eddie into telling them who the artist was so that they could then bully them about selling a painting from the gallery room.

Eddie stymied them all. He refused to budge on the matter. The paintings that would be sold would only be done so through the auction. And the artist would be revealed at the reception.

Steve was grateful that Eddie was handling it all as he had been close to a panic attack at least twice. But all of their friends were here.

Including Diamond and his wife Amethyst. Steve was really excited to see them, as he hadn’t since the wedding reception two years ago.

All that to say that he was nervous as hell.

Steve looked up at the painting that was supposed to be Eros asleep, but it was more like Eros beckoning the viewer to come closer with a debauched stare.

It was that very stare that had him enthralled from the very beginning. God, he loved Eddie. He let out a shuddering breath.

“I must say this Steve fellow is quite the talented artist,” said a deep rumbling voice next to him who caused him start.

Steve looked over to see a tall older gentleman in a neat brown suit with a trimmed goatee and round glasses.

He stuck out among the other guests who were dressed to the nines in tuxes and tailored suits and beautiful dresses.

He reminded Steve of his ethics professor.

“I understand it’s just a hobby for him,” he said instead of asking who he was. He brought his drink to his lips to hide his smile.

The man looked at Steve directly. He had startling blue eyes and a wicked smile. “And I hear he teaches middle school students, that hardly makes painting a hobby, wouldn’t you agree?”

Steve burst out laughing. “You’ve got me there. No, that doesn’t sound like a hobby to me.”

“I’m René Benoit,” he said reaching out his hand. “I’m the curator and owner of the gallery.”

Steve shook his hand. That explained the lack of formal attire then. “It’s nice to meet you.” He turned back to his painting, admiring his husband in all his glory.

“Don’t believe you gave me your name,” René said raising his eyebrow.

Steve glanced over at him for a moment and then back to painting. “No, you’re right, I didn’t.”

René regarded him, tilting his head to the side as he regarded Steve. He too, turned back to the painting. “So you are the mysterious artist. I suppose it would make sense considering you are the only one admiring the best painting here.”

Steve snorted. “It helps I was in love with the model.” He turned to look at René. “I still am.”

“Ah, yes the indomitable Eddie Munson,” René said with a small smile. “We’ve met. He was very insistent on your privacy. Now I understand why.”

“Oh.” Yeah. He had almost forgotten he was once a nine day wonder. He never got recognized anymore and those that did were respectful of his privacy.

His hand went to his neck and rubbed the scar self-consciously. It was barely there now, long since faded into the folds of his neck. The ones on his back where more noticeable but only he if he wore something that made them visible.

“You are brave young man, Steve Harrington,” René said with a smirk. “And a better artist.” He paused a moment to look up at Eddie as Eros. “Perhaps that bravery is what makes you a better artist. You aren’t’ afraid to do something bold.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Steve said with a snort. “I’ve been through a lot of therapy and I still get panic attacks.”

René hummed. “Maybe so, but panic attacks mean that you’ve been through some horrible things and survived.” He turned to Steve and cocked his head to the side. “The fact that you still have panic attacks and chose to be here says you are very brave indeed.”

Suddenly a voice crackled over the intercom. “The auction is about to start, if you would please take your seats. Again the auction is about to start, please take your seats.”

Steve raised his glass. “I guess that’s my cue to exit stage right. Thank you.” He nodded and stepped away.

René nodded and let him go. He looked up at the painting again. “Very interesting young man indeed.”

~

Steve was sitting on the back row watching the auction and occasionally bidding to drive up the price of piece if he thought it wasn’t going for enough. He might have his issues, but he knew how much time he spent on a piece and he wasn’t going to let one of his babies go for less than a thousand dollars.

He had his pride after all.

Wayne was the auctioneer and he was doing a stellar job. A lot of the pieces were being sold fairly quickly. Some of the paintings going for several hundred thousand dollars and Steve was proud of those.

Then it was time for the final piece. His Orpheus and Eurydice on the Stair. This is was the one he was the proudest and hoped it went to the person who would love it for more than the subject matter.

And almost immediately a bidding war started between a couple and a perky blonde in a pink, sequinned sheath dress. It heated up fast bursting past the hundreds and into the thousands before Steve could even blink.

“One million dollars!” Wayne called out. “Going once...” He looked over at the blonde but she shook her head, “going twice...” He scanned the crowd for any other takers, but even Eddie was shaking his head. “Going thrice...” One last scan for would-be bidders but the house was silent. “Sold! To the gentleman on the third row. Can I get your name please?”

“Maximilian Diamond,” the warm and rough baritone called out.

Steve’s jaw fell to the floor. Diamond bought his painting. Diamond bought his painting. Diamond bought his painting. Holy shit.

He stood up numbly as the rest of the crowd filtered out to the room that used to hold the auctioned works that would be used for the reception.

Eddie was by his side in moments.

“Holy shit, Stevie,” he breathed. “That’s $2.7 million dollars for a dozen paintings and one of them went for an even million. Can you believe it?”

Steve shook his head. He figured that they would get a couple hundred thousand maximum for the whole lot and he could go back to saying his stuff wasn’t worth selling. He go back to teaching and everyone would forget about Eddie Munson’s partner for another couple of years.

But this wasn’t that.

His work had actually started a bidding war. Yes, part of that war was a personal friend of his, but not to the tune of a million dollars.

He knew the club was doing well, but he hadn’t known it was doing that well.

He melted into the crowd as Eddie stood up to speak to them.

“I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight to celebrate a couple of charities that are near and dear to Corroded Coffin’s heart,” he began. “Music, Mind, and Memory, a charity dedicated to using music in helping kids learn, but especially those with learning disabilities. And Street Music, a charity dedicated to helping poor kids get the instruments they actually want to play and not just whatever the school has left over to lend out.”

Everyone clapped.

“But all this wouldn’t be possible without the love of my life,” he continued. “My Stevie. The band has talked about him a lot but we never bring up his last name.”

The crowd got a little restless at that, murmurs and whispers suddenly filling the air.

“My Stevie has always been a private person,” Eddie said, starting to pace on the little raised platform. “But that’s because he went through a harrowing ordeal and the media made him out to be a nine day wonder and he still gets recognized sometimes for the trauma he went through.”

Steve felt a warm hand slip into his. He looked up to see Robin holding his hand. On the other side of him, Chrissy snuggled up next to him.

He felt so blessed to have the best friends in the world.

“For you see, my husband is Steve Harrington,” he said fondly. “You can Google him later, but essential he stepped into a help a girl who was being attacked by homophobes and they tried to kill him for it. But he survived. Not without his share of PTSD and anxiety. But he’s worked a long time to get to where he is today.”

He stopped pacing and put his hand over his eyes to look out into the crowd. “Come on up, honey, and let the good people see you.”

Chrissy and Robin walked with him to the front of the crowd and then let him walk the rest of the way to Eddie.

Eddie held out his hand and Steve took it, allowing himself to be pulled on stage.

“This is the love of my life.”

Steve blushed and tucked his head into Eddie’s neck.

“And the artist whose work raised so much money for these two charities,” he continued, tucking Steve further into his side. “Me and the boys have been telling him for years that his work could even bring in hundreds of dollars let alone hundreds of thousands of dollars. But I think we can put that to bed, don’t you think, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve huffed. “You win. You can sell my artwork.”

The crowd cheered.

His cheeks burned with the overwhelming feeling of appreciation. Eddie lifted his chin and kissed his lips.

“Let’s hear it for Steve Harrington!”

The crowd roared in response.

Jeff poked Steve’s side. “Does this mean you’ll join us on the red carpet now?”

Everyone held their breath.

“I want the Grammy’s and nothing less,” Steve said, looking up at Eddie heavy lidded.

Eddie’s eyes went wide and the rest of the band’s jaws dropped.

“Really?” Gareth asked, his hands going to his mouth to hold back his giggles.

“Yeah,” Steve said, his eyes never leaving Eddie’s face. “But I only want the best.”

Eddie picked him up and twirled them around. He was forced to stop as the microphone cord wrapped around his legs. Jeff hurried forward and between him and Brian they were able to get Eddie and Steve untangled.

“I’m still going to be teaching,” Steve said firmly, when Eddie was finally able to put him down.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eddie murmured.

~

Steve only taught for another year. But because he wanted to stop and not because of the press he got after the announcement. He had been on the cover of every magazine and the front page of every newspaper. Most good, some bad.

He was in a gay relationship with a heavy metal rockstar after all.

But because he had found his true calling in painting and selling his artwork. He loved teaching, he worked hard for his degree. It was how he met Eddie. But there was something special about knowing his paintings and drawings were being hung in someone else’s houses.

He made his first debut on the red carpet at that year’s Grammy’s. Corroded Coffin were presenting the Best Metal Act.

And with the tux he wore, there would be chance of his scars being seen, so he was able to walk hand in hand with Eddie and Chrissy and Robin were more than thrilled to stay home and watch the awards in their pajamas.

As they waited for their turn to be photographed, Eddie turned to Steve. “You’re my one in a million and I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Eds.”

~

Tag List:

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[kaccvcate]

Tonight I watched the stock market crash, and I began to get a bit nervy, so against my better judgement I went out to buy cigarettes and some gas station pre-rolls. I've been trying to save money for bills, but there it is. Here in Mississippi, marijuana is illegal, but you can buy various marijuana products supposedly made from THC derivatives, in this case THC-A or something. Basically they take the weed out of the weed and then put it back into the weed, and that makes it okay for it to be smoked in Mississippi. There are frequent recalls for it being normal weed, it shows up on a drug test as THC, and to be honest it feels the same and is very cheap, so I've been into them lately.

I digress - I was so anxious I couldn't return to my friend's apartment, so my service dog Howlin' Wolf and I walked up Hardy Street while I smoked my first cigarette in a couple weeks (delicious, thank you for your donations.) After a while I began to hear rock n roll music drifting through the neighborhood. I followed the sound all the way up to Fourth Street, to Koffeehaus Fabelhaft, which I already knew to have the best coffee in town (they have a really exotic selection, and a cute dog.) It felt so magical, like following fairy music into the woods, knowing I might get taken by the unseelie. You see, I was quite nervous I might meet my "friends," as nearly every musician I've worked with or been close friends with in Hattiesburg has been a complete bastard to me, so my heart was racing as I approached, but I was greeted by the most beautiful sight I could dream up: an entire crowd of strangers.

The band that drew me through the neighborhood was a touring band called The Invisible People. They finished right before I got to the café, so I can't adequately describe their sound, but obviously it was quite mesmerizing to pull my attention from so far away (over a mile.) They were so happy to see Howlin' Wolf as one of the band members has a husky at home, it was very sweet to watch.

The band after that was Deflou Service, local emo punk legends who I had only seen on T shirts before. They definitely lived up to the hype, and I didn't even know their lead singer is transgender (may I offer my congratulations.) Their sound reminded me of early Panic! At the Disco or My Chemical Romance, but with that distinctive psychedelic garage sound that Hattiesburg bands have always captured my heart with. Their lead guitarist has a particularly unique sound.

The venue itself has a great setup, with an outdoor stage that allowed me to stand at the back with my service dog, without the sound bothering her. Other venues are too much for her, especially the Switchyard, which books the some of the best bands, but unfortunately the whole building reverberates like a big tin can. And unlike at the Tavern, no one said anything racist to me the whole time I was there. Actually everyone was very excited to meet me, and even more excited to meet Howlin' Wolf, who hammed it up and had a wonderful time - she's always upstaging me. Her favourite part was howling with us when everyone cheered for the band, she wishes we would all spend the whole time cheering!

For the first time in really long time, I went home from a show happy. The whole experience reminded me of the magical times that made me fall in love with this city to begin with, and the uniqueness that made me initially fall in love with the music scene. So many local artists have their own sound that can't directly be compared to any other bands, even the assholes I know, but at Koffeehaus Fabelhaft, I found only kind interactions in the crowd, happy smiles, and friendly faces, something I missed so much. So now I know, not only do they have the best coffee, they also have the best rock n roll shows. It was a beautiful last night in Hattiesburg, thanks so much for having me. Tomorrow I say goodbye to all this, and hello to New Orleans!

[samgirl98]

Forgotten Demon Twin 16/?

Prev | Next

Danny did not want to wake up. He wanted to go back to sleep and pretend his life hadn’t changed so drastically, so quickly. He sighed heavily and got up.

Danny dressed as he contemplated how much his life had changed and how much more it would. He knew what the DNA test would show—his connection to Bruce Wayne—but he didn’t know how it would impact his everyday life.

Then there was Damian. His older twin seemed hellbent on having Danny back in his life, but Danny wanted no part of the Heir or their so-called father. He wanted to be left alone with his family—the one he found. Danny’s feet dragged as he went down the stairs. His parents and sister were already at the bottom, waiting for him.

Jazz smiled weakly at him and hugged him. His dad was somber and quiet, unlike his usual boisterous self. His mom’s face appeared blank, though her cheeks and eyes were red; she had been crying.

Danny was walking toward the door when his mom stopped him, “Danny, no matter what this test says, you are a Fenton. More than that, you are our son. We won’t ever let you go or stop fighting for you. Understood?”

Danny’s vision was blurry as he tackled his mom into a hug.

“Thanks. You’re the only family I have ever had or will ever need.”

Danny felt his dad’s big, warm hand on his back.

Everything would turn out fine; if it didn’t, Danny would fight for his family and happiness.

No one in Bruce’s family got the opportunity to sleep that night. Tim and Damian accompanied him to the meeting with the Justice League, while his other children remained behind to research more about the laws, ghosts, and Amity Park.

“I think you can stay while I do this DNA test,” Bruce said as he observed his children at various stages of fatigue. “Not everyone needs to be there, and I believe it will make things easier for Danny if he isn’t overwhelmed by the entire family.”

“I’m coming,” Damian announced.

“The rest of us can stay here, Bruce,” Dick said. “Besides, we need to rest. When you return, we can discuss whether or not we want to tell the Fentons about our nightlife.”

“I do not understand why we’re even contemplating telling these people our secret. They don’t need to know.” Damian said while scowling.

“They’re Danny’s family, baby bat, and if we want to cement a relationship, it’s better to go with open arms. We know all their secrets. Why shouldn’t they know ours?”

“They’re a menace to society. Besides, we’re Danyal’s family.”

“Family can encompass more than one group, Damian; you know this. Besides, Danny doesn’t view it that way,” Bruce explained.

Damian’s scowl deepened. He crossed his arms in defiance and turned his face away from Bruce.

Bruce sighed. Damian would have to accept Danny’s wishes sooner rather than later if he wanted Danny to begin even considering building anything with them. Everyone, including Damian, had hurt him, and he wanted to stay with the Fentons. The least they could do was grant him that request, but Damian had a misguided need to bring Danny back with them. Not for the first time, Bruce wished he could find Talia to shake some sense into her. They wouldn't be in this situation if she hadn’t kept his children from him.

Bruce tried to convince Damian one more time.

“Damian, please, I think it would be better if you stayed. Danny doesn’t want to be in this situation, and bringing more people could remind him that he has little control over the situation.”

Damian looked Bruce straight in the eye, “I’m going, whether you think it’s a good idea or not.”

Bruce breathed through his nose to calm himself. Damian could be like Bruce at times: a stubborn brat.

And Bruce, like the coward he was, would let him continue being so.

