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amorwrld · 3 days ago

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something more - clark kent.

-> summary: months after breaking up, new temptations rise after the two of you find yourselves together in the same workplace. despite loving him, is worth the same circle of events and feelings?

-> word count: 2.k! wanted to write some tension and angst for mr. clark kent, more specifically exes to lovers with him...

-> tags and warnings: mentions of y/n, mild cursing, mild violence, jealous clark, reader knows about his secret, some talks about insecurities with both characters. lmk if i missed any, please reblog and comment, us authors appreciate it! mwuh! ❤️💙

if clark knew coming out here tonight, would lead him to see his current scene. he would’ve never stepped foot outside. to make matters worse, he couldn’t get drunk to avoid the pang in his chest. the hurt and knot building in his throat, just watching you with him.

maybe it was serious, maybe it wasn’t. but it didn’t change the fact that despite it all, his feelings for you hadn’t changed, they grew and grew more, more intense. for months, he continuously thought of you. it wasn’t anything specific, just you as a whole. and yet despite knowing how he felt, it didn’t get better, and the sun wouldn’t be able to heal the ache in his heart.

“is this a new thing?” he yelled over, pushing his glasses up with his finger while holding the glass. “i guess it is? this is the first time we’ve seen her like this. gotta say that guy doesn’t give me good vibes,” jimmy shrugged, dancing along to the house music that played in the background.

clark knew you were watching him. with his crazed eyes, not being able to tear away from you the moment he walked in. he had to push away the urge to slit the throat of every man who laid eyes on you. he could only just push away the jealousy and pretend. pretend it didn’t hurt him. pretend you didn’t know each other. pretend you were strangers.

but you were far from strangers.

“when did she start with you guys?” clark asked, leaning against the bar. “two months ago, she came all the way from texas,” jimmy yelled loudly. “she’s a amazing journalist and she has so much potential, but it seems like something or someone from her past haunts her,” he continued.

clark stood quiet, knowing he was the reason for that being.

that night still haunted him. in his wake and sleep. how he left you thinking he didn't love you. watching tears run down your cheek as you found the correct words to yell at him. maybe a part of you knew clark was lying, but it didn't help the ache and burn inside you when you heard him say it.

you felt naive and in a daze, believing a man like clark, would be capable to love you. to cherish you. it felt like everything surrounding you was crashing apart, and it hurt so much you couldn't control the fury and despair you discerned. not only did it feel like clark lied to you, you felt used.

when you saw him again two weeks ago, you laughed so hard at how fate and the universe worked. you ignored him. the glances. his attempts to talk. his stupid coffee and notes he left for you. his attempts to get you alone to try and talk. how he whispered to jimmy and asking small details. you wanted nothing to do with him, just like he didn't with you.

perhaps you were an evil person, but you wanted to feel the exact pain he felt, watching his world come apart.

nevertheless, the temptation was so excruciating. it was pure and raw. and it would quickly break at any given moment.

“maybe that’s enough?” clark leaned down to whisper coming back up to see your the outraged look on you. “you don’t decide when is enough for me, i’ll say when it's enough,” you ignore him, pecking the guys cheek before walking away to the bar. you felt tipsy but not drunk to where you would blackout.

“what games are you trying to play here huh? getting drunk and fuck the first guy you meet at the club tonight?” clark said pissed off, his voice and tone laced with pure rage and jealousy. “i don't remember asking if it was any of your business. last time i remembered, i'm single and i can kiss, fuck, marry whoever i want. you won't be able to stop or control that,” you replied with the same tone.

why the hell did he have to look so good like this. his curly hair in the perfect mess. his skin glowing and glistening with a small layer of sweat. his cheeks are slightly flushed. his black button-up fitting correctly in all the right places. the stupid sluttly glasses on his eyes. those damn blue eyes that made you feel like you were under a spell.

“i promise i'm only trying to look out and protect you,” you laugh at his words. “protect me? i don't need your protection, you tried to do it once, and look where that got us. you can't pretend to actually care when you did what you did? feel the need to look out for me, when you're the person who hurt me the most. take that bullshit far away from me, because i'm done with your games.”

clark grows quiet. he was thinking carefully about what to say. his chest heaved, nose slightly flared, trying to bite back the jealousy that still ran through him. he knew you were right, that he had once promised the world but did the opposite and hurt you. but that was far from the truth. clark would never stop loving you, and he wouldn’t move on from what you had.

if he lied, it was to protect you. he just wished it wouldn't hurt this bad, in his being and his soul. being superman came with a price, he loved being able to protect and help, but it also had its downfalls to where he had to make decisions like life or death to fend those he loved.

you scoffed and turned away, playing with the straw in your cup, swirling around the ice before hearing an unrecognizable voice behind you speak. “still up for that dance gorgeous?” you offered a small smile, ready to decline because you were getting tired, but were cut off by the 6’4 man behind you, “she's not interested bud, fuck off.”

“who are you talking to?” the man quickly tried to make himself look stronger and taller.

“you. now turn around and go back to wherever you were at. leave us alone,” clark replied back, feeling your small hands in attempts to push him back to avoid further conflict. clark could hold his temper, but when he was tested and compelled, he would show his true colors. especially when it came to something that was his, and his only.

“maybe not tonight, but i have your number on standby, and i can call you for a next time offer?” you attempted to calm the situation, clark laughed in disbelief, scratching his temple not believing what he was hearing. “sounds good darling, i'll be waiting,” he winked before walking off.

“give me your phone,” clark said dismissively.

“what? no.”

you didn't know how you ended up tripping, but all you saw was clark’s face inches away from yours, and before you knew it, the temptation broke, closing the gap by kissing him with urgency. tasting the mint and whiskey on his lips, hearing the heavy breaths and groans he let out, feeling the soft licks of his tongue on yours, and the tight grip on your waist from his hands.

you needed and wanted more. you were a madwoman, and the least of your worries right now was the past. the sole focus right now was how big his hands felt as he kneaded your ass walking into his apartment, kissing every crevice and inch of your skin as he slowly took your clothes off, hearing how bad he needed you. just one good night, and you could go back to pretending like he never happened or existed.

───〃★ ───

your muscles ached, your hair was probably a mess, and don't get started on your makeup. you rose up, checking the time in the unknown room, a little after seven. you turned around to see a familiar back facing you, drawing the dots, and realizing you were in his apartment. clark’s apartment.

a hand went to your forehead, feeling the pain and shivers of a hangover, covering yourself with his blanket as you muttered a quick ‘shit’. you quietly got up, checking your back every other second to make sure he wouldn't wake up as you found and changed into one of his loungewear sets.

you didn't think twice before grabbing your dead phone and black purse, walking out, and back to your apartment. ignoring how your heart twinged, and the regret creeping up on you.

you kept yourself busy the entire weekend, ignoring everyone's calls and texts after telling them you were safe and alive, including the random number you figured was clark, who called and called the whole weekend. you deep-cleaned your entire apartment, finished up research deadlines, including getting started on your rough draft, and did some retail shopping.

you walked in monday morning to the daily planet as if nothing had happened. you played off with jokes and smiles to everyone who came up to you. clark watched as you fell back to the same person you were before friday. it was like it had no effect on you whatsoever. that what happened between you and him was just a casual hookup, nothing meaningful.

the more clark began to think, the more his urgency grew and grew to get you alone. to finally tell you the truth.

clark felt on a mile high, feeling your lips once again on his, not being able to resist your soft touches and whimpers, your pleas to fuck you, and the neediness. when clark woke up that saturday, he expected you to still be there, but was met with a cold and empty bed. just traces of your sweet scent and your shoes you left behind. no note, no other belonging, just the quiet air and space for what had happened.

“miss y/n can i talk to you about your article, it seems like there is a small confusion,” clark interrupted the small conversation you were having with lois and rachel. you refused to look at him, giving him your back as you spoke, “i’m sure the article is fine, we’re currently discussing that-”

“miss y/n, those weren't my orders. they’re perry’s, and he insisted on helping you out… so shall we?” he waved one hand, directing the way you would walk. you forced a fake chuckle, whispering a small ‘i’ll be back’, twisting clark suit and dragging him. “what the hell are you doing? you can’t meddle with my work clark,” you declared.

“you gave me no other choice! we need to talk about what happened and what changed. you can’t continue to ignore and pretend, i’m done with those games,” clark expressed, closing the door with a smal thud and locking it. he wasn’t going to leave until he finally heard answers.

“nothing changed clark! we’re still broken up. newsflash, exes can still have sex and it can mean nothing-”

“you and i know that’s pure bluff, you’re the only one telling yourself that. i have been trying to talk to you. like a mature and normal adult, but you keep running away,” clark distressed, removing his glasses. you almost forgot how much of a difference it made. small but very much distinct. “clark, you did this to us. you told me you no longer loved me. what could’ve possibly changed that you need to tell me,” you reminded him.

“i’m done hurting you and me. i can’t take it anymore. i can't stand how you can’t even look at me, direct a word, or just be in the same room. i know i fucked up. I was stupid and said stuff i regret and don’t mean. If only you know how much i’ve also suffered, how much i miss you. you deserve the right to know the truth, and i’m going to tell you,” clark exposed, his voice full with sincerity and seriousness.

“what truth, clark? i can’t take any more heartbreaks, my heart can’t handle one more, especially from you…” clark takes a step closer, cupping your face with his hands. His pupil widened staring at your gaze, at your teary eyes blinking away. noting the small hesitation on you.

“do you trust me?” he asks once. and for some reason, that temptation breaks again. if he was being honest as he claimed, you were intrigued to find out the truth. it would finally put some peace in your head, no matter how brutal or nice it was.

“yes. what truth are talking about, clark?”

───〃★ ───

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rikiszn · 2 days ago

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if I loved you better. — nsh.r

ꪆৎ ⟢ 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖿 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍．

feat. nishimura riki x reader

──── ✦ exs to lovers, angst, HURTTT/comfort, reader has avoidant attachment, complicated feelings

ivy’s note ꒰ঌ ໒꒱: ok idk what’s with the sad riki fics all of the sudden but I can’t help myself 💔

The door slammed harder than you expected.

It echoed through the apartment, bouncing off every wall and slicing through the silence like a knife. You stood there, still in your socks, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. But it was too late. You’d already come apart.

“I wish you loved me as much as I love you.”

His voice cracked when he said it. You saw it in his eyes, too—red-rimmed and glossy, like he’d been holding it in for weeks. Maybe months.

And you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t stop him.

You didn’t run after him.

Because you didn’t know how.

You were too proud, too scared, too broken in ways you didn’t even understand. Every time he clung to you, it made your skin prickle. Not because you didn’t love him—but because you did. And that was terrifying. Because love meant responsibility. It meant losing control. It meant being seen.

But now? All you could see was the look on his face as he walked out—like he was shattering into pieces and you were the one who broke him.

You pulled out your phone with shaking hands.

you: riki please come back

you: i didn’t mean it

you: i love you. i’m sorry. please.

No reply.

And that silence hurt louder than anything he’d ever said.

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You lay in bed all night, staring at the ceiling, gripping your phone so tightly your hand ached. Every vibration made your heart spike. Every time it wasn’t him, you wanted to scream.

You kept checking if your texts were delivered. They were.

He read them.

He just didn’t answer.

You felt it—deep in your chest, where all the guilt was rotting you from the inside. All the things you never said. All the love you didn’t show. And now it was like everything was replaying in your head on a brutal loop.

That night he came over just to cuddle you and you said you were too tired.

The day he held your hand in the car and you pulled away without realizing.

The weekend he begged for a real date, just the two of you—and you cancelled because you were “too busy.”

He never stopped loving you for it.

He never stopped trying.

And now he had.

You unlocked your phone again, fingers trembling.

you: riki please

you: i’ll talk this time i promise

you: i know i pushed you away

you: i’m sorry i didn’t know how to love you the right way

you: but i do love you

You sent them all. Rapid fire. No punctuation. Just raw panic.

Still nothing.

You curled up under the blanket, the same one he used to wrap around you both when you fell asleep on his chest. He’d always tuck it under your chin and whisper something dumb like, “you’re my baby burrito.” And you’d always groan and shove him—but secretly, you loved it.

God. You missed him.

You missed the way he clung to you like you were air and he couldn’t breathe without you. You missed the way he’d kiss your cheek even when you looked annoyed. The way he’d pout and whine and say, “You never kiss me first.”

And now? You’d kiss him a thousand times if he’d just give you one more chance.

Just one.

But the silence stayed.

So you cried.

Quietly. Into your pillow. The same way you used to cry after pushing him away—alone, guilty, and unsure why loving someone scared you so much.

But now you were sure of one thing.

You couldn’t lose him.

You wouldn’t.

It started with his hoodie.

You were cold, and it was still in your closet. You hadn’t returned it yet—not because you forgot, but because… it still smelled like him. Soft detergent. That faint minty scent he always wore. The one that lingered on your pillow after he left your bed in the morning.

You slipped it on.

And that’s when it really hit you.

You missed him like he was oxygen.

And you hadn’t even realized how starved you’d been.

You sunk onto the floor in front of your bed, clutching the fabric close to your chest, eyes burning as memories came flooding back in a cruel, endless wave.

His hands. Always searching for yours in public, even when you pulled away.

His eyes. Lighting up every time you walked into the room, like it mattered that you existed.

His voice. Soft when he begged, “Just hug me, please. I had a rough day.”

You always hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you were afraid.

Afraid of needing him too much. Of getting hurt. Of opening your heart and having it crushed.

So you kept one foot out the door.

Even when he gave you all of him.

You scrolled back through your camera roll.

Photos of him, smiling with cheeks full of food because you used to tease him about being a little chipmunk.

Videos of him singing off-key in the car, trying to get you to duet with him and laughing when you refused.

A picture of your legs tangled under the blankets, his ankle hooked over yours like he always slept—like he had to be touching you or else he couldn’t rest.

Your throat clenched.

And then you hit that video.

The one you took during your anniversary trip—the one where he was watching the sunset and didn’t know you were filming.

He looked so soft. So in love.

“I love you so much,” he had said back then, turning toward you with a grin. “Even when you don’t say it back.”

That line hit differently now.

You closed the video. Slammed your phone down. Tried to breathe.

Because he was right.

You hadn’t said it enough.

You hadn’t kissed him enough.

You hadn’t held him tight enough, or shown up enough, or chosen him loudly enough.

But you loved him.

God, you loved him.

And you’d let that love rot in your chest instead of giving it to the one person who needed it the most.

You curled in tighter, his hoodie pressed against your nose.

“I should’ve held you tighter,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I should’ve kissed you more. I should’ve…”

But he wasn’t here to hear it.

And maybe he wouldn’t be again.

Unless…

Unless you did something.

It started with the letters.

You were halfway through wiping your tears when you grabbed a pen.

You didn’t even think—you just needed him to know. To feel it. All of it. Every stupid, selfish, terrified thought that had ever kept you from loving him like he deserved.

The first line you wrote was shaky. Honest.

“I don’t know why I’m like this. But I know that I love you more than I ever let myself show.”

You didn’t stop there. You wrote until your hand cramped.

All the things you’d held back for two years.

“You made me feel safe, and I still pushed you away.”

“I miss the way you’d hum when you brushed your teeth.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you back that morning. I wanted to. I froze.”

“You always said ‘I love you’ first. I always waited too long.”

“I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I’m begging you to let me try.”

You folded the letter. Left it on his doorstep the next morning, tucked inside his favorite comic book—the one he made you read three times just so you’d understand why he loved it.

No text. No name. Just the letter.

And then you started showing up.

Not obnoxiously. Not the way your panic wanted to. But softly. Steadily. Patiently.

You started going to the little café where he studied. You didn’t approach—you just sat at a table nearby. Hoping he’d see you. Hoping he’d feel your presence and know: I’m still here.

You told his friends—tell him I’m trying.

You posted old pictures of you both on your story with no caption.

You started learning what he loved.

His favorite band. His comfort movie. That sweet drink he always ordered that you teased him for—now you drank it too, quietly, because it reminded you of him.

You didn’t care how long it took.

You just wanted him to know you weren’t running anymore.

Two weeks passed.

And then one day—just as you were leaving that café again, heart heavy and ready to give up—

A hand caught your wrist.

You turned.

And it was him.

Riki. In his hoodie. With tired eyes and a storm of emotions behind them.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just looked at you like he was trying to figure out whether to run or cry.

And finally, quietly, he asked:

“Why are you doing all this?”

You swallowed hard. Your voice almost broke.

But you looked him in the eyes and said:

“Because I didn’t know how to love you then. But I’m learning. And I don’t want to stop.”

His breath caught.

And for a moment—you saw it.

The tiniest crack in his guard.

The tiniest piece of hope still alive in his heart.

You sat across from each other at that tiny café table, the air so thick with tension it felt like you were breathing through syrup.

He wouldn’t look at you directly.

His fingers fiddled with the edge of his sleeve.

You were wringing your hands in your lap like you could squeeze the fear out of your body if you just tried hard enough.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you finally said, voice soft, unsure.

Riki gave a short breath that almost could’ve been a laugh, but it wasn’t.

It was bitter. Sad. Exhausted.

“You’ve been everywhere,” he mumbled, still not meeting your eyes. “Didn’t know if it meant anything.”

“It did,” you said instantly, your voice a little too sharp from how badly you needed him to hear you. “It means everything.”

That finally made him glance at you—just for a second.

His eyes were red. Not freshly crying, but tired in that way that people look when they’ve cried too much for too many nights in a row.

He looked down again.

“…Why now?”

You swallowed hard.

He deserved the truth. All of it.

“Because I was scared,” you admitted. “Of loving someone so much. Of being vulnerable. Of needing you too much and losing myself in it.”

“You were scared,” he repeated, voice flat. “And I was begging.”

You winced.

“I know.”

He shook his head, lips tightening. “You always acted like I was too much. Too clingy. Too emotional. Like I was annoying for wanting to hold you or tell you how much I missed you after two hours.”

You blinked hard. That one stung—because it was true.

“I never thought you were annoying,” you whispered. “I just… didn’t know how to receive love like that. I didn’t grow up with it. I didn’t know what to do with someone who gave so much and expected it back.”

He finally looked at you again, full-on.

His voice broke when he asked, “So I was too much for you?”

“No,” you said instantly. “You were everything I wanted. I just didn’t know how to want it out loud.”

His lips parted. Like he was going to say something. But then he just breathed out and looked away again.

Silence.

Not cold.

Just… heavy. Like both of you were sitting in the wreckage of something you built and broke at the same time.

“I read the letter,” he finally said, almost too quiet to hear.

Your heart jumped.

“And?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It hurt. I cried.”

You stared at the table.

“I cried when you left.”

He looked up at that.

And then he said, softer this time, “I wanted you to chase me. But you didn’t.”

“I froze,” you whispered. “You said something no one’s ever said to me before. You said you wished I loved you as much as you loved me. And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. Because I did. I just never showed it enough. Never made you feel it.”

His hands clenched in his lap.

“I wanted to hate you,” he admitted.

You nodded. “You probably should.”

“But I don’t,” he said.

And that silence after his words… it felt different.

Not heavy this time.

Just quiet. Full of things unsaid.

Hope, maybe.

“Riki…” You reached across the table, slow and uncertain. You didn’t even know if he’d let you touch him.

But he did.

He let your fingers brush his.

And he didn’t pull away.

You didn’t expect him to text.

Not that night.

But when your phone buzzed just past midnight, your heart jumped so hard it hurt.

riki: are you still awake

You stared at the screen, breath caught in your throat. Then your thumbs moved fast.

you: always, if it’s you.

There was a long pause. Three dots. Gone. Back again.

And then:

riki: can i call?

His voice was soft through the speaker. Like he was lying on his side, curled up in bed, blanket over his mouth. You could picture it exactly. You used to fall asleep to that voice.

“I didn’t think I’d miss you like this,” he said after a moment. “Like… my whole body forgot how to breathe without you.”

You were silent. Because your throat was full. Because your heart was trying not to fall out of your chest.

“And I keep thinking…” He exhaled shakily. “What if you do it again?”

Your breath hitched.

“What if you get tired of me again?” he whispered. “What if I ask for too much and you go quiet again, and I—I can’t keep getting my hopes up just to feel like I’m too much.”

“I won’t,” you said, suddenly and with everything in you.

“How do you know?”

“Because this time,” you whispered, “I know what I’m fighting for.”

The next night, he came over.

Not because he was ready.

But because he wanted to try.

He stood in your doorway, looking smaller than you’d ever seen him. Hoodie sleeves covering his hands. That familiar anxious flutter in his eyes—hope mixed with fear.

“I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said. “I don’t know how to stop needing you.”

You stepped forward.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “You don’t have to stop. Just… let me give back what I should’ve given all along.”

He didn’t answer.

Just melted into your arms as if he never wanted to leave them again.

You held him.

Really held him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to his temple. You whispered “i’m here” more times than you could count, and every time he clung to you tighter. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

And when he finally pulled back to look at you—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed—he whispered:

“I still love you.”

Your breath caught.

“I love you too,” you said. “More than I ever knew how to show. But I’m learning. For you.”

And that night, he fell asleep on your chest.

Not because he was okay.

But because—for the first time in too long—he felt safe.

The first time you reached for his hand again, he flinched.

Not because he didn’t want it.

But because he didn’t trust it—not yet.

You didn’t let go.

Just loosened your grip, gave him time. Let your fingers rest gently against his palm like a quiet question: Can I hold you now?

And a few seconds later… he laced them through yours.

His touch was shy.

