#the lightning bolt still got numbers

[theprissythumbelina]

turns out I had my alerts mangled into only showing @s, no clue how or when I did that, but as a proud technocalamity I'm sure it was my fault

[buckysleftbicep]

winning streak 𐙚 b.b

pairing: hockey captain!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au)

warnings: just teeth rotting fluff, some sports trash talk,

summary: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi my loves! i couldn't stop thinking about this idea! and because i am a swiftie, this is heavily inspired by the alchemy (one of my many favourite songs) i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i do, love you guys and stay safe!

i love soft!bucky so freaking much

The crowd was thundering.

Not the kind that rumbled in the distance no, this was the kind that cracked the sky open. The kind that rose and crashed in waves, relentless and hungry. 

The stands shook with boots stomping on aluminum bleachers. Painted signs bounced in the air, words blurring from the motion—GO THUNDERBOLTS, CAPTAIN BARNES #91, KISS FOR LUCK scrawled in lipstick. 

Faces flushed red with cold beer and high hopes. Flags waved, foam fingers pointed, and a hundred thousand hearts pounded in time with the bass of the pre-game anthem pulsing through the speakers.

This wasn’t just a game. It was the game of the year.

Finals night. National Hockey League Championship. 

The Thunderbolts vs The Avengers.

Two rival teams, two captains with so much history and one trophy gleaming behind the glass.

The anthem had barely ended before the roar kicked up again, raw and ravenous.

Spotlights danced across the crowd like searchlights over a battlefield, and the overheads dimmed just enough to make the ice glow—pristine, perfect, untouched, a fresh battlefield waiting to be claimed.

Cameras swung in wide arcs across the arena, cutting from row to row, finding the faces that made up the frenzy.

Fans in war paint, faces streaked with glitter and ink, jerseys layered over hoodies, fingers locked around hotdogs and cardboard trays of fries, beer sloshing over gloved hands. 

Everyone yelling. Everyone watching.

And then—the camera landed on you.

Dead center. First row behind the Thunderbolts’ bench.

Wearing his jersey.

“Barnes” stitched in clean bold letters across your shoulders. The deep navy fabric pulled snug where it was tucked into the waistband of your jeans. Sleeves rolled just past your elbows. The Thunderbolts logo—a silver lightning bolt spearing through a black-and-blue shield shimmered faintly beneath the lights.

Your grin bloomed instantly when you saw yourself on the jumbotron—sharp and nervous and entirely unfiltered.

One hand flew up to your cheek, laughing in surprise. The other still held tight to the paper soda cup you hadn’t touched in ten minutes.

And then the commentators pounced.

“Ooooh, and look who we’ve got in the front row tonight!” one of them crowed, amusement crackling in his voice. “That’s Barnes’ girlfriend, she’s already wearing the number 91 like a badge of honor!”

The other chuckled, already rolling with it. “You’ve gotta love it, Bill. Young love, big stakes. She’s all in tonight. And the question on everyone’s mind—will Barnes bring home the trophy tonight? Or will Rogers shut him down one last time?”

You flushed hard, heat flooding your cheeks, but your smile only widened. Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap, the cup long forgotten.

The spotlight swept on—and the thunder swelled again.

The Thunderbolts were being called onto the ice.

First came Ava. Sharp, and fast. She cut across the blue line like a blade, sleek in her uniform, her form low and agile as she glided across the rink. Her braid flicked behind her helmet like a threat, chin high, eyes locked forward.

Then Bob. Wild grin beneath his helmet, that familiar bounce in his stride like he was skating into a bar fight instead of a championship. He gave a ridiculous salute to the crowd, winked at someone in the third row, and pumped his stick once in the air.

John followed, big and loud, throwing a fist into the sky like a gladiator entering the ring.

Yelena came next. Practically vibrating with excitement, her grin so wide it looked dangerous. She skated backward just for the hell of it, flashed a peace sign at the Avenger’s bench, and flipped off Tony Stark when he yelled something back.

And then —

“Number ninety-one…BUCKY BARNES!”

The arena exploded.

The glass walls behind the benches vibrated with the noise. The rafters groaned. People were screaming his name—BARNES, BARNES, BUCKY, BUCKY—the rhythm of it echoing like a chant across the rink.

You shot out of your seat without thinking, hands flying to your mouth, heart stuttering in your chest like it couldn’t keep up.

And then he appeared.

Skating out from the tunnel like he owned the damn world.

No waving. No showboating. 

He skated clean, hard, powerful—straight across the rink like the ice had parted just for him. His strides were controlled, each one cutting smooth into the surface, blades singing. He stopped short of the bench, stick tapping once against the ice with a heavy clack.

Then, he turned. Just enough to find you.

His helmet was tucked low, shadowing his eyes, but it didn’t matter. You could feel him find you. See you. That weightless flicker of connection when two people find each other in a crowd of thousands.

And then—

That grin.

God, that grin, that same grin that made you fall hopelessly in love with him back in college.

Crooked. Boyish. And ever so infuriatingly sure of itself.

He didn’t wave, didn’t mouth a word.

Just gave you the faintest nod, like a promise. Like watch this, baby.

And then—

The puck dropped.

“Thunderbolts coming in fast from the left side, Ava’s on the edge with the puck, she’s got Bob tailing her for backup—”

The announcer’s voice rang loud over the speakers, almost drowned out by the buzz of the arena. 

Ava skated hard, slicing across the ice like a bullet fired from a gun, body low and focused. Her stick tapped the puck forward with quick, lethal flicks, weaving past one defender, then another.

Bob was on her tail, his form bulkier but no less agile, cutting in wide to draw a second Avenger off the line.

The Thunderbolts were moving as one, quick and ruthless, barely blinking.

“Wait for it—OH! Big interception by Wilson for the Avengers, clean take on the boards, he’s flying down center ice—”

The collective gasp was instant. 

Sam was fast. Too fast.

He pivoted so tightly off the wall it looked impossible, scooping the puck on his blade mid-turn and blasting down center ice. The Thunderbolts scrambled to recover, boots hitting the ice in frantic scrapes, blades cutting through the frozen surface like razors.

Yelena cursed under her breath—you saw it from the bench cam, the sharp twist of her mouth unmistakable as she shot back toward the neutral zone in a blur of motion. 

You knew that look. Knew it well. You’d been friends since high school, back when she used to play pickup games with the boys just for fun.

She hated being outrun, hated it like it offended her personally. And judging by the speed she was moving now, someone was damn sure about to pay for it.

Bucky fell in behind her.

Unlike the rest, he didn’t panic.

He skated backward, cool and calculated, reading the play like he’d seen it a hundred times before. His knees bent, balance low, eyes flicking between Wilson streaking down the middle and Rogers gliding up the opposite wing, already sizing up his angle just outside the blue line.

And then, Steve entered the zone.

The crowd went feral. The commentators lost their minds.

“Rogers, himself folks, lining up for the slapshot—!”

Steve adjusted his grip with deadly precision, dragging the puck across the line and winding up like a spring. The stadium held its breath. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs lit the glass.

And then —

CLANG.

Stick on stick.

Bucky didn’t just block the shot—he rejected it.

The blade of his stick met Steve’s with a metallic crack that echoed across the ice, the force of it spinning the puck up and off course like it had hit a steel wall.

The puck arced high, spiralling toward the boards as both captains skated through the impact. Steve’s blade skidded empty.

The crowd howled.

Steve turned slowly, arching a brow beneath his helmet. The half-smile that played across his face was all teeth. 

Familiar.

Bucky skated past with ice in his veins and zero hesitation. He didn’t look back. Just kept gliding, chin raised, mouth curling.

“Try again, punk,” he smirked, eyes locked with Steve’s as the puck spun away.

Steve chuckled. “Make me.” And peeled off.

Your heart was racing.

No, not just racing. Hammering.

You couldn’t stop bouncing in your seat. The coke you held in both hands had gone warm long ago, the paper cup soft with condensation, but you hadn’t taken a sip. Your eyes were locked on the rink like your life depended on it.

Every pass was a lightning bolt. Every movement a blur.

The game was brutal, but brilliant. A war fought in blades and bruises. This wasn’t teammates having fun. This wasn’t friendly competition.

This was rivalry.

Hits against the boards came hard and fast. Elbows tucked sharp. Shoulders thrown into chests with unapologetic force. You flinched each time someone slammed into the wall, the crack echoing up into your ribs.

Still, through the chaos, Bucky led.

He was everywhere. Every line. Every pivot.

You watched him bark something to Bob, nod once to Yelena, then slash down the rink with the kind of clean, perfect control that only came from years of skating like the ice was his home.

He skated like fire. Moved like smoke.

His stick kissed the puck and made it sing.

“BUCKY! HERE!”

Yelena’s voice split through the noise, loud and sure. She tore up the right side like she’d stolen something, and Bucky didn’t even look.

He passed blind.

A perfect no-look cross-zone—sharp, clean, so instinctual it looked choreographed. The puck streaked across the ice, too fast to track.

Crack.

Bob’s blade met it in motion, and the sound was surgical.

And then—

SLAM.

Straight into the Avengers’ net.

The red light flared. The buzzer screamed.

Thunderbolts: 1. Avengers: 0.

The arena exploded.

“WE’RE ON THE BOARD, BABY!” the commentator bellowed, practically lifting out of his seat. “What a setup—Barnes to Belova, Belova to Bob, and in she goes!”

Fans surged to their feet, foam fingers punched the air, and you clapped both hands to your mouth in shock, laughing, beaming, glowing.

On the bench, Alexei looked like he was going to combust.

“THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT, BARNES! I TEACH HIM THAT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, pounding the plexiglass like a drum. “YOU SEE THAT PASS? HE LEARN FROM ME!”

Stark, meanwhile, was livid.

On the Avenger’s bench, he was a one-man storm—clipboard flailing, tie half-undone.

“Rogers! Wilson! You gonna let him dance around you like that? I swear to god, this isn’t fucking disney on Ice!”

The camera caught John laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench.

You could even see Yelena, skating backward toward center, roll her eyes from behind her visor, muttering something that made Ava snort.

And Bucky—

Bucky just skated to the bench like he hadn’t even tried.

Stick low. Jaw sharp. Eyes already on the next play.

Second period. Tie game.

The ice glistened with sweat and melted friction, grooves carved deep from blades and fury.

Both teams were breathing hard, skating harder, the weight of the scoreboard pressing down like a vice.

Every hit sounded louder now. Every pass carried desperation.

The Avengers had clawed one back.

It wasn’t a clean goal, not by Thunderbolts standards, anyway. It was sneaky. Wanda had slipped it in off a deflection, the kind of tip-in that no one even saw coming until the red light flashed behind the net.

Bob turned, confused, and smacked the post with his stick.

The crowd gasped, half in awe, half in protest.

The commentators were already on it.

“Oooh! Maximoff sneaks one past the line—unbelievable angle on that tip-in.”

“Barnes is not happy about that one, Bill. Look at that expression.”

“Stone cold. But if there’s one thing we know about number 91…it’s that he plays best when he’s pissed.”

You saw it too. Felt it. That flicker shift in the entire energy of the game. 

Like a match had been struck.

On the ice, Bucky reset.

His jaw was locked tight, the muscles ticking beneath his cheekbone. His knuckles curled around his stick like it was a lifeline. He muttered something sharp to John as they lined up for the next faceoff—you couldn’t hear it, but whatever he said made John nod immediately, all humor gone.

And then—

Breakaway.

John slingshot the puck out of the circle with brutal precision, snapping it straight to Ava as she darted up the ice.

Her skates cut the surface like blades through water, a clean, slicing motion that made her look more like a dancer than a forward. She passed to Yelena, who caught it mid-stride and bolted down the left wing like her skates were on fire.

The Avengers defence scrambled.

You leaned forward in your seat, one hand gripping the railing, eyes wide.

Yelena ducked her shoulder just before a check, spun out of the hit like she’d rehearsed it in a dream, and—with barely a glance—

“BUCKY!”

The shout rang through the air.

He was already there.

No hesitation. No delay. 

He’d read the play like a book with his name written in the ending.

The puck hit his blade like fate.

Three strides.

A shift in weight.

The low sweep of his stick.

Snap.

Like a bullet fired from center ice—the puck screamed into the net.

GOAL.

Red light. Horn blast. Thunder in the stands.

Thunderbolts: 2. Avengers: 1.

The stadium erupted. Fans on their feet. Flags waving. Voices cracking. Someone a few rows behind you screamed “MARRY ME, BUCKY!” and you couldn’t stop laughing, even as tears prickled the backs of your eyes.

Ava was pounding her stick against the wall. Bob leapt over the boards to tackle John in celebration. Yelena blew kisses to the camera and Alexei was hoarse from screaming.

But Bucky —

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t raise his arms or pump his fists or even look at the scoreboard.

There were thirty seconds left. Thirty brutal, breathless seconds. But the goal had done its job. The Thunderbolts were ahead. Now it was all defense.

And Bucky... he was locked in.

The final clock ticked down like a heartbeat.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

Five—

BUZZZZZZZZZ.

The horn went off like an explosion. Final whistle.

The Thunderbolts bench emptied, skates clattering across the ice as the team poured toward center.

Players collided, hollering, helmets flying into the air. Ava jumped straight into Yelena’s arms. Bob tried to slide across the rink on his belly and crashed into the boards.

And behind it all—

The trophy waited. Gleaming, glorious and beautiful.

Spotlights swiveled. Cameras focused.

The announcers were already yelling.

“Thunderbolts take the championship! What a finish, what a goal—and Barnes with the game winner, folks! That’s number 91 doing what he does best!”

You stood with the rest of the crowd, clapping, screaming, face flushed with adrenaline and awe.

Your hands were over your mouth again, eyes sweeping the chaos for him—where was he?

And then —

You found him.

Or rather—he found you.

Bucky skated past the goal without slowing.

Past the glittering silver trophy being lifted onto its pedestal. Past the thunder of his teammates’ cheers. Past Alexei’s open arms and the blinding camera flashes.

His stick dropped to the ice.

Then his helmet.

And he skated straight to you.

There was no hesitation. No calculation. He ran.

Skates to the boards, gloves off, his hands catching the edge with one clean, practiced grip. Security blinked, caught off-guard—but he was already climbing over, lifting himself into the front row like it was nothing.

You gasped—half-laughing, half-stunned—arms instinctively reaching for him.

And he caught you.

His hands wrapped around your waist, and without a word, he lifted you straight into the air like you weighed nothing at all. 

You squeaked—breath catching—legs curling around his hips as he spun you, holding you there in the middle of screaming fans and cameras and flying confetti.

His mouth crashed into yours.

And everything else disappeared.

The noise, the lights, the rink, the pressure, it all dropped away like a curtain falling. All you could feel was him. His hands gripping your back, his lips against yours, rough and breathless. His chest shaking with laughter.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered, breaking the kiss only long enough to murmur it into your cheek.

Your laugh was pure joy. You buried your hands in his sweaty hair and kissed him again, not caring that you were in front of thousands of people, not caring that your face was probably all over the jumbotron.

“I told you you’d win,” you breathed.

“And I told you,” he grinned, eyes bright and unbearably soft as he pressed his forehead to yours, “you’re all I was playing for.”

Your heart melted.

Somewhere in the chaos, John’s voice rang out: “Go get her, Bucky!”

From the loudspeakers, the announcers cracked up.

“Well, there’s your answer, folks,” one of them laughed, his voice barely audible over the thunderous cheer. “Who needs the trophy… when she’s right there waiting?”

And Bucky—still holding you—only kissed you deeper.

Because he already had everything he wanted.

a/n: this fic was really just indulgence for me, i love this idea so much i typed half the fic on my phone during my train ride home 🥹 i am not the best at describing hockey and i'm sorry if i got anything wrong 😭. if you enjoyed the fic, please leave a comment of reblog!

[cerisereids]

𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐫 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲- 𝐀.𝐇.

Pairing- Aaron Hotchner x Girly!Assistant!Reader

WC- 7.5k (LORDDDD) (literally belle shut up challenge level impossible)

Summary- With your birthday around the corner, you decide to throw a blowout bash. The people you work with have no idea how to let go. Least of all your boss, Aaron Hotchner. Yet, he doesn't show.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, angst to fluffy smut(ish), girly!reader, reader has long hair she can run her fingers through, spicy but no explicit smut (still 18+ tho don't play), non-explicit sex scene, reader standing on business, discussions of Hotch and Haley's divorce

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !!

The satisfying click of your white kitten heels fill the hallway as you bounce off the linoleum tiles. You’re in a delicate balancing act, juggling a tray of your famous cupcakes as well as glittery pink invitations. Gold lettering splays across the front ‘You’re Invited!’ They’re cheesy little things you had made at the local print shop, but you couldn’t help yourself. Your gloomy office needs some cheer. 

You push the door open with your hip, backing into the room with small little steps as you enter the BAU. Your instantly relieved by a pair of strong arms guiding your through the doorway. “Got it, sugar?” Derek’s voice asks, his hands hovering in precaution. 

“I am just fine! Here! Take one!” You set the cupcake tray down, plucking one out for him, handing it to him with an invitation. His brow quirks, a small smile rising on his lips.

 “What’s all this for?” He asks, bemused. 

“Well, my birthday is coming up, so I thought I’d have a big, blowout, bash! It’s been too long since you guys loosened up, really got to let go and have fun!” You squeal, stepping back slightly as the rest of the team quickly finds the dessert. Like bees to honey, you like to say. 

“So, you decided that instead of celebrating yourself, to insist on us celebrating you?” Emily inquires around a mouthful of cupcake. 

“Pretty much!” You pinch her cheek affectionately, and she giggles. Your gaze turns ever so slightly, catching the window of your boss’ office. Bile rises in your throat. He won’t be so easy to coax out. Both now, and to the party itself. The mere thought of it makes you nauseous. 

Emily saddles up beside you, lightly nudging her elbow with yours. She nods to Aaron’s office, and blood rushes to your cheeks. Your gaze drops to the ground, which you scuff with the bottom of your shoe. You lift your head up, your hair falling down your shoulders like a waterfall. 

“He in?” You ask, resuming your naturally bubbly state, a wide smile plastered over your anxiety. 

“Yup, when is he not?” Emily responds, curious, like a cat. You snap out of your anxious state, giving a playful shrug. You bat your lashes and turn, grabbing the tray and remaining invitations. 

“Hey, I wanted seconds!” Spencer calls after you. You roll your eyes, your clicking heels once again the only noise as you walk away. It’s no secret who you’re going to see. 

Aaron’s office door is slightly ajar, so you enter the same way you did earlier, by hip. His brow quirks upon your arrival, but you don’t forget to clock the way his eyes catch you, scanning up and down your frame. You wore one of your favorite dresses today, a pink, ruffly number that resembles a sunset. It cascades down your body like it was made for you. By the way Aaron’s looking at you, he thinks so, too. The way he looks at you is electric, like a bolt of lightning cracking your spine as you take each other in. Your breath shortens, catching in your throat at the sight of his tired, brown eyes. 

“Hey, big guy,” you lilt, your voice in its usual effervescent tease. You don’t miss the way he flushes down to his neck at the nickname. 

“What is this all about, hm?” he raises a brow, his voice smooth like silk. His eyes widen as you set down the tin of cupcakes, revealing their chocolatey goodness to him. His favorite. You hand him an invitation, nerves bubbling in your stomach as he reads it over. Your cheeks heat, like you’re 17 again waiting for an invite to the prom.

Then, he glances up at you. There’s a sparkle in his eye when he looks at you. You’re not sure if he knows it’s there, but you cherish it. You cherish the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, the world. You cherish the way not a single other colleague receives the exact gaze you do, soft, patient, kind. It’s your best kept secret. 

You breathe out a sigh at that look, relief washing over you like fresh sunlight. 

“Did you make these? They’re beautiful,” he inspects the card in his hands, and your heart thuds against your ribcage, nerves buzzing once again. His nonchalance is like a tightrope, inching you closer either to safety or certain death. 

“Thank you,” you reply. It’s quiet. You’re afraid that if you raise your voice, your heart will come out of your throat. “I make them all myself.”

You settle on his desk, resting a light hip on it while you watch him intently. He studies you, eyes flitting over your face as he takes in the glitter of your eyeshadow, the soft swipes of gloss on your lips. His own are parted, tongue peeking out in a tantalizing way that sets your heart aflame. 

