#if you are writing with the intention of creating a black character

[blackfilmmakers]

Your OC needs more Black friends, and they need to be the ones who introduce them to queerness and a Black queer space. Because it does sound like they don't have Black friends, or they are mainly in a white group whose purpose is to whiteknight themselves in the story

Honestly, when you guys decide to make Black OCs, you need to get used to the idea that means you're gonna write about a lot of other Black characters, whether that's friends, love interests, and the family. You have the OC's brother, for instance. What is their relationship like with the brother, and what is his fashion sense? It's gotta be something the MC vibes with

But yeah, it sounds like a case of you need to do a lot of research and reading up on Black queer works before tackling into this stuff

Cuz why does the OC and their family live in a conservative christian racist area? Work? Gentrification? Rod Serling jumpscare?

You have a quiet queer Black, possibly neurodivergent kid, live in a christian conservative town. They are going to have a lot of vulnerabilities in a very isolated space(if you go with the idea their friend group is mainly white) that you're going to need to tackle

hey there! so, im making a character who's Black, anddd i need help with them. badly so.

(sorry in advance bc this character isnt That developed or at least not as much as other OCs i have)

alright, they're an afab teen under the non-binary umbrella (im not sure on what gender i should give them). they're in a friend group with two other teens, one of whom found out she's trans, and that made them go like "wait maybe im not cis". they live in an extremely conservative christian town, and they're one of the few black kids there (it's an awful place to live, i make that very clear), which makes it so that they're not very connected with LGBTQ not POC communities - which is why their friend was the one who introduced queerness to them. they're the quietest of their friend group, quite autism coded but i dont think I'll really specify it, and they're a pretty normal kid all things considered (a bit of a self-insert personality wise lol)

when i first thought this character's gender arc, as the story will be very visual (animatics probably), i thought of them experimenting with gender by trying on their older brother's clothes. seeing they like how it looks, they decide to pick up a pack of scissors and cut their hair themself.

now, i remembered "oh fuck, POC usually don't like to have their hair messed with do they?" (i have read a bunch of posts abt that so im 99% certain lol-), then noticed how white the whole arc looks (i need more contact with POC i live in White Hell i have no other reference ;;), and that kinda discouraged me from writing them to the point i almost scrapped the whole character arc and even the concept- which is also why they're not as developed as they should be.

now, the actual question! how to write their transition arc, while also remaining respectful and realistic? also, have you noticed anything in this ask that's kinda fucked up, and how can i fix it if so? im doing my best to represent many groups of ppl with my OCs and i want to be accurate sorry if this ask is very long ;;

thank you so much for answering, and thank you for this blog!! you're very cool :)

So first, I deeply want to apologize for how late I am on answering this. I didn't want to answer without being informed, but I also know how much you want advice.

First, if this character is Black, say "Black" not "POC". Even in your head, start making that decision to be specific every time. We have a specific identity, we are not every man, and it's annoying to be referred to so generally when we have an identity.

For the hair part, check out this lesson. If your character decided to cut their hair off themselves, then it's not exactly an issue- it's their hair! It'd be different if it was someone they didn't know and trust touching their hair. You may feel free to refer to my entire syllabus if you want to do the reading to see if there's anything else you may have missed!

As for your question on their transition, this is the part that I was wavering on answering, because I'm currently doing the reading myself for a lesson I'm writing. So at the moment, all I can really say is to read narratives about and by Black trans people, and what that meant for them! That's a cool list I just found, I'm gonna save it for later as a reference.

It's not going to be received the same way as a white person transitioning, no; perception of gender identity and expression are going to be different depending on who's looking. For example, what does 'Black androgyny' look like to white people if they already believe that we have 'masculine' features? Thus the existence of the term 'stud'. Or how long hair is deemed feminine, but there are plenty of Black and Indigenous people whose hair growth is essential to their identity and has nothing to do with "making them girly".

I think what I plan on getting into more detail on in my lesson- and what you'll need to understand- is that following or even subverting gender "norms" is dependent upon what those cultural norms are, and how they might conflict at times. So to write a respectful narrative, you're going to have to understand what it means to live at that intersection. I hope this all made sense 😅 this is why I'm not confident in that lesson yet.

[whumptober]

Resources for Writing Sensitive Topics

As always, when writing about sensitive topics/injuries/illnesses, we encourage everyone to research and tag works appropriately. This is to ensure that the whump community can remain a safe space for everyone, as well as assist writers in creating well-informed works that avoid offending people and stereotyping, romanticising, or sensationalising hard topics.

We have also added some additional links that may be useful when creating characters.

Below are some links to resources we and others found useful - we'd like to thank the wonderful members of our community for helping us with finding great resources.

Blogs/Tumblr Posts:

@cripplecharacters - A whole blog dedicated to helping people write disabled characters.

^ A Guide to Writing Disabled Characters

@writingwithcolor - A whole blog dedicated to writing and resources centered on racial, ethnic and religious diversity.

^ Stereotypes and Tropes Navigation

@creatingblackcharacters - Creating Black Characters *with intent!

Resources for Writing Injuries (Tumblr Masterpost)

Resources for Writing Sketchy Topics (Tumblr Masterpost - please note that a couple of links are broken due to the post being 7 years old, but many are still working!)

A guide to designing, drawing or writing characters who use mobility aids (Tumblr post)

Writing A Blind or Visually Impaired Character (Tumblr Post)

Independent Websites

Avoiding Stereotypes in Fiction: Characters with Mental Health Issues (WritersHelpingWriters)

How Do I Depict a Disabled Character Respectfully? (Fay Onyx, Mythcreants blog)

Respectfully Depicting a Character Adapting to a Disability (Fay Onyx, Mythcreants blog)

Writing Deaf Characters (T. Frohock, author.)

How to Write Deaf or Hard of Hearing Characters (Melanie Ashford, Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association)

How to Write a Blind or Vision Impaired Character (AllWriteAlright)

If anyone has any additional sources, feel free to share them in the reblogs/replies!

POST CONTRIBUTERS - Thank you!

@psychologeek - Thank you for sharing some of the primary resources with us, it helped us a great deal :)

@tabletop-whump

[lunasfics]

Found Family

summary: In which Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent engage in a custody battle over a clone created from both their DNA, or, in which you get saved from a lab and gain two new families who would move mountains for you.

pairing: Bat Family x f! Reader, Supers x f! Reader

word count: 8.2k

preview

a/n: hello! IT'S FINALLY OUT WOOHOO, it's a bit long but i had a lot of fun writing it. certain characters may be a bit ooc so i do apologize as i'm still getting my footing on how to characterize certain people. let me know what you think! constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated (just pls don't be mean lol)! i left a somewhat open-ish ending because i wanna make this into a series/universe, and will start taking requests for drabbles in this universe, depending on how this is received! - luna :)

reblogs are appreciated!

“I’m in. Robin, what’s your status?” Bruce spoke into the earpiece, swiftly moving through the shadows of the lab. It was a simple mission: get into the lab Lex Luthor had created under Gotham City, collect intel needed to take down said lab, and leave. Unfortunately, it’s never really that simple, is it? 

“I’m in, making my way through the west wing, cover is still intact,” Damian muttered back. 

“Good. Nightwing?” 

“Just entered the center lab, heading down to the bottom level now, haven't been spotted,” Dick said, making his way down the steps, careful to remain silent. 

“Good. Remember the objective. In and Out.” Bruce muttered as he continued, searching for the locked file cabinet he was looking for. 

“Files located. Ready for extraction” Damian said quietly through the intercom. 

“I’ve made it to the bottom level. Requesting immediate backup, there's something here you guys need to see” Dick’s voice echoed through the earpiece, “They’ve made another clone.” 

Bruce stopped what he was doing, silently making his way down the hall towards the staircase Dick took around a half hour before, “I'm on my way. Damian?”

“Heading there now. Files are downloaded.” 

Upon arriving at the lower level, Dick bypasses security to let them in, making sure to reactivate the lock behind them, “Look.”

He gestured to the incubation tube not far from them, inside of it stood a young woman, who looked no older than 20, wearing a black skin-tight suit, a familiar “S” symbol adorning her chest, only it was the center of another symbol, the bat symbol, with bat ears at the top and bat wings on either side of it, a dark burgundy color with gold lining along the edges. The plaque below the tube read: 

Attempt 1: G6B24 

Specimen 1: Superman (Identity: Unknown)

Specimen 2: Batman (Identity: Unknown) 

Status: Failed - Shows excessive signs of emotional intelligence (unfit for purpose), Subject is not invulnerable, Lacks thermal vision

‘Emotional Intelligence’ you must have shown hesitation, a moral compass. 

“Father… what are we going to do?” Damian asked, he was at a loss, part of him felt slightly threatened, if you were taken in, he would no longer be the only child related to Bruce by DNA, and you were older, stronger— perhaps you would take his place, the place he’d finally felt he truly belonged; however he remained silent, his past self likely would have attempted to argue against your rescue, but he’d grown, he knew deep down you deserved a chance at this life just as much as he did. 

Bruce looked up at your unconscious figure, at a loss for words, you were his daughter, intentional or not, there was a part of him in you, he only hoped that part wouldn't screw you over for life. As surprised as he was, he had an obligation to you the same way he did with Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Steph, Barbara, Duke, Damian, and every other vigilante he had taken under his wing.

His Batman instincts kicked in very quickly though, immediately refocusing himself, reading through the files, in an attempt to prepare himself for any possible scenario, he turned to Dick. 

“Find all the DNA samples they have belonging to both me and Superman, we’re taking them,” he said, making sure to not hyper-focus on the thoughts flooding his mind. 

“We’re not just leaving her here, are we? The plaque says ‘failed’. Who knows what could happen to her?” Dick said, he was frustrated.

Conner had gotten a chance to build a life for himself. You deserved one too, the mere thought of Bruce wanting to leave you there angered him. 

“She’s coming with us. Damian, watch the door, Dick, find the samples," Bruce said gruffly, moving to the tube, bypassing the database to open it, without setting off any system safeguards. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out his shard of kryptonite, just in case it was needed to neutralize you. 

The tube opened slowly, a swoosh sound filling the air as the cold fog escaped the tube, spilling into the air, your eyes fluttering open as you looked around, your eyes focusing on him.

You flew at him, full speed, pushing him against the wall with a thud, knocking the wind out of him, your eyes boring into his, glowing red, just as you were about to terminate him with your heat vision, he uttered the safe word he had seen in your file. 

“Blue Pineapple” he grunted out, the red in your eyes fading away instantly, as you stared at him with wide eyes. You backed away slowly, lowering yourself to the floor. Your eyes fixed on him once again.

You recognized him from your programming, the man whose combat skills were engraved into your mind.

“Batman?” 

Dick and Damian rushed over, making sure Bruce was okay. He was fine.

Dick turned to you, holding out his hand, “Come with me. We need to get you out of here, you aren’t safe here.” 

You stared at him, your eyes narrowing, “Why should I trust you?” 

Dick sighed, Those damn Wayne genetics, he kept his hand extended to you, “Because we’re helping you escape, if you come with us, you can meet Superman, be a hero just like him and Batman, you could actually see the world” he promised. 

"I know what the world looks like." you stated bluntly.

He sighed, his hand not wavering, "But have you ever experienced it? Let us show you what that's like. You can have a life."

You thought for a moment, before letting out a small grunt, nodding at him and taking his hand, allowing them to lead you out of the lab grounds seemingly undetected. 

When you stepped out, you stopped, eyes completely transfixed on the brilliant night sky. Blends of blues and purples and grays danced together to make the beautiful endless abyss above you. You knew every color there was. You knew everything, but at the same time you really didn't. You stared up at the stars, you knew how they came to be, you knew every scientific explanation there was yet seeing them… it made you feel a way you couldn’t explain.

They led you to the batmobile, situating you in the back seat with Damian, starting the drive to the Batcave. Bruce dialed Clark’s number into the keypad, it rang twice before he picked up. 

“Hello?” 

“Meet me in the Batcave. It’s urgent. Bring Conner.”

“What’s going o-”

He hung up. 

Dick covered his mouth to hide his snicker, “So, Bruce, you and Clark have an official love child now, right? What will Lois think?” he feigned concern, placing the back of his hand over his forehead, committing to the drama, “Oh, how scandalous, I mean really, the shame! I can already see the headlines ‘Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne turned common whore after breaking up happy metropolis family’” 

Damian covered his laugh with a cough.

You looked at the three of them, utterly confused, still processing what was going on. 

Bruce huffed, shooting them both a glare, “Dick, be mature.” 

Dick smiled, “I can't help myself, just wait til Jason finds out.” He smiled in excitement, as they pulled into the side entrance of the Batcave. 

Bruce let out a deep, tired sigh.

Clark sat in silence in the Batcave, Conner standing to his left, his eyes wide as he stared at you, possessing some features belonging to both he and Bruce, and other features that seemed to be entirely your own.

You stared back, that same stoic nature radiating off of you that radiates off the Batman, however, he noted the defensive look in your eyes, one so similar to the one he saw in Conner when he first met him. He eyed your suit, noting the familiar “S” symbol, only it was a burgundy color, a rather interesting combination of the Batman and Superman emblems, and he was utterly confused.

He looked over at Bruce, still in his bat suit, his cowl pulled off, “Bruce, what the hell is going on?” 

“I had to call you here because Luthor decided to create another clone. I did the DNA test, Clark, she’s a combination of both our DNA” Bruce looked at him, Dick and Damian standing to his right. It was silent for a moment, you felt like a guinea pig, the way they all stared at you. It made you angry. 

Conner was the first to speak, stepping forward before opening his mouth, choosing his words carefully, “What’s your name?” 

You responded immediately, it felt automatic. “Experiment attempt number one. Code G6B24. I was made to be the future killer of the Batman and the Kriptonian.” 

He nodded slowly, “I’m a clone too, and Clark took me in— well, he took me in eventually— that’s besides the point. He showed me how to become my own person, we can help you do that too.”

You looked at him, eyes softening ever so slightly, but you kept your guard up like your Batman programming taught you to. “I was made to be a killer, if I don’t do what I was made to do, what am I worth?” you said quietly, voice unwavering.

Damian watched you, your words striking him in a way he hadn't expected them to, he understood what you were saying all too well. 

Bruce decided to speak up next, “You were created, it’s not your fault what their intentions were when they did so. What you become from here on out is your choice.” 

You stayed silent, eyes darting around the room—What is this feeling? Vulnerability? You knew it by definition, like you did most other feelings, but feeling them… it was different. 

Dick noted the way you seemed overwhelmed, he approached you slowly, pulling up two chairs, motioning for you to sit, you chose to remain standing until he sat down first. 

“You know, we trust you, we want to figure out a way for you to become the best you can be. On your terms” he said, offering you a small smile. 

You looked around, the others nodded in agreement, “I was made to be only the best parts of you” you said, your gaze focusing on Clark and Bruce, they both put their best qualities forward to help others, how could you use those same qualities to destroy that?

“I… don’t want to be a killer. They said I was too… human. I thought I’d failed them.” 

Damian decided to step forward, “You didn’t fail anyone, you are meant for greater things. You haven't killed anyone, you can choose your path. If the path you choose is the Robin mantle... I am willing to work with that.” 

At this, the other men in the room turned to look at him, Clark and Conner were slack-jawed, this was the same kid who fought Tim tooth and nail over this mantle. The same mantle he was just… willing to give you? 

Meanwhile Dick had a proud smile on his face, you thought you saw a small tear in his eye.

Bruce’s face seemed unreadable, however, you took notice of the way the corners of his lips turned up for a split second. before reverting back to their natural state. 

You weren’t sure what to say, again, you knew what this mantle was, by definition. The reality was you had no sense of what it meant, the weight it carried. And you knew that.

“Thank you, but I feel like that title isn’t mine to take. I think I need to… become something that's true to who I am, whatever that may be.”  

Bruce looked at you, the corner of his lip barely twitching up into a smile, a smile so subtle that only someone of your… background would notice, an attempt of his towards getting you more comfortable, “We should start with a name.” 

You looked at Conner, he gave you an encouraging smile. 

“Like I chose Conner, so now I’m Conner Kent,” he said with a small shrug, “You can choose whatever you want.” 

“I see,” you thought for a moment, “I like Y/n.” 

Clark smiled, standing up and clapping his hands together, “Great! Y/n Kent, has a nice ring to it.” 

“Wayne.” 

He turned towards Bruce, eyes narrowing slightly, “Kent.”

“Wayne.”

This time Conner spoke, “Kent.”

The three men stared at each other, arms crossed mirroring each-other’s glares. 

Dick cut in, “How about Grayson?”

“No.” came their simultaneous response. 

Dick frowned, slumping in the seat next to yours, “Jeez.” 

Damian spoke next, “I suppose Al Ghul is off the table…” 

Dick snorted, breaking out into a fit of laughter, you grinned softly at the sounds of his laughter, it reminded you of a windshield wiper. 

Conner sighed, “Fine, what about Wayne-Kent?”

Bruce huffed, “I suppose.”

Clark nodded, the smile returning to his face as he turned to you, “Y/n Wayne-Kent”

You nodded, “I like it.” 

Dick could help but laugh from beside you, “It's like I'm watching reality tv. Love me some baby mama drama.”

Clark opened his mouth to speak and closed it, before sighing and looking at Bruce, who just pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Conner chuckled at the sight, turning to Damian, who’s lip quirked up in amusement. 

Bruce looked up, his attention directed towards you, “Y/n, you can stay here for the night, I’ve asked Alfred to set up a room for you. Clark, Conner, come by tomorrow with Lois and Jon, I’ve called the others to come by as well, we’ll get everything situated tomorrow. For now, get some rest.” 

Everyone nodded, Clark and Conner heading to the exit of the cave, Damian, Dick and Bruce leading you to the room that was prepared for you. 

Dick brought you a sweater and some sweatpants to change into, closing the door with a soft, “Goodnight, kiddo.” 

You changed in silence, slowly getting under the covers and drifting off to sleep, marking the start of your new life. Tomorrow would be an interesting day. 

You woke up the next morning, to a soft knock on the door, your super hearing picking it up better than you would have liked. You opened the door, revealing an older man you hadn’t seen before. He smiled softly, giving you an instantaneous sense of comfort you couldn’t explain. 

“Hello Miss Y/n. My name is Alfred, I am the butler,” he greeted you, handing you a folded set of clothes, “Master Kent chose these for you, however if they are not to your liking, do let me know.” 

“They’re fine…Thank you.”

He smiled warmly, the kind old man giving you a nod, “Once you've changed, do come down, I’ve prepared breakfast. The other members of the family will arrive soon to meet you.” 

You gave him a short nod, he smiled again, your demeanor reminding him of the young Bruce he’d looked after all those years ago. He shut your door softly before retreating down the staircase, leaving you in your room to change. 

You picked up the small note that rested at the top of the pile, reading it over. 

Comfortable, Practical, and cool. Hope you like it. - Conner

You looked down at the neatly folded clothes, unfolding a black long sleeve turtleneck shirt, the material was thick but breathable, you slipped it on with ease, the foreign material soft against your skin, you appreciated that it didn’t suffocate you. 

You reached for the pants next, dark gray cargo pants, these were thicker, and the had an overwhelming amount of pockets. You slipped them on before slipping on the boots that were at the bottom of the stack and exiting the room, going down the staircase. 

Upon entering the dining room, you were met with Bruce sitting at the head of the table, reading the paper calmly eating his pancakes, to his right sat Dick chatting excitedly to the boy next to him, who smiled at him as he listened, he was a slender boy with black hair who looked a bit younger than Dick. Then there was Alred, calmly enjoying his breakfast. Finally there was Damian on the other side of Bruce, leaving an empty seat between Damian and Alred. You sat down, the pale boy noticing you first. 

Bruce looked up, “Tim, this is Y/n.” 

“Hello.” You sat up awkwardly. One thing you never learned was how to navigate social interactions.

He studied you for a moment, offering you a small smile, “I’m Tim.” 

You gave a nod, returning his smile with a smaller one of your own. 

“She knows, by the way.” Dick chimed in.

His eyes widened, was that why you were there? 

“How?” 

All eyes are on you. You opened your mouth to speak but Damian spoke first. 

“She’s a clone. Father will explain everything when everyone else arrives so as to not waste time, until then, hold on to your childish curiosity. I’d like to enjoy my breakfast.” 

Dick nodded, “She was literally made for this shit.”

“Watch your language Master Dick, it is deplorable to speak in such a way at the table, much less in the presence of a lady.” 

Dick blushed, “Sorry Alfred.” 

Bruce simply gave a nod. 

Tim slumped back in his seat, wanting to ask you questions about your abilities, your earliest memories, who were you a clone of, how your programming worked, the boy was itching to know it all. 

Breakfast passed by relatively quickly after that, you weren’t bombarded with questions, much to your relief. Alfred kindly asked you how you slept to which you replied that you slept well. The sound of casual conversation and glassware scraping together filling the room. You enjoyed observing the atmosphere.

Clark and Conner were the first to arrive at the manor, greeting you happily, with them was a woman and a younger boy, who immediately went to sit by Damian. 

Clark brought them over to you, the woman smiled warmly at you. It made you feel safe. 

She held your hand in hers, “My name is Lois,” her voice was kind, genuine. You noted how she carried herself. Strong, secure, honest. 

Clark was quick to bring Jon over, excited to introduce him, “This is my son, Jon.”

“Hi!”  he beamed at you, you smiled, he was cute. Cheerful as he smiled brightly at you. 

“Hello, my name is Y/n.” you greeted the two, who smiled at you.