But it stayed.

Rebuilding wasn’t loud.

There were no grand declarations. No dramatic reunions. Just… soft mornings. Quiet nights. The way he’d linger a little longer when saying goodbye, like he didn’t want to go but was afraid to ask to stay.

Your first real “date” after the breakup was awkward as hell.

You picked the ramen place he liked, even though it was out of the way. He showed up wearing a jacket you gave him months ago that still smelled faintly like your laundry detergent.

You didn’t sit across from him.

You sat beside him.

And he looked at you—uncertain, hopeful, scared.

You smiled and nudged his knee with yours.

No pressure. Just i’m here.

He smiled back.

Barely.

But it was real.

You started sending him little texts again—nothing overwhelming. Just…

you: thinking about the way you used to laugh when I stole your fries. I miss that sound.

you: you looked really cute in that jacket today, by the way.

you: i don’t know how to be perfect. but I know how to try.

He didn’t always respond.

But sometimes, late at night, when your phone buzzed, you’d see his name light up your screen with something simple, something vulnerable, something so Riki it made your chest ache:

riki: why did you stop kissing my forehead in the mornings?

you: because I was stupid.

can I start again?

There was a long pause.

And then:

riki: please.

The next morning, you did.

He was curled under your blanket, hair messy, eyes barely open. You leaned in slow, heart pounding like this was your first time all over again.

You kissed his forehead.

His breath hitched. His fingers reached out blindly, curling around your wrist, keeping you close like he needed that contact to stay grounded.

“I missed you,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I missed you too.”

You almost cried right there.

Because this—this tiny, sleepy moment—meant more than any apology ever could.

Everything was still fragile.

Sometimes he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or pull away first so you wouldn’t be the one to leave.

Sometimes you found him staring at the ground, chewing his lip like he was holding in questions he was too afraid to ask.

And when he did ask—quiet things like, “Are you gonna disappear again?” or “Do you really want me?”—you always answered with touch.

A kiss to his knuckles.

A brush of your nose against his.

Your arms wrapped around his waist in the kitchen just because you could.

Because you were done making him wonder.

He still didn’t say “I love you” again.

But he let you say it.

And he let himself believe it.

Bit by bit.

Day by day.

It happened on a Tuesday night.

Nothing special. No trigger. Just something in the way he looked at you across your couch—like he was trying to memorize you in case you vanished again.

You were half-asleep, legs tangled with his under the blanket, your head resting against his shoulder.

He hadn’t said much that night. Had barely touched his food. And his knee kept bouncing like his whole body was buzzing with something he couldn’t say.

“Riki?” you whispered. “Are you okay?”

He nodded too fast. Then didn’t say anything.

You sat up a little. “Talk to me, baby.”

And that’s when his chin wobbled.

Just barely. Just enough to see it.

His lips parted, but no words came out. Just a sharp breath—like he was trying so hard to keep it in.

You reached out. Touched his cheek.

And he shattered.

His shoulders curled forward, face crumpling as a sob slipped out before he could stop it.

“I—I don’t know how to trust this,” he choked out. “It feels like a dream. And I keep waiting to wake up and realize you don’t want me again.”

Your heart cracked open. “Riki…”

“I keep thinking about all the times you pulled away. The way you looked at me like I was too much. Like you didn’t want to be touched. Or needed. Or loved. And I—I still feel it. Even now. I feel it in my chest every time you go quiet, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

He was crying now. Hard.

Messy, shaking, trying to wipe his tears with the sleeve of his hoodie but failing miserably.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crawled into his lap.

Held his face in your hands.

Pressed your forehead to his as his whole body trembled beneath you.

“I did that to you,” you whispered. “And I will spend every single day undoing it.”

His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from floating away.

“I need you to believe me,” you said, brushing the tears off his cheeks. “I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not ever.”

He let out a broken sob.

“I want to believe you,” he whispered. “So bad. But it hurts.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Let me love you through it.”

And you did.

You kissed his cheeks, salty and soft.

You held him as he cried into your neck, fingers digging into your back, breathing ragged like he didn’t know how to let go of the fear yet.

And when he finally calmed down, when his breathing slowed and he curled into you like a little kid, all he could whisper was:

“Don’t stop loving me.”

You kissed his hair.

“Never.”

You started to notice it in the smallest ways.

The way he laughed at a dumb joke on TV.

The way he reached for your hand without thinking.

The way he texted you “home soon :)” after practice—because you felt like home now.

He wasn’t completely the old Riki. But bits of him were coming back. The sweet, playful version of him that used to ramble about anime and send you blurry pictures of sunsets with captions like “this made me think of you.”

And one night, as you both lay in bed, legs tangled under the covers, he looked at you like he finally believed you were real.

“I feel safe with you now,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

He blinked up at the ceiling, voice soft and uncertain like he was still testing the words. “I didn’t even realize how tense I’ve been. Like I was always waiting for something to go wrong. But now… when you touch me, I don’t flinch. I don’t overthink it. I just… let it happen.”

You turned on your side, heart aching.

His gaze found yours, warm and open. “Is that weird?”

You shook your head. “No. That’s beautiful.”

And then you kissed him.

For the first time—you kissed him.

No hesitation. No waiting for him to make the first move. Just a gentle press of your lips to his. Almost shy. Almost like a question.

His eyes fluttered closed instantly.

And then—he smiled into it.

The kind of smile that tasted like summer and second chances.

His hand found your cheek. He kissed you back, slow and warm and grateful, like he’d been dreaming about this version of you and never thought he’d get to feel it again.

When you pulled back, his lashes were wet.

Not from crying.

Just from relief.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” you whispered, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

He leaned his forehead against yours, a tiny, giddy laugh escaping his lips.

“I did,” he said. “I just forgot.”

Everything was soft now.

The way he reached for your hand under the table.

The way he rested his head on your shoulder during movies.

The way he shyly leaned in for a kiss after brushing his teeth, like he didn’t want to go to sleep without one.

You’d never realized how many things you’d missed until you finally let yourself feel them.

Now, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not the way he hurt. But the way he loved.

And God—how he kissed.

It started one night when you were cuddled on the couch, watching a drama you weren’t even following anymore because all you could focus on was him.

His profile in the low light.

The soft curve of his mouth.

The way his lips moved when he mumbled something sleepy.

And you just… stared.

Like a starved thing.

You’d kissed him a few times since that night he told you he felt safe. But you were still hesitant, still taking it slow for him.

But now?

Now you were the desperate one.

You kept catching yourself looking at his lips, wondering how it ever made sense to pull away from them. To not kiss him every chance you got. To go days, sometimes weeks, without giving him the love he’d begged you for.

You were so stupid.

So, so stupid.

And now all you wanted was to drown in every single kiss you never gave him.

Later that night, in bed, he rolled over to face you. His cheeks were flushed pink, hair messy from the pillow, and his hand was already reaching—softly, sweetly—tracing your wrist.

“I like this version of you,” he whispered.

You blinked at him.

He smiled, a little crooked, a little sleepy. “The one who stares at my lips like she’s gonna eat me.”

You choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God—”

“It’s cute,” he murmured, inching closer. “Kinda hot.”

Your face burned, and your heart stuttered at the way he was teasing you now, just like he used to—like he was finally starting to feel safe again in your arms.

“Riki…” you breathed, hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “I think about kissing you all the time.”

His breath hitched.

Your thumb brushed his lower lip.

“I don’t know why I held back before. I think I was scared. But now I can’t stop thinking about it—how soft you are, how warm, how good you always taste—”

He made the softest sound, lips parting, gaze flicking down to your mouth.

And then he whispered, so low it made your stomach twist:

“Then kiss me.”

You did.

Like you meant it.

Like you’d never stop meaning it.

And when he kissed you back—open, gentle, with a little hum that melted your spine—you finally understood.

You weren’t just making up for lost time.

You were falling in love with him all over again.

After that, the days were soft. Gentle. Something you struggled so hard to welcome. But now, you did. You changed for him. You didn’t push him away anymore. Hugged him from the back when he made breakfast, went on dates, laughed at stupid videos together. And Riki was so happy. You could see it in the way he’d just stare. Stare at you, lips slightly parted, as if he couldn’t believe that this was real. That you were loving him for real this time. And that you’d never stop.

#✦ 𓂂 ℐ𝗏𝗒’𝗌 𝖽͟𝗂͟𝖺͟𝗋͟𝗒﹒ 爱⸝⸝#enhypen scenarios #enhypen #niki x reader #ni ki #enhypen nishimura riki #enhypen niki #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines #nishimura riki #riki x reader #riki angst #nishimura riki x you #nishimura riki x reader #niki nishimura

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blueberrybirdsworld · 2 days ago

Text

Only tonight 1/5

Summary : Lando Norris expected another loud Monaco party after the Grand Prix, what he didn’t expect was her. Charles Leclerc’s little sister, Eléa, dancing like the night was hers to burn. Radiating a freedom he’d never seen before, she wasn’t the quiet girl from the paddock he was used to.

But as the music pulsed and the drinks flowed, something in her laugh didn’t quite ring right. And when she whispered it was her birthday… everything changed. Now Lando make his personal mission to make her birthday unforgivable.

Genre : fluff, consumption of alchool

Pairing : Lando Norris x Leclerc sister (original female character)

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The music throbbed like a heartbeat through the club in Monaco, pulsing under Lando Norris’s skin as lights flickered in chaotic, electric patterns. Post-Grand Prix parties were always loud, messy, and over-the-top, nothing new. But what was new, very new, was her being there.

Lando did a double take when he first saw her: Eléa Leclerc, Charles’s little sister. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Or at least, not like this.

She was laughing too loudly, perched on high heels and holding a drink that was probably stronger than she realized. A pink dress clung to her like second skin as she twirled in the middle of the dance floor with a guy Lando didn’t recognize.

He blinked.

Was this really the same Eléa who barely spoke above a whisper? The girl who’d barely met his eyes whenever they crossed paths in the paddock? The one who once flinched when he made a joke too loud in the Ferrari motorhome?

She looked…free. Drunk, definitely, but also happy. And Lando had no idea how to feel about it.

At first, he stayed on the edge, just watching. He had seen Charles and Arthur earlier in the night, but they’d disappeared, maybe gone for a drink or talking to someone. Whatever it was, Eléa was alone now. And some guys were starting to notice.

Lando shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening as one of them leaned in a little too close, his hand brushing Eléa’s lower back. She giggled and tried to keep dancing, spilling some of her drink as she twirled again, not noticing, or maybe not caring, how the guy’s eyes didn’t move from her body.

That was enough.

Lando moved without thinking.

“Hey,” he said, sliding between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. He placed a gentle hand on Eléa’s shoulder and smiled casually at the guy. “She’s with me.”

The guy frowned but backed off when he saw Lando’s face, recognition flickered. Formula 1 fame did have its uses.

Eléa blinked up at Lando, swaying. “Lan?” she said, and her smile widened like a sunrise. “Lan-doooo!” she sang, poking his chest. “You’re here too! Come dance with me!”

She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the center of the floor. Lando almost stumbled, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm.

“Eléa...hey, wait, wait,wait.” he said, trying to get her attention. “You’re… really drunk.”

She beamed. “Nooo, I’m just a little dizzy. Spinning’s fun. You’re spinning too,” she added, poking his nose.

He laughed despite himself. God, she was adorable. This bubbly, drunk version of her was like someone had taken the quiet Eléa he barely knew and remplace her for a new version of herself.

But she was also vulnerable. And she didn’t see the way people were watching her.

“I think we should get you home,” he said gently.

She pouted, and it was honestly a little unfair how cute she looked when she did it. “I don’t wanna go home. I wanna dance. You never talk to me, and now you’re here, and I like this version of you. You’re nice.”

Lando’s throat tightened. “I’ve always been nice,” he murmured.

“You’ve always been scared,” she teased, then giggled. “Scared my big brother would punch you if you looked at me too long.”

He winced because she wasn’t exactly wrong.

But she was still tugging him into the crowd, still smiling, still trusting him in a way that made his heart ache a little. So he gave in, for a moment. He let her dance, staying close, keeping her steady, always watching the people around them like a hawk.

She laughed too hard when he did a goofy move, almost fell twice but caught herself on his shoulder, and once leaned in close to say something, but forgot what it was halfway through and just rested her head on his chest for a second too long.

He was in trouble.

Finally, when her balance started to really falter and her eyes were getting sleepy, he leaned down and said, “Okay, that’s enough for tonight, superstar. Time to get you out of here.”

This time, she didn’t protest. Just smiled and whispered, “You smell nice.”

He smiled softly and guided her toward the exit, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.

The taxi pulled into the glowing streets of Monaco, quiet jazz playing softly through the speakers as the driver navigated the winding roads. Lando sat on the left, Eléa curled up beside him in the backseat, her head resting lightly against the window.

He leaned forward toward the driver, speaking low but firm. “Could you take her home, please? Somewhere near the port. You lives with Charles right ? Near the port ?"

“Address?” the driver asked.

Lando turned to Eléa. “Hey… What’s your address? Can you tell him where to go?”

She looked up at him, eyes slightly glazed but full of warmth, then turned to the window, pressing her palm against the glass.

“That bakery,” she said dreamily, pointing as they passed a sleepy storefront. “Maman used to take me there on Wednesdays. They had the best tarte aux fraises in the whole world.”

Lando blinked. “Okay… but that’s not your address.”

“I love that corner,” she added, as if he hadn’t spoken. “One time I fell off my scooter right there, cried for twenty minutes. Charles carried me home piggyback.”

Lando smiled faintly despite himself. “That sounds like him.”

The car rolled on. She pointed again. “Oh! That bookstore! I used to hide there to skip piano lessons. I’d pretend to browse but really I was just hiding.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were a little rebel, huh?”

She grinned, eyes shining. “Tiny rebel. Shy but deadly.”

Lando tried again. “Seriously, Eléa, what’s your building? The name? A number?”

But she just waved her hand, distracted by a glowing bar ahead, its art deco sign lit up in golden lights that spilled across the street like honey. “Oooh! That place looks so fun. Stop the car! Stop, stop!”

“Eléa, wait...” he started, but it was too late. She tapped the window, then reached for the door handle, almost slipping on her heels as she tumbled out onto the curb.

“Merciii, monsieur!” she called over her shoulder, blowing a kiss to the taxi driver before twirling in place.

Lando groaned and paid the fare quickly, muttering an apology as he slid out of the car and chased after her.

She was already halfway to the entrance of the bar.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he said, catching her arm gently. “You're drunk, and I don't even know if this place will let you in.”

“It’s beautiful!” she spun to face him, eyes wide as she looked up at the glowing sign.

Lando looked at the bar. It did look like a lovie set, brass railings, velvet drapes, a jazz quartet playing on a low stage. Inside, people were dressed classier than your average Monaco crowd, sipping cocktails from old-fashioned glasses. It was… surprisingly charming.

“This is a bad idea,” Lando said as she dragged him through the door.

But she was already at a table near the stage, plopping into the velvet seat and waving to the waitress. “Can I get… hmm… everything! One of everything on the cocktail menu!”

Lando slid into the seat across from her, wide-eyed. “Okay, no. Cancel that. Just water. Five glasses of water, please.”

The waitress gave him an amused look but nodded. “Coming right up.”

Eléa was practically bouncing. “Lando, Lando, look! The lights are twinkling! And the piano, oh, that’s such a nice sound, right? It makes me want to learn piano again.”

He smiled. “You’re… really enthusiastic about everything, aren’t you?”

Eléa was twirling her hair when she said, almost offhandedly, “I like happy places.”

He nodded, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

She smiled, big and genuine. “Mmhmm. And today’s a happy day. You know why?”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

She sipped her water, grinning behind the glass. “Because it’s my birthday.”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

Lando blinked. “Wait. What?”

She set the glass down and giggled, swaying a little. “It’s my birthday! I’m twenty-two. Isn’t that wild?”

“You’re serious?” His voice was quiet now.

“Completely.” She twirled in her seat, arms spread again. “Happy birthday to meee!”

He stared at her, heart slowly sinking. “You’re out here. Alone. On your birthday?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “Well… not anymore. You’re here now.”

He didn’t smile back. “Eléa… why aren't you celebrating it with your friends? ”

She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the candle on the table. “Everyone’s busy. It’s the Monaco GP. Charles had a podium today. Big deal. Big celebrations. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” he said immediately.

She shrugged. “I didn’t even think anyone would remember.”

Lando felt like something had lodged in his throat.

“You don’t have friends here?” he asked gently.

She gave a sad little laugh. “All my friends were in London. I studied there. I moved back here recently but… it’s like starting over. Except worse. Because I’m the sister of Charles Leclerc. You know how that goes.”

He did.

“People only saw Charles,” she went on. “Or Arthur. Never me. I was the background character in their story. Always the tagalong. Even when I tried to make friends, they just wanted to get close to my brothers.”

Lando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had never thought about what her life must be like from the inside. From the outside, it looked perfect: Monaco, the Leclerc name, beautiful and sweet.

But tonight, she looked anything but perfect. She looked real. And heartbreakingly lonely.

“Why not spend the night with your family, then?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stirred the melting ice in her glass, watching the swirl of liquid.

Lando’s chest ached.

“Charles is celebrating with Ferrari. Arthur and Lorenzo are probably with him. It’s the same every year. I don’t even blame them. It’s not their fault the race is always this weekend. But it still sucks.”

Her voice cracked, and she tried to smile through it, but it crumpled at the edges.

“I just wanted to feel special. Even just a little. Even just tonight.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then Lando reached across the table and took her hand, gently, slowly.

“You are special,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but focused.

“Then why does it feel like I’m always the one left behind?”

He didn’t have an answer.

So instead, he squeezed her hand tighter.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But not tonight. Tonight, you’re not alone. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Taglist: @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @skzvibes-blog, @beathreat, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @nightrose-18, @f1fantasys, @tylerstacobell, @sarx164, @lalalalaland92, @avocadomuncher15, @cherryhazee @nicooolsstuff, @strawberrylov-er, @delightfulfoxconnoisseur, @mxneyjoee, @anunstablefangirl @easy4, @nataliambc @rebecca-9 @lyfewma @lizaberry152348

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biohorror-human · 3 hours ago

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People have already shut down all these arguments a million times before. pissvortex's most popular post is literally just a screenshot of me losing an argument about this exact thing. That being said:

1: Not all porn is made equal.

It's hard to even find a place to start with what you wrote, because your problems with porn range from something as direct as "porn is sometimes made with non-consenting actors" to something as many abstractions out as "the fantasy you jerked off to was someones real lived trauma" which... okay? People have free will and can jerk off to whatever they want. There is no difference between whether or not someone jerks off to this idea in their head or while watching porn.

Immediately, something needs to be clarified, because you somehow you seem to have misunderstood what OP meant by "draw porn" and made this big mess because of it:

1: drawn porn cannot contain non-consenting actors. The human imagination is fully consensual because it is not real. And so bringing up the topic of live action porn would be irrelevant to the post.

2: since you brought up the topic of live action porn: we are obviously not condoning raping and murdering indigenous women to make crazy snuff porn. In fact, this is already a solved problem everywhere due to laws relating to "raping and killing people is illegal" and "distributing illegally produced rape and murder porn is also illegal". So, wish granted i guess.

The reason it still happens is because people are fucked up and will do anything for money, and some people who are really fucked up have money. This is a capitalism issue, and a "lack of protections for indigenous people" issue. Not a porn issue. It should have gone without saying that sexual art and real life snuff films, while both being "porn", are fundamentally different. This is because one is made with a drawing pad, or paid actors, or just a video camera and a horny couple, and the other is made with rape and murder. Didn't think it needed to be clarified that the rape and murder is uniquely bad and the key element which differentiates itself from sexual art, seeing as it is already super illegal to make, but you're the one who wrote an essay citing it as a reason for all porn to be banned.

2: i, [name], solemnly swear not to recreate what i saw the actors do on the TV

The reason "gender oppressors", usually men, do the things they see in porn to other people is NOT because the porn told them they could do that. It is because society told them they can do whatever they want, and they decided to do what they saw in the porn to a non-consenting party they firmly believed they held power over. This is different from the reason you ended up hurting your partner, which is because you tried to recreate the wwe move you saw on TV on your partner who did not know you were going to try that. That's why you stopped hurting your partner after you quit watching porn: you didn't actually realize what you did wrong, you just stopped getting sexual inspiration from paid actors.

If it isn't abundantly clear yet, "that" (the text highlighted in blue) is not a problem that can be solved by banning porn, because: you can imagine sexual fantasies too. people do not become evil rapists because they saw evil rapist porn, they become evil rapists because they want to rape people and jerked off to it before they gathered the courage to actually do it. Like, everyone is capable of being a rapist, it's just that people know not to do that. I can watch rape porn and not think "wow i want to rape someone irl" for the exact same reasons i can play grand theft auto and not think "wow i want to kill hookers with bats and take their money". All arguments for banning one type of art must also be able to hold up for banning other kinds of art. Unlucky for the "violent porn causes violence" crowd, "violent video games cause violence" is a hypothesis that has already been disproven innumerable times.