You raise a brow, asserting an effective upper hand. You watch his brow go soft, and you know you have him. It doesn’t take much for you to convince him. Of anything, really. Since you started working for him, he’s taken actual time off (rarely, but he has), eats dinner at a regular time each night, and manages to get a little more sleep. The team calls it witchcraft, sorcery. You’d call it the sheer force of the desire to keep the man you’re deeply in love with alive and healthy. That’d be too complicated, though, so you bat your lashes and accept their praises. 

“That’s really incredible,” it’s soft, his tone. Gentle and low in a way that’s reserved only for you, for these quiet moments in his office. Whether you’re talking about a case, your weekend plans, or the next set of nails you’re getting, he saves this special cadence just for you. Smooth and velvety, liquid chocolate spilling from his tongue. 

“Thank you,” your eyes glimmer as you shift on his desk ever so slightly. Your hip pops toward him in a way that has him licking his lips. Confidence surges through, you sit up taller. “Will you be there?” You bat your lashes, your prettiest doe eyes on full display. “It would mean everything to have you there.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Hook, line, and sinker. 

“Yay!” You squeal, hopping off his desk. You fix him a cupcake, taking the last one on the tray and placing it delicately on a pink napkin. 

“You’re only allowed to eat this if you’ve had lunch. Have you?” You’re all business again, in the blink of an eye. You poise a sassy hand on your hip, your brow arching. 

“I had a piece of toast and a pickle,” he admits. It’s sheepish, and you roll your eyes. 

“That’s a disgusting combo. Have another piece of toast before you eat that,” you roll your eyes playfully before stalking off. A barely audible ‘yes, ma’am’, follows you out. You pause, smiling to yourself before heading to your desk. 

“You really think he’s gonna show?” Penelope asks, her tongue swirling around her third daiquiri of the evening. You sigh, popping your hands on your hips as you take a step back from your large window, inspecting your decorative work. 

It’s the night before your big party, an event you normally thrive on hosting. Now, though, it’s the cause of the anxiety sparkling inside you, like your heart’s swimming in carbonated water. You adjust the rollers in your hair, the fluffy sleeves of your pink silk robe falling to your elbows as you do so. 

You center yourself for a moment, focusing on the comforting way the delicate fabric frames your body, falling over your tank top and sleep shorts. You wiggle your feet, currently stuffed into pink bunny slippers. Your gaze finds the moon, full and round, you absorb it. You welcome anything that helps you not crush under the debilitating weight of your affections for Aaron Hotchner. 

“I don’t know! He told me he’d be there!” Your voice is antsy, you wring your hands together with a small smile on your face that doesn’t reach your eyes. While Penelope’s brilliant, she’s not a profiler. She’s also drunk. You pray these two things add up in your favor.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw him go out. Not since the divorce, but if he were for anybody, it’d be for you. That much I know,” she pats a supportive hand on your shoulder, though it does nothing to quell the nausea that comes from the d-word. 

You’d been a strong reliant for your boss while he’d finalized his divorce, almost a year ago now. Getting him late night coffees, sitting on the couch in his office while he completed paperwork, bringing in little treats just to make him smile. They always did, everything you did garnered a smile out of him. 

That’s why you were teased in your first week on the job, after you’d questioned the team’s comments about their stoic leader. “He smiles all the time, what are you guys talking about?” Their sarcastic grins and chuckling was the first time you were fully aware that the relationship you had with your boss was…different than the others. The amount of time that’s passed since then, the bond you’ve made with your boss, makes your head spin.

Still, you aimed to be respectful everyday. No matter how many details you knew about his issues with Haley, the stress of taking care of Jack while he was away, you kept a professional distance. You would not cross that line. In the year since he’d taken the ring off, though, it’s been…different. A wall has come down, a layer unshed. You don’t know what to do with it, with him. 

“Hey, does this look good over here?” Emily calls, snapping you out of your Aaron-induced haze. You plaster another smile on your face, though this time it’s not too difficult. You were thankful to merely witness J.J. propping Emily up on a stool so she can pin a pink disco ball in the center of your expansive living room. Relief washes over you, the love for your friends momentarily distracting you from the ache in your chest. 

“Looks great, thanks Em!” you pat her ass playfully, laughing when she squeals. 

“Anything for you, my darling!” She calls after you as you make your way through the living room to the kitchen, grabbing your own glass of the elixir that now has Penelope fully slumped forward on your kitchen island. 

“Pen? You good?” You nudge her slightly, and she jumps at the contact. 

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah, I’m great! Cool as a cucumber!” She adjusts her own pajamas, a buttery yellow silk set that comes with a matching eye mask. 

You laugh, shaking your head as you pour your own drink. “You really think Aaron will come tomorrow?” You ask her, your voice is meek. You hate it, that this is what he does to you. 

“I would be truly shocked if he didn’t, my sweet,” she answers, and though her words are slightly slurred, her tone is serious. You smile. 

“I agree!” Emily calls, walking into the kitchen to refill her own cup. J.J. trails behind her, nodding emphatically. 

“I mean, have you heard anyone else here call him Aaron? Like…ever?” J.J. says. You jokinglya move your head side to side, rattling the thought around your head. They all giggle at your response, and your cheeks heat up. You rest your chin on your shoulder, avoiding eye contact with the giddy group. 

“He’ll show. Don’t even worry about it,” J.J. states, the others nodding in agreement. 

You blow out a sigh, downing the rest of your drink in one swig. 

The bass from the speaker reverberates through your house, the walls nearly shaking from the vibrations. You’re only slightly tipsy, a bit dizzy as you slide open the glass door leading to the patio. Nearly every square inch of the pool is full of people, bodies bobbing around, elbows above water to preserve red solo cups. 

The wind blows through your hair, your eyes falling shut. You try to bask in it, absorb the setting sun as you had with the moon the night before. It’s not working. Aaron still hasn’t shown. Your attempts to not get upset about it are weak, feeble, an embarrassment. You thought fresh air would do you some good, but now, in your tipsy, clouded haze, you scan the crowd of faces. Some of them you know, most of them don’t. Above all else, you still don’t see the one you want. You feel stupid for thinking you would. Your heart splinters, cracks in the foundation breaking the whole. 

You sit on the porch step, your face falling to your hands. What’s wrong with you? Throwing parties is like a love language to you- Gatsby himself would be jealous. It’s not atypical for friends of friends of friends to find themselves in your yard. Tonight, though, you’re upset. Upset that none of them are there for you. Upset that you don’t even matter. Upset that the one person who could fix this feeling hasn’t shown. He isn’t here for you. After everything, everything you have done for him. After he promised. Tears prick the insides of your eyes, and you release a shuddering breath.

“Hey, Party Princess!” You look up to find Penelope, arm in arm with Derek. Both of them look a bit too drunk for their own good. Penelope’s face falls immediately upon seeing your teary gaze, your pouty lips. 

“Oh angel! What’s going on?!” She squeaks, sitting down beside you immediately. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, and you lean into them instinctively. 

“Someone special not here, pretty girl?” Derek asks, crouching down to meet your eye level. The acknowledgement of your situation only makes the tears fall. 

Penelope forces your head parallel to the ground. “Look down! Don’t let the tears streak your makeup!” You release a wet laugh at that, inspiring laughter from Derek and Penelope as well. You can hear the relief in theirs, that Aaron Hotchner hasn’t rendered you incapable of laughter. 

You feel Derek’s hand over the expanse of your shoulder, a warm, comforting grip that soothes you only slightly. Your gaze is still on the concrete, shame creeping up your spine at your emotions. “I’m sorry, guys,” you splutter, tears falling faster now. 

“No! No, don’t apologize,” Penelope squeals, finding a tissue in her bag and handing it to you. “Blot those pretty eyes, hon, and let’s go dance! Don’t spend your birthday crying over some guy!” 

You do as she says, closing your wet eye so your lash meets the tissue, small bits of mascara left as residue. You finally lift your head up, meeting Derek’s gaze. “There she is!” He smiles, “the most beautiful girl in Quantico.”

“Hey!” Penelope smacks his bicep. He laughs, holding a hand there in a show of faux pain. 

“Sorry, one of the two most beautiful women in Quantico,” he responds, walking backwards to the bar. He grabs you a shot of tequila, your favorite, and propositions you. 

“That’s much better,” Penelope smirks, satisfied. She moves from beside you, ready to assemble a lime and some salt. You stop her, a hand to her forearm. “No need.” You throw back the shot, your head tilting all the way back as you down the burning liquid. It singes your throat, and you wiggle your head from side to side as it goes down. 

That same counterfeit smile curls your lips, your eyes just as sad as they were before. “Let’s party!”

Aaron Hotchner  is a piece of shit. He knows this. His ex-wife knows this. Hell, Jack probably knows it, too. But now she knows it, and for some reason, that’s his final straw. He stands at her front porch, suit jacket long abandoned, tie forcefully loosened from hours of hunching over his desk. His hair is messy, thanks to his fingers running through it every 5 minutes. The bags under his eyes have darkened throughout the night, and he can tell from his reflection in the window that he looks like hell. The last place he should be is at a party, let alone this party.

He takes in her expansive house, a gift she inherited from her parents once they moved to Calabassass, she told him once. The front is made of classic white stone, a baby blue trim framing the door and windows. It looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years, only to fine tune and keep it looking pristine. Though, the perfection on the outside provides a direct contrast to what little he can see going on inside. He has a view of the kitchen from where he stands, empty beer cans line the kitchen island, pink streamers and popped balloons litter the floor. 

He sees the outline of someone familiar enter the kitchen. Penelope, if the bouncing blonde hair streaked with hot pink was any indicator. He watches as she stumbles about, a large figure, Derek, holding her up by the elbows as she attempts to make a mixed drink. He hopes it’s not for herself. He then realizes what a creep he must look like, a dark figure standing alone in front of a house that’s not his, staring in the window at a party he failed to attend. He turns, ready to leave, firm in his decision that this was all a big mistake to begin with. 

He stops, though from the opening of the door. He whips his head around, relief and disappointment washing over him to see Emily. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if it had been her opening the door. Fall to his knees, grovel, probably. His cheeks tint a bright red at her knowing, disappointed stare. “You fucked up tonight, Hotchner,” her affirming tone washes over him like he’s been dipped in acid, singeing his skin and finding its way to his guts. He’s nothing but a puddle. 

“Where is she?” He asks. It’s meek, feeble. A tone nobody he’s ever worked with heard him use. Emily raises her brow at that, both in shock and suspicion. 

“The backyard, near the pool. She’s had a lot to drink, though. So be careful. You may not be someone she wants to see right now.” Emily’s pitiful smile only makes him feel worse. He can’t leave now that he’s been spotted, though. It would catapult him from normal amounts of jackass to the jackass Olympics, something he’d never be able to recover from. Not when it comes to her. 

He follows Emily in, the remnants of what seemed like a blowout bash now diluted to a handful of bodies in each room. Most of them are the team, who are shooting him looks of shock and pity as he makes his way through the house. His heart beats through his ears as he slides the glass door open, stepping under the pink balloon arch to find her. 

She’s sitting alone on the edge of the pool, her feet dipping in slightly. He takes her in, giving him a brief moment of selfish reprieve before she sees him, before he has to confront the ways in which he’s broken her heart tonight. A floral pink dress flows around her, the sleeves billowing in the wind. The ruffles of the tiered dress are bunched around her hips as she sits, the hemline raised to prevent wetting the fabric. She’s a vision, the pale moonlight ghosting over her frame like a spotlight made just for her. His heart breaks. All of this, and he’s left her so lonely. He is a piece of shit. 

The creak of the porch step calls her attention, her head swinging around her shoulder to see who’s come to join her. The look on her face as she sees him…it’s too much to put into words, even for a profiler as experienced as Aaron. He watches each emotion cross her face. Her instinctual reaction was relief, her eyes brightening like a lightning flash through his heart. Her brows furrow soon after, discontent clouding her features. Anger is soon to follow, the pink gloss on her lips shining as they curve downward. 

She lands on anger. Stays there as she moves to stand, not caring where the water splashes as she swings her feet out of the pool. She stomps over to him, feet smacking against the pool deck as she barrels into him. The force is light, her drunken state impacting the collision. He still stumbles a bit, catching both her and himself as they tumble. 

“Where were you?!” she spits, the fire in her eyes paralyzing. He’s speechless. “I waited for you! I waited for you all night! You said- you said you’d be there! You promised!” Her voice gets louder with each syllable, her fists colliding into his chest with each breath. She turns, walking toward the water once more. 

He follows slowly, tentative. His hand reaches to her elbow, fingers lightly touching the skin. She turns, smacking his hand away. He flinches at the sudden contact, not expecting such force from her. “No!” She exclaims. Tears prick her eyes now, her hand is shaking as she holds up a finger in his face. Aaron’s heart splinters at the sight, guilt searing his veins like a deadly disease. 

“You don’t get to touch me, you don’t get to act like you’re the victim here. You. Didn’t. Show.” She spits, venom punching every word. He can see the group forming at the door out of his peripheral vision. It’s just the team, thankfully. Though he knows he’s lost this right, he’s relieved random strangers aren’t privy to his colossal fuck up. 

“God, I feel so fucking stupid!” She exclaims, running ten fingers through perfectly tousled hair. “Sitting here in this dress, that I picked out for you, at this party, that I only threw for you!” Her voice cracks on that last word, tears finally spilling over her lash line. 

“Me?” He mumbles. It’s the first word he’s said to her all night. It makes him feel like an idiot. There’s heat in her gaze, a deadly forest fire. But she’s silent. He keeps going. “You threw this party for me?” He sounds dumb. He knows it even before she rolls her eyes. A fantastic idiot, that’s what he is. 

“God, Aaron!” She’s yelling, now. The use of his first name knocks the wind out of him every time. This time, though, with the pain lacing her tone, it hits like a tornado. “For the best fucking profiler in fucking America, you have no clue how to read people!” 

He raises a brow at this, and she yanks at the root of her hair, a loud, desperate, ‘ugh!’ tearing from her lips. “I’m so hurt, Aaron, You hurt me. I’m so angry, and I’m so, so in love with you, that I’ll probably fucking forgive you in the morning.”

The words hit him like a bullet train, slicing him clean in half. His mouth falls open, a small ‘o’ that only serves to make him stupider. She stalks over to the bar on the deep end of the pool, leaning over and grabbing a bottle of vodka from the interior. She takes a long swig, eyes falling closed. Tears fall down her cheeks, streaking her perfectly applied makeup. She stumbles a bit, nearing the edge of the water, and his heart rate picks up. He makes the mistake of reaching for the bottle. It only results in a forceful shove, the bottle falling between the two and shattering on the ground. 

Her fury only intensifies now. Her vindictive gaze could turn him to stone. He looks down at the mess, catching her shoeless feet. He grips her wrist before she can move. Her bare feet, drunken state, and the shards of broken glass are a recipe for disaster. He doesn’t care how big of an asshole he is, how much she might hate him right now, but he can’t risk letting her get hurt even more. He’s expecting her reaction, an immediate instinct to shove him off of her. He can’t even register the impact it has on his already fragile heart, because in her alcohol induced frenzy, her shove knocks them both in the water. 

The splash envelops Aaron like a slap to the face. He opens his eyes immediately, and he doesn’t even register the sting of the chlorine in his eyes. His only mission is to find her, to make sure she’s safe. He sloppily wraps himself around her, bringing them up to the surface. They both gasp upon arrival, breathing as if they’d never get the privilege again. He splays a hand across her back, pushing her toward him until they’re chest-to-chest, until she can’t wriggle out of his grasp. He won’t let her go until she’s safely out of the water.

The frantic rise and fall of her chest against his steadies him. It’s enough to ground him, to help him find his bearings as he spots the ladder leading out of the pool. He feels her relax slightly in his arms as he begins to move, her own wrapping around his neck. He lets out the smallest sigh of relief. She doesn’t completely hate him. With how he acted tonight, he’s surprised he’s even been afforded that much. 

He lets her go first, hands finding her waist and lifting her to the first step. His hands hover around her as she stumbles up the ladder, ready for any possible disaster to strike. He follows quickly, his white dress shirt sticking to his skin in a way that would make him feel exposed around anyone else. He rolls his sleeves up to his shoulders, shaking his hair out like a dog. She flinches when he sprays her, giggling quietly. The sweet, fluttering noise is contagious, Aaron laughs himself before muttering a quiet, “sorry.” 

He watches her face change as she remembers again. Remember why they ended up in the pool,  why she’s mad at him in the first place. Light, joyful eyes darken into a cloudy, stormy gaze. Her eyes are like a bow and arrow aimed right at his heart, ready for the kill. He’s ready to admit defeat, to just lay there and let her skin and eat him alive. He avoids her gaze. Cowardly, he knows. 

“So. Fucking. Unfair.” They’re punctuated by a look of desperation and disdain, desire and destruction. His head shoots up again at that, shame creeping up his spine once more. It settles in his neck, constricts his airflow. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ve treated you terribly tonight and-”

He’s cut off by a groan that could spark an earthquake. She pulls at the roots of her wet hair in frustration. “Not that. Well- partially that. It’s fucking unfair that you get to skip my party, break my heart, show up, and then emerge from my pool looking like some sort of Adonis. Un-fucking fair, Aaron Hotchner.”

She moves closer to him with each passing word, to the point where his name is merely a whisper, uttered to him only inches from his own face. He studies her, the water droplets falling down her tear-stained face, the look in her eye, now softened to one of desperate devotion, despite all he’s put her through tonight. She’s breathtaking. Just as she was the day they first met, and everyday since then. An otherworldly beauty that has seemed to captivate him, mind, body, and soul. 

She inches even closer, her fingernails raking up his bare forearms. A shiver unzips his spine, invoking a light chuckle from her. As her lips inch ever so closer to his own, he nearly lets himself get lost in it. When she releases a shaky sigh against his mouth, the potent stench of vodka strongly reminds him that she is in no place for such an activity tonight. He scoops her up, folding her over his shoulder as he turns to get her indoors. 

He ignores her squeals of protest, the splattering of her palms on his back, though he can’t help but imagine this exact scenario in a different light- one where she’s sober, and he’s carrying her through his bedroom door. He opens the glass door with one hand, sliding it the rest of the way with his hip. He thanks his lucky stars that the only people left are Penelope and Derek, who likely stayed in case of any possible drownings. He nods at them, a succinct, ‘we’re good, get out.’

The message is heard clearly, the two of them shuffling out the door, but not before taking multiple glances at their boss, who’s carrying his hammered employee like a sack of potatoes. He’s in for an absolute earful come Monday, he’s sure of it. 

Her room is easy to spot, a bright pink door with her name plastered at the top. He smiles to himself, his heart swelling at the way she revels in her inner child. Sparkly room decor, birthday party invitations, a birthday party in general. He’s almost envious of the way she effortlessly mixes her childish woe with her adult sophistication. Even around the office, she clacks around in whatever heel came out of her rotating closet that morning, all while spouting off fine tuned details of any current or prospective cases. 

These are things he’s lost touch with as he’s aged, that whimsy, the wild eyed gaze she gives to new challenges. He hopes she never lets it go. He hopes she’ll be 80 with bedazzled glasses and  the best hair in the room. Knowing her, he has nothing to worry about in that regard. 

He plops her down on the large couch on the far end of her room, not wanting to douse her bed with chlorine. She needs a good night’s sleep. She whines as she attempts to wiggle out of her party dress, the straps proving to be very stubborn as she maneuvers around the couch. He turns instinctively as she figures it out, her dress bunching around her thighs before she lifts it up over her head. The small sliver of thigh he did see is burned into his brain forever, though. There’s no escaping that. 

“Aaron, I need my pajamas,” her voice is soft, tired. 

Aaron clears his throat awkwardly. “Where are they, honey?”

He practically hears her gleam at his words. He knows she’s basking in his pet name the way she always does, like a cat who got the cream. “Top drawer. I want the silk pink set,” her voice has a certain lilt to it now that nearly has his eyes rolling in the back of his head. Pink silk. He’ll die. He could just die. It would probably be less painful than handling her delicate sleepwear, throwing it behind him without turning around. 

She giggles as she puts it on. “You can look now. I’m all covered.”