Danny’s scowl mirrored Damian’s earlier one when they left the private clinic where they had done the DNA test.

As a matter of fact, the scowl had been there since he saw them earlier.

Bruce could tell Damian felt terrible because of his brother’s frosty demeanor. Bruce had no idea what to do in this situation. Why did he have to be so emotionally inept? He could figure out any of Riddler’s riddles or find the murderer of a twenty-year-old cold case, but he couldn’t figure out how to navigate feelings to help his children.

He had never felt like more of a failure.

“The test results should be back in forty-eight hours. I made the staff sign an NDA agreement so there won’t be any nosy reporters. At least, not yet; these types of news tend to get out eventually. We have to sit down and find out what we want to tell the public.”

“To grab a hold of the narrative,” Jazz said.

“Exactly.”

“Let’s wait for the test results. Then we can talk about these things,” Maddie said while pushing the children away from them.

“Wait, Danyal, please. I want to talk to you.”

Danny’s face went blank. He turned his back to Damian and walked toward the Fenton’s weapon on wheels, ignoring his twin. Danny opened the RV’s door and went inside.

“Give him time,” Jazz whispered.

“Don’t tell me what to do, interloper.”

Jazz didn’t react, but her parents did.

“Mr. Wayne, please control your son,” Maddie admonished, “We’ll call you as soon as we see the results.”

Bruce turned toward Damian as soon as he lost sight of the RV.

“Forcing Danny to do anything will not make him want a relationship with you, Damian. You need to listen when we say that if Danny wants nothing to do with us, we have to respect his wishes. That includes you. All you’re doing right now is antagonizing him.”

“Really, father, you have no leg to stand on regarding relationship advice. Familial or otherwise.”

Bruce stared at Damian. It was true he wasn’t the best with relationships, but he didn’t want his son to make similar mistakes he had made. Maybe he could get Dick to talk to Damian; he tended to be able to get through to Damian.

Bruce was about to say something when an explosion rattled the street.

It had come from the direction the Fentons had gone.

[senka-mesecine]

What if Reader is jealous cause a couple of playboy bunnies had been flown in, performing for the troops on a Friday night. All the boys are infatuated by them, so she thinks, why should Barnes be any different? She worries Barnes has eyes for them, yet tries to hide her blatant jealousy from him due to embarrassment (assuming he even saw the girls performing in the first place). Shutting up when she feels his presence or even painfully faking a smile.

How would he handle this? How would he set her straight? Or would he pry and prod to see if he could pull the jealousy out of her, finding it endearing / entertaining / a turn on.

Thank youuu, you’re a genius 😌

The USO Show.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

ANN-MARGRET'S COMING TO CAM RAHN!

The world of that travels fast, at whirlwind speed, spreading like wildfire.

And instantaneously, the atmosphere at base camp changes, something holiday-like, almost jubilant overtaking everyone, washing over the general disposition and the morale of the platoon like a warm wave; whispers, plan-making and generally subdued excitement filling barracks, foxholes, bunkers and tents along with the occasional poster of the handmade variety as well as official print dotting bulletin boards; it's what you wake up to that morning, carrying provisional crates containing bandages and gauze. Bunny and Junior nailing a large centerfold a vulturous, redhaired woman on a huge notice sign starkly in the middle of base camp with a hammer. Starring, Ann-Margret, Nancy Sinatra, Playboy Bunnies and the Lonnie B. and Vicky G. Show with special host, Bob Hope! The poster says, the smiling auburn-headed woman taking center stage in knee-length shining boots and a mini-dress caught glamorous amidst a dance move grazing your eyesight and leaving behind a burning sensation. She was beautiful.-"You know what I wanna do to her?"- Bunny points with deliberation and you avert your gaze passing the pair, speeding up your pace, trying not to overhear but overhearing anyway, for better or for worse. -"I wanna suck her through a straw sticking out of her ginger Swedish poontang, man."- Typical Bunny being Bunny. You nod at the two as a way of hello; luckily, they don't notice. Too immersed in the task of ogling and leering over the centerfold they just put up next to a makeshift road sign of various distances, anywhere from Kansas, to LA to New York; erected for nostalgia's sake. A little reminder of home.

-"Bunny, you fucking gross, man! Put me off my lunch!"-

You hear Junior whine from behind you, truly aggrieved.

-"Yeah, that's cause'youse don't like pussy. You like carrot."-

Bunny retorts with a jab, but by then, you're long out of sight, biting down on your lip.

---

You were crestfallen.

Yes, crestfallen.

Now, you understood there was something contrarian and maybe even a tad bit selfish in feeling so blue when everyone else was ecstatic, right along the fact that it was downright delusional to ponder and consider the possibility of how the Sergeants would behave at this show if mere infantry and soldiery was behaving the way they were already, case and point, Bunny and Junior, but your mind still guided you unwittingly, where it shouldn't have been guiding you; Sergeant Barnes was a private fascination, sure. You had a right to those, you tell yourself. Man owed you nothing. Knew nothing of your feelings and it would stay that way too. If you liked him, you liked him privately, for yourself. by yourself. He, just as you had the right to have unrequited feelings for him, had the right to go and feast his eyes on something pretty after months and months spent in the bush --- you really couldn't even blame him or anyone else as for that matter, your pain genuine, but still having no righteous reason or basis to exist, you thought. Quietly suffering over a man who wasn't even yours, going to enjoy a spectacle put on by professionals who did this for a living. My goodness, you're really hellbent on hurting yourself, you tell yourself, shrugging off intrusive thoughts of Barnes's focused, intense eyes staring out at the busy stage, following all those legs, velvet clad derrières, immaculate, synched waistlines, winking cat eyes, puckered roughed lips and haridos sprayed to perfection. And here you were, grimy nails, hair tucked away beneath a hair scarf tied at the nape of your neck, sweaty, chronically exhausted and in a state of constant work, staying behind on washing duty, scrubbing the blood stained sheets of deceased patients with white soap.

Maybe if I was freshly flown in on some glitzy plane, you think.

Maybe If was freshly powered up, perfumed, dressed and clean ---

Maybe I could make him turn his eyes on me too.

Same as those dancing dolls.

An empty, childish fantasy, you conclude bitterly as the trucks next to the main barracks were filling up with eager men practically jumping into the back of the vehicle with a roaring cacophony of running motor engines, privates already singing, shouting, laughing and slapping each other the back, far away from the outhouse on the outskirts of the base where you did the platoon's basic wash up --- you decided to isolate yourself today of all days. That was the general idea, yes. Make yourself busy. Useful. Sink yourself into your duties. Try and tune out the world. Not show how upset you were, but try and stay out of everyone's sight long enough to prevent yourself from spoiling everyone else's fun. Not be present when he boards the truck with the rest of them. With Bunny filling his ears about whether the carpets match the drapes and O'Neill no doubt egging him on to stay after hours, in bars and clubs dotting the beach front of Cam Rahn, causing you to envision him inebriated and high on life, one girl seated on one knee and one on the other as they silently moved upstairs sometime after midnight, to some tucked away room somewhere, at the end of some red hallway enveloped in cigarette smoke. Why do you do this to yourself, your subconsciousness asks, once the fatigues, uniforms, towels and sheets were all washed and drying, having done a full week's work within one afternoon on purpose, the basecamp enveloped in the shroud of dusk by the time you emerge out of the small building, deciding to check on the barracks; maybe give whatever needed cleaning a good clean. Tire yourself out so much you'll merely plop down on your own bed like someone just hit by a train, drifting off to a dreamless sleep and not think. Not think for at least six hours minimum.

-"Oh!"-

You exhale, finding the lights at the main hall starkly bright.

Overhead. Attracting flies and mosquitos.

A long row of immaculate empty beds lining the hall and a singular form sitting on a nearby ammo crate; causing you to halt in your steps.

He ---

-"You haven't gone with the others, Sarge? The last truck has just headed out."-

You stutter, addressing Barnes, head downcast, seemingly making busy with the task of carving something with a push knife. He stayed behind? Why did he stay behind!? He looks up at you, like he knew you were there long before he ever acknowledged it with a physical cue. In response, all you get is a shrug. -"Eh."- He tilts his head, nonchalant, barely interested, causing you to feel like an intruder; like you weren't supposed to be here. You genuinely thought there was nobody here but you and the night watch. The night watch that would take its turn to be chauffeured out to Cam Rahn tomorrow for their break when someone else takes their shift. You shift from one leg to another, about to back out of the building, making small talk to fill the discomfort of surprise. -"Aren't you sad you missed them?"- You ask, dropping the formal tone and instantly regretting it; your chuckle awkward and small, realizing you were so startled you forgot proper form. He says nothing, his blade grazing the edge of something flat that sounded like wood. -"Bob Hope's gonna be entertaining."- You try again, fidgeting, hoping to be excused and simultaneously wanting to falling into the floor. -"And Ann-Margaret's coming too! Landing in a private plane!"- You add, unsure why; maybe by accident. Maybe because you expected some sort of positive reaction out of him that would only serve as a dagger to hurt yourself further with and enjoy it too; enjoy the weird, bizarre, exquisite, self-reinforcing pain of being unwanted. He looks up at you again, this time holding his stare for longer. -"If I'm keen on hearin' some Californian of dubious background shootin' the breeze off of a stage I can just listen to 'Lias playin' wise guy without movin' an inch."- You retorts and it takes you a couple of seconds to register a joke at the Sergeants expense; your smile tiny, embarrassed, covered up with your hand, unsure if, by accord, you were allowed to laugh at that, snorting against your palm, now standing on the threshold to the eerily empty barracks, one step away from scurrying out on some newly invented excuse of a task. -"But, the bunnies!"- You shoot in. -"Everyone's been really excited about them."- Yeah. Everyone. So, why ain't you among them, something from deep inside you asks him. -"Eyup."- Is all Barnes remarks, confirming, clipped and a man of few words as ever.

-"A broad preformin' for ten thousand sad sacks of shit is preformin' for none of 'em."-

He mutters and you need to stop breathing to ensure you were hearing that right.

-"Certainly ain' for me."-

He clicks his tongue, something about the notion seeming to displease him.

-"It ain' real."-

He builds in on his statement, leaving it as large as a house; looming over you, practically engulfing. You...didn't know what to say to that frankly. He must've been the only man in the 25th Bravo Division who thought that way and truth of the matter, probably the only man in the whole wide world, deepening the night time quietude even further, causing you to realize you were just effectively stunned into silence and that the scraping of his blade was practically echoing throughout the barracks, matching the thumping, beating staccato of your heart, your guts coiling into a painful knot. Maybe this didn't mean anything. Sergeant Barnes was always known to be so duty bound and piqued on the task at hand that he'd often neglect rest, breaks, R&R, and even sleep purely so he'd maintain that extra hour on guard, that extra hour on the ground, on terrain, out on the field, on the ready. That was simply his manner. In fact, this was the most you've ever heard him speak to anyone off the record, you included.

Maybe why you were so caught out of left field about it.

-"Why ain'chu goin'?"-

He inquires, and a shiver runs through you once you stir back to attention.

Now, that was a question you didn't expect.

Having the tables turned around on you.

You never expected anyone to care or even notice why you stayed behind. Not when all the other nurses have gone and boarded the trucks too right alongside the men, and just as eager as they were.

-"Your eyes ain' waterin' to catch a glimpse of Heston in them tight bell bottoms? Makin' good use of tax payin' dollars."-

He jabs, head cocked to one side; a trace of humor clearly laced through his words, albeit faintly as he throw one leg over his knee where he sat, twiddling the knife between his fingers, the light of the bulbs overhead reflection off the polished steel like a camera flash. -"Bobby Rydell with cookin' oil in his hair swingin' and swoonin'?"- He adds, clearly meaning to paint a vivid picture. No, all I want is to catch a glimpse of you, your innermost voice whispers. I am more than content with that. In fact, just standing here with you fills me with all the joy and agony in the world. Nobody they could fly in from all the lands and countries imaginable would make me so happy. -"Oh, no, sir."- You clear your throat instead, keeping your thoughts at bay, mustering a tiny smile; cordial, for politeness's sake, crossing your hands behind your back, fingers squeezing each other for comfort and so you would avoid twiddling them quite as much. -"Not for me."- You manage, shaking your head. -"Why not? You're a healthy, full-blooded woman."- He interjects almost immediately, standing up from the crate leisurely, blade and his half carved little piece of wood still in each hand. Somehow, that description of you as healthy and full-blooded sounded both as a complement and a fair bit of chiding; like he didn't quite understand what had to be wrong with you to miss the opportunity to see some of Hollywood's leading men live. Funnily enough, you could say the same about him. Some of the most dead drop gorgeous smokeshows would be at Cam Rahn and he was just indifferent to being there? -"A woman likes seein' her eyecandy."- Those words practically dance in his mouth, matching the odd leisurely pace of his footsteps, like he borderline intended to tease you for simply being here with him, embolden something dormant in you that nearly capsized inside of you with how fiercely you guarded it; your courage. -"Same as a man."- You counter. Not unkindly. But, a counter was still a counter. A counter you halfway regret dishing out once you find his eyes burning, unmoving and fierce. Crosshairs that could shoot you dead where you stood. You brace yourself, coming up with tactical, politically correct excuses ever a talent you practiced like a finely toned muscle.

-"Well, in either case, guess it's us two, sir. I'll fix you up more coffee, if you like. A chance to tidy up the place with everyone being away too."-

You practically stutter, in an artificial, make belief hurry, taking a couple of steps back, not turning your back to him until he'd, as you hoped, got sufficiently bored of this exchange to dismiss you. What did you know of his troubles, after all? Maybe solitude was what he craved. Maybe you were disturbing him in that without intending to. He wouldn't have stayed behind if solitude wasn't what he wanted. Still, his voice halts you. You whip back, semi expecting him to call you a wall flower and a special snowflake incapable of running with the tides, something within your guts telling you, however fantastical of a notion it was, that he stayed behind for you as much as you stayed behind for him. A healthy, full-blooded person could dream.

-"Cherry?"-

-"Sir?"-

-"Who'd they have to fly in for you to go and take a break with erry'one else? With them other nurses?"-

He leans one shoulder at one of the supporting pillars that held up the roof of the barracks, fingers newly engrossed in the old task of carving; his trust in his knife so complete that he could drag the shiv across the wood without even looking, eyes entirely on you. Who...would have to be starring at a USO show for you to be tempted to go with the other women? Was that what he was asking? Nobody? Somebody? Anybody? Everybody? Made no difference to you. You weren't the going type.

-"Haven't really thought about it, sir."-

You answer in honest, finding yourself unable to lie to him so blatantly.

If he expected a specific name or face, he'd have to consider this inquiry a letdown.

What was this conversation anyway?

Not that you didn't enjoy every second spent with him.

It was just...well...a surprise.

