#simulation corridor

[brontios-helm]

Destiny 2: Simulated Triangulation

[lostsomewhereinescapism]

my beloved lucy from dark corridors dump sketches and also some with my fav sgs gal, mutumi

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

So I just saw that you want an ask about plus size reader and f1 driver👀 I'm a Lando Norris fan so can I please ask about him? Maybe plus size reader is his physical therapist and looks after him and makes him happy and he in return is so down bad that if anyone says or does sth disrespectful he is so defensive he always has her back and he shows that he loves her every single minute ❤️ I really hope you have many plus size reader asks cause as a midsize girl myself I really don't see many fics to represent us

All the ways you look at me||Lando Norris x mid size reader

Summary —Y/N lands the job as Lando Norris’s physical therapist, neither of them expects much beyond rehab sessions and recovery plans. But as shared glances turn into inside jokes and late-night conversations, a quiet friendship begins to blossom—one that tiptoes into something deeper to bad they are scared to take the fall into something more than friendship.

Word count—8k

Thank you @fuckoffbard for reading this for me!

A/n—depending on how well this does I’ll do a part two

"Come on. You can do this. It’s your first day meeting everyone; you’ve had plenty of first days, so this should be easy,” Y/n said to herself. She sat in the parking lot of the McLaren Technology Centre, where she was to meet her new team. Taking a deep breath, she let it out and opened her eyes. “Okay, I’m ready.” She opened the door to her car, stepped out, grabbed her iced coffee, badge, and bag, and walked to the building. 

The scenery was beautiful. The McLaren Technology Center was secluded from the rest of civilization in a big field hidden behind trees. There were two buildings: the factory itself and the headquarters. That's where she was going.

 Walking up the pathway, she admired the bean-shaped building with the little pond that was next to it. It was definitely something she could get used to seeing on a daily basis. Once she was up to the door, she took out her badge and put it up to the scanner to open the door. As the door opened, she was welcomed by the nice, cool air and the beautiful interior of the building. 

The lobby was filled with F1 cars and cars that McLaren had produced over the years. To the right of her was the staircase and the elevator that led to the second floor, and in front of her were the trophy cases that held all the trophies that the team had won over the years. The building was truly beautiful with its simple and futuristic design. 

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped her out of her thoughts. 

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Yes, hi, I’m Y/n, I’m the new physical therapist. I’m here for the team meeting. I'm supposed to meet everyone.” 

The owner of the voice shook her hand and spoke softly but friendly, “Hello y/n, I’m Sarah, I’m part of the social media team. I’m heading that way so I can help you get there.” Sarah said, shaking Y/n's hand.

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you,” Y/n replied with a smile. 

Sarah led Y/N through a maze of corridors and open workspaces, the hum of quiet conversations and the occasional keyboard tapping following them as they walked.

“This place is like a spaceship,” Y/n murmured as she looked around.

Sarah laughed. “Right? Wait until you see the simulator room. Total sci-fi vibes.”

They stopped outside a wide conference room with frosted glass panels through the translucent windows. She could see shadows shifting and hear a few muffled voices from inside. 

“You’ll be great.” Sarah said, giving her a small nudge, “Come on.” 

Y/N took one last calming breath and stepped inside.

The room was already half full—engineers, mechanics, PR staff. A few people turned to glance at her as she entered, their expressions curious but friendly. At the far end of the table, there were two guys, one was balancing his chair on its two back legs while trying and failing to balance his pencil on his nose. The other one had an unimpressed look on his face while trying not to smile or laugh at the other’s antics. 

Y/N immediately knew who they were—Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri. Even without the uniforms and team gear, their energy gave them away.

She took a moment to observe them from where she stood, unnoticed for now. Lando had that easy, magnetic kind of charm—the type that could dissolve tension with a grin and a well-timed joke. He moved with confidence, expressive hands, and animated eyes, clearly the kind of person who filled a room without even trying.

Next to him, Oscar was a striking contrast. He was quieter, his posture more composed, his words more measured. While Lando spoke with his whole body, Oscar listened with stillness. His eyes were sharp and observing, like he was always a few steps ahead in his head, even when he didn’t say much.

They worked like a natural counterbalance. Lando brought the lightness, Oscar the grounding. It was a rhythm—one teased, the other gave dry comebacks; one stirred things up, and the other reined them in without needing to say much. And somehow, it worked.