He turns, eyes trained on the floor, just in case. He’s truly not prepared for what he sees when he turns around. Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, her plush thighs filling out the fabric of her soft pajamas. The top is barely enough fabric to be called such, a thin tank top leaving so little to the imagination, he nearly combusts on the spot. The peaks of her nipples are enough to do him in permanently, to put him in the ground for all eternity. He’d deserve it, too. 

“I can’t move. Need you to get me to bed,” she mumbles, her body falling limp against the couch. He rolls his eyes, moving to scoop her in his arms, bridal style this time. The implication makes him choke on his own spit. 

“Wait!” She exclaims, just as he’s reached the foot of her bed. He stops in his tracks. “Need to get the rest of my makeup off, Aaron. Need the bathroom.” Her head falls against his chest, and he can’t say no. Sighing, he adjusts her in his arms and carries her to the ensuite bathroom. 

He sits her down on the closed toilet, covered in a pink, fuzzy fabric. She wiggles, getting comfortable as her eyes fall shut. 

“The soft, fuzzy washcloth on the counter automatically takes off makeup with water. If you could just wet it, I can get the rest.” She’s truly sleepy now, the alcohol taking her over almost entirely now. 

He won’t make her do all of that work, not after everything he’s put her through tonight. He heeds only part of her request, wetting the washcloth and ringing out the excess water. He crouches in front of her, putting a gentle hand to her jaw as he begins to lightly scrub the remaining bits of makeup off. She sighs, one of content and exhaustion. His heart soars. He thinks he may have to start going back to church just to make up for the grace he’s been granted tonight. 

After he moves through the next two steps- cleanser, then moisturizer, per her instruction- they’re back where they started, at the edge of her bed, her nestled in his arms. He lays her down gently, turning to sleep on her couch downstairs. He’s stopped in his tracks with a single tug to the wrist. His heart stops. 

“Stay,” she mumbles. He’s powerless. He peels off his wet clothes, making peace with sleeping in damp underwear, before she mumbles something more. “There’s extra sweatpants in the room to the right. Take them.” He has no choice but to listen. 

You wake with a pounding head, the morning light filtering in like a knife designed to split you in two. You groan, rubbing your eyes to adjust to the sober reality you’ve been thrust back into. You’re caught off guard when you roll into an absolute brick wall of a man, panic rising in your throat before you realise who it is. The only positive is that he’s familiar, that you know it’s not some random guy you hooked up with and let stay the night. On the other side of that coin, you’re waking up next to your boss, the day after you confessed your love for him. 

The arrival of that memory triggers the rest, and they flood in like a broken dam. Your tears, the vodka, the broken glass, the pool, the way his pecs looked in his white shirt, soaked to the bone and clinging to his chest. 

You shake off the thought, though the motion only wakes Aaron. You curse lightly under your breath. It takes everything in you not to crumble at the raspy groan Aaron lets out, seemingly just as surprised to be waking up in a foreign environment. His eyes widen when they find you, pure shock lacing his features before he slowly pieces together the events of the night before. A small smile curves your lips. “Good morning, party pooper.”

Aaron at least has enough gentlemanly instinct to make breakfast. He’s quick to tie your pink apron around his waist, cracking eggs and frying bacon with ease. You perch on one of the stools at your kitchen island, still littered with beer cans and empty solo cups. You sip your coffee as you watch him. You hate how gorgeous he is, how he has the right to look like that even when you’re mad at him. 

Sweatpants hang low on his hips, the lack of a shirt tantalizing. Your eyes zone in on the slivers of skin afforded beyond the apron. You squeeze your thighs together at the hair on his tummy, the hair that trails lower, and lower…

You jump as he puts a plate in front of you, not expecting for him to be done so soon. “Oh!” You squeal, the sound muffled slightly by your coffee mug. You’re using the glass dish as a crutch now, holding it in front of your face like a shield. You know he can tell exactly what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it, but it doesn’t stop you. He should know how you’re feeling right now, with him in front of you, looking even more delectable than the fresh, sizzling bacon. But he’s still the same man that broke your heart merely hours ago. 

He plates himself before nodding his head towards the semi-clean kitchen table. “Let’s eat there, so that way we’re not talking over pyramids of Sam Adams.”

You smile softly at this, swinging your legs around to hop off the stool. He takes your plate before you can, sitting it at the head of the table. You sit, and take a bite. It takes everything in you not to moan. If it weren’t for last night, maybe you would’ve. You sit in silence for a moment, soft chewing and forks clinking against plates the only noise. The only noise, at least, until Aaron looks directly at you. 

“I’m so sorry. I know that there’s not enough apologies in the world to make up for how I’ve treated you. I just- I couldn’t…” his voice trails off. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

“Couldn’t what?” It’s quiet as it leaves your lips, hanging between you two like a ticking time bomb. His eyes flit to the table, his hands clasped together in what looks like silent, desperate, prayer. 

“I couldn’t face rejection again,” he states, plainly. The wheels start turning in your head. Moving, but still unsure of the destination. “You saw so many details of my divorce, the ugly ins and outs. I couldn’t even fathom the thought that you’d be- that you would have any sort of feeling towards me. That you would love me in the way that I love you. Now that I know what I know…”

You’re there. You’ve reached your destination, and you can’t help but collapse your head into your hands and laugh at the stupidity of it all. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the noise you emit, but it’s all worth it at the smile that appears on his own face, cheeks bunching up around his eyes. It makes your heart swell. 

“So, you’re telling me…you didn’t come to my party because you were afraid I’d reject your feelings, and I spent the entire night drinking and crying on rotation because I thought you were rejecting me…” You spell it out, wild hand motions matching the absurdity of the situation. 

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” He smiles, and heat rises to your cheeks. A silence settles over you then, the gravity of what this means hitting the both of you like a truck. “I’m so, so sorry I hurt you. I never meant to, though I know that sounds redundant because of my actions.”

You let out an incredulous chuckle at that, a huff of air conveying multiple emotions at once. “Aaron…I need to know that you won’t just run when things get hard. I know that you and Haley had something…else. I don’t want to be a repeat of that in your healing journey, or get in the way of your duties with Jack, or-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, a warm hand grazing your forearm over the table. “You’re not just a part of my healing journey. I learned a lot when Haley left me. You saw it. You held a heavy hand in that change. You gave me something to strive for, a glimmer after I’d thought I messed everything up. And instead of treating you the way I know you deserve, I ran right back to my old patterns. I can’t explain how sorry I am. How can I make it up to you?”

You raise a tentative brow. “The self awareness is a good sign, Aaron, but I need you to know that I’m a one and done kind of girl. Typically a none and done kind of girl. I’m making a very special exception here, sir.” He nods at this, eyes boring into yours. “You’re not going to keep me if you keep your old patterns. It’s one or the other, and you can make it up to me by making that decision. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

He nods emphatically, fingers lacing between yours across the table. You sigh, a true, genuine smile on your face for the first time since before last night. You finish your breakfast in a content silence before dragging him back up to your room. 

“It’s one of the only spots in the house not littered with alcohol!” You’d told him, your reasoning quite sound in your eyes. Aaron rolls his, though a smile persists anyway. 

You fall onto your mattress, lifting your arms up for Aaron to join you. He lays beside you, your finger grazing along the waistline of his sweatpants. You revel in the way he shivers at the contact. He makes himself comfortable and you sling a leg across his hips, neck craning up to look in his eyes. A tense silence falls over you two then, thick and wanting. He tests the waters, slowly inching his face closer to yours. You bridge the gap, greedily smashing his lips to yours. 

He kisses you like a man starved, his arms curling around your back as he tries to consume as much of you as possible. You break from the kiss, only for him to pepper multiple tiny ones on your lips, his own drifting to your chin, your jaw, your neck. You turn on your side so your chest to chest with him, the feeling of your tits pressed up against his was enough to make your head spin. His rigid body relaxes in your arms as his lips find yours again. 

You clutch at his shoulders, a small whimper fleeing your lips in between greedy kisses. “You’re so beautiful, y’know that? Drive me fucking crazy,” he mutters, hands finding the soft skin under your sleep tank. “Yeah?” you coo, and he groans. 

“Yeah,” he nearly moans, and you clench your thighs together. His ravenous hands frantically search for every spare part of your body they can find. “Walking around the office in those skirts, those cute fucking heels,” he punctuates his statement with more kisses. Your head is spinning. 

“I’m glad you like them, I pick them out just to drive you crazy,” you joke, and revel in the way his eyes roll back in his head. You rock against his hard length, and he shudders. 

“I need you. Now.”

Aaron lays still under the covers, fingertips raking up and down her back as if she’s made of porcelain. He releases a shaky breath, lips pressing to the top of her head. She’s drifting in and out of sleep, and the selfish part of him wants her awake, to be there with him, to kiss him some more. The nurturing part of him knows that she needs the sleep, that her hangover likely isn’t helping in her fight to stay conscious. 

“I can hear you thinking, y’know?” she murmurs, her words smushed in his chest. He laughs, a small, breathy sound escaping his lips. 

“Yeah?” He inquires, voice coated thick with love. “Just thinking about you. About what you need to feel better,” he exaggerates this point by rubbing thick fingers along her scalp. She shudders in response. 

“Think I need to sleep,” she mumbles, her lids half shut. 

“I think you do, too,” he answers, his never ending smile still on his face. “But I want to be with youuuu,” she drags out the last word, her lips pouty. He kisses them eagerly. She responds with the same fervor, her arms slinking around his neck. 

He can feel himself stir again, his now naked frame hiding nothing from the woman in his arms. 

“I think you want the same thing,” she says, suggestively. Her eyebrows wiggle as her fingers slide dangerously low. Against his body’s wishes, he grips her wrist gently. She pouts again. He kisses her again. He’ll never get tired of it. 

“Boo!” She pouts, and it’s so adorable he almost pulls her on his lap to finish what they started. 

“You need sleep, honey. I’m going to clean up downstairs, you let me know if you need anything, okay?” She nods as he slides out of bed. He jumps when she swats his ass. 

“Hey!” He exclaims, but she just smiles, resting her head on her propped hand. 

“What? Like it’s my fault you have a cute butt!” She shrugs. He shakes his head, cheeks flushing as he moves to put on his now-dry clothes from last night. 

“Sleep,” He orders. She wiggles her brows in challenge. 

It takes all his will power to leave her there, naked and wanting. It’s for the best right now, for both of them. Her lids have returned to their half closed state, and he ghosts another kiss over her lips before he goes. 

“I love you,” she whispers against his mouth.

“I love you, too. Get some rest.”

“As long as you’re here when I wake up,” she mutters, nestling into her pillow. 

After last night, he couldn’t dream of being anywhere else.

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Hiii! I was wondering if your still do requests? If you are can you do one with Dean Winchester x trans male reader? The reader is a street racer and makes a lot of money from it and is filthy rich. Dean doesn’t know this but finds out when Dean and Sam somehow end up in jail and Dean calls the reader telling him that they got caught by the police and it might be a while till Dean sees him again, and the reader shows up and pays out both of their bail in cash and Dean is like utterly shocked by this.

Also I love your work!

Greased Lightning

Pairing : Dean Winchester x Trans masc Y/N fandom : Supernatural Tags : non established relationship, one-shot, implied feelings Word count : 3113

The stale air in the holding cell tasted like pennies and regret. Dean leaned back against the cinderblock wall, the rough weave of the stolen flannel shirt itching against his skin. Every muscle ached, a dull throb reminding him of the ill-advised wrestling match he'd had with a tombstone during the "investigation." Sam, ever the worrywart, was pacing back and forth, muttering about legal loopholes and the finer points of resisting arrest charges. Dean tuned him out. He was just…worn. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.

"Maybe Bobby can pull some strings," Sam said, more to the chipped linoleum floor than to Dean.

Dean grunted, pushing off the wall and running a hand through his choppy hair. "Bobby's got his hands full with that Wendigo up near Bemidji. Besides," he added, a hint of self-reproach in his voice, "we can't keep calling him every time we end up on the wrong side of the law. The man's gotta sleep sometime.”

Sam stopped his frantic pacing, his towering frame casting a long shadow over Dean. He looked down, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation. "So what's the plan, Dean? Just gonna sit here and hope a damn fairy godmother shows up?"

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the grime and the exhaustion. He hated this feeling, this caged-animal helplessness. His eyes flicked to the greasy payphone bolted to the wall. One call. One lifeline, maybe. But a lifeline he wasn’t sure he deserved to use.

Y/N.

He'd met him a few weeks back in some backwater bar just off the I-80 in Nebraska. Kearney, maybe? It was all a blur of cheap beer and even cheaper motels. Y/N had been different. Sure, Dean had his share of one-night stands, but Y/N had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn't expected. He was lean, all sharp angles and restless energy, like a finely tuned engine constantly revving. There was a confidence about him, a quiet assuredness in his movements and the way he held Dean's gaze. And his eyes…they held a spark of something Dean couldn’t quite place, a knowing glint that hinted at depths he was desperate to explore.

They’d talked for hours that night, fueled by whiskey and shared smiles. Dean had even managed to steal a kiss, a surprisingly tender moment that left him wanting more. He wasn’t sure exactly what Y/N did for a living, something with cars, he’d said. Tuning, racing… Dean wasn’t really listening to the details. He was too distracted by the way Y/N smelled like oil and gasoline, a scent that, oddly enough, felt comforting in that anonymous bar.

He hadn't expected to see him again, but he’d taken his number anyway, a small act of defiance against the transient nature of his life. Now, staring at the memory of those ten digits, it felt like a desperate gamble. But what the hell did he have to lose?

He caught the eye of the guard, a bored-looking guy whose uniform strained against his ample belly. "Hey, I need to make my one call."

The guard grunted, lumbered over, and unlocked the cell with a jangle of keys. He gestured towards the payphone, a relic of a bygone era covered in graffiti and sticky residue. Dean punched in the numbers, each press of the button a silent prayer. The phone rang, each buzz an agonizing eternity.

Finally, a familiar voice answered, rough around the edges but laced with a warmth that sent a jolt through Dean. "Hello?"

"Y/N? It's Dean."

There was a pause, a beat of silence where Dean could practically feel Y/N's eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Dean? What's wrong? You sound…like you're calling from the bottom of a well."

Dean swallowed hard, the metallic taste in his mouth intensifying. "We're…we're in jail. Me and Sam. Got picked up by the cops." He hated admitting it, hated the image it conjured of him as a screw-up, a perpetual troublemaker.

"Jail? What the hell happened?" Y/N's voice sharpened, the concern tightening his tone.

Dean quickly, and somewhat defensively, explained the situation. "It's a long story. Ancient burial ground, pissed-off ghost, small-town cops…the usual."

"Damn it, Dean," Y/N sighed, but there was a hint of amusement mixed in with the exasperation. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"We're fine. Just…stuck. Look, it might be a while before I can get out. Just wanted to let you know." He didn't want Y/N picturing him bruised and bloodied, didn't want him worrying more than he already undoubtedly was.

"A while? How long are we talking?"

Dean shrugged, even though Y/N couldn't see him. "Could be days. Maybe longer. Depends on how hard-assed this DA is."

Silence hung heavy on the line. Dean could practically feel Y/N's worry radiating through the receiver. Then, Y/N spoke, his voice firm, resolute. "Alright, Dean. Don't worry. I'll handle it. Stay put. I'll see what I can do."

"Y/N, you don't have to-"

The line went dead. Dean stared at the receiver, the dial tone a mocking buzz in his ear. He hung up, a knot of guilt twisting in his gut. He hated putting Y/N in this position. He suspected Y/N cared about him, maybe more than Dean deserved, but he didn't want to burden him. Especially not with something as monumentally stupid as getting arrested for grave robbing.

He turned back to Sam, who was watching him with a knowing look. "Everything okay?" Sam asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Dean forced a smile, trying to project an air of nonchalance he didn’t feel. "Yeah, fine. Just…uh… told him what's going on."

Sam nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. He knew Dean wasn't telling him everything. He could see it in the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he wouldn't quite meet his eyes. But he didn't push. He rarely did. He knew Dean would open up when he was ready. Or, more likely, when he had no other choice.

The jail cell was a symphony of stale air and simmering resentment. Dean fidgeted, the orange jumpsuit itching against his skin, a stark contrast to the smooth leather of his Impala's seats. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the rhythmic pacing of his brother. Sam looked like a caged animal, all restless energy and simmering frustration.

He was starting to think they'd be stuck trading stories with Bubba the biker and Weasel the pickpocket when the sound of rattling keys echoed down the grimy corridor. A voice barked, gruff and impatient. "Winchester? Both of ya. Move it!"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "What's this about?" he muttered, exchanging a wary glance with Sam.

The deputy, a mountain of a man with a face like a clenched fist, just grunted. "Your bail's been paid. Get your stuff and get out."

"Bail?" Dean repeated, disbelief lacing his voice. "Paid by who? I don't think we got any fairy godmothers hiding in our family tree."

The deputy waved a dismissive hand. "Don't know, don't care. Just go."

They followed the man, passing cells filled with a rogues' gallery of petty criminals and hardened faces. The air hung thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cigarettes, and desperation. Dean felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. Something felt off.

And then he saw him.

Y/N was leaning against the front desk, one hip cocked, radiating an aura of casual confidence that Dean had never fully registered before. He looked… different. More assured, somehow. Expensive.

Dean's breath hitched. He’d always been drawn to Y/N's easygoing nature, but seeing him here, in this place, looking completely out of place and yet somehow in control, sent a jolt of something unfamiliar through him.

Y/N caught his eye, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "Hey, boys. Thought you might need a little help."

Dean’s mind scrambled for a response, but all that came out was a strangled, "Y/N? What…?"

The desk sergeant, a woman who looked like she'd seen it all and was perpetually unimpressed, slapped a stack of forms on the counter. "Sign here, here, here. And try not to make this a habit."

Dean numbly signed where he was told, his eyes glued to Y/N. Sam, ever the pragmatist, took charge, asking the right questions, gathering their meager belongings. He was definitely processing something, Dean could see the gears turning in his head.

Finally, they were outside, blinking against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. Dean still felt like he'd been sucker-punched.

"Alright, spill," Dean said, his voice a low growl. "How the hell did you pull that off? Where'd you get that kind of money?"

Y/N just shrugged, that infuriatingly charming smile widening. "Let's just say I have… resources."

"Resources that involve bailing us two out?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowed, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Who exactly are you, Y/N?"

Dean cut him off, his voice tight. "Y/N, what's going on? The bail must have been insane."

Y/N waved a hand dismissively. "Consider it a… favor. I hate seeing you guys cooped up in a place like that."

He thought back to all the times Y/N had been vague about his job, his lifestyle. The occasional glimpse of a fancy watch.

"You're… loaded, aren't you?" Dean blurted, the realization hitting him like a runaway truck.

Y/N chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Let's just say I do alright for myself."

Dean felt a strange mix of emotions churning inside him. Shock, confusion, a healthy dose of disbelief, and… yeah, there it was, that undeniable pull of attraction. He’d always been comfortable with Y/N, but this new layer of wealth and power was… unexpectedly intoxicating.

"I… I don't know what to say," Dean stammered, feeling completely thrown off balance. He prided himself on being able to read people, but Y/N had just blindsided him.

Y/N stepped closer, his eyes locking with Dean's, a playful glint in their depths. "Say you're starving. Because I am. How about some real food? My treat."

He didn't wait for an answer, turning and heading towards a sleek, silver sports car parked a little ways down the street. Dean looked back at Sam, who just shrugged and grinned, clearly enjoying Dean's flustered state.

As they slid into the plush leather seats, Dean ran his hand over the smooth dashboard. He couldn't help but notice the subtle scent of expensive leather and something else, something uniquely "Y/N."

"Okay, seriously," Dean said as Y/N smoothly pulled onto the road. "What the hell is going on? You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you?"

Y/N just grinned, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Alright, alright. You caught me. I have a little… side hustle."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a hunting knife. Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"Side hustle that involves paying a hefty bail in cash and driving a sports car that costs more than my entire damn life?" he snapped, his voice laced with incredulity.

Y/N laughed, a genuine, infectious sound. "Okay, okay. Point taken. I do a little street racing on the side."

Dean almost choked on air. "Street racing? You're a street racer? Like… Fast and Furious street racing?"