You sure as heck didn't expect to spend the end of today's day standing around chatting with Sergeant Barnes on the topic of which male celebrity was your favorite, rendering everything around you with a fever dream like quality; liminal and strange, the added weight of everything emphasized by the fact you were alone out here and the whole great wide world was out there, miles and miles away from your current position. In fact, if you listened carefully enough, you could swear you could hear the faintest signs of stage music all the way out here, on the edges of the jungle perimeter, in this lone building where you both stood, now merely a couple of steps between you. God strike me dead. He stood right in front of you in his green fatigues, his button up shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the veins lining his arms moving and flexing as he reach over to hand you whatever he was clenching in his fist, blade tucked back into place, somewhere in his safety belt. -"Yeah, haven't thought 'bout it myself none much. No point in gettin' up and ridin' all the way to Cam Rahn."- He concludes with a drawl; dry and distant --- disinterest oozing out of every pore he had, staring out the barrack's main entrance and the orange light spilling over the threshold and into the darkness on the horizon, gazing past your form and then landing back on you once your hand opens to feel a carved shape close around it, receiving what he gave you, before his free hand grabbed a hold of the reigns of the weapon hanging from a nearby shelf, slinging it over one shoulder, always on the ready. You open the palm of your hand tentatively, mouth agape. A face. A woman's face was what you were holding. It vaguely looked like ---

-"The views' to my likin' right here too."-

Barnes observes, giving you a lingering look, walking past you, obscured by the night.

You. It was you, it hits you like lightning. He was carving you.

By then, he was gone, blending with the abyss outside.

[seonghwaddict]

★ NEVER SAY NEVER. [ 009 ] flowers on vines.

synopsis. something about the eight most well-known boys of your campus just didn't sit right with you, so you never gave any effort to interact with them. but after a series of… interesting incidents, they can't seem to leave you alone. pairing. college students! vampires! ot8! ateez x fem! reader. genre. fluff, angst, eventual smut, college au, vampire au. chapter warnings. mildly suggestive content, implication of size kink. word count. 3k

　　　　　　　　chapter viii // chapter ix // chapter x

With a week left for the project, thirteen out of the fourteen had come and gone with the snap of a finger. You were aware time seemed to go so fast because of the person you were partnered with. Wooyoung had a way of getting the most stubborn of people to have the most fun. Meeting with him—and his friends, or, you supposed, your friends—nearly every day a week for months, it wasn’t a surprise that it went by so quickly.

You worked very well together, a shock to you initially but after getting so close to him it made sense. Not to mention how close you’ve gotten to his friends, who you now also considered some of your own best friends and loved. Not that you loved them, but you thought they were cool and fun and nice and unbelievably handsome and-

Your thoughts were quickly cut off by a knock on your studio door that cut through the music playing from your bluetooth speaker. Well, “studio” was a bit of an exaggeration.

When you and Sangmi first moved into this apartment, it became apparent to the two of you that there was an extra room. Of course, knowing that she was a dance student and probably practised for the majority of the day, you let her have the extra room but she quickly shot you down and told you to use it for your art instead. It wasn’t spacious enough to be a dance studio, anyway.

There was space for your assortment of shelves and easels, a long table stretched the length of the wall under the single window in the room, paint tubes, brushes and palette knives scattered all over the surface and various filled sketchbooks, new and scrapped canvases crammed just below the table on the equally long shelf.

You set a small couch next to the door, the wall behind it decorated with several of your paintings you favoured over the others. Sometimes, while you were working, you let Sangmi sit on the couch and relax, either watching you or doing something of her own as you enjoyed each other’s presence.

You set your paintbrush down next to your palette on the table and wiped your paint stained hands on a cloth before opening the door.

“Hey, I’m gonna go to the dance studio for a few hours.” Sangmi told you as you stepped aside to let her in. She looked at the painting of Wooyoung you were working on, the reference picture a screenshot of the dance video he filmed, taped to the top part of the easel. “Oh, it’s coming along so well!”

Over the past weeks she’s been checking on you and your progress, reminding you to eat whenever you get too carried away with painting. She’s seen all the stages and all the discarded versions of the painting, as well as all your frustration when you couldn’t get things to look quite right.

The canvas was fairly large, a magnificent oil painting of Wooyoung finally living up to your visions on the fabric—so you figured there wouldn’t be a need for smaller paintings as well. The dance was a contemporary one, choreographed to a song that made use of traditional instruments and performed on the stage of the university’s auditorium. The part you chose to paint was an almost breathtaking point of the choreography where he switched from sharp movements to an almost trance-like slowness, looking up with one hand elegantly reaching upwards. There was no denying his talent. 

The lighting from the stage’s spotlight was already dramatic, but you tweaked it on your canvas, adding more contrast and a soft glow to his illuminated features to create a more jarring effect. He looked ethereal with the way you painted him.

A couple minutes later, Sangmi left and you could continue painting in peace. Well, until the doorbell rang, at least. With a groan, you set your paintbrush down and walked into the hall to see who you needed to buzz in. As soon as you saw who was waiting outside the building, your eyes lit up and you wasted no time in hitting the button to unlock the door.

You practically ran to the bathroom to wash the paint off your fingers. By the time he arrived at your door, you already cleaned yourself up a bit and made a bit of an effort to sort out your messy hair. With a deep breath, you opened the door and practically threw yourself on him.

“Gosh, I thought I’d never see you again!” You pretended to cry into his chest as your embraced him tightly.

But Yunho only chuckled, ruffling your hair. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

You were only half joking. With you focused on your painting and him having to attend shootings and rehearsals for the end of year movie of the acting students, you hadn’t seen each other in a while. Each of the artistic majors had some kind of collaborative showcase near the end of the year; this year art majors and dancers worked together, the film majors worked with the actors, and the music majors worked with the theatre students. For that reason, you couldn’t find a lot of time to see half of the boys in general. 

“That’s an ironic thing to say for an actor.” You stepped away from him with a giddy laugh, noticing the bags in his hand and pointing at them. “What’s that?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Yunho smiled and walked past you to set the bags on the small breakfast table between the kitchen and living area. “I brought food. I didn’t know what you wanted,” he began taking different containers out of the bags, “so I got a variety—some soups, tteokbokki, fried chicken, japchae, gimbap and, of course, rice.”

“Thank you so much, but really didn’t have to get all this-“

He cut you off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it, I want to treat you to some delicious food.”

After a moment of you biting your lips with uncertainty, you nodded gratefully and moved to the kitchen to grab utensils and bowls. 

The two of you conversed comfortably as you stuffed yourselves full with the food he brought. You asked about the movie but he’d only give you answers so vague he may not have said anything at all; “What is it about?” “Well, you know, characters and stuff.” “Yunho, please!” “Ok, ok, fine… it’s a romance and involves characters.”

Though you didn’t really notice it, he paid a lot of attention to you. Whether you were talking or just eating, he was constantly taking notes in his mind. When you briefly mentioned a movie you liked, he later reminded himself to watch it when he had the time. Or when your eyes gave a slightly different reaction to a particular dish that showed you enjoyed it, he later reminded himself to make sure to order that dish next time he brings you food. Even when he was the one talking, he was so focused on the warmth in your face as you listened to him that he nearly lost his train of thought several times.

You told him about the progress of your painting, but adamantly refused to show it to him even when he begged so prettily. However, he quickly quelled his curiosity as you said something about wanting to surprise him and the rest of the guys. Something unfamiliar in his chest clenched when you giggled at his pout, reaching your hand over to pat his forearm.

“But I want to see your paintings!” He huffed jokingly, making you laugh again.

“I can just paint something for you out here.”

He seemed to be considering the offer for a while and then his pout disappeared, his eyes lighting up even though there was a darker glint in his eyes you couldn’t quite decipher. A smirk spread across his face.

“What if… you paint me?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ve thought about using you as a reference so-”

“No, no, you misunderstood me,” he let out a mischievous little chuckle that twisted your stomach, “I mean, what if you paint on me?”

“O-oh…” Mildly surprised by the request, you blinked. “Are you, um… are you sure you’d want that?”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you. “Of course I do! But if you don’t feel comfortable doing it, you don’t have to.”

With a newfound determination to make him happy, you nodded and got up, telling him to stay where he was seated while you went to grab some paint. Deciding oil paints weren’t the best idea, you settled on gouache, something between watercolour and acrylic that would wash off easily. You grabbed a few clean brushes and walked out with everything in your hands.

The sight that waited for you in the living room had your breath caught in your throat. Yunho was still there, as you had asked, but he had gone to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to lay on the floor.

He was on top of the towel.

Laying face down.

Shirtless.

You were glad he wasn’t facing you, otherwise he would’ve seen the way you had to turn around to pull yourself together. There was no denying how well-built Yunho’s body was—or any of their bodies, in fact—but seeing it so bare, despite only seeing his back, did things to you. For the sake of the friendship, you swallowed down the nervousness bubbling inside you and turned back around, grabbing a cup of water and a small towel from the kitchen before walking to where he laid himself down and kneeling next to his body.

You set your supplies next to you and took a breath. He sensed you next to him and turned his head to look at you sideways.

“Something wrong, tiny?”

The nickname only added into that static feeling of nervousness but you still shook your head, beginning to dip one of the brushes in water. “Everything’s fine, just relax, please.”

Yunho nodded and sighed softly, turning his head to the other side and closing his eyes. As you inspected your colour palette, you took a moment to think of what to paint on him. What would he like?

Finally, you decided to just let your hands take over instead of thinking about it too carefully. Knowing him, he’d be happy no matter what you decided to draw. Holding your breath, you let the brush lathered with paint touch his skin. There was no mistaking the way the hair at the nape of his neck stood up with goosebumps as he shivered ever so slightly. You briefly apologised about the paint being cold, but he didn’t mind at all. 

You drew a wavy, thin, sage green line from his left shoulder diagonally down to the left side of his waist, watching as the damp bristles glided over his muscles. They weren’t as defined as an athlete’s, but they were there, soft indications of his fitness.

As you let your mind and paintbrush wander, you found yourself turning that line into a vine of flowers and leaves. The style was almost impressionistic, barely abstract and precise smudges of colours that resembled plants you didn’t know the names of. With each stroke of the brush and twitch of his muscles, your shoulder relaxed and you let yourself bask in the moment just as he was.

Soon enough, you were happy with your creation and sat back to inspect it. Feeling the absence of your brushstrokes, Yunho turned his head to look at you again.

“Done?”

You tilted your head one way and then the other, looking at it from different angles before nodding with satisfaction. He gave you a toothy smile.

“Do you wanna do the front too, tiny?”

“Sure- wait, what?” Your eyes snapped to his, his question making your face feel warm. Painting on his naked front torso seemed considerably more… intimate than painting on the plane of his back.

“Yeah, like, paint on the front? Maybe you can connect the designs.”

And so you found yourself painting a similar vine on his chest after he laid himself on his back—of course, he had waited until you told him the paint was dry in fear of ruining your hard work. This vine started from his waist where the vine on his back ended and creeped up to his neck, disappearing behind his ear.

Throughout the process, you had to keep reminding yourself not to let your hands indulge in a few caresses of his porcelain skin, gaslighting yourself into believing he was just a canvas. But the way he was looking at you didn’t help much.

His eyes almost looked glossy as the reflection of the ceiling lamp’s light danced in them, looking at you with something you could only compare to adoration. You didn’t hate it at all, but you weren’t sure how to feel about it.

You also weren’t sure how you ended up in this position. At some point you must’ve been so focused, you didn’t notice him move you to sit on his upper thighs. Straddling him. But you didn’t want to make things awkward and move off him (not to mention that you greatly liked this position), so you stayed and continued your work from on top of him. You desperately tried to ignore the size difference that seemed so much more obvious when you were on him like this while he, on the contrary, revelled in it.

And at first you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, threatening to break through your rib cage. But the erratic beating soothed itself; it calmed down quickly when it came to terms with the fact that you were safe in his vicinity. He was safe.

Painting his front was similar to his back, his muscles twitching every time you brushed over them with paint. Now that you were seeing him like this, you nearly asked him never to put on a shirt again. 

You found yourself adding details that were ultimately meaningless and would most definitely go unnoticed, but you weren’t quite ready to move away from him. Not when he was looking at you with such round, tender eyes.

“Can I take a picture of this?”

His voice seemed slightly deeper than usual, perhaps because he hadn’t used it in a while. His question briefly caught you off guard, but you realised that it was kind of cute, really. So you nodded without lifting your eyes from the area you were painting just next to his abs.

Yunho’s hand reached over to the coffee table and he slid his phone off the surface. First he took a picture from his own point of view, looking down his chest to see one of your hands painting gorgeous flowers while your other one rested on his free hand’s forearm, the way you straddled him so perfectly just further down the shot.

The next picture he took was a landscape oriented photo, his hand outstretched to the side. This shot depicted the scene from the side, both of your smiling faces in the picture, as well as the bend of your arm as you painted near his neck and the soft arch of your back as you leaned over him ever so slightly. The way his free hand’s fingers rubbed and tapped their way up your thighs until they reached your waist went unnoticed by the camera.

While you were very focused on painting, you did eventually relax enough to let your own free hand explore his torso. With one hand focused on refining the flowers, the other glided over wherever the paint wasn’t touching, following the dips and rises of his body. It wasn’t until you accidentally passed your thumb over one of his nipples that he made an effort to stop you.

When it happened, he let out a shaky breath that seemed somewhat like a silent whimper, he raised a hand to close around your wrist and lifted it away from his chest. After he muttered a “tiny, please” you nodded and relaxed your hand in his grip, face flushing out of embarrassment.

Instead of dropping your hand, he repositioned his hold on it to cradle it gently, pulling it to his face and consequently pulling you further up his lap. You gaped at him as he pressed an electric kiss to your knuckles. But he didn’t stop there; he flexed your wrist to present your palm to him, his eyes never breaking contact with yours until his kisses trailed to your wrist. His lips lingered over your pulse point and you watched as his eyes fluttered shut.

It was impossible to deny the dark tint appearing on your cheeks, but you were glad to see he looked just as affected. Pink blush adorned his soft cheeks, his eyes seeming slightly dazed when he finally dropped your hand and looked up to you.

It wasn’t long after that that the paint fully dried and he had to leave, voice hoarse as he explained that he had an early shooting the next day and should probably go rest. After helping you clean up, Yunho pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, barely missing the corner of your lips, and took off into the night.

If you collapsed onto the couch and squealed into a pillow as soon as he was gone, that was nobody’s business but yours.

And if as soon as he got home, he practically ripped off his shirt and gushed to his brothers about how small and pretty you looked when you were on top of him—foregoing showing the pictures because those were for him and only him—that was also nobody's business but his either.

　　[ lilo's notes ... ] thank you all for waiting so patiently for this chapter <33. as you can see, you and yunho are quite… close 🤭 i honestly had so much fun writing this, possibly too much- but anyways, i hope you enjoyed it!! also, don’t worry, i did not forget about that little yeosang moment from the previous chapter, it will most definitely be brought up~~

　　ଘ(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭ network ... @cromernet @blankjournal

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[insanityclause]

“It’s the fifth play I’ve rehearsed here,” says Tom Hiddleston, looking round a bare, bleak room at a studio space in Southeast London with a broad smile and a surprising amount of pleasure. Hayley Atwell peers past an office desk and a stack of plastic chairs to look out of the window.

“And have you worked over there?” she asks, pointing at the building opposite. “That’s where Cate Blanchett and Tom Burke are doing The Seagull? And next door here, Jonathan Bailey is working on Richard II. That to me is so indicative of the romance of the theatre community. Everyone is doing their thing, but all together in a shared space. I find it so exciting.”

The pair’s enthusiasm is infectious. Both are movie stars who command cinematic franchises. Hiddleston is Loki, the trickster of the Marvel universe. Atwell plays Grace in the two most recent Mission: Impossible films. Yet both seem genuinely excited to be back on stage for the first time since 2019 in a new production of Much Ado About Nothing directed by Jamie Lloyd.