“They’re like opposites, but at the same time, they work so well together.” Y/N thought, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

 Suddenly, she felt a little less nervous. Because despite their differences, there was something oddly comforting about the way they fit together. Like maybe this place wasn’t going to be so intimidating after all.

Especially if Lando kept looking at her the way he just did.

His head tilted slightly like he was trying to place her. His eyes flicked from her face to the badge clipped to her shirt and back up again. Then he smiled—lazy, crooked, and so bright it made her stomach flip.

“You must be the new Physio,” he said, “I was starting to think they were making you up.” 

Y/n blinked slightly, off guard by the friendliest tone of his voice. 

“Nope, very real. I even brought an iced coffee and everything.” She joked, holding up her iced coffee and giving it a little shake. 

A few people chuckled, the tension easing, and Lando's smile widened. 

“Then we’re going to get along just fine.” 

Zak Brown stood and clapped his hands for attention.

“Everyone, this is Y/N. She’s officially joining us this season as part of the performance and health team—working closely with you, Lando.”

“Lucky me,” Lando muttered with a grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully.

“We’ll see how lucky you feel after your first deep tissue session.”

More laughter followed, and a few people around the table gave her nods of approval or polite greetings. Someone even muttered, “Bold move on day one,” with a grin.

As the meeting began and the briefing started, Lando leaned slightly toward her seat, voice low so only she could hear.

“Seriously, though. Welcome. We’re glad to have you.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be here.”

But her heart was racing. Because while she came here expecting professionalism and a great work performance, she hadn’t expected him.

Over the course of the few months that Y/N joined McLaren, she really had made her mark on the team. She and Sarah are quickly becoming friends, the two of you often meeting up for coffee dates and other things that friends do. 

Y/N’s office doubled as her Physio room, in the corner was her desk with her laptop and a couple of other personal items that made the space truly hers. On the other side of the room was a table where the mats, foam roller, and other supplies sat, and in the center was the padded table. 

Y/n was reviewing Landos' training notes Landos's trainer sent to her tablet when the door creaked open. 

“Morning,” came that familiar voice—soft, a little smug, a little sleepy.

She glanced up. “You’re late.”

Lando strolled in like he wasn’t, tossing his water bottle on the bench. “You’re early.” 

Y/N raised a brow unimpressed “Try that again but imagine that I haven’t heard it from every cocky athlete I’ve worked with.” 

He grinned, “touché” 

She nodded towards the mat, “Shoes off, warm-up stretches, let’s go.”

He obeyed, stretching his arms overhead and settling onto the mat with an exaggerated groan. “You’re scarier than my last physio.”

“That’s because your last physio didn’t have to deal with you constantly flirting with him.” 

“True. He didn’t look this good, either.” Lando remarked, admiring Y/N’s curves. 

God, he would give anything just to hold her—to let his hands rest on her hips, fingers curling around the softness he admired far more than he probably should. She was all curves and comfort and warmth, and it was unfair how often his mind drifted to her when he was supposed to be focused.

He swore she was made for him. It just made sense. His hands were big—meant to anchor, to hold, to fit—and when he looked at her, he couldn’t help but imagine how perfectly she’d settle against him.

His thoughts flicked back to three months ago when they’d trained together outside under the sun. She’d worn those leggings—the ones that clung just right, hugging the shape of her legs, her thighs, her hips. He remembered watching her move, muscles working under soft curves, grace and power woven together. He hadn’t meant to stare. But he did.

And the worst part?

He still remembered how she’d smiled at him afterward. She didn’t even realize the way she knocked the air out of his lungs.

Y/n didn’t even blink when she turned to face him. “Flirting won’t save you from the foam rollers.”

“Damn.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “You are immune.”

Truthfully, she wasn’t. Not even close. But she had a job to do. 

Y/N crouched beside him, guiding his leg into position. “How’s the left quad feeling?”

He shifted slightly. “Tight. Not awful, though.”

“Alright. Let me know if anything feels off.”

Her hands moved to his thigh, fingers firm but practiced as she applied pressure, feeling for tension. He stilled a little under her touch, his gaze flickering down to her.

“Are you always this focused?” he asked quietly.

Her brows lifted. “Are you always this chatty during treatment?”

“Only when I’m trying not to think about your hands being on my leg.”

That earned him a warning look, though the corner of her mouth twitched. “Behave.”