Y/N nodded, his smile widening. "Yeah. And I'm pretty damn good at it. Pays the bills, you know?"

Dean stared at him, trying to reconcile the Y/N he thought he knew with this sudden revelation. The easygoing, kind-hearted friend was also a high-stakes, adrenaline junkie, raking in cash on the midnight streets.

"But… you never said anything," Dean mumbled, feeling a little betrayed.

"You never asked," Y/N countered, his voice gentle. "And honestly, it's not exactly something I put on my resume."

Dean glanced at Sam, who was listening intently, his expression thoughtful. He knew Sam was probably already running the numbers, calculating the potential risks and rewards of such a lifestyle.

"So, you're like… seriously rich?" Dean asked, still struggling to wrap his head around it.

Y/N shrugged again, a gesture that was starting to annoy Dean. "Comfortable. Let's just leave it at that, alright?"

Dean shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Damn, Y/N. You're full of surprises. The good kind."

They arrived at a local diner, a greasy spoon that Dean knew Y/N would probably hate. The vinyl booths were cracked, the ketchup bottles were sticky, and the air hung heavy with the aroma of frying bacon and stale coffee. But Y/N didn't complain. He followed them inside, his eyes taking in the scene with a bemused expression.

"So," Sam said as they slid into a booth, "how long have you been doing this racing thing?"

"A while," Y/N replied, his voice casual. "Started when I was a kid, needed to make some quick cash. Turns out I had a knack for it. I learned, and kept going."

Dean watched Y/N, his mind still reeling. He couldn't believe he'd been so oblivious. He'd always seen Y/N as… well, as safe. Now, he was seeing a whole new dimension to him. A dimension that was dangerous, exciting, and undeniably alluring.

The waitress, a woman with a beehive hairdo and a nametag that read "Doris," shuffled over to their table. "What can I get for you boys?"

Dean ordered his usual: a double cheeseburger, fries, and a slice of apple pie. "Make it a la mode," he added with a wink. Sam, ever the health nut, opted for a salad with dressing on the side. Y/N hesitated, then surprised Dean by ordering the same as him.

As they waited for their food, Dean couldn't help but stare at Y/N. He was different than he usually was.

Their food arrived, and they ate in comfortable silence. Dean savored every bite of his burger, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. They were out of jail, they were safe, and Y/N was here with them.

After they finished eating, Y/N insisted on paying the bill, pulling out a thick wad of cash that made Doris’s eyes widen. Dean didn't argue.

As they walked back to the car, Dean clapped Y/N on the shoulder.

"Thanks, Y/N," he said, his voice sincere. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

Y/N leaned into him, his touch sending a shiver down Dean's spine. "Anytime, Dean. You know I'd do anything for you."

Dean looked into Y/N's eyes, seeing the honesty reflected there. He felt a surge of something more than just gratitude, something that felt dangerously close to… affection. He knew he was falling for Y/N, and he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, Y/N was falling for him too.

They drove back to the rundown motel where they were staying, the silence between them comfortable. The engine, a low, guttural growl, purred as Y/N’s sleek, black car ate up the miles. This wasn't Baby. This was all leather seats, ambient lighting, and a sound system that could probably shatter glass. Dean felt… out of place. And maybe a little impressed.

Sam was silent in the back, watching the road flicker by. He’d been quiet since they’d been sprung from that two-bit jail. Dean was sure his brother was brewing something. Probably involving the apocalypse, Lucifer, and maybe a lecture on poor life choices. He shot a look at Dean through the rearview mirror, a knowing smirk playing on his lips that made Dean want to punch him.

The silence in the car was heavy, charged with a tension Dean didn't quite understand. He glanced at Y/N, who looked relaxed, focused on the road. Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Y/N pulled up to the curb outside the motel, a place that reeked of stale cigarettes and regret. He killed the engine, plunging them into near silence.

Dean turned to Y/N, the question scratching at the back of his throat. He tried to keep it casual, tried to keep the bewilderment out of his voice.

As Y/N killed the engine, the sudden quiet amplified the buzzing in Dean's ears. He turned to face Y/N, fiddling with the worn leather of his jacket. "So… what are you gonna do now?" Dean asked, trying to sound casual, like he cared about the random dude who shelled out a fortune to get them out of the clink. "Go back to...Fast and Furious?"

Y/N smirked, the moonlight catching the glint in his eyes. "Probably. Got a big race coming up next week. Gotta start prepping. Sponsors to schmooze, engine to tweak, all that jazz." He shrugged, like winning a small fortune was as routine as brushing his teeth. "Keeps me busy."

Dean grunted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well… be careful out there." He hated how lame that sounded, like some worried momma hen. "Those guys ain't exactly known for playing nice."

Y/N’s smile softened, a genuine warmth flickering in his eyes. "Always am, Dean. It's how I stay alive. And winning helps.” He leaned in, close enough that Dean could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of motor oil clinging to his clothes. “See you soon, Dean."

And then he did it.

It was fast. A brief, feather-light press of lips against lips. Not even enough to be called a real kiss. More like a… test. But it hit Dean like a volt of lightning. Every nerve ending in his body flared to life. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, threatening to break free.

Y/N pulled back, a playful wink flashing in his eye. "Later, boys."

Dean practically tripped getting out of the car, his legs suddenly feeling like rubber. He stood there, dumbfounded, watching as Y/N’s car roared back to life and sped off into the night. He lifted a hand to his lips, feeling the phantom touch. What the hell just happened?

Sam was stood, arms crossed, a wide, knowing grin plastered across his face. It was the kind of grin that promised relentless teasing for weeks to come.

"So," Sam drawled, dragging out the word.

Dean glared at him, his cheeks burning. "Shut up, Sam." He knew there was no point in denying it. His little brother saw everything. And he’d never let him live it down.

[ximiiixx]

seducing your neighbor 101.

in which cove is an open book, and you have always known what he likes. fortunately for you, you're also well aware of what you want.

♡ nsfw, no au, gn + afab or amab reader ♡ sub / service top cove + gentle dom bottom reader ♡ pre-established relationship, oral sex (reader receiving), mostly vanilla save for cove's anklet fixation bleeding into brief foot worship(?)

you are many, many things - but you aren't stupid.

perhaps it was because you saw a bit of yourself in the way your neighbor and closest friend acted around you, but you've known cove has had a crush on you for quite a while. of course, you'd never want to pressure him into anything without a bit of delicacy, and so you resigned to wait for him to tell you instead at the ripe age of 13.

it's been about seven years since then. he still hasn't told you. even after you moved in together, got pets together, started sharing a bed - he has not told you.

and you are many, many things - but you aren't completely patient, either.

as fun as all the sneaky glances and playful banter that this cat-and-mouse game has granted you are, you're not about to pretend that this is all you want. and you've known cove long enough to know when he wants something too - especially when it's something he feels like he can't have.

so thus begins your grand plan to let him know that you're something - someone - that he is very allowed to have.

from leaving your nicest underwear in plainest view in the wash during his laundry days to spending your mornings in practically nothing when you're on breakfast duty, every hint you hurl at him couldn't be more glaringly obvious. you're sure he knows that you're up to something - after all, it's not like he's stupid either although you're working on changing that.

but, stubborn as ever, he still refuses to make a move.

and with how impatient you can be, you're getting sick of playing the long game with him. therefore, you've decided that you won't play at all - you'll just have to set up the stage for him to reap the rewards himself.

so here you find yourself, curled up in your shared bed - he really has gotten better at that - with...

...a vibrator pressed against your clit.

...your fingers wrapped around your cock.

short breaths punch out from your lungs as you shiver, feeling another lightning-bolt shock of pleasure lap against your nerves. shifting your legs to spread open further draws a high whimper out of you as your head turns, face pressed into cove's pillow as you steadily work yourself to climax.

"ohh f- fuck, cove-" you whine, teeth aching to dig into more than just his pillowcase. the little lace number you'd done yourself up in today clings to your sweat-damp skin, and your chest heaves against the thin straps with every curl of pleasure that digs into your core. "c'mon, fuck, fffuck- yyeah, mhm, mhm mhm-"

magma flows through your blood as you arch up and cry out, a rambled covecovecove spilling from parted lips as you cum. you collapse against the sheets, flushed and fucked out, riding out your orgasm in soft squelches of sweat and cum against trembling fingers.

your timing couldn't have been more perfect. footsteps are padding up the stairs, and the door creaks open with a high shriek that easily snaps you out of your reverie.

and there cove holden stands, face cherry-red and grip on the doorknob white-knuckled. you feign a drowsy blink, sitting up and letting the blanket fall from your shoulders.

cove swallows, hard. "uh- hey. so you, you're busy, and- and i walked in at a really bad time, and so i'm just gonna go soyoucanpretendyouneversawm-"

"cove," you interrupt, voice a breathless sigh as you put on your best pleading face. "please."

a crinkle of your brow, a whine in your tone. "fuck me."

an unintelligible sound leaves him, followed by a tiny, "...okay."

there's little that could delight you more than watching his eyes finally, finally pour over your body as if he'd been holding back, drinking in all of you without so much as a detail spared. his steps as he wobbles towards you are unsteady in gait, not so much as a breath leaving him as he reaches out to you.

"did-" he starts, running his tongue over dry lips before he continues. "did you want me to, um-?"

"yes," you groan, partially out of relief that he finally got the hint and partially out of the need to have this man on you. "please, cove. you've- we've been at this long enough. i don't wanna wait anymore."

as you speak, your feet push off the blanket still draped over your legs. under the dim light of your bedroom, the thin band of silver secured around your ankle glints playfully.

and he notices. he doesn't say anything, but you know he saw it because the shudder that convulses through him is a delicious sight. without a word, he pushes the rest of the blanket aside and lifts the back of your calf with one hand, the other keeping him balanced on the bed as he gazes at the anklet with no little amount of pure want.

"can- can i?" he asks, voice suddenly hoarse. you nod, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, but if cove notices then he doesn't mention it as he presses a kiss to the side of your leg, just shy of the jewelry as his lips quiver against your skin.

then his hand finds its way under your foot, pushing your leg back against you just so as he kisses the top of your feet almost reverently. the sight of it sends a shiver through you,

your pussy clenching around nothing as you whine.

your cock throbbing as your fingers curl into the sheets.

watching him at your feet, at your mercy, is almost enough to make you cum on the spot. thankfully, you're able to show a bit of restraint as you remember how to breathe again.

"cove," you murmur, and he blinks up almost lazily at you from where his gaze was once fixed on your jewelry.

"mm?"

"quit making me wait." your voice hardens into something just a little firmer, a slight indicator that you're done playing these games, and you watch him gulp as he nods stiffly.

"okay," he replies, a dry rasp. "can i- um. can i taste you-?"

there we go, your mind practically cries as you nod eagerly, parting your legs in invitation. cove's gaze fixes on your cunt / cock, and you watch as his eyes blow wide. there's the slightest tick in his cheek; his jaw clenching, then unclenching as he draws in an unsteady breath.

"okay," he repeats. "okay."

his head dips low, eyes suddenly fixing on you like a red dot, and his breath ghosts against your inner thighs as he whispers, "are you sure-?"

"cove, for god's sake," you mutter as one hand goes to wind through his hair in a startling show of confidence, "if your mouth isn't on me in the next five seconds, i'm going to fucking ruin you."

cove shivers at that.

"oh- okay, yup, got it, no more talking," he rambles as his hands migrate to lift under your thighs, providing the perfect position for him to eat you out / suck you off. for a moment, he sits there, eyes unmoving from your aching sex, and you begin to wonder if he really isn't going to do anything again after all.

then the flat of his tongue presses against you, dead center, and you choke back a loud moan as your fingers go rigid, fisting into his hair with little of the restraint you used to be so good at.

"ohhhh, fuck- yeah, yeah-" you cry, a guttural sound that leaves him whimpering between your thighs. "more, cove, more, jus' like that-"

cove's tongue wastes no time in diving between your puffy folds, fucking into your soaking cunt with no abandon. loud, unbidden moans vibrate against your clit as his nose presses against it, your juices spilling into his eager mouth without so much as a warning.

cove's mouth, warm and wet and so needy, wraps around the tip of your cock and sinks down onto you, tongue laving over your length as his throat tightens around you. obscene slurping noises fill the somewhat-silence as his nose bumps against your navel.

it takes everything in you not to cum right then and there, one hand tugging at his hair as you grind your sex into his willing mouth. his moans send pulses of need tightening in your stomach, eyes fluttering back as you lose sight of him in favor of the blinding white that bursts in spots behind your eyelids.

"cove, cove, covecovecove-" you sob, fucking into his mouth as your moans break off into high whimpers. "fffffuck, fuck- 'm gonna cum, 'm g'nna- fuck, fuckfuck-"

"mmf- plea'e-" cove mumbles, muffled and hot against your cunt / cock. "cum f'r me, plea- f'ck, please-"

you nod in a frenzy, letting the pleasure consume all your senses as you wail out a loud moan, your orgasm ramming into you like a freight train.

you can't help it - your pussy flutters around his tongue as you squirt down his throat.

your cock slams down his throat without warning as your cum shoots down his mouth.

cove's loud whine is muffled by the press of your sex into his mouth, effectively shutting him up and leaving the room to be filled by your sounds. your hips twitch as you slowly come down from your climax, still canting up into his mouth even as your grip on his hair loosens.

his tongue runs over your cunt / cock as he cleans you up, quiet hums vibrating against you as he slowly pulls back. a hoarse gasp leaves him once he fully tugs himself away from you, brow beading with sweat as he gazes up at you.

"that- was that- did i do...good?" he pants softly, tongue running over his lips. all you can do is nod, feeling the delicious warmth beginning to ebb in favor of reality seeping in.

slowly, you begin to sit up. cove's quick to guide you up, hand splayed against the small of your back as he frets over you. despite the way your heart flutters at the gesture, your mind is focused on something else.

"did you want me to...?" you trail off, eyes glancing down to his pants. cove's face blooms in a pretty flush as he shakes his head.

"i, um- i already..." he mumbles, looking away from your face as the tips of his ears burn. recognition slowly sets in as your eyes widen, and you can't help but laugh as you pull him into you by the shoulders.

"you are so cute," you giggle breathlessly, tucking your face into his shoulder. you feel him relax as his head slumps against you, chest heaving against yours.

"does this, um," he starts, lashes fluttering against your skin as his exhale brushes against the lace on your shoulder. "does this- did this mean anything to...i- i just mean that- did you want to-"

"yes, cove," you murmur, voice buoyed by the sudden warmth that's filled your ribs. "if you'd want to, then i'd like to be more than this. with you."

cove lets out a sound between a sob and a laugh as his arms wrap around you, palms flat against you as he pulls you in close. dampness finds your skin, and you don't have to look at him to know he's crying. your arms wrap around him, cheek pressed against the side of his neck as you beam and murmur to him that you two should probably get cleaned up.

so the saying goes, patience is a virtue; so is ambition.

[mysticmoosenger]

⋆｡⋆𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖 (pt 1) ⋆⋆୨୧˚

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⊹₊⁺⋆.˚ 𐭩₊˚.⋆⁺₊⊹.✫・゜・。.

and what are the odds? you send me a text…

synopsis: after a bad night out you run into a mysterious and sexy as fuck stranger outside the bar who offers you his lighter. the tension is obvious and although he could only exchange a few words with you before being dragged back inside, his brother slips you his number.

wc: 1.1k

themes: lots of tension, eventual smut, weed/joints, both in college, the bar sucks, choso cannot escape his big brother duties

pairings: choso x reader

a/n: this will be a several part series!!! I feel like I was wordy as fuck with this one. I love when fics have a lot of tension in the start but I cant wait to write out the smut for this hehe. so excited to be back and writing again now that im a senior in college and actually have some free time since im not cramming with gen eds. so excited to graduate.

˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚

●・○・●・○・●

The music was deafening at the bar, your friends were chatting amongst themselves, and your social battery was dying quick. Yes, you loved nights out, but you were also no where near drunk enough to be enjoying random sweaty blacked out strangers brushing against you. Your friends were all wasted and too caught up in their conversations to realize you had left. You originally thought that a few moments in the bathroom would be a decent option, but looking over at the line proved otherwise. You quickly feel around in your pocket to double check that you still have your ID and start slipping away from your group towards the back door. This wasn’t new for you, and you knew your friends would know exactly where to find you anyway.

Weaving through the crowd, your shoes sticking to the floor, you eventually push yourself to the back entrance. Even the door knob is sticky. You note to yourself how impossible it feels to do this sober as you grip the door handle and exit the hazy bar. As you make your way across the alleyway you pull out a joint from your back pocket and reach for the lighter in your bra.

As if your night couldn’t get more terrible, you realize that your lighter is no where to be found. You slump against the cold brick of the building next door as you debate just heading home early. Yes, it is only 11pm, and no, nothing could convince you that this could get enjoyable.

As you are pulling out your phone to send a quick text to your friends to let them know you would be heading home, the door opens again, the music filling the alleyway. You glance up, making eye contact with one of the most beautiful strangers you have ever seen.

His hair is dark and a bit disheveled, one of his spikey buns hanging loosely to the side, brushing against his pierced ear. His face is perfectly chiseled with a really hot tattoo across his nose. With messy black eyeliner framing his eyes, he looks back up after closing the door. The eye contact lingered for a bit longer than normal, causing you both to take an extra breath to collect yourselves.

He looks like he was in a bit of a rush, but he got quickly distracted after seeing you. He approaches you and you immediately feel a sharp throb head straight down to your pussy. He glances at the joint in your hand and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a dark purple lighter.

“Need a light?”, he breathes, getting closer to you and offering it up. You reach out and take it, your hand brushing against his, sending what feels equivalent to a lightning bolt across your body. “This cannot be real…” you think, watching as he moves to lean against the wall beside you.

Internally, you are panicking. This beautiful man beside you, basically eye-fucking you? Are you dreaming? He looks you up and down, his glance lingering on your chest and collarbones, leading up to your neck and lips. He raises his gaze to make some of the most intense eye contact you have ever seen.

“Thanks, you saved me”, you say in what feels like a whisper, prying your eyes away from his to raise the joint to your lips, clicking the lighter. The wind was getting funneled down the alley, making lighting the joint basically impossible. He notices and gets closer, raising his hands to help block the wind. Taking your first drag, you can feel his intense gaze focusing on your face. You offer him a puff, which he accepts, his long slender fingers taking the now-lit joint from your hands. Wow… this man is angelic.

The addition of a peaceful high doesn’t do anything but make the obvious tension between you both even worse. He starts, “Have you been here before? I’ve never seen you, I’d probably remember if I have.”

You glance from his eyes to his lips that are busy breathing in the smoke, replying, “Only a few times, I prefer the bar closer to campus but my friends really like this one.”

He nods and raises his hand to your lips, holding the joint for you to take another drag. Fuck, this guy is so sexy. Before you can say anything else, the back door slams open, a shorter man with light pink hair and a stressed expression on his face quickly walks up to the handsome stranger.

He raises his eyebrows and scolds the man beside you, “Choso! Where were you going? You left me alone to deal with Gojo! Really man? He’s wasted and won’t stop taking shots and blowing his money on buying them for girls! Come on man!!”, grabbing him by the wrist and ripping him away from you.

While he was stressed and in a rush, it’s not like he could ignore the obvious moment of tension he had interrupted. After shoving Choso back through the door and into the crowd, he turns back and quickly asks, “What’s your number? Not for me, for my brother. I saw that all and I’m not one to cockblock.”

You blush at the acknowledgement and exchange phones with him, typing your number into his phone which was open to a previous conversation with Choso, followed by at least 10 frantic texts asking where he was. You hit send, your number going straight to Choso. The man nods and takes his phone back, giving you back yours, with a newly added contact. He nearly runs back inside, giving you a quick smile and wink before closing the door.

You feel starstruck for a minute, staring at your phone and turning to walk down the alleyway to the street. Before you can even look up, you get an immediate text from Choso, “hey, what’s your name?”

-

You unlock your apartment door and enter, still glued to your phone, rereading all of the texts exchanged in the past hour. Your blush is nearly taking over your whole body as you set your phone down on the counter to heat up something to eat.

After a few minutes you look back at the now bright screen with a notification that reads, “what are you up to tomorrow? coffee after class?”