“I feel like I won the lottery,” says Hiddleston. “I absolutely love Loki. I got cast as this extraordinary character, this ancient archetype who represents mischief and chaos and then I get to do this too. What my whole journey through being an actor has taught me is I love it when it’s honest – it’s thrilling to watch and it’s thrilling to play when there is deep commitment in the work.”

He pauses a little. He has already made his mark in Shakespeare, notably as a memorable Coriolanus on stage at the Donmar in 2014, and as Prince Hal in the BBC’s adaptation of the history plays, The Hollow Crown. “If I had good fortune, I’d love to play Shakespeare for the rest of my life. I really love doing it. The plays are so deep, and they contain such wisdom about being alive.”

Atwell is also a fine classical actress, most recently in a devastating production of Ibsen’s Rosmersholm (costarring Burke). But Mission: Impossible has dominated her life for the past five and a half years: she has been combining rehearsals with shooting additional scenes for The Final Reckoning, which comes out in May. As the mercurial Grace – “she’s her own version of an agent of chaos” – she has, like the rest of the Mission: Impossible cast, signed up to do her own stunts. “I’ve brought quite a strong plank into rehearsal,” she laughs.

The actors met in 2002, on their final audition for RADA. “He did this improvised thing called the status game, and I was so impressed by it,” Atwell says, laughing. “And then he got in and I went to Guildhall instead, but because we were peers, there was always this social crossover.”

They stayed in touch, but even though they both appeared in Avengers: Endgame – Atwell as Peggy Carter and Hiddleston as Loki – they have never been on set together or interacted as characters. Planned joint projects have also fallen through. Playing Shakespeare’s warring lovers Benedick and Beatrice in one of his greatest comedies is their first experience of actually sharing a space.

Much Ado About Nothing is one of Shakespeare’s funniest and most resonant comedies. Its story of a group of men returning from war to sunny Messina to party and adapt to civilian life has just about everything: old lovers meeting and rekindling desire; new lovers being torn apart by suspicion and doubt. It is full of great comic set pieces and marked by near tragedy. Hiddleston and Atwell are the latest couple to take on Benedick and Beatrice, following in the footsteps of actors as various as Mark Rylance and Janet McTeer, David Tennant and Catherine Tate and Simon Russell Beale and Zoë Wanamaker.

They are having a good time. “It’s so lovely,” says Atwell, sitting back in her plastic chair. “It’s easy because there’s a lot of trust and a natural shorthand between us. The ice is already broken and so we can just try different things, and I know that if I try something Tom’s going to respond and give me something back.”

“You just dive in,” says Tom, smiling as he interrupts. This is the nature of their conversation; they spill over one another’s words, finishing sentences. It bodes well for their performances as a couple whose surface banter disguises a deep love for one another. “So much of what Benedick and Beatrice do is listen to each other and then use one aspect of what they’ve said and weaponise it. It means as actors we have to be very active in our listening. Every time Tom bats something to me, I have to keep the ball in the air. It’s so exhilarating.”

Atwell rattles on. She is a great and articulate talker. “They are bound by this chemistry that they don’t fully control and are keeping each other at arm’s length because of their fear of being vulnerable with each other.” Hiddleston smiles again before continuing the thought. “It’s genuine magnetism, a very intense attraction. And they think they are the smartest people in the room, until they’re not.”

Rehearsals have been marked by a lot of dancing. Much Ado is set at a family gathering during which a wedding is arranged. “And when old friends get together, people dance,” says Hiddleston. “’90s house music,” chips in Atwell with a grin. “It’s a very different kind of show.”

It sounds like a very Jamie Lloyd style of show. The director is famous for his stripped-back, direct style which is introducing classic plays to new and younger audiences. “The thing I love about him is his courage in honouring the plays. He asks us to engage very deeply and very personally with the material,” says Hiddleston.

The last time Hiddleston worked with Lloyd was in 2019 on a production of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal in London and on Broadway, where he met his now wife Zawe Ashton. “It was an extraordinary life-changing time,” he says. “Hugely resonant. I talk about it every day. There is so much fondness in that experience and we all really enjoyed the work as well.”

Ashton has worked repeatedly with Lloyd down the years. “It feels like family,” Hiddleston adds. “I think really good work can come from this deep friendship. We hold each other to account and keep each other honest in the work. I love it.”

Atwell, who is married to the music producer Ned Wolfgang Kelly, has also collaborated with Lloyd three times. “I think he likes actors as a species,” she says, thoughtfully. “Not every director particularly does. We might be an odd kind of bunch, and we are slippery, mercurial things, playing like children do. He loves that. He wants rehearsals to feel like a playground.”

With that, the couple smile warmly and leave the room. Ready for another day of dancing.

[keeryhours]

stop the stars chapter one - billy hargrove

Billy Hargrove x female OC Katelyn Henderson, some Steve Harrington x female OC

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Billy Hargrove Masterlist

Summary:

Billy Hargrove is new in town. He has secrets to keep, a reputation to uphold, and his one rule is not to get close to anyone. He came to Hawkins against his will and he doesn’t plan to stay long.

Katelyn changes everything.

Chapter Warnings:

Underage drinking

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: This is my first time posting here and my first time writing in forever! I really hope you guys like this and want to read more. I want to get a lot more writing out very soon, and requests are open!

—

Katelyn Henderson was exhausted as cheer practice came to an end. She wiped her sweaty face with a towel, her breathing beginning to return to normal. She always gave practice her all, and today was no exception.

The other girls were giggling - there had been talk about a new student, but she wasn’t particularly interested.

The girls all began to make their way into the locker room, Katelyn joining in. She caught the eye of her friend, Chrissy, who quickly hurried to walk by her side.

“You did great today,” she complimented. “I can’t believe you pulled off that back handspring so easily.”

Katelyn laughed softly, the towel now around her shoulders. “I’ve been working on that for weeks. I definitely didn’t expect to land it today.”

“Guess you’re just that good,” Chrissy said with a smile, bringing one to the other girl’s lips as well.

“I don’t know about all that.”

The girls entered the locker room, already filled with steam from the showers. The other girls on the squad were in various stages of changing, still gossiping about this new guy, who is apparently very hot, according to everyone.

She grabbed her shower stuff from her locker and sat it on the bench before she started undressing. She pulled the ponytail holder from her hair, her wild, dark brown curls falling all around her. They were still bouncy and frizzy as ever despite all the sweating from practice.

Chrissy kept chatting to her as they both pulled off their uniforms.

“So have you heard about this new guy?”

“How could I not,” Katelyn scoffed, pushing her curls out of her face for the millionth time. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about. Haven’t seen him, though.”

“I have,” Chrissy said, wiggling her eyebrows with a mischievous smile on her face. “He’s hot.”

“So I’ve heard,” Katelyn can’t help but giggle at her friend. It’s been annoying to hear everyone else talk about it, but not her best friend.

Completely undressed and with a towel in hand, she gathered up her shower stuff and headed to an open stall, Chrissy following behind and taking the one next to her.

“Are you going to Tina’s Halloween party tonight?” Chrissy asked, yelling over the sound of the water and through the wall dividing them.

“Um, duh,” Katelyn answered, with a laugh from both girls. Neither of them ever missed a party if they could help it.

“Do you have a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna catch a ride with Steve and Nance.”

“Oooh, Steeeeve!” Chrissy sang through giggles, and Katelyn could practically see the huge grin on her face as she teased her. She rolled her eyes.

Okay, sure, she had had a crush on Steve for like, ever. But he was with Nancy now, and clearly very much into her. So friends they would stay, and she wished Chrissy would drop it already.

“Yeah, Steve and his girlfriend.” Katelyn pointed out.

Chrissy scoffed. “Well, rumor has it their relationship isn’t going so well.”

“Chrissy!” Katelyn scolded her friend, although there was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips as she shampooed her hair. “That’s so rude. And Nancy is my friend, too.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t be excited if they broke up,” Chrissy said, and the smile could be heard in her voice.

Katelyn just laughed to herself, because damn it, she wasn’t wrong. As guilty as she felt about it, she couldn’t lie to herself and say she wouldn’t be relieved if Steve and Nancy broke up. They never seemed that into each other, in her opinion, but that wasn’t her place to say anything about it. Steve seemed happy and he could make his own decisions.

Chrissy finished showering first. Katelyn felt like it took her twice as long to shower because of her hair, which there was just so much of and she always used a lot of products in it. Otherwise it was a frizzy mess. It sometimes turned out that way anyway.

Katelyn finished up, shutting off the shower head and grabbing her stuff, stepping out and wrapping a towel around her body and one around her hair. Chrissy was back at their lockers, brushing her hair.

Katelyn made her way back there, finishing her own post-shower routine as they chatted about random Hawkins gossip. This new guy - Billy - came up often. Apparently, the word was he was going to be at the party tonight.

She was intrigued, maybe, but with the amount of talk about this guy by the girls around school, you’d think he was a movie star. So yeah, she wanted to see him for herself.

—

Katelyn spent hours putting together her costume and getting ready that night. She decided to go as Madonna, dressed in her outfit from the VMAs that year - her white dress with the lingerie style top, tulle skirt with hearts. The outfit was complete with the white lace gloves, necklaces, star earrings, white heels, and Boy Toy belt. She did her hair and makeup just like Madonna’s, bright red lips and a smokey eye look.

She had been working on this costume practically nonstop for weeks, and she honestly felt like she looked great.

Her little brother Dustin and his friends dressed as the Ghostbusters. Their mom made them take about a million pictures, separately and together.

By the time they got out of the house, Steve’s car was already idling at the road. Dustin was ranting about how some asshole had almost run over him and his friends after school today. That made her look at him concerned, but he waved it off.

Katelyn ruffled her brother’s hair before he climbed onto his bike. “Have fun. Be safe. And bring me back some candy.”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “You can have one candy bar. Maybe.”

Before she could say anything else he was off, riding to meet up with his friends for trick or treating. She watched him go for only a moment before climbing into the back of Steve’s car.

Steve and Nancy were wearing a couples costume - Risky Business. It was cute, she begrudgingly admitted to herself.

They greeted her as she got settled in the backseat.

“Wow!” Nancy exclaimed as she fully took in Katelyn’s costume. “That is- incredible!”

Katelyn was beaming, because of course it meant the world that someone acknowledged her hard work. “Thank you.”

Steve turned back to look, his eyes widening slightly. “Damn. Madonna!” he says, which makes Katelyn laugh.

She thought his gaze lingered on her lingerie top for just a second too long, but that might have been wishful thinking.

The three of them drove to Tina’s house, talking about random topics. Katelyn couldn’t help but notice how cute Steve was, like, everything he did. He was funny, he was nice, he made her smile.

Steve had been her first real crush, her first love, as she thought of it sometimes, even though it was unrequited. She had been into him since middle school, even. He was the first boy she ever really noticed, the first one who made her heart beat faster in his presence.

She shook those thoughts of Steve from her head.

They pulled up as close to Tina’s house as they could get with the amount of people there for the party. They walked in together, and it was immediate chaos.

The three of them found their way into the kitchen first, getting started with a few drinks. Katelyn wanted to at least be a little tipsy before she really joined the party.

She spotted Chrissy immediately, and they both lit up in huge smiles and ran into each other’s arms.

“Oh my god,” Chrissy said, “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” she said back - Chrissy had debated on costumes for a while but ultimately decided to go as some kind of vampire queen at the last second - she looked cute, no matter what.

“We need to get you a drink,” she said, grabbing a cup for her and filling it with punch.

“What’s in this?” Katelyn asked, giving it a sip.

“Pure fuel!” Some guy in a toga answers for them, and she doesn’t exactly know what that means, but she goes with it.

She’s a couple drinks down with Chrissy by the time her boyfriend, Jason, interrupts them, stealing Chrissy away.

Left alone, Katelyn began to wander around the party, feeling a little lost but wanting to have some fun tonight.

That was when she found him.

Billy Hargrove was like a magnet to her from day one - second one.

The second she walked into the living room of Tina’s house, she saw him.

Her eyes went to him immediately, and his gaze met hers. It was like time stopped around them.

It’s not that she knew every other guy at this party. It’s not even that she had heard any specifics about him, besides that he was hot and had a great ass. She just knew that that was Billy the second she saw him - it was obvious this was the guy everyone had been talking about.

Because god, was he gorgeous. He was tall, and muscular. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket with absolutely nothing underneath, his tanned chest on display. He had long blonde curly hair, styled in a mullet. A cigarette sat between his lips as he had been leaning against the wall, talking to some girl.

He had a neutral expression as he looked up at her, but as their gazes met, a smirk grew across his lips.

Her attention was jostled away as Steve grabbed her arm.

“Hey,” he said, a soft smile on his lips. She felt her heart beating faster again at the sight of him, how close he was, his touch on her bare arm. “I was wondering where you snuck off to.”

“I was thinking about dancing. Maybe.” She looked away from him and to the makeshift dance floor.

“I could dance with you,” he offers. “I love to dance.”

She looked back at him quickly, her brows furrowed. “What about Nancy?”

He shook his head. “What about Nancy? I can’t dance with my friend?”

She thought about it for a moment, but then he was pulling her onto the floor, and she couldn’t help but dance with him, laughing the whole time.

They danced for a while, and god, Steve was so much fun. He was really perfect. And also taken, she reminded herself.

When they got tired they went back to the kitchen to grab another drink, meeting back up with Nancy. Then the three of them were back in the living room, drinking and talking.

Katelyn was having a great time. She was starting to really feel the alcohol, and it was making her feel light and free and uninhibited.

She was brought out of their little bubble by the sound of cheering and chanting coming from the back of the house.

“Billy! Billy! Billy!”

The group of them turned to see Tommy marching Billy himself through the living room and straight to them.

“We got ourselves a new Keg King, Harrington,” Tommy said, and then Billy was walking right up on them.

Billy walked up like he was ready for a fight, and Steve took his sunglasses off, standing up like he was willing to give him one. Katelyn looked between them nervously, and Billy’s eyes flicked down to hers, that smirk appearing back on his lips for only a moment before Katelyn felt her arm being pulled harshly.

She stumbled between the two boys as Nancy pulled her towards the kitchen.

“Come on. We need to get drunk.”

And that’s what they did. Katelyn wasn’t sure what was up with Nancy tonight, but she was clearly wanting to get real drunk tonight, and who was she to put a stop to that?

Katelyn drank right along with her all night, and next thing she knew, they were both wasted.

They stumbled back to the kitchen together, giggling, ready to refill their cups - they had lost track of how many drinks they’d had long ago.

“No. You guys have had enough,” Steve said, appearing seemingly from nowhere and reaching for both girls’ drinks.

Katelyn yanked her cup out of reach with a childish “You’re not my mom, Steve.” Nancy wasn’t quite so fast, and Steve grabbed onto her cup. They fought over it, and it fell against Nancy’s chest, covering her white costume in red punch.

Katelyn watched, mouth wide, as it happened, and Steve and Nancy took off to the bathroom, arguing and leaving her behind.

She watched them go before she shrugged, taking a sip and turning back to the party.

She was barely feet into the living room again when she heard someone speak to her, making her freeze where she stood.

“Hey, princess.”