While you didnt make this connection in your argument, your statements about how "all art is political" is related to your theory that porn is what teaches men that philipino women are the hottest thing since enslaved black women: as you correctly pointed out, apolitical art does not exist. But art that refuses to take a stance on the political topics relevant to its themes does exist, and when that happens, you can see the politics of its creator by looking at what it chooses not to say. Apolitical pornography, due to its uncritical engagement with current social dynamics, reinforces the existence of those social dynamics. This means that political porn, and porn that is critical of current systems of oppression can (and does) exist. This is what people are talking about when they say "drawing porn is an act of defiance". The individual ability for people to make porn that is actually defiant ranges, but in a world that is so dominated primarily by puritanism, and secondarily, by repulsion towards anything not strictly heterosexual, the current bar for what is considered "defiance" is: "anything that is meant to be sexually charged on purpose". This bar will get higher as society moves beyond those two deeply unserious ideas.

3: im the subject of humiliation on a post with 120k notes because i lost this exact fucking argument while arguing your position

While pornography can be used to normalize patriarchal ideas, so can every other genre of art. Singling out pornography as uniquely evil among other kinds of art and suggesting that it is uniquely terrible because the sexual element enables extra evil is so unmistakably idealist that im surprised you still have the gall to give @frankenstinegirlz shit for thinking some radfems are nice when you directly share one of the most idealist parts of their ideology that get them labeled as reactionaries in the first place.

Pornography, which, in the simplest way possible, is just "sexual art", already exists. We are not going to retvrn to an idealized past where everyone forgets it happened after we ban it. It is not a monolith that can be destroyed, it is a cemented genre of art that will exist as long as art and sexuality intersect in the minds of artists. The fact that this specific genre of art is used to normalize heteropatriarchal sexual violence is not the fault of the genre, in the same way that the genre of action movies and shooter games being used to normalize US imperialism by depicting the actions of these governments as necessary and good is not the fault of the genres. To imply that the role shooter games have historically played in justifying and advertising US imperialism is the fault of the genre discounts the existence of shooter games that are used to show the unnecessary depravity and horror of US imperialism. The majority of porn may be to the medium of "sexual art" what call of duty is to the genre of action shooters, but don't forget that the very same genre also produced spec ops: the line.

4: loose ends

Just in case i didnt properly get my messages across earlier because it was too obtuse or i just didnt explain it well, here's a rundown of some of my points, or things i may have missed:

Porn does not cause sexual violence in the same way that shooter games do not cause gun violence. The first andrea dworkin quote was dumb, she's a radical feminist and her radical feminist beliefs are wrong. Patriarchy precedes exposure to porn.

That second Andrea Dworkin quote was dumb too. I'm sure some of my violent actions in gta happened to real civilians, but the main difference between those poor gta civilians and real civilians is that gta civilians are not real and what i do to them doesnt affect people in the real world.

Porn, like any genre of art, can be used by the artist to project their beliefs. Some of these beliefs will be fucked up. Using this as a reason to ban an entire genre of art is actual satanic panic levels of reasoning skills.

5: moral of the story

If basically all of your arguments can be taken down with a GTA allegory, your argument isn't very good. And you're going in the hole for uncritically supporting radfem ideology, which is worse than frankenstinegirlz who doesn't support radfem ideology (like you) and just thinks that the individuals can still be nice.

@murlopal i figured id @ you in my response despite not really including you since you're part of this larger argument now anyways. Also, the response you wrote was really good.

@frankenstinegirlz @ing you too because youre part of this as well. +im sorry for dragging you during this i just had to make a point about last-tarrasque's hypocrisy and i know comparing them to the person they drag constantly (you) would hit the hardest, so consider your debt from the "some radfems are nice" post repaid. I'm not letting you off the hook, I'm just gonna stop giving you shit for it. Again, i apologize for the dragging.

Drawing porn is an act of defiance. It has been for some time, given that it goes against the puritan morals of the church, but it's more than ever a sign of defiance.

Fuck mastercard. Fuck visa. Fuck any payment processor that gets bullied into slashing queer content AND horny slop. That's MY fucking horny slop and if I want to access it, as a grown ass adult with money, LET ME.

Draw porn. Write porn. I don't care how much skill you have, make it! Don't let them censor you! Don't let them tell you what you can and cannot enjoy!

BE UNMARKETABLE

STAND WITH THE PORN ARTISTS

We've been telling you this for years! Censorship won't stop at what you don't like! It never will. Stand for us before there's nobody to stand for you.

#hrnnggggg i love arguing #good to be back

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rosemaryhoney27 · 2 days ago

Text

Ghost in the Alley – Part 4 end

Ghost in the Alley – Part 4

Vlad Masters was a man who prided himself on control.

For years, he had maneuvered himself into power—business, politics, the supernatural. No one could touch him. His wealth made him untouchable. His power made him feared.

Gotham was supposed to be the same.

He had connections here. Friends in high places. He should have been able to take what he wanted, just like always.

He hadn’t expected Crime Alley.

And he certainly hadn’t expected

Red Hood.

Vlad had barely left the hospital when Red Hood paid him a visit. He was still bruised from the last mugging, his ribs aching from what was surely a hairline fracture. He was furious, humiliated, and ready to have someone disappear.

Then Red Hood kicked in the door.

Vlad barely had time to react before he was slammed against the wall, a gun pressing against his jaw, charged with a glowing green light.

Not ectoplasm.

Lazarus energy.

Vlad’s throat tightened.

Red Hood’s voice was low. Dangerous. “I know what you are.”

Vlad forced himself to smirk. “Do you?”

“I did my research,” Hood continued. His knee pressed harder against Vlad’s chest. “I know what a halfa is.”

That made Vlad freeze.

No one knew. No one should know.

Hood’s grip tightened. “See, I wasn’t sure what your deal was at first. But then I saw Danny wreck those GIW bastards who had tried to come after me. And I thought—that’s interesting.”

Vlad’s smirk slipped.

Hood tilted his head, considering. “I figured you’d come here eventually. Because people like you? You don’t like losing. You don’t like letting things go. You think everything belongs to you.” His voice went deadly quiet. “Danny does not belong to you.”

Vlad gritted his teeth. “He’s my responsibility—”

Hood punched him.

Hard.

Vlad saw stars.

He barely registered Hood yanking him up by the collar.

“You listen real close,” Hood said, voice like steel. “Danny is ours now. Crime Alley’s. Gotham’s. You touch him, you even think about hurting him, and you’ll be dealing with more than just me.”

Vlad swallowed thickly. His ghost instincts screamed danger.

Hood smiled. It wasn’t friendly. Not that Vlad could see it due to the helmet.

“ Here’s the deal, fruitloop.”

Vlad stiffened.

Hood’s grin widened. “Yeah, I know that nickname. I know a lot. You leave Danny alone, you stay out of Gotham, and you never send anyone after him again.”

His grip tightened.

“Because if you do? I don’t care how powerful you think you are—I will find a way to end you.”

Vlad felt something deep, unsettling, primal twist in his core.

Red Hood was human. Mortal.

But in that moment, looking into those Lazarus-tainted eyes that glowed through the helmet, Vlad felt something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Fear.

Hood let go. Vlad crumpled to the floor.

The last thing Hood said before walking out the door was quiet. Final.

“Danny has family now. And we don’t forgive.”

Then he was gone.

And Vlad, for the first time in his long, miserable life, realized—

He had lost.

Back in Crime Alley…

Danny sat on the roof of an old apartment building, staring at the city.

Jason dropped down next to him, silent for a while.

Then—

“He won’t bother you again.”

Danny exhaled. “How bad was it?”

Jason shrugged. “A few bruises. Some threats. Nothing permanent.”

Danny hummed. “Guess I should say thanks.”

Jason snorted. “Nah. You saved my ass against the GIW. Consider it even.”

Danny smirked, but it faded as he looked back at the skyline.

“…I spent years thinking I was on my own.”

Jason stayed quiet.

Danny swallowed. “I guess I’m not.”

Jason glanced at him. Then—like it was no big deal—he reached over and ruffled Danny’s hair.

Danny squawked. “Dude—boundaries!”

Jason just grinned. “Too bad. You’re officially a Crime Alley mascot. We get to mess with you now.”

Danny groaned. “You’re the worst.”

Jason’s grin softened.

“You’re not alone, Danny.”

Danny blinked.

Then—tentative, hesitant—he smiled.

“…Yeah. I guess I’m not.”

Gotham stretched out in front of them, dangerous and dark.

But Crime Alley was home.

And Danny was finally, finally safe.

The End.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #jason todd #danny fenton is a little shit #vlad plasmius

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scoupsakakitty · 2 days ago

Note

A 14th member request .All the members are performing on the stage (outdoor one) and it's too windy and the stylish gave reader a short skirt, which is making her uncomfortable to perform because she has to hold on it , because every time the wind passes by her the hem of the skirt keep flying and reveling her safety shorts (this had happened with so many female idols) , what will be the boys reaction to it .

Not like This | SEVENTEEN x 14thMember | fluff, angst

The bass hit hard beneath their feet, shaking the outdoor stage with every beat. Light flooded the crowd, signs waving, fans screaming — the usual chaos of a summer festival. But not everything was going smoothly.

It was the wind.

From the very first verse, it had been strong. But by the second chorus, it was downright aggressive. And that became a problem — a very visible problem.

Every time a gust passed, the hem of her skirt lifted.

Not slightly. Enough that her black safety shorts underneath flashed with every movement. Enough that she had to break from choreo, reach down mid-dance, and press the fabric down with one hand.

She tried to keep performing — face bright, steps clean — but she was clearly tense. Eyes darting. One hand glued to her skirt. It wasn’t just annoying. It was humiliating.

Jeonghan noticed first. During a formation shift, he turned his head just slightly, caught her stiff posture, the way her jaw was locked. He didn’t ask anything out loud. Just moved a little closer, shoulder brushing hers as they switched places.

Behind him, Seungcheol caught the gesture. And then he saw it, too — her yanking the skirt down again as another gust hit, trying to keep dancing like it was nothing.

His face didn’t change. But his entire body stiffened.

He looked toward the side of the stage. The stylists were standing just out of view. Without missing a step, he crossed his arms in a sharp X in front of his chest. A silent message, but a firm one. Not part of the choreography. Not for fans. This was for staff.

Unacceptable.

No one moved.

Mingyu, farther down the line, noticed the same thing. And without even blinking, he pulled off his overshirt and tossed it across the stage toward her — smooth, fluid, like it was just another part of the show. She caught it, stunned, then quickly tied it around her waist.

Their eyes met. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once.

She exhaled, barely.

The rest of the members started shifting, instinctively adjusting formation. Hoshi leaned in slightly behind her during a spin. Joshua, next to her during the final verse, drifted closer — no longer standing side by side, but just a little ahead, blocking the cameras’ angle.

And still, she kept dancing. Even as her cheeks burned. Even as her throat tightened.

The song ended with synchronized final poses. The crowd roared. They bowed, smiled, waved — all perfectly rehearsed.

But the moment they stepped off stage, that polish cracked.

Behind the curtain, the mood was different. Tense. Silent. The wind didn’t follow them back here — but the frustration did.

Seungcheol was the first to speak.

“Change the skirt,” he said, voice low but firm.

A stylist blinked. “She had safety shorts—”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, still calm, but colder now. “She couldn’t perform properly. Everyone saw it.”

She tugged at the tied flannel around her waist, still catching her breath. Her eyes dropped to the floor. “It kept flying up,” she said, finally. “Every few seconds. I—I couldn’t focus.”

Jeonghan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She said she was uncomfortable with it earlier. You told her it’d be fine.”

“It wasn’t,” Mingyu muttered, jaw tight. “She had to keep pulling it down. That’s not fine.”

Hoshi threw a towel over his shoulder, arms crossed. “You’re lucky she didn’t trip. She couldn’t even lift her arm half the time. She had to hold her clothes down.”

“I tried,” she mumbled, swallowing hard. “I really tried to keep going. But it felt like every time I spun, the whole stage could see—”

She stopped. Blinked hard. Shook her head.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t cry over a skirt.”

“Hey.” Joshua stepped forward, soft but serious. “You’re not crying over a skirt. You’re crying because you were uncomfortable in front of thousands of people and had to pretend like everything was okay.”

Dino sat down beside her on the bench, offering a bottle of water. “You still did amazing. I mean it.”

“I didn’t feel amazing.” Her voice cracked just a little. “I felt like I was constantly fixing something instead of dancing. It was so distracting, and I kept wondering if someone was gonna screenshot it, or if fancams would—” She cut herself off again.

Vernon leaned against the wall, arms folded. “We all saw it. No one’s blaming you.”

“The outfit should’ve never been cleared,” Wonwoo said simply. “Especially not with this weather.”

The stylist tried again. “She looked fine from the front—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol said. “She didn’t feel fine. That’s the line.”

No one dared to argue after that.

The room went still again, filled with the hum of the speakers outside and the sound of fans screaming for the next act.

“I’m changing,” she said after a beat. She stood up, wiped under her eyes with the sleeve of Mingyu’s shirt still tied at her waist. “Give me pants. Anything. I don’t care if it doesn’t match.”

“You’ll get something proper,” Jeonghan said. “And next time, if they don’t listen to you, we’ll make them.”

“Next time I’ll say it louder,” she replied quietly.

Seungcheol’s expression softened, just a little. “You shouldn’t have to say it more than once.”

There was a knock — stage staff calling them to standby for the next group photo segment.

As she walked toward the dressing room, Mingyu fell into step beside her. “I tied that thing like garbage, by the way.”

She gave him a weak smile. “It saved me.”

Hoshi called after them. “If anyone posts fancams zooming in on the wind, we’re reporting every single one!”

Seungkwan added dramatically, “Petition to ban the weather.”

Everyone laughed.

And for a moment, it felt a little less heavy.

But Seungcheol didn’t laugh. He stood at the back of the group, watching quietly. Already replaying everything in his head — what was missed, what should’ve been caught earlier, what needs to change.

Because he’s the leader.

And his team is his responsibility.

And no one performs like that again.

Not on his watch.

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onaswife · 8 hours ago

Text

Your reflection, my secret.

Couple: Alexia x reader

AU!Omegaverse, Omega x Alpha

Note: with the help of @futbolfatale and @sachanobie were my great beta readers. First story over 5k (9,4k) words since I started writing. I hope you like it and sorry if there are any mistakes, I'll fix them this afternoon!

Summary: They met at La Masia when they were eleven. At first, Alexia couldn't stand her. Then, she couldn't be without her. They grew up together. They fell in love. They separated.

Years later, fate brings them together again in the place where it all began: FC Barcelona. But this time, there's more than one open wound… and a little girl with the eyes of an Alpha who never knew she was a mother.

2005, February.

It would be your first year at La Masia. You had always dreamed of being able to play soccer and appear on television like Messi, Thierry, or Ronaldinho. Alphas that are bigger and stronger than their competitors. You dreamed of being like them, shining on the field like they did, and winning as many trophies as they seemed to.

Your parents had received a new job opportunity in Barcelona, near La Masia, so you were quite excited to see this magnificent place, which was like a dream come true for you.

"Mommy, can we go see a Barcelona game?" you asked as you passed a large advertisement for the men's first team, unable to take your eyes off it, as if hypnotized by it. "I don't know, honey. I don't know if your father can take you," you nodded with a small, sad smile on your face.

You knew it was a nearly impossible choice to make. Your parents didn't earn much more than they needed to survive with you, so you had learned over the years not to ask for more than they gave you. Although you knew they both had good jobs, you preferred not to ask for much.

You continued walking through the vast, endless streets of Barcelona, enthralled by the sight of so many colors and so many smells. The smell of salt coming from the sea, the smell of bread and coffee that filled the streets, and the roses that were everywhere. Being an alpha means you have a heightened sense of some when compared to betas and omegas. Being able to smell even the tiniest details helped make everywhere you travel just a little bit more magical. Though it was a landscape that unconsciously made you smile. It wasn't as if the place you lived before wasn't as beautiful. They lived in a colorful city too, but it was a totally new experience in Barcelona, where the sun seemed to rest without a schedule above your head.

You were lost in your thoughts as you listened to your mom talking about what she would make for lunch and telling you about interesting things she had seen during those days. You looked up, and it was, in your opinion, the best decision.

You saw two things: first, the large letters indicating you were passing outside La Masia, and second, a girl who seemed to be the same age as you, with dark hair tied in a high ponytail, a height similar to yours, although she seemed a few inches taller.

You looked up at your mother, who was watching your dreamy gaze from above. "Someday you'll get there... with your father, we'll do our best, love." She squeezed your hand and continued walking by your side, with a firm step.

That day, you couldn't stop thinking about that girl, about how she seemed to own the place. You wanted to be her friend and be able to play with her, since you could tell how good she was at playing, you could see it in the confidence she exuded.

As evening fell, you walked back. You were alone, not very welcome at your new school, being a foreigner and not fluent in either of the two languages spoken in the city. You knew how to speak two languages, or rather, three. Your mother was Italian, born in Sicily, while your father was French, born in Montpellier. They met in Sicily when your father went on vacation there before starting university, and there he fell madly in love with the Italian girl with beautiful eyes. Although he didn't know any Italian (only Ciao and Salve, which were basically the same thing), they both fell deeply in love, regardless of the language barrier. This led to both languages being spoken at home. Later, you learned English at school, and you became more interested when you saw that the soccer players spoke more English.

You passed by the side of a soccer field, near where your mother bought the delicious pastries they used to eat for dessert at dinnertime. You watched with excitement as boys and girls played there, all wearing shirts of one of your Barcelona idols, having the fun you so wanted to.

You sighed, ready to continue walking home, until a really sweet-looking lady approached you, speaking Spanish to you, which you didn't understand at all. She seemed really confused when she didn't get a response, and you were afraid she might get angry and yell at you. Instead, she just pointed at the court, followed by a "play" sound.

You looked at the lady, then at the court, back at her, and back at the court one last time. She saw the doubt in your eyes, so she gently grabbed your arm and led you to the others.

You enjoyed that day like never before, until it ended. Your mom arrived, worried.

As soon as she saw you, she ran to hug you worriedly, examining you from head to toe while you giggled at the tickling she was doing. "Mom, I'm fine. The lady there let me play." Your smile had never been brighter than it was in that moment, making it impossible for your mother to stay mad at you.

She grabbed your hand as soon as she stood up and walked toward the kind woman from before. They exchanged a few words you didn't understand while they both laughed. You managed to understand that your mother had mentioned your name, and the lady was looking at you with a kind smile.

They stayed talking for about 20 minutes while you looked at the pitch. Your mood had really changed just by playing 30 minutes of the game, where you had scored 4 goals and provided 2 assists, in addition to nearly saving a spectacular goal that your team had almost scored. You looked at your mother, who seemed to be saying goodbye to the other woman, until someone, a tall man with black hair, approached you. The man looked like some kind of coach, with a cap and some papers under his arm.

You exchanged a few words. Mom looked at you happily, and the man smiled at you before leaving.

The walk was silent, but not awkward. You were worried that maybe someone had said something bad about you to your mother, while your mother was waiting to be able to break the news as soon as your father got home.

They arrived, but not before buying your favorite cake. As soon as they entered, you saw your dad sitting on the couch waiting for them with a big smile on his face. You let go of your mother's hand and ran to hug him. The normal behavior for a young alpha wasn't to be so cheerful, but with your parents, it was impossible not to be. They both loved and adored you with all their being, and you returned them with all the love you could.

"Mommy told me she was worried because you hadn't arrived," he whispered against your hair, leaving soft caresses on your back as you excitedly told him about your day, skipping school almost the entire day and only telling him about the game you had. He looked at your mother as she approached to greet her, and they both listened attentively as you talked nonstop, until you got out of your father's arms and began showing them how you had scored the goals you had.

You liked afternoons like this, when your mother didn't have to work late and your father came home early, telling you about his day or simply listening to you chatter about everything you'd seen during the day.

"Our little girl was seen by important people today," your mother finally spoke as you and your father sat at the table, staring with the same expression at the food your mother had placed in front of you both. "And they have a really good offer, which I know Y/N will like." She caressed your hair, and you instinctively looked at her, your mouth full of food and your eyes dreamy.

"So? Tell me more." Your father was in the same condition as you, his mouth full and his eyes full of anticipation for the new news.

"After the game today, a man approached us and..." He stopped as he began to put things in the refrigerator. You looked at your father, who was almost eager to listen.

"Please finish telling us," you both shouted in unison, practically in tears. Your mother finally returned to the table and sat down with you. "What was I telling you? I forgot," she had a mocking smile on her face, knowing what was making you lose your patience. "Someone saw our daughter playing, and what else?" your father explained and asked as he took your mother's hand. You did the same, looking at her with palpable anxiety on your face.

"Oh, yes."

"Oh, yes, what?"

"He was a recruiter," she answered simply enough, making you squeal in your seat while your father looked at her excitedly. "Recruiter of what, love?" You looked at your father with a look of disbelief.

"So he can join us in collecting garbage..." your mother responded sarcastically as she looked at him. "Soccer recruiter, love." You jumped out of your seat, looking at her expectantly.

"Where's he from, Mommy? A local team wants me to play? Did you hear, Daddy?" You spoke quickly, the excitement that seemed to rush through your body in a second.

"Barcelona, well, he said he was from La Masia."

You remained silent, your skin prickling, and you stared at a fixed spot on the table, where the food was getting colder with the passage of time and your emotions. They both knew you, so they waited for you to process the news. When you finally did, you started screaming and running around.

You calmed down a few minutes later and began to cry in your mother's arms as she stroked your hair. "I told you you'd make it, love, you're the best," she murmured, placing a kiss on one of your tear-stained cheeks. "This deserves a big celebration. We have to tell your grandparents."

That February 19th was the official day of your debut in professional soccer.