The breath empties from your lungs and your cheeks nearly burn off as you type your response, “yeah I’d love to, does 6 at the library’s Starbucks work?”

˚ ₊ ‧ 。☆ 。‧₊ ˚

a/n: hope u enjoyed that!! I love a lot of tension in fics, it makes the eventual smut sooooo much better. stay tuned for pt. 2! It’ll be up by the end of the week. lmk how u like the fic! my ask box is open as well for any other requests or comments!

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (Prologue)

Master-Post // Chapter one

Oh yeah, we're doing prequels now baby... just a little extra chapter for IF fans, I am working on the redraft atm and I hope you accept this as an apology for the absurdly long wait... but it shows the new route that IF is taking, with more plot and character development... whaaattt crazyyy

Also sorry for all the spam, I need another place to ramble for all my thoughts instead of here... if only twitter still existed, sigh...

*~*~*~*~*

Atlas ducked as another ball of flame was hurled at his head. He could feel the heat of the fire as it roared over his head and past his wall of refuge.

“Come out, come out little hero. I promise I won’t burn you alive, maybe scorch you a bit. Scars build character, Atlas, or are you too young to know that yet?”

Atlas huffed, his ears straining to hear when the stream of fire lessened over the villain’s stupid monologue. Too young to know about scars? What a dick. Atlas waited for the stream to burn out, listening as the roar from the fire-villain Arson lessened. The heat rippling in the air diminished as Atlas waited, before the absence altogether.

And then.

There.

Atlas vaulted the wall, clicking his fingers and relishing the familiar sound of cobalt electricity crackling around his hand, spreading up his arms to his shoulders. He sent one quick bolt of lightning towards Arson as he landed on his feet and kept running. The second one he aimed at Arson’s head.

His aim was perfect; Atlas didn’t have to check to make sure. He watched as the electricity touched the villain’s face and simmered away. Atlas’s eyes widened as the villain laughed, his mouth lighting up like a jack-o-lanterns on Halloween. “Uh-oh Atlas... My turn.”

Atlas was too slow. He was too slow in moving to get out of the way and he saw the flames coming and he was too slow. He was going to burn. He may even die. No.

The wind was knocked out of him as he felt someone barrel into him just before the flames hit him and drag him behind the safety of an alley.

Archangel panted slightly, a smile on his face. “You were too slow.”

“My electricity doesn’t work with him,” Atlas replied mutinously, glaring at his hands, his traitorous fingers curled into fists. He was too slow. “I didn’t – I froze…”

“I saw.”

“Where’s Tempest when you need her?” Atlas asked, wishing the water hero was here to douse out the fire villain. He could hear the sirens in the distance, no doubt the fire trucks and police finally on their way here.

“Are all the civilians cleared?” Archangel asked. Atlas nodded.

“Yeah, I got ‘em out before he started burning down the entire block.”

Archangel nodded, pressing his back flush against the brick wall. He tucked his giant, white-speckled wings in tight so they wouldn’t be exposed to Arson’s attacks. “Good. Then we can wait him out.”

Atlas’s eyes widened, head snapping to his boss. “Wait him out? He’s going to destroy every building if we wait!”

Archangel threw his hands up. “What do you want me to do? Hmm? Your electricity doesn’t work, and I can’t get to him without at least a distraction or back-up.” Archangel muttered, his wings flaring in irritation. “We want to keep casualties to a minimum. It’s not always about catching the bad guy.”

“Stop speaking to me like I’m your sidekick,” Kit hissed. “I know it’s about saving people, but the emergency responders are coming now. We have to stop Arson or at least incapacitate him before they come.”

Archangel stared at Kit for a long time, and for a moment his gaze softened behind his mask. “God, I’ll never escape Noble with you around,” he grumbled fondly. Kit smirked at the number one hero.

“Not a chance,” he replied. Atlas scanned the alley they were in. It wasn’t closed off at the end, the grey concrete floors and walls led to a corner at the back into another alley. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You slip behind the building and fly up and tell me when you’re on the roof. Then I’ll step out and distract him and you can attack from above.”

Archangel nodded. “You’re right. Nobody ever looks up.”

Atlas pressed himself into the wall as Archangel passed him, wings tucked in as he disappeared around the corner.

“Have I frightened you, little hero?” Arson yelled. “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of prodigy?! Noble’s apprentice, right?”

Kit’s blood ran cold at the mention of his Mentor. He remained silent as he waited for Archangel’s confirmation he was in position. The hero had wings, what was taking him so bloody long?

“You are, aren’t you?” Arson cooed, a smile in his words. God, Kit wanted to punch him in his mouth until he choked on blood, until he couldn’t speak anymore. “The original hero and see how far he’s fallen. Hmm? Tell me, what does he spend his days doing now? Wiping drool from his chi–”

Kit burst from behind the wall, moving with the improved currents in the night air, and before Arson could get a stream of fire off at him, Atlas’s fist already connected with the villain’s jaw, and they went down.

“Atlas! Shit,” Archangel muttered through his earpiece, but Kit didn’t care. He couldn’t use his lightning alone to hurt the Villain, so instead he charged his muscles with it, using it to make his punches harder, to enhance the impact, the pain.

Arson’s head whipped to the side and straightened, and Kit punched him again and again and again, until Arson couldn’t move his head back; until blood splattered across Kit’s skin that was visible through his fingerless gloves, pinpricking the flesh with vermillion speckles. A flurry of wings and wind, but Kit didn’t get off Arson. Not when he knew he was down. Not when he knew he wouldn’t harm anyone tonight again, at the very least. Not until he felt hands on him, fingers digging in.

“Atlas. Atlas. Atlas!” Archangel yelled, grabbing Kit by the arms and dragging him up.

“Wipe the drool off your own chin now, motherfucker,” Kit growled as Archangel pulled him away from the fire villain. Archangel spread his wings wide, shielding the villain from Kit’s wrathful gaze, forcing the young hero to look at him.

“What the hell was that, Atlas?”

Kit pulled free of Archangel’s hold, just in time as a bullet whizzed right where Kit was standing not two seconds ago. Once again, the breath was stolen from his lungs as Archangel grabbed him and shot backwards, away from the unseen shooter. No doubt Arson’s accomplice. Shit… can this night get any worse?

When they were successfully shielded from the shooter, a few bullets going wide, their radios cackled to life, scratching and cracking and behind it a voice. “—the old…” Both Atlas and Archangel leaned into the walkie talkie, ears straining to make out the choppy voice. “by the ferris…”

More interference cut the rest of the sentence off, but Kit and Archangel’s eyes met over the receiver. That was Tempest. Kit flinched as a bullet almost grazed his ear as it shot by and made a circular shaped dent in the concrete.

“Another Attack—”

Kit stood up. Archangel stared at him. “I’ll go.”

“No—”

“I’m useless here anyway,” Kit protested. “Tempest needs me. If I can help her, at least I’ll feel like I’m not completely useless.”

Archangel’s eyes softened. “How many lives did you save today? Hmm? Do you think saving people is useless?”

Kit waved Archangel away. “You know what I mean. I’m restless anyways, helping Tempest will help me calm down at least. Update us when this is clear.”

Kit met the fire trucks and ambulances as he rounded the corner, heading south towards the old pier. Tempest said it was next to the old Ferris wheel, and luckily there were only two Ferris wheels in the city, the old one by the pier which had been closed for years now, and the new one they moved up town, closer to the wealthier district. The pier became the shipping docks and people got tired of seeing crates being hauled in when they were trying to have a romantic date.

The old fairground was only a few streets from where Kit and Archangel were fighting, and with Kit’s abilities, and the amount of static charge in the night air he was able to propel himself faster than an athletic civilian. Though nowhere near as fast as Blitz whose power was super speed, or Crowe who could travel through any shadow, but still. Kit enjoyed the wind on his face, the power in his veins almost singing as he turned down a street and saw the Ferris wheel on the old fairground come into view.

His radio crackled to life again. It was Tempest her voice quieter now.

“Atlas… no, all heroes, stay away,” she whispered, the signal better the closer Kit got to her location. “Stay away from the old pier. I think…” Tempest cut herself off with a gasp, static crackling as Atlas pumped his legs faster. He never heard Tempest so scared in his life. “I think this villain is Omen.”

And it was as if all the wind had been stolen from him, ripped away in an instant. His power stuttered in his limbs, and he almost tripped over himself with how quickly his electricity cut out of his limbs like an old engine sputtering and spitting to a stop. The rails outside the fairground ticket booth acted as the final breaks as Kit ran into them, his heart thundering in his ears, the waves echoing back his terrified heartbeat to him.

Omen. Omen… Omen was a ghost story, he wasn’t… he wasn’t an active Villain anymore. The only time he… God, Kit wanted to be sick. The only attack Omen was known for was his fight with Noble. Noble’s final fight that ensured he never worked again. That he didn’t even get to remember his own name sometimes, that he would be left, stuck, in a prison of his own mind.

“Atlas…” Kit’s earpiece cackled to life, the sound of bullets and wind in the background as Archangel spoke to him. “Don’t go there. Wait for back up. Do not face Omen, do you understand me?”

Kit’s eyes narrowed into a glare as he surveyed the wooden boardwalk. “Atlas! God damn it, for once just listen to me. I am your superior. Noble wouldn’t want you to–”

“Noble doesn’t want anything anymore,” Kit replied, voice cold. “Omen saw to that.”

“Atlas!" He heard Archangel curse over the receiver. "Damn it, Kit! Don–”

Kit unhooked the wire from his earpiece and turned off his walkie talkie. This wasn’t about helping Tempest, or Archangel, or his helpless restlessness anymore. No, this was personal. Kit jumped the railing onto the boardwalk, before he could talk himself out of it. His body screamed at him to wait, to fall back, but he couldn’t. He refused.

For Omen to appear one night, as if out of the woodwork itself… that wasn’t a coincidence, and it wasn’t a coincidence that Kit happened to be on patrol so close to him either. Despite his fear threatening to choke him, and his limbs feeling a little lighter from exerting his power, Kit continued down onto the boardwalk, scanning the kiosks and listening for sounds of a fight between Omen and Tempest over the waves lapping against the rocks below.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

[Sorry if you got tagged, I went through every part to make sure the tag-list was up to date, so if you want to be removed please lmk!!! Okay thank youuuuu]

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[saphronethaleph]

“I never wanted you dead,” Sheev said, smiling in a grandfatherly sort of way, which he was terrible at. “I wanted you here… Empress Palpatine.”

He gestured. “You will take the throne. It is your birthright to rule here. It is in your blood. Our blood.”

“I haven’t come to lead the Sith,” Rey replied, then there was a loud doom doom doom sound of someone knocking on a door.

“Who is that?” Palpatine asked.

Then Luke Skywalker entered the room, limned with blue light.

So did his father, Anakin Skywalker, and Leia Organa Solo. And Yoda, hovering along on a spectral hoverchair, and Qui-Gon Jinn, and Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Count Dooku.

“...um,” Rey began. “Master…s?”

“Rey,” Luke replied, with a nod. “You were right, by the way.”

“What is this?” Palpatine asked, his voice hushed and touched with fear. “What are you doing?”

“You never heard the story of Master Qui-Gon the Insightful?” Anakin asked.

“I’m insightful?” Qui-Gon said, sounding pleased.

“You are certainly something,” Dooku said, as Yoda chuckled.

Palpatine looked like he might be about to have an aneurysm.

“It’s not a story the Sith would have told you,” Anakin went on, with a terrible glee in his tone. “You see, the Light Side is a path to many abilities some would consider to be… supernatural.”

“Got that out of your system?” Obi-Wan asked.

“For now,” Anakin shrugged.

“What-” Palpatine sputtered. “What are you – this isn’t possible! You are dead! It is the Sith who can defy death!”

“The evidence suggests otherwise,” Leia smiled, then cleared her throat. “Sheev Palpatine. We are formally accusing you of-”

“Um,” Rey said, a bit hesitantly. “Sorry to interrupt… I recognize most of you as Jedi, but what is Count Dooku doing here?”

“Probation,” Yoda stated. “Very nicely, he has asked.”

“We are formally,” Leia stressed, “accusing you of, among other assorted crimes, thirty-seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-seven counts of murder by use of a blunt instrument – to whit, a Clone Army – counting only those who were members of the Jedi Order in good standing at the time of their respective deaths, though we acknowledge that the number murdered on your orders is beyond easy counting. You are accused of treason in times of war and peace alike, of enforced disappearances, of enslavement, of wilful torture, of assorted Crimes Against Sapience, and of Consorting With Ye Powers Of Darknesse, which to my surprise was still on the books of the Old Republic.”

“There are, as the Princess says, many other crimes,” Dooku added. “But we believe those should be enough to be getting on with. For a start.”

Palpatine stared, then laughed.

“You – you are trying me?” he asked. “In what court? By what authority? I am authority! I reject your powerless, toothless threats! I am above punishment!”

“I think we’ll consider that a plea of ‘guilty’, then,” Obi-Wan said. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“That sounds reasonable enough to me,” Qui-Gon agreed. “All right. Grandmaster, if you would do the honours?”

Yoda raised his gimmer stick, and a bolt of lightning hit Palpatine on the head.

The Sith half-stood half-fell out of his chair, trying to hide behind it, then scowled at his own reaction and shot lightning at one of the Force Ghosts.

It passed right through Leia without doing anything at all.

Rey raised her hand.

“Am I still needed here?” she asked.

“You know, I think we can handle this ourselves?” Count Dooku said, courteously, then turned to Palpatine. “Know this, Sidious. You destroyed the Jedi Order, and now the Order will destroy you. If you return, you will be destroyed again. And again. Forty thousand angry ghosts cry out for vengeance.”

Qui-Gon coughed.

“Terminology, Master,” he said.

“Forty thousand annoyed ghosts seek justice,” Count Dooku corrected, as more Force Ghosts began to enter the chamber – walking through the walls in ranks, their ghostly lightsabers held high. “Is that better?”

“It’ll do,” Obi-Wan decided. “We appreciate you making the effort.”

Palpatine did not appreciate him making the effort.

[fellominaarcher]

GOT MARRIED - KARINA X IDOL!FEMREADER

13. Finale; Redamancy 2.

chapters || prev. || special chapter

The Sareureuk Gala - 5:30PM

Aespa’s sleek black limousine rolled to a stop at the venue’s grand entrance, its polished surface reflecting the dazzling city lights. The moment the door cracked open, a wave of flashing cameras erupted, lighting up the night sky like a meteor shower.

Dressed in breathtaking gowns tailored to perfection, each member stepped out with the effortless grace of seasoned superstars. Their assistants moved swiftly, adjusting trains, smoothing fabrics, and ensuring not a single hair was out of place.

Karina led the way in a Balmain backless dress, midnight blue with silver embroidery that mimicked constellations wrapping around her figure. Her long dark hair perfectly framing her beautiful face, there were glitters present on her hair, and her diamond earrings caught the light just enough to blind anyone.

Winter followed in a sleek Givenchy gown, a mix of white and icy silver, reminiscent of a shooting star streaking across the sky. She gave a tiny wave to the cameras but blinked rapidly against the aggressive flashes. “Oh my God, do these cameras have a stun setting or what?” she muttered under her breath.

Giselle, ever the cool girl, rocked a custom Alexander McQueen number — a structured black dress with shimmering silver celestial patterns, paired with sheer gloves that added a touch of mystery. She smirked at the cameras, tilting her head just enough to give her best ‘effortlessly cool’ look.

Ningning, the youngest, was draped in a breathtaking Elie Saab gown, ethereal in shades of lilac and soft blue. With her hair styled in loose waves and soft pearl accessories, she looked like she had just stepped out of a fantasy drama. She waved enthusiastically to the crowd, soaking in the attention.

A suited man gestured for them to proceed down the red carpet, leading them to the interview station. The interviewer, a polished woman in a dazzling navy gown, greeted them with a bright smile.

“Ladies, welcome to the Sareureuk Gala! You all look absolutely stunning. How are you feeling tonight?”

Winter, still slightly dazed from the camera flashes, answered first. “Like I just walked through an explosion of lightning bolts, but in a very glamorous way.” She replied to the interviewer while giggling at the whole experience.

The interviewer chuckled. “Well, you all certainly look like celestial beings. The theme really suits you.” She complimented the girls.

The members all smiled, nodding in agreement.

“Now, Aespa is no stranger to events like this, but is there anything or anyone you’re looking forward to the most tonight?”

Ningning leaned into her mic first. “The food. No hesitation.” The maknae glanced at the camera for a few times, smiling from ear to ear.

Giselle nodded. “Yeah, I second that.” Agreeing with Ningning's tonight's intention.

Karina smirked. “The performances will be great, I’m sure.”

Winter added, “I’m looking forward to seeing all the pretty outfits. This is basically Met Gala: K-Pop Edition.” She gave a small nod of her head to the camera.

The interviewer laughed. “Absolutely! Now, Karina—” she suddenly leaned in, her tone shifting slightly, as if she was about to drop a bomb. “I’m sure you know that Daydream is also attending tonight. What do you think about that?”

A murmur rippled through the nearby press members. The question was a curveball, and everyone knew it. The cameras zoomed in, waiting for a reaction. The crowd hushed slightly, leaning in.

Karina blinked, her expression unreadable for a moment, before tilting her head slightly, feigning the perfect mix of mild confusion and innocence.

“Umm… okay?” she said slowly, blinking again as if she had just been asked the most irrelevant question of the night.

The interviewer pressed on. “Any thoughts on them being here?” A part of it because some nosy press requested her to ask this specific question.

Karina smiled, her tone polite, measured. “Honestly, I’m happy that they’re here. We don’t have that much relation anymore, so I’d appreciate it if everyone could stop dragging my name around with hers.” And then, like she had been waiting for the perfect moment, she added, “What we had on We Got Married was bittersweet and simply the best of my life.”

Simple. Neutral. Yet lethal.

The mention of hers — Jang Y/N of Daydream — landed like a meteor impact.

A moment of silence. Then, all at once: Cameras raised. Microphones pushed closer. Murmurs turned into gasps. The press, fans, and even some fellow attendees felt the ground shake metaphorically.

The interviewer, momentarily caught off guard, nodded with a polite “Of course, understood.” But the damage was done. This statement was going to break the internet.

Aespa’s manager subtly signaled for them to wrap up, and the members were smoothly escorted away. As they stepped onto the other section of the red carpet of the gala, the buzz around them was immediate.

Giselle grinned. “Karina just gave Dispatch a month’s worth of headlines.” The night had only just begun, but one thing was certain, this moment was about to go viral.

─────────────────────

@kpopnewz: BREAKING — Karina of Aespa just shut down all rumors regarding her connection with Jang Y/N of Daydream at the K-Muse Gala 2025. “We don’t have that much relation anymore, so I’d appreciate it if everyone could stop dragging my name around with hers.” But then she ADDED—“What we had on We Got Married was bittersweet and simply the best of my life.” Fans are LOSING IT. #Karina #Aespa #SareureukGala #Y/N #Daydream

──────────────────────

@aespa4everr: Wait, WAIT! DID SHE JUST HARD LAUNCH A DISMISSAL???

@daydreemlefttoes: I have never seen someone so politely set fire to an entire ship before.

@kwangya_insider: This is NOT how I expected the gala to go. But also… why do I feel like there’s more to this? 🤨🤨

@y/n_cvmdvmp: Oh we are SO BACK.

@hearts4jimin: So you’re telling me I should be worried AND hopeful at the same time?????

@rina_y/niee_child: KARINA, WHO ALLOWED YOU TO BE SO POLITE WHILE ENDING US???

Inside the Sareureuk Gala

Right on cue, Aespa and Daydream stepped onto the grand staircase for their final pose before heading inside. The moment both groups stood together, a tidal wave of cheers and screams erupted from the crowd.

Even after Karina’s statement earlier, the energy was electric — fans were losing their minds over their faves being on the same steps.

We Got Married had its perks, but its disadvantages were just as relentless. No matter where Karina and Y/N went, their names were always linked together, their past impossible to escape.

Maybe there was more to the story. Maybe not. But for now, Karina — Yoo Jimin herself — had shut down the speculation, and that was that.

A suited staff member gestured for Aespa to head inside, and they gracefully followed his lead through the towering double doors of the grand hall. The doors shut behind them with a soft but definitive thud, leaving Daydream still outside, braving the flashing cameras and screaming questions.