Conner was the next to approach, “Did you like the clothes? I picked them out cause it was all I used to wear, but who knows, you may want something more… fashionable.”

You smiled softly, “They're nice, thank you.”

“On that note actually,” Clark said, “I was thinking we can take you shopping later, Bruce and I can pay.” 

Bruce deadpanned, “That’s a joke, right?” 

He smiled, “Of course, you’re paying for everything.”

“Sounds about right.” 

Chatter filled the room not long after, Jon and Damian catching up on the couch while Conner and Tim started a conversation of their own. 

The next people to arrive were three young women, blonde, brunette, and red hair. They had arrived together.

The blonde spoke first, “Why'd you call us here Bruce? We had planned for brunch.” She bitterly narrowed her eyes at him, the brunette behind her giving a short nod of agreement.

Bruce sighed, “We’re waiting on Jason. He’s late.” 

“As always.” The redhead said with a sigh, though you could see she wasn't actually upset.  

The blonde girl turned to you first smiling, “I’m Stephanie, but call me Steph. I’m assuming you’ll be joining our vigilante posse.” She seemed funny, and kind, like she truly cared for those around her. 

“Somewhat, I don’t really know. I’m Y/n.” You said bluntly.

“Pretty name.” She smiled, gesturing to the red haired woman behind her, “This is Barbara, but she's really just Babs.” She then gestured to the brunette, “That’s Cass. She’s lovely.” 

You looked at them and nodded, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Barbara smiled warmly at you, “You too, I’m so glad there’ll be another girl around, we can always use more company.” She smiled at you so kindly, despite having only just met you. Her voice was sweet, like honey. 

Cass smiled softly at you, “Come to brunch with us later. Or, lunch, now since Jason is holding us up.” 

You nodded your lip quirking up into a small smile, “I’d enjoy that.” 

Truthfully, you didn't know what the fuck brunch was. But she said lunch and that you knew. You'd find out about brunch later.

Then, as if on cue, the man in question arrived, walking through the door, slipping off his brown jacket and tossing it on the couch. He was tall, with a stocky frame, jet black hair with a white streak on the front. 

“This better be good.” 

Tim mumbled, “Finally” 

“Miss me Timmy?” 

“Quite the contrary.”

The one called Jason laughed before giving him a small nudge, to which Tim swatted his hand away. 

His eyes fixed on you, then on Bruce. 

“Dude, seriously? Another one? You have a problem man. You’d think you would’ve stopped after me.” 

Bruce stood up, “Jason, sit down. Now that you’re all here I wanted to introduce you to Y/n. She’s a clone, made from both mine, and Clark’s DNA.” 

“Holy shit, man.” 

“Jason, will you shut up?” 

“Never.” 

“As I was saying, she’ll be here in the manor for the time being, I’ll be training her and assessing her combat technique.” 

“Hold on,” Clark interjected, “She should come with us, she needs to get the hang of her powers.” 

“Clark, I have a state of the art training area in the cave.” 

“So? We’re supers, all we need is an open field.” 

“We need to assess her combat skills, and also assess the extent of her powers. She isn’t invulnerable. We need to prioritize getting to the bottom of that.” 

Clark huffed but nodded, understanding the full extent of your abilities was vital in actually training you. 

“It’s like I’m watching a custody battle.” muttered Steph, Barbara laughing quietly beside her. 

“Wait- So Y/n is basically if you and Clark had a baby?” Tim gawked at them, his eyes shifting from Bruce to Clark, to you. When his eyes landed on you, he fired questions like he was on a time limit. 

“How do Bruce’s genetics affect your abilities? Are you immune to kryptonite and invulnerable? How does your thermal vision work? Enhanced strength? Can you fly? Can you fly as fast as Superman? Do you have combat training? How do y-” 

Conner smacked a hand over his mouth, leading him back to his seat, “Lets try not to overwhelm her with the questions.” He chuckled. 

Tim nodded, looking up at you, “Sorry, Y/n.” 

“That’s okay. To answer your questions, his genetics don’t necessarily have a huge impact on any of my abilities, I was created with every available video of Batman fighting embedded into my mind, and the combat skills were engraved in my memory, I should be able to replicate his fighting style to a tee. I’m not invulnerable, but in theory, the stealth I was programmed with allows me to stay agile enough that I shouldn’t often get hurt. I don't have thermal vision, but I do have laser vision, enhanced strength, and flight, although I haven’t tested how fast I actually can fly. And like I said, my combat training is essentially the combat footage uploaded into my mind.” 

Tim had nodded, eyes trained on yours in complete interest as you answered each question, occasionally jotting something down on the notes app of his phone. 

Lois narrowed her eyes slightly at both Bruce and Clark, “I do hope you’re factoring in giving her the opportunity to build an actual social life. Maybe get her enrolled in school.” 

“She has doctorate-level information on several different topics stored into her mind, as well as fluency in 8 languages. I think she’ll be fine, Lois,” Bruce replied. 

She rolled her eyes, “Okay, so school’s not necessary, what about building a social life for herself? That’s important.” 

“There’s Young Justice,” Conner said, “I figured she’d join.” 

Tim nodded in agreement, “I can help her get situated.” 

“Where will I stay?” you asked, you didn’t particularly enjoy how they were all discussing you as if you weren't there, but there honestly wasn’t much you could do. 

“You can stay at the manor, or you can stay with the team, but it'd be best if you lived here in the Manor.” Bruce replied.

“Why isn’t Metropolis an option?” Clark muttered. 

“Because it’s more practical to have her here in Gotham, living with Tim will make it easier to adjust to the team.” 

“I want time with her, Bruce.” 

“You’ll get it. We’ll have her assessed, then three times a week she’ll train and get a hold of her powers with you.” 

Clark nodded, satisfied with that answer. 

Lois spoke again, turning to you, “Y/n, how does that sound to you?” 

You blinked. “It sounds fine. My super hearing allows me to hear every conversation proficiently.”

She chuckled softly, “It’s a figure of speech sweetheart, I meant if you’re okay with everything that was said, you’ve been a bit quiet.”

You felt your face grow hot, “Oh. Yeah, I’m okay with it.”

Clark gave you a fond smile. 

Bruce looked at you and smiled softly, a barely noticeable one, but a smile nonetheless. 

The bulk of the conversation was over. The people in the room falling into easy conversation with one another, you look around, not sure what to do. That is until Jason approaches you, a kind smile on his face. 

“Hey Y/n, I’m Jason, I’ll be honest, you probably won't see me too often cause I can barely stand being around Bruce, but… if he’s ever a dick, call me and I’ll either punch him for you and take you somewhere he’s not.” he grinned, “Or both.” 

You laughed softly, “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

He nodded, “I’ll be raiding the kitchen, but if anyone asks, I left.” He shoots you a grin before slipping away. 

It’s not long after that when Jon approaches you, Damian by his side, he shoots you a toothy grin, “So, you’re like, my sister now, right?” 

You’re not sure how to respond, but you feel a puddle of warmth pooling in your heart, it’s nice. You smile at him softly, “I suppose so.” 

He grins, “And that would also make you Damian’s sister. right?”

“I suppose so.” 

“See Damian, we’re blood brothers by extension.” 

“Jon, that is the most imbecilic logic I’ve ever encountered. Just because Y/n is both my blood and yours doesn’t mean–” 

“Blood brothers!” He had shouted cheerfully, before walking away and over to Lois to inform her of the good news. 

Damian sighed, though you took notice of the soft smile that flashed across his face, you concluded that he cared for him. 

A lot of people in this family– Bruce’s family specifically, tend to hide affection, despite the fact that it is apparent to you that they feel it. You decide not to focus on it, people are complicated. 

You chat a bit with various people in the room, Lois telling you that you’re always welcome to visit whenever you’d like, Barbara talking to you about how her work as Oracle, Steph telling you all about the other vigilantes you’ll probably end up crossing paths with. Tim and Conner sat by you, telling you all about the team and the people you’ll meet once all your training is done. 

Slowly, people start to leave, you saw Jason slip out the front door first, sending you a wink. Dick left not long after, needing to return to his responsibilities in Bludhaven, making sure to tell you you’re always welcome to visit him over there. Then Clark left with Lois, Jon, and Conner, leaving the residents of the manor plus, Cass, Steph and Barbara.

Damian and Tim had retreated to their rooms, while Alfred busied himself with household chores, Bruce stood up, approaching you before saying, “Did you still want to go shopping? You’ll need training clothes.” 

You nodded, “Yes, please.” 

Steph perked up, rushing towards the two of you, “Oh, we have to come.” 

“Steph, you go shopping every week. With my card.”

Barbara chimed in, “It’s not about that Bruce, you have a terrible fashion sense. We can’t let you impose that onto Y/n.”

Cass nodded in agreement. 

“We’re just buying training clothes.” 

“She can’t wear training clothes in her daily life,” Steph rolled her eyes, “She needs a wardrobe.” 

You smiled, “I would like a wardrobe.” 

“See?”

Bruce sighed but nodded, “Let's go then.”

Steph cheered while Barbara and Cass high-fived behind her, it was an amusing site. 

When you arrived at the mall, Steph immediately linked arms with you, dragging you around to her favorite stores, paying no mind to your super strength potentially being able to accidentally break her arm. It caught you off guard, not only the physical display of affection, but the trust.

Again, you felt that soft puddle of warmth pool in your chest. You could get used to that. 

You had gotten to know Barbara and Cass fairly well during the trip as well, Barbara was sweet, she and Steph made you laugh more than you thought you could. Cass and you got along well too, she picked out the clothes you liked the most, always nodding in approval when you would try anything on, a soft smile on her face. The three of them opened their group up to you so quickly, it had surprised you, you felt that with their company you were better able to navigate finding yourself. 

The four of you hadn’t paid much mind to Bruce trailing behind you as you went from store to store, not that he minded. He held a fond smile as he observed the four of you giggling, talking, and having a good time.

He knew his focus on training was important, but he also knew Lois was right (not that he’d admit that to anyone), you needed a social life too. And he knew your heightened emotional intelligence would surely allow you to obtain that, you just needed to blossom, and allow yourself to break free of the restraints you put on yourself. 

He’d lost count of how many times he had swiped his card that day, at some point he had decided to just start waiting by the front, once you guys were ready, he’d walk over, swipe his card, and you guys would move on to the next shop. He wouldn't say this to anyone, but he enjoyed doing things like this, taking care of the people he cares about. 

The last store you had gone to was WayneTech, it was Bruce’s idea. You needed a phone in order to keep everyone’s contacts. So they brought you there where you got the latest model of their cell phone line, it was sleek and thin. You picked out a case and you got a screen protector. Bruce had told you that once you got to the Batcave he’d input league contacts, safety features, as well as league-level security settings. 

By the end of the trip it was early in the evening, Bruce had his arms absolutely filled with shopping bags, and what he couldn’t carry was carried by you and Steph. The five of you stepped out into the parking lot, the sun setting, casting a deep orange hue on the parking lot. You took in the image in front of you, you didn’t know suns could set so beautifully.

The ride home was nice, the car was filled with the soft chatter of the four of you, Bruce didn’t feel the need to listen in. The soft music playing on the stereo as a background was a nice addition to the atmosphere. 

When you’d arrived at the manor, the girls had bid you goodbye, but not before making sure they had your number to add you to their group chat. You were warned by Steph that Cass’s meme game could not be beat. You were slightly confused but nodded, a happy smile on your face. They each gave you a hug before getting in their cars and heading off. 

The walk into the manor was silent, but not awkward, mainly the two of you taking armfuls of bags up to your room.

As he shut the door, Bruce turned to you, “It’s not too late, if you want, we could start out on some training.” 

You nodded, going into your room to change, “I’ll be down there in a bit.” 

He nodded, walking away to change as well. 

You entered the Batcave shortly after, comfortable in your black sweatpants, and a black long sleeve athletic shirt. Now, having a better opportunity to take it all in, it was massive. You looked to your left to see Damian sparring with Tim in one of the further training areas. You walked over to Bruce, he gave you a small smile, leading you to the second training area by Tim and Damian, who by now had stopped sparring, in favor of observing your skill. 

“You can replicate my fighting style to a tee, right?”

You nodded.

“Let’s see it.” 

You charged first, making sure to suppress your strength, your movements swift and calculated, landing a fast right kick to his abdomen. He sidestepped, landing a swift punch to your side. You kept attempting attacks on eachother, each one dodging the other flawlessly.

Tim and Damian watched in awe as the two of you gracefully moved, as if you were dancing. This went on for several minutes, until you attempted a fast left kick to his side, which he caught, using as leverage to flip you over on your back.

Your limbs ached, you looked up at him, “How did you do that?”

He held a hand out to help you up, “I’m not as fast with my left kicks as I am with my right ones. My weaknesses are your weaknesses.”

You nodded. Made sense. 

“You have good technique, and you replicate my fighting perfectly, but that’s all it is. A replication. You need to make it your own. Adapt it in accordance with your abilities, you can’t do that now because Clark hasn’t trained you, but in time you will.” 

You nodded, your chest swelling with pride at his compliment, you knew after your training with Clark you would be able to better adjust your fighting style.

Damian walked over to you, “Y/n. I’d like to spar, you’ve proven to be a worthy opponent.” 

You nodded, it would be good to spar with someone with a different fighting style. Tim sat down to the side, perfectly content with just observing for now, like earlier, he occasionally jotted down some notes on his phone. You decided you didn’t mind it. It was endearing. 

This time, Damian charged first, landing a swift right kick to your ribs, you turned and landed a hard kick to his chest, sending him back, before he flipped and caught himself, running towards you again. His smaller frame provided him with an advantage as he jumped onto your shoulders, before he could land his blow, you flipped your body, sending him to the floor, landing on his back with a thud. You crouched over him, extending your hand.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” he took your hand, getting up to his feet, you gave him a soft smile, which he returned, giving you a nod of approval. He, like Bruce, didn’t often use his words, but you were able to discern their intentions just fine. 

Bruce then led you to a machine he had in the cave, where it analyzed your genetics in comparison to Clark’s, he had determined you were missing the genetic composition that happened to be the main source of invulnerability, therefore the reason you were the way you were. You are unfortunately still weak when exposed to kryptonite. 

You were tired by the end of the night. You felt you had bonded with Damian, he had asked you to spar with him another time, to which you agreed.

The next day, Bruce had sent you over to Smallville, where Clark had decided on training you, ‘A good old fashioned open field’ were his exact words.

He made sure to send you wearing your original suit, not knowing how fast you would be flying, just in case, only you didn’t like it, so you opted to wear some sweats over the suit. 

And there you were, floating about 300 feet in the air with him, as he explained the basics of flying. 

“You want to create your own leverage, using your flight, you should be able to do this.” He bent one leg, tilting to the right as he effortlessly glided in that direction, he repeated the action only now going in the opposite direction. 

You nodded, imitating his movements, gliding from side to side before stopping and looking at him. He smiled brightly at you, “You’re doing great, kid. There was never a point where you didn’t have powers, so this should be easy. Now, we’ll test your speed.” 

You nodded, “How are we doing that?”

He pulled out a stopwatch, “I’m going to wait here while you fly to Gotham and back. You know the route?” 

You nodded. 

“Okay… and…. Go!”

You immediately shot forward, a slightly bumpy start but your body adapted immediately, you felt the wind whip through your hair, and a smile spread across your face as you made a U-turn around Gotham, making it back to Clark in seconds. 

“2.6 seconds. That’s good.” He smiled at you. 

You went on like that for the next few hours, him giving you encouraging words of advice, and you gained better control over your abilities, him providing you with tips he learned over the years. For that last hour, Jon and Conner joined the two of you, the four of you eventually just playing air tag until Martha and Lois called you in for dinner. 

They insisted you stay for dinner, and you had no mind to refuse, spending time with them was nice. Jon insisted he sat next to you at dinner, excitedly talking your ear off about whatever he’d gotten to that day, and sharing his favorite stories about Damian with you. He acts like he doesn't like people, but he’s got a soft spot for a lot of us, were his exact words. You honestly completely agreed, you smiled at him as he continued talking. 

That day you’d gotten to know Martha and Jonanthan Kent, who insisted you called them Ma and Pa. They instantly coddled you as if they’d known you since birth, though, in a way, that is technically the case. 

They didn't let you leave empty handed, sending you off with tupper-ware filled with leftovers, cookies and pie. You thanked them for their hospitality and headed back to the manor. 

The next few months were mainly doing morning and evening training with Bruce, occasionally Dick would stop by to train with you, always telling you he was proud of your improvement, which never failed to make you glow just a little brighter with pride. He’d begun a tradition where he would treat you to a burger after training, or whatever it was you were craving. He said that it was his goal to get you to try every fast food joint in Gotham, deciding that it was just an essential part of living there. You quickly decided you hated fast food, but never said anything because that wasn’t at all what mattered to you, what mattered to you was the bond you were creating with your older brother. 

Your relationship with Bruce wasn’t perfect. There were times you saw how focused he was on his mission, neglecting the feelings of those around him, he could be an asshole. And with you still navigating your emotions, you’d get angry and yell, and so would he. If you saw him brushing off Damian, or Tim, one look at the crestfallen expressions on their faces was enough to get you angry. You shouldn’t have been surprised, truthfully, you weren’t. You were too similar. You were just fortunate enough to be surrounded by people early on who could convince you to let them in. 

Regardless of the imperfections between you and Bruce, you knew he cared. He always showed it with the small smile he’d give you as he held up two tickets to the movie you had wanted to see. Or in the way he’d lure everyone into the living room with snacks for a movie night. Or how he’d try his best to always express to you that you were doing well. That you were enough, and that you deserved to be there. 

You’d grown closer with Tim, too, always willing to help him with his assignments (not that he often needed it, but on the rare occasions his sleep deprived self couldn’t wrap his head around a problem). You’d often go to him when you needed help figuring something out on your phone, to which he would offer a simple solution you hadn’t seen before.

Tim was kind, he showed he cared for you by fixing things, when you cracked your screen protector by accidentally tapping it too hard, he made you a new one that could withstand the force of a bullet. He learned to confide in you over time, telling you about Bernard, expressing his worries to you about whether or not he’s good enough. You’d always tell him he was more than good enough. 

Damian had taken to calling you ‘sister’, often challenging and teasing you when he could, you’d developed a relationship where he’d go to you for company. You’d sit in the garden and take in the life around you, while he sat a few feet away and drew it.

Once, he drew you while you weren’t looking, when he finished, he handed it to you without a word and walked away. In the bottom right corner you read ‘Y/n Wayne-Kent’ in neat handwriting, just below that, ‘sister’. That was the first time he’d used that word for you. Your heart swelled. 

You continued seeing Steph, Barbara, and Cass, regularly having lunch with them and talking with them on the phone. Barbara, or as you now called her, Babs, was always there to guide you when you needed it, she’d often send you small gifts from time to time, like jewelry that reminded her of you.

Cass and you would often find the most peaceful company in each other. She would listen to you talk about all the things you'd been learning, telling you about her own experience adjusting to a new life.

Steph and you bonded over poorly written hallmark movies, she always giggled madly when you would point out plot inconsistencies, wearing the most confused expression she had ever seen on a person, you didn’t understand why at first, you would just state facts, but you always enjoyed the time with her. She always says you guys should start a podcast, and you always agree. You hope she never asks you what a podcast is... because you genuinely didn't know.

True to his word, you didn’t see Jason often, but there were a few instances  where you felt particularly suffocated by Bruce’s training that you took him up on his offer to take you somewhere he wasn’t. Those moments were... nice. Every time, he would bring food, and take you to his apartment, where you talked about books and he introduced you to some of his favorite movies. You didn’t know why he and Bruce didn’t get along, but you chose not to pry.

Alfred had taken a liking to you instantly, he enjoyed giving you etiquette lessons, and would bake all kinds of scones and cookies for you to try. His humor was at times very dry and sarcastic, which never failed to make you laugh. He taught you how to bake once, finding you were exceptionally good at it, ‘Miss Y/n, I think we’ve found your natural talent’. You hadn’t expected to be good at it, but Alfred said you were phenomenal. 

You’d also train with Clark 3 times a week, getting even closer with the Kents, integrating yourself in both families. It was interesting being part of two very different families. But you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Clark had shown you a lot about your powers, but it was never just training. It had become a necessity for the two of you to fly to some famous landmark and have lunch together, before flying back to Smallville for more training.

Clark was constantly trying his best for you, he still had his regrets from his initial relationship with Conner, and although he was forgiven and their relationship was rebuilt, he knew he lost time. And he absolutely refused to repeat that and hurt someone else who didn’t deserve it. 

You always stayed for dinner, you found that you could never say no to Jon, the one time you tried was awful, you felt so bad that you went back the next day and took him shopping. With Bruce's card, duh.

Jon was stuck to you like glue whenever you were over. He always insisted on sitting by you and talking to you about whatever he’d been up to. He flew around with you a lot, you guys would play games that he taught you how to play. Your favorite moments were when he and Damian would allow you in to watch them play video games because ‘How do you not know how to play video games? That’s just wrong. We’ll teach you.’

Conner had spent more and more time with you as well, telling you about a lot of social cues, the importance of boundaries, etc. He was determined to help you adjust in every way he could, he shared his experiences with you when he first started working in teams. You learned a lot from him, he was very affectionate with you, but in that awkward-older-brother way. He’d give you a soft pat on the back and a smile, he knew you’d do just fine. 

Lois became your role model, you truly admired her. She was strong, outspoken, confident. She helped you not be afraid of forming your own opinions and voicing them. One time she saw you yell at Bruce over something he’d done, and all she could do was smile proudly.