Being eleven years old and moving to a country whose language you don't understand isn't easy. It was even less so when you were the only French girl among dozens of Catalans who seemed to have known each other forever. But you didn't let that intimidation come your way. From the first day at La Masía, you ran through the hallways, greeting everyone with great energy, your accent strong, and your smile even bigger. You didn't understand a word anyone was saying, but that didn't stop you.

Alexia looked at you from afar, frowning. "That new girl spoke strangely, was too loud, and always wanted to hug everything," she murmured to her younger sister. For the first few weeks, she ignored you or simply pretended you didn't exist. Sometimes she would comment to Alba that the French girl was crazy, that she laughed at everything and spoke as if the world should understand her. Sometimes she would even refer to you as "French..." followed by an adjective for you.

But there was something... that caught her attention.

The way you trained seriously even though you didn't understand the instructions. How you celebrated every goal your teammates scored as if it were your own, how you laughed even when you lost.

Your parents' story seemed to repeat itself with you.

Your first interaction was during training. The team was divided into two teams of 7 to test their teamwork. You ended up on the same team as Alexia.

Both of you wanted the ball, but neither of you was willing to let it go. You were playing well, but it bothered you to hear Alexia yelling at you in Catalan to let her shine.

"Pass it!" Alexia yelled.

"You're marked," you replied.

"Do it anyway!"

"No!"

She kicked the ball away from you with a clean kick. She dribbled arrogantly, and you felt your face boil as she watched Alexia shake off both of her markers, but missed miserably on goal.

"Stubborn French girl," she muttered without looking at you, and you clenched your fists.

"Catalan autoritaire," you said, even more quietly. (Bossy Catalan)

The other girls laughed at the little argument.

You really tried to get along with Alexia. She was one of the few girls your age. Most were younger, and the others were about to make their debut with the first team, which frustrated you. You didn't know what else to do to make Alexia like you.

But nothing seemed to be enough.

Every attempt to fit in with Alexia ended in frustration. You didn't fully understand what she was saying, but you could read her gestures, her averted glances, her cold silences when you sat next to her in the cafeteria or on the bus. You had tried everything.

You had heard her tell one of your teammates that you were "too much," that you were always on top of her, that you didn't know when to stop. So you stopped talking so much, lowered your laughter, and held back in practice. Even when you scored a goal, you just raised your fist in silence. You stopped running up to your teammates to hug them, even though the urge to do so was still there in your chest.

You changed, you molded yourself, just to fit in with her. To please her. Until one afternoon, in the middle of practice, you realized how ridiculous it was.

Alexia had yelled at you again. You didn't know exactly what she said, but you immediately understood the annoyed tone. And then you stopped. With the ball still at your feet, you stared at her.

"Je suis fatiguee de ça," you muttered angrily, barely audible to the others. (I'm tired of this.)

She frowned.

"What?"

"I'm tired!" you blurted out, kicking the ball hard into the empty net.

That was the day you decided that if Alexia didn't like you the way you were, then there was no point in trying anymore. You went back to being yourself. You spoke loudly, laughed at silly things, and celebrated every play. The younger girls adored you. And Alexia... well, Alexia started looking at you differently, but she was still trying to keep her distance.

You entered the locker room happy about winning against Espanyol, a crushing 5-0 victory in your favor.

You had assisted two goals and scored two more, which made you quite happy. Therefore, you had started speaking French while explaining to your other teammates how excited you were, and they listened attentively even though they didn't understand a single word.

Alexia, on the other hand, was annoyed. She had missed a few passes, had a shot on goal that didn't even come close to landing, and felt beyond stressed seeing your overwhelming happiness.

"Això no és frança," she said as she passed by you and shoved you with her shoulder, making you frown. All the other girls on the team seemed dazzled by the victory, and Alexia seemed to be going through the worst defeat ever seen by humankind. (This is not France)

"Toujours aussi belle, Putellas." you replied back, watching her roll her eyes at your response. (As charming as ever, Putellas)

You felt the atmosphere in the locker room change; now there was a little more tension in the air, which you hated. You quickly grabbed your things and went straight to the showers, with the sole idea of being away from the brunette who was making you angry.

Unfortunately, you had to learn to live with her.

The rooms at La Masía weren't big enough, so you often had to give up sleeping alone to receive a bunk bed in your room and learn to socialize with the person who would now be your roommate.

In your case, and with your luck, you ended up sharing a room with Alexia Putellas.

"J'ai le droit de choisir dans quel lit je dors, c'était ma chambre" you argued as you picked up her suitcase and placed it on the floor, lying down on the bottom bunk. (I have the right to choose which bed I sleep in, this was my room.)

Alexia let out a grunt as she picked up her suitcase again, placing it almost on your lap. "Sí, però jo porto més temps aca." Her gaze was challenging, one eyebrow raised as that mocking smile returned to her lips. (Yes, but I've been here longer.)

"C'est peut-être pour ça qu'ils t'ont pris ta chambre, parce que tu es vieux" you muttered as you settled in, turning your back on her and accidentally knocking her suitcase to the floor again. (Maybe that's why they took your room away from you, because you're old.)

"Francesa sense modals" (French without manners)

"Catalan agaçant" (Annoying Catalan)

That same night, just as you were falling into Morpheus's arms, Alexia threw a pillow from above, landing right on your face.

"You're snoring. How annoying."

You groan, grabbing the pillow and throwing it back, hearing a groan coming from above.

"You're literally snoring like a donkey, shut up!"

Training was always physical; you had to learn how to play well with your body without committing fouls, how to make good tackles. That's why it wasn't unusual for you to end up with bruises after practice.

You never got angry when you were fouled; after all, everyone was learning to be better soccer players together, and to be better, you always have to make more effort and know how to fall and get back up again.

Although, of course, you didn't get angry with the girls who weren't Alexia.

You were in the regular rondo, just finishing training to go to class.

You had squeezed yourself between two defenders; you were closer than ever to scoring a spectacular goal.

You were...

Until you felt a pain spread from your shin up, leaving you lying on the ground while you clutched your foot, pain clearly shooting through your face. She, on the other hand, looked down at you, her face not showing much emotion.

"Deixa de fer espectacle i aixeca't, ni tan sols t'he pegat fort." you growled as soon as you heard her voice, because of course, who else would be more than happy to knock you down with the excuse that she was defending the goal. (Stop putting on a show and get up, I didn't even hit you hard.)

Again, you didn't understand anything she said, but judging by her tone of voice, you knew she must be downplaying your pain, maybe calling you overreacting.

You stood up while trying to plant your foot firmly, feeling a cramp run through your leg, but you continued anyway.

You were fighting for a ball, Alexia hovering behind you, ready to stop your advance and maybe knock you back to the ground. You spun around, stepping on the ball and throwing it back, causing it to pass between Alexia's legs.

"catalan lent" you muttered as you passed her, watching her face turn red with embarrassment. You, on the other hand, kept running. This time, you wouldn't let her slow you down. (slow Catalan)

Your team ended up winning the round. You seemed to have won more than that, watching Alexia retreat, fuming from her ears. A triumphant smile spread across your face.

Even so, you limped past her, your ankle still hurting when you put your foot down, but you pretended as best you could that it wasn't true.

The day continued normally, with a bit of pain and not being able to understand much of the class. You'd been here for at least two months and still didn't understand any Spanish or Catalan. It made you feel stupid not being able to learn another language, even though most of your classmates already knew how. Besides, they'd given you a personal tutor to help you learn the language.

It was already after 10:00, the time they had set for bedtime. You sighed, trying to understand for the eighth time the paragraph you had written in Catalan in front of you.

"Podries apagar la llum? Hi ha alguns que si volem dormir" you heard the angry voice of the girl upstairs. You quickly wiped the tear of frustration that left your eyes and threw your book against one of the desks they had set aside. Then you turned off the light next to your bed and settled in to sleep. (Could you turn off the light? There are some of us who do want to sleep.)

The next morning, you tried to ignore her, not listen to what she had to say. And it worked, until it was time to take a shower.

"Podries apurar-te? vull banyar-me també i ja portes aquí com 2 hores" you heard Alexia yell from outside the bathroom. You had only entered five minutes before she started screaming like a crazy woman. (Would you hurry up? I want to take a shower too, and you've already been here for two hours.)

You sighed, sitting on the toilet lid, while your left foot rested on the edge of the tub. It looked a little ugly, bruised near the bone, and seemed to be swollen. You stared at it for a few more seconds. When you reached out to touch it, the omega outside screamed again, causing you to jump and hit your ankle. You groaned at the sharp pain that shot through your foot again.

You took a quick shower before heading out to your room, where your clothes were waiting for you. You didn't even look at the girl who shared your room, just walked past her, bumping her shoulder with yours while limping slightly.

One way or another, you ended up on the physio table while they checked your ankle. The coach had seen you limping and kicking with less power during training, making him suspicious and sending you for a checkup.

You didn't say a word when the physiotherapist began to gently press on your swollen ankle, the one you'd been trying to hide for a few days. You pressed your lips together, determined not to show any pain. You were an alpha; you couldn't cry over such minimal pain. Besides, it was already humiliating enough to be sent to the physios in front of everyone, especially when you'd tried to prove you didn't need anyone's help.

The bandage was already halfway across the table when you heard footsteps approaching. You thought it was the coach, maybe one of the girls waiting for her turn for physiotherapy. But your body tensed at the sound of that voice.

"Tu també ets aquí, Alexia?" someone said from the other table. It was Laura, another great center back on the U-12 team, one of the few who had also arrived from outside Catalonia (Are you here too, Alexia)

"Només tinc un punt tens a l'esquena," Alexia replied in her usual tone. (Just a sore hip.)

You didn't turn to look at her; you focused on the white ceiling, counting the imperfections in the paint so you wouldn't turn around and throw something, an object, or a word at her. You held your tongue to avoid further fights.

"Saps que ha estat coixejant des de dilluns, oi?" Laura continued, this time in a softer tone, more curious than accusatory, as she nodded toward you. (You knew she had been limping since Monday, right?)

Alexia didn't respond immediately. The sound of Velcro tightening the bandage filled the silence.

"No ho sé, estava jugant normalment, només vaig fer una entrada neta." She defended herself in a subdued voice, hoping to end this awkward conversation and get help quickly. (I don't know. I was playing normally, I just made a clean tackle.)

"Anyway, I should have said that before," Laura added with a sigh. Then, as if she couldn't help it, she added, "Although I think she didn't want them to see her as weak."

You understood that, and from the way your jaw tensed, it was clear it affected you too. You turned your head just a bit, just enough to catch a glimpse of Alexia, who was sitting with her leg dangling, not looking at you, but clearly listening to everything.

Her eyes lifted at the same time as yours. They met for a second. There was no mockery, but no regret either. Just that distant coldness, as if your presence was a constant nuisance.

"Maybe I didn't want certain people to know," you said quietly, in English, with a venomous edge.

Alexia frowned, obviously not understanding anything, but knowing it was coming from you.

"What?" she asked defiantly.

"Exactly," you whispered with a forced smile as you got off the table. The physical therapist ordered you to skip training for a few days, to go to classes, and to apply ice every few hours if the swelling and pain were still there.

You limped out of there, thanking him and not looking back, but knowing her gaze was following you.

The days seemed empty without training. You were restless without the constant exercise. You never really thought about how much you needed the release. It’s taught that young alphas need physical release, otherwise they can lash out at those around them, often physically. It was never something you had to worry about until now. All this pent-up energy is making you jittery.

Lessons are even worse; you can’t seem to focus on anything your teachers are saying. By the time you make it back to your room, your brain is buzzing. You find yourself knocking into objects you normally would have avoided easily. Your room is quiet, and Alexia sits on her bed, book in hand. The title is in Catalan, making it unintelligible to your French eyes. Alexia doesn’t even look up, which you guess could be preferred when compared to her usual snide comments. Her scent is calmer than usual and is missing the tang of sweat that often clings to her skin.

You take a seat at your desk, flipping open your maths book. You turn to the homework for the evening and have to think back to class. The equations on the page look completely unsolvable. You can’t seem to recall anything your teacher said about the subject. You flip back to the page before, but that seems to be of no help either. After spending five minutes staring at the page, you let out a quiet sigh. “Are you just going to stare at it until it solves itself?” Alexia’s voice shocks you. You had almost forgotten she was there. You hum noncommittally; you don’t want to engage in an argument with her. “You need to find the LCD,” you say, looking back at her. She hasn’t even looked up from her book. “ What?”

“The lowest common denominator. Look at the first question, 1/5 + 4/10, it would be ten, so you have to times the 1/5 by 2. It becomes 2/10, then you can add it to the 4/10.” Her explanation does make sense, but you won’t admit that to her. “I completed this unit last week,” she adds almost as an afterthought, though you know it was just to show off. You quickly write down 6/10 and move on to the other equations. Maybe Alexia is really a nice girl with a tough shell. She could have been testing you this whole time to make sure that you deserved to be her friend.

Scratch that whole maybe she is actually kind inside thought. Her ‘’nice’’ behavior lasted all of 5 days, then she was back to her old habits. You had been dealing with her nasty comments and overall bad attitude towards you for long enough. She has no right to treat you with such disrespect like that. You had never done anything to her in your time together.

You walk into your shared room to find her sitting at her desk, feet kicked up, still reading that dumb book from the other day. You push the door shut hard behind you, causing a shiver to travel down Alexia’s spine. You can see the way it moves over her skin. “Did you really need to do that, drama queen?” Alexia’s words are barely audible, but you still pick them up. A side effect of being an alpha, you suppose. “Excuse you.” You whip around, hand on your hip.

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you, but you are going to wish I hadn’t.” You growl, stepping towards her.

“You can’t touch me. You’ll get expelled. It’s in the handbook… Oh, you probably couldn’t read that, you French brat. Since it is in Spanish”

“Je vais te tuer.” You growl, tackling her to the ground, taking her chair to the floor with you. She lets out a scream so loud you can feel your ears pop. (I’m going to kill you)

Before you can get more than a few hits in, someone is pulling you off of her and out of the room.

You really thought everything had changed. Alexia had been a new person to you, helping you with your math homework and seeming willing to help you with anything you needed.

It was like that until your ankle healed and you were playing normally again.

Your ankle was better. Not perfect, but strong enough to return to the rondo. You ran more cautiously, still a little tense, but you felt more confident with each pass. The ball rolled toward you. You controlled it immediately, spun, and darted between two defenders. When you looked up, you already knew who you were up against.

Alexia.

Part of you thought she would step aside, like she had the past few weeks. That she would still be the same person who explained to you that vermell was red and that in decibels, Alexia meant "my name is Alexia." But no. She bumped her shoulder into you and put her foot in just at the right moment to block the ball. It wasn't a violent tackle; it was precise and firm. And it knocked you to the ground.

The whistle didn't blow. It wasn't a foul.

You rolled on the ground, your heart pounding in your chest, and when you looked up, she was already walking away, the ball at her feet. She didn't even look at you.

You didn't need to either.

"Clair..." you mumbled in your French, your voice thick with disappointment. "Back to the same old thing."

You didn't look at her again for the rest of the training session. She didn't come near you either.

When the session was over, you went straight to the locker room, avoiding letting her notice how your eyes were starting to burn, though not from physical pain this time.

Later, in your room, you returned to your old routine: ignoring her.

You silently opened your language books, pretending not to notice her presence.

But she did speak.

"No és personal." That was all she said, sitting on the top bunk, her back against the wall, as if she didn't care much about explaining. (It's not personal.)

You didn't answer. Because for you, it was.

Alexia had been the only one who had seriously tried to help you during those difficult weeks. You had begun to trust her, really. And she, as soon as you returned to the camp, treated you as always.

Like competition.

Like an obstacle.

Like just another nuisance.

And you didn't understand. You didn't understand if it was because you were alpha. Or because you weren't Catalan. Or simply because you were you and she already hated you.

You only knew one thing: you weren't going to trust her again.

Even though something inside you, deep down, hurts more than your injured ankle.

New day, same routine. You woke up listening to Alexia complaining about your "messiness" (you had a pair of slippers lying next to YOUR bed).

"No pots ser més endreçatda? No t'aixecaràs?" she said as she stood beside you with her arms crossed, looking judgmental. (Can't you be more tidy? Aren't you going to get up?)

Alexia grunted, trying to pull the blanket off you while muttering in Catalan.

You recognized her instantly: her usual irritated tone, that half-anger-half-passive contempt. Her words were still difficult to understand, but you knew exactly when she was criticizing you. She could have said "good morning" like any normal person, but no, Alexia Putellas had to start the day with her favorite routine: annoying you.

From your side of the bed, you barely gave her a fleeting glance, still half asleep. Your hair was a mess, your face buried in the pillow, and you had no desire to interact with her. Without a word, you rolled over and wrapped yourself tightly under the blanket as if you could disappear from the world. Or at least from it.

"Ugh, you're so annoying..." Alexia grunted impatiently.

You heard her getting closer. Too close.

Suddenly, a sharp tug on the blanket made you grip the edges tightly. She was trying to pull it off you as if it were a personal battle.

"Stop!" you protested quietly, not moving, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Desperta't ara!" she muttered under her breath, still tugging, frustrated. Her voice was low but intense, as if she didn't want the other girls to hear her. (Wake up now!)

"Tu n'es pas ma mère!" you snapped in French (You're not my mother!)

"You're not my mother," she snorted, rolling her eyes at the ceiling, "perquè si ho fos, et faria saltar-te l'esmorzar per mandra." (because if I was, I'd make you skip breakfast for being lazy.)

You didn't quite understand, but the intonation was clear. A mockery. Something with "breakfast" and "lazy." The tone was enough to make you want to throw a pillow at her.

She gave one last tug at the blanket, managing to partially uncover you. It was then that you sat up abruptly, your hair disheveled and your eyes squinting in sheer annoyance.

"What's wrong with me, huh? Why are you always on top of me? God, you seem obsessed with me."

Alexia crossed her arms. Her Barça pajamas were a bit too big for her, and the brown lock of hair that always escaped from her bun fell over her left eyebrow, right where she frowned.

"Because you're a mess," she replied, with that coldness that characterizes hers.

"And what are you? The captain of the world order?"

"Almenys jo no faig que la nostra habitació sembli un camp de batalla…" (I don't even make our room look like a battlefield…)

"I don't even understand what you're saying!" you exclaimed, fed up. "You always talk as if I'm not here. As if it weren't even worth learning how to communicate with me."

That stopped her.

For a moment, silence filled the room. Tension hovered between both beds, between the floor and the walls of that shared room that seemed smaller every day.

Alexia looked at you, and for the first time, she didn't seem to have a quick answer. Her expression changed, not much, but enough for you to notice a slight hesitation. But she didn't say anything.

Instead, she turned around, grabbed her towel and toothbrush, and left the room with short, quick steps.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.

You sighed, lying back down. You hated that your day started like this.

You hated even more how much that Omega managed to affect you.

And so the routine continued. Alexia bothering you, showing the other girls that she bothered an Alpha without consequences.

She felt like the queen of the place, wherever she went within La Masia.

You stared at where Alexia was standing.

You had asked permission to nest in a remote, hidden spot, not wanting to suffer any more shame from missing your parents and the smell of home.

But of course, Alexia had to find it and destroy it. Your mother's jackets were thrown inside a black bag, which they normally used for trash. You saw Alexia lift up your father's shirts, ready to throw them out with the rest of the clothes. You felt rage course through you, and in that moment, you understood the saying about "seeing red."

You approached with long strides, your breathing ragged and your fists clenched tightly. You stood behind her, and in a voice you'd never heard before, you spoke to her.

"What do you think you're doing with my things?" Your voice was authoritative. Even though you mispronounced the Spanish words, they sounded more threatening than ever.

Alexia stood stock-still, unmoving, fear creeping down her spine. She turned slowly, seeing your darker eyes and how you seemed ready to attack her. You, on the other hand, grabbed the things from her hands and then pushed her, throwing her aside so you could grab all of yours.

"You really like ruining everything around you. I don't know how you can pretend to be the best player when you're the worst human being," you spoke in a still furious tone, your eyes beginning to sting with tears of frustration, as you tried to calm yourself down so you wouldn't do something you'd regret.

"It's not authorized…"

"I don't care what you think, Alexia. I had permission to do it, but of course, Miss "I Like to Ruin Everything" had to show up and throw her typical tantrum," you said scathingly as you finished picking everything up. "Go to hell, Alexia, you're the worst human being."

You walked past her, pushing her shoulder harder than usual, knocking her to the ground. Before, you'd usually turn around to check on her after pushing her, but now you just kept walking without stopping to think about her and how she was doing. Alexia stood there, sprawled on her butt on the cold ground as she watched you walk furiously away with your parents' things under your arms, and for the first time, she felt truly guilty for making you feel that way.

This time, you came first, nothing more than letting yourself be trampled by a Catalan gâté. (Spoiled Catalan).

A week had passed since that incident…

Since the day you pushed her and left her lying on the ground, Alexia hadn’t bothered you again. No more comments about your shoes, no smug glances in the dining hall, no shoves during training. She didn’t even say anything in the shared room. She almost seemed... ashamed. For the first time since you'd arrived at La Masía, she seemed... absent. Not physically, of course, she was still at training, in the dining hall, in the dorm. But she wasn’t all over you like before, and that confused you more than you wanted to admit.

You, for your part, had rebuilt your little nest in another corner, this time in an even more hidden spot, with your parents’ clothes carefully folded and protected, far away from Alexia Putellas’ hands.

But she wouldn’t stop looking at you from afar. From the dining table or the opposite bench in the locker room. As if she wanted to approach but didn’t know how.