Reporters weren’t holding back:

“Daydream, look over here!”

“Y/N, was that true?!”

“Yurim, you look stunning tonight!”

“Hayeon! Over here!”

“Y/N! Y/N! You weren’t dating Karina at all?!”

Despite the media chaos, Daydream kept their composure, waving politely before a Gala staff member signaled them forward.

It was their turn to enter.

This was Daydream’s first-ever high-profile gala. Their first time stepping into a world where entertainment, fashion, and business royalty mingled in one extravagant setting.

And unlike the red carpet, there were no cameras inside.

The Grand Hall - Fashion Exhibit

The first part of the evening was dedicated to a fashion exhibit, showcasing high-end brands alongside standout local designers.

From the mezzanine balcony, guests in couture gowns and tailored suits watched as celebrities strolled through the exhibit, admiring the artistry of the pieces displayed in glass cases, a necessary precaution against wandering hands.

Aespa and Daydream, though not interacting, were not far apart in the exhibit. The two groups were separated only by BIBI and Chungha, who were partners for the night.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward Karina.

She wasn’t even being subtle about it.

No matter how much she tried to focus on the dazzling gowns and meticulously crafted suits, her gaze kept gravitating back to Aespa’s leader.

She could admit it — this was one of her favorite looks on Karina.

The backless Balmain dress. The way the fabric shimmered under the warm glow of the chandeliers. The diamond earrings.

Karina looked... beautiful.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress as an idea formed in her mind.

What if she just walked up to Karina right now and said it?

What if she, in the middle of this gala, just casually strolled over and told Karina, "Hey, you look really pretty tonight." Wearing a confident smirk on her face and how the light focused on both of them.

Y/N imagined it.

She’d walk up confidently, a relaxed smile on her face. The kind that said she had zero ulterior motives. Just a normal compliment from one idol to another. No big deal.

Karina would blink at her, processing the words. Then Ningning, blinking too, would turn to Winter, who would turn to Giselle, who would turn back to Karina.

The silence would be deafening.

Karina, after a solid three seconds of staring, would tilt her head and go, “…Okay?”

Y/N imagined turning slightly, just to check how her own members were reacting — only to find Yurim looking absolutely mortified, Hayeon with her hands covering her face, and Soojin visibly pretending she didn’t know her. The same goes for the other three members.

Even BIBI and Chungha would be giving her side-eyes of concern.

The imaginary scene crashed to a humiliating halt when reality snapped back—

“Oh, you have a busy pair of eyes, buddy.”

Y/N jumped slightly, blinking back into the present moment. Yurim had stepped beside her, smirking.

“…What?” Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

Yurim raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you so interested? The gowns? The lights? Or something or someone a little shinier?” Yurim's voice raised a pitch and she's already teasing the poor girl.

Y/N, visibly thrown off, cleared her throat. “This place has pretty lights. I love lights, remember?” she replied smoothly, her deflection almost too perfect.

It wasn’t even a lie. Y/N genuinely loved pretty lights.

That was one of the reasons she’d always wanted to visit Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Chongqing’s night districts — the dazzling neon signs, the city skylines, the glow of the streets at midnight.

Yurim let out a quiet snort. “Right. Lights.” Almost rolling her eyes at Y/N's answer.

Then, with a mischievous grin, she added, “You love lights so much that your entire room looks like a discount planetarium. The fairy lights, the fifteen sleep lights, and oh, let’s not forget, the ring with a tiny flashlight that you bought just because ‘it’s useful.’” Yurim reminded Y/N of her lights collection.

Y/N groaned. “It is useful.” She retorted immediately and defended her random interest.

“Sure, buddy,” Yurim patted her back dramatically. “And I’m sure this gala has the most fascinating lights you’ve ever seen. Totally why you’re so distracted.” The Daydream leader teased Y/N once again.

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Because, yeah. The lights were beautiful. But Karina? Karina looked otherworldly.

Gala Dinner & Performances

The grand hall transitioned into the dinner and performances segment of the night. Guests settled at their assigned tables, where a multi-course meal would be served while top-tier artists performed on stage.

Coincidentally. Again.

Daydream and Aespa’s tables were right next to each other.

It wasn’t the worst thing ever, but it certainly wasn’t great — especially not for Y/N, who now had a direct line of sight to Karina. The cross-facing (if that’s even a word) was real. Y/N was directly opposite Yoo Jimin.

Karina, for some reason, was always perfectly within view no matter where Y/N looked. She could try to focus on her wine glass, the cutlery, or even the table centerpiece, but somehow, Karina’s stupidly elegant existence was still right there.

Meanwhile, Aespa was sharing their table with models and high-profile public figures. Their group of ten sat in refined poise as servers poured chilled apple juice into their crystal glasses — a silent cue that the first course was about to be served.

A familiar voice filled the venue as the stage lights dimmed, then focused on the main stage.

D.O. stepped into the spotlight.

The audience quieted, their attention shifting to the celebrated vocalist as he opened his performance with his song, "Somebody."

Over at Aespa’s table, Giselle, Uchinaga Aeri herself, subtly nudged Karina with her elbow.

Then, with a small, amused smirk, she leaned in and muttered, “We’re so lucky fans aren’t allowed in here, or they’d be recording every single second of this and turning it into ‘evidence’ of you and Y/N dating.” Yes, those annoying videos on YouTube about the littlest of interaction that will be evidence or any photos idol post on their socials.

Karina, deadpan, took a slow sip of her apple juice. Then, with perfect comedic timing, she replied:

“…We Got Married Season 2 incoming.”

Giselle choked on nothing.

Ningning, who had been listening in, leaned forward with an entertained grin. “Honestly, at this point, they should just hand you two an award for Best Situationship.” The main vocalist chimed in to joke about the whole situation too.

Karina sighed. “It’s not a situationship if there’s no —” She paused, waving her hand vaguely, “situation.”

Ningning quirked a brow. “Uh-huh. Sure.” She gave the Aespa leader a good 2 seconds look of judging her answer.

The teasing continued for a bit before they moved on to their meals, their conversation naturally shifting to other topics.

But somewhere in the middle of listening to Ningning rant about a recent fashion scandal, Karina’s eyes betrayed her.

She snuck a glance at Y/N.

Over at the next table, Y/N and the Daydream members were engaged in polite conversation with their sunbaes — Rosé, a few actors, and well-known figures in the industry.

Y/N, in particular, seemed comfortable catching up with Rosé, nodding along to whatever the BLACKPINK vocalist was saying.

Karina felt her lips twitch, the beginnings of a smile creeping up.

And then—

The lead vocalist snuck a glance towards Karina's direction and Y/N let out a small, barely-contained laugh.

It was soft, but Karina caught it immediately.

A slow blink. Then a raised brow.

Without hesitation, Karina gestured toward Y/N before mouthing silently:

"What? Keep it to yourself, dumbo."

Y/N immediately bit down on her smile, but her amusement was already written all over her face. Instead of responding, she turned away, fixing her expression into one of pure neutrality before leaning toward Soojin, one of her members.

“Anyway,” Y/N said, in a very forced casual tone, “did you see that one dress in the exhibit earlier? The one with the, uh, the sparkly details?” She even tilted her head a little speaking to Soojin.

Soojin gave her a long, knowing stare. Y/N pretended she didn’t see it.

A few minutes later...

By now, the first course had been served and enjoyed, light snacks and refreshing drinks keeping the guests entertained as the gala smoothly progressed.

As staff prepared the next meal, another performance was introduced.

D.O. took the stage again.

This time, the music was different. Slower. Nostalgic. A few murmurs rippled across the tables as the opening chords of a classic R&B song filled the venue.

“End of the Road” by Boyz II Men.

The moment D.O. started singing, the entire hall seemed to pause.

"Although we've come to the end of the road

Still I can't let go

It's unnatural, you belong to me, I belong to you…"

And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. For a song that had nothing to do with them, it sure felt painfully relevant.

Y/N, who had been chatting with Rosé a second ago, suddenly wasn't chatting anymore. Her fingers lightly traced the rim of her glass, and her gaze, like a reflex, drifted across the table.

Right back to Karina.

Karina, despite her earlier resolve to focus on anything but Y/N, was also glancing back at the exact same moment.

Their eyes met.

A split second. Nothing. And yet, it felt like everything. The song played on.

Neither of them looked away immediately. Y/N swallowed. Karina’s fingers tightened around her glass.

Then—

A loud snicker.

It was Ningning. "Not you two making this song your background music," Ningning teased, entirely shameless.

Karina sighed, exasperated but caught.

Giselle, being just as insufferable, leaned in. "Oh, I don't know, Jimin. Seems kinda unnatural." The Japanese girl seemed so content to tease her friend about it too.

Winter gasped dramatically. "You belong to me, I belong to you…" She perfectly sang-whispered that one particular part in the song with a hand on her chest.

Karina shot them all a look. "I hope your desserts come out half-melted," she muttered, reaching for her juice.

Ningning, unimpressed, shrugged. "And yet that won’t change the fact that you two just had a moment." She wiggled her brows with a sly smile playing on her lips.

Karina exhaled sharply and looked away, trying to focus on anything else. Unfortunately, “anything else” just so happened to be Y/N, who was also trying very hard to act normal.

She was nodding along to whatever Soojin was saying — but Karina saw the way her lips kept pressing together, like she was fighting off a grin.

Somewhere across the room, D.O. kept singing.

"You belong to me, I belong to you…"

And the wandering glances never really stopped.

Hours Later – The Gala’s Grand Ending

The night was coming to a close.

The tall, grand doors of the venue swung open, signaling the official end of the event. Outside, the chaos was waiting.

A sea of media outlets, flashing cameras, and eager fans had been stationed there for hours, braving the night just to catch glimpses of their favorite celebrities.

Two seconds after the doors opened — boom.

A flood of A-list Korean actors, top-tier idols, renowned soloists, influencers, and power figures in the industry began stepping out into the spotlight.

Cameras raised. Flashes blinding. Reporters shouting over one another.

“Kim Taeri, can we get a quick interview?”

“Won Bin, it’s been years! Where have you been?!”

“Please look here!”

“One pose for the cameras, please!”

“Can we get an interview?”

The gala might have ended inside, but outside? It was only getting started.

Back Inside

Aespa was still inside, making their way toward the exit with their assistants trailing behind, adjusting their long gowns to keep them from dragging on the floor.

Halfway through the hallway, Jimin suddenly stopped. “You girls go ahead,” she said abruptly, her tone casual but her eyes flickered back toward the dining area. “I left something at our table.”

Aeri, Minjeong, and Yizhuo exchanged glances.

A beat.

Then Minjeong squinted. Suspicious. “Uh-huh. Come back quickly,” she responded, but she didn’t push.

Jimin simply nodded before spinning on her heels, heading back without another word. The Aespa members watched her retreating figure, their gazes filled with silent, knowing amusement.

Then — Daydream walked past them, also on their way out. Except there were only six of them. Where’s the seventh?

Before anyone could voice the question, Aespa was ushered forward, their presence requested for media interviews and photo ops.

Outside. Back at the red carpet.

At the Red Carpet

Aeri, Minjeong, and Yizhuo — now outside — decided to drift over to the Daydream girls.

“It’s been a while.”

That was the excuse they went with.

But really, the last time they’d properly interacted was during the filming of We Got Married and they all knew that was messy history.

As they stood there, a camera or twenty zoomed in on the rare girl group interaction. Fans were silently losing their minds behind their screens, already clipping moments to post online.

But something felt… off.

Each group was missing a member. The thought barely settled before it happened.

The air changed. A sudden eruption of screams. Cameras immediately snapped toward the venue’s entrance.

The members of both groups instinctively turned, eyes widening at the sight that greeted them.

Some of their mouths fell open.

Walking out of the grand hall, hand in hand, were Karina of Aespa — Yoo Jimin — and Y/N of Daydream.

Smiling. At the crowd. At the cameras. At each other. Their interlocked hands were firm but natural. A flicker of anxiety danced across their faces, but it was masked well beneath their poised expressions.

The media lost its mind.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

A wave of photos snapped in an instant. And not just that, the whole thing was being live-streamed. And comments? Flooding in at lightspeed.

──────────────────────

Live Stream Comments

[@STAYsmashARMY]: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BREATHE RN??????

[@ChoiYeonjun’sEyebrow]: NAH THIS IS SO UNREAL LMAO I CAN’T.

[@Ningning’sTeaSpill]: NINGNING PLEASE SAY SOMETHING I KNOW YOU’RE DYING TO COMMENT ON THIS.

[@Winter’sLeftShoe]: THEIR HANDS. INTERLOCKED. HELD. INTERTWINED. CONNECTED. PHYSICALLY.

[@kpopstan_99]: NAURRR DIDN’T SHE HARD-LAUNCH DENIAL A FEW HOURS AGO??

[@karina_y/n_cult]: I CAN’T BREATHE. HOLDING HANDS?? IN THIS ECONOMY??

[@winterbabyyy]: THE OTHER MEMBERS’ FACES LMFAO Aeri is internally SCREAMING

[@jaewookkarinanation]: I am DISAPPOINTED. Karina should’ve been with Lee Jaewook instead :/

[@smentmessupdate]: We need SM’s press team to wake up immediately before the whole company burns down.

[@kwangya_insider]: seeee I told y'all that there's more to this whole thing!!

──────────────────────

So… Didn’t Karina just shut down their dating rumors a few hours ago?

Yes. Yes, she did. So then… what was this? Well, both Y/N and Jimin would like to call it, planned.

A messy, risky, wickedly satisfying plan.

Jimin had no regrets. If she was going to do something crazy, she’d do it right. Y/N, mildly overwhelmed, glanced at her.

Jimin gave her hand a firm squeeze, a silent cue that said—

"Let’s give them something real to talk about."

And so they did. Right there, in front of everyone. The night had just become legendary.

The moment Y/N and Jimin walked further forward, positioning themselves in full view of the crowd, the energy shifted entirely.

The Aespa and Daydream members were still processing what was happening, their wide eyes tracking the couple’s every movement.

Aeri, arms crossed, gave a knowing nod, thumb resting against her chin like a detective. “Knew it.” She squinted. “They’ve been looking suspicious as hell recently.”

Minjeong, still in shock, turned to her. “Why didn’t you tell us then?!” While raising a brow close to her hairline.

“I wanted to see how long they could keep up the act, duh.” Aeri flicked her hair over her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Yizhuo, forever the savage maknae, arched a brow and smirked. “Damn. All that denying just for a ‘We Got Married’ re-run in real life. SM gotta be shaking right now.” She always had something good to say.

Minjeong gave her a look. "You literally just screamed when they walked out holding hands." The lead vocalist of Aespa pointed out her previous antics.

"Okay, but that was for dramatic effect." Ning Yizhuo countered back and she raised both hands up, mouthing, "Hashtag, guilty."

Meanwhile, Yurim and Dajeong of Daydream had fully frozen in place, their disbelief evident. Yurim’s knees even wobbled, prompting Dajeong to grab her arm.

But the real moment, the one that would rewrite K-pop history was about to unfold.

Jimin took a deep breath, then turned to Y/N, eyes filled with something undeniably real. Her hand slid to the back of Y/N’s neck.

And then—

She leaned in and kissed her.

Right there. In front of everyone. A wordless announcement. A statement bolder than any press release. The screams that followed rattled the venue.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Every camera in the area went off at once, catching the moment that would go down in history.

Jimin and Y/N could faintly hear their members losing their minds in the background.

Yurim? Looked like she might faint. Dajeong? Mouth wide open. Aeri? Screaming internally. Minjeong? Still buffering.

And Yizhuo?

"They better not break up, or this reveal will be embarrassing as hell—"

Minjeong slapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish. "Alright, alright, we get it. Just let the girl have her moment, Ning." Minjeong nodded her head and tamed the maknae down.

But there was no stopping this now.

The Aespa and Daydream members watched in absolute shock as Jimin and Y/N broke the kiss, turning to face the media like they hadn’t just shaken the entire industry to its core.

Y/N’s hand instinctively found Jimin’s again, fingers intertwining effortlessly.

And just like that, K-pop had its new ‘IT’ couple.

The press, recovering from their shock, immediately pounced. Reporters rushed forward, their voices overlapping.

“Karina, didn’t you just deny these rumors earlier?! What happened?!”

The Aespa and Daydream managers were already on alert, positioning themselves between the girls and the reporters.

Jimin, ever the composed one, cleared her throat, putting on a casual smile. “No reason,” she replied smoothly. “It was all part of the act. The only mistake was that Y/N couldn’t keep her composure.” She shot a playful glance at Y/N, who snorted.

The reporters, not missing a beat, threw another question.

“How long have you two been together?”

Without hesitation—

"It's been a month!" Y/N yelled as she tugged Jimin forward, the two of them power-walking away from the press with their fingers still locked together.

This was the plan all along — to deny, deny, deny, then hard launch at the biggest industry event of the year.

And it worked.

[maxsimagination]

Hope you have a good day,could you do a Hayley Raso one were reader gets injured and Haley gets overprotective but after that she comes over and checks if your alright? Thankyou:)

𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 - 𝙝.𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙤

summary: in a game vs chelsea, yn cops a nasty injury and hayley gets protective.

-> !! mentions of blood and injury !!

-> no hate to chelsea or its players, it’s just for the fic

𖦹 masterlist

𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗩𝗦 𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗖𝗜𝗧𝗬. the two strongest sides in the super league.

all the passion and power both teams had was coming to a head today, in the cup final.

to say i was nervous was an understatement, it wasn’t my first major game with the club but i got the jitters before every important fixture.

gareth had published the starting lineup yesterday at training, which i’d immediately looked over and noted that he’d put me in first. starting at centre back, lucky number eight.

when we arrived at the stadium, there was people all around in the stands. you could hear the crowd, not yelling, but the sheer amount of them made all the talking reverberate and was heard from the changing rooms.

eventually, we all ran out to start warm up, spending time running basic drills, gareth shouting instructions here and there, psyching ourselves up to play in our biggest game yet.

you could hear over the loudspeakers throughout the stadium, they announced each player one by one, as we each came up on the big screen. when we were called back into the tunnel, hayley came up next to me, bumping my shoulder with a grin.

“you excited?”

“yea, you could say that. nerves are buzzing in my stomach though.”

her laugh was light and sweet, her eyes sparkling with humour.

“you’ll do great. best centre back we’ve got.”

i could feel the blush spread on my cheeks. it was then that gareth herded us all in the change room, wanting to give us a pre match pep talk.

“go out there and crush them, girls. we got this.”

with one last cheer, we all walked out. the starting eleven lining up behind steph houghton, the experienced defender leading us out.

when we first kicked off it wasn’t an exciting start.

i didn’t get much ball time within the first ten minutes, kiera and georgia kept the ball up in the middle, occasionally passing back to defense who promptly kicked it back up.

chelsea’s first break came in the 25’ minute with sam kerr. she was lightning fast and had the ability to head in goals from anywhere.

lauren james had given her an amazing pass from the mid, and kerr was bolting for the ball down the left wing. i knew that jen was meant to be there, but she was too far up the field to make it back and still defend.

that’s where i came in, sliding along the grass to kick the ball away from sam’s foot at the last moment. it was a brilliant save, if i did say so myself, and ellie in goal was punching the air at my moves.

finally, we broke the stalemate, kiera landed an unexpected but amazing shot from outside the box. it was 1-0 to man city.

the whistle blew for half time shortly after and i dragged myself down the tunnel. chelsea was definitely making us work for it.

a fifteen minute break only seemed like five when we had to walk back out there. gareth had subbed hayley onto the field to play in striker, hoping we had another lucky break.

quite the opposite happened, however.

chelsea had the ball up our end, before it was tackled away; they had a corner kick. guro took that shot, and props to her because it curved beautifully. i had leapt up to header the ball away, but at the same time, lauren james was there.

her body had smashed into mine, knocking me back. however, it wasn’t the crash itself that had caused damage. when i had fallen back i was too close to the goal and my head had been hit on the metal post.

i heard the crack, and an audible gasp, although i couldn’t determine who that came from. a wave of pain consumed my body, from my head down. the first thing i did was reach a hand up to my head. when my fingers pulled away, the tips were covered in blood.

my blood.

i could barely make out what was happening around me, it was a fight to keep my eyes open and my ears were ringing, but what i did see was hayley going toe-to-toe with lauren james.

the medics had reached us then, but for me it was already too late, i closed my eyes and let my vision go black.

hayley was almost screaming in lauren’s face, this was her fault, she pushed me into the goal post and now i was unconscious. our teammates had to physically restrain her before things got out of hand. the ref handed lauren a yellow card for her dangerous play and hayley got a warning for her words.

i was stretchered off the field and taken in ambulance to the nearest hospital before the girls could restart their game.

when i woke up, the first thing i noticed was the white room. everywhere i looked there was white. then i saw hayley sitting next to me. i didn’t know how long she’d been there, but she was currently asleep in the chair so my guess was long enough.

hayley had always been a light sleeper, so when i moved my hand, it was no surprise that she woke up immediately.