She didn’t even have to look to know who’s deep, smooth voice that was.

She turned to Billy, who was leaning against the wall, a beer in hand and yet another cigarette in his mouth.

She raised her eyebrows, like, Me?, which made him grin in a wicked sort of way.

He gave her a quick nod, so she walked over. Her level of intoxication was making her feel pretty ‘fuck it’ about everything right now.

He put out his cigarette as she approached him, and his eyes trailed her every movement. It made her feel vulnerable.

“You look pretty,” he said, and he didn’t waste any time, putting his free hand on her waist.

His touch nearly made her jump out of her skin. She had never felt this way with guys before. She wasn’t inexperienced, she wasn’t even all that shy. But there was something about Billy that was so intense. The level of eye contact with those deep blue eyes was not helping.

But she had already seen Billy making out with at least one girl at this party so far, so she wasn’t really sure what he was wanting from her.

“Thanks,” she said, trying her best to hold his eye contact but finding herself feeling small under his gaze.

His thumb began to rub circles over the skin beneath her sheer top, his eyes moving down to where his hand rested.

“What’s your name, princess?” he asked when his eyes moved back to hers.

“Katelyn,” she answered him, feeling like her head was spinning. “Henderson. Or…Kate. It doesn’t matter.”

“Kate…” he drawled, and she really liked the way it sounded on his tongue. It sent shivers through her body - she had never heard her name sound so nice. “I’m Billy.”

“I know,” she said, and then she felt like slapping herself, because why did she say that? That was a stupid thing to say.

It made him laugh, which made her heart stutter in her chest.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” he asked her confidently, and she probably would have said yes if she hadn’t felt Steve roughly grabbing her arm.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and he looked pissed. She wasn’t sure if it was at her or at Nancy. Maybe both. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

Billy watched, amused, as Steve dragged her off.

“I’ll see you around, princess,” he called after her, which made Steve scoff and roll his eyes.

The room spun around her as Steve pulled her along, and she kept stumbling over her feet. Steve sighed, slowing down to wrap an arm around her.

“What about Nancy?” she asked when she realized they were leaving the house without her.

“She’s gonna get a ride home with Jonathan,” Steve said, clearly upset, and she furrowed her brows. She was about to ask more questions when he pushed her into the passenger seat, buckling her in himself.

He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She spent the beginning of the drive home listening to Steve’s music and trying not to be sick from the movement of the car.

It wasn’t long until she had to close her eyes - and that’s the last thing she remembered from the whole night.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Fic title: Pink Premiere

It’s a dress.

It’s a stupid pink dress with a white bow you can tie around your back. It’s a stupid dress.

It’s a pretty dress.

Her hands shake as she carefully picks it up off the bed. Her sister has quietly given her some time to adjust mentally to this moment.

To brave who she is.

Biting her lip, Laios stares at the pretty dress in her hands. It’s so soft. Falin had saved up for it, buying from Old Lady T who specialized in various clothing and designs. Who had changed pronouns so fast for Laios her head spun as her heart warmed.

It’s just a dress.

A dress she was going to wear. In public. Coming out as a woman.

Her stomach felt like she would puke.

Taking a shuddering breath, Laios pulled the dress over her head. She’d already been mostly naked, her underwear (to give her lumps and hide lumps as the woman who sold it to her said with a wink) the only thing.

The dress fell to mid calf, and the bow was easy to tie. Laios hesitantly stepped to stand in front of of the mirror in her room, staring.

A girl stared back. A girl with gold eyes and sandy blonde hair that was reaching her chin.

(Laios saw her father for a second before it vanished. A glimpse. But no more.)

Swallowing, Laios gripped the dress in her hands, swaying a bit. The dress swayed with her.

A smile crossed her face and Laios giggled, unable to handle it. She looked so pretty! So girly! Oh, where were her boots she-

The idea of going down to the main room to see Falin suddenly stopped her in her tracks. She looked at the mirror gain. Suddenly she didn’t see herself. She saw a man with a jawline that didn’t say feminine. A man in a dress.

(“Pervert,” her father’s words came to mind. The whip marks on her back and the tears as she ran from her home to find shelter as a solider followed.)

A knock at the door. Laios jumped.

“Oi! Laios!” A familiar masculine voice said. “We gotta talk. A new condition was added to the basic contract.”

Chilchuck.

Laios moved without thinking. She’d been hoping Chilchuck would rejoin her party but she had heard of the Guild needing to add something to the basic contract. Laios remembered seeing the haunted eyes of the Half-Foot she saw who flinched when her gaze was on him. The half emancipated state of the boy (and she knew he was young, young for a Half-Foot, barely an adult based on how Chilchuck reacted to the sight) had haunted her as much as the flinch.

Opening the door, she froze when she realized she was still in her dress. Chilchuck paused, eyes wide as he looked at her.

“Uh…” he shook his head. “Have I been using the wrong pronouns?”

“Huh?” Laios asked.

“Are you a woman?” Chilchuck asked. Laios hesitated but slowly nodded. “Alright, well I still need the contract signed.”

“Just like that?” Laios asked, unable to understand.

(The feeling of a whip, of her mother’s slap. The linger on her skin.)

“Yeah…” Chilchuck frowned. “You’re a woman? What’s not to understand?”

“Not many Tallmen would,” Laios said in a muttering as she took the contract for something to do.

“Yeah and they’re the only race who does,” Chilchuck snorted. “Besides anyone who lives here won’t care. If they do someone will kick their ass over it.”

“I… yeah.” Laios smiled at Chilchuck. “Thank you.”

“Whatever. Just look over my contract.” Chilchuck said with a grunt.

There was just the one new clause (The Party cannot starve the Picklock so they can fit through dangerous paths better) and an updated clause (The party cannot demanded the Picklock perform sexual favours for any reason including to receive food) which made Laios’s blood boil. She signed easily and handed the contract over.

“I’m going down for a drink with Falin. Would you like to join?” She asked. Chilchuck paused, eyeing her. He gave a short nod.

Her smile widened.

Summary: Trans!Woman Laios is nervous about going out in a pink dress. Chilchuck helps out.

Pairings: Chilaios. Like early stages, Laios has a crush.

Notes: I am very far into this headcanon and I love it.

[owmyeyeballs]

Batstarion Fic

I had to. Batstarion is too adorable for words. He's still a spawn in this fic, because I say so. Tav is Silence, my tiefling monk, and she's so done with her adorable weird vampire

It’s probably nothing. Of course it’s nothing. He’ll show up any minute. He’s fine, everything will be fine… Silence had been pacing so long, she wondered she hadn’t worn out the Elfsong’s shiny floorboards. Astarion was missing. Astarion had been missing for hours. Usually at this time of day he would be lounging at her side, reading a book and cradling a glass of wine. Ordinarily Silence wouldn’t have worried quite so much, but since the death of Cazador, Astarion had been a mess. Joyous one minute, on the verge of weeping the next, and through it all, extremely reluctant to leave Silence’s side.

He probably just needed some space. He’s probably just gone to track down some prey. He’s probably totally fine, and hasn’t fallen victim to a vengeful spawn, or a Bhaal-crazed murderer, or…

The door opened, and Silence turned in worried expectation, only to find Wyll regarding her sympathetically.

“Still no sign of our favourite bloodsucker, I take it?”

“Nothing. I should be out looking for him.”

Wyll came to stand by her, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“You should be with the rest of us at the bar, relaxing. Astarion’s a grown man. There’s no sense worrying until we know for sure we have cause.”

“He’s barely been out of my sight since Cazador, and this city is dangerous, and…”

“And Astarion has two hundred years of experience navigating those dangers. I tell you what, if he’s still gone in another hour, I’ll join you, and we’ll go looking for him together. But until then, try to relax. I know Astarion’s been a little out of sorts since taking down Cazador. But so have you.”

Silence opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. In truth, Wyll was right. After coming so very close to losing her lover, she had barely relaxed once.

“… You may have a point.”

Wyll smiled warmly, and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Try to relax. If you won’t join us downstairs, at least sit down for a while up here. Even with your light feet, we can hear you pacing your way through the floorboards!”

As he left her to rejoin the others, Silence took his advice, collapsing on her bed. The absence of Astarion laying beside her, holding her close, did little to ease her worries. Without the vampire to hug, she clutched a pillow to her chest instead.

“Where are you, Stars…”

Her eyes drifting aimlessly across the elegantly furnished room, until they came to rest on her alchemy bag. A thought darted across her mind, and she leapt to her feet once more, taking the bag and rifling through the contents, until at last her hand closed on the bottle she wanted.

“I mightn’t be able to sniff you out, but I know who can!”

Scratch had settled quite happily into the Elfsong, and had already become a familiar presence at the bar, delighting in being petted and fed treats by patrons in various stages of inebriation. Seeing Silence, his tail began to wag, and he loped across the room to meet her. The taste of the animal speaking potion still lingering on her tongue, Silence knelt to scratch behind his ears.

“Hope you’re keeping well, Mistress! You haven’t joined us tonight! You’re missing out! There’s been singing!”

“I’m well enough, but worried,” Silence replied. “And I think you might be able to help me. Do you think you can track someone for me?”

Scratch tilted his head, the wagging of his tail slowing a little.

“I think so… But is it Astarion you want me to track? That… Might be a problem.”

Silence felt her heart begin to race in fear.

“Why? What’s happened? Do you know something?”

“He’s alright, Mistress. Well, I think he’ll be alright. But he made me promise not to tell!”

Silence frowned.

“Not to tell me what? Please, Scratch. I’ve been worried sick!”

Scratch let out a low whine, and tilted his head again.

“I don’t know… He said he’d bite me if I told! But… He likes you so much. I don’t think he’d like you to be worried… That makes telling you alright, doesn’t it?”

“I think so! And don’t worry, I won’t let him bite!”

Scratch let out a sigh, his tail wagging once more.

“If you go back to your room, Mistress, I’ll bring him to you there.”

Giving Scratch one last pat, Silence rose to her feet, halfway between relieved and worried.

What in nine Hells have you gotten up to, Stars?

Silence didn’t have long to wait before finding out.  She had barely settled back onto her bed when she heard Scratch’s claws clicking merrily on the floorboards, and her lover’s voice raised in indignation.

“If you don’t drop me at once, you filthy hound, I’ll visit you tonight and drain every last drop of blood from you! Do you hear me? You miserable fleabag, I mean it!”

Scratch came bounding into the room, something white in his mouth. Something winged and flapping angrily, and yelling in Astarion’s voice as it was dropped at Silence’s feet. A bat. A white, fluffy, red-eyed bat.

“At last! Ugh, I’m covered in your slobber, you beast! I ought to…”

Red eyes looked up at Silence, and blinked.

“Ah. Darling. I… Suppose I ought to explain.”

Silence knelt, and scooped the bat – Astarion? – up off the floor. He flapped his wings clumsily, trying to get his balance, and clawed feet gripped at her hands. Torn between laughing and shouting in disbelief, she stroked her thumb over soft, fluffy white fur.

“You’re a bat.”

Astarion heaved a sigh, and shot a glare at Scratch.

“I’ll deal with you later, mongrel. Now, shoo!”

“Ignore him, Scratch. But you can go back and have fun with the others.”

Tail wagging and tongue lolling out happily, Scratch left. Astarion gave an annoyed huff and folded his wings. Or, attempted to. His control over them seemed to be somewhat lacking.

“Well. I suppose an explanation is in order. I found a book, you see. When we were looting Cazador’s palace. A book on vampires, and vampire spawn. Turns out the bastard was keeping even more from us than I realised!”

He waved a wing angrily, nearly falling from Silence’s hands. She quickly sat down on the bed, and set Astarion down on a cushion.

“Turns out I’m capable of more than I realised. All of us spawn are. Apparently Cazador didn’t want us to get any ideas… According to what I’ve read, I ought to be able to turn to mist, to walk upside down on ceilings, to… Well, to turn into a bat. It took some experimenting, but I figured it out! Only…”

Silence bit her lip to keep a laugh from bursting out.

“Only you can’t work out how to turn back?”

Astarion groaned, burying his head in his wing in embarrassment.

“More than that, I can’t even figure out how to make this useless form fly! I’m stuck as a winged rat, scrabbling around on the ground… Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly been stepped on? And the kitchen cats tried to make a meal of me! I had to beg that damned mutt for protection! And… Are you laughing? Is this funny to you?”

Unable to hold in in any longer, Silence let out a snort of laughter, and only laughed harder as the little white bat gave her what he clearly imagined to be a ferocious glare.

“I’ve been worried about you, you precious bastard! And all the time you were a cute little bat!”

She scooped him up again and pressed a kiss to his furry head, holding him up and taking in the long, twitching ears, the leaf-like nose, the sharp little teeth he revealed as he shouted.

“Will you take this seriously? Imagine what the others are going to say! The sheer indignity will kill me!”

“That’s what you get for skulking around and playing with powers you don’t know how to use! Now, where’s this book? We’ll see if we can’t find a way to change you back.”

“Outside, on one of the tables out the back. Assuming no one’s stolen it, that is. Wait, you’re not leaving me here? What if the cats come back?”

Silence, paused, halfway through placing Astarion down on the bed again. He flapped his wings in indignation, and she sighed and placed him on her shoulder instead.

“There. Stop getting yourself in a flap – literally. Those wing claws are sharp!”

At last, with Astarion settled on her shoulder, Silence made her way downstairs, where the tavern rang with cheerful singing. Astarion let out a slight groan.

“Let’s get out of here, quickly. This form has sensitive ears, and that drunken caterwauling is making my head throb!”

Silence tried her best to avoid the rest of the party as she made her way to the door, but with no luck. Spotting her, Gale cried out.

“Ah, there you are! Joining us at last? Come on, pull up a chair, pour a glass! Hello… What have you got there?”

“Oh gods...” Astarion groaned, as Gale approached, looking curiously. “He’ll be insufferable…”

“Well, aren’t you a chatty little fellow?” Gale asked, reaching out to stroke the bat’s head. Astarion snapped at him. “And bitey! Reminds me of Astarion. Any luck tracking him down?”

“Don’t you dare tell him!” Astarion hissed. “I’ll die of embarrassment!���

Gale couldn’t understand, Silence realised. Not without the animal-speaking potion. Although… Her eyes darted to the bar, where Halsin stood close by. Sure enough, the druid was smiling, having clearly understood.

“It seems our pale friend is in something of a predicament! How have you managed that, Astarion?”

“Astarion?” Gale frowned, and looked around the bar. At long last, his eyes returned to the bat currently fuming on Silence’s shoulder. “He isn’t… Is he?”

Well, there was no avoiding it now. One by one, the others turned their attention to Astarion, who hid his face in his wings.

“That’s Astarion?” Karlach cried, leaping from her seat and coming to pet his fur. “He’s so cute! And soft! Aren’t you just precious?”

“Certainly an interesting development,” Wyll remarked. “Could be useful for scouting ahead, or getting to places we can’t…”

“Have you figured out your wings yet?” Halsin asked. “Many druids struggle with flight when they first take a winged form. I can offer some advice, should you need it?”

Astarion flapped his wings angrily, brushing away Karlach’s hands and nearly falling from Silence’s shoulder in the process.

“Unhand me! Gods above, get me out of here!”

“Aww, listen to the cute little squeaks!” Karlach exclaimed. “Is he having a little tantrum?”