It was one afternoon, during practice on the smaller pitch, when she finally did. It was after you finished gathering your things, sweaty and tired, ready to head to the showers. She blocked your path. Her expression wasn’t arrogant this time, she looked... nervous.

“Hey,” she started, lowering her gaze. “I wanted... to say I’m sorry.”

You said nothing, simply looked at her with a frown. She went on, speaking a bit faster:

“I didn’t know you had permission to make that... nest. I didn’t know those were your parents’ things. I shouldn’t have touched anything.”

The silence that followed was cold and sharp.

“And you think that’s it? ‘I’m sorry’ and it’s all okay?” you spat, taking a step toward her. Alexia stepped back a little but held your gaze.

“No. I don’t think it’s okay. I’m just... trying to change.”

Your laugh was bitter. “Change? Why now? Because you can’t stand that I don’t react the same anymore?” Alexia opened her mouth, but you cut her off before she could speak: “What do you want from me, Alexia? For me to applaud you for apologizing? To forget everything you did? How alone you made me feel? How humiliating it was to see the others laugh while you dragged me down?”

Her expression hardened, hurt. “I had hard things going on too. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I’m just a kid, just like you…”

“No, Alexia! Don’t give me excuses!” you shouted, voice trembling. “You have no idea what it was like to come here without speaking the language well, without knowing anyone, without having my parents, the only people I could speak to freely without being afraid they’d laugh at my accent. And you decided I was the perfect target... and now you say you didn’t know how to handle it?”

There was a moment of silence. The field was nearly empty at that hour, only the distant thud of a ball could be heard. “Why do you hate me so much?” Alexia asked quietly, as if she didn’t want to hear herself say it.

“Because you made me hate my happiness... my identity.”

Alexia swallowed, pressed her lips together, and lowered her gaze. She wanted to say something else, but this time, you didn’t wait. You turned around and started walking toward the locker room.

“Wait!” she called out.

You didn’t stop.

“Please! Give me a chance! Just one... please.”

You stopped in your tracks. Hesitated for a few seconds as the cool afternoon air brushed your face. “One. And if you ever break something of mine again, physical or emotional, I swear I won’t ever speak to you or look at you again,” you said without turning, but loud enough for her to hear.

Alexia said nothing more. But you could feel she smiled right behind you. Not a smug smile, but one of relief. Because for the first time, she had the chance to show you that she could change. That maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost between the two of you.

But you weren’t ready to trust her yet. Not just yet.

It had been about three days since that exchange of words between you two.

Three days since Alexia seemed to change, and all she did was make you uncomfortable.

She stopped making biting comments, no longer waking up and yelling at you to get up. No, now she would simply shower first and then gently tap your shoulder, followed by a quiet, "The shower is ready for you."

You couldn't deny how tense this sudden change in her made you. Her tone of voice had shifted, it was almost the same one she used with her sister or with her other friends, which left you utterly confused.

You got up slowly, savoring the silence you hadn't realized you'd been needing so badly. You took a moment to look around the room, the sun already warming as it poured through the window beside your bed.

You stared out the window, watching how the first rays of sunlight lit up the training fields, making them appear golden. There was something you cherished more than anything else, being able to take your time and appreciate things. The stars at night, the way the sun set, and even waking up a bit earlier to watch the sunrise slowly—it all gave you a sense of peace.

You started your morning routine as you did every day. First, you went to the bathroom to do your business and take a shower.

After that, you got dressed and walked toward your study materials. But something interrupted your routine.

If I ever made you feel alone, today I want you to know that loneliness weighs heavier when you're the one who causes it.

You stood still, staring at the note resting on one of your Spanish books. You didn’t move, simply frozen, looking at Alexia’s neat handwriting.

That was the beginning, Alexia’s written words, found in every corner of your room.

You were about to go to bed after a long day. Alexia had plans to watch movies with some friends, so you'd be alone for the next two hours. You walked slowly, wrapping your shoulders in your blanket, heading toward the bed.

You pulled back the covers, and one of your pillows lifted just enough to reveal a folded piece of white paper written in black ink, standing out among your bedding. You moved closer, and with that same slowness, you picked up the note between your fingers.

I’m not leaving it because I think I deserve forgiveness, I’m leaving it because I don’t know how to say it out loud. I’m sorry for the silence, for the laughter I stole, and the hurt I caused you.

Neither note had a signature, but to you it was obvious who had written them. It had to be Alexia—she shared the same room, had access to all your things, and no one else could’ve done it.

And that was just the beginning—notes started appearing everywhere. Inside your shoes that peeked out from under the bed, inside your pencil case among pens and highlighters, inside your textbooks and notebooks, in the bathroom near the shower, in your wardrobe. They were everywhere. And even though part of you wanted to be mad at her, you felt a strange warmth blooming in your chest.

No matter how much you tried to hate her… You were starting to tolerate her, and maybe, even crave her presence.

Days passed, and the notes didn't stop.

At first, they seemed strange, even invasive, but little by little, they became part of your routine. You almost began to search for them unconsciously, as if your fingers were leading themselves to the most unlikely places: under the chair cushion, inside the sleeve of your jacket, or in the back of your Catalan notebook. And every time you found one, you stopped. You took a deep breath. You read. And you felt something inside you soften, something you had held tense since you arrived at La Masía.

Some notes were brief, others a little longer. Some sounded like apologies, others like confessions, others simply like loose thoughts that she couldn't seem to share out loud.

One of them, written in shakier handwriting than the previous ones.

There are times when I want to talk to you, but I don't know where to start. Sometimes all I get is anger because I'm scared. You... you scare me, and I don't know why. But you also make me laugh. And when you're not around, I miss you.

You found that one in your water bottle the night before a game.

And you, without knowing why, put it in your backpack. Not to read it later. Just... so you wouldn't lose it.

You started to change with her too. Not drastically or obviously. But you could see it in your gestures. You no longer closed your eyes so much when Alexia entered the room. You no longer answered her with monosyllables. In fact, a few nights ago, while you were both eating some snacks you had taken from the kitchen, you were both laughing. You laughed when she tried to ask for more bars and choked on her laughter, making you laugh even harder.

The truth is, there was a part of you that wanted to ask her about the grades. I wanted to know if she wrote them alone or if she was inspired by something, if it was harder for her to let go or think about what to say. But you didn't. Not yet.

Because there was something special in that silence. In that secret language that seemed to form between you from the remains of a relationship broken too soon.

And that night, just before going to sleep, as you stirred your sheets with a tired sigh, you found another note. A smaller one this time.

I don't know how to apologize. But if you let me, I can try to be better to you, every day. -A

And this time, you didn't just keep it. You fell asleep with the folded note under your pillow.

It was November, and the sky outside was cloudy, but it wasn't raining. It was just that quiet chill that made the hallways silent and the air a little slower. The bedroom lights were off, except for the dim lamp on your nightstand, whose golden light fell on the two figures sitting on the bed.

You both shared a large blanket up to their waists, their legs crossed, shoulders almost touching. Each held an identical juice box with a straw, the kind you'd adored since you arrived, and which Alexia had learned to hide to surprise her on days like this.

"They're cold," you murmured with a lazy smile, taking a slow sip of your juice.

"I left them by the window so you'd like them better," Alexia replied, shrugging as if it were obvious. Then she glanced at her. "You like it when they're like this, don't you?"

You nodded, unable to hide your surprise. "Yeah... how did you know?"

"You said it once," Alexia replied, lowering her gaze to her own thoughts. "A long time ago. I wrote it down in my head... like other things about you that I thought were important to remember," she said as a sweet smile began to appear on her face.

You watched her for a few seconds; you didn't say anything, but the silence was comfortable, familiar.

The sound of a long breath enveloped you, while the dull walls of the bedroom were filled with that warm tranquility that only happens to someone who has already become home.

"You know what I like to do sometimes?" you whispered, tilting your head at her. "Look at the stars."

"The stars?" Alexia looked at you, genuinely curious.

"Yeah... when I lived in France, we used to go out into the yard with my parents and lie on the grass. We didn't talk much. We just... watched. I like that. It's like everything is so vast and peaceful at the same time." You took another sip of juice, smiling to yourself. "You can't see them here almost ever."

"We could still watch," Alexia said suddenly, with quiet determination. "Even if there aren't any stars. We can still try."

You turned your head toward her. "Why watch if there aren't any? Wouldn't it be a waste of time, do you think?"

Alexia snorted as she paused to sip her juice. "That's all behind me. I guess it's nice to have a moment like this."

They were silent for a few seconds. The juice straw fizzed with the last sip. You smiled through pursed lips. "That sounds so much like you," you murmured, not wanting to share a look for long. It made your heart beat a little faster.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. "And what am I like, according to you?"

You hesitated for a few seconds, your eyes lowering to the blanket you shared. Your fingers played with the empty cardboard box.

"Sometimes you're clumsy with words, but you don't forget anything important. You act tough, but you care more than anyone. And... well, you give me my favorite juices when it's cold."

Alexia looked at her as if she didn't know what to do with everything she was feeling. "And you" now it was her turn "you're the only thing that makes me stay in this bed without complaining. Even if it's messy."

You both laughed softly. But something settled between them in that moment. Something soft, warm, strange.

Neither you nor Alexia knew what it was exactly. They couldn't name it; they only knew they wanted to stay there, like this. A little longer.

They thought it was friendship. Just friendship.

So you both ignored it. You kept it to themselves. You disguised it with laughter and deep conversations for both of you. Because, at eleven years old, no one had explained to them what it meant to want someone to never stop looking at you as if you were the brightest star in the sky.

But of course, not everyone can have a happy ending, right?

It was early December, three days before the end of term and the end of vacation, when all the girls received the news.

The U-12 girls' team would be folded.

No more games with Barcelona, no more laughter in the cafeteria, and worst of all... no more chatting until midnight with Alexia while gazing at the stars.

The news was a crushing blow to you. Like a punch straight to the pit of your stomach that took your breath away and left you constantly dizzy. You didn't know how to handle the situation, not now that everything seemed to be going so well with the omega, who was finally starting to love you... even if it was just as a friend.

That night, both of them arrived at the room at the same time. You were coming from extra training. Alexia, from a physio session. They looked at each other in silence, unsure how to talk about what they both knew already.

It was you who opened the door. Tears were beginning to sting your eyes. You let Alexia in first. Then you entered, gently closing the door behind you.

Alexia sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. You stood for a few seconds, staring out the window before sinking down onto the bed with a shaky sigh.

"I don't want this to end," you murmured, almost without a voice.

"Me neither," Alexia replied softly.

There was a long silence. Only the faint hum of the heater filled the room.

"So what are we going to do now?" you finally asked, without turning around, your eyes fixed on the dark sky that didn't show a single star.

Alexia didn't respond immediately. She just got up, crossed the room, and sat next to you on the bed. Her hands were cold. She placed them on her knees, uncertain.

"We can..." she swallowed. We can make the next three days worth it. As if they were the last. Because... they are, aren't they?

You turned to her. Her eyes were red. You couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from unshed tears. Maybe from both.

"I don't want to forget you," you confessed, your voice breaking. It was the most honest thing you'd said in weeks.

Alexia looked up at you. Her chin trembled a little before she let out a small sob, brief, but strong enough to make you break down too.

The two of you hugged. An awkward embrace, kneeling on the bed, as if the whole world were crumbling in your arms.

"I won't forget you," Alexia promised against your shoulder. "Even if years pass. Even if you live in another country."

You didn't respond, just closed your eyes. I wish it were true. I wish time wouldn't do what it always does.

They didn't sleep well that night. They laughed. They cried. They told each other secrets they'd never spoken out loud. And the following days were as if they were in a movie: full of improvised memories, of almost desperate laughter, as if they knew they were clinging to a thin thread that would soon break.

Three days later, Alexia said goodbye with a long hug, as if she could memorize your shape. "See you soon," unaware that that "soon" would turn into six years of distance.

You left for France, to your grandparents' house, where a small local soccer school offered you a new opportunity. Life went on.

So did time.

And in 2011, now seventeen, your steps brought you back to Barcelona. You had grown. Changed. But there was something that hadn't.

And there she was.

Alexia.

Taller, more confident. But when you saw her, you knew: she still remembered how your favorite juices tasted when it was cold.

And you still remembered that, once upon a time, she promised you she wouldn't forget you.

#woso x reader #woso omegaverse #barca femeni #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine

153 notes · View notes

elistarrk · 3 days ago

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#if nothing else I think WN and WQ would be like#mmm. maybe let’s wake up the patient and ask him before we commit to this on WWX’s analysis of JC’s character alone#anyway the problem with JC needing to be up front about his own self-sacrifice#is that he barely has the chance to process what happened to him before they sent him to Lalaland for being such a downer#it’s not like WWX asked him what happened and he lied#WWX made assumptions and did not bother to confirm them

picking this out from the long list of @cerusee 's wonderful tags too because yes!! i will never be over this! especially the part in bold.

yes, they're all teenagers or maybe early 20s! yes, they're making terrible decisions in high stress moments! and wei wuxian is so insane about jiang cheng that he cannot bear to see him in this moment of pain and goes into immediate panic "i must fix this" mode and hyperfocuses on the one bit of agency he does actually have to "fix" the situation!

no one really pauses to consider "oh hey this kid just saw the bodies of almost everyone he's ever known and then got brutally tortured in front of their bodies (including and honestly likely staring the bodies of his parents) for an unspecified amount of time and ending with a debilitating injury and loss of his life's work/maybe what he thinks his only role in life is. and then woke up to see the same robes as the people who did this to him. and one of them was there. that's kinda a lot that he hasn't really had the time to process at all."

like... a crashout is a perfectly normal response here??? intense depression/dissociation is a reasonable way for anyone's brain to react to even a modicum of what the dude has been through???

it's understandable for him to be stuck in a mindset of expecting or even wanting to be dead when he drew away the wen patrolling forces not expecting to live.

and the thing is, even if he was given the opportunity to, i can't even quite say he would admit it. if he knew about the plan for the core transfer, he might, but he'd probably do everything possible to stop it without revealing what he had done. as much as i love a "no, idiot. i didn't sacrifice myself for you to turn around and sacrifice yourself for me in a more stupid and unnecessary way", i really don't see jiang cheng processing his own sacrifice in any positive light at that moment.

he, the last heir of his clan, willingly put himself in a place where he had reason to believe he wouldn't make it out alive or at the very least whole (he knew wen zhuliu was there) for the sake of a "servant". by all accounts, he should have prioritized his own survival as the person now responsible for reviving their sect. but in some subconscious impulse or maybe a moment of clarity, he made the most selfless and yet selfish choice. he threw away his filial duty to give someone he loved a chance to escape a sure death. and then had to face his mother's dead body knowing how horrifically he had just failed her.

wei wuxian's assumption of why jiang cheng was back in lotus pier might actually be one he wouldn't want to correct. at least then there would be some amount of understanding in his duty to his family. it paints him as rash and impulsive but that isn't anything new really.

regardless, no one gives him the time to explain his side or come to terms with it. and yeah they're on a time crunch residing in enemy territory. but even still, there is very little time he is noted to be conscious between being rescued and the core transfer! he's treated like he's so unreasonable for... being traumatized? going through several stages of grief at once?

(oops it's yapping hours i guess but more below)

and then when he does get some time to process, they never talk about it. his brother is gone and then comes back wrong. but hey, at least he comes back! he might be messing with corpses in a way that should be concerning but he says he's fine and he's got it under control and he's a genius so it's not too far off the mark that he's "attempted the impossible" yet again and figured out how to be in control of it. and if it helps them win this war, sure. whatever. all the better to get revenge.

and then after the war, wei wuxian is out getting drunk all the time and picking fights and flaunting his power with other sect leaders. but jiang cheng doesn't pull rank (as he is very much valid to do) and order him to tell him what the fuck is going on or to do his job as head disciple. he just sorta accepts "yeah wei wuxian is going through it. no clue what he went through in the three months we didn't see each other but frankly i don't have the time to babysit him while rebuilding my sect that he was supposed to help me with." he does try to confront him about his sword but it's brushed off and he drops it. whatever.

and then wei wuxian kills the officers at Qiongqi Pass and frees the Wens. and suddenly the snake pit of the Jins turns their eyes to him and it's wei wuxian or all of the people of the yunmeng jiang he has built on the line. and wei wuxian has now put his own neck on the line for people from the very sect that massacred their people, with the only explanation that jiang cheng can come up with being that wen ning and wen qing helped the two of them after he was rescued from his torture, so he owes them. but jiang cheng can't save him this time. it's not only his own life that he would have to put on the line anymore, and he can't risk the lives of the people depending on him.

and the man who he was willing to give his life for isn't willing to stay.

but that's fine. he'd never been anyone's first choice anyway. they stage his defection to prevent from implicating yunmeng jiang in his actions and thereby dragging the innocent disciples into the fray. maybe if they wait this out long enough, things'll calm down and wei wuxian'll be able to come back.

and they do start to calm down over time. he brings jiejie to see him before the wedding, and suggests that wei wuxian give the courtesy name for her unborn child. and they invite wei wuxian to the kid's one month ceremony, only for the death of her husband (and many other cultivators from various sects) at wei wuxian's hands to be announced. and yeah, he never really liked the dude, but would wei wuxian really go that far?

either way, there's not really time to find out. a major sect heir was killed and the sects are uniting against the threat and demanding blood. and it was his sister's husband, so if he doesn't show up, that puts a massive target on his back (jiang cheng must have supported these actions if he's not willing to hold wei wuxian accountable for them) and thus yunmeng jiang's back as well. so fuck, he has to go.

and then wei wuxian shows up too and something's very clearly wrong. and a fight breaks out and then jiejie is there. and one of the corpses wei wuxian swore he could control attacks her? and then she throws herself in front of a sword meant for wei wuxian. and whatever thin thread was holding him to sanity breaks and his corpses start killing like crazy.

and jiang cheng has the lifeless body of one of the people he cared about most in the world in his arms and he trusted wei wuxian.

at every step jiang cheng is left in the dark and it isn't until his sister is killed that he actually fully gives up on wei wuxian.

and 13 years later, he knows better than to blindly trust wei wuxian when he comes back. he hounds him for answers that he doesn't receive. he demands that he kneel and apologize to his parents' plaques in the ancestral hall, only for wei wuxian to keep running away and avoiding responsibility.

and of course when wei wuxian does come to lotus pier in the end, he does visit the ancestral hall, but to start to marry the man who's had a hate-on for jiang cheng for the last decade? all while avoiding jiang cheng whenever possible the whole way. and when confronted about it, he denies it until lan wangji is insulted.

and then jiang cheng finally learns the truth by having it thrown in his face by one of the people who helped do the operation without his consent.

it's only then he finally gets some answers for why wei wuxian made the choices he did and of course it's devastating and he's heavily implied to have a breakdown about it. understandably.

and then less than 36 hours later when he sees a danger to wei wuxian in the guanyin temple, his immediate instinct is to block it and protect him (even if it is unnecessary and illogical if he had taken the moment to think about it) and he ends up badly wounded as a result.

he very much changed his response to wei wuxian once he had more information! to go from hitting him with zidian and tying him for answers to instinctively protecting him and returning his instrument of the very cultivation that led to his sister's death?

bro did not change in 13 years but he did change in 36 hours. crazy how actually being given the information that would give him the reason to change actually inspires him to.

Lotta takes that are like "Jiang Cheng didn't change his behaviour at all in 13 years, that proves that he doesn't want to grow as a person" and it's like, sorry but why would he change his behaviour when the information that would recontextualise Wei Wuxian's actions and thus lead him to rethink his own reactions was deliberately kept hidden from him? From his perspective, his brother broke all his promises for no goddamn reason, picked a different family over him, lost control of the evil energy he swore he could control, and in doing so caused such a catastrophe that both of Jin Ling's parents were killed. We know that there's more to that story, but he doesn't, and it would be impossible for him to find out on his own because again, everyone involved was lying to him and hiding the relevant information on purpose.

He's told about the golden core transfer like three hours before the book ends, and frankly processes it faster than most people could reasonably be expected to after 13 years of grief and loneliness! "He had chances to improve his behaviour and didn't" HE LITERALLY DIDN'T HAVE ANY CHANCES BECAUSE WWX LIED TO HIM!! His behaviour was completely justified from his perspective and when his perspective is changed, and he realises that what he did was wrong, he's like, SUPER upset about it!

#mdzs #long post oops sorry #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #they make me so sick #not even touching on the guanyin temple discussion between them because ouch #there's so much left unsaid between them #it's so messy #there's so much tragedy in jiang cheng trying to communicate the way he usually does #to a wei wuxian who no longer understands #jiang cheng would be a much more sympathetic character if the story showed more of his pov #unfortunately his acts of love vs words of harm really do hinder that #jiang cheng they could never make me hate you

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yaeisessed · 2 days ago

Text

Tainted - gp!manon bannerman x fem!reader

synopsis: this edit p much but only like first ten seconds (30 likes for me to remake the edit but w manon)

wc: 6,723

warnings: smut, cursing, blowjobs, unprotected sex(wrap it b4 u tap it), impact play, sex work, facials, backshots, cunnilingus

A/N: first post on this account hope its not too terrible!!(not proofread and I haven’t written in a year so that’s my excuse if it’s bad)

The blue light of Manon’s phone casted a glow over her face, the only bright lighting in the dim room she currently resided in. She was stuck in the addiction that was endlessly scrolling on Instagram Reels, a mindless ritual to numb the edges of a long tiring day, when a particular video caught her attention. It was a girl, backlit by a warm seductive glow, the luminescence of what she assumed was a ring light behind the camera lighting up the room enough to see the girl, but not what was behind her. In front of her a counter, filled with ingredients for baking something.