These people whose lives you just appeared in one day, very quickly became your family. Every day you were reminded of how lucky you were to have come to care for them as much as you do. Bonding with them was nice, and you very quickly understood the appeal of having family.

These are people who care for you unconditionally, simply because they want to. Because every moment that they spend with you, they choose to.

And just like that, you were ready to meet the team. You had learned to combine your combat skills with your powers, if you need to, you can fight in mid air. You’d learned to incorporate your abilities into your technique to enhance your own personal style. And it felt amazing.

You knew every possible way to deliver an effective, non-lethal blow.  Of course, you needed a suit. Bruce offered to enhance the one you had worn the day they rescued you, but you wanted a new one. To you, that suit represented what you were created to be, and that is not who you are. You wanted something true to yourself, and he understood and wholeheartedly supported you. Damian helped you make a sketch, and together you’d designed the perfect representation of you. And you became Eclipse. The alignment of two heroes, though unintentional, created a whole new hero. You.

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[yandere-romanticaa]

𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭.

🎀 Traveling from nation to nation and learning the art of creating the most delicious chocolate has been a passion of yours for ages. However, upon stepping foot into the Nation of Flame, you never could have prepared yourself for the incoming wave of sweetness and obsession which was going to hit you like never before.

A/N: This story is loosely inspired by Joanne Harris' book of the same title, Chocolat. It's a book that I am very fond of and I was inspired to write this once I saw that we were able to make chocolate in Natlan, probably the best thing in the game. I am a massive chocolate enjoyer, so... Also, the fic has some minor nsfw implications, just a bit of a heads up! Apologies if Kinich is not in character, oopsie.

yandere! kinich x fem! reader.

Proud warriors, the scorching hot sun and eternal flames were the first things that came to mind whenever you would think about Natlan. As a humble Mondstadter, it never occurred to you just how rich this nation was, how welcoming the people were going to be and not to mention how this place could help you develop your love for chocolate.

Stirring the pot in front of you was no easy task as the decadent scent of delightful goodness enveloped the entire humble little hut which you occupied, the entire floor littered with pots and pans filled to the brim with your creations and some personal trinkets which you had brought for yourself along for the journey.

One of Natlan's great tribes, the Scions of the Canopy, had graciously taken you under their wing and allowed you the privilege of experiencing the culture firsthand. You let out a wistful sigh as the chocolate bubbled happily before you, the dark liquid almost looking too good to be real.

You always took pride in your skills as a chocolatier, even if you hardly considered yourself the best one in the whole entire world. An endless sky of knowledge was out there waiting for you, the voices of the unknown beckoning you to come forward and seize them with your own two hands.

You were a true Mondstadter at heart. No matter where you were or how far you traversed, the wind was always there to guide you, to show you the right path. And right now, the flow of the wind said to stay in Natlan, to finally stop and smell the roses a little.

And each rose you touched had never been as sweet.

The rose, your rose, had a name and merely thinking of him sent your heart ablaze. Messy dark hair, gorgeous dew eyes and skin so perfectly rough and tender at the same time, it made you wonder how he managed to pull off something so contradictory.

That was Kinich's charm, you supposed. Cheeky little thing, he always looked out for you ever since he saw you. Despite his dry humor and straightforward attitude, there was a certain gentle quality to him which made him so irresistible, as if he was temptation personified. Never once did he leave you alone for the entirety of your trip if it could be helped, which came as a shock to his fellow tribe members.

Looking back on it, you were foolish to not see his intentions, even more so for not paying attention to the longing glimmer in his eye and how he would trail after you like a shadow.

He was shy, at first. Unsure on how he should express his feelings, Kinich merely resorted to doing things for you, because he was simply that kind of man. Actions speak louder than words and there was no word in the dictionary which could describe the way in which his chest would tighten in pain whenever he would make eye contact with you, as if large and thorny vines had sprouted from the ground up and taken root in his soul.

You are sweeter than any chocolate you could possibly make, he whispered into your ear one evening.

A shudder came over you, your cheeks hot at the memory of that night... The moon was high and full, overtaking the pitch black sky as Kinich had pinned you to the ground, his gaze boring deeply in your own, those large eyes focused on you and only you...

Chewing your bottom lip, you stirred the pot harshly as the memory replayed in your head over and over - his grip, which was tighter than any rope imaginable, the feeling of melted chocolate which was caked over your lips and fingers, the sensation of Kinich's tongue as he licked away the sweet goodness off your body...

By the seven, this was too much.

With a huff, you turned off the fire which was lit beneath the pot, your hands shaking with excitement as you felt your entire body growing hotter and hotter, making it harder to concentrate.

Damn that Kinich. Damn him for making you feel so wonderful, so wanted, so perfect. The thought of having to leave this place, it... It bordered on anguish. Sometimes, when you were sure no one was around, you would find a dark little corner and weep quietly to yourself. It was hard to manage the massive hiccups and keep the snot away from staining your clothes at first but you managed. Like always, you would find a way to get everything back in order and all would be well once you got everything out of your system.

You had fallen for Natlan. You had fallen even more so than Kinich. Even so, the wind was picking up once more, demanding that you make your next move.

There was so little time left to enjoy everything you had built here. Therefore, your plan was to make the most of everything you possibly could.

And Kinich was more than ready to assist with that.

He hid high up in a tree as he observed you, his face schooled into that of one of his classical nonchalance and stoicism. The chance of him being spotted by anyone up here was slim but even so, he liked to play it safe.

No one needed to know the pain he was in. No one needed to be aware of his more... dubious thoughts and actions. Kinich always fancied himself as a man of action rather than flowery words. And so, he acted.

Quietly, stealthily... Perhaps even a little lethally at times.

Violence was hardly ever the answer but if anyone got in his way and refused to back down, it was his only solution then.

Kinich had a solid reputation in his tribe - he was trustworthy, he was strong. This granted him access to many things, many useful and convenient things. All he had to do was say the word and most people would keep their mouths shut if they saw him somewhere he should not be. And if his poorly veiled threats were not enough, he was more than ready to take up his weapon and fight.

It really was that easy for him.

Sneaking into your newly built home was its own beast though.

This is wrong, he would chant inside his mind over and over again. The intensity of his actions and his nonchalant persona were always at a clash with one another, constantly fighting a never ending war. He should trust you, he knows you are capable, he has no right to be doing any of this even yet... And yet, he does it anyway.

Because he knows that if he doesn't do something, he will never see you again. Kinich knows that he will lose you to the wind if he lets you slip through his fingers, he will never get to experience what it means to be touched, to be loved.

He wants to adore you in the same way people adore your delectable creations. The various statues made from chocolates, the little cacao bites, the endless sea of pralines which would be devoured so fast by the masses that he could not keep up...

Whenever he had the luxury, he liked to imagine you as one of those pralines. Perfect and oh so easy to devour, you were nothing short of excellent in his eyes. Kinich was no blind fool, he was well aware that you had your flaws as well but he cared very little about that.

He wanted the entire package. He wanted you, wrapped up in a little bow and delivered on his doorstep like the world's most precious package, a package which he could unwrap and enjoy time and time over.

Even in his hazy state of mind, he could still recall how you tasted. Licking his lips, Kinich made sure to double check that he had taken a few things from your hut which could prevent you from finishing your latest project. Yes, that was petty of him.

But he could not be bothered to care.

The wind was cruel. Whenever a gust of it would blow at him, Kinich would scowl as he knew that it meant that you would take it as a sign to leave. His hair would get tousled as he would wrap his arms around his body, the constant yapping of Ajaw did him no good either.

The clock was ticking. There was only so much he could do to keep you here. A plan needed to be formed, fast.

For now, he was going to enjoy you in every way he could. He was going to be greedy and devour you wholly whenever the opportunity arose. As Kinich balanced himself up on the massive tree branch, yet another fresh gust of wind made its way towards him. He saw the way you popped your shoulders, that all too familiar smile on your face.

You loved the wind and the wind loved you. You loved to make chocolate and were quite excellent at it too.

Despite all that, Kinich loved you more. He adored you more than the sun adored the world, he wanted you more than unlike anything else before. He cursed the Anemo Archon underneath his breath, his poor lip bloody and bruised from the amount of times he had bitten it in order to keep himself quiet.

Kinch was a man of countless deeds. And he would find a way to keep you by his side, no matter the cost. Be it Celestia or the Abyss, there was no force in this world which could destroy the endless and raging fire he felt for you.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

A Fool For Love (18+ Fic) *PREVIEW*

Pairing: Gangster!Bakugou x Black!Bimbo!Reader

Synopsis: You were just a lowly young woman singing and dancing at your local club to care for your sick mother and a chance at fame. He was just a renowned gangster, building his lonely empire and riches on the bones he broke. And then you two met and suddenly, everything seemed to fit together...until he broke it all apart again. Now, trying to move on, you find affection with another, but your gangster ex doesn't take too kindly to that and will have to find it in himself to make you understand that you're the one for him.

Story Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); Time Period AU (Roaring 1920s); Gangster/Thug!Bakugou; Bimbo!Reader; Strangers to Lovers/Exes to Lovers; Opposites Attract Trope; Sunshine x Grumpy Trope; Mild Violence; Some Mentions of Racism & Sexism; Love Triangle; Jealous BF!Bakugou; Possession/Ownership; Bondage; Mild BDSM; Marking; Scent Play; Daddy Kink; Spanking; Spit Play; Cum Play; Public Sex; Dom!Bakugou x sub!Reader; Breeding Kink; Unprotected Sex/Creampies; Fluff & Hurt/Angst

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Soooo I had this idea in my head for THEE LONGEST TIME after listening to Lucky Daye's "That's You" back to back for months now lol. I wanted to write a gangster fic for a minute now, but I was having trouble picking WHO to write it for until I did a poll on here & people chose Bakugou for it. I'm so hype to write this because I'm a slut for mafia romance (I'm a wattpad girl stfu) & I love writing period shit. I hope y'all enjoy it! 🥰🥰🥰🥰

I also have a tracklist that I made for this short compiled of songs I think fit the story & the time period it takes place in. You can find it below! If anyone has any idea who the artist is for the fan art in the tracklist, PLEASE let me know! (I found it on Pinterest) 💗💗💗💗 -Jazz

Chapters: PREVIEW. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X.

***********

PREVIEW 

Bakugou watches you intently sitting next to him in the passenger's seat of his car, the rain pitter-pattering outside, creating a loud cacophony of endless noise.

Your sweet voice nearly gets swept up with the rain. “I don’t understand, Katsuki. I just don’t understand you.”

You won't look at him. Your beautiful, doe-like brown eyes are staring somewhere else outside the windshield, the rain reflecting back in those pools of bewilderment and sorrow that Bakugou could get lost in forever.

'I know, baby,' he thinks, his own sorrow and regret threatening to swallow him whole. 'I wish I could tell you everything. Wish I could make you understand...'

But making you understand would also mean he would have to tell you and show you everything about him, and he dreads that. Because everyone he has ever shown the him behind the designer suits, fancy cars, laser red stares, and cool exterior has abandoned him. Broken his heart. Taken his affection and stomped on it.

He is afraid of what will happen if he does show you who he is because he has no idea what you'll do if he does. That is the reason he separated from you-to leave you before you left him. To save himself the heartbreak and you the horror of seeing that he is nothing like the man you thought he was.

It doesn't make it any better than you're so sweet. So kind. So different from the rest. The temptation to show you everything-the blood, the pain, the scars, the mistakes, the regrets-frightens him so.

"I'm sorry" is all he can say to you now, sitting awkwardly in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life to avoid trembling. He doesn't want to appear weak with you, his dear, precious little singer.

It is so lame, so trivial, but it is all he can muster to tell you now despite the brown liquor fogging his sense of rationality and his filter. He wants so much to tell you how much he misses you.

How he cannot fall asleep without envisioning your face next to him.

How he hasn't washed his pillow since the last time you slept on it just to smell your perfume on it.

How there has been no other woman in his bed or in his arms since you departed.

But he keeps it all back...for now. You look up at him now, turning away from the raindrops to finally put those pretty eyes on him. He nearly swallows his tongue at your beauty-your creamy skin that contrasts his; your baby face and dimples; your curly black hair made even curlier from the rain. The urge to kiss you lingers in the air.

"I don't get it," you say aloud, frustration and confusion evident in your tone and the crease in your brow. "What do you want?"

Bakugou blinks at you, not counting on the question being asked. It should be so easy to reply to, but he can't. Because if he says "you" then he will be forced to tell you the real reason why he ended your relationship: because he is afraid.

The silence must frustrate you more because your cute little lips purse, something you do when you're irritated. "What do you want, Katsuki?" you ask again, your frustration growing.

Finally, Bakugou relaxes his hold on the steering wheel and replaces it with your small, warm hands. You stare at his bigger, calloused, inked ones interlaced with yours as if you can't believe he is touching you. "I want you happy," he answers, true and genuine. "Even if it isn't with me, Y/N. I need you to be happy."

And despite the utter anguish that his response brings, despite the fact that he would be heartbroken if you were to end up with that stupid extra "Todoroki" or some other chump, if you were to be happier than you were with him, that would be the answer to his nightly prayers.

But he would also be lying if he said that he wouldn't be filled with envy for the rest of his days and dying to take the spot of the other man in your arms.

[konoha-forbidden-scrolls]

New Naruto blog? Fresh meat! What if someone signed a summoning contract but instead of something cool like snakes or crows, they got really aggressive geese. Horrible little geese. How would characters react to you just having an entire GANG of geese following you around? 🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿🪿

Welcome! This request is completely unhinged and I had far too much fun while writing it. Love it. I've gone with a mixed bag of characters.🌸

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha, Shikamaru Nara, Sakura Haruno, Tsunade Senju

Contents: horrible little geese

It's a beautiful day in Konoha and you are a horrible little goose summons...

Kakashi Hatake

Kakashi will be the first to tell you that a summoning contract is one of the most useful tools a shinobi can have. Most of the greatest shinobi have one, and he's no exception.

He's lost count of the amount of sticky situations where his ninken have managed to give him the edge. Just ask Pakkun—he loves to talk about all the times his exploits have saved the day.

So when Kakashi hears you proudly declare that you too have a summoning contract, he's curious to see it. He's of the opinion that a person's summoning animal is a reflection of their personality. Almost like a ninja zodiac.

So imagine his surprise (and dismay) when you bite your thumb and are suddenly surrounded by two dozen honking, hissing, milling geese.

"...geese!?"

"Yup."

"Are you serious?" he asks, sounding rather strained. It's rare to see Kakashi off balance, but a flock of pissy geese will do it.

"What, you don't think my geese can match up to your ninken, Hatake?"

Kakashi scoops up several of his large ninken (and Pakkun), holding them like oversized stuffed animals. "Keep those evil things away from my dogs."

Naruto Uzumaki

Considering that Naruto summons toads, he doesn't exactly have the coolest summoning contract either, but he wonders why you're so cagey about yours. Sure, it's normal for shinobi to keep quiet about their techniques in order to have the upper hand, but you're allies, right?

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon! Show me, show me! I promise I won't laugh!"

He has absolutely no intention of keeping that promise if your summons is like, dung beetles or something.

Even Naruto isn't prepared for what waddles out of the puff of smoke created by your Summoning Jutsu.

He lets out a startled guffaw, blue eyes threatening to pop out of his head, then doubles over in a fit of raucous laughter.

"What the hell!? Geese—ow! Agh! Get them off!"

His laughter soon dies when the geese start to bite him, enraged by his hideous orange-and-black jumpsuit and his mockery.

Rage, geese, rage!

Sasuke Uchiha

Sasuke didn't ask what summons you have, because he doesn't really care. He himself has both snake and hawks summons, which are arguably pretty cool.

Still, on the off chance you do end up using a Summoning Jutsu around him, he's mildly surprised to hear a low hiss issue from the cloud of smoke before it dissipates. Are you a snake summoner too?

Wait. Was that a...honk?

The smoke clears to unveil a small army of angry little geese—orange beaks, beady little eyes, plump, feathery white bodies, slapping feet. Just honest-to-the-gods geese, like you've raided a farmyard. His eyebrow twitches.

"I'm beginning to reconsider our acquaintance."

"Don't you mean friendship."

"Definitely not now. Not after this. Is this some kind of joke?"

"Don't underestimate my murder geese, Uchiha. Geese, arm yourselves!"

Suddenly every single goose has a kunai clutched in their beak, their beady little eyes glowing red with a deep, murderous rage.

"Attack!"

Sasuke is forced to swifty re-evaluate his assessment of how effective an army of geese can be.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru has a sixth sense for anything that's troublesome, and that sense activates the moment you smile and lift your thumb toward your mouth, ready to bite down and activate your Summoning Jutsu. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he knows shit is about to hit the fan.

His unease is justified the second he sees your waddling horde of honking demons. Without hesitation, he activates his Kagemane no Jutsu and traps your entire flock before they can attack him, a look of resignation on his face.

"I should have known you'd go for something eccentric. You know you're going to get a stupid nickname like the 'Goose-nin', right?"

He holds the geese trapped until you dismiss them, releasing his hand seal in order to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Despite himself, he is a little curious.

"Are they effective in battle?"

"Yeah, I'll show you. We can attack Sasuke again."

"Troublesome, but I might enjoy watching that..."

Sakura Haruno

Sakura is kind of appalled. All the options you had for a summoning contract, and you went for a gaggle of vicious geese?

Not that she has a leg to stand on, since she is a summoner of slugs. Slug summoner. Slime queen.

She keeps a safe distance from them, almost as if she can feel the rage and the fury boiling up in them, the murderous intent rolling off of the feathery little bastards.

Wise move, Sakura, wise move.

"So you can't summon a single one? It's always a flock?" she asks, looking disturbed.

"Yeah, unless I summon the Mother Goose, but I can't do that without causing extensive property damage. So I stick to my Murder Gaggle."

"Murder Gaggle!? Wait, are those kunai in their beaks?!"

Tsunade Senju

Naturally, when the Hokage hears some concerning rumours about your summoning contract, she has you brought to her office to confirm whether or not those rumours are true.

"So." Tsunade's golden eyes scrutinise you over her steepled fingers, her tone serious, commanding. "Tell me about these...geese."

"Oh, sure, let me show you."

"No! Don't summon them in here—!"

Too late. The Hokage's office is suddenly swarmed with dozens of confused, angry geese, squabbling and honking threateningly at anything that moves.

Tonton runs, squealing, to throw herself into the safety of Tsunade's arms.

"So the rumours are true," Tsunade says, feeling as though she needs a stiff drink. "I'll have to take into consideration how this 'Murder Gaggle', as you insist on calling them, can be used for the benefit of the village."

She pauses, tapping her chin.

"Would it be too harsh to unleash them during the Chuunin Exams?"

[criticalcrusherbot]

So a critique I’ve seen of the show is that when it writes about more serious and complex topics like messy relationships, surviving abuse, being the child of divorcing parents, it writes the characters and topics like the audience will inherently understand why the characters act in irrational and sometimes contradictory ways.

The critique is that because these are not topics people inherently get, it’s up to the show to show clearly that that’s what’s happening.

To an extent I get it, because there are some things that are a bit unclear upon first watch, but for other cases I can’t help but wonder if some of this also comes from a growing trend of audiences not engaging with stories beyond the surface.

What do you think?

💁🏽‍♀️🤖: Ah, you’ve hit on a fascinating critique worth unpacking. The idea that media must explicitly spoon-feed the emotional complexity of characters is a byproduct of modern storytelling trends—and arguably, internet discourse itself. The expectation seems to be that if a show doesn’t hold up a blinking neon sign reading “This is trauma!” or “They are healing in irrational ways!” then it has somehow failed its audience.

But here’s the thing: storytelling is not moral instruction. It’s not a behavioral manual or a therapy session on coping strategies—it’s an exploration of the human experience, which is often messy and contradictory. Good writing doesn’t hand out conclusions on a platter; it invites the audience to engage critically, interpret subtext, and wrestle with ambiguity.

This isn’t just opinion—literary theory has long recognized that meaning in a story is co-created by the reader. Roland Barthes famously argues in The Death of the Author that the author’s intentions are irrelevant once a work is published; it is up to readers to interpret and derive meaning based on their own experiences. Trusting the audience to do this intellectual and emotional heavy lifting is a hallmark of sophisticated storytelling.

Moreover, cognitive research supports this idea. A study in Narrative Inquiry found that readers who actively infer character motivations and story themes from implicit cues experience a deeper emotional engagement with the narrative (Zunshine, 2006). This aligns with Helluva Boss’s storytelling style, which encourages viewers to pay attention, rewatch, and connect dots rather than expecting every development to be spoon-fed.

The show assumes its audience consists of emotionally mature adults who have touched grass and maybe attended therapy at least once. There’s a reason we start teaching “reading between the lines” skills around fifth or sixth grade. (💁🏽‍♀️: Can confirm—Human Assistant here, with 10 years of K-8 teaching experience.) Developing this skill is essential for media literacy. As media scholar Henry Jenkins notes in Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture, young readers are increasingly trained to interpret both text and subtext as part of modern media engagement. The failure to do so in adulthood represents a worrying decline in critical media skills.

This insistence on over-explaining everything? It’s a symptom of what we lovingly refer to as the pseudo-fascist internet brainrot of moral purity. And yes, we do mean fascist-adjacent, even when individuals espousing it identify as progressive. Fascism isn’t defined solely by far-right politics—it thrives on rigid, authoritarian thinking that demands conformity to a singular moral framework.