“He’s… a little overwhelmed. We’re going to go back upstairs and try to figure things out. See you all later!”

The book, thankfully, was where Astarion had said it would be. An ancient volume, full of loose and torn pages, which Silence briefly flicked through curiously. Arcane diagrams, bizarre illustrations, archaic text…

“You can browse it upstairs! Hurry, I can hear the cats coming back!”

“Alright, calm down. Relax, I’m not going to let you be a cat’s dinner.”

Making a brief detour past the bar for a bottle of wine, Silence hurried back upstairs, and settled onto her bed, the book in front of her, Astarion settling himself onto her lap. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she tried not to laugh as he clumsily attempted to open the cover with his wings, and failed, a giggle bursting out.

“Will you stop laughing? Do you have any idea how hard these wretched things are to control? They feel as if they ought to work like hands, but they don’t! I can’t pick anything up, I can’t turn pages… I can’t even scratch my nose!”

“You’ll figure it out in time, I’m sure. In the meantime…”

Silence gently scratched at the delicate, leaflike nose with one fingertip. Then, unable to resist the soft fur, turned her attention to the fur around his ears. Astarion closed his eyes, letting out a little sigh.

“Well… that I could get used to…”

With one hand now dedicated to bat-scratching, Silence opened the book with the other.

“Right, where were you up to?”

“There’s a page marked with a ribbon. Turn to that one.”

Silence obliged, turning to a page covered with illustrations of bats. Cruel-looking things, not at all like the fluffy white creature in her lap. Seemingly content in his lover’s lap, satisfied that his problem could soon be solved, and rather enjoying having his ears scratched, Astarion yawned, showing off those sharp little fangs again.

“Now, then. If you’d be so good as to turn the pages when I tell you…”

Peace settled over the room. Silence could make little sense of the archaic style of writing, but Astarion seemed to be puzzling it out. She sipped her wine, humming idly, the bat’s fur so very soft under her fingers…

“I wonder… Would you mind?”

Astarion flapped a wing clumsily at the glass in her hand.

“Seriously?”

“What? Perhaps things taste different in this form! It has to come with some perks!”

Silence gave a snort of laughter, but lowered the glass to Astarion’s level all the same, watching him lean over the rim.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Ugh! Gods, if anything, it tastes worse!”

The white fur around his mouth was now stained red, and he clumsily tried to wipe it with his wings. Silence rolled her eyes, and drained the glass herself.

“Now, if you’re done experimenting, ready for me to turn the page?”

How much time passed, Silence couldn’t say. After a while, it occurred to her that she was no longer being asked to turn pages, and the tiny body in her lap was making a rather curious sound.

“Stars? Are you… purring?”

“Hm?” Astarion twitched an ear in her direction, his eyes closed. “I… I suppose I am.”

He yawned again, and the purring resumed. Marking the page, Silence closed the book and set it aside. Gently picking Astarion up, she lay down and settled him on her chest, high enough that he could nuzzle into her neck.

“You seem comfortable, and I’m tired. We can read more in the morning.”

When Silence woke, it was to a familiar figure in bed beside her, arms wrapped around her waist, nose nuzzled into her neck. Letting out a sigh of relief, she stroked a hand through Astarion’s white curls, and scratched lightly at a pointed ear. Not as twitchy and delicate as his bat ears, but still adorable. He gave a sleepy hum of pleasure, and held her tighter.

“Well, last night was interesting. You figured out how to turn back.”

“Not consciously, but it seems the form wears off when I sleep. I think I’ll do some further reading before trying that again.”

“That sounds wise,” Silence agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Though, for what it’s worth, you do make an adorable bat.”

[honeydippedfiction]

The Burden of Greatness

Prologue of Revved Up To Fight

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Summary: The prologue introduces Y/N Griffin, the heir to a legendary motorsport dynasty, raised in a world where racing is not just a passion but an expectation. As she grows, she grapples with the immense weight of her family’s legacy, ultimately questioning whether she races for herself or simply to fulfill the world’s expectations, setting the stage for a journey of self-discovery.

WC: 9.4k (she's looong lol I got carried away sorry)

Warnings: themes of family pressure, high expectations, self-doubt, and identity struggles, a racing accident, injury, emotional weight of legacy, burnout, and self-discovery

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The Griffin family was more than a name—it was a dynasty. To the world outside, they were motorsport royalty, icons whose achievements were woven into the very fabric of racing history. But to Y/N, they were simply family. Her grandfather’s records in Formula 1 still stood as monuments of speed and strategy, his name etched in the sport’s annals as one of the greatest to ever race. Her father had turned MotoGP into a stage for breathtaking audacity, riding like a man possessed, rethinking the very essence of what it meant to push the limits of human endurance and mechanical precision. And her mother—her mother was a legend in her own right, a woman whose dominance in IndyCar was less about brute force and more about an almost spiritual connection to the track, a quiet master of strategy, timing, and grace under pressure.

The Griffins didn’t just race; they defined racing. Their triumphs had become part of motorsport folklore, told and retold at every track, in every garage, on every pit wall. They were pioneers—risk-takers who had turned the sport into an art form. They had shaped it. Molded it. Redefined it. 

From the day Y/N was born, the world had made up its mind. There would be no “if” about it; the question was always when. She wasn’t just another racer, another aspiring champion. She was the heir apparent to a legacy so great, it was almost impossible to imagine anything but the highest of expectations. Destiny, as far as the world was concerned, had already been written in the stars. 

But for Y/N, the weight of that legacy was something far more intimate. It wasn’t about living up to the stories told about her family’s triumphs. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. It was about something simpler, more profound: living up to the quiet, unspoken legacy that had been passed down to her in ways she had never truly understood until much later. 

Sunday nights at the Griffin house were never typical. There were no lazy meals or casual chats. There was always a blueprint spread across the table, a car engine in various stages of disassembly, and race footage flickering across the television screen, paused mid-turn as her father’s voice—deep and steady—talked through tire pressure and aerodynamics. “The car,” he would often say, “it’s not just a machine. It’s an extension of you.” 

Her mother’s words were quieter, precise, her voice a soft, calculated hum that cut through the air like the hum of an engine coming to life. “Perfection,” she’d whisper, “is in the details. Watch the line. Every millisecond matters.” There was no room for error. The world they inhabited was one of constant improvement, of never settling, of always pushing towards that elusive thing called perfection. 

To Y/N, these weren’t just lessons; they were a way of life. Her parents were more than just her mentors—they were the architects of her world. From the time she could walk, she was never handed toy cars or dolls. Instead, they put wrenches in her hands and showed her how to use them. They taught her how to take apart and rebuild an engine before she had even learned to properly tie her shoes. 

The house wasn’t filled with the usual memorabilia of childhood. There were no stuffed animals, no posters of pop stars or superheroes. Instead, the walls of the Griffin household were adorned with photographs of races long past, faded trophies gleaming in the corners of rooms that smelled faintly of gasoline and leather. Y/N’s childhood was a laboratory of sorts—a place where racing was the answer to every question, and family was the force that held it all together.

Her earliest memories weren’t of parks or playgrounds, but of race tracks. Of the smell of fuel in the air, the roar of engines, the metallic hum of pit crews in their choreography of precision. She was there, in the pit lane, wide-eyed and breathless, as her parents worked their magic, tweaking settings and adjusting valves with the kind of calm intensity only those born into racing understood. For others, the sound of a revving engine might have been deafening. For Y/N, it was a symphony. 

Her grandfather, sitting next to her with his weathered hands resting on the back of the pit wall, would often point out to the track. “Monaco,” he’d say, his voice gravelly but steady, “it’s about control. It’s about patience.” He’d recount the glory of his victory, detailing every twist and turn of the track as if it were etched into his bones. And Y/N, sitting on his knee, absorbed it all—each word, each piece of wisdom. 

Her father, always the adventurer, would take her up to the podium after his victories, lifting her high into the air as though the triumph was hers, too. And in a way, it was. He’d tell her, with a proud grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “You’re next. You’ll be up here someday. But remember, it’s about more than winning. It’s about making every second count.” 

And then there was her mother. Quiet, reserved, always with a plan. Before her first karting session, her mother had knelt before her, adjusted her helmet, and whispered the words that would stay with her forever. “You’re a Griffin, Y/N. You don’t just race—you set the standard.” 

The Griffin family wasn’t just supportive; they were all in. Their belief in Y/N was not a passive thing—it was active, deliberate, and persistent. Her father wasn’t just content to let her watch from the sidelines; he became her first teacher, guiding her hands as she turned the wrenches, his voice always calm but firm, explaining the physics of a turn or the importance of throttle control. Her mother, ever the strategist, was always the one to help her perfect her technique, breaking down complex moves into bite-sized, understandable bits. She could see the potential in Y/N long before Y/N saw it in herself.

When Y/N first raced, it wasn’t with an overwhelming sense of competition. It was with a deep-rooted sense of connection—connection to the car, to the track, to the generations of Griffins who had come before her. Her father, meticulously adjusting her kart’s bolts, would look her in the eye and say, “You’ve got this, kid. Just remember what I taught you: Feel the car. Don’t fight it.” Her mother, always composed, would be there at the starting line, helmet in hand, leaning in with the softest words of advice. “Breathe. Focus. Own the track.” 

The pressure of carrying the Griffin name, however, was something Y/N felt acutely. It was never spoken directly—it didn’t need to be. Every time she won, every time she stood atop the podium, the expectations of the world seemed to double. Every small mistake, every failure, felt magnified. Yet, in those moments of solitude, after the race had ended and the cheers had faded, her family was always there to remind her that the journey wasn’t about comparison. It wasn’t about matching the past—it was about creating her own future.

As Y/N grew older, the whispers started. Fans spoke her name with an air of inevitability, as if she were simply waiting for her time to emerge. Journalists speculated—often with more fervor than accuracy—about her future. T-shirts bearing her name began to pop up alongside those with her family’s, emblazoned with slogans like “The Next Griffin Legend.” Her family, it seemed, had become a measuring stick for all who came after.

Yet, despite the weight of these expectations, Y/N carried herself with a quiet, unshakable confidence. She didn’t feel the need to chase her family’s history, to prove she was worthy of the name she bore. No. She wanted something more—something deeper. She wanted to honor their legacy, to carry the torch forward, but she also wanted to carve out her own story, a story that was uniquely hers, even if it was still intertwined with the threads of her family’s past.

The world might have been watching, but Y/N wasn’t looking over her shoulder. Instead, she looked forward, her gaze set firmly on the track ahead. It was a daunting path, filled with expectations and pressure, but Y/N wasn’t afraid. After all, she was a Griffin. And Griffins didn’t just race—they set the standard.

Y/N's first race was a quiet affair—nothing more than a local karting competition in a forgotten corner of the world, tucked away in a dusty lot surrounded by bleachers that had seen better days. For most young racers, it would have been a humble start, a first taste of the sport that might not have amounted to much more than a handful of local bragging rights. But for Y/N, this was the beginning of something far grander, an opening chapter in the story of her destiny.

At just eight years old, she slipped into a custom-fitted racing suit, its fabric snug against her small frame. Her name—Y/N Griffin—was embroidered neatly on the back, a quiet echo of a legacy she hadn’t yet begun to fulfill. As she pulled the helmet over her head, the weight of her family’s history felt distant, almost irrelevant. Here, in the stillness of that moment, there was no roaring crowd, no cameras flashing, no family legacy pushing her forward. There was only the track, and only her.

Her father crouched beside her, adjusting the straps of her helmet with his usual precision. His hands were steady, but his eyes, focused and intense, betrayed the pride he was trying to hide. “The race isn’t won in the first corner,” he said, his voice calm yet knowing. “But that’s where you can lose it. Stay sharp. Trust yourself.”

When the flag dropped, everything around her faded. The world became a blur of asphalt, rubber, and the growl of a kart that vibrated beneath her, its engine alive with power. She gripped the steering wheel, her small hands steady as the nerves that had threatened to rise seemed to disappear entirely. There was no Griffin name, no family pressure—only the race.

She didn’t win that day. Her kart crossed the finish line a few places behind the leader, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how she raced. Her control on the track, her ability to read the turns, and her cool-headedness in the midst of chaos stood out. She wasn’t just a kid trying to race—she was learning, adapting, and above all, she was growing. 

Her family saw it immediately. Her father’s sharp gaze never left the track, watching as his daughter took each corner with uncanny precision. Her mother, standing near the pit lane, gave a small, approving nod. Y/N wasn’t just racing. She was beginning her journey in the same way her family had—on her terms.

From that first race, Y/N was hooked. The world of karting was her crucible, the place where she began to refine her skills, her technique, and her understanding of the sport. It wasn’t just the adrenaline that fueled her; it was the pulse of the competition, the thrill of the chase, the dizzying rush of passing a rival by mere inches, and the split-second decisions that made the difference between victory and defeat. 

Karting, with its tight corners and rapid acceleration, taught her the value of patience and precision. Each race was an opportunity to perfect her craft, to peel away at the layers of her own abilities and uncover the racer hidden beneath. 

Weekends became a blur of travel and racing, the familiar hum of the kart's engine a constant companion. When the races were over, the work didn’t stop. Y/N spent her weekdays tinkering with her kart, adjusting carburetors, studying engine specs, and constantly pushing the boundaries of what she could do with the machines. And when she wasn’t hands-on with her kart, she was at home, watching race footage—her parents’ wins, her mistakes, the greats of motorsport who had come before her. Every turn, every maneuver, every hesitation—she dissected it all, her young mind hungry for improvement.

Her parents, always in her corner, took on their roles with dedication. Her father, the motivator, pushed her harder than anyone could. “You need to brake later, Y/N. Feel the track. Push it.” Her mother, the strategist, taught her how to outthink her opponents. “It’s not just about who’s fastest. It’s about how you race.” Their teachings were complementary, a perfect balance of instinct and intellect, the very foundation of her rise to prominence.

Y/N wasn’t just racing to win. She was racing to dominate. And it was clear to everyone—especially her family—that she wasn’t just a prodigy. She was a force.

By the time Y/N turned 12, it was evident that karting was no longer enough. Her talents had outgrown the circuit, and the world of motorsports beckoned with a myriad of opportunities. But Y/N wasn’t content to simply conquer one discipline—she wanted to prove herself across the board.

It was time to branch out.

Her first foray into rallycross was a revelation. The sport, with its wild slides and gravel-churning corners, required an entirely new set of skills. But Y/N adapted seamlessly, her karting precision translating effortlessly to the unpredictable terrain. The art of control, of mastering the slide, became a natural extension of the technique she had spent years honing.

Next came dirt bikes. This was where Y/N learned fearlessness. She took to the dirt with the same tenacity she had shown on the tarmac, launching herself over jumps with an ease that belied her age. The rough trails, the high-speed descents, the sense of weightlessness as she soared above the ground—it was all part of the thrill. And it was here that Y/N discovered a different kind of rhythm, one that didn’t rely solely on smooth lines and perfect corners but on the thrill of the unknown, the unpredictability of nature.

Her experiments with single-seaters—low-tier cars that mimicked the high-speed elegance of Formula 1—further proved her versatility. Y/N was no longer confined to one style or one genre of racing. She was a racer in every sense of the word, adaptable and able to excel in a variety of disciplines. By the time she was 14, her trophy shelf was full, each medal a testament to her adaptability and raw talent. In every category she entered, Y/N didn’t just participate—she dominated.