Manon found the words of the girl completely gliding over her head, reduced to nothing as her focus was drawn elsewhere. It was the way the top clung to the skin of the girl, the way it dipped low, not low enough to show anything, just enough to get you imagining it. The way that her shorts rode up just a bit when she turned around and stood on her tip toes to grab something.

It was hypnotizing.

Pretty girls were a currency Manon understood intimately. As the daughter of one of the biggest directors in the film industry, she’d been surrounded by them her entire life. She’d even followed in her father’s gilded footsteps, finding her own niche behind the camera, and occasionally, in front of it. A few childhood roles in her father’s films and some modeling gigs in her teens had opened the doorways to countless opportunities.

She loved it, she truly did. Standing in front of a camera and posing, understanding the ideas given to her and making them her own.

It was a second language as easy as her first.

She had fully intended to continue doing this with her life, but it was when her high school girlfriend was leaked to the public that she realized fame wasn't all the best. It was a blurry video from prom, her dancing and kissing a girl that was barely even recognizable in the video. She wasn't sure how but by the next day the girl’s address and all her personal information was leaked.

She was dumped the next day.

She truly did enjoy the spotlight, but she didn't enjoy it when it landed on the things she held close to her heart. She did still work in the industry, but it was only ever behind a camera since that incident. She loved this work and found that even though she wasn't in front of the camera she enjoyed it all the same.

So, it wasn't the girl's beauty alone that held Manon captive. It was the effortless sensuality of her actions, as if she was simply born with the intuition.

The video looped, once, twice, a dozen times. Manon’s thumb had learned the precise second she needed to pause at the perfect frame to get a better look, until that wasnt enough anymore. A swipe right, and she was on the girl’s profile. She wouldn't admit it, not even to herself, but her eyes immediately darted to the bio, clicking on the linktree and scanning for a specific link. A wicked grin bloomed on her face when she saw the familiar logo. Without a second thought, her finger tapped, Safari opened, and a subscription screen materialized.

"$9.99 per month." The blue button was an easy target. A quick login with her spam gmail account, a seamless transaction, and the page refreshed. Suddenly, her feed was filled with images of the girl, y/n, her profile now revealed.

in red lace lingerie, a garter belt of the same color over her underwear and connected to it, deep red stockings. y/n was artfully arranged on a bed, one leg bent over the other and a single finger teasing the edge of her bra, a teensy bit of nipple slipping through. Manon’s pulse quickened.

She clicked on y/n’s profile picture, then the DM button. A tip, followed by a proposition.

The familiar ping from your bank: +$10. Then, a second, more substantial one: +$300. You’d assumed it was a regular, someone hoping to coax a conversation out of you with a generous tip. It wasn't the highest you'd ever received, but it was certainly enough to command your attention.

Opening the app, your eyes widened as you saw it was a brand-new subscriber. No one had ever tipped that much right out of the gate. The message sat at the top of your inbox, a bold, demanding presence. You knew you couldn't ignore it.

<M B sent>> $300

<M B sent>> let me fly you out

<Y/N L/N sent<< oh? that's gonna cost you.

It was a practiced, playful deflection. You were fully prepared to refuse, regardless of the amount they’d send in return, that or you’d name a price too much for them to even ponder the thought of sending it. You’d navigated these requests before, and flying out to meet a stranger—likely a man—was a hard boundary. The most you ever showed was your chest; you were not a prostitute and had no intention of becoming one.

This was simply a means to an end, a way to stay in college without the crushing weight of student loans. You had gotten majorly unlucky with housing, and hadn't found a spot in the dorms despite applying early. This meant you had to pay for housing utilities and food with your own money, your parents had offered to help but you knew it was above their means and declined.

You hadn’t ever wanted to go into this industry, but the cruelness of fate had other ideas.

You told yourself it wasn't so bad—no full nudity, no sex on camera. It was a lamentable consolation, a whisper of justification in the quiet moments when you questioned how you’d ended up here. But for now, it was your reality, and though it made you uncomfortable to actually think about, it allowed you to live comfortably. You lived in the expensive city of Berkeley, and even though you earned quite a bit from OnlyFans you still lived in a small apartment and had a roommate. The city was expensive and you could only consider yourself lucky that you weren't on the streets.

Your attention was once again drawn out from your thoughts to the phone that rested in your hand. Your eyes met the screen and a shriek left your throat.

<M B sent>> $500,000 <M B sent>> pack your bags baby

Your roommate Sophia came rushing in, worry written all over her face, “what happened, are you okay??”

You didn't say anything, just flipped your screen over to her, and as soon as her eyes met the screen you heard her scream.

“What the fuck do i say??!?!? This rando subbed literally today and just sent me half a fucking mil!” you exclaim, your hands flailing around as your mind spins.

You don't wanna go and sell your body for real, but you also cannot at all say no to this man who just spent half a million on you.

You can see Sophia's mouth moving, probably comforting you and telling you what you need to hear in the moment, but it's like there's cement blocking your ears off of any noise. You feel overwhelmed by all the emotions running through you, but all you can think of is how much you need the money. You wouldn't have to post as much, if you get this man hooked onto you it could quite literally turn your life around.

Or it could be a kidnapper who will kill you and sell your organs.

Your hands shake as you type the words, but you know you have to do it. You tell yourself it's for your future, for the sake of helping your parents who’ve always been there for you. You tell yourself its for the sake of your younger sister who you've been trying to save a college fund for. You don't want her to struggle the way you did, you want her to live her life to the fullest, the life you couldn't have.

You consider yourself halfway there already, unlike how you were in highschool, she doesn't have to work a job and worry about when she’ll next get to eat. You remind yourself of your own childhood, where your parents were never home because they were working all day doing their best to keep your childhood home. You barely even remember seeing them at home, because when they were they were just sleeping, exhausted from how much they overworked themselves.

You had made it into Berkeley though, you had done what no one in your shitty town had and now you truly believed that you’d be able to do even more than that. With a mind made up you pressed send.

<Y/N L/N sent>> SFO airport, I'm free next week. <Y/N L/N sent>> and make sure its a round way ticket, you can choose when i come back😉

You turned your screen over to Sophia and heard her audibly sigh, her head falling to her hands as she groaned. “Did you not hear any of what I said?!”

You shook your head no and she threw her head back as she let out another groan. She took your phone away from you and began talking again, likely repeating what she had said before.

Her words were in one ear out the other, because you had already decided and you stuck to your decision. She’d agree with your decision as well once you started earning enough to cover her part of the rent as well anyways.

Your palms grew damp as the plane touched down, you were going to be among the first to leave the plane. A perk of the first class ticket that had been sent to you. You were thankful for the comfortability it brought, but now that you were disboarding the plane you wished to stay longer, to delay the inevitable. The thought of selling yourself to a stranger was unnerving, you tried to rationalize it as just another one-night stand, but deep down you knew the truth.

He'd booked a full week, and your suitcase, packed accordingly, felt like a lead weight. You refused to shell out $8 for a trolley, and so instead you were left struggling to drag the heavy suitcase around. You made your way through baggage claim and into the bustling arrivals area. A woman in a cap and mask approached you from the side, blocking your way.

“y/n?” Her voice was muffled, but clear. You gave her a once over, she was taller than you by maybe a head, and she wasn't dressed extravagantly, you had expected a man in maybe a crisp expensive suit. Lying to his wife about going on a business trip but instead meeting with a whore. You were pleasantly surprised to see a woman who looked about your age, maybe a year or two older.

“You’re mb, right?” You asked, and she nodded, her hand coming up to scratch the back of her neck. “You can call me Manon, that's my name.”

“Cool, cool. Can I get a picture of you? Just for my friend, you know, in case you’re secretly a serial killer or something.” It probably wasn't the smoothest line, but Sophia would kill you if you didn't, and honestly, maybe this oddly attractive woman who was paying you for sex would do so too. (serial killer joke if it didnt land btw asin if you don't get that pic she might actually kill you)

She mumbled a quick “sure,” pulling down her mask. You snapped the picture, sending it off. Then, to your immense relief, she took your luggage and led the way out.

The car ride was silent. You braced yourself for questions, but none came. You figured she was into the quiet type and remained still, taking deep, calming breaths, though her intoxicating scent only seemed to heighten your nerves. You tried to memorize the route, but the packed streets of LA were a blur. If anything went wrong, you were truly lost.

“Get on your knees.” It was the first thing she'd said since asking your name, spoken the moment you stepped into the hotel room. There was no hesitation; you obeyed. As she removed her mask and cap, you were met with a face so breathtaking it rendered her command all the more enticing. You hadn't gotten a good look at her at the airport, too focused on getting the awkward moment of sending a picture of her to your friend to actually get a good look at her.

You followed her to the couch, watching as she sat down and then kneeling between her legs. You gazed up, wide-eyed and brown, as she looked down with pure lust.

Her thumb found your mouth, tracing around your lips before slipping inside. You swore you heard a low moan escape her as her thumb sunk into your mouth, but you didn’t dwell on it. instead sucking on her thumb, swirling your tongue around it, teasing it gently with your teeth.

“mm, such a good girl f’me. You look so fucking beautiful, baby. Can’t wait to fuck this perfect mouth of yours.”

Your eyes flickered down to between her legs, noticing a slight curve beneath the fabric that you’d initially dismissed as just baggy sweatpants. You decided to test your theory, laying a hand over her crotch, slowly palming and feeling her. A satisfied hum escaped you as you felt her slowly harden in response to your touch.

She pulled her thumb from your mouth, spreading your spit across your lips, coating them in the slick substance before bringing it to her own mouth and sucking. Her wet thumb came back down to your face, stroking your cheek and leaving a trail of her saliva in its wake.

“The safe word is red and if your mouth is full just tap on me twice, mkay?” you nodded in response. “Words baby, words”

“Okay, safe word is red, two taps for stop.” She let out a hum of approval, her hand drifting down towards your neck.

Her hand encircled your neck, finding purchase at the back before gripping it firmly. With a forceful push, she aggressively guided you down into her clothed bulge. You opened your mouth as it met the cloth, assuming that was what she expected you to do when pushing down. You were met with approval for your actions when she groaned and bucked her hips up into your mouth.

With the newfound confidence her response evoked, you let your tongue drift out of your mouth and had it circle around the outdent in her pants. You suckled on it and let your saliva flood over her pants, you could feel the throbs and twitches of it.

Your hands found the waistband of her sweats; slipping your hand beneath both her pants and boxers, pulling them down low enough for her cock to spring out and hit your face.

You wrapped your hand around her and looked up to meet her eyes, the sight you found was something that had you yourself moaning. She had one lip pulled under her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut and her head thrown back. She looked so stunning you had to take a moment to regain yourself before starting to stroke her.

You lowered your head to hers and darted a tongue out, you licked at the bead of clear pre cum that had accumulated at her tip. You didn't often enjoy giving out blowjobs, you didn't like the taste of cum nor the texture, but something about Manon made you crave her. You found yourself enjoying the feel of her cock in your mouth, her cum salty with a musky aftertaste was something you seemed to crave more and more of.

Your head moved up and down on her cock with vigor, taking more and more with each stroke. She was definitely the biggest you’d ever taken, but you were determined to give her a reason to send you the other half of that mil. You kept your eyes trained on her, your eyes slightly unfocused, but watching her nonetheless.

She finally opened her eyes; her warm pools of brown meeting yours and you watched as her eyes grew heavier, pupils expanding as she took you in. Lipstick stains all over her cock, your cheek stuffed with her, your eyes teary and dazed as they looked up at her.

Manon wasn't sure what possessed her when she grabbed your head and shoved it down, watching as your eyes squeezed shut. The sound of your gags and chokes filled the room, your tears rolling down your face and landing on her pelvis. She pushed as hard as she could until met with the resistance of your throat closing up.

“c’mon baby, relax that throat for me”, she said, her hand sliding down to the front of your throat, stroking it almost as if she meant to coax it into loosening up.

You weren't ready for her at all, it was so sudden and you struggled to get a hold of yourself. You hadn't ever deepthroated someone, but the more you looked up at this girl the more you found yourself wanting to comply with her wishes. You tried your best to loosen your throat, it was contracting heavily and your constant gagging wasn't much of a pleasurable feeling either. You took a deep breath in through your nose and slowly tried relaxing around her, allowing her to slip further in.

“mm just like that baby”, her hand carded through your hair, brushing through your hair before coming back to your scalp. “You’re so perfect.”

Her hand gathered at your hair, bunching it together, eyes never leaving yours, keeping her forceful grip on your pushed down head. She grabbed you by your hair and pulled you off her, allowing you a moment to breathe, she waited a couple seconds, before pushing you right back down. Your eyes flooded with tears and you couldn't seem to stop gagging, you were lucky enough that the chokes had subsided, but this still wasn't something so fun.

As she slipped in deeper and deeper with each thrust, you felt your throat relaxing more and more. You were slowly adjusting around her thickness, it wasn't an easy task, nor did it even feel like it belonged that deep in your throat; but Manon’s face and the noises she was letting out were turning you on indefinitely.

It wasn't long until Manon’s hand on your head slackened, her hips moving instead, jerking up in erratic thrusts, signaling her release. You started moving on your own, now that she wasn't forcing your movements, meeting her each thrust by going down. Her moans increased in pitch and before you could fully process it you felt a spurt of warmth on your tongue before she hurriedly pulled out.

She stroked herself vigorously as she spilled onto your face, the white gooey liquid covering your face more and more with each spurt. She stopped stroking herself, panting heavily in her place on the couch. Using her hand she directed her cock towards your face, smearing her cum across the entirety of your face. She dragged her cum soaked tip towards your lips, smearing it on like lipstick, attempting to push deeper inside.

You complied, loosening your mouth enough for her to slip in, she brought her other hand down and pulled your mouth fully open. She grabbed your tongue between her thumb and index finger and lightly tugged on it, understanding her intent, you stretched your tongue out and allowed her to lead it out of your mouth.

She trailed her cock back up towards the cum on your face, gathering more; to then slide it back down, tapping her cum coated tip onto your tongue before slowly pushing in more. You licked off all the cum covering her, you never found yourself particularly fond of the texture nor taste of cum but you were sure you could get used to hers.

Her now softened cock dropped from your mouth and her hand came up to cradle your face. “You did so good, baby, cmon let me make you feel good too.” her hand caressed your cheek before pulling you up and bringing you into a kiss. Her tongue pushed its way into your mouth,it felt around as if tasting what she’d left there. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, your entire body alive and humming. She kissed hungrily, like she wanted to devour you, and you could only wish that was a promise.

Manon’s hands didn’t wander—not yet. Instead, she made you stand, steadying you with a gentle palm against your hip. You stood there, knees shaky as you stood, bruised from how long you’d stayed on them, watching as she stripped herself bare. She kept her eyes trained on you as she pulled up her shirt, she wasn't wearing a bra under.

your eyes widened as you caught sight of her abs. You couldn't recall when you last felt this aroused simply by looking at the body of another. You reached your hands out to grab at her waist, squeezing at the skin before trailing your hands up to trace along the protruding muscles. You lowered your hands to where her pants and boxers sat, beneath her cock and slowly lowered them.

Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, she had already pushed you onto the bed. Standing at the edge, she began to stroke her semi-hard member and commanded, "strip."

Her eyes were trained on you as she lazily stroked herself, enjoying the sight of slowly revealed black lace against the plush of your skin. You flung your clothes off the bed, and in the next moment she was on top of you.

“You’re so pretty baby..” she murmured, her voice a soft hum over your lips, breath mingling with yours.

Then in a sudden, seamless motion, she flipped you, effortlessly shifting your positions until you were straddling her. Manon's hands found their way to your waist, gripping tightly at the flesh as she leaned up to capture your lips in between hers.

She slowly started urging your hips back and forth,Your wetness glistened, leaving a slick trail along the ridged curves of her well-defined abs. You lost yourself in the rhythm she had set, surrendering yourself to the pleasure you were feeling, rocking harder and harder against her as you chased your peak.

You found it harder and harder to continue the kiss she was still urging onto you, your mouth opened wide as tiny gasps and loud moans left your mouth. She swallowed them all down and still went back seeking for more, her hands on your hips increasing the pace and her tongue in your mouth still searching for more of you. the pleasure had your mind going blank, you squeezed your eyes shut and dug your nails into the skin of her shoulder, red drew with how hard you dug but she didn't seem to care and with how lost you were in pleasure you couldn't find it in you either.

“I-im close”, it was gasped out, you pulled away enough for her to stop chasing after your lips, your eyes squeezed shut and your nose scrunched up, you could feel it. You were so close and it felt so so good and then it all stopped.

Your eyes flew open and you looked at her with betrayal written all over your face, hers was a look of pure satisfaction.

Tears welled up in your eyes as quick as she had stopped you, your bottom lip trembling in both frustration and sadness as you mourned the loss of your orgasm. You tried to move yourself on top of her, desperately seeking the friction that you craved so desperately, but her grip on you was too strong. You were sure there’d be dark purple hand marks decorating the skin at your waist tomorrow, but that all seemed so small in sight of your orgasm.

You wanted it so bad, you deserved it.

Her hands drifted up to your face, wiping at the tears that had now fallen, “it's okay baby.” she soothed, her grip on your hips loosening as she stroked the skin there in comfort “come sit on my face and I’ll make it all better.” Her words were emphasized by a squeeze to your skin before she began urging you to move upwards.

Your knees were positioned on either side of her head as she pulled you down to sit. Her mouth was on you instantly, her tongue a warm wet sensation as it moved across your core. The pleasure surged through you immediately and intensely, you moved your hips, grinding down into her as she swirled her tongue around your entrance, playfully teasing in and out. You pushed down onto her tongue, whining as you desperately ached for her to fill the pit in your stomach that came with the emptiness.

“inside– please..” you panted out, grinding down harder, desperately chasing the high she had taken from you.

This time she had mercy on you, her tongue entering you in one thrust, the feeling of the pulsating muscle finally inside you bringing you one step closer to the edge. She felt around you, her tongue circling your insides, prodding at the skin around her. She opened her mouth wider, allowing her tongue to enter you further and her teeth to lightly graze your clit. Your body jolted at the sensation, a loud moan leaving your lips.

Manon was thoroughly enjoying herself under you, the feeling of your tight pussy squeezing around her tongue could only make her indefinitely harder with thoughts of sinking herself into you. The deeper she sunk her tongue into you the more of your sweet essence doused her. The way you would squeeze around her a little tighter when she grazed her teeth against your clit, the way you’d leak endlessly into her mouth, the moans that’d accompany all of this.

Manon could only assume she was in heaven.

She was addicted, her tongue ached with the repeated movements of in and out, her jaw growing tired of opening and closing. She reckoned she could stay here till the end of time, a place where her pleasure didn't matter because she was sure the pleasure of feeling you around her tongue was infinitely better.

It was invigorating, the thought that a woman as beautiful as you was currently sat atop her face and desperately grinding down into her. Your slickness spreading along her philtrum, the way it ran down her face to her cheeks and down to her chin when you moved back. She could only get lost in the taste of you as she found herself craving more and more, pushing deeper and deeper hoping for that more.

She would say it didn't take long, but her sense of time had long since been warped since she first got a taste of you. She would say that it hadn't been enough time, but she could feel that you were getting close, the way you tightened up around her tongue, the way your moans pitched up, frantic and high at the edges. Manon brought her hands to your inner thighs, spreading her hands flat while her thumbs worked to pull your lower lips apart, spreading you open for her even more as she worked her tongue in firm, deliberate strokes.

Your head fell back, arms buckling as the pleasure built violently. You weren’t even aware of the sobbing, a soundless cry that left your throat at the sheer immensity of pleasure you were feeling. The orgasmic bliss hit all at once, and you nearly collapsed forward, your head leaned into the bedframe.

Tears were fresh on your cheeks, you buried your face in your arms and tried not to scream as your orgasm wracked through you, leaving your muscles trembling and slick thighs clamped tight around her head.

Manon kept going, working you through it, lapping up the mess between your legs, greedy for just one last taste before she knew she’d have to stop. It was too much almost immediately, as soon as the waves of pleasure ran their way through you, they dissolved into overwhelming sensitivity. You tried pulling yourself up, tried moving away from her face as her tongue continued its stimulation.

“s’too much”, it was a moan mixed with a whine, your body wasn't fully recovered, and your clit burned with overstimulation as she sucked it into her mouth.

“C’mon baby, you can give me one more.”

Her suckling on your clit never stopped, her tongue swirling the nub as her hands drifted up to your waist, stroking at the skin there, coaxing you into relaxing and giving her another. You could feel yourself nearing already, it was mixed in with that soreness of overstimulation, it hurt but you could feel the pain slowly making way for pleasure as your peak slowly made its way towards you.

It hit you suddenly, your body curled in on itself as you grinded down into her face, whimpers and moans leaving your throat as you did so. As soon as it passed over you, you immediately rolled over, off of her face and onto the bed; she let you. Your muscles were still spasming and even that felt like too much stimulation for you.

You turned your head to look over at her only to find her licking her lips, the sight of it so stupid it forced a laugh out of you. Unrestrained and real, “do i really taste that good?” you asked, your grin wide as you stared into her eyes, full of wonder.

“You have no idea”, she breathed out, her eyes staring into yours with an intensity you couldn't name. She leaned in, head hovering over yours before leaning down to meet your lips, she urged your mouth open and her tongue met yours, sharing the taste of you.