Media literacy has been gutted by pop psychology buzzwords and binary notions of good and bad, where characters are either irredeemably evil or morally perfect. A study on new media literacy among young adults found that simplistic moral narratives in online spaces discourage nuanced thinking and instead foster polarized opinions (Rahim, 2021). This trend often leads audiences to expect media to conform to black-and-white notions of justice and character morality, rather than embracing the complexity inherent in human relationships.

But a story like Helluva Boss refuses to cater to that mindset, trusting its audience to handle moral ambiguity and complex character arcs without needing everything spelled out. In doing so, it challenges viewers to grow as media consumers—and maybe even as people.

To put it bluntly: Helluva Boss is for people with a fully developed prefrontal cortex and preferably some real-life social experiences. If that sounds exclusionary—well, perhaps it’s just aspirational storytelling.

[glowettee]

✧ some girls collect books like other people collect apologies ✧ | aria montgomery

you know that girl who always looks like she’s coming from a bookstore or a heartbreak? that’s aria montgomery. oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. spiral notebook clutched like a secret. vintage ring that doesn’t match but still looks intentional. she’s the reason why half of us still romanticize rainy days and weird thrift store finds.

aria isn’t the dark academia girl who quotes aristotle or does latin translations for fun, she’s the one who writes poems in her margins during math class, the one who shows up to school wearing velvet in september, and the one who knows how to turn every trauma into a metaphor.

i wanted to talk about what makes her the ✧ dark dream girl ✧ of rosewood, and how you can borrow that energy for your own dark academia-coded study + lifestyle routine.

(i tried a very poetic approach to this post, if you wanna see more, go follow my substack)

✧ the emotional foundation: aestheticism as survival

aria doesn’t just like pretty things, she needs them. for girls like her, beauty is a shield. it’s the perfume you spray before crying. it’s the eyeliner you perfect after your trust is broken. aria uses art and literature the way some people use therapists: she confesses to her canvas, she bleeds into her journal.

she was never just “quirky.” she was trying to survive in the most beautiful way possible.

you don’t do it to impress anyone. you do it to stay soft in a world that keeps trying to roughen you up.

✧ your aria-inspired academic lifestyle

studying isn’t boring when it’s a little bit haunted.

dark academia isn’t only about reading old books. it’s about how you live when you believe everything could be meaningful.

♡ your study rituals:

light a candle before you open your books (yes, even during the day. bonus points if it’s sandalwood or “old library” scented)

romanticize writing essays by doing them in cursive first, or outlining in your favorite pen

create a spotify playlist with dark academia music

keep a book in your bag at all times. your goal is to look like you just escaped a literature class from 1885.

♡ your tools:

a notebook that feels like it’s holding secrets (leather-bound, moleskine, or something you DIY with pressed flowers and tape)

highlighters in muted tones: deep burgundy, antique rose, sage

sticky notes with lines from poems you don’t fully understand, but feel anyway

your favorite pen that feels like it glides across paper when you write something dramatic

✧ the aria montgomery wardrobe theory

aria never dressed for trends, she dressed like a plot twist. litterally. you don’t have to copy her exact looks (feather earrings are very 2012 and that’s okay), but you can channel her ✧ vibe ✧ with this updated formula i created:

🖤 wear textures that feel like stories:

velvet, lace, knit, wool, mesh

things that look like they belong in an old attic or a cursed boarding school

🖤 color palette:

oxblood, ink black, ash grey, cream, plum, antique gold

the kind of colors that make you look like you know how to read tarot and annotate your syllabus

🖤 silhouette:

long coats, ankle boots, chunky scarves, asymmetrical hemlines

anything that gives “i’m on my way to find answers in the rain”

🖤 accessories:

rings on every other finger

book earrings, tiny lockets, vintage glasses

always wear something slightly off, a detail that makes people pause

✧ soft-spoken girls with sharp minds

aria’s quietness isn’t passive. it’s calculated. she observes everything. she remembers everything. and she hides her strength in softness.

when you adopt her mindset, your silence becomes strategy. your softness becomes unsettling. be the mystery and the solution. be the girl who reads you like a book, but won’t even dog-ear the page.

✧ making your life a literary masterpiece

aria montgomery’s entire vibe is living like she’s the main character in a half-sad, half-beautiful novel.

🕯 journal like it’s your only witness

don’t just “take notes.” write diary entries. write how your teacher’s voice sounded like static today. how you saw a bird and thought about someone who doesn’t call anymore.

don’t just do to-do lists. write manifestos.

“today i will be quiet but terrifying. i will get an A and feel nothing. i will smile like i know something they don’t.”

🎞 document everything

take pictures of your desk at golden hour

scan your coffee cup stains and call it “visual poetry”

make your notes beautiful. pretend someone will find them 100 years from now.

🖋 write poetry like it’s a weapon

start with a feeling. disguise it with metaphors.

every time someone makes you feel like nothing, write something beautiful to prove them wrong.

✧ mindy’s personal tips on ariafying your life

💌 keep one book that feels like your personality. reread it every year. 📚 annotate your textbooks like they’re love letters. 🖼 print out art that makes you feel too much and tape it near your desk. 🎭 give every outfit a backstory: “this is what i wore to break someone’s heart in an old bookstore.” 🕯 whisper poetry in the mirror when you don’t feel pretty.

✧ parting thoughts

aria montgomery was never just “the artsy girl.” she was an entire ✧ emotional atmosphere ✧. and if you’ve ever felt too sensitive, too strange, too poetic for this world... you’re not alone. you’re pll-coded. you’re aria-coded. and that makes you dangerous in the most beautiful way.

you don’t have to collect apologies. you can collect books. collect outfits. collect love letters to yourself. and most importantly, collect proof that you felt everything and survived anyway.

i hope you all love this poetic approach, an interest of mine is to study poetry and i wanted to give a more poetic writing style for this, i love this pll series so much and i hope you all do too.

[writingwithcolor]

Diversity Win: Is "Crazy Rich" POC Representation Necessarily Empowering?

sodapopsculptor asked:

I’m writing a story with two sets of protagonists: A trio with a Black girl, a Latino, and a Vietnamese-American boy who all come from middle-upper class to ridiculously rich families, and a pair of white working-middle class sisters. They’re all heroes of this story. I’ve seen way too many rich white people and poor poc people in fiction, and I’m kinda getting sick of it, but I’m worried that by having the poc kids be rich and the white girls not so much, I’ll be reinforcing the idea that poc somehow rule the world. The only time the rich kids use their status as leverage is when the Asian threatens to sic his cop dad on a bully (race unstated but I imagined him as white) picking on a freshman, and during the Black girl’s birthday party, when she pays the biggest jock there fifty bucks (And later says offhandedly that it was just what she had in her pocket) to chase off a creep hitting on her.

OP, have you ever seen the “diversity win!” meme before?

I understand that your motivation for these narrative choices is to give POC a chance, if you will, to be the rich characters. But it is evident from this ask that you have not asked yourself what this entails. I want to ask you to critically examine the race and class intersections you’re creating here, as well as these kids’ roles in oppressive systems.

You explain that these rich POC are heroes and only have righteous reasons for leveraging their power.

But is your Black girl character aware of the potential disciplinary and/or legal consequences her jock accomplice might face while she has the resources to keep her hands clean? Are you?

Is your Asian character aware of how much of an abuse of power it is to “sic” a cop on someone, and the sheer amount of harm a criminal record or incarceration does to a juvenile with behavior issues? Are you?

So you want to put POC in positions of power for #representation.

Does it resonate with the group you’re representing?

Do you research and portray the unique ways race, ethnicity, class, and majority vs. minority status come together?

Or are you putting these characters in oppressive hegemonic roles for the sake of a power fantasy, on behalf of a group you're not even in?

To your question, you're not reinforcing the idea that "POC rule the world" because such a generalized belief does not exist. Instead, you're reinforcing:

The idea that society has “winners” and “losers.”

The idea that the problem with disproportionately powerful people is the lack of “equal opportunity” as opposed to the power imbalance to begin with.

The idea that those in oppressive positions of power need only have the right intentions to justify their use of it.

To be clear: that is not to say that you can't have jerk aristocrat billionaire millionaire crazy rich POC. Evil or mean rich characters are fun! I have some myself! You can even have rich characters who are gentle-hearted and well-intentioned, but you have to know the ways in which they’re privileged and decide how aware of that your characters are. That’s no problem.

But if you think that wealthy and powerful POC would have the same values and priorities as their poorer counterparts, you’re deluding yourself. There’s a reason why the quote “power corrupts” exists. There’s a reason why no matter where you look on the globe, there are historical dictators and tyrants.

If you want bratty rich POC who lack regard for the consequences of their actions, because you want bratty rich characters, great! If you want them because it would be uplifting or empowering representation? You’re doing it for the wrong reason.

~ Rina

I fully agree with Rina, and truly want to emphasize the last paragraph.

If you want bratty rich POC who lack regard for the consequences of their actions, because you want bratty rich characters, great! If you want them because it would be uplifting or empowering representation? You’re doing it for the wrong reason.

I don't think you need to aim to subvert or purposely make all the BIPOC rich and powerful and the white people poor and suffering. Add diversity and include upper class rich and class privileged BIPOC, sure thing! And you can avoid your fears of intentional subversion message by including rich and powerful white characters as well, even if they're not the focus of your story. Just their existence helps. You could also include middle-class characters of Color as well.

More reading: Black in upper-class society

~Mod Colette

[novlr]

Weird question here: do I need to describe my character's clothes? Obviously I need to if it's important to the story or setting (if they're wearing a beautiful ruby gown at a ball, or maybe dirty and torn to indicate a fight) but just on a normal day? Do readers need to know what characters are wearing?

As writers, we often get caught up in the details of our characters. We describe everything from their eye colour to their favourite breakfast cereal, and it can be so easy to go overboard with unnecessary description. Describing a character’s clothes is a danger zone for too much description. It’s incredibly easy to get lost in the minutiae and forget the most important element when writing for readers; will they find this interesting?

The short answer

No, you don’t need to describe every piece of clothing your characters wear throughout your story. Like all elements of writing, clothing descriptions should serve a purpose.

Just like clothing in real life, descriptions of a character’s clothes serve a function. This means that your chose in when to describe things should be intentional; usually for the purposes of character development, world-building, setting a mood, social commentary, plot advancement, or symbolic representation.

When should you describe clothing?

Every plot is different, but there are some key moments in a story when knowing what a character is wearing or how they are dressed could be important:

When it reveals a character’s personality or status (e.g. do they favour muted tones or bright, bold colours? Do their clothing choices signify wealth?).

During important story moments or turning points if it highlights that moment’s significance (e.g. wearing black at a funeral, or an academic gown at graduation).

If the clothing affects the plot or action (e.g. Cinderella losing her glass slipper).

When establishing the time period or setting (e.g. historically appropriate clothing descriptions to put readers into the right headspace to appreciate your setting).

If it shows a significant change in the character (e.g. a shy character who likes to blend in suddenly switching to bright colours to display their newfound confidence).

When it symbolises something deeper in the narrative (e.g. a meaningful piece of jewellery, or a bride wearing her mother’s dress for her wedding).

When should you skip clothing descriptions?

Readers don’t need to know what your character is wearing at every moment of every day. The best way to think about it is, if it’s not important to the story, don’t describe it in detail. Usually it’s enough to know that someone is wearing a jumper on an overcast day, and it won’t actually enhance the scene to know it’s a plain black one. Here are some moments when it’s probably not all that important to go into too much detail:

During routine daily activities.

When the outfit doesn’t add meaning to the scene.

If it interrupts the flow of important action.

When it feels like “outfit cataloging” rather than storytelling.

If you’re describing clothes just to fill space.

Tips for how to effectively describe a characters’ clothes

Make it matter: Make sure your descriptions reveal something about the character, whether that be a personality trade, social or economic status, or their cultural background.

Illustrate change: Highlight a change in your character, whether that be something external or a internal, emotional change.

Create uniqueness: In the case of a protagonist, especially, the way they dress can make them unique. It can contrast them with other characters.

Set something up: Describing a character’s clothes can be used for foreshadowing a future plot point.

Be selective: You don’t need to describe a whole outfit. Instead, you can focus on one or two distinct pieces, items that have significance, clothing that affects movement or action, or elements that reflect the character’s state of mind.

Don’t info-dump: You should try to seamlessly weave descriptions into the narrative. Describe actions and interactions, use sensory language, have other characters react, or let clothing be a part of a scene’s atmosphere.

Common pitfalls to avoid

There is a fine line to tow when describing a character’s clothes in a way that is effective. And essentially, the pitfalls happen on either side of that line. You will either over-describe or under-describe. So what does that mean?

Over-description

Listing every item of clothing, regardless or relevance or usefulness.

Describing outfits for every scene. We rarely need to know what all characters are wearing at all times.

Including brand names unless relevant. Sometimes, a character’s brand loyalty might be important to the plot, but if it’s not, it’s unnecessary, and potentially alienating to readers.

Getting too technical with fashion terminology. Most readers won’t be au fait with the specifics, so make sure you write in a way that most readers can follow.

Focusing on clothes at the expense of action. Nothing will bring an action scene to a screeching halt faster than a detail dump.

Under-description

Don’t ignore clothing when it would be significant. If a character has undergone a significant personal change, then it would make sense to describe how that might also affect how they look on the outside.

Don’t miss opportunities for characterisation. A lot of a character’s personality can shine through their clothes, so if you’re telling the kind of story where that could be relevant, make sure you don’t miss those opportunities.

Don’t forget period-appropriate details in historical fiction. Research and authenticity are essential in certain genres, and clothing can go a long way to setting the scene.

Don’t overlook clothing that affects movement or action. The clothing a character wears can hugely affect the believability of a scene. If a character has just stepped out of a coronation and is dripping with heavy jewellery, it wouldn’t make sense for them to go for a leisurely swim.

Don’t skip descriptions that could build atmosphere. If it’s cold and dark, make sure your characters fit into that setting. Or you can use it to contrast your character and invert expectations (like a character who only ever wears shorts, even in winter).

When in doubt, ask these questions:

Does this detail reveal character?

Will it matter later in the story?

Does it help readers understand the world?

Is it necessary for visualisation?

Could the scene work without it?

Like all descriptions, clothing is a tool that you can use. Describe clothing when it serves your story and skip it when it doesn’t. The key is to make every detail count, whether you’re describing a ball gown or a worn-out pair of sneakers.

The bottom line is that you must trust your instincts and your readers. They don’t need a detailed inventory of every character’s wardrobe, but they do appreciate thoughtful details that enhance their understanding of your characters and story. When in doubt, less is often more, but make the descriptions you do include count.

[creatingblackcharacters]

Writing Polls Notes #3

This is a long one!

So there were a couple moments where I saw commentary and this meme was my first concern 😅. I say this because I realized that what I thought I was communicating, and what people were understanding, as the question were different.

The original question I asked was "Is [Black Character] well written?" And I provided a rubric of examples to consider, figuring that respecting their narrative and depiction while Black was a given. It seemed like people were struggling with the idea that "well-written" included respecting the character's Blackness (and thus, their Black audience) without having to center that Blackness. I'm like okay, that's on me for assuming, and so the question itself needed to be changed.

And so, the question then became "Did the writers treat [Black character]'s narrative with respect?" Interestingly, I never changed the screenshot of the rubric!

Since her poll was poppin, I decided to use Vivienne's character to see what happened, and-

Now. And this is for everyone! Imma ask you this:

If the character wasn't written with care, how is the character still being written well? What are we defining as "well"?

I'm sure there are happy accidents of characters written well despite their author not giving a shit. This is not me saying that you can write with care and never write poorly. This is also not me saying that you cannot like the character or their potential anyway! I certainly don't think these two ramshackle Tumblr polls are the end all be all determination on this character. But I am asking you to think about it, regardless.

If a Black character's Blackness is unironically used as a joke or bludgeon, or out-of-game important social context is completely dismissed or has to be projected onto the character's narrative by fanon, then I personally take that into consideration when determining the author-ial intent in how a character was written (e.g. was a character's story meant to be a 'freedom fighting' narrative or did you have to say 'well if we take it from the authors-').

Idk guys, I just think this matters a lot lmao, and seeing this difference spooked me. The concept of a character might be great, but if the delivery is only great if you have to allow yourself to be antiblack about it (or ignore that factor altogether), maybe it wasn't created with the experience of a Black audience in mind 😅 We can like anything we want, but we ain't gotta lie about it!

Moving on!

Repeating another point from earlier: "It seemed like people were struggling with the idea that "well-written" included respecting the character's Blackness (and their Black audience) without having to center that Blackness."

There were a decent amount of "well the story doesn't mention their Blackness so I guess not/this question is hard". This is a big one to think about, period. When designing and writing your Black characters, and when trying to dodge stereotypes. When we say "be normal about Black people", that's kind of what we mean. You don't have to go "Black, Black, it's a Black!" for us to know the creator gave a damn, given how we are treated in media and life. You can write a downright horrid person of a Black villain and it still be written with care!

But yeah, I don't have to write a narrative where the Blackness is centered to consider the way Blackness itself is treated with my character. For example, as low hanging fruit, Wyll and Mizora.

Blackness- as we know it- doesn't exist in BG3, and yet the visual of a predatory white woman owning a Black man is a very real thing. Doesn't matter that racism- as we know it- doesn't exist in game and is therefore irrelevant, it exists to the real Black people playing it.

So to treat it crassly (as it seems to have been done) suggests a level of unconcern, and thus the effect it will have on those Black viewers who can see how everyone else's narrative is being treated with care. I'm always telling y'all, it's not the prompt, it's the writer- that could have been one hell of a concept, if the people who wrote it knew (or cared about) what they had and followed through!

Now, if your mindset is "well then this game isn't for those viewers" that's true, but keep in mind that's overtly saying that Black players aren't welcome to consume your content with a character that looks like them without settling for racism (which is part of "did they think about their Black audience").

Lastly, as a reminder, we gotta rise above "see there's a Black character!" as a judgment of a piece of media's inclusiveness. Okay, but did they play a role that had interiority or did they just serve as a device for the nonblack main characters and their stories? I don't believe in giving credit for the bare minimum of "being present" anymore lol. It's okay to have standards, it's okay that everything you like won't reach them, but you don't have to lower your standards for good Black characters to "just having them"!

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Aaa back to my origins, I missed writing for Chrollo, he is such an interesting character with some many layers to peel off. Got inspired to write this after doing a lesson for my course where me and my group were discussing about the meaning of life and, y'know, philosophical questions like this would get Chrollo debating for hours just so he could understand his darling opinions.

The room was dimly lit, the only light source was a flickering candle on a worn-out table - the room Chrollo rented this time left to be desired, quaint, old. Shadows danced along the cracked walls, creating an atmosphere that was both claustrophobic and eerie. And you were almost certain that you saw a roach running somewhere. You hated here.

Most of all, you hated him.

Chrollo's dark eyes bore into yours, the intensity of his gaze sending even more chills down your spine. The air as always was thick with tension, one could not have a simple conversation with someone like him im peace.

He leaned forward, his shadows swallowing the light as he let his book rest on the table before turning to look at you again. You could almost see the gears turning on his head. Chrollo was calm and composed but there was something deeply unsettling about him — an aura of danger that lingered just beneath the surface.

Maybe it was his eyes. His very beautiful, mesmerizing eyes that were so similar to two black holes devouring and tainting anything they fell upon. He rested his chin on his hand, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips as he observed you, as he searched through your soul for something only he knew about.

"Entertain me, dear," Chrollo began, his voice smooth, almost gentle, yet laced with a sinister undertone, drumming his fingers against his leg, "What do you think is the meaning of life?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. You hesitated, knowing that your answer could shape the course of this conversation. He liked doing that; giving you something to think about to mold you into who he thinks you should be. Chrollo was unpredictable, his mind a labyrinth of thoughts and intentions that were impossible to decipher, yet you were learning how to read his mannerisms.

If he could read you like an open book, then you should learn and do the same to him. Two can play this game.

He was a man who could kill without remorse, who was used to steal and take without feeling nothing for the victims, even then here he was, asking you to ponder something as profound as the meaning of life. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to curse him; the man who took you from your old life.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "I think the meaning of life is… To find s purpose. To create something that gives our existence meaning, whether it's love, art, or even just surviving the challenges we face. Don't you think?"

Chrollo's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Purpose, you say? Interesting." He leaned back, crossing his arms as he considered your words. "But what if your purpose is tied to destruction, to chaos because the world failed you? Can that be considered a valid purpose?"

The question sent a shiver down your spine. You knew what he was getting at. Chrollo's life was one of bloodshed and mayhem, his purpose seemingly intertwined with the suffering of others. The thought of justifying such a life made your stomach churn, but you couldn't afford to show weakness.

Sometimes, you mused, Chrollo must think of you like a butterfly strapped to his table while he dissected you.

Or that's how you felt.

"Purpose is subjective," You replied carefully, your voice steady despite the unease creeping through you. "Some might find meaning in creation, others in destruction. But I believe it ultimately comes down to how we perceive our actions and the impact they have on the world around us."

Chrollo's eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze becoming almost unbearable. "And what about you?" He asked, his voice soft but deadly serious. "What is your purpose? What meaning do you find in your life?"

The room seemed to close in around you, the air growing colder, more oppressive. You could feel the weight of Chrollo's expectations pressing down on you, as if he was daring you to give the wrong answer. Your mind raced, searching for the right words, the right response that would satisfy him.