At 16, Y/N’s career hit a new high. She had moved beyond local competitions and into the national circuits, competing with racers who were often several years older and much more experienced. Her name—once whispered in garage corners and paddocks—was now shouted in headlines and echoed in sponsorship meetings. The media took notice. Sponsors flocked to her, eager to align themselves with the rising star who was not only talented but magnetic.

Her victories were no longer just about skill—they were about her style. Fans adored her aggressive but calculated approach. She wasn’t reckless; she was fearless. Her ability to balance strategy with speed, to attack the track with an unrelenting drive, earned her the respect of competitors who knew exactly what it took to win. Y/N wasn’t just winning races; she was setting new standards. 

The wins kept coming—one after another, each more impressive than the last. But it wasn’t just her on-track performance that drew attention. Y/N had an authenticity that resonated off the track as well. Her smile, her energy, her genuine love for the sport were evident in everything she did. Media outlets heralded her as “the future of motorsports.” Commentators couldn’t get enough of her. 

But Y/N knew that the path she was carving was about more than just collecting trophies. She wasn’t just carrying the Griffin name into the future—she was redefining it.

With the victories came the weight of expectation. The world was watching, and the whispers of her family legacy were always in the background. Yet, Y/N wasn’t interested in just being a successor to the legends who had come before her. She wasn’t racing for the recognition or the fame; she was racing because it was her passion, her dream. 

As she entered her late teens, Y/N’s name was becoming one of the most talked-about in the world of motorsports. Her legacy was only just beginning to take shape, and yet, beneath the accolades and the applause, a new question began to take root: Was she racing because she loved it? Or was she racing because she felt she had no other choice?

It was a question that would shape the trajectory of her career. Because the answer, she realized, would determine not just her future in racing, but the very way she would define herself in a world that had already decided who she was. The next chapter of her life, her career, and her legacy depended on it.

As Y/N’s career soared, so too did the mounting weight of expectation. What had begun as a promising start, a young prodigy following in the tire tracks of legends, had evolved into something much bigger. The Griffin name, a symbol of dominance and innovation in motorsports, now came with a new layer of pressure. With every victory, every podium finish, the comparisons grew louder. 

“Is she the next Derrius?”  

“Can she surpass her grandfather’s records?”  

“Will she become the greatest Griffin to ever race?”

These questions were as constant as the roar of engines. They were present at every press conference, whispered among fans, and often, she could hear them echoing in her own mind long after the crowds had gone home. To the world, it was thrilling, a new chapter in an ongoing saga that had captured the imagination of motorsport fans everywhere. But for Y/N, it became suffocating. 

The weight of her family’s legacy, once a proud foundation, now felt like an unshakable burden. The pressure to meet expectations—both her own and others’—became a constant companion. Every race was no longer just about the thrill of competition or the joy of racing. It was a test of her worth. 

If she won, it was expected. Her grandfather’s records, her father’s titles, her mother’s legacy—every success she achieved felt like a mere continuation of something already set in stone. But when she lost, it was scrutinized, analyzed, and dissected as if each mistake reflected a flaw in the Griffin lineage itself. The media’s gaze was sharp, always searching for cracks, for signs that Y/N wasn’t quite what they had hoped for. Every miss, every off moment, felt like a personal failure.

Her family, supportive as ever, tried to shield her from the relentless noise of the media. Her mother, who had always seen the fine details others missed, reminded her time and time again, “Comparisons are inevitable, darling. But they don’t define you. Not unless you let them.” Her father, ever the rock, urged her to remember why she raced in the first place. “Feel the car, Y/N. The joy of racing isn’t in the records—it’s in the ride. Focus on that.”

But no matter how many times they spoke those words, the voice inside her head never quieted. “Is this what I really want?” she wondered. Racing had been her life for as long as she could remember, but was it her dream? Or had it always been someone else’s?

By the time she reached her late teens, Y/N began to question everything. The trophies, the accolades, the endless lines of sponsors eager to bask in her success—they all felt hollow at times. She loved racing, there was no doubt about that, but was she racing because she truly wanted to? Or was she simply fulfilling a role carved out for her long before she was born? 

Her family’s legacy had been passed down through generations, and she had inherited not just the talent, but the weight of history itself. It was not enough to simply be a good racer; she had to be the racer, the one who carried the Griffin name into the future. But what if that wasn’t what she wanted? What if the very thing that had shaped her life was now suffocating her spirit?

It wasn’t just about winning races anymore; it was about carving out a new identity. She didn’t want to be defined solely by the greatness of those who came before her. Y/N yearned for independence, for a space where she could define her own success—not as another Griffin, but as Y/N, the person who had something unique to offer.

And yet, the road to independence was fraught with uncertainty. How could she step away from a legacy that had already been etched into the annals of motorsport history? How could she abandon a sport that had shaped every fiber of her being? 

In the quiet moments between races, when the rush of adrenaline and the roar of the engines faded, those questions became harder to ignore. Was it time for her to find her own way, to redefine who she was, or was she doomed to live in the shadow of expectations for the rest of her life?

Then, it happened. The moment that would forever alter the course of her career—and her life.

It was supposed to be just another race. She had prepared for it with her usual meticulousness. The track was familiar, the car fine-tuned to perfection. She was in the zone, focused and ready, but in motorsports, as in life, things don’t always go as planned.

The collision was violent, a crash that seemed to unfold in slow motion, yet happened in an instant. Her car slammed into the barriers, metal screeching against metal, and everything around her dissolved into chaos. Her vision blurred, her thoughts scrambled, and then—silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic in the air and the low hum of machines surrounding her. The pain was sharp and undeniable, but it wasn’t just the physical injury that hurt the most. It was the realization that something deep inside her had shifted. Racing had always been her everything—the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of pushing herself beyond her limits—but now, in the quiet of the hospital room, that spark seemed distant, cold. The joy she once found in the sport felt like a distant memory, something she had once possessed but had now lost.

She spent days in that sterile room, alone with her thoughts. The questions that had plagued her for months now became impossible to ignore. Had she lost her love for racing? Had the weight of the legacy crushed something she could never get back? More importantly, what was the point of pushing forward if the joy had vanished?

It took weeks of recovery, both physical and mental, before Y/N made the most difficult decision of her life: to step away from racing. It wasn’t a resignation. It wasn’t giving up. It was a pause—a chance to reflect, to rediscover who she was outside the confines of the track and the overwhelming expectations placed on her.

When she told her family, she braced herself for disappointment. Her father, ever the stoic pillar, simply hugged her tightly, his words soft and reassuring. “You’ve already done more than enough to make us proud, Y/N. Whatever you choose, we’ll support you.”

Her mother, who had always known how to see the bigger picture, nodded with understanding. “You need to live your dream, not ours. Find your own path, darling. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

The motorsport world reacted with shock. Fans speculated endlessly, with many wondering if the pressure had finally broken her. Critics questioned her decision, sponsors scrambled to adjust their strategies, and journalists speculated about what went wrong. 

But for Y/N, the noise of the outside world faded. For the first time in her life, she felt free. Free from expectations. Free from comparisons. Free from the weight of a legacy that had never been hers to begin with.

In that moment, Y/N made a vow to herself. No matter where life took her next, she would no longer race to meet the standards of others. She would race—if she chose to race at all—on her own terms.

—

It wasn’t until I lay there in that hospital bed, staring up at the sterile, white ceiling, that I fully grasped the weight I had been carrying all these years. The pressure, the expectations, the constant need to live up to the legacy that came with my name—it had all built up inside me, layer after layer, until it felt like I was drowning under its suffocating heaviness. Every race was no longer just a test of my skill or my passion for the sport; it had become a test of my worth. Could I live up to the standards set by my parents, my grandfather, by a family whose name was synonymous with greatness?  

I had spent my entire life running toward that goal, toward the idea of becoming the next great Griffin in motorsports. I thought I loved racing, and for a long time, I did. But as I lay there in the stillness of the hospital room, it occurred to me that maybe I hadn’t been racing because I loved it at all. Maybe I was just running away from the truth: I was chasing the shadow of a legacy that wasn’t truly mine.  

For years, the sound of engines roaring, the rush of the track beneath me, had been my heartbeat. But now, in the silence of my mind, a quiet voice asked: What if I want something different? 

That question had never crossed my mind before. My life had been carved out for me, shaped by the stories of my parents' triumphs and my grandfather's legendary records. How could I step away from that? How could I turn my back on a legacy that had been a part of me since birth? The thought was terrifying. But there, in that sterile room, I realized something—something crucial. I didn’t have to become the next great Griffin. I just needed to become me. 

When the doctors finally cleared me to leave the hospital, I went home, unsure of what to do next. But I knew one thing: I had to face my family. I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t questioning everything. That day, as I sat with them in the living room—my parents, both sitting across from me, eyes full of concern—I felt the weight of their expectations. Their love. Their pride. It was in every glance they shared, every word they spoke. I couldn’t carry it any longer. 

And so, with a voice that trembled more than I’d care to admit, I said, “I think I need to step away.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent. My mother’s eyes softened, her hand reaching out to take mine. My father stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, though I could see the tightness in his jaw. I braced myself for the disappointment I feared would follow. But instead, my mother squeezed my hand and said, “Y/N, you’ve already proven yourself. Now it’s time to figure out who you are beyond the track.”  

And just like that, something inside me broke free. The relief that washed over me was overwhelming. It was the first time in years that I hadn’t been afraid of disappointing them. In that moment, I realized they hadn’t been pushing me toward a legacy for the sake of their own pride. They just wanted me to be happy, to find fulfillment beyond the expectations of the world. Not just to be successful—but to be me. 

Now, as I look ahead, it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I don’t have a path laid out for me. The road is completely unknown. For the first time in my life, it’s mine to pave. One step at a time, I’ll carve my own way. 

I have no idea where this journey will take me. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I’m ready to find out. 

---

The months that followed my decision to step away from racing were some of the most challenging I’d ever faced. Physical recovery was only part of it—the real battle was internal. Every muscle, every bone, every ligament in my body screamed for relief during therapy. But it wasn’t the pain of healing that haunted me. It was the emptiness. The silence that hung in the air when I wasn’t on the track, wasn’t chasing another goal. I’d spent my life racing toward something. Now, I was racing away from everything I had known. 

I was no longer driven by competition. The one thing that had always defined me—pushing myself past the limit, fighting to be the best—was suddenly gone. There was no finish line anymore. The absence of that goal felt like the most deafening thing I had ever encountered. 

In the midst of this new, quiet life, I sought out small ways to heal. I started journaling, pouring my thoughts and feelings onto the page as a way to understand the chaos swirling inside me. My journals became a mirror, reflecting everything I had tried to ignore. My emotions, my doubts, my fears—everything came to the surface in a way I hadn’t expected. It was difficult. But it was necessary. 

I also returned to the things I had enjoyed before racing had consumed me—painting, hiking, watching movies with my cousins. One afternoon, we decided to binge-watch old wrestling matches, something I hadn’t really thought about since I was a kid. I didn’t expect it to spark anything, but as I sat there, watching the legendary Trish Stratus face off against Lita, something stirred deep within me. I couldn’t put it into words right away, but I felt it—an electric thrill, a rush, an undeniable pull.

---

Wrestling had always been in the background of my life, a casual interest that my family indulged in every year when we tuned into WrestleMania. But that was all it was—entertainment. Something fun to watch, a distraction from the demands of our everyday lives. I never really saw it for what it was—a sport, yes, but also a spectacle. A carefully choreographed story that was told with every slam, every turn, every dramatic punch thrown in the ring. 

For the first time, though, I began to see it through a different lens. As I watched the matches unfold before me, I saw the athleticism—the precision, the discipline, the risk-taking that mirrored what I had once loved about racing. The wrestlers didn’t just compete; they performed. Each match was a narrative, a story of triumph, of rivalry, of overcoming odds. And they did it all with an audience that was captivated, hanging on every word, every move.  

It was the charisma of the wrestlers that truly grabbed me, though. Legends like The Rock could command a crowd with a single line. AJ Lee had the power to defy expectations with her every action, and Becky Lynch? She had the ability to turn every moment into an iconic one. The ability to weave a story, to make people feel something—this was what drew me in. 

Wrestling wasn’t just about the competition. It was about the drama, the performance, the connection with the audience. It was a way to tell your story, to shape your own narrative. And in that moment, I realized something profound—I had a story of my own that I wanted to tell.

I could feel it then, the stirring inside me—the same excitement I once felt when I raced. This was new. It was terrifying. But it was exhilarating, too. The thought of stepping into the ring, of feeling the crowd’s roar, of telling my story on my terms, was a rush unlike anything I had experienced before. 

It was a whole new world. And it was calling me. 

Wrestling wasn’t something I could just try out casually. If I was going to pursue this, it had to be serious. I wasn’t looking for a hobby. I wasn’t looking for a replacement for racing. I wanted something new, something that could build its own legacy—my legacy. And I was ready to chase it. 

I started researching wrestling schools, watching match after match, familiarizing myself with the industry. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew one thing: I was done running. This was my next chapter, and it was time to turn the page.

—

The realization came to Y/N with the sudden force of a freight train, an overwhelming clarity that struck her deep in her chest: she wanted to wrestle. Not as a fleeting hobby or a passing interest, but as her next chapter. It wasn’t just a desire for competition. It was the pull of something far more profound—a chance to reinvent herself completely. Wrestling offered everything she had once loved about racing: the adrenaline, the discipline, the commitment to constant self-improvement. But with wrestling, there was a new element, a new opportunity—reinvention. Here, she could carve out a completely different legacy, one that was hers and hers alone. 

For so long, she had been defined by the legacy of the Griffins. The weight of that name had pushed her forward, but also bound her to a path that wasn’t entirely her own. Every race, every win, every loss had been part of a story that had been written long before she even had a say in it. But now, as she reflected on what she truly wanted from life, it became clear: this was the time for her to write her own story, from scratch. Wrestling was the blank page she had been waiting for. 

It wasn’t a casual decision. Y/N’s approach was always all or nothing—whether it was racing or this new dream she was chasing. Her determination burned hotter than ever before. She threw herself into research, studying wrestling schools, watching hours upon hours of matches, learning about the history and nuances of the sport. She read about the greats, from Stone Cold Steve Austin to The Rock, and the pioneers who had transformed wrestling into the cultural force it was today. The fire she thought had long since extinguished in her was reignited—stronger, fiercer, and brighter than ever.

---

It wasn’t just about the wrestling moves. Y/N understood that now. It wasn’t enough to simply be good in the ring; in fact, that was only part of the equation. What truly made a wrestler unforgettable was their persona—the character they portrayed to the audience, the story they told. And who better to teach her how to build a persona than Nikki and Brie Bella?

When she first reached out to them, Y/N had been nervous. The Bella Twins were icons in the world of wrestling, known not only for their in-ring abilities but also for their savvy business sense. They had successfully transformed themselves into global brands, with legacies that stretched far beyond the squared circle. Y/N wasn’t sure if they’d even respond, let alone agree to mentor her. But much to her surprise, they were more than willing. 

Their first session wasn’t in a gym or a ring. It was in a sleek, high-end studio, with glass walls and whiteboards, and an atmosphere that hummed with professionalism. The Bellas wasted no time, launching straight into the art of crafting a character.