She pulled back just as quick as she leaned in, “good isn't it?”

“Mm i dont think i like it too much”, you said, a grimace on your face.

You were never a fan of cum in general, but you would say hers was the most tolerable. Your cheeks flushed at the thought and you quickly pushed it down, you weren't anything to her and you shouldn't have her become anything to you. The silence settled over you two like a blanket, quiet and comfortable.

Until manon’s hand drifted downwards to her still hard, precum leaking shaft. “Can you go again? If not that's cool, I can get myself off.” your eyes drifted down from her face to where her hand rested around her cock, moving up and down in mesmerizing motions. You could feel the wetness surge out of you, your body overcome with need for her.

“Lets go again.”

That was all the permission Manon needed, surging up and making her way on top of you, her hands resting on either side of your head. Her knees were next to your stomach, supporting her weight so she was hovering over you. She sat up and grabbed your waist, moving a bit back before flipping you over so you were on your stomach.

You laid there, limp, letting her manhandle you and enjoying the rough treatment. the way she pushed your legs forward to bend them under you, settling a hand on the small of your back, forcing you to arch further.

Manon dropped her hands down onto your ass with a clap, watching the skin ripple under her touch. She let her hands roam around the curve of your skin, squeezing as she went, kneading the flesh in between her fingers. She let a hand drift further down, finding its way in between your legs, sliding against the wetness that was steadily accumulating. She slipped two fingers inside you easily, groaning as she did so.

“You think you can take me baby?” she asked, scissoring her fingers inside you for maybe a minute before impatience overtook her.

You let out a moan in response, mind too foggy to think up an answer. Her cock was fisted in her hand and she ran the tip of it up and down the length of your cunt. You pushed back down into her, “i-inside, i can take it.”

Manon guided her tip to your entrance, her desire to be in you outweighing that of to tease you. She slowly sunk herself inside of you. The first few inches easily slipping in, but the deeper she went the more resistance she was met with. She let her head tilt back as she went against all that she wanted and stayed in place, allowing you a minute to adjust.

She didn't wait for you to reassure her it was fine to move, she couldn't hold back any longer and simply slammed herself all the way in. Her hands gripped tighter at your ass, the groan she let out vocalizing her pleasure. The feeling of your insides against her cock was a feeling that couldn't be compared to her tongue in you or being in your mouth. She could feel the pleasure overtake her entire being, you were so tight around her, the pressure bordering on too much but more than enough to pleasure.

Manon truly could not be blamed for her actions.

She started moving immediately, she couldn't help it, it felt so good yet not enough. She needed it to be enough and so she surrendered herself to pleasure which was reflected in the punishing pace she set.

The sound of skin meeting skin rang in the room, loud, wet, and messy. You were sure that the people in the rooms next to yours would be able to hear, but it didn't matter. Not when your sensitive pussy was being fucked raw, when you were being taken for all you were.

You couldn't find it in you to complain either, the moans leaving your mouth distracting you from even thinking one up. She was so thick and so long, reaching places in you you didn't know could be reached. It was too much and not enough all at once, the burn of the stretch overwhelming and throbbing all at once. Her fingers on your clit, circling the raw bundle of nerves and overloading the pain with pleasure.

It wasn't long at all till the burn of the stretch faded out into pleasure, your moans growing louder as your pleasure did. You stuffed your head into the pillow, muffling your moans as you bit into it while simultaneously pushing your ass up higher. Her hand on your clit slowed as she felt you relax into her, but it never left, just slowed.

Her other hand which rested on the curve of your ass trailed its way up your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, soft against your skin. A contrast to the way she grabbed your hair and pulled when she reached your head. She leaned over your back and pulled your head up, "don't do that baby, i wanna hear all the slutty noises you make for me.”

You found yourself forgetting altogether who she was, why you were here and what this meant for you. You lost yourself in the moment, in the way she pounded into you and the pleasure she brought like oxygen. You felt fully taken, you felt as though she was someone who you had chosen not someone who chose you.

Her pace got faster and your climax approached all the same, it felt so so so good and you were so close. The thrusts into you got harder, her cock hitting deeper, deeper than what felt normal but the pain of it pleasured you. You never thought yourself a masochist, but with how good her stroke game was you felt yourself becoming one

“a-ah! I-im close manon, im s-so close..”

She dug her fingers into your waist, gripping hard and in the same spot she had the entire time. Her thumbs met each other right above your belly button, and you had a faint idea that she enjoyed the thought. Her hands were big, but so was all of her; it turned you on infinitely more.

“yeah? you gon cum ‘round be beautiful?” you nodded your head vigorously, you didn't trust your mouth for words so actions would have to do.

“go on, I'm waiting on you.” she leaned over you and whispered the words into your ear, her voice was ragged and husky, the sound of her skin meeting yours would definitely have drowned out the sound if it wasn't right next to your ear.

Her voice was so undeniably hot, you could feel yourself flutter around her, body spasming as you finally let go and came. It was almost as soon as you did you felt her cum flood into you, warm spurts filling you up. Her thrusts died down slowly, her body shaking before she collapsed on top of you.

Your knees gave out and you laid flat on your stomach with her on top of you, she rolled off of you after a few seconds, resting right next to you. You scooted so you were now on top of her, resting your head on her chest and listening to her rapid heartbeat. She ran a hand through your hair as your breathing slowed down.

“‘m gonna go run you a bath, kay?” you buried your face in between her breasts, humming out a reply in dissent.

“dont go..”

“c’mon baby, the sheets are all gross and sticky and so are we.” she said as she removed herself gently from under you, you groaned at this but didn't make any move to keep her in place.

Manon made her way over to the en suite bathroom, she leaned over and turned on the bathtub faucet. She put her hand under the running water, adjusting the water to be a bit too hot but not hot enough to burn. She waited a minute before going back to the bed, you were sprawled out with your eyes closed and breathing even; asleep.

A soft smile made its way onto her face, you looked so cute like this. All ruined because of her, cum leaking out of you and a bit left on your face, sweaty from the sex and all worn out. She would definitely consider her money well spent, maybe underpriced if anything.

She walked over to you on the bed, she carefully slid an arm under your knees and one under your neck and slowly lifted you. You stirred a bit, your eyes fluttering open and meeting hers, she smiled down at you so softly it made it hard to believe this was the same woman who absolutely destroyed your pussy and mouth.

She bent down, gently placing you into the hot water before stepping in herself and sliding in behind you. You felt yourself relax into the water, it was just the right temperature, and the softness of her behind you comforting. You were so tired, worn out from all that you two did.

You felt her hand reach over you before coming back down to your body, with what you assumed was soap, you let her wash your body. The sweet scent of lavender filled your lungs, the sound of soft splashes filling your ears, and warmth filling your chest. It was oddly intimate but in a way you found you didn't mind, it was comfortable and in your exhausted state you could only be thankful that manon was the one who showed up at the airport.

You had previously been scared of who might show up, you were pleasantly surprised to see such an attractive woman, and had initially thought that with someone this attractive you’d be fine to pretend to enjoy the sex. After having sex with her, you could only look forward towards the rest of this week, maybe you could get used to this..

END

A/N: i remeber i had an actual plot thought out for this like a month ago but i totally forgot what i had planned when i started writing this and so thats why its so short or i swear this was gonna be better like actual plot,, also pls ignore where i randomly characterize y/n(giving her a backstory) it was important when i wanted this to be more than just smut but then i backed out of adding plot😣😣😣

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micocorie · 2 days ago

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꒰ ☘️ ꒱ # stormy weather ˚ ₊ ݁♬

first years x gn!reader (who is afraid of thunderstorms)

A/N: why is it so cold. it's summer, why am i wrapping myself in blankets and shivering? also how do i write jack

EPEL jumped at the opportunity to be the brave, reliable boyfriend that's willing to brave the storm for you (quite literally in this case). you would giggle at his determined expression if a sudden clap of thunder didn't startle you into silence. "it's nothin' to be worried about. i got ya." he sat you down in the lounge of the ramshackle dorm, bringing you a blanket from upstairs. "here, let's share," he said, looking very proud of himself. you'd honestly feel bad saying no even if you wanted to. "thanks for not judging me." you half-whisper, letting yourself lean on him. "why would i? we all fear different things." epel said thoughtfully and placed an arm around you after pretending to stretch. "but you'll be fine as long as i'm here." he smiled confidently. oh, he's winning.

ACE started laughing. "seriously? you're still afraid of thunderstorms at our age?" he said snidely just before flinching at a sudden flash of lightning. you raised an eyebrow and he just downcastly whispered "touché..." before beckoning you into his arms. you awkwardly put your head on his shoulder and he let out an annoyed groan, pulling you directly onto him. "half-assing it won't do. i can't use you as a meatshield if you're not on top of me." after a few seconds of silence, you muttered "ace, i hope you know that lightning will just travel through me to you if that happens." he groaned like that was the incorrect response. "you gotta let a man keep his dignity, babe..." you did notice that his arms tightened around you slightly, but stayed quiet about it.

DEUCE remembered how he too used to be afraid of thunderstorms when he was little and when that happened he'd cuddle up to his mom and then she'd read him stories. he silently tapped the edge of his bed, letting you lay down beside him. "one day, there lived a small rabbit." he began and you snorted, not expecting him to open with that sentence. his cheeks dusted pink upon seeing your expression. "don't laugh. i'm trying here." he said somewhat awkwardly, placing an arm around you. "by telling me stories for kids?" you were barely holding it together. "hey, it helped me when i was little." you let out a little amused huff at the mental image of little deuce listening intently to a story about a rabbit. "you know what, why not. it might even work for me."

JACK seemed a little unsure of what to do. when you called him over during a thunderstorm, he was not expecting you to sheepishly admit you were just scared and needed him to stay with you. "i was studying for the finals." he said gruffly. still, he followed you to your bedroom all the same. "that's fine, we can just study together." you suggested, feeling slightly swamped with work yourself but unable to study due to fear. "i hope you don't think i'm mad at you... it's never a problem for me to help you out." he said somewhat awkwardly, scratching behind his ears (you saw the blush on his cheeks hehe). it ended with you lying on top of jack and him holding your notebook up so you can both read from it at the same time. you also got to tease him by petting his ears every so often and giggling at his glare.

SEBEK seemed a little stumped. "a mere storm? you fear the weather?" he asked, crossing his arms. "uhhh... yeah, it's cuz of the lightning. if it hits you, it REALLY hurts. or you just die." you explained erratically, flinching and yelping when lightning struck just outside of ramshackle dorm, rattling the rickety windowsills. "...fine. i shall stay with you." sebek declared as if he were making a very important diplomatic decision. he always feels happy and comforted when hearing stories about the grand-ness of his liege; therefore you must feel happy and comforted by hearing stories about the grand-ness of his liege. you forget just how absurd he can be sometimes. he does awkwardly slide a firm arm around you to steady you when you flinch. "it is simply a part of nature." he states smugly, but he does worry about his unique magic now. would you be scared of him, too?

#☘️writing...˚⋅ᝰ.ᐟ #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x mc #twst x yuu #twst x you #twst x mc #epel x reader #epel felmier x reader #ace trapolla x reader #ace trapolla x yuu #deuce spade x yuu #deuce spade x reader #jack howl x reader #jack howl x yuu #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader

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airybcby · 2 days ago

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જ⁀✦ Then There Were Four

( atsumu miya x fem! reader )

✩ a/n — sorry he just gives girl dad !!

✩ word count — 1.18k

✩ content — atsumu miya x reader, dad! atsumu, fluff, domestic moments, domestic fluff, nickname 'baby' used, not proofread

✩ synopsis — Atsumu Miya swore that his first kids were going to be twin boys. "Runs in the family." Gosh, how wrong he was.

── .✦ oh darling don't you ever grow up

You always thought you'd do one of those cute pregnancy announcements.

A tiny onesie that said “Black Jackals Rookie”, a pair of baby booties placed gently beside the test, maybe even a little letterboard sign—“Baby Miya Coming Soon”. That kind of thing.

Pinterest had been saving your ideas since your wedding day.

But now? Standing in the hallway with your heart pounding like you'd just sprinted laps with the team?

Yeah. That idea was out the window.

The test in your hand felt like it was burning through your palm. Positive. Clear as day. No faint lines. No “maybe.”

A loud, resounding yes to a question you and Atsumu had been asking the universe without saying it out loud: Are we ready?

You hadn’t been trying, not really. But you hadn’t been doing anything to stop it either.

“It’ll happen when it happens,” Atsumu had said with a casual shrug one night, his head resting on your stomach like it could hear the future kicking.

But this soon?

The thought made your head spin. He was thriving with the Black Jackals, growing more focused and unstoppable by the game.

You had a beautiful home, quiet mornings, date nights with dessert shared off the same spoon. You wanted this—eventually. But now?

Your fingers clenched the test as you heard the front door open.

Atsumu’s voice filtered through the house, bright and lazy like it always was after a long practice.

“Baaaaby? You home?”

He still had sweat clinging to his neck when he stepped into the kitchen, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, jersey peeking out of it.

His smile came the second he saw you—but it faltered just slightly when he saw your face.

“What's wrong?” he asked, brows creasing, already stepping closer. “You okay?”

You met his gaze. And just like always—since the day you met, since your first date, since the first “I love you” that had slipped out on accident—you couldn’t hide anything from Atsumu Miya.

“I’m pregnant,Tsumu.” you said softly. No buildup. No tricks.

Just three words that changed everything.

He froze.

You watched his eyes widen, his lips parting in disbelief. His bag hit the floor with a heavy thump.

For a second, you were afraid he didn’t hear you right. Or that maybe he did.

But then…

“A baby?” he whispered. “Really??”

A wobble in his voice, a glimmer in his eyes, and before you could say anything more, he practically ran across the kitchen and pulled you into his arms, lifting you off the floor slightly in the kind of hug that knocked your breath away.

“We’re havin’ a baby?! Like—a real, real baby?”

You laughed, watery and breathless, clinging to his sweaty neck. “Yes, Tsumu.”

“Oh my god,” he whispered, pulling back just far enough to look at your face. “I’m gonna be a dad?! Oh, baby, you're serious??”

You nodded, and he kissed you like you’d just won the world for him.

“I knew it,” he said, as if something clicked in his brain. “They’re gonna be boys.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Twins. Boys.” He grinned. “Runs in the family. Samu and me, remember? There’s no way it’s just one baby. And no way they’re not boys.”

He was so confident, so smug about it, that you almost believed him.

He was right about the twins, at least.

At your first ultrasound, the screen lit up with two little beans dancing on the monitor, and Atsumu’s jaw dropped.

“See?!” he said, jabbing a finger toward the image. “Told ya! Twin boys. They're gonna drive ya crazy, baby.”

The doctor smiled but didn’t confirm anything. “Still too early to tell the gender.”

Didn’t stop Atsumu from sending the ultrasound photo to Osamu with the caption “Start savin' for their first volleyballs.”

Months later, when Atsumu insisted on throwing a gender reveal (complete with a rented backyard venue, themed desserts, and way too many people), you were nervous.

Not because of the party, but because of him. He was so sure.

You cracked the first confetti popper.

Pink.

Atsumu’s eyes twitched.

You cracked the second.

More pink.

You were laughing before the realization fully sank in, jumping up and down as you grabbed him. “Girls! We have girls, Tsumu!!”

He held you tight, grinning as he spun you around. “We’re havin’ girls,” he repeated, like saying it aloud made it real. “Holy shit.”

You caught the shift later that night.

When the house was quiet, and you were curled into his side in bed, his voice came out low and sleepy.

“I swore they were boys,” he mumbled.

You smiled into his chest. “Sorry to break the Miya boy curse.”

“Don’t be,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just means they’re gonna be strong as hell.”

It’s been almost 4 years since you first found out about your daughters.

You came home to the sound of plastic clattering and Atsumu cursing under his breath.

When you stepped into the living room, you nearly dropped your purse.

Both your daughters stood in front of a mirror. On top of their little heads were stubby ponytails—tiny tufts of hair sticking straight up like palm trees.

Atsumu stood behind them, arms crossed, squinting at the mirror.

“They look like sprouts,” he said seriously.

You bit back a laugh. “I think they look cute.”

“They’re not symmetrical,” he huffed. “And one of 'em kept squirmin'. I watched three tutorial videos. Why do people make this look easy?!”

You stepped beside him as the twins turned around and ran off squealing—plastic spatulas in hand, ready to “cook” on the coffee table.

“They wanna be chefs now,” Atsumu muttered. “Because of Samu.”

You leaned into him with a smile. “Well, Uncle Samu is cool.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly pretending to be annoyed, “I’m cooler.”

His hands still went to his hips in that familiar dramatic pose, watching the girls with the softest smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re such a good dad,” you said quietly.

He shrugged. “They make it easy.”

And then, right before the girls screamed and declared him “The Evil Monster,” you slipped away to your shared room.

Opened your drawer. Took the test out.

Positive.

Again.

You stared at it, your heart doing that same fast stutter it had three years ago.

You’d wanted to plan something cute this time.

Maybe little shirts for the girls that said “Big Sisters Club”.

Maybe a cake reveal, or a photo album leading up to it. You had ideas now.

But realistically?

You laughed under your breath, slipping the test back into the drawer.

When you returned to the living room, Atsumu was groaning on the floor, the twins giggling madly on top of him.

“Mommy! We got the monster!” one of them shrieked, her hair sprout bouncing with every movement.

“Baby—ow—help me,” Atsumu whined dramatically, one hand over his stomach. “They got my weak spot!”

You grinned, heart full and glowing.

Maybe you’d wait until tomorrow.

Maybe.

But knowing the two of you, you’d probably blurt it out the second he kissed you goodnight.

✩ likes ✩ comments ✩ and reblogs are appreciated

for this req !

#★ · airybcbyy #airy posts #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #atsumu miya #atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #haikyuu fluff #hq!!#hq!! x reader #hq!! fluff #atsumu x reader fluff #airy answers asks :)

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laceyhearts · 2 days ago

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ꊞ CONFUSED FEELINGS ; LUKE HUGHES !

➪ summary: luke wanted it to be casual at first and she knew that, but after a while, luke's feelings get too confused and so he does the only thing he can, pull away

➪ laceyhearts diner event: handcrafted milkshake w/ prompt "don't touch me"

➪ pairing: college!luke hughes x fem!reader

➪ warnings: mentions of casual relationship, luke thinks he doesn't deserve a good relationship (kind of- hints at it)

➪ word count: 0.7k

➪ emma's notes: i started writing one idea but then i was upset so now it's more angst... oh well. also ik i'm writing these out of order, but i promise i'll get to all of them!

Luke Hughes was the bane of her existence, it was confirmed. He’d been teasing her relentlessly, toying with her feelings for the past couple of weeks, drawing her in and then pushing her away when he thought they were getting too close.

It was casual, that’s what he said from the beginning. But things change, people change, feelings change, and now every time he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine his future with her. The thought of that was terrifying to him; he had too many other things to worry about.

So he did what he did best, distancing himself so it would hurt less for both of them.

Unfortunately, for him and for her, it hurt more. The lingering glances that used to lead to being dragged into an empty classroom or closet, the brushing of fingertips that used to lead to a conversation full of flirting, than most people experienced in a lifetime. Now, all of those things only lead to their hearts cracking more and more.

Luke only lasted a week like this; the heavy tension growing whenever they were in the same space for too long was impossible to ignore. He hated it, hated how much he needed her, wanted her, but the only feelings he was focused on were the longing and loneliness.

⎯⎯⎯ ౨ৎ ⎯⎯⎯

She walked out of the party, wrapping her cardigan around her tightly as the early spring air flourished outside. She’d been used to going to these parties with Luke, but now she was dragged out everywhere by her roommate.

Luke noticed her departure, her exit being like a big flashing sign, and he wasted no time in going after her, nodding to his friends as he ran out the door, trying to catch up with her, “Y/n/n!”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, face hardening as she looked back at the ground and continued forward to her dorm. She didn’t want to talk to him, not after everything he’d put her through, no matter the reasoning behind it. And maybe it was her fault, he had said it was just casual, people who saw each other only when they needed something, nothing more and nothing less. And maybe she was a fool for thinking they were becoming something more.

“Y/n, c’mon.”

She slowed, unwilling, a force stilling her from going any further. She cursed her body, the betrayal from herself flowing through her as she turned around and laid eyes on the familiar boy. He reached his hand out, fingers gently grazing her arm, causing her to pull away harshly, “Don’t touch me.”

“Princess…”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Let me explain.”

“Explain what? How you said we were casual and then kept seeking me out like we had something bigger? How we went from hookups every other week to texting each other like we were teenagers in our first relationship? And then just out of nowhere ghosted me?”

“I know, I know. This is my fault, and I take full responsibility, but let me explain.”

“Explain what?” She repeated, hands falling to her side.

“That you mean everything to me now. That I can’t look at you and not see a future where we’re not together. That I can’t hear Party in the U.S.A. without hearing your so off-key voice from when I took you out for ice cream that one night. That I can’t even look at my Red Wings sweatshirt without thinking of you.”

He watched as she froze, mouth opening and closing, eyes threatening to spill over her waterline. He reached for her again, taking both her hands in his larger ones, and letting out the smallest of smiles when she didn’t move to retract again.

“You mean that?”

“So much.”

“Then why’d you-”

“Because I’m an absolute fucking moron who thought I couldn’t handle something as good as you.”

“Sap.”