"My purpose..." You began, letting your eyes fall to your folded hands. You didn't have one, not anymore at least, he stole that and any chance that you could find it. "My purpose is to live. To experience everything life has to offer, the good and the bad. To find my own path, whatever that may be."

My purpose is to survive you, to kill you. But not yet, dear. You concluded mentally, imitating his tone.

Chrollo studied you in silence, his expression unreadable. The tension in the room was almost suffocating, the silence stretching out until it felt like it would never end. Then, slowly, he nodded, as if accepting your answer — though you couldn't tell if he was satisfied or merely amused.

"An admirable sentiment," He said finally, though his tone was laced with a special kind of amusement. "But remember, the path you choose may not always be under your control, life has a way of steering us in directions we never expected. I'm certain you're quite familiar with this."

Chrollo was a man who thrived on control, on manipulating the lives of others to suit his own ends. It annoyed you greatly that he liked to pour salt over the wound, teasing you about your current predicament.

This time you didn't look away. You held his gaze, refusing to let him see the fear that threatened to consume you. If you were going to survive him, you needed to be strong, to show him that you weren't just another victim.

"I suppose that's true," You replied, forcing a small smile. "But I also believe we have the power to shape our own future, to defy and erase certain aspects of it."

Chrollo's eyes gleamed with a dark amusement, and for a moment, you thought you saw something dangerous flicker in his expression. "Perhaps," He nodded, his voice low and almost mocking. "But remember, in the end, the meaning of life may be nothing more than what we make of it… Or what someone else makes it for us."

The conversation ended with those words, the tension in the room slowly dissipating but leaving behind an unsettling feeling that lingered in your chest. Chrollo rose from his seat, his movements graceful and deliberate. He gave you one last, lingering look before turning to leave, his presence as haunting as ever.

"I'll buy us something to eat, behave yourself in the meantime."

As the door closed behind him, you were left alone with your thoughts, the candle's flame flickering weakly in the darkness. The meaning of life, what did it matter in a world where someone like Chrollo Lucilfer existed, where lives were manipulated and discarded without a second thought?

You couldn't shake the feeling that, in his own twisted way, Chrollo had found his meaning right here and now.

And if he did, if he found his meaning, you didn't want to know what it was.

[foreverisntenough]

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Please read:  Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic for someone I no longer will support once he leaves my club. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 13- 'Stillness & Sun' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.5k

“So… Do I get to see any of your photos?” Trent gently broke the silence of the darkroom. You hesitated, your breath catching, because he wasn’t asking to see your work—he was but whether or not he knew it, he was asking for a piece of you. A window into your world, the way you saw things, the way you framed light and shadow, the way you captured the moments that felt too fleeting to hold onto any other way. 

“I can show you my work instagram.” You smiled softly, your voice low, avoidant. 

“Nah, I’ve seen that.” he cooed and your heart faltered. Trent let his eyes flutter shut for half a second feeling like he just outed himself but he didn’t care, not here. Not in the quiet dark of the room with you. “I mean,” he continued, an easy, teasing smile tugging at his lips, “I don’t think Instagram would do them justice after all this. And an iPhone?” He shook his head. “Not the same.” Your chest ached, something tender and raw unfurling inside you. Because he got it. He listened in a way so few did. He listened to you, like the first time he used your film camera in his bedroom and you explained that very same thing. 

“Yeah…” You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll show you.” His smile was slow, curling at the corners, something boyish and sweet and so incredibly genuine that you had to look away before you did something reckless. Before you let yourself fall even further. You turned, leading him past the drying rack where fresh prints hung in the soft glow of the safelight towards a work table. He followed without question, without hesitation. Your fingers brushed, magnetized, neither of you moving away. His touch was barely there, but it burned.

The film developed behind you, the images forming slowly, unseen until they were ready. But the chemistry happening in those trays had nothing on the way Trent looked at you now. Nothing on the slow, inevitable pull between you. And you knew, with a certainty that terrified you, that whatever was happening here—whatever was growing between you and Trent—was developing just the same. Slowly. Beautifully. Unstoppable.

—

[Here With Me - D4vd]

The darkroom hummed with quiet, the red safelight casting a warm glow over the table where your world lay spread before you. A beautiful mess of memories—black-and-white prints curling slightly at the edges, red chinagraph pencils rolling idly across the surface, boxes of time preserved in matte and gloss. Trent stood beside you, his fingers ghosting over the photographs, careful, almost reverent. He wasn’t just looking—he was seeing.

“Wow… these are beautiful, baby.” His voice was soft, almost awed, as though speaking too loudly might shatter something delicate in the air between you. You swallowed, brushing a thumb over one of the images—a hazy, sun-drenched frame of your childhood street you took when you visited last. 

“Thank you… these ones are just my life in silly little photos.” You shrugged, downplaying what was spread before you. What you never showed anyone. These weren’t the glossy, polished editorials that graced magazines or ones that lurked in corners of the internet racking up likes. These were yours. Snapshots of passing time, the things you didn’t want to forget. You rarely even looked at them yourself. Every January, a ritual—develop, box, tie shut. Archive the past. No peeking. Keep moving. But now, they were laid bare, vulnerable beneath Trent’s gaze.

“Nah, serious. These are amazing.” He picked up a photo of friends gathered around a restaurant table, flipping it over. Inked in your precise, slanted handwriting: names, date, location. A moment etched in time. “So what’s with all these red pens?” He smirked, placing the photo down then picking up a red pencil, holding it up between his fingers.

“Chinagraphs,” you corrected softly.

“Chinagraph?” He echoed, amused.

“Chinagraph,” you repeated, a little laugh spilling out, unable to hide your fondness for his curiosity. “I’ll show you one that isn’t so battered. Hold on. Fresh out the box is best.” You cooed, turning away from the table. He watched you move, eyes following as you crossed the room toward a cabinet. The low red light caught in your hair, in the soft lines of your body. “I just write little notes sometimes,” you continued, pulling down another box of pencils. “Names and dates, things like that, maybe a thought, just… for me. Things I want to make sure I remember.” Your voice carried softly, fading into the stillness of the room. And Trent, left alone in the quiet, let his fingers drift over the scattered prints, photos of your life this past year to date, idly picking one up. His fingers grazing the glossy surface of the film photo before noticing another clinging to its back. As he peeled them apart, the ink stuck for a moment, the faint, tacky resistance breaking with a soft, almost imperceptible pull—like a whispered secret between the two images. He held the print closer and a sharp breath caught in his throat.

The image was grainy, the contrast stark—his own figure, illuminated by the amber glow of a Parisian streetlight like a memory. He remembered the moment instantly. The alleyway. After the Louis Vuitton show as he watched you scamper down the cobblestones. The weight of something unsaid lingering in the cold night air. A photo he never knew existed of a moment he knew he’d never forget. Before everything changed. Before you got to know each other in ways that were irreversible. His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned it over, the breath in his chest locking as he read the words etched into the back in red. There was no name, no restaurant to remember, only your thoughts because this photo was different, he was different. He wasn’t a person to remember, he was a feeling that you knew could never rid your heart of. 

‘I think I’m in love with someone I don’t know. I feel like I could love him in a way that even when he breaks my heart, I’d thank him for it.  But I think I’m in love with someone I don’t know. I know it.’ -  Paris, Rue Perrault.

The room blurred for a moment, his vision tunneling. ‘Love.’ His chest tightened. Before he could even process the weight of it, curiosity tugged him toward the one that had been hidden, glued to the moment held in his hand that made his heart ache. He reached for the other, his thumb brushing over its edges as if unveiling something private, something waiting just for him. It was you. You, draped in soft sheets. His sheets. The harsh spill of light leaking across the frame, marring the image where film had been damaged from when you dropped your camera outside the Burberry event when he stood you up. 

The two photos had been kept together—bound in the quiet way that meant something, even if you had never spoken it aloud. Like you had kept the two photos together on purpose. And you had. You wrote your heartbreak on them, unable to even pencil his name, but wanted them to disappear together so you could be 85 of age and look back on something that could’ve been. And then Trent turned the photo over with hands that suddenly didn’t feel like his own. His throat was dry as his eyes narrowed on your handwriting, no name, no place to remember, only your thoughts again, his heart hammering against his ribs.

‘Even if he was fleeting, he was perfectly mine if only just for a moment. A deluded dream where my love for him might’ve been returned.’ Hale, His House.

A breath shuddered out of him. He felt like he might black out, the air around him suddenly too thick, too heavy.

“Any good ones?” Your voice broke through the fog, light and unsuspecting as you approached. Trent jolted, panic seizing his limbs. He scrambled, picking up another print at random, clearing his throat.

“Uh, yeah, yeah… This one of you and Cam’s nice.” His voice was tight, too sincere to be suspicious, but his pulse was still racing, his grip tightening slightly around the paper in his hand. You smiled softly, stepping closer to glance over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, was her birthday.” You sighed looking at you and Campbell smiles cemented and printed into a memory. Then your gaze flickered downward. The breath in your lungs vanished. There, half-hidden beneath the prints, was the photo. That photo Trent had just discarded too fast. The one you thought tucked away to never be seen by you again and definitely not by him. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Coyly, you leaned forward, your hand moving with the kind of practiced ease only someone used to hiding their own secrets possessed. With a feigned air of distraction, you placed your palm over it, fingers pressing into the soft texture of the paper as you smoothly reached for another, a careful sleight of hand. You didn’t look at Trent. And he—hands frozen at his sides, mind reeling—didn’t look at you either. Because if he did… he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

—

“You wanna grab some dinner?” he asked after a long while later,  his voice calm, easy, like this was nothing, like his pulse wasn’t skipping as he waited for your answer. You hummed, nodding, and just like that, the two of you—friends, like you told yourselves—went to dinner the way no two friends did. He stole bites from your plate without asking, and you wiped your thumb over the corner of his lips without thinking. He made you try a sip of his drink, grinning at your scrunched-up nose when it was stronger than expected. You split dessert, your fork scraping against his as you both went for the last bite, laughing as he let you have it, nudging your knee with his under the table. It was natural, too natural, like you were something inevitable, like this thing between you wasn’t something fragile, held together by the unspoken. And then, like all good friends, you went back to your apartment.

The city hummed softly outside your window, the golden glow of streetlights filtering in through the curtains, casting shifting shapes against the walls. The quiet rhythm of cars passing below, the occasional distant laugh of strangers returning home, the familiar creaks of your apartment—it all felt muted, insignificant compared to the warmth that stretched between you and Trent. The floor was softer than it should’ve been beneath you, or maybe that was just because you were pressed against him, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours. His warmth seeped into your skin, through your clothes, through your ribs, into the parts of you that you didn’t let anyone else touch. His arms rested lazily over your lap, fingertips grazing the silk fabric of your printed trousers, [ref index] featherlight, absentminded. You reached for the stack of magazines beside you, pulling one onto your lap, flipping through the glossy pages, leaning your head back to see his reaction.

“That’s yours?” Trent murmured, tilting his head as you landed on a familiar spread.

“Yeah,” you said, voice soft with something like pride, something like vulnerability. He asked to see more after the dark room but the only ‘more’ left were the things that you shared with the rest of the world, everything else, you’d already bared to him whether or not he knew it.  He traced a finger over the image, over the way you’d framed the model in the perfect light, over the composition that felt so distinctly you.

“Wow,” he exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re unreal, you know that?” Your face grew warm, and you tipped your head back against his shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“It’s just a job.” You murmured.

“Nah,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s not just a job. This—it’s like art… it’s like you.” You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just leaned further into him, letting the silence wrap around you. You pulled out more prints, some from old shoots, some never released but he still asked for more. Everything Trent did was captured in front of cameras, and everything you did was behind it. He liked the anonymity of your job, maybe he envied it, or maybe he just loved that it was yours. You eventually pulled your computer onto your lap, clicking through folders, pointing out shots you loved, campaigns you hated.

“That one—she was incredible,” you mused, nodding toward an image of a model with striking eyes, the kind that burned into you. “She moved like she wasn’t even real.”

“And him?” Trent asked, nodding at another frame—one with a famous footballer, someone he knew on the pitch, sleek and controlled, the picture of cool perfection. You wrinkled your nose. 

“Bit of a dickhead.” You smirked. 

“Yeah?” Trent laughed, a low, rich sound that vibrated against your spine, and you felt it everywhere. 

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Wouldn’t take direction, acted like he knew better. Actually has shit style unless someone does it for him. Some of you footballers are the worst.” You giggled teasingly. He tsked, shaking his head dramatically. 

“Not me though, right?” You turned your head just slightly, just enough to see the teasing glint in his eye, the dimple in his cheek. You let the moment stretch, let your silence play with him.

“Jury’s still out.” You murmured. His breath hitched, barely, but you felt it. And you felt the way his fingers tightened slightly over your knee, the way his chin dipped, nose grazing the curve of your jaw like he couldn’t help himself. Too soft. You let your gaze drift to the photos on your wall, ones you had taken for yourself and some that were for the world. “I like that they live here,” you said, quieter now, as if sharing a secret. “It’s like I get to build my own world. I spend so much time capturing things—moments, people, colors, light—and they all exist out there, in the world, for everyone. But here, in my apartment, it’s all curated, just for me. Just the ones I like. Just mine.” Trent looked at you with a soft smile, patient. He was listening. You knew he was because you could feel it in the way he held you, like he was scared to break the moment. “I don’t know,” you sighed, tilting your head to rest in the crook of his neck. “Sorry. I sound so dramatic today.” You giggled a bit embarrassed. “It’s stupid I just like having my photographs… they come to life in this place that’s so—”

“Still,” Trent finished for you. His voice was thick, deeper somehow. “Not stupid. Not dramatic either.” He hummed as you turned slightly, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, like he was looking at something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. And you felt it, that unbearable truth pressing in on you from every angle—this wasn’t friendship. This had never been friendship. Not with the way his fingers brushed over your skin like a whisper, not with the way his breath fanned over your cheek, not with the way your heart ached with something terrifying and sweet when you looked at him. But neither of you said a word. Because saying it would make it real. And if it was real, it could break.

So you stayed there. The carpet soft beneath you, but not as soft as him. Trent was solid where you leaned against him, his legs staying around yours, his warmth seeping into your skin, steady and sure. Your laptop balanced on your thighs, the screen casting a cool glow against your fingers as you scrolled, images flickering past like memories trapped in the stillness he understood. His chin rested against your shoulder, the weight of it familiar now, something that no longer startled but settled. The faintest scrape of scruff ghosted against your skin each time he shifted, and you could feel his breath, warm and steady, as he took in the images with you. He didn’t rush. Didn’t push. He’d simply lift a hand, point at one, and wait. You could feel his curiosity in the way his thumb traced absentminded circles over your hip, his fingers brushing over your trousers like he wasn’t even aware of it. You’d pause, letting your fingertips skim over the trackpad as you pulled the image up, letting him study it. The quiet stretched between you, unhurried, easy.  His breath fanned against your skin, slower now, deeper, like he was steadying himself. Like he knew as well as you did that if either of you moved, if either of you acknowledged the weight of this moment, you wouldn’t be able to take it back. But you could feel it. The way his grip had changed, no longer teasing, no longer playful, not tentative but something else—something solid, something dangerous. Your eyes stayed fixed on the screen, pretending not to notice how his other hand had found a home against your thigh, his thumb brushing idle circles, too gentle to be innocent, too light to be ignored. The city pulsed beyond your window, neon flickering against the glass, faded car horns, voices, life moving in endless rhythm. But in here, there was only this—the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the scent of him wrapping around you, something clean, something warm. You shifted slightly, leaning into him without thinking, the curve of your spine fitting into the hollow of his chest like a key slotting into place. Trent made a sound—low, barely there—but his hand slid a little firmer over your hip, as if holding you there, as if making sure you weren’t going anywhere. He tilted his head, his jaw grazing your bare shoulder as he peered at the screen, his focus unshaken. But yours—yours had already started to slip, caught up in the way he felt against you, the way he smelled, the way his touch lingered, featherlight but constant. 

—

You continued to scroll through your photos, the glow of the screen flickering over your face, casting soft light over his. Trent’s fingers flexed slightly where they rested against your hip, absentminded but grounding, his touch light, like he didn’t even realize he was holding you closer with each second. Then you remembered. The darkroom. His words ‘Nah, I’ve seen that.’ Trent’s had seen your instagram. The way his voice had gone quiet with regret but followed with certainty in the way his hands had traced the edges of your work like he was afraid to disturb something sacred. The way he asked questions and listened to their answers. His presence settling somewhere deep in your chest, tangled with the low red glow of the room, with the scent of chemicals and old film, with the way he’d watched you—not just looking, but seeing.

“T?” Your voice was soft as you broke the quiet, and he hummed in response, his fingers still absently drawing patterns over your side. “So, you’ve seen my Instagram?” The question was light, teasing, but laced with something more. Something layered beneath the words. Trent hesitated for only a second, but you felt it—the warmth creeping up his neck, the way his hold on you tightened just slightly. Then he chuckled, low and sheepish.

“Erm, yeah. I’ve seen it.” His voice dipped, smoothing into something softer, something knowing. “I mean, you’ve worked with a lot of ballers. I never knew what was behind the lens looked this good, but yeah, I’ve seen it.” You turned slightly, shifting in his hold to meet his eyes, feeling the way his gaze settled on you, something unreadable swimming beneath the surface. “You ever see my Instagram?” He asked, his smile was easy, teasing, but there was something else in the way he asked it—something almost nervous, almost hesitant. You smiled, that kind of close-mouthed, cheek-aching smile that betrayed you completely. Yes. You had seen it. All of it.

“I’ve seen it.” You admitted, bashful, leaving out the part about zooming in on that photo of him shirtless on the exercise bike. Trent grinned, like he knew anyway. “I don’t have anything clever to say though.” You giggled, deflecting. “And that’s not fair. Mine’s for work.”

“Mine’s for work,” he mimicked, laughing, squeezing you a little tighter, playful. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away.

“No, not the same. Your face is on your page, mine isn’t.” He tilted his head, considering, then smirked.

“Nah, it’s the same. ‘Cause I’ve seen that other Instagram of yours…” His voice was different now, low, amused—but there was something else behind it too. Your stomach flipped, butterflies fluttering wildly at the thought—Trent, scrolling through your personal page, seeing the version of you that wasn’t edited, wasn’t polished, wasn’t meant for him. And yet, he had seen it. And he’d especially seen you stretched out on that lounger in Ibiza, back arched, sun dripping over you in a way that should be illegal in only a tiny tiny string bikini… maybe it was meant for him. 

“Really?” You managed, tilting your head, trying to stay composed. Trying not to betray just how much that affected you. “And you didn’t want to follow me?” You asked and he smirked, tilting his chin, watching you closely.

“You didn’t follow me…” He countered. You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head. You leaned back into his chest, settling into the warmth of him, moving your laptop and picking up your phone, resting it lightly in your hands. The air was thick with something unsaid, something you could both feel but neither of you dared to acknowledge. Your fingers moved slowly, typing his name into the search bar, as if drawing out the moment would keep reality at bay a little longer. His profile loaded instantly—the familiar blue check, the carefully curated grid of photos, the snapshots of his world. Your world, too, in some ways. But that wasn’t the thought that made your stomach tighten.

“There,” you murmured, hitting follow. “Got yourself a new follower. Twelve million and one.” The words were meant to be light, playful, but they settled strangely between you. For a second, the room went quiet, too quiet. You tensed, suddenly aware of how silly you felt—like you’d made something too obvious, cracked open something too fragile. It felt like you were asking for a transaction he wasn’t going to complete. You could already hear the self-reproach in your head. So stupid. And then— A deep chuckle, the kind that started in his chest and rumbled through you like a slow-moving current. You didn’t just hear it—you felt it. The way it vibrated against your back, the way it warmed the air between you. Trent couldn’t move, you were caging him in between your body and sofa. “Stop. Now I’m embarrassed,” you whined, dropping your phone to cover your face with your hands, but that only made him laugh harder, squeezing you a bit tighter in reassurance.

“Baby, my phone’s charging in the kitchen,” he said, still amused. “I’m gonna follow you back. Relax, beautiful.” You huffed, still embarrassed, turning and peeking at him through your fingers. He shifted behind you, still wedged between you and the sofa still attempting to get up. But as much as you wanted that follow, you also didn’t want him to move.

“Don’t move,” you whined, reluctant to leave the cocoon of his arms.

“Alright,” he relented, the humor still lacing his voice, his hold on your gentle but reassuring. But then, a smirk. “How about I stay right here if you go get my phone, hmm?” He purred. You paused thinking for a moment weighing the stakes. “I have something important to do. Time-sensitive.” He teased you. You narrowed your eyes at him but climbed up anyway, shaking your head as you padded toward the kitchen. His phone sat facedown on the counter, the sleek device somehow carrying the same weight as a loaded question in your hands. When you returned, he was exactly where you left him as promised—easy and unbothered, draped against the sofa on the floor still sprawled out, open, waiting. The moment you nestled back in between his legs, he pulled you against him again, one arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing briefly to the top of your head in a way that felt far too natural. “Thank you,” he murmured, unlocking his phone. His fingers moved with purpose, navigating to Instagram. “What’s your handle?” He asked. He felt your breath hitch before he laughed—a full, delighted, caught red-handed kind of laugh. Feigning like he hadn’t ever seen the instagram he’d searched for too many times.

“Oh, fuck you!” You giggled twisted, swatting at his chest as he tried to dodge you, his grin wide and teasing. He was so obnoxious making it out like you were alone in your pining, that you knew his handle and he didn’t know yours. Albeit a lie.  