“Wrestling isn’t just about what you do in the ring,” Nikki said, her voice full of conviction. She paced back and forth in front of a whiteboard, her hands moving with purpose as she outlined character traits, stories, and personas. “It’s about who you are. Your entrance, your promos, how you connect with the fans—that’s what makes people remember you.”

Brie, always the grounding presence, nodded in agreement. “But it has to be real,” she added, her eyes locking with Y/N’s. “Fans can tell when you’re faking it. Authenticity is key.”

Under their guidance, Y/N began the painstaking process of building her wrestling persona. Nikki encouraged her to tap into bold, daring aspects of herself, urging her to explore traits that would electrify the audience, leaving them wanting more. At the same time, Brie pushed her to stay true to her roots, to weave in elements of her motorsport legacy—her confidence, her drive, and the fierce independence that came with being a Griffin. 

The work wasn’t easy. Crafting a persona that would resonate with millions required self-exploration, introspection, and, at times, vulnerability. But with the Bellas’ mentorship, Y/N grew more comfortable in her new identity. They worked on her mic skills, running mock promo sessions where Y/N would deliver lines with the same passion and intensity she once reserved for racing. Each time she stood in front of the mirror, microphone in hand, she could feel the transformation taking place. She wasn’t just a racer anymore. She was someone new. Someone powerful. Someone unforgettable. 

---

Once Y/N had a clearer idea of who she wanted to be, the next step was to learn how to bring that persona to life in the ring. And there was no one better to teach her the fundamentals than Cody Rhodes and Seth Rollins, two of the most respected names in professional wrestling.

Cody’s approach was meticulous, almost philosophical. To him, wrestling wasn’t just about physical moves—it was about telling a story. Each match was a performance, a carefully choreographed dance between two athletes, and every move had to have meaning. “Every strike, every suplex, every hold, it has to matter,” he told Y/N during one of their early sessions. “It’s not just about beating your opponent—it’s about making the audience feel something with every move you make.”

His words resonated deeply with Y/N. She had always been a racer, someone who thrived under pressure, someone who could tune out the noise and focus on the task at hand. Now, she had to apply that same mentality to wrestling—only this time, she wasn’t racing against the clock. She was performing for an audience. Every move needed to tell a story. Every moment needed to be intentional.

Seth Rollins, on the other hand, brought a different kind of energy to their training sessions. Known for his incredible stamina and high-flying style, Seth pushed Y/N to her physical limits. He designed grueling drills that tested her agility, her conditioning, and her ability to think on her feet. “You’re going to get tired,” Seth warned her after a particularly brutal training session. “But the crowd doesn’t care. They want to see you perform—you have to make them believe that you can keep going forever, even when you’re running on fumes.”

The physical toll of the training was immense. Y/N’s body ached, her muscles burned with exhaustion, and there were times when she wanted to quit. But she didn’t. She pushed through, just as she had on the racetrack, because she knew that wrestling was no different from racing in one key way: it required every ounce of her heart and soul.

Under Cody and Seth’s combined mentorship, Y/N’s wrestling skills evolved rapidly. She learned the technical basics—lockups, grapples, strikes—and began to understand how to structure a match in a way that captivated the audience from start to finish. Wrestling wasn’t just about being the strongest or the fastest. It was about creating moments, telling a story with each move, and drawing the crowd into that story.

As Y/N’s body grew stronger, her mind grew sharper. The ring became her new track, and each session became another opportunity to push herself further, to break through barriers she didn’t even know existed.

With each passing day, Y/N felt herself stepping deeper into this new life, this new world of wrestling. The persona, the moves, the physicality—it all came together in a way that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. It was a path full of uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, Y/N wasn’t afraid. She was ready to embrace her new identity, to face the challenge head-on.

And as the final lesson of the day came to an end, she stood in the center of the ring, drenched in sweat, but full of purpose. This was only the beginning. The crowd hadn’t yet seen what she could do, but soon, they would.

—

When I met Becky Lynch, it felt like meeting someone who already understood the depths of my struggle, the weight of my journey. In so many ways, she embodied everything I wanted to become—resilient, unapologetic, and undeniably real. She wasn’t just a legend in the ring, she was a fighter in life, and that was exactly what I needed.

I remember the first time we sat down together. It was over coffee in a small, quiet corner of a local café, far from the chaos of the gym and the constant grind. Becky was leaning back in her chair, sipping her drink like she had all the time in the world, but I could see the fire in her eyes, the sharpness that came from having fought for everything she had. 

"Your story is your strength," Becky told me, her voice calm but powerful. "You’ve been through hell, and you’re still standing. Use that. Let it fuel you."

The words hit me like a lightning bolt. She was right, of course. I had spent so much time running from the weight of my past—my racing career, the pressure, the burnout—but I never stopped to realize that all of it had shaped me into who I was today. The struggles, the failures, the moments when I thought I’d lost myself, they weren’t weaknesses. They were the foundation of my strength. 

Becky helped me see that. She wasn’t interested in the technical side of wrestling in our early conversations. Instead, she gave me something more precious: her perspective on life. The battles I’d fought off the track, the choices I’d made, the moments when I thought about giving up—these weren’t just parts of my past. They were the very thing that could make me stand out in the ring. Wrestling wasn’t about fitting into a mold, it was about breaking it. 

She taught me how to use my own experiences as a weapon. We worked together on promos, diving into the depths of my past. My motorsport background, my struggles with burnout, and the pivotal decision to leave it all behind. I hadn’t just walked away from racing—I’d stepped into the unknown, and that was my story to tell. It wasn’t the story of a champion who followed the script. It was the story of a woman who had fought, fallen, and risen again, carving her own path in the process.

“You can’t hide behind a gimmick,” Becky said one day while we were crafting a promo. “The fans will see through it. You have to be who you are. If you embrace that, they’ll follow you anywhere.”

It wasn’t just the moves that I had to master. It was learning to connect with my audience on a personal level, to make them feel what I had felt. The rawness of it all—my decision to walk away from my family’s legacy, the guilt, the fear, the hope for something better—it became my fuel. And every time I stepped in front of a camera, I carried that with me.

—

Learning from the best meant I had to confront not just my technical limitations but my understanding of what wrestling truly was. It wasn’t just physical. Wrestling was performance, psychology, and the kind of storytelling that left people on the edge of their seats. And no one understood that better than Booker T.

Booker was a master of showmanship. When we first started working together, he broke down everything I thought I knew about wrestling. “You don’t just wrestle with your body,” he said during one of our early training sessions. “You wrestle with your mind. Get in your opponent’s head. Get in the crowd’s head. Make them believe in every single thing you do.”

It wasn’t enough to simply execute the moves—I had to sell them. Every punch, every suplex, every slam had to make the crowd feel it. It was about timing, psychology, and, most importantly, presence. 

“You need to make people care,” Booker said as we rehearsed a sequence. "It’s not about the biggest move or the loudest hit. It's about what you make people believe. The moment you step through that curtain, you’re not just a wrestler. You’re a storyteller.”

I’d always been able to perform—racing required the same kind of mental discipline and the ability to create an atmosphere, to build tension and excitement. But wrestling was different. Every action had a consequence, and every moment was charged with meaning. Booker’s words stuck with me, and each time I practiced, I worked on pulling the crowd in, making them part of the story.

While Booker taught me to control the mental aspect of the match, Naomi helped me bring my in-ring style to life. Naomi had this incredible energy, a vibrant, acrobatic flair that lit up the room every time she entered. I was drawn to her dynamic style, how she blended strength with grace. I wanted to capture that same fluidity in my own wrestling. Racing had always been about precision, control, and bursts of speed, and I could apply that same mindset to wrestling. 

Naomi worked with me to choreograph sequences that played to my strengths. Together, we created dynamic moves that combined my athletic background with the rhythm of wrestling—quick, fluid transitions, sudden bursts of power, and sharp, controlled movements. She taught me to not just perform the moves but to feel them. To flow through the ring with intention.

“It’s about rhythm, Y/N,” Naomi said as we practiced a series of flips and transitions. “When you’re in the ring, you’ve got to move like you’re dancing, but the dance is all about who’s watching. If you’re not connecting with them, all the flips and spins in the world won’t matter.”

I could feel the rhythm in my body, the way the moves started to make sense. There was power in every swing of the arm, every twist, every step. I wasn’t just moving through the motions. I was creating something.

—

Working alone in the ring had always been the goal, but as I trained more and more, I realized that there was a whole new dimension to wrestling I hadn’t considered before: tag team dynamics. When I began training with Jey and Jimmy Uso, and their father Rikishi, I quickly understood that tag team wrestling was its own art form.

“Tag wrestling isn’t just about you,” Jey said during our first session together. “It’s about trust. You’re only as good as your partner makes you look.”

At first, the idea of tag team wrestling seemed simple. You and your partner take turns fighting, right? But it was so much more than that. Jey and Jimmy taught me how to communicate nonverbally during a match, how to read the subtle signals from a partner across the ring, how to move as one unit, anticipating each other’s next move. The timing, the synchronization—it had to be perfect. Every moment of the match was a shared experience. 

“And when you’re in that ring, it’s not just two people wrestling,” Jimmy added, grinning. “It’s four people telling one story. The chemistry between you and your partner is everything.”

Working with the Usos changed my whole perspective on wrestling. It wasn’t just about executing moves or telling my own story—it was about creating a narrative that flowed between the four of us. It was teamwork, trust, and understanding the rhythm of a tag team match. The crowd didn’t just see a solo performance—they saw a collaboration, a blend of personalities, and a battle of wills.

Rikishi, ever the wise patriarch, took me aside after one of our training sessions. His lessons went beyond the ring. “Wrestling’s about respect,” he said, his voice low but full of wisdom. “It’s not just about what you do in the ring. It’s about honoring the history of the sport, the legends that paved the way for you.”

His words stuck with me. I started to see wrestling in a new light—not as just a career, but as part of a legacy, a long tradition that I was now a part of. It wasn’t just about my story—it was about respecting the past while building something new. 

As I continued to train and evolve, the lessons I learned from Becky, Booker, Naomi, the Usos, and Rikishi became the foundation of everything I was becoming. I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle—I was learning how to be a storyteller, a performer, and a partner in every sense of the word. It wasn’t just about my next match or my next promo. It was about the journey—the long, hard path that had led me here—and the one that stretched out before me.

—

The first time I met Stephanie McMahon, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. Stephanie wasn’t just a wrestling executive or a promoter; she was a force of nature in the industry—one of the few who had successfully navigated the power dynamics of the business while still maintaining her identity as a McMahon. She was wrestling royalty, and to be in her presence felt like standing in front of a living legend. 

When she extended her hand to greet me, there was no air of superiority. She wasn’t trying to intimidate me, but instead, she carried an unspoken confidence that immediately made me feel like I had a place at the table.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice smooth yet firm, “I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I have to say, I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”

It was one of those moments where everything slows down, where you’re painfully aware of how much is at stake. I was sitting across from someone who had seen it all—the highs, the lows, the twists and turns of the wrestling world. And somehow, I was about to get a peek behind the curtain. 

But Stephanie wasn’t here to talk about my moves or my promos. She wasn’t going to teach me how to deliver a punch or sell a finishing move. She was here to show me how to navigate the most important part of this journey—the business side.

“Wrestling is a platform,” Stephanie said, leaning forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “How you use it will define your career. Stay true to yourself, but always think strategically. Protect your brand, and don’t be afraid to speak up for what you believe in.”

Those words stuck with me. In all my years of racing, I had always focused on performance—on being the best, on crossing the finish line first. But this was different. Wrestling wasn’t just about being great in the ring; it was about positioning myself for success in a world that operated on politics, media, and partnerships. I wasn’t just an athlete; I was a brand.

---

Stephanie’s mentorship wasn’t about teaching me how to wrestle—it was about teaching me how to thrive in an industry that didn’t just reward talent; it rewarded visibility, strategy, and timing. As she walked me through the intricacies of the business, I realized how much I had to learn.

“You need to think beyond the ring,” Stephanie continued. “It’s about building relationships with promoters, negotiating contracts, and understanding the market. Your value isn’t just in what you do when the lights are on—it’s in the image you project, the story you tell outside the ring, and how you build your legacy.”

I listened intently, absorbing every word. Stephanie explained how she had built the WWE brand alongside her family and how her role in the company evolved over time. She shared lessons about the importance of timing—how to capitalize on a moment when the crowd’s energy was at its peak, how to create buzz and make people care, not just in the ring but in every aspect of the industry. 

“I didn’t just get here because I was good at my job,” she said with a sharp, knowing look. “I got here because I knew how to position myself. You have to protect your brand, and you need to make sure people understand your worth. Don’t let anyone define your value except for you.”

---

I couldn’t help but think about my own journey—how I had spent years racing to live up to a family legacy, how I had felt the weight of expectations bearing down on me. Now, in this new chapter, I had the chance to create a legacy of my own. But that legacy wasn’t just going to be built on what I could do in the ring. It was about creating a persona that resonated with fans, and more importantly, protecting that persona in an industry where everything could change in an instant.

“Be careful with your image,” Stephanie warned, her voice steady. “One wrong move, one bad decision, and it can follow you. You need to stay true to yourself, but also know when to play the game. There will be times when you have to stand up for what you believe in. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

Her words felt like a reality check. I had been so focused on my physical training and my promos that I hadn’t fully grasped the scope of what it meant to navigate the wrestling industry with intention. Being in the spotlight wasn’t just about shining in the ring; it was about controlling your narrative, managing your public image, and making sure that the story being told about you was the one you wanted people to hear.

It was a lot to digest, but it was exactly what I needed. My journey was no longer just about racing on tracks or learning wrestling moves—it was about becoming a multifaceted performer, a businesswoman who understood the value of her image, her story, and her voice.

---

I left my meeting with Stephanie feeling like I had just been handed the keys to a new world. Her advice had empowered me to think strategically, to protect my brand, and to own every decision I made. It was a different kind of confidence—the kind that came from understanding that I had control over not just my career but my legacy.

From that point on, I made it my mission to not only improve my wrestling but to learn everything I could about the business. I started studying the careers of some of the most successful wrestlers—how they built their brands, how they managed their public image, how they navigated the politics of the industry. I realized that wrestling wasn’t just a performance—it was a brand-building machine, a world of partnerships, sponsorships, and media opportunities that required a different kind of mindset.

I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle anymore. I was learning how to survive—and thrive—in an industry where the stakes were higher than I could have ever imagined.

Stephanie’s lessons became a touchstone for me as I moved forward. I learned how to position myself, how to use every platform available to me to create my brand. It wasn’t about being a carbon copy of anyone else. I didn’t want to be anyone but myself—authentic, bold, and unapologetic.

There were moments when I doubted myself, when I questioned if I was doing the right thing, but the lessons from Stephanie always rang in my ears: Stay true to yourself. Think strategically. Protect your brand.

I started seeing the industry differently. Wrestling wasn’t just about athleticism and performance; it was about crafting a story that would live long after the final bell rang. And my story was just beginning.

As I continued my journey through the world of wrestling, I kept one thing at the forefront of my mind: I was not just a wrestler—I was a brand, a story, and a force to be reckoned with. 

And with the guidance of people like Stephanie McMahon, I knew I had everything I needed to make my mark. The ring was mine to conquer, but it was the industry that I was truly ready to take on.

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