His infamous grin made its way up on his lips at her small teasing, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer, “But you like it.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“And I am incredibly lucky.”

“Better not do that again, Hughes.”

“Not one plan to.”

DINER ENTRANCE ; PICKUP COUNTER ; LH43 MASTERLIST

JOIN THE TAGLIST ; MY NAVIGATION

#˚ ༘ ✶ ꒰ laceyhearts’ writing ! ꒱#˚ ༘ ✶ ꒰ blurbs ! ꒱#˚ ༘ ✶ ꒰ luke hughes ! ꒱#˚ ༘ ꊞ ꒰ laceyhearts diner event ! ꒱#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #lh43

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leyanas · 1 day ago

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WEAK FOR YOU — a PARK SUNGHOON story (TEASER)

SUMMARY 🖇️ you’ve been taught to keep your heart locked away, but what happens when someone keeps trying to pry it open? it’s only a matter of time before it unlocks and you let him inside.

sunghoon is dangerous; he’s involved in issues that involve fights and chaos, and he’s also your best friend’s older brother, which means he should be totally off limits. but when your worlds keep colliding, and the two of you keep getting each other into trouble, you find yourself drawn to him in more ways than you can imagine.

FEATURING 🖇️ sunghoon x fem!reader, wonyoung & jake

WARNINGS 🖇️ implied parental abuse, mentions of death, lots of fights, blood, passing out, cursing, PTSD & anxiety symptoms, yn has scars, SMUT, penetration, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (jake is next door lol) fingering, body worship(?), praise, biting (vamphoon 😫), oral (fem!receiving), use of pet names (pretty, good girl)

WORD COUNT 🖇️ 24k words (teaser wc: 730)

RELEASE DATE 🖇️ 5th august

NOTE 🖇️ aaaaaa my first fic on this account !!! i hope you guys enjoy it,, this is heavily based on the k drama WEAK HERO! sunghoon is like a blend between suho & baku 🙈 please let me know if you wanted to be added to the taglist! (banner > @uzmacchiato )

You stare at him. “You’ve been gone for two hours.”

A cold look flies over his face for a second. It’s fleeting, but you see it. “Had to deal with some things. Plus, the best gukbap takes time to cook.”

When you see brand new injuries on his hands and face, you know what he dealt with was something violent. But you don’t question it, you can’t when he went out of his way to bring you one of your favourite comfort foods. “What did you get?”

“Oxtail soup.” He almost salivates as he opens both the lids, and you find it entertaining to watch him make such funny sounds and facial expressions. “Come on, eat up.” Something warm blooms in your chest as you take your first sip of the soup. You watch as Sunghoon slurps from his own bowl and you can feel a ghost of a smile lurking on your face. How easy life must be to enjoy something as small as food. “What?” He asks, cheeks full, lips soaked and soup dripping onto his chin.

Without really thinking much of it, you grab a napkin and hold out your hand to him. His head drops to your hand and then shoots back up at you with a confused brow. “Are you always like this?” His hands (and his mouth) are full so you take the liberty of wiping his chin yourself, unable to ease the anxiety of watching the soup leak onto his lap.

A beat of silence passes as he stares at you as though there’s a huge question mark hanging over his head. Then he blinks feverishly, fisting his chest as he tries to swallow his food. “Uh..like what?”

You take a couple of seconds to scan him. “So animated.”

“I could ask you the same question. Are you always so… reserved?”

That word: reserved. It’s such a refreshing term to describe you. It conflicts everything you’ve ever assumed people saw when they tried to get to know you. In fact, the word throws you so off guard, a smile sneaks onto your lips. It’s not a ‘reserved’ one, either. It’s big and careless, with flashing teeth and creased smile lines. A laugh builds up in your throat too and you let it fall out, suppressing it with another spoon of your soup.

Sunghoon still sits there like he’s caught a ghost, making your laugh die out a little. “Wow. Did you just laugh?”

“If you’re about to say, ‘You should smile more, it suits you’, I want you to park that thought right now.” You glance at him, lips resumed back to their usual position.

“Well I wasn’t going to say that. But it does suit you.”

You can’t find it in you to be angry at him. Not when he went out of his way to rescue you, to try and take you home, to bring you food, to keep you company. So you just tuck into your food instead.

“Oh, by the way.” He starts, and you notice the dribble again, so you hand him the same napkin as earlier. He takes it and continues talking. “I don’t know if this is obvious or not, but please keep what happened a secret from my sister. I don’t want her to know I’ve got her friends involved in my shit.”

Because that’s all this is. That’s all you are. His little sister’s friend that keeps getting reaped into his business, that will forever be reaped into his business if you keep bumping into him. Tension grabs you by the shoulders as a shiver trickles down your spine. A pain shoots up your leg as you grab it, remembering how you were dropped onto the floor by someone who seemed twice your size. That must’ve been how the injury happened. You give Sunghoon a fleeting look, hoping your fear doesn’t transpire past your eyes, “Do you think I’m still involved?”

His eyes try to burrow yours as his gaze flickers between them. You nearly falter, having to break away the eye contact to take another sip of your food. “Yes. And I’ll apologise a million times over for it.”

Reality washes over you. Sunghoon being here only makes you that much more of a target, you realise as you sit up and push your food away. “You should go, then.”

“Hey, I…”

“Go.”

NOTE 🖇️ please look forward to the full fic and again, lmk if you want to be on the taglist ^^

#leyA writes #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #sunghoon x y/n #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x you #enhypen x you #enhypen x female reader #enhypen hyung line

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amaris-whisperer · 3 days ago

Text

Written in the Sky l Superman x Reader

Pairing: Superman x Reader Genre: Soulmate AU, emotional slow-burn, angst with comfort, mystery Warnings: Natural disaster, light injury, mentions of loss, emotional vulnerability Summary: Everyone is born with a glowing constellation mark on their wrist that matches their soulmate’s. Yours has never lit up… until the day Superman saves you from a collapsing building. But when you try to find the truth, you learn he’s never shown his mark to anyone. Maybe not even himself. --

I was seventeen when I accepted the truth I never wanted to say out loud.

My mark might never glow.

It had always been there, pale and quiet on the inside of my wrist. A delicate stretch of silver freckles shaped like Orion, arranged with the same care the stars showed when they scattered themselves across the night sky. Everyone had one. A soulmark. The first and last gift we were given at birth. People called them destiny’s compass, a divine roadmap to the person who would complete you.

Most kids saw theirs light up by twenty. Sometimes it happened with a single glance. Sometimes a brush of skin. My best friend met her soulmate in the produce aisle of a grocery store, fingertips brushing over the same bag of oranges. A moment so simple it could’ve been missed. Except it wasn’t. Her mark glowed for the first time, and so did his, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

Mine stayed silent.

Still. Unchanging. Like a star trapped in daylight, waiting for something that never came.

I told myself I didn’t care. I had other things to focus on. Rent. Grades. Survival. I buried my head in work, in cheap coffee and early deadlines. I threw myself into the noise of the city, into the shouts and sirens and headlines that never stopped coming. Soulmates were a nice idea. A beautiful story to tell your kids someday. But I wasn’t going to let a few faded freckles on my skin dictate the course of my life.

I stopped staring at the mark.

Stopped wondering who it belonged to.

Stopped hoping it would change.

Then the building collapsed.

I can’t even remember what dragged me there. Some tip about backdoor zoning deals. Something about permits and dirty money. A rushed meeting in a cracked old high-rise near 49th Street. I was distracted. Checking my notes. The air smelled stale, like paint and dust and forgotten wires.

Then the floor shifted beneath my feet.

A low groan echoed up from the walls. The windows began to tremble. The lights blinked once, then died. I looked up just in time to see the ceiling split, a spiderweb of fractures blooming across the plaster.

The noise came next.

A roar of concrete. The scream of twisting metal. A deep, bone-shaking thunder that swallowed everything.

And then I wasn’t standing anymore.

I wasn’t falling either.

I was flying.

Or at least, I thought I was. It didn’t feel like flying the way people imagine it. There was no rush of freedom or calm. It felt like weightlessness carved out of panic. My ribs throbbed. My lungs fought for air. My hands clawed at something solid and soft and steady.

Cloth.

Not carpet. Not rubble. Not the jagged edge of a splintered desk.

It was smooth. Warm. Blue.

I blinked.

The sky was above me, wide and bright and far too close. Wind snapped at the corners of my shirt. The smell of smoke clung to my hair. I was cradled in someone’s arms, held with a gentleness I didn’t understand until I looked up.

And saw him.

Superman.

His arms curled under me. One behind my knees, the other at my back. His jaw was set, tight with focus. His eyes scanned the city below like he could see every crack in the street, every heartbeat beneath the rubble. His cape trailed behind us in a wave of red, whipping in the wind as we flew higher, farther from the building now coughing up dust and debris in our wake.

I had seen him before. On screens. In news footage. Always distant, always untouchable. A figure too perfect to belong in the same world as the rest of us. More symbol than man.

But now I could smell him. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was warm and real and terrifyingly alive.

And then my wrist started to burn.

It was not pain, not exactly. It felt like something waking up. Like fire without flame. Like lightning threading itself through my veins, pulling itself to the surface of my skin. I gasped, the sound catching in my throat.

He looked down at me immediately. “Are you hurt?”

His voice was deep and low, calm in a way that made my panic feel louder.

I shook my head. My vision blurred. I tried to speak, but the only word that made it out was, “Wrist…”

He frowned, following my gaze.

I lifted my arm, and the sunlight caught it.

My mark.

It was glowing.

Orion, bright and alive, a constellation burning white and steady against my skin. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Like it had been waiting, dormant and aching, for this exact moment.

I couldn’t speak.

He stared at it.

Not with confusion. Not with surprise.

With something like fear.

My lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. The sky kept spinning. My entire world had changed in a single second, and it wasn’t the collapse that undid me.

It was the look in his eyes.

Because he recognized it.

Because this was not the first time he had seen it.

And I could feel it now, more certain than gravity.

He had the same mark.

And he had been hiding it all along. --

Later, in the sterile brightness of the hospital room, I lay wrapped in white sheets and quiet exhaustion. The doctors had done their checks. A fractured rib, a scattering of bruises across my collarbone and legs, a shallow cut stitched along my temple. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing I shouldn’t have walked away from.

They told me I was lucky.

That Superman had arrived just in time.

The nurse smiled as she scribbled on her clipboard, and the paramedics offered soft jokes while they wheeled the next patient away. Everyone kept repeating it 'lucky, lucky, lucky' like that word could explain the way my life had turned inside out.

But I wasn’t listening.

I couldn’t stop staring at my wrist.

The mark was still glowing.

Even now, hours later, it pulsed like moonlight caught beneath my skin. I kept touching it, pressing my fingers to the warm edges, expecting it to fade back to the pale trace it had been my whole life. But it didn’t. It stayed bright, almost defiant, as if daring me to pretend this had never happened.

I hadn’t told anyone yet. Not the nurses. Not the firefighter who brought me water. Not the detective who asked if I remembered anything unusual. I wasn’t ready. My mind kept replaying the moment over and over. His arms were around me. The silence between us gradually formed when he saw my wrist.

The way his expression changed.

Like he knew.

Like he had seen it before.

The door creaked open mid-morning, and my best friend came rushing in, her hair pulled back and her sweater half-buttoned, tears already threatening to spill. She dropped her bag and wrapped her arms around me, careful of the bruises.

“You idiot,” she breathed, voice trembling. “You scared the hell out of me.”

I didn’t speak at first. I just leaned into her shoulder, grateful for the familiar weight of someone who knew me before all this. Someone who still would, no matter what happened next.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes flicked down.

She saw it.

She didn’t even ask. She just froze. Her lips parted. “That’s your mark, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

She sank slowly into the chair beside my bed, not blinking. “When did it start glowing?”

“When he caught me.”

“Superman?” she whispered. “When he picked you up?”

My throat was dry, but I managed the word. “Yeah.”

She stared at me like I had just told her I had wings. “Did it… really light up? Right then?”

I hesitated before answering. “The moment I touched him.”

She sat back, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “So he’s your soulmate.”

I looked away.

“He can’t be,” I said.

Her brows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t have one.”

She blinked. “But—”

“It’s what everyone says.” My voice was quiet, but steady. “He doesn’t have a mark.”

That part was true. The world knew it. He had been asked about it once, back when he first started saving people, when the world was still trying to decide if he was angel or weapon. A reporter had gotten bold, maybe foolish, and asked him if he had a soulmark like the rest of us.

He had smiled politely, then shook his head.

No mark.

No soulmate.

The world had taken it as gospel. Theories flew like sparks. Some thought he didn’t believe in them. Others insisted he was hiding one, or that his biology made him exempt. People wrote essays, poems, fan theories. They romanticized the loneliness of the hero who belonged to no one.

I had read them too.

I had believed them.

But now, I wasn’t so sure.

Because I felt it. The moment his arms wrapped around me. The surge that shot through my veins, the way my heartbeat had synced with something deeper than fear. I had felt the fire. The pull. That strange, cosmic certainty that something long-lost had been found.

And I had seen his face.

Startled at first, like he didn’t expect it. Then something else. Hesitation. Fear.

Not the kind of fear that came from danger. A different kind. The fear of recognition. The fear of meaning.

“He looked at me,” I said softly. “Not just like I was hurt. Like I was something he didn’t expect to feel.”

She leaned in, not daring to interrupt.

“It meant something to him. I could tell. It wasn’t just me. I saw it in his eyes.”

“Then why would he hide it?” she asked gently.

That was the question I hadn’t stopped asking myself since I woke up.

Why would he hide it?

If he had a mark..if I was the reason it lit up, why would he deny it?

Why would someone like him, someone who could do anything, be afraid of something like this?

I didn’t know.

But I wanted to find out.

I didn’t see him again for a while.

After the collapse, after the hospital, after the shock began to wear off, I half-expected him to show up again. Not in a dramatic way, not from the sky. Just a quiet visit, maybe, an explanation, a question. Something.

But he didn’t.

Days passed. Then weeks. The glow on my wrist dulled but never disappeared. It softened to a steady pulse beneath my skin, quiet and constant, like a second heartbeat I couldn’t silence.

And then, one Monday morning, the Daily Planet hired a new reporter.

Clark Kent.

He walked in with his tie slightly crooked and a gentle smile that never quite reached his eyes. He mumbled his introduction to Perry, shook hands with a few staff writers, then slid into the desk two rows from mine with a kind of practiced invisibility. I watched him adjust his glasses, straighten his notes, glance around like he already knew where everything was. He wore uncertainty like armor, but I recognized the strength beneath it.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew.

I had known the moment I saw him in the newsroom. Not because of the mark. Not because of the cape. But because of his presence. The gravity in the air. The way the room seemed to still around him.

Still, I said nothing.

And neither did he.

For weeks, we danced around each other in a quiet, awkward orbit. Polite greetings in the hallway. An occasional exchange by the elevator. He bought coffee for the whole team once and left mine on my desk with a Post-it note that said "No sugar, right?" I hadn’t told anyone how I liked it.

He complimented one of my pieces about a city council scandal. I mumbled thanks and tried not to stare at his mouth. The glow on my wrist would sometimes flicker faintly when he stood too close. It never hurt, exactly, but it made my skin ache with something I didn’t have words for. Like yearning that had nowhere to go.

I thought I was managing it. I thought I could live with the quiet pretending.

Then one night, long after the office had emptied, I went up to the rooftop.

I often did. The air was clearer up there. The sounds of the city softened. Sometimes I wrote drafts on my phone beneath the old rusted vent fan. Sometimes I just stood by the railing and let myself feel something. Anything.

That night, the sky was cloudy. The lights below were blurred by mist and movement, headlights trailing like ribbons.

I didn’t hear the door open, but I heard his voice behind me.

“You’re working late.”

I didn’t turn around. My fingers curled around the cold metal rail. “So are you.”

There was a pause. His footsteps approached slowly. He stopped a few paces away. Far enough to be polite. Close enough that I could feel it again. The pull was strong...literally too strong.

The silence pressed between us.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his voice low.

I didn’t flinch. “You didn’t say anything either.”

More quiet. But not empty this time. Tense. Waiting.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he said finally. “You looked at me like I ruined your life.”

The wind picked up, tugging at my coat. I stared at the skyline.

“You didn’t.”

“But I’m not who you wanted.”

That made me turn.

He was standing there in that rumpled suit, his tie loose, his glasses slightly fogged. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from work, but something older, something heavier.

“You saved my life,” I said quietly.

He looked away.

“I didn’t stop the collapse.”

I frowned. “You think I blame you for that?”

He didn’t answer.

“I don’t,” I said. “I never did.”

“But you looked at me like I failed you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then hesitated. The truth sat heavy in my chest.

There had been a moment, yes. When I first woke up. When the glow on my wrist felt like a lie. When I had watched the news replay footage of the collapse and wondered why he hadn’t come sooner. Why someone like him, someone who could carry the sky, hadn’t prevented any of it.

I had blamed him.

Not for my injuries.

Not for the building.

But for being untouchable. For being above it all. For making me feel like the connection I felt was one-sided, foolish, impossible.

But now he was here.

He was breathing the same air. Saying the words I had thought he never would.

“I thought you didn’t have a mark,” I said.

His jaw tensed. He turned his gaze toward the glowing windows below us.

“I hid it.”

I blinked. “Why?”

For a moment, I didn’t think he’d answer. Then, slowly, he reached up and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. I froze.

His fingers moved carefully, almost with reverence. And there, just beneath his collarbone, half-hidden by the edge of his undershirt, was a faint shimmer. A pattern I knew as well as the back of my own hand. Orion. The same constellation that had been etched into my wrist since birth.

Only now, it was glowing.

My breath caught.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself. My hand lifted, hovering inches from his chest. He didn’t move.

“May I?” I asked.

He nodded once.

My fingers brushed against the skin just above his heart. The mark pulsed gently under my touch, matching mine. I could feel it. That quiet electric hum. Like starlight buried in flesh.

“I was afraid,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “That if people saw it, they’d use it against me. That they’d find whoever it led me to and… hurt them.”

I looked up at him.

“And now?”

His gaze met mine.

“Now I think I’ve been hurting you by hiding.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight.

“All this time,” I said, “I thought I was broken. Everyone else found their match. Mine stayed cold for years. I thought maybe I just wasn’t made for it.”

“It was never cold,” he said softly. “It just hadn’t found me yet.”

The wind shifted, brushing against us like a whisper.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to take this moment and make it make sense. I had written a hundred stories in my life, told a thousand truths. But nothing I had ever put on paper came close to this.

I had spent years chasing meaning. Now, it stood in front of me, eyes full of apology, chest lit with the same constellation I carried in silence for most of my life.

I reached for his hand.

He took mine without hesitation.

The first time we kissed, it wasn’t like in the stories. There was no rush of wind, no dramatic music in the background, no desperate declarations of love shouted over thunder. It wasn’t passionate in the way people usually mean it. It was something softer. Something quieter.

It happened on the same rooftop where truths had first begun to unearth themselves. The night was colder than usual, and the city lights shimmered below like a thousand whispered secrets.

He stood beside me, eyes searching mine, as if asking a question neither of us had the words for. I didn’t answer with language. I just leaned in.

Our lips met in the stillness.

No urgency. No firestorm.

Just warmth. Just the soft brush of breath and the trembling exhale of a man who had held himself back for far too long.

He kissed me like he didn’t quite believe it was real. Like I was the first thing that ever made him feel grounded. Like I was something to be held gently, not gripped.

When we pulled apart, our foreheads rested together, and the world seemed to fall away. The city, the stories, and the shadows didn’t matter.

He looked down at my wrist, where the mark had flared brighter with the contact. His fingers brushed over it with something like reverence.

“I used to stare at the stars,” he murmured, “and wonder if there was anyone else out there like me.”

My hand rose to cradle his cheek. I didn’t hesitate.

“There is,” I whispered.

It wasn’t perfect after that.

He still flew into danger without warning, answering calls only he could hear. Sometimes he came back limping, eyes dark with things he wouldn’t say. Other times, he didn’t come back at all until dawn, and I’d lie in bed with my hand over my heart, praying the sky would return him to me.

I still had moments where fear gnawed at me. Fear that one day the world would demand too much from him. That one day he wouldn’t make it home. That I would be left staring at a glowing mark that had once meant something beautiful and now meant loss.

But love, I learned, isn’t made of perfect days.

It’s made of the little things.

Of sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, our legs touching beneath the surface while the kettle whistled. Of his hand finding mine beneath the covers when sleep wouldn’t come. Of whispered apologies after long silences. Of learning how to hold space for someone else’s pain without needing to fix it.

Our love wasn’t built on fairytales.

It was built on patience. On resilience. On the quiet decision to choose each other again and again, even when the world made it hard.

People used to ask if I was afraid.

If it was hard.

Of course it was.

Some nights I cried into his chest after the news showed too many collapsed buildings, too many grieving faces. Some nights I stitched up the cuts on his arms, my hands shaking, while he tried to make me laugh. Some nights he would watch me sleep, as if afraid I’d vanish if he blinked.

But every time he came back with hair dusted with ash, cape torn, eyes tired. He would look at me like he was seeing the sun after weeks of rain. His arms would wrap around me like I was the one thing he needed to breathe.

And every time I reached back, our marks would glow.

Not in flames.

Not in flashes.

But in quiet, steady light. A kind of promise.

A reminder that we were never alone in the universe, not really. That even among stars, some things were written just for us.

Written in the sky.

Written in our skin.

Written in every moment we chose to stay.

And that, in the end, was more than enough.

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