“you’re awake.”

she stood up and called for the nurse. a younger woman walked into the room with a clipboard and some paperwork.

“yn yln?”

“yea-a.”

my voice was all croaky from not having spoken in a while.

“how are you feeling? took quite the fall on the pitch today.”

i didn’t have a clue what she was talking about so i just answered the question.

“my head hurts a bit. i don’t remember anything though. what happened?”

hayley was the first to speak up this time, recounting what had happened on the pitch earlier.

“your head was whacked against the goal post.”

turns out i’d split my head open, even if it was only a little bit, and gotten a concussion.

slowly i took in everything that had happened within the last couple of hours. i didn’t say anything just say in silence trying to process things.

the nurse ended up leaving after a bit, telling me i was free to go, as long as i had someone that could supervise me for a couple of days. that left me and hayley in the room alone again.

“i was so worried that you wouldn’t remember me.”

i don’t think she expected me to answer, or even hear what she said in the first place, but i knew.

“i wouldn’t forget you, ribbons. i’d never forget you.”

[themildestofwriters]

Alternatives to Six Hundred Strike (ported from reddit)

There's been a lot of controversy about the first half of Six Hundred Strike. I'll admit, I'm not a particular fan of how it went down, but this is no shade at the animator -- they did a really good job and I did like it as an animation. I just didn't like the narrative of Six Hundred Strike, the jet-pack, and the like. So, this post is probably one of many talking about alternative interpretations for how Six Hundred Strike could've gone.

Godly Assistance. This is the most common headcanon: Odysseus was aided by the gods in defeating Poseidon. Top pick is usually Ares, though I've heard that Hermes could've helped out, or Hades, or even most if not all of the gods during God Games.

Anyone could come up with a motivation to explain any number of gods helping Odysseus.

Ares, because he was promised bloodshed and he will have it, or... because he respected Athena's sacrifice.

Hermes, because he is always helping Odysseus out.

Zeus, because he felt bad about what he did to Athena and decided to make it up to her.

The other gods in God Games, because, golly, Athena got them invested.

Yada, yada. Honestly, depending on what other sources of aid anyone ascribes to Odysseus, he probably only needs one god on hand to help, especially if we're going with the more "human" interpretation of the gods.

Poseidon's Trident. This one I feel like is under-considered. Poseidon's trident is a symbol of power, and I'm not just talking about in Percy Jackson. It is a weapon forged by the cyclopes which he uses as a catalyst for many of his godly feats.

It wouldn't take much to have Poseidon's trident be an object of power in and of itself. And, if it is, that means if Odysseus gets that trident out of Poseidon's hand, he's taking away a source of Poseidon's power. Furthermore, you could even have Odysseus himself empowered upon wielding the trident, which, if he takes it *during* the battle itself, would better justify how he was able to defeat Poseidon.

This can be alluded to without being stated in the animation. All we need is a look of "oh shit" panic on Poseidon's face when he's disarmed. It would give us enough information to know that losing his trident is a big deal -- and it can be foreshadowed in the Circe Saga if Odysseus disarms Circe's wand / staff in Done For.

Spirit of the Dead. Someone mentioned that Odysseus has his choir back up during Six Hundred Strike, and it wouldn't be that hard to assume that Poseidon summoned the spirits of the dead to torment and drown Odysseus.

"But the dead are Hades' domain!" Yeah, but they're also the dead who died at sea -- or at the hands Poseidon's own son. Polites and the six others who died at the hands of the Polyphemus. The five hundred and fifty who died at sea. Though it was Zeus' lightning bolt, you could argue that Eurylochus and the rest of Odysseus' crew still died at sea. And I'm sure we all know that Odysseus' mother drowned herself at sea, too.

About the only person who didn't die at sea was Elpenor, but, considering Odysseus' mother is there, he was easily replaced. Honestly, just makes the tragedy of Elpenor even funnier. Bloke didn't even get to invited to the fight.

Anyway, how does this help Odysseus? Well, what if whatever spell Poseidon was using to conjure and enthrall those who died at sea was, in part, broken by Odysseus opening the wind bag? Or, following my discussion of the trident, what if Odysseus disarming Poseidon broke the spell? Or, what if Odysseus wielding the trident himself broke the spell? As much as some might hate Odysseus, everyone would hate Poseidon more. It would take no convincing for them all to turn their wrath upon Poseidon.

The Wind Bag. Who knows? Maybe there was something more to the Wind Bag than just holding the storms of Poseidon inside. Regardless, opening the Wind Bag could've served Odysseus more than just serving as a jet pack (which, by the by, could still be a thing, just... maybe he's clutching onto it, instead of wearing it upon his back?). If the opening of the Wind Bag was surprising enough, and Ruthlessness showed that it could be, it very well could've distracted or even discombobulated Poseidon enough for Odysseus to act.

In Conclusion. In my platonic ideal of Six Hundred Strike, it would be all these elements that came in clutch, one after the other, that ultimately helped Odysseus defeat Poseidon. Ares would give him his second wind, which lets Odysseus get the second wind bag, and using the second wind bag (and the strength Ares gave him) he would've disarmed Poseidon. Then, wielding the power of the trident, he and the six hundred spirits at his command would've just beaten the shit out of Poseidon. And all of this segues nicely into Odysseus stabbing the shit out of Poseidon.

[babyleostuff]

Who do you think would be most likely to ask you out after meeting you one time? Like they were struck by the lightning bolt and needed to see you again.

natalia's note: okay, so im not the biggest fan of like the "love at first sight" tope, so take this with a grain of salt, i tried my best :))

1 . . . DK

okay, so i see dk as someone who’s very romantic, so i think he’d be the most likely to ask you out after meeting you once

2 . . . JUN

i have no explanation for this one, it’s just a feeling. though, as much as he’d want to ask you out he wouldn’t because he’d be too shy

3 . . . SEUNGKWAN

our lil cutie patootie would be all heart eyes, and he’d want to ask you out so badly, but similarly to jun he might be too shy to actually do it. it would depend on the day

4 . . . DINO

another one that i think is quite romantic, and is into the stereotypical love tropes, so he’d definitely feel like he’s in a rom com when he realises he needs to ask you out immediately after he meets you

5 . . . MINGYU

he’s sure he’s in love when he meets you, so obviously he needs to ask you out, and since it’s mingyu we’re talking about he would ask you out

6 . . . HOSHI

he’s kind of „living in the moment” type of guy, so if he felt like he wanted to get to know you better, or if he’d really be into you he wouldn’t really hesitate to ask you out

7 . . . SEUNGCHEOL

okay, so this one wouldn’t ask you out immediately, he’d have to think about it a bit at first. BUT when he comes home, and realises he’s still thinking about you, he’d texts you (ofc he got your phone number earlier)

8 . . . JOSHUA

another one that’s still constantly thinking about you when you part ways, to the point where he knows that the only thing that will make him feel better is asking you out, so he can see you again

9 . . . MINGHAO

so, minghao is also someone who’s very romantic to me, but at the same time he tries to be realistic about love, so he wouldn’t think about asking you out immediately after meeting you

10 . . . JEONGHAN

he’d call or text you a couple of days after you meet, because he has this lingering feeling following him, and he realises it’s simply the thought of you

11 . . . WONWOO

first of all, he’d be way to shy to ask you out right after you meet, besides he’s kind of similar to hao - he tries to be realistic about love, so he has to be sure about his feeling about you

12 . . . VERNON

he’d have to meet you a couple of times more before thinking about a deeper feeling, like a crush or love

13 . . . WOOZI

a mix between minghao, and vernon - he’s both realistic, and does not want to jump into anything before he gets to know you better

[bonefall]

I hope you find a way to keep starclan involvement minimal because making them able to zoom call frostpaw so directly at any time raises the obvious question of why she (or anyone else in riverclan who wasn’t in on the conspiracy frankly) aren’t told who did it earlier

I’m curious if Splashtail was rejected for lives or if he refused to take them on principle

The solution is very simple. Most angels can't communicate directly! What's the point of speaking in omens and signs and prophecies if you can just say what you want

Between the realms of life and death is a sort of veil, like a strange, dusty membrane. A spirit can cross through it and try to influence the mortal plane, but it's got that disconnected feeling of working in heavy gloves.

Still, it's reliable to zip down and drag a couple of items to the nearest Cleric. They're trained in divination, learning basic systems for properly interpreting signs and omens.

The bright feather of a jay = StarClan is pleased with you

The dull feather of a jay = StarClan is disappointed in you

Hairstreak butterfly = Follow this

Snail shell, swirl-up = Yes

Snail shell, swirl-down = No

Trying to chat casually is AWFUL. Have you ever been asleep, and someone started trying to tell you something or command something of you? Sometimes you'll remember it, other times it just ends up warping whatever dream you were in, but most of the time you'll catch absolutely NOTHING. That's what it's like when gramma talks to you.

It's easier to connect to spirits you knew in life, or have a kinship with. Strong emotions make this more powerful. Rituals, like invocation (calling StarClan to connect the ancestor to you), channeling (directly contacting the spirit, usually via a sacrifical object), or prayer (catching the attention of a spirit) can strengthen the connection, but there will always be that veil.

Think of spirituality kind of like a stat. In life, having a huge number means you're really good at receiving messages and understanding intuitively if you're near something supernatural. In death, you're better at sending them and what exactly will get through.

Other assorted tidbits in closing;

More powerful spirits have a higher "stat" in spirituality, but they're also usually more disconnected from the mortal they once were.

Skystar, Patron of War, could pretty directly tell you what the confusing omen means...

But. He's very likely to angrily blast you with a lightning bolt for asking him to do something he sees as beneath him.

Thankfully this is why Invocation is helpful. If you tried to invoke someone who would get angry you're bugging them, the "call" won't go through.

Thanks to Clan cat ego and shifting popularity, good patrons often go uncontacted because they're less "cool" or unpopular. Pinestar actually got a lot of mileage out of his invocations of Bumble.

SPIRITS ARE INDIVIDUALS. Even when they've hit godly status and are distant from mortality, StarClan is not as united of an entity as it presents.

StarClan is not a fair or rational entity. It's the most powerful ancient spirits remembered over many decades, and a bunch of recent dead relatives a few generations behind the living.

Lizardstripe understands it best; the lower angels make a jury and a crowd and the patrons are the court staff.

The younger spirits are more connected to the living, but the older spirits have more functional power to pass on accurate signs

Ancient patrons, especially the founders, tend to not give a lot of "personal" attention to prayers, and when they do answer they tend to be cryptic. They are very disconnected from their mortal selves, more legend than life now.

Riverstar in particular is notorious for this. As the Patron of Water, he's essentially an abstract concept, on top of being a mysterious and wise person when he was alive.

Angels of all levels are perfectly capable of acting alone and messing things up, though. Birchface actually sent the sign that wound up getting Mapleshade’s kittens drowned, and he's just kept quiet about it out of fear this whole time.

Spottedleaf was UNRIVALED in her connection, both in life and in death.

Firestar doesn't know how she made it look so EASY... and he's also got a good connection, himself. He wishes he had more time to learn from her.

Shadowsight got his incredible connection by being tormented by Ashfur. He blasted him with lightning and turned him into a living radio tower.

If Ashfur and his accomplices hadn't blocked off StarClan, Shadowsight would have been more haunted and hounded than Goosefeather. They were the only "signals" he was picking up

(And then Ashfur ate all his accomplices anyway.)

SO those sorts of stunts are not pulled often. You need to be extremely powerful to alter the living like Ashfur did to Shadowsight

(In case you're about to ask; Goosefeather was likely either a mistake or an accident, unless I end up tweaking his story later)

The only time where you're guaranteed to be able to directly, perfectly talk to any cat is during a leadership ceremony. It's considered too sacred and personal to burden with commands, because the leader will only ever experience this once.

Going through the Moonplace is actually not a guarantee! They send very strong dreams to those who visit, more like TPB than later arcs.

As for why ghosts don't just reveal their murderer-- in addition to how hard it actually is to speak directly, most murderers simply take precautions.

It's known StarClan can be watching, but there are also demons to channel. There are rituals to ward watchful eyes.

Can't reveal your murderer if you don't know who killed you.

If you're Redtail in particular and your incredible sister breaks the law to summon you directly for answers, you actually waste the entirety of the time you got to yell at her about using the wrong method <3

But in a nutshell; no more zoom calls. You will STRUGGLE for your divine revelations and only end up receiving them when you've royally pissed them off the way God INTENDED

(also i think in the wind excerpt it said that splashtail rejected them outright, but I haven't read the whole book yet)

[its-ironic-right]

Now how about the reverse?

Gideon dying before (maybe while protecting) Kremy.

Sometimes I get prompts that blow way past 500 words…

Where is the line drawn? Mathematically it’s between two points, but who determines those points? What gives them the right to define a beginning and an end?

Let’s simplify.

Life has a determined beginning and end. You’re born, you live, you die. (Well, if you’re lucky you die. Sometimes you just live and that’s so much worse.) The thread of your life held taut between two fingertips. That was a line drawn.

Death comes for us all. As a friend, an enemy, it comes without hesitation. In the smoldering ashes of a burnt out planet, death is the only constant. But death is known to play games. It loves a gamble.

Blasts of white hot magic fly through the air. It hits its mark with a sickening thud, knocking its victim to their knees.

“Shit.” A hissed curse, flesh hitting a wooden dock. Water laps under foot, breaks in the planks reveal white peaks. A heavy current, falling into the drink would mean certain death. Another bolt of magic, missing its target by a hair.

A roaring beast shoots out from thick woods, rending the magic users flesh from bone. Enemy neutralized for now, time to inspect the damage. The party wasn’t completely stupid. An attacker this strong wouldn’t come alone. Nothing to do but run.

“Sound off, who’s unconscious?” Kremy croaked. His ribs were broken, it took twice the effort to breathe or speak. He still needed to know who was left. A groan.

“I’m… okay. Very injured but alive.” Morning Frost was battered and broken, blood caked his fur and everything smelled awful. But conscious. Torbek looked up from his prey.

“Torbek is here. Torbek could definitely be doing better.” slashes oozed deep magenta from his side. That left Gricko and Gideon.

“Oh fuck, where’s our healer?” Kremy searched what was left of the dock. A green arm shot up from under some rubble.

“Here… I’ve got… banañas… one spell slot left.” Not ideal. Goodberries would get them through the night at least. One member left. Kremy’s heart dropped.

“Anyone see Gid?”

There was a peace that came with unconsciousness. A twilight state where nothing hurt, sinking into the bliss of oblivion. Gideon was no stranger to death. They crossed paths countless times, either by his hand or another. He wouldn’t say they were on friendly terms, more like work associates. For all his fire and bravado Gideon had a workman’s attention to detail when it came to destruction. Death was another detail.

He’s in an empty field. Rows of black dirt stretch in either direction. It looks familiar. He picks up a rock and chucks it. It flies in an arch, landing with a ‘thud’ yards away.

“Good arm.” Gideon whips around to see a towering figure of a man. He has a hand Up over his eyes like a visor, peering out to wherever the rock landed. The man looks down and smiles. Gideon is ten years old, his Pa ruffles his hair.

“…Pa?” Pa Coal winks.

“Who else?” He whistles. “Damn Gid, you really did a number on yourself. I thought it’d be another few years before I saw you again.” Gideon looks down. No longer a child but a man. A man with a hole burnt into his chest.

“Oh no, am I dead?”

“Almost dead. You’ve got a few hours before your organs shut down completely.” Pa leans down and picks up a rock. He throws it. It soars through a blue sky and lands farther than Gideons. The prairie didn’t have many ponds for skipping stones, but if you flicked your wrist in just the right way you could watch it skid across dirt. He remembers being a kid, throwing rocks into empty fields and challenging Pa to see how far they could throw them. Pa always had the better pitching arm.

“Almost dead, huh.” He threw another rock. Pa nodded.

“You took a bolt of lightning to the ticker Gid, you should be thankful it’s an ‘almost’ and not a ‘definitely’.” Uncomfortable silence passes between them. Funny how much “almost dead” didn’t bother him. Maybe it was the “almost” part. That meant hope.

“Kremy will figure it out, he always does.”

“You found a good husband, I’m glad.” Gideon blushes and stammers.

“Well, ironically my husband. More like a partner in crime, you know?” Pa slaps a hand on his back and he’s five years old.

A broken plate lays shattered on the floor of their shotgun shack. It was the prettiest thing they owned. Deep purple with scalloped edges trimmed in gold. The gold was flaking and you could barely see the vine motif in the center, but it was the only thing in the shack not meant for work. Gideon had wanted to look at it up close, to trace the lines and curves of snaking green vines. He’d attempted to climb up the shelf, it toppled under his weight. His face falls, what would Pa say when he found out? He can’t find out. Gideon pushes all the pieces into a pile. He’s placing them together like a puzzle, lining the image the best he can, trying like hell to make jagged edges match seamlessly. Tears stream down his face, he can’t let Pa see the plate is broken beyond repair. Tiny fingers coated in porcelain dust and microscopic cuts can’t put it together again. He’ll have to lie.

“The gods did not gift you a silver tongue, son.”

Gideon looks away from the broken plate. Shame crashing into his heart.

“I tried to fix it…”

“You tried to hide it. That’s not the same.”

He remembers being frustrated with the shards, making more and more mistakes until he gives up. He gathers the pieces into a bucket and sneaks out the front door. The plate is missing less than a day before Pa finds it in the tool shed.

Suddenly, pain. Deep, burning into his chest. He gasps and collapses, clutching the hole in his heart.

Its hot. So fucking hot. Is he in an oven? A forge? He opens his eyes again. The train. Of course. Metal stained black with soot, coals smoldering in the boiler, waiting for him to set them alight. He doesn’t have to look down to know what he looks like. The image is seared in his brain forever. A tear rolls down Pa Coal’s weathered cheek.

“The worst part about being dead: you can’t protect the living.” He feels the cuts and burns etched into his skin. This wasn’t right. He’d left the train, killed every mother fucker in the thing and jumped to freedom. This was a vision, it had to be. Gideon wouldn’t stay in hell unless he was dead. “Tell me the truth, son.”

“What the fuck is going on?!” He’s gasping, smoke filling every capillary in his lungs. Choking on every breath.

“You’re dying. Ever heard the phrase ‘life flashing before your eyes’?” Pa’s voice is low and sad. Steam escapes from a smoke stack, a shrill whistle piercing the air. And he can’t fucking breath. “Told you, your organs are failing.”

“Kremy will fix it. I know he will.”

“How do you know?”

“He always does.”

Everything goes dark. His stomach turns, he can breathe. Barely. Everything hurts. He’s discombobulated, soaked to the bone in rain and piss. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is. An alleyway in Agwé, somewhere in the Crawdad Corner. The turning point in his life that made it worth living. He was bruised from some fight, passed out drunk in the rain. He didn’t remember how he got there, fate has a funny way of taking you places you never expect. Eyes still shut, he doesn’t want to see the look on Pa’s face. This is him at his lowest. But he knows what comes next. A whisper in the dark. Pattering rain against pavement nearly drowns it out, little words that create big waves. Eyes open to meet golden eyes. A smile, a handshake, a new life. So quick it almost didn’t happen.

“So that’s him? The man who will save you?” Gideon nods.

“Always does.” Pa Coal chuckles.

The alleyway fades into a tavern. Nondescript people bustle around, ordering drinks between lively conversation. A barmaid whistles a soft tune. Swatting wandering hands and passing mugs of ale. Gideon sips at a whiskey. Warmth fills his belly. Pa leans against the bar facing towards the door, opposite his son. Countless taverns litter his memory, but this one stuck out. A night that lived in his core. Kremy plays cards across the room. He’s winning, he always wins. Even when he loses he somehow comes out on top. It’s easy settling into this moment, nothing hurt. Yet.