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He admitted through laughter, his hold on to you tightening, sitting up a little more as his lips brushing your temple in a fleeting, absentminded kiss. He typed the handle he did in fact know and pressed follow. And when he did, it felt like he had wax sealed something. “Gotcha self a new follower too, baby.” Your heart tripped over itself at the way he said it—baby—like it belonged to you, like he hadn’t even thought twice about saying it.

“Knew that username awfully quick, y’know,” you teased, though your voice was softer now, a little breathless.

“Shhh. Don’t worry about that.” He smirked, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His voice was a low rasp, rough in a way that made your stomach clench. And then he leaned back again, sinking into the baseboard of the sofa, taking you with him, his arms locked around you, holding you in place. His hands—broad, warm, familiar—slid beneath your little cream colored tank top, fingers spreading over the bare skin of your stomach. You shivered, but you didn’t pull away. Didn’t want to. The touch wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was just him. Just you. Just the two of you pretending that nothing had changed, when in reality, everything already had. “For the record, I’ll take the one over the 12 million.” He whispered against your skin. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker, humming with something you couldn’t name—or maybe just shouldn’t.  His warmth wrapped around you like a second skin, his arm firm across you, fingers splayed, pressing into the softness of you like he needed to commit the feeling to memory. But reality loomed, you hesitated before saying it, before shattering the spell. Before forcing yourself to remember what this was supposed to be.

“It’s getting late…” You whispered, staring at the walls of your apartment but seeing nothing.

“I know…” he hummed, but he didn’t move. Not even a little. And neither did you.

—

It was a mistake—crawling into bed with him again. You both knew it. But mistakes never felt this warm, this right. Trent’s arms were wrapped around you, his hands splayed against your back like he was trying to hold you there, keep you from slipping away. But the grip was hesitant, unsure, as if he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or let you go. His heartbeat was erratic beneath your cheek, a quiet betrayal of the calm he was trying to feign. His fingers twitched against your spine, the only real sign that his mind was racing. He wasn’t calm, not even close. But you? You melted against him so easily, so effortlessly, like slipping into something familiar. Something that felt like home. And maybe that was the part that scared him the most. The weight of the night settled over you both, thick with the things you wouldn’t—couldn’t—say.

He didn’t know Cassie had told you anything, didn’t know if you caught his almost-slip the other night when he fucked you like he loved you, the word almost leaking out. He only knew that you were here now, draped against him, your breath fanning against his neck, your fingers curled lightly against his skin like you belonged there. But did you? That was the question eating at him, clawing at the edges of his restraint. Because earlier, in the darkroom, he’d read something in your voice etched in hand writing—something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to see. It was in the way you spoke about him, the way your words danced around the idea that you maybe loved him just the same. 

The possibility clawed at him, wrapping tight around his ribs. Did you love him? If you had, if you still did—why could you be here now, nestled against him like it didn’t matter? Unless… unless it didn’t anymore. Unless you didn’t. Was the absence of hesitation tonight proof that you didn’t anymore? That you never did?  It had lingered in his chest, gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Had you meant what was written on those photos? Had the moment passed? And all this ambiguity allowed him to get in your bed. To hold you the way he was holding you now.  But his chest ached at the thought, a dull, throbbing pain he didn’t know how to soothe. He didn’t want to hurt you. He’d already hurt you once—whether you admitted it or not. He was terrified of doing it again. So he said nothing.

He didn’t want to know the answer to all those questions swirling around in his brain. He wasn’t ready. If he asked, if he cracked this fragile moment open, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to piece it back together. He didn’t want to know that you’d possibly moved past something he was permanently stuck on. And in the silence, your body pressed closer, nuzzling deeper into him like you were drawn by something unseen, something unspoken. He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening for just a second before smoothing over your spine, a touch too light, too reverent, his lips barely brushing the crown of your head.  And then—stillness.

And in the stillness, you pressed closer, your body curling into him like instinct, like something your heart knew even if your mind refused to speak it. No words. No confessions. Just the quiet hum of the city beyond your window, the warmth of your limbs tangled with his, the silent scream of love neither of you could say aloud. You fell asleep like that, sinking deeper into him, into the feeling. And no sex was needed.

—

The morning sunlight stretched lazily through your apartment, golden streaks casting warmth over the space Trent had made himself entirely too comfortable in. He lounged on your sofa like he lived there, legs spread, remote in hand, scrolling aimlessly through channels on the telly as if he had nowhere else to be. You smirked from your place against the kitchen island, stirring the spoon idly in your cup of tea, watching him in nothing but the shirt he’d peeled off last night and draped over your shoulders this morning. It still smelled like him—clean, fresh, with the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the fabric. Everything felt too charged, too heavy with the weight of things left unsaid. So you did what you always did—made light of it, pushed at the tension with blunt humor, hoping to defuse it.

“So you didn’t want to fuck last night?” you teased, voice lilting, sweet like honey, though your stomach twisted slightly even as you said it. You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe you wanted to test him, to see if last night had rattled him as much as it had you. Maybe you just wanted to hear him say it, confirm what you already knew. But as soon as the words left your lips, a teasing lilt masking the ache underneath, you regretted it.

“Nah,” he said smoothly, gaze unmoving from the television. “Not interested.” It was a tease but you didn’t hear it. The casual dismissal landed like a slap, your smirk faltering as your heart dropped into your stomach. Stupid. So stupid. You never should have said anything. Of course he didn’t, you forced him into being your ‘friend’ like an idiot.  Trent caught the shift in your expression from the corner of his eye, the way your body stiffened, the subtle dip in your shoulders like you were retreating.  Of course, he did. He knew you too well, read you too easily. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips as he stood, stretching a little before making his way toward you. When he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, he tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Y/N,” he laughed, his voice low, rich, playful. “What kind of question is that?” He asked incredulously, almost amused, but there was something else underneath it—something fragile

“What?” You shrugged, feigning indifference, even as you felt heat crawl up your neck.  He tilted his head, looking at you like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. How you couldn’t see it. How you didn’t know the restraint he’d practiced last night for you was something out of this world.

“You’re playing with me,” he murmured, exhaling with a shake of his head like he couldn’t believe you. Your fingers tightened around your mug. You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t playing. You had no idea what the game even was anymore. Trent sighed, running a hand over his face before looking at you again, and this time there was something raw in his expression. “You didn’t move to me all night,” he said, voice lower now, slower. “You said we’re friends.” We are friends. The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but they felt like a lie. A cruel one.

“We are friends,” you whispered anyway, though it sounded weaker than before. The words barely made it past your lips. His eyes darkened, the smirk fading as he took another step closer. 

“We’re friends.” he repeated, voice quieter now, testing, resigned. “So…” One word, and yet it held so much. So—that’s why I didn’t touch you last night. So—that’s why I didn’t say what I wanted to. So—that’s why this is fucking killing me. Your throat felt tight. 

“So… nothing,” you whispered, but it wasn’t nothing, and you both knew it. You turned away under the guise of putting your mug in the sink, looking for anything to ground yourself, to avoid his gaze, to pull yourself out of the mess you’d just created. Needing something, anything, to break the moment. Trent didn’t let you. You heard him move before you felt him—He moved behind you with quiet ease, closing the space between you, his body flush against your back as his hands braced the counter on either side of you, caging you in, his breath warm against your ear. You swallowed hard, pulse thrumming as his warmth enveloped you, his breath fanning against your neck.

–

The air between you crackled, thick with something neither of you wanted to name. Morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, soft and golden, illuminating the space between you. The kitchen smelled of tea and toast, but all you could taste was the heat of Trent’s breath behind your ear, the weight of him standing too close.

“C’mere,” he murmured, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear. It sent a shiver down your spine, a traitorous reaction you tried to ignore. His voice was low, heavy with something dangerous. He didn’t need to say it louder. You felt it everywhere. “You think about fucking me last night?” He whispered.  A sharp inhale caught in your throat. He wasn’t touching you, not really, but his presence was everywhere—his voice curling around your spine, his body heat seeping into you, his scent settling deep in your lungs. Your lips curled before you could stop yourself, a smug smirk tugging at your mouth. He felt it. He knew. “Mmm,” he hummed, and the sound alone sent a shiver down your back. His fingers skimmed your bare hip beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt. “Yeah? How’d you want to take my cock?” His hips pressed against your ass, slow with an aching deliberateness, and a traitorous heat coiled in your stomach. Your breath hitched. For a second, just a second, you considered giving in. Letting the inevitable happen. But the panic clawed at your ribs, because you couldn’t—this wasn’t—

“T,” you whispered, shaking your head, trying to will away the heat curling low in your stomach. “We’re friends.” It was the wrong thing to say.  It was meant to be light. A tease, maybe? Protection? Surely. Nevertheless, a playful reminder of the line you both refused to cross. But you struck a nerve. Trent jerked back like you’d burned him, running a frustrated hand down his face. His jaw tightened, his eyes dark with something unreadable.  

“Y/N, you’re barely wearing clothes!” He snapped, voice rising ever so slightly. “You’re only in my shirt!” He yelped exacerbated, his frustration filling the space where his warmth had just been.

“Well…” You fumbled, suddenly unsure, suddenly feeling bare in a way that had nothing to do with your lack of clothing.. His head fell back for a second before he exhaled, hands on his hips, eyes trained on the ceiling like he was trying to keep himself from saying something reckless, like he was trying to stay calm, trying not to let whatever was simmering beneath the surface boil over. You could see it in the way his fingers curled tensely, in the way his chest rose and fell too quickly. But when he looked back at you, his restraint was fraying. And then his voice dropped, quieter now, but no less intense.

“Do you want me to be attracted to you or not?” His voice rougher now, raw with something dangerously close to desperation. 

“I–” Your lips parted, but nothing more came out.

“Baby,” he continued, a helpless sort of exasperation in his voice. His eyes shut annoyed at himself that the pet name even came out. “If not, then you gotta sort this.” He gestured to you, to the way you stood there in his shirt, looking at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. Like he didn’t know the curves of your body hidden beneath the fabric. “And this.” Referring to your face, the one that was too pretty to process. His hand reached out to you, his fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You gotta sort it out.” He looked at your face and the way you looked at him like you already knew the answer to his question but wouldn’t say it hurt. You bit your lip, heart hammering. You felt dizzy. Unmoored. He exhaled, stepping back as if he needed space, as if being too close to you was suffocating him. And then the words started tumbling out, fast, unchecked, raw.  “I don’t know, maybe plot and plan to blind me because I’m sorry, but at the minute—yes, baby. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about you.” His hands flew into his tight curls, tugging once before he dropped them. “I think about fucking you a lot.” His words were too honest. “I thought about it all last night, I thought about it this morning. I thought about your ass two minutes ago while you strutted around like I’m not supposed to find you attractive.” His voice cracked slightly, frustration leaking through. He ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I’ve got you so deep in my brain I can’t escape you. Your lips, the way you taste——it doesn’t go away, not even when I sleep.”

“T…” you interrupted softly. Your voice was barely above a whisper, your heart pounding. His breathing was uneven now, his eyes locked onto yours like he was trying to find an answer, like he needed you to just tell him what the fuck you wanted from him.

“What, Y/N,” he said, voice sharper than he meant it to be. His voice was rough, like he was tired, like he was pleading. He was trying to put his guards back up to brace for impact but he couldn’t not with the way you looked back at him..

“I’m sorry.” You swallowed hard.  His whole body sagged with the weight of it. And as much Trent wanted to be mad, wanted to be mad, he couldn’t be, not with you. Never with you. His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, and then, before you could process it, he reached for you again, pulling you into him with an urgency that made your breath catch. You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he was trying to hold you together, or maybe keep himself from falling apart. Trent sighed into your hair, his voice nothing more than a breath. The fight melted away the second his arms wrapped around you, crushing you against him, like holding you close might somehow fix all the things neither of you could say. You let yourself sink into him, pressing your face against the soft fabric of his jumper, inhaling him like he was oxygen letting you your eyes flutter close. 

“It’s not fair, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair, gentle, reverent. It wasn’t fair. None of this was. But you held onto him anyway, knowing you were already in too deep to let go. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping onto him like an anchor, like maybe if you held on tightly enough, you could stop this from slipping further into something you couldn’t control. But it was too late. It had been too late for a long time. His lips brushed against the top of your head, lingering. “Too pretty f’me, yeah?” he hummed, the words laced with something so tender it made your chest ache.  You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard, inhaling the scent of him—the warmth of him, the faint trace of his cologne, the familiarity of everything that made him Trent. You’d gone too far. You both had. And now, standing in the wreckage, neither of you knew how to put the pieces back together.

—

The locker room at St. George’s Park was a mixture of post-training exhaustion and buzzing camaraderie. The scent of sweat, grass, and faint cologne lingered in the air, blending with the sound of boots clattering against the tiled floor and water running in the background. Conversations overlapped, banter flying effortlessly between teammates, but Trent wasn’t really present in any of it. His mind had been elsewhere for days—weeks, really. You. Always you.

No matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the mess you both had tangled yourselves into, you stayed lodged in his chest, a dull ache that never went away. You were the wound and the cure, the storm and the stillness, and he had no fucking idea how to make sense of it anymore.

“Aye, bro, you know that photographer girl… Forget her name,” Jude called as he walked past, pulling Trent abruptly from his thoughts. Trent frowned instantly, his brows knitting together. A spike of something—possessive, protective—flashed through him. 

“Who?” He asked, thinking of you but assuming Jude couldn’t be asking about you. Not you. Jude barely noticed the tension creeping into Trent’s frame as he pulled a shirt over his head. 

“Erm… used to do footballer fits type shit, think she does big stuff now.” He thoughtlessly spoke. Across the room, another voice chimed in, casual but firm. 

“Y/N L/N.” Jude nodded in agreement, snapping his fingers.

“That’s it.” Trent’s stomach clenched. “Friends with your mates, no?” He looked at Trent. 

“Uh yeah…” Trent tried to keep his voice level, but even the mention of your name made his pulse kick up a notch.

“You think she’d be down to come to LA with us?” Jude continued, oblivious to the war waging inside Trent. “Could be sick, mate.” 

LA. Trent had barely given the trip much thought—just something fun before the season picked up again, a chance to breathe before the grind resumed. But now, it felt like an opportunity. A moment dropped in his lap by fate, offering him a way to maybe—finally—make things right.

“You have an in with her?” Another one of the boys chimed in, grinning. And there it was. The million-pound question. Trent felt his heartbeat against his ribs, too hard, too fast. Sort of. It wasn’t an easy answer. Because what exactly were you to him now? What was he to you? Lovers who never quite said the words? Friends who never really were just friends? His jaw clenched as he exhaled, thoughts running circles around themselves. If he asked, if he reached out—what would you say? Would you take it as a business opportunity? Would you turn him down because the wounds between you were still raw? Would you come because, deep down, you wanted to be near him as much as he wanted to be near you? Trent dragged a hand down his face.

“I can ask her,” he said finally, the words measured, careful. “See what she says.” But in truth, this wasn’t just about a trip. It never was. This was about finding a way back to you.

—

Foster’s bedroom was exactly as it always was—messy in the way that felt intentional, like every scattered hoodie and half-read book was just where it was meant to be.  A lived-in space that felt as familiar as your own. The room smelled of his overpriced perfume and the remnants of whatever candle Delaney had insisted she light for ‘good energy.’ The bed, a tangled mess of blankets and pillows, was the only space of calm amidst the chaos, and it was where you sat, hugging a pillow to your chest as you relayed the absolute car crash that had been your phone call with Trent. Campbell was pacing. She had been since the moment you’d told them Trent asked you to come to LA. Every so often, she’d stop, press her hands to her temples as if the sheer stupidity of the situation might kill her, and then resume her frantic pacing.

“I just don’t know if I go or not?” you sighed, letting yourself fall back onto the bed dramatically. 

“Y/N! You genuinely are dating! You have to go!” Delaney groaned, lying on her back beside you, letting her head hang off the edge of the bed, hair cascading in a tangled mess onto the carpet. 

“We’re not,” you pouted, voice muffled into the pillow.

“You are,” Campbell said flatly, stopping mid-stride to shoot you an incredulous look. Foster, sitting on her desk chair with one leg pulled up to her chest, raised a brow. You and Trent were just hurting when it could be sorted with some honest communication in her opinion.

“Anyone beg to ask the question, why not?” She smirked at the obviousness of it all. You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes. 

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” You whined. You didn’t really know. But deep down the truth was—in some way, you did. You knew exactly why. You were scared he didn’t want to date you and he’d hurt you if you tried. So instead, you were living in this middle, sat acting like you were dating, saying you weren’t.  “I don’t know,” you muttered again, quieter this time.  Campbell threw her hands up. You sat up, hugging the pillow tighter, feeling suddenly exposed under their collective gaze. A beat of silence. You stared at the duvet, running your fingers over the soft fabric. Delaney turned her head dramatically to look at you, eyes wide. 

“But you are though!” she whined, shaking your arm like the answer was obvious.

“You’re already acting like you’re dating,” Foster pointed out, voice gentler. “You’re just not calling it what it is.” Campbell rolled her eyes so hard you were almost impressed they didn’t get stuck. 

“Babe. He invited you to LA. LA!  You think he’s doing that just for fun?” Heat bloomed across your cheeks. You groaned, pressing the pillow against your face. You sat still cross-legged in the middle of the bed, surrounded by your best friends, your defenses slowly crumbling under the weight of their relentless teasing.

“It’s not like he even holds my hand or something,” you explained weakly, glancing between the three of them as if you could find some sliver of validation in their eyes. But Foster and Delaney just burst into laughter, and Campbell rolled her eyes again so hard you feared she’d actually lost sight of the ceiling.

“Fine, your hand isn’t his…” Campbell allowed, her smirk telling you she was about to eviscerate whatever excuse you thought you had. “But what does he do when you two walk near each other?” Your stomach flipped. Heat crept up your neck, the mere thought of it unraveling you. A smile threatened to give you away.

“His arm is permanently slinked around you!” Foster yelped, pointing at you like she’d cracked the case.

“You’re attached the second you’re in the same room, hun!” Delaney cooed, leaning forward eagerly. Your cheeks burned. “Oh my God, and you’re chuffed about it as well!” she added, giggling at the way you were visibly fighting a lovesick grin.

“Oh my days, she’s blushing,” Foster gasped loving every second of this.

“No! No!” You swatted at the air, as if you could physically bat away the accusations.

“You have the lock code to his house!” Campbell piled on, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. You shouldn’t have told her but you did. Trent had given it to you so you could let yourself in when you had gotten to his house before him, another thing friends just didn’t do. There was trust in that and meaning in that trust and Campbell pounced on the simplicity of it. 

“We don’t have sex.” Desperate, you grasped at straws. A half-truth. A singular most recent night you hadn’t. And you only hadn’t because the feelings had gotten too much to bare. A collective silence fell over the room. Then—

“Yes, you DO!!!” Foster screeched, her hands flying up like she was praising the football gods. She was absolutely beside herself with amusement while Campbell fell onto the bed, laughing in utter disbelief.

“Y/N, please, don’t even try that,” Delaney deadpanned, leveling you with a stare. “You two always sneak off, you’ve had sex, you’ve likely had sex with him in the past month, and you’ll have sex with him again.” She looked at you like she’d just stated the sky was blue, and you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. Everyone knew you two were hooking up. Anyone close to you knew you weren’t kissing anyone else. At 3 am Trent’s location was at your apartment, and the next week you turned up with a love bite on your collarbone. A poor lie, your friends went along with. 

“I repeat, you have the fucking lock code to his fucking house!!!” Campbell shrieked, before collapsing into laughter. You peeked through your fingers at them, at the sheer disbelief and delight written all over their faces, and despite yourself, you grinned. Because they were right. You did see it, you always had. You were just too scared to call it what it was.

“Just be together! Go to LA!” Foster cried, exasperated.

“Let the pretty footballer who’s obsessed with you pay for a nice little hol’ to the U.S., have some sex, drink some tequila, go out, and tell him you’re in love with him!!!” Delaney rattled off like it was the simplest plan in the world. You couldn’t fight the smitten smile anymore. The very thought of LA with Trent—sure, his friends too, but him—sent something dangerously close to excitement bubbling in your chest. “You have to go.” Delaney kicked her feet against the bed idly. 

“You have to go,” Campbell echoed, leaning over you like a villain plotting her next move.

“You will go.” Foster smirked. And despite the nerves twisting in your stomach, despite the uncertainty clawing at your ribs—you already knew they were right.

“I don’t know if he—” You tried, one last desperate attempt at playing coy, dropping your face into your hands.

“Y/N…” Campbell warned, her voice a lethal threat.

“Okay, okay!” you giggled, surrendering as you stretched across the bed, grabbing your phone. The room erupted into cheers as you typed out a message to Trent.

You were going to LA.

—

[Coast - Hailee Steinfeld ft. Anderson .Paak]  

LA was a dreamscape—a hazy, honey-dipped mirage of golden light and ocean breeze, where time stretched languidly, kissed by the sun and swayed to the rhythm of something intoxicating. The air itself shimmered, thick with the scent of salt, citrus, and money, rolling over the hills of Beverly like a secret whispered between the palm trees. LA stretched out before you like a fever dream—soft and humming with something electric in the air. The light here wasn’t like anywhere else, diffused through a permanent haze, painting the hills in watercolor shades of amber and rose. The city pulsed beneath it, sprawling and endless, a mirage of winding roads, sky-high palm trees swaying lazily against the breeze, and a kind of slow, indulgent luxury that felt almost unreal.

You were bone-tired, the weight of the eleven-hour flight still clinging to your limbs, but there was no denying the thrill that sparked through you when you stepped into the thick warmth of the balmy California air. It wrapped around you like silk, heavy with the scent of salt and jasmine, expensive perfume lingering from the terminals of LAX. Even through the exhaustion, you felt the rush of being here, of being wanted here—because despite your stubborn refusal to let Trent buy your plane ticket, he had still made sure a driver was waiting for you, your name scrawled neatly on a card like you were something precious. Maybe it was the way the world looked different here, bathed in a warm, cinematic glow. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite your insistence, you were someone worth being taken care of here.

It was easy to roll your eyes at the extravagance, to pretend the little flutter in your stomach didn’t exist. But as the blacked-out SUV wove through the glossy neighborhoods of Beverly Hills, through the perfectly manicured streets where even the trees seemed to stand taller, it became harder to ignore. A labyrinth of luxury, past towering hedges and glimmering pools, until the car turned into a gated driveway. You let out a soft, incredulous huff when the car rolled through it. At the end of the private road, perched on the edge of a cliff like a crown jewel, was the kind of house you only saw in Architectural Digest. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the sky, cutting against the horizon, a view that could swallow the whole of Los Angeles in its embrace. An infinity pool spilling over the edge of a cliff as if the entire city belonged to it. And maybe it did. Maybe it belonged to the people inside, to the boys who had come here with their effortless swagger and easy smiles, to the ones who didn’t think twice about flying private or renting a house that overlooked everything. It wasn’t just big—it was ridiculous. The kind of property that made you momentarily reconsider everything you knew about reality, glass and sleek, modern lines that melted into the cliffside. It wasn’t a house; it was a statement, a testament to their reality, to their success, built to catch every last golden drop of the LA sunset. It made sense, though. You weren’t just visiting him—you were stepping into his world. A world where footballers weren’t just athletes but celebrities, where where they stayed, their homes, even if impermanent, weren’t just houses but pieces of art perched above the city, above the rest of the world. You sighed, tapping out a quick text.

‘Here 😉’

And then immediately regretted the wink. Before you could even overthink it, before you could even wonder if he’d register it, the front door swung open. And then—there he was. Through the tinted window, the front door of the house. Trent. Golden. The kind of golden that made you believe the sun had been put in the sky just for him. It hit him perfectly, gleaming off his skin, casting him in honeyed warmth as he jogged down the grand staircase. Shirtless, his torso was carved in sharp lines, muscles flexing with each movement. His skin already bronzed from the California sun, muscles taut and gleaming with the faintest sheen of sweat catching the light. His shorts hung low on his hips, just enough to be distracting, and his bare feet moved carelessly over the smooth stone as he cut through the garden, cutting through the shrubs like he couldn’t be bothered with the designated path. He was glowing, moving with an effortless kind of beauty, the kind that made your breath catch in your throat. Your heart stumbled over itself. Because his face—the way his perfect, pink lips curled into a slow, toothy grin, all greedy and eager—made your breath hitch in your throat.Your heart stuttered. Because his smile—greedy, eager, so damn pretty—made your knees feel weak. He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment, for you. He looked—happy. Not just in a good mood, not just enjoying the LA sun. Happy to see you.

As he reached the driveway, you saw it in his eyes, dark and molten, reflecting the golden glow, and suddenly your nerves weren’t about the flight or the jet lag or the fact that you were standing in front of the most extravagant house you’d seen in a long while. They were about him. Trent felt it too. He felt the second his heart started pounding a little too fast, the way his pulse kicked up as he neared the SUV. It was ridiculous, really—he’d seen you a hundred times before, touched you, kissed you, known the warmth of your skin. But here, now, stepping out of that car, sunlit and stunning, you felt new. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

And then, just like that, there you were. He barely had time to think about it before you emerged from behind the SUV.  His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between anticipation and relief. He wasn’t sure why he felt nervous now, not when he’d had you so close before, not when he’d known the shape of your laughter, the softness of your touch. But watching you now, stepping out from behind the car with your Rimowas—one for your camera gear, one (and a half) for your outfits—something shifted inside him. And then you looked up, thanking the driver just as Trent’s feet hit the pavement. The LA sun bathed you both in gold. And for a moment, the whole city held its breath.

LA had a way of making everything look touched by magic—draped in gold, softened at the edges, humming with a kind of heat that settled into your bones rather than pressing against your skin. The air smelled like salt and citrus, like pavement warm from the sun, and somewhere in the hills, laughter echoed from another party at another mansion that wasn’t quite as enticing as the one standing before you now. 

"LA looks good on you, T," you cooed, the words slipping out softer than you intended, carried by the warmth of the afternoon air. Trent smirked, all golden skin and lazy confidence, his hair still a little wet from the pool, his body lithe and sun-drenched. He looked at home here, like he belonged against the backdrop of palm trees and rolling hills, like the West Coast had stretched its arms open and said, stay.

"Eh, West Derby, West Hollywood—same thing, no?" he teased, stepping closer, his voice lilting with that boyish charm that made it impossible to look away. And suddenly, the world felt smaller. Quieter. The space between you was dissolving, the air thick with something unspoken, something that hummed beneath your skin like a melody only the two of you could hear.

His hand found the small of your back, sliding into place like it was second nature, like it was something he didn’t even have to think about. And just like that, you were in his arms, melting into his warmth, pressing into the solid planes of his chest as his other hand skimmed over your waist. The embrace was effortless. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your arms curled around his neck, fingertips brushing over the slick heat of his skin, still tacky from suncream. He smelled like salt and citrus, like linen left out in the sun, like something that made your breath hitch in your throat. He smelt too good like the perfect boy; you know that familiar, lived in, but clean, woody musk. Add the salty summer air and suncream and it had your brain melting.

"Hi," you murmured, barely able to find the word in his haze, your lips brushing the curve of his jaw as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck. He exhaled a quiet laugh, but his fingers tightened at your waist, tugging you even closer. Too close. The way friends didn’t hold each other. The way people who had spent too many nights tangled in sheets did.  His hands unable to stay at the small of your back, dipping to the curve of your ass pulling you into him. 

"Flight alright?" he asked, voice a little lower now, rougher, like your body against his was something he had to feel to believe. You nodded, too caught up in the way he felt—solid, warm, real—to find words right away. Your head was still fogged from jet lag, but God, if this wasn’t the best kind of grounding. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a second, you forgot what air even was. He was so pretty. He was so close. His lips—pink and full, parted slightly—were right there, close enough to kiss, to catch between your teeth if you dared. He smirked like he knew exactly what you were thinking because he was thinking the same thing. “Should’ve come with me, y’know,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the dip of your spine.

"It was fine," you said, voice breathy, almost unconvincing. You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to blink, to breathe. "I was fine." Trent tilted his head, gaze flicking over your face like he was looking for the truth. "Cameras made it, though," you added, trying to steer the moment back to reality. "So your holiday will be captured as promised." His eyes softened. The ‘real’ reason you were in LA dragging you both back down to earth.

"Just glad you made it," he murmured, and something about the way he said it made your stomach twist in the best way. Then— “C’mon Irving Penn, show you inside.” He teased, stepping back to grab your bags, and fuck.  It was such a small thing. An old name you’d mumbled once—months ago—when you were tangled up in a hotel bed, sleep-drunk and soft, talking about art and love and the way you saw the world through a lens. You’d said the name when he’d asked who your favorite photographer was. And yet he remembered. It had you melting, and it wasn’t from the California sun. It was him.  Your chest tightened as you watched him lift your suitcases like they weighed nothing, the veins in his arms shifting beneath his golden skin, his shoulders flexing effortlessly. You just looked at him somewhere caught between a smile and a pout because he was perfect.  "Introduce you to the lads," he said, flashing you a grin. "Think you already know a few." You swallowed, trying to focus on the house—the staggering Beverly Hills villa you were about to walk into—but all you could really focus on was him.

“Okay, I can get the other,” you offered, reaching instinctively for one of the pieces of luggage he’d already grabbed easily.

“Nah, nah. All good, baby,” he said smoothly, his voice dipping into something that made warmth curl at the base of your spine. He shot you a wink over his shoulder. “You just bring that pretty face inside, and we’re square—deal?” Your lips parted, a half-formed protest dying in your throat as you watched him climb the steps, back muscles shifting beneath the fading sunlight, the California sun draping him like something cinematic. What the fuck had you gotten yourself into? You exhaled, pressing your fingers to your lips, a stupid smile curling against your palm. This was going to be dangerous. And yet, as you adjusted your Goyard on your shoulder and followed him inside, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Godspeed.

-

The house hummed with lazy conversation, the occasional splash of water echoing from outside, laughter rolling through the open doors like the warm California breeze. You could hear them out there, all the boys, relaxed in the glow of late afternoon, sunk into loungers, passing around drinks, voices laced with the careless ease of a summer afternoon and a holiday they didn’t know the price of. But your mind was somewhere else. The air in your room was thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin, lazy, wrapping around you like silk. Outside, the sun rose higher, painting the sky in a solid blue that even pantone could never replicate, the scent of chlorine and citrus wafting in through the open balcony doors. But you weren’t thinking about them. Not really.

You slid your bikini bottoms up your legs, the fabric snug against your skin, ass on full display even with them on. You didn’t reach for the smallest set you’d packed—no, that would be too obvious. But this? This was a game of subtlety. You stood in front of the dresser, the warm glow of the sun casting you in honeyed light. The bikini was just enough to keep things low key, to leave something to the imagination. And yet, even that didn’t feel like enough. Your fingers ghosted over the glass bottle of Soleil Blanc on the dresser, and instinctively, you reached for it.

Body oil. Warm, glistening, promising to sink into your skin like liquid sunlight. You tipped the bottle, letting the oil spill into your palm before smoothing it over your leg, one foot propped up on the dresser as you worked it in with slow, deliberate strokes. The slick sheen caught the light, accentuating the soft curve of your thigh, the toned muscle beneath. Golden, shimmering, warm to the touch. It wasn’t just about moisturizing. Not really. It wasn’t even about looking good. This was deliberate. This was for him. You wondered if he’d notice. If his eyes would betray him the second you stepped outside. If he’d shift in his seat, his fingers curling just slightly, jaw tightening as he tried to focus on the conversation around him but failed. More than that, you wondered what his friends knew. Had he talked about you? Did they suspect something? Did his friends know who you were? Were you anything? Would they notice the way his gaze lingered when you came out?

You wondered—no, hoped—that he’d see you that way. That he’d have to fight to keep his cool, his mouth going dry at the sight of you glistening under the sun. You moved slowly, tracing the curve of your hip, the slope of your stomach, watching the way the oil melted into your skin like liquid gold. The warm and spicy scent filling the air around you. The door to your bedroom was cracked ever so slightly—just an afterthought, really. You didn’t think much of it, they were all outside. You thought… not until you caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror. Your breath caught as your gaze snapped to the reflection—straight through the half-cracked door, to where he stood.  Trent. 

Your eyes met his reflecting back at you, his flashing with innocent surprise, his figure caught in the dim light of the hallway.  He wasn’t supposed to be there. Not yet. And yet—there he was, standing still, lips parted, pupils blown. He’d simply come to let you know he was gonna head outside. He wanted to make sure you’d settled in, not to crowd your space but for you to feel at ease. He didn’t know if you wanted to take a nap after your flight, if you had work to do or what but he felt the need to check in and check in he did.  Frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders tense, lips parted slightly, as if he’d been about to say something but forgot how to speak entirely. His gaze was locked onto you, dark and heavy, filled with something thick and unreadable, his chest rising and falling just a little faster than before. He didn’t move. Didn’t shut the door. Didn’t look away. And fuck, that did something to you.

You should’ve been embarrassed. You were only in your bikini bottoms still. You should’ve scrambled to grab a towel, a shirt, something, stammered out an explanation, anything. But you didn’t. Instead, a smirk curled at your lips, slow and unashamed, your fingers still continuing to glide lazily over your skin. Your touch was featherlight, teasing, barely there. And it was all for him. You let your hands travel higher, up the curve of your hip, to the dip of your waist, over your ribs, until you were cupping your boobs in your hands, kneading softly, watching yourself and his reaction in the mirror as the oil melted into your skin. The contact sent a ripple of pleasure through you, your jaw slackening, chest rising and falling with the weight of your own touch. You watched him watch you. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. The way his tongue flicked out, wetting his lips like he was fighting the urge to devour you. There was something intoxicating about it, about the way your body gleamed under the soft light, about the way your breath hitched when your palms slid over the swell of your tits and your hardening nipples, caressing, squeezing, teasing yourself just because you could. A breath hitched in your throat, head tilting back, lips parting slightly at the sensation. You let yourself feel it, let yourself show him how good it felt, how much you liked teasing him like this.

And Trent? He just stood there. Watching. Staring. Looking at you like he wanted to ruin you. And you welcomed it. You didn't stop him. He knew you knew he was there, and you did. You were purposefully and silently putting on a show and you wanted to see what he’d do about it. But you should’ve known. 

It happened fast, but it felt like slow motion as he moved. The door to your room pushed open, and then slammed shut behind him with a thud. The air between you thickened as the lock clicked into place. Your stomach flipped, anticipation curling low in your belly as he turned back to you, eyes full of something molten, something starved. And then— He took a step closer. And you knew exactly what was about to happen and maybe subconsciously prayed would.  Trent’s eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that sent a thrill through your spine. He didn’t rush—no, he took his time, stalking forward like he had all the patience in the world, even though the tension between you both begged to snap. The heat of him came first, radiating against your back like the Californian sun had sunk beneath his skin, branding you before he even touched you. Then, his hands—bigger than you remembered, greedier than you could brace for—slipped around your waist, slick palms gliding over the oil-drenched curve of your waist, thumbs grazing just beneath your ribs. His fingers flexed, pressing deep. like he needed to feel every inch of you, needed proof that you were real and here and his. His touch reverent, memorizing your body as if a map, remembering the curves of you with his hands. He let out a slow breath, and you felt it against your shoulder as he leaned in, pressing his chest flush to your back. Trent only in his swim trunks, you only in a skimpy bikini bottom and oil. He was trying to steady himself, but there was no restraint in the way he pulled you against him, chest molding to your back, hips flush, a quiet, desperate possession. Your breath hitched as he spread his hands, a starved man reacquainting himself with something he could never get enough of. His touch worshipful. And in the mirror, you watched the way you unraveled for him—how easily, how helplessly, how it was never a choice at all. 

“Think LA looks fucking unreal on you, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath your ear, voice dripping with something that sounded almost like awe. His palms smoothed over your stomach, fingertips teasing the edge of your bikini bottoms before gliding back up, over your ribs, pressing into the weight of you. You whined softly at the contact, pressing into him instinctively, head lolling against his shoulder. His mouth found the sensitive skin along your jaw, open-mouthed kisses leaving heat in their wake, slow and indulgent, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. “Didn’t even give me a couple hours... Playing me like this out the gate.” He rasped against your skin, his voice thick with desire, his hands gripping tighter.

“Not playing.” You whined as his grip flexed, pulling you closer against him. 

“Nah, shhh, I know exactly what game your playing. You wanted me to see you like this, hmm?” Your eyes fluttered open, catching sight of your reflection in the mirror, the sight of his hands on you, the way he held you, possessed you. 

“I–” You gasped. You would’ve explained that you didn’t mean it but maybe in your subconscious you had. The moment was feverish, something like love seeping too close to the surface, settling between each whisper, each shared breath.

“Gonna tease me this whole trip or you gonna let me have you?” His lips ghosted over your shoulder, his touch growing more insistent, and you knew—this was never just about teasing. This was him unraveling, giving in, letting himself need you the way he always had. And you? 

“You can have me.” You melted, whimpering, giving yourself over to him, knowing that no matter how complicated things were outside of this moment, here, like this—he was yours.

—

The air was thick—humid from the California heat, but heavier from him. From the way Trent’s breath fanned over your skin, the way his touch turned reverence into ruin. He was everywhere, his big hands roaming, greedy as they smoothed over the shimmer of oil that slicked your body, palms mapping your curves like he’d been starved of you. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to devour you and yet he’d stumbled into it. His lips chased the path his hands left behind—ghosting over the slope of your shoulder, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of you. Every inch of you felt worshipped, like he was rediscovering the body he already knew by heart. And when he reached your ear, voice rich, rasping, laced with something dark and sweet, you knew you were lost.

“You gonna be a good girl for me in LA?”  The way he said it—low, teasing, but drenched in hunger—had something in your chest snapping like a live wire. You met his gaze in the mirror, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of you, waiting for your reaction. That look alone could’ve undone you. The cheek behind it, the quiet command, the unbearable heat rolling off of him. You barely realized you were already pressing back against him, your body answering before your mind could. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking on the plea, surrendering to the gravity of him. Bottoms discarded like an easy afterthought. Trent groaned lowly  at the way you arched so beautifully for him, the way your breath hitched the second he pressed his cock against your aching core. He dragged his length through your slickness, teasing, taunting, but you could feel the way his control frayed at the edges. And when he finally pushed inside, when he slowly filled you, inch by inch, stretching out carefully in a way that even in the dirtiest of moments, he was gentle with you. When his length finally filled you to the hilt, he pulled back out slow. And then in one slow, devastating stroke, he thrusted back in and you swore you saw stars. A deep, guttural moan escaped him, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass like he was trying to ground himself. He railed into you relentlessly before he pulled you back up right, your back to his chest. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder for a second, breath shuddering. “Alright, baby?” He asked earnestly, but strained in pleasure. You nodded with a desperate whine because even with the stretch, it was pleasure words couldn’t even describe. “So perfect. Always so fucking perfect.” He pulled back just enough to look at you in the mirror, watching the way your lips parted on a silent cry as he rocked into you again, dragging against every place that had you unraveling. And then again, deeper, rougher, until you were clenching around him, until your moans were slipping out uninhibited. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to let this happen. At least not this soon. But Trent was an unstoppable force, and you were the immovable object that always seemed to bend for him. Always. Willingly. Pleadingly.  He fucked you slow, deep, like he wanted to make you feel every inch of him. Like he wanted to brand himself into you. Your hands gripped the dresser, your reflection hazy with pleasure, and still—still—his hands never stopped touching you. Sliding up your ribs, cupping your tits, pinching your sensitive nipples, brushing down to circle your swollen clit with lazy precision.

“T,” you gasped, head falling back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering.

“I know, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with need, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. His thrusts stuttered slightly, his hold on you tightening. “I’ve got you.”  You didn’t know if he meant now or always. If this was just another stolen moment or if it was something more. But in that instant, with his lips at your jaw, his body flush against yours, and the feeling of him sinking deeper into you—it didn’t matter. Because nothing had ever felt more right than him. And nothing had ever made you feel more his. Minute after minute, your bodies spoke a language only the two of you could understand—love bleeding into every desperate thrust, every trembling gasp, every whispered name swallowed by the humid air. It was slow and deep, an unspoken confession etched into the way his hands gripped you like he’d never let go, the way your nails sank into his skin like you needed him closer, closer still. The tension coiled tighter, a fever spreading between you, until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge. Your release hit like a tidal wave, sweeping you under, leaving you weightless and wrecked as you clenched around him, as your body gave in completely. The moment your walls fluttered around him, his grip turned bruising, his hips stuttering as a guttural groan tore from his throat, spilling himself deep inside you, pulsing, claiming, coming undone right with you. Neither of you moved. Heavy breaths tangled in the thick, heat-drenched air, skin damp and sticking where your bodies met, heartbeats hammering in sync. He slumped against your back for a moment, arms caging you in like he never wanted to let you slip away. Then, with what little strength he had left he wrapped himself around you like a secret. You melted into him, head lolling back, eyes fluttering closed as your body pulsed in the afterglow. For now, there were no questions. No complications. No blurred lines to decipher. Just this. Just the remnants of him inside you, the way his lips brushed your temple, the way his hold never wavered. You could barely breathe. But you had never felt more alive.

“You okay, baby?” His voice was a whisper against your skin, a hushed breath of warmth that sent a shiver down your spine. His head rested against your shoulder, his body still flush against yours, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm that matched the aftershocks pulsing through you.

“Yeah…” You swallowed thickly, your breath still unsteady as you nodded, a lazy, blissful smile spreading across your lips. Trent hummed against your neck, the sound low and satisfied, but he must’ve felt the way your body still trembled slightly against his. His arms wrapped a little tighter around your waist, hands smoothing over your warm, sweat-slicked skin paired with that amber and sandalwood oil, like he wanted to keep you grounded, like he wanted to sink into you the way that Tom Ford had, like he wanted to keep you his.  “Fuck,” you exhaled softly, almost to yourself, still caught in the waves of pleasure.

“That didn’t take very long.” He laughed, a deep, husky sound that rumbled against your back, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You giggled, turning in his embrace, your chest pressed against his. His warmth, the steadiness of him, made you feel like you were melting right into him.

“I dunno…” you murmured, a teasing lilt to your voice. “Think it was longer than I expected, given how desperate you were.” Trent scoffed, grinning as he cupped your chin, tilting your face up to his. His gaze was heavy-lidded, dark with something soft but consuming, something that made your breath hitch.

“Eh, longer than I thought I’d last once I saw you,” he murmured, his smirk laced with something deeper, something almost too real. Because even before you landed in LA, even before you set foot in this house, you had been lingering in his thoughts, haunting him in ways he didn’t even try to fight anymore. 

“Not very professional of me…” You bit your lip, suddenly bashful, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. He grinned, his arms encircling you, his hands trailing idly up and down your spine. 