“I’ve come close to death loads of times, why am I getting the full treatment this go around?”

“Never this close.” Gideon scoffed. He shot back the whiskey and turned around.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve died before. Or came close.”

“Gideon, you’re dead. Almost. I wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t your brain firing its last synapses.” Grief pangs at his heart. Of course.

“So you’re not really here. Just my brain trying to make sense of everything.” He lights a cigar with his finger. The tavern moves around them. Kremy wins another hand, Gideon can see the losers fist clench under the table. His cue. He crosses the room, The cigar leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. The loser rears his fist, Gideon catches it in his hand. A headbutt and two punches later they’re running out the door. Kremy laughs. /Gid I could kiss you!/ In the fleeting light of passing windows, Kremy shines. For a second, Gideon wishes he would. They duck into an alley, footsteps run past them. Gideon is intimately aware of how close they were. He could do it. Lean in and kiss Kremy, he could blame it on the adrenaline. He could lie.

“Do you love him?” Gideon almost jumps out of his skin. Pa smokes a cigar across the alley.

“Of course. I love him like a brother.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Something rams itself down his spine, searing every nerve. The scene dissipates. Oblivion engulfs him.

Three.

Two.

One.

His time is up. He can feel it. He wonders what happened. Did everyone die? Or just him?

It’s warm here. He always thought death would be cold. He could fall asleep like this. Although it wouldn’t be sleep. Sleep had an end.

Guess that’s why it was called eternal slumber.

One.

Two.

Three.

Gideon gasps awake. He was alive. The throbbing pain in his chest told him that. Golden eyes rimmed in red stare down at him.

“Gid!” Kremy pulled him close, forehead to snout. Gideons body sprawled out from under the alligator’s grasp. Tears spilled out in streams against scales. “Oh my gods I thought I lost you! Your heart stopped-“ Gideon’s lips met his. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, more weak and desperate than anything. When they broke, Gideon winked.

“I knew you could do it.”

Point A to Point B, but the interesting part was all the twists in between. Who knows who draws the line. So long as they had a sense of humor.

[gothic-aesthetic-gal]

Old Scars (Part 10)

Ledger!joker x reader

Fem!reader is kidnapped by the joker and his henchmen while just trying to get a moment's reprieve from her boring, soul-destroying job ✨️

Tw: I mean, we all saw TDK, right? I'd say this is on the same level/rating. Kidnapping, violence, mentions of minor characters (not J) being misogynist/threatening SA, reference to past traumatic injury. Beyond this i'm not sure, i'll update these when I write more.

Part 10 -

I lay motionless with the oppressive feeling of the place still crushing me under its weight. It was like i'd entered a state of timelessness, nothing seemed to move. Not even the moon as it hung in the sky like an unblinking glass eye. Each breath was a struggle.

I began to feel I was sinking into the mattress and the ceiling above me was being eaten up by vines. The sprouting leaves and root tendrils spread and knotted together into a thick carpet, choking the white plaster. The sinking feeling persisted, and I couldn't move a muscle. I tried and tried, but nothing. I wanted to scream but couldn't twitch my lips, let alone make a sound.

I watched in silent horror as a dark figure seemed to detach itself from the shadows, as though it was a patch of darkness itself. I squinted, trying to clear my fuzzy vision and the figure began to take form, limbs and torso becoming sharper and more defined. Suddenly I seemed to be drifting, leaving my body.

The figure burst like a bubble, erupting into a thrashing, flapping cloud of bats. Swarming around me, they poured out of the windows and into the night like a crashing wave and left me with eery silence. I felt as though I was floating somewhere near the top of the high ceiling now, and turned to look down at the bed.

What I saw next filled me with indescribable horror. My body. My body but tainted with all the disgusting hues of decomposition. Blank milk white eyes staring up at me, from dead flesh. He must have killed me. Panic crashed into me like a semi truck and suddenly I lurched downwards into a free fall.

The body, and bed, and the room itself faded out of view and I tumbled down through the crumbling floors of the asylum into the dark basement, crashing onto a pile of wooden beams. Somehow I managed to crawl out of the broken forest, and shakily got to my feet. Now I was faced with a long, dark tunnel and something glinting in the distance. Trying to turn back I found that suddenly there was nothing but darkness.

Like a bolting horse I broke into a run - a panic-stricken sprint. I had to escape. The light was getting closer but I could hear strange whispering voices gaining on me from behind. They were growing and growing in number, melting togther into a chorus of uncanny laughter. Hundreds of voices all overlapping and jostling and hunting me down. A roaring wall of sound.

I reached the light! It was a large silver mirror, flanked by two wall mounted candles. As they danced, their flickering cast ever-changing shadows on my face and I stared at the girl before me. She was me, the same eyes, the same fearful expression, and the same long purple coat. I grasped the lapel, touching the felt beneath my fingertips.

Just as I began to get a lingering feeling that it was a link to some other place I couldn't recall, the coat began to shift and move. I rushed to throw it off, but before I could grasp it, the heavy fabric was replaced by a wiggling mass of coils. I felt the scales of a hundred snakes as they writhed all over my body and dropped to the floor, some winding themselves around my limbs. Some around my neck. I began to scream. I tried to shake them off.

With a jolt like I'd been struck by lightning, I woke up from the nightmare and took a breath so deep I felt like I had stopped breathing for a while. I gasped as the ice cold air filled my lungs, bolt upright in the bed, hands clawing at the sheets. As the realisation dawned that I had been dreaming, I became upset - my head still plagued by the images flickering through it. My chest tightened up, like I couldn't breathe all over again.

Suddenly, the realisation struck that I wasn't alone as a hand closed around my wrist. I jerked backwards in fear, like an animal in a trap. I grabbed the knife from its place under the mattress. The blade flicked open and found its way to the throat of the person next to me.

My frantic eyes fell on the man still grasping onto me with his good arm as I held him at knife point. I felt as though he was the only thing holding me, while the ground beneath me was crumbling away. I was so afraid of falling into the void. He was looking at me with an expression which was hard to read in the darkness. My brain was desperately scrambling to get a sense of the danger my body was screaming that it was in.

I looked into his dark eyes, and he looked back. Our faces were so close to one another that I could feel his warm breath. I realised I must have been sleeping, and for some time, as the moon was no longer casting light through the frame of the window. Shaking my head to try and clear some of the lasting images of the dream, the heart beat hammering in my chest finally began to slow down. He squeezed my wrist.

"Your pulse..." he began, trailing off.

I continued to grip the handle of the knife fiercely as I sifted back over reality and the torturous fiction of my sub-conscious.

"I think you almost cut me, really, genuinely..." he continued finally, a strange kind of satisfied sigh escaping him.

I let the knife fall back a little, withdrawing my hand as I continued to return from the primeval state of full-blown panic.

I felt his cold touch at my neck and my entire body stiffened as suddenly he slid his hand beneath my layers of clothing, icy fingers resting over my heart. It was still thundering against my ribcage and, in some strange way, I felt like he was literally holding me in suspense, my heart in his hand. The breath caught in my throat, unsure of his motives as I carefully watched his facial expression.

As I moved the knife slowly, finally seeing with full clarity that I had been locked in a nightmare, he had his head tilted slightly to the left, and I found a look of something akin to admiration on his face.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, beginning to shake from the adrenaline come-down.

"What for?" He snapped back.

"For nearly stabbing you!" I blurted out, suddenly realising the gravity of the situation and clamping a hand over my mouth.

"Don't be. Nothing like a little danger of death to spice things up," he said, with a wild look in his eyes, "besides, I thought you said you couldn't kill me in the apartment... you should really make your mind up!"

He broke into a laugh.

I wasn't sure how to feel about his obvious twisted excitement, other than being relieved that his response wasn't anger. Unexpectedly, I felt a wave of sparks travel through me as he slid his hand upward to my neck, his thumb dragging over my collar bone.

"If I wasn't in such a state, oh, the things I could do to you..." he purred, pulling closer to me.

I tried not to acknowledge this comment, or think about how it really made me feel but I didn't shrink away from him. Not wanting him to take it from me, I quickly flicked the knife closed and returned it to where i'd stashed it.

"Really? You don't trust me? Who almost stabbed who here?" He mocked, shaking his head.

"It's better for both of us if I put it out of reach."

"That's debatable, but suit yourself," he said, leaning into me so that he could speak directly into my ear, "although, uh, that knife belongs to me, don't forget that."

I shuddered at the feeling of his warm breath against my neck, and knew immediately that he had noticed.

"You seem tense, is it because I'm doing this?" He asked, deliberately running his fingers from my collar bone, up my neck, and into my hairline, gripping a handful of my hair behind my ear. I took a sharp intake of breath, internally cursing the fact that it felt so good.

He had a look of growing satisfaction, knowing that he was pushing me towards a cliff I was trying to pretend didn't exist in the hope I'd never fall from it. Like a car crash I couldn't look away from, I blinked ahead, unmoving. I wanted this, and I hated that I did.

"Don't you ever get tired?" He asked, voice rumbling against my ear as he pressed his face against me.

"T-tired of what?" I managed to respond.

"Tired of playing by all the rules?" He clarified, playfully sinking his teeth into my neck.

I was dangerously close to doing something stupid and tried to ignore the question.

He tugged on my hair sharply, tilting my head upwards.

"Answer me," he barked.

"Yes, of course I do," I muttered, surprised by his sudden forcefulness.

His grip on my hair softened a fraction.

"Good girl," he smirked.

I wasn't sure how to take him calling me that, but I figured I could always make him regret it later...

"So," I felt his mouth against my neck again, "why don't you just... let go?" He teased.

My heart was fluttering higher in my chest and I felt like my throat was beginning to burn like it did when I drank the whisky. Something primal in me finally snapped. I turned toward him and crashed my mouth against his, roughly pushing him down onto the bed and kissing him feverishly. He seemed a bit taken back for a second by my sudden decision to jump on him. I hurriedly struggled out of the coat and let it fall to the floor beside the bed, straddling him as he sat upright with his back against the wall. I continued to kiss him like it was our last night on earth - like I was dying of thirst and he was cool water.

He let out a low growl of approval, grasping the back of my head with his good hand and lacing his fingers into my hair again. I felt like my whole world was spinning out of control, but I didn't care. In that moment, all I knew was that I wanted him. I was like Icarus in flight, soaring towards the blazing sun.

I broke the kiss, leaning my cheek against his as I caught my breath. I couldn't help but smile a little as I realised my scarred flesh was against his. I was desperate for understanding. Someone, anyone to see me, and he saw even the parts of me I turned away from. He was unwaivering - drawing those parts of me I hid in shame outwards. I knew it was wrong, but even just for a fraction of a second, I wanted it to be right.

But suddenly I felt gripped by uncertainty: I didn't know what his motives were... was he capable of feeling anything? Or was I just a fascinating little project? I tore myself away from him. He looked up at me, puzzled, and let his hand rest on my hip.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

His face was unmoving, saying nothing as he held my gaze.

"You keep saying I don't trust you, but can I?" I pressed further, my voice wavering.

He sighed exasperatedly, shifting out from under me. I sank down onto the bed, watching as he got up and stretched out his free arm. He took the cigarette packet out of my cardboard box and slid one between his lips. I got to my feet and pulled the lighter out of the coat. Then I approached him, offering it up. He slid an arm around my waist and tugged me closer as I lit up the cigarette. The orange flame illuminated his face as I held it out, flickering in his eyes. Even in such a bruised and dishevelled state, I thought he was beautiful.

As he exhaled a cloud of smoke, and let me go to take the cigarette in his own hand, he finally answered.

"I won't kill you. I'm a man of my word."

Something in his countenance made me believe it.

"You've killed people before..."

"Yes."

"How many?"

"I don't know - it's not like I've kept a list. That'd be a pretty sick thing to do, wouldn't it? I'm not mentally disturbed," he rolled his eyes dramatically.

This answer floored me. Was he telling a twisted joke or did he genuinely believe that?

He laughed at my shocked expression and took another drag of his cigarette.

"Why do you do it?" I asked quietly.

"Hm," he said, looking down over my face, 'you sound like one of those Arkham quacks now. Why'd you do it? What was your childhood like? How did you end up like this?" He answered, mockingly imitating their voices.

"I'm just trying to understand," I offered, feeling lost.

"You, uh, you should be careful, doll. You're not supposed to understand, otherwise you might start to sympathise. It's a slippery slope," he warned as that sly smile crept onto his face again.

I sighed.

"Are you trying to work out some moral reason for the things I've done?" He chuckled.

"I don't know... I find it hard to mourn the death of crooked cops, mobsters, and politicians on the take - I think a lot of people feel that way - but there's also been innocent people involved. Innocent people have died because of you."

"You may not like it, but those people at the top, they don't have a problem with collateral damage. They kill far more 'innocent' civilians..."

"But that doesn't mean you should add to that," I pushed back.

He shrugged, blowing smoke.

"No one is truly innocent in this world."

"So nobody should try to be good? You really think everyone should just embrace selfishness?"

"No, I think most people already have. They just play pretend, dress it up differently. People love to preach about morals but they are hypocrites," he hissed in contempt.

"Not everyone," I shot back.

He raised an eyebrow and looked disdainfully at me.

"Not you? You think you're a good person?"

"Well, I don't know but I try to be! I certainly haven't killed people," I said in disgust.

"Oh you think so? Tell me, the clothes you wear. Where do they come from?"

I frowned and he continued:

"They come from sweat shops in so-called developing countries. And the metals used to make your mobile phone? From cobalt mines in Africa. You can pretend like everybody else, but you aren't so squeaky clean."

What could I say? He was right, I had to admit and it was something I tried to ignore. No matter how much I had thought about it and felt guilty, there was always the excuse of being a small part in a big system. I could convince myself I was absolved of all blame.

"You're right about that, I won't try to deny it. It's still different to outright killing someone, or multiple people, though," I sighed, pacing around anxiously.

"It's different, but only in the way that shooting someone once is different to stabbing someone else twelve times," he said grimly, exhaling another puff of smoke.

I stopped pacing.

"More people are capable of shooting someone than stabbing someone, is that the point you're trying to make?"

"That's the point, yes."

"Because the gun means you can do it from futher away, physically... and psychologically," I spoke my conclusion aloud.

"Ding, ding, ding. Correct," he said, crossing over to me.

"Most of us are expendable. People accept it as part of the plan. They say it's bad, but it's just the way things are..."

"So you come in to disrupt 'the plan'?"

He said nothing but didn't disagree with me.

"Nothing motivates us like fear," he whispered, a sinister energy burning through his words as he took the final drag of his cigarette.

I watched as he stubbed it out and carelessly tossed it into the dark. I didn't like that so much of what he said began to make sense to me and I started to shudder again from the biting cold.

"Are you going to get back into the bed yourself or am I going to have to make you?" He asked, noticing. His tone had shifted again back into something more playful.

I rolled my eyes and clambered back under the covers before he could make good on his threat. My head was spinning. I wished that I hadn't kissed him and, at the same time, I wished that I hadn't stopped.

Link below for the other chapters:

Dividers by @strangergraphics

Tag list:

If I forgot anyone or you want to be removed from the tag list - please let me know! 💕

@dis0rderly-cl0wn-nerd

@dance-like-a-clown

@furisodespirit

@heath-ledger-jokers-wife

@sunfyrejoker

@lightsabergirl

@clowning--around

@ruby-da-archangel

@harleenqvinn

@helchronicles

@ostricx

@knoepfl

@emberlikesthemoon

@jumpingjellyfishhaha

[istoleyoursk1n]

Hello, I saw your requests are open after I read some of your stuff and wanted to give an idea. One thing I don’t see too often in fantasy is anti-magic types so I’d like to request a Tav that is magically blank. What I mean by that is where everyone else either has magic or is effected by it, Tav can be neither of these. Try to hit them with a lightning bolt? Doesn’t work. Illusions? Doesn’t work. Enchantments? Nah. This makes them a terrifying mage hunter that can go toe to toe with many magic creatures and users. Of course they need to work around not being healed by magic as well. (Choose whoever for the characters!)

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How would the boys react to a Tav who’s incapable of being harmed by or creating magic?

(If any of you won't see one for the girls, just ask <3)

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: ̗̀➛ ASTARION

“I know I’ve already got the delightfully excellent privilege of looks to me, darling, but damn it all! You’d think those lazing Gods would grant me more than just a dashing face to get me through my troubles too!”

Immediately comes asking how the hell you gained such an ability and if so, how could he get some of that for himself.

He's envious of the fact that nearly all magic seems to have little to zero effects on you. He's far too consumed by the amount of advantages it gives you that he doesn't exactly see the downsides.

I mean, he’s seen you take a fireball to your face and shake it off as if it was nothing. However, the sight of you bleeding out as every magical healing potion and spell does absolutely nothing to aid you ends up being the very thing that makes him wonder if it would be worth it.

But hey! It's rather entertaining for him to watch every foe you encounter gasp in shock when they realize all the magic spells they throw at you do nothing to hinder your each attack.

The funniest thing he saw was someone trying to manipulate you with a charm spell only for you to humiliate them for their obvious attempt.

: ̗̀➛ WYLL

“By the hells, you’re immune to magic? That’s one darn good of an advantage to have, especially on a journey such as ours. Though, it's a shame that you’ll never get to see the delights that come with it, you would have loved it, I’m sure!”

He wasn't all too bothered by the fact you couldn't create magic. Some people lived all their lives without using them and they still made fine warriors, why should he judge you?

However, he was completely shocked when he first watched a lightning bolt strike your body only for you to shrug it off. You didn't even have the burn marks that would have came from it.

After figuring out your little situation, he was both deeply fascinated and impressed. There's no way anything is stopping either of you now, not when you are immune to nearly all types of magic.

Be prepared because this man does start to give you ridiculous titles over your unique ability. “The anti-magician”, “The impenetrable magic consumer”, it gets worse and worse but it's making you both laugh.

Yet, what he does find quite concerning is the number of times he's witnessed your other companions use you as a personal test dummy in terms of magic-based attacks. He’s always quick to grab you out of those situations even though you were mostly okay with it.

: ̗̀➛ GALE

“Immune to magic? Truly? Are you telling me a particularly powerful sorcerer could cast a tremendously potent necrotic spell on you and you’d just... Stand there… with not so much as a bruise? Are you certain you’re from this plane of existence-”

What in the fuck <— His initial reaction lmao

He’s never even seen anything that could resist most if not all magic, even worse that you can't even seem to make it yourslf.

He’s spent the majority of his life so heavily involved with magic and the weave that he could hardly see himself without it, better yet, he doesn't even understand how you live so mundanely.

Heck! Even lower-class citizens could learn magic if not already know how to cast a basic spell or two. Now he has a hundred different questions running through his head and you could probably only answer half of them.

Perhaps he even suspected that you may have just used a multitude of potions of resistance on yourself to turn out this way but if so, the effects should have worn off by now.

Either way, he’s bewildered by you. Intensely interested in how this situation of yours came to be and if there is truly a limit to what magic you can resist. Though, trust that he won't try to experiment on you for himself.

: ̗̀➛ HALSIN

“Ah, though I understand the loss of seizing the art of magic for oneself is rather unfortunate, this only means that perhaps a far more naturalistic path awaits you. One I hope brings nothing but joy and aid in our journey ahead.”

Pleasantly surprised but also curious about it all. When you say all magic do you truly mean all? And if he were to bring a magical flame near your skin, would you feel it's warmth?

Though, he doesn't press on the matter too much. However, there are occasions when he has forgotten about your immunity and ends up shielding you from a magical blast you could have easily taken yourself.

Reflexes perhaps. He’s fairly used to jumping in to protect those he cares for and he does get a tad bit embarrassed over the fact that your magic immunity slipped his mind once or twice due to his own impulses.

Though worry not if magical healing spells or potions don't work on you! He knows plenty of natural ways to heal your wounds. Though it will take significantly longer.

Regardless, he's happy to be of service to you, even teaching you some ways to use herbs and the fauna around you to make a quick remedy to all sorts of wounds so you won't have to ever struggle as much as you did before.

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