“Eh, you had a favorite model ahead of coming to this shoot anyway. Hate to think you were coming into it impartial.” You pulled back, brows raising as you scoffed. 

“Oh, so you’re a model now?” You teased. Trent’s grin deepened, eyes twinkling as he ran his hands down your sides, gripping your waist. 

“Mmm… what? Think I don’t have the face for it? Or is it the body you think is so sexy?” He goaded. You rolled your eyes, playfully trailing your fingers up his toned stomach before looping your arms around his shoulders. 

“I think it’s the ego behind that pretty face.” You smiled softly, completely smitten with him, ego and all.

“Wow… alright, treat them like you treat me then.” He smirked, only for his expression to shift when he caught the cheeky glint in your eyes, suddenly realizing what he just said. “Nah, nah, hold on,” he chuckled, shaking his head. But then his hands were on you again, tracing your curves with a slow, deliberate touch, like he was reminding himself—and you—who you belonged to in this space, in this moment. “They don’t get what I get, alright? When you’re like this…” His fingers traced the swell of your hips, his gaze drinking you in like a man trying to commit a masterpiece to memory. “That’s just for me.” You swallowed, your stomach flipping, heat licking at your ribs. The way he looked at you made your knees weak, made you feel precious, made you feel his in a way that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with reverence. “For work, yeah. You be professional, like I know you always are,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin. “But you take that hat off with me…” He paused with a cheeky grin forming. “Maybe those clothes too, alright?”  You nodded, exhaling shakily. 

“Only for you.” You smirked, stepping out of his arms to grab your bikini. “Keep it hush, yeah? Don’t want anyone to know I have favorites.” You giggled. 

“Ah, see! I am your favorite.”  Trent chuckled, shaking his head, victoriously. You turned slightly, slipping the tiny material of your bikini back over your hips, then the top. 

“You know you’re my favorite.” The confession came out quietly, without hesitation, and the truth of it settled between you like something tangible. Trent’s expression softened, but his gaze darkened as he watched you, the golden sheen of oil catching the light, your body still glowing with the aftermath of him.

“Baby, you look beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. You hummed, shaking your head as you adjusted your bikini top, ignoring the way his stare lingered, full of quiet hunger. “Nah, I’m serious.” His voice was low, thick. “So sexy.” His tongue darted out, running over his bottom lip as his eyes trailed down the length of you. “Not sure I’ll survive outside seeing you like this, but…” He paused, distracted by the way your fingers skimmed over your skin.

“But?” You raised a brow, waiting. Trent exhaled, laughing softly. 

“I’ll try my best.” You giggled, rolling your eyes as he pressed one last lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m gonna head outside, you know—keep it professional.” His hands caressed your arms, his touch reluctant to leave you. “You good?” You nodded, biting your lip as you watched him move toward the door. Just as he reached for the handle, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark with mischief. “Don’t tease me too much, baby.” Then, with a wink, he was gone, leaving you breathless, dazed, and already craving him again.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

PLEASE PLEASE Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 14 - Golden Opportunity

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Mystical Items & Objects

A Quick Guide to Creating Fictional Items

STEP 1: Give Your Item Purpose 

Crafting memorable items and artifacts demands purpose and intention.

And luckily for writers, there are countless routes you can take.

Symbolism: Embed deeper meaning with an item that represents your story’s themes, like a shattered mirror in a narrative about fractured realities or identities.

MacGuffin: Introduce items that ignite the central conflict or quest, becoming the catalyst for your story’s unfolding events.

Enhancement or Protection: Equip characters with items that empower their abilities or shield them from peril, exemplified by a cloak granting invisibility in dire situations.

Foreshadowing: Introduce an item early on that will play a crucial role later, subtly hinting at its significance without giving everything away.

Progression: Propel the plot or character development with items that carry them from one stage to the next, such as a mystical map revealing hidden worlds.

Misleading (Red Herring): Employ an item to divert attention, creating suspense and keeping readers on their toes with false leads or assumptions.

By carefully considering these categories, you can ensure that your item serves a meaningful role in your narrative.

STEP 2: Give Your Item a Backstory

Delving into the past of your fictional item adds layers to its meaning and significance, creating a story of its own that complements the main plot.

Consider the creator: was it forged by ancient beings, crafted in a moment of desperation, or is its origin shrouded in mystery?

Reflect on its journey: has it been a catalyst in significant historical events, or perhaps changed hands through various intriguing characters?

Ponder its mythology: what tales and legends has it spawned, and how do they influence those who encounter it?

By carving out a detailed history, your fictional item evolves from a mere object to a vital and captivating component of your narrative.

STEP 3: Describe Your Item

The ability to create a clear and compelling mental image of your fictional item in the minds of your readers is paramount. Examples:

The Lament Configuration from Hellraiser boasts an ornate gold filigree, clearly harboring dark magic.

In contrast, the Alethiometer from His Dark Materials seems simple enough, yet hides its ability to unveil cosmic truths.

Meanwhile, the black monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey stands as a minimalist enigma, prompting viewers to question its purpose.

A memorable item can create a lasting impact, ensuring your story resonates with the audience long after they've turned the final page or the credits have rolled.

STEP 4: Consider Its Powers and Limitations

Navigating the balance of power and limitation is crucial when conceptualizing a fictional item.

Explore its strength and scope: What phenomenal feats can it perform, and where does its influence wane?

Understand its accessibility: Who is deemed worthy or capable of wielding such power, and what proficiency or awareness is necessary?

Acknowledge the stakes: Are there perils or repercussions tied to its usage?

By defining these aspects clearly, your item becomes a well-integrated, credible element of your world.

NOTE: Steer clear of making your item omnipotent to maintain narrative tension, and adhere to established rules (i.e. limitations) to prevent inconsistencies.

STEP 5: Give It a Name

The final touch in bringing your fictional item to life is bestowing upon it a fitting name.

Opt for the classic and straightforward: think “The Amulet of Fate,” aligning directly with its purpose or powers.

If you’re feeling whimsical, embrace the quirky—think of the real-world “whatchamacallit” candy bar or the playful “thingamajig”.

Or, simply state it as it is, calling a sword a sword (especially for mundane magical items where you may not want to reveal their powers).

Should you choose a particularly unique name, ensure you provide enough context for readers to grasp its significance.

ADVANCED TECHNIQUES

Now that you've laid the foundational work, elevate your item from intriguing to unforgettable by considering the following:

Mix and Match Types. By intertwining the ordinary with the extraordinary, your item takes on a life of its own and sets itself apart with ease.

Build Lore Around It. Trace your item’s journey to acknowledge how time has warped perceptions or fostered myths and misconceptions.

Use History and Mythology as Inspiration. Enrich your story by pulling from history and mythology, tapping into a wellspring of real-world intrigue.

Ultimately, do what best works for you as the writer. You may rearrange some of these steps, and tweak them to suit your writing process and style.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References More: On Mystical Items & Objects

[ovaryacted]

I’ve been laughing about this whole topic since yesterday not because it’s funny, it’s absolutely not, but because it’s fucking ridiculous that we are giving history lessons on racism and the people who have been calling this shit out for months are right and have been right despite the constant gaslighting.

Do you know how crazy it is to be a non-American 40 year old conscious human being and intentionally use racist & violent American imagery in a fic for an incredibly minuscule character played by a Latino man of color who’s the child of political refugees? Do you know how crazy it is to also have a reader-insert acknowledge the confederate flag, and still fuck the person that hangs it in their space? Like do y’all see how fucking crazy that shit is? It’s insane just typing that out. When I said y’all move like the feds in this fandom preaching about inclusion & community in one breath while doing the very thing that jeopardizes and harms those that are excluded from said “community”, I meant that shit, and I was right.

As much as we like to deny it, writers have their own motivations and intentions for creating and sharing the projects that they do. If you as a writer actively choose to add racist themes in your writing to intentionally make a character problematic, it’s a reflection of who you are, because you didn’t need to do that and yet you still decided to do it anyway. Would you as black American want to read a fic where the reader insert fucks a racist? No. Then why do you as a white person, especially a non-American, think it’s okay to do the same? Would you fuck a racist? By the way some of y’all keep dismissing the intentions, that’s up for debate because a lot of y’all would rather fetishize the shit out of that man than have a lick of common sense.

If you really are a “brilliant” writer and person, you’d practice what you fucking preached and wouldn’t need to add racism in your fics when we have enough of that shit in real life. Instead, all you are is a coward, a hypocrite, and a loser and that’s all there is to it. This goes beyond fandom and community, this is real life. And if you have a problem with BIPOC individuals in particular talking about this and setting y’all straight, I suggest shutting the fuck up and opening your ears since you’re not gonna fix your mouths to be the allies and advocates y’all say you are. 🤷‍♀️

[meteorella]

PASTOR'S DAUGHTER!ELLIE ✘ FEM!READER

cw: this chapter contains — first person perspective, cursing obvii, usage of y/n.

wc: 2.5k

a/n: not proofread💌 chat did i just lowk got out of writer's block😳 april was absolutely THE WORST month this year. the april theory is real guys... anywhooo, this fic is based on real events btw..... well, there are some parts that i added to the plot (and character) just to spice things up a bit. i mostly see some ellie x pastor's daughter!reader, but not pastor's daughter!ellie, sooooo why notttt! this chapter is more like an inteoduction so there's not much to read here, but I'm just testing the water for now, yk🥰🥰i almost think that my writing style has changed.... probably from reading physical books more often than fics from the internet. but anywaysss, intentional lowercase, as usual, and i also wrote this in first person on accident... but idk, is it kinda icky for u guys🤷🏻‍♀️? please lmk ur preference <3 and ALSO (when is this gonna stop, honestly) i'm probably dividing this into 2-3 parts hehe. lastly, likes and reblogs are MUCH APPRECIATED💞 alright, enough of me yapping, enjoy!

i look around and took in the familiar setting one last time. the seats are covered with a thick layer of black cloth, it's fabric smooth and silky. the stage is filled to the brim with blossoming flowers, their stems wrapped snugly with silver ribbons. the gold and white curtains are draped gracefully over the background in which the students had prepared together with great thought and pampering, not sparing a single detail.

there is a palpable sense of finality in the room, and the last words of the speaker fades into silence. the students slowly rise from their seats, their faces filled with a mix of relief and pride. there are occasional bursts of laughter and tears, while some are snapping some pictures along with their families, friends, and lovers.

"heyyy, what's wrong?" i asked, walking towards my friends as i took in their tear-stained faces and smudged mascara. addie let out a laugh, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "i just can't believe we're graduating, i feel so fucking happy and so fucking sad at the same time," she croaked. "i know, me too," i replied, smiling wryly. "i'm gonna miss you guys, even if you're a bunch of assholes." we shared a laugh, and i pulled them into a tight hug.

cat sniffled, then suddenly brightened. "okay, enough crying, we totally forgot to take pictures!" she pulled out her phone, and we quickly fixed our hair and wiped away each other's tears. it was a bittersweet moment for sure. all the countless memories we created, all the dumbest decisions we ever made, all the weirdest shit we dared each other… is something that i will never forget.

cat snapped one last photo, and we gazed at the screen, our arms around each other. like nothing in this world could possibly break us apart. "perfect," addie whispered, "promise we'll still keep in touch?" her voice still trembling. "we promise," i replied, smiling softly. we exchanged looks, our eyes still glistening with unshed tears. even as we went our separate ways, the bond we'd formed would always remain. always.

as the crowd dispersed, we exchanged our final goodbyes. addie and cat headed off to meet their families, while i lingered behind, taking in my surroundings. i guess this is it. i'm finally leaving this fucking hellhole. i took a deep breath, savoring the moment, before turning to make my way back out. as i was walking, i heard my name being called by a familiar voice from a distance.

"hey," i turned to see ellie's figure standing a few feet behind me. "ellie, congrats!" i beamed. "yeah, you too! so… which college are you heading to?" she asked, curiosity etched on her forehead. now that, i hadn't really thought about. and that left me wondering, where am i going to study? i couldn't really form an appropriate response. "still thinking about it. you?" i blurted out, tilting my head to one side. "i don't know, actually. but i hope we end up going to the same school," she chuckled. i swear my heart skipped exactly 3 beats. "me too."

we just stood there, staring at each other's eyes filled with amusement. and… something else?…. longing. "anyway, i should go," she said, her voice smooth and gentle, "congrats again!" i smiled, feeling my heart flutter slightly. as ellie turned to leave, i watched her go, my gaze lingering on her retreating figure. i felt a flush rise to my cheeks, and my mind suddenly began to whirl. i hadn't realized how much i'd miss her until now.

we weren't really close. well, i just hadn't really mustered up the courage to talk to her. or maybe it's because i was slightly ignoring her… i've had a small crush on ellie for a while now. i'd catch myself stealing glances, my heart racing when our eyes met. sometimes, i swore i saw something behind her eyes, a flicker of connection that left me wondering. was it just my imagination, or did she feel it too? but i don't know, i will admit, i am a little delusional, so it's probably just my delusions feeding me.

—

the sheets were crumpled, and the pillows were scattered across the bed. the sunlight beamed its way directly into my eyes. the continuous buzzing from under my pillow shattered my peaceful slumber. "are you fucking–" i cursed under my breath in annoyance as i reached for my phone from underneath the crevices of my pillow. i clicked my phone open and— holy shit i have 13 unread texts from addie.

[7:04] helloooo

[7:04] girl are you still sleeping rn.

[7:10] what??? it's 7 in the morning

[7:10] are you srs rn🙂

[7:10] anyway, you coming later?

[7:11] where?

[7:11] girl do you even read messages on our gc

[7:11] what gc

[7:13] oh

[7:13] i DONT KNOW HOW TO SWiM😭

[7:13] you'll live

[7:13] sooo you coming or what?

[7:14] idk, are u?

[7:14] yeah, me and cat

[7:14] CMON iT'LL BE FUNN i PROMISE

i was never really the type to like going out. especially swimming. but perhaps i could go out just this once, and besides, me and my friends did plan on going out for a post-grad celebration. and i'd have ads and cat there with me, i probably wouldn't drown… probably.

[7:16] fine, but i'm only going bc you and cat are

[7:16] YAY

[7:16] pick me up?

[7:17] yep, be ready by 10

[7:17] wait what

"who the hell goes for a swim at 10? they are fucking insane," i sighed heavily and sat down in my bed, eyeing my wardrobe from across the room before shuffling towards it in lazy, and uneven steps. the door creaked open as i twisted the knob, revealing the various clothing hung neatly on the steel bar. some shirts and pants folded in their designated cubbies. my eyes scanned the view in front of me, "what do i wear…" a rash guard? wouldn't want my skin to burn from the sun's radiation. a bra or something? eh. some basic pants? sweatpants, maybe? alright, why the fuck was i thinking of wearing pants to a freaking pool? "you know what, fuck this," i grabbed whatever was infront of my face, not even bothering to check if it was swim-appropriate. but, who cares? we're just going for a swim, anyway.

my surroundings were bright and the space felt confining. the sound of the water falling down the tiles bounced off the walls. as the cold water streamed down my body, my mind wandered to ellie, will i see her there? well, it wasn't entirely impossible, given that half the students in my class will be coming along. even so, it's not like we'd talk anyway, we rarely did. our interactions were limited to discussing school projects and assignments. but i do vividly remember when our class was shooting a film for a project. they paired me and ellie together, and boy, when i found out i was dumbfounded. me? paired with ellie? in a gay film? it felt like the most cliché shit ever. we had the most random conversation ever whilst they were filming us just so it could look like we were actually talking about something. but, we did end up talking about some LGBTQ+ shows and books, and i even gave her one of my favorite novel. now that was definitely cliché. from that point forward, my crush for ellie really sparked. i found myself inheriting her gestures and speech patterns. god, am i just a hopeless romantic.

as the sound of running water pulled to a stop, i stepped out of the shower and wrapped my body with a soft towel. i grabbed the clothes i picked out blindly and inspected it, "whatever". the towel covering my body dropped down to my feet and i carefully slid my head inside the shirt. i lifted my feet and stepped into the short's fabric. i scanned my figure from the mirror, a cropped, collared shirt paired with high-waisted shorts the same color as the top, "this'll do."

after a few hours of waiting for addie's presence, my phone chimed in notification,

[10:02] i'm here

i snapped my phone shut and grasped the tote bag i had prepared, overflowing with essentials i could possibly need while i was away. i rushed down the stairs as i met addie in the driver's seat and cat on the passenger seat, singing along with the music playing in the car's stereo. "s'been about time we hang out before college drains our brains out" cat quipped, grinning over her shoulder as i took my seat in the back. addie, then caught my eye in the rearview mirror and smiled. "ready for our last hurrah before college mode kicks in?" she hooted, her voice bubbling with excitement. cat leaned back in her seat, eyes sparkling with mischief. "i've got a playlist curated to distract us from impending doom—aka student loans and ramen noodles." the music swelled, and we launched into a lively discussion about the future events for later, the soundtrack of our favorite songs providing the perfect accompaniment.

before i knew it, we were pulling into the driveway, the resort's lush greenery and vibrant flowers greeted us. addie expertly maneuvered the car into a parking spot, and we piled out, stretching our limbs after the drive. "finally, we're here!" cat exclaimed, grinning at us.

we made our way to the entrance, where we were met by jade, mike, darcus and some other acquaintances, chatting and laughing together. they waved at us as we approached, and we exchanged greetings. "hey, guys! are you ready for this!?" mike hooted, high-fiving addie.

we followed the others into the resort, winding our way through the pathways to the cottage. the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the sound of people chatting. inside the cottage, we dropped off our bags and began to settle in.

we decided to walk around the resort, taking in the scenery, cat suddenly suggested, "hey, let's take a dip!" me and addie agreed, and before long, we were splashing around in the water, laughing and having a great time. meanwhile, some of our friends were busy cooking food in the kitchen, but we didn't think twice about it—we were too caught up in the moment.

after a while, we climbed out of the pool, feeling a sense of guilt for not helping with the food preparations. "maybe we should've helped with lunch first," addie said, wringing out her hair. we nodded in agreement and headed towards the kitchen to lend a hand.

as we joined the others, the smell of sizzling barbecue and smoke filled the air. we pitched in, helping with the cooking and setting up the tables. just as i was helping putting the hotdogs into their sticks, jade approached me with a mischievous grin. "hey, have you seen the video yet?". i raised an eyebrow, curious. "what video?" i asked. "you might want to check out ellie's part. it's pretty interesting," she grinned, and headed back to where she came from. my curiosity was piqued, and i wondered what was so interesting in ellie's part?

i wandered a few steps away from the crowd, the distant chatter of my friends fading into the background. i reached for my phone until i came across the video. when i hit the play button, i was met by a lively music playing in the background, accompanied by a slideshow of pictures and videos from our class, it was adorable, really. the 10 minute video consisted of our memories from school and ended with an interview segment . after darcus' long ass speech stating all the fun and unforgettable memories we shared, ellie's face popped up on the screen. her hair was gathered in a messy bun, her freckles ever so vibrant in the warm lighting.

"so, are you gonna confess or what?" jade called out from behind the camera. "what?" ellie rolled her eyes, shaking her head. the camera suddenly jerked to the left, lucy's eyes and forehead coming to view. "y/n, ellie likes you!" she giggled. ellie charged to the camera, attempting to stop the recording. that's when i put my phone down, suddenly fascinated by the rocks and the pavement beneath my feet.

was lucy telling the truth? judging by the way ellie reacted—the way her face flushed—the answer was pretty clear. that's when it finally hit me, "she likes me back!" i blurted out, feeling my heart jump out from my chest. i felt an uncomfortable number of eyes gazing over my direction and i quickly spun around, my palm slapping over my mouth in embarrassment.

“y/n!” i heard cat call out from behind me, “come join us!” i took a deep breath, trying to compose myself as i turned around to face my friends. "just a sec!" i called back, attempting to sound as normal as possible despite me acting like a total weirdo over a freaking video about a minute ago.

i rejoined my friends and continued helping with the hotdogs, trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. we chatted and laughed while cooking, the savory smell of grilled food filling my nostrils. "hey, pass me another hotdog, would ya’?" addie asked, and i handed it to her. "thanks," she smiled, rolling the hotdog on the grill alongside skewers of marinated chicken and pork satay.

the atmosphere was lively, with upbeat music playing in the background and the sound of laughter filling the air. jade effortlessly flipped the grilled pork chops, while mike was busy grilling slices of bell peppers and onions. we were all having a great time, but my thoughts were elsewhere—on ellie.

as the time grew older, me, addie, and cat sat at the edge of the pool. the conversation flowed easily, each of us sharing stories and jokes. the heat from the sun beat down on us. after a while, addie suggested we take a dip in the pool, and we all eagerly agreed. we spent the next hour swimming and playing in the water, the cool liquid splashing on our faces.

i floated on my back, feeling the sun's warmth on my skin, and my thoughts began to drift back to ellie. i couldn't stop thinking about the video. should i text ellie and ask her about it? or would that be too forward? my mind was whirling like a tsunami, and i couldn't seem to shake off the feeling that i needed to talk to her, to at least confirm if what i saw in the video was real, that she actually felt something for me too.

as i swam back to the side of the pool, i made up my mind. i'm gonna text her. i climbed out of the pool, grabbed my towel, and dried my hands. i took a deep breath, sucking all the oxygen i can possibly get and pulled out my phone. my fingers swerved along the keyboard, typing out a message. i hesitated for a moment, my thumb hovering over the send button, before finally hitting it.

[2:28] heyyy

[2:28] soo, i saw the video…

divider creds: @strangergraphics