He smiled—but it was softer this time. Not smug. Not cocky. Just…warm.

For a moment, silence settled between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the AC and the shuffle of movement. She moved around him to adjust his arm, her fingers brushing his skin.

He looked up at her. “You’re good at this.”

She paused. “Thanks. It means a lot. Especially from someone who can’t sit still for longer than a minute.”

He chuckled. “I sit still for you.”

That stopped her. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and something in his expression made her chest tighten. It wasn’t teasing. It was sincere.

Dangerous, that kind of sincerity.

Y/N cleared her throat and stepped back slightly. “Alright. Upon the table. Let’s check that shoulder mobility.”

Lando obeyed with a faint smirk. “Yes, boss.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks felt warm.

And he noticed. Of course, he noticed. He’d always noticed. 

Truth is, Lando loved the way her face flushed, and then she bit her bottom lip trying not to give him the satisfaction that he made her feel this way, she was never successful. 

And he found it adorable. 

Y/N stepped around the table to check the alignment of Lando’s shoulders, her fingertips pressing lightly along his upper back. “Drop your right shoulder just a bit,” she murmured.

He obeyed, head tilted slightly toward her. “You know, you’re very serious when you’re in work mode.”

“That’s because I am working,” she replied, eyes flicking up toward him.

“Yeah, but like—intensely serious. Like mission control, seriously. I bet you’d threaten to take someone’s kneecaps if they did a stretch wrong.”

She snorted. “I’ve never threatened kneecaps. Hamstrings, though? Fair game.”

Lando grinned at that, leaning back slightly on his elbows, watching her as she made a few notes on her tablet. “You must be fun at parties.”

“I’m a riot,” she said dryly, glancing up. “But only if someone needs help foam rolling their Iliotibial band.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It was.”

He laughed, and for a moment it felt easy—normal. The line between physio and friend blurred slightly in the warmth of their shared amusement.

Y/N set the tablet down and nodded toward the floor again. “Back to the mat. Let’s work on hip mobility.”

He groaned but complied, flopping onto his back dramatically. “You just like bossing me around.”

“It’s not that I like it,” she said, kneeling beside him, “It’s that you’d be hopeless without me.”

He blinked up at her with mock offense. “Hopeless? Excuse me—I am an elite athlete.”

“Who forgot how to do a proper glute bridge three weeks ago?”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

Lando gave her an exaggerated glare, then pointed at her. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Oh?” she teased, adjusting his knee with a light touch. “Is that why you’re being so dramatic this morning?”

“No, that’s just who I am.” He gave her a soft grin. “But seriously—I do like working with you. You’re not like the others.”

Y/N paused, hands still on his leg. “Is that a compliment or a red flag?”

“A compliment,” he said, softer this time. “Most people treat me like a brand. You treat me like… I don’t know. A human.”

For a beat, their eyes met again. It wasn’t flirtatious-not-not-not-not-not-not—not really. Just honest.

“I guess I figure you already have enough people telling you what you want to hear,” she said quietly.

His smile widened a little, less cocky now. “You’d tell me if I sucked at something, huh?”

“Absolutely. No hesitation.”

“See?” He gestured vaguely. “Hopeless without you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. She pressed gently on his hip, making him flinch.

“Hey! Abuse!”

“Mobility,” she corrected.

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“Only when you whine.”

He grinned up at her again, and for a second, something warm settled between them. It was subtle. Easy. The beginning of something unspoken.

Once the session was over, Lando dropped onto the bench near the corner of Y/N’s office, sweat dampening the edges of his curls as he reached for his water bottle. Y/N tossed him a clean towel from a nearby shelf.

“Here,” she said, settling onto the floor across from him with her bottle. “Try not to collapse dramatically on my floor next time. I might not be so kind.”

He caught the towel with a grin. “You love it. Gives you an excuse to roll your eyes at me.”

She took a long sip of her water. “You give me plenty of those without nearly fainting mid-stretch.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay, that was one time.”

“Twice, actually, and you faked it. Both times,” she replied with a smirk.

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

He pointed at her, mock offended. “You and Oscar are going to start a club at this rate.”

“‘The Times Lando Was Wrong’ club? I think there’s already a group chat.”

Lando laughed, head tipping back slightly. “God, you do fit in here.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“I mean it,” he added, more quietly now. “The team likes you. It’s been…lighter since you showed up.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly. “Lighter?”

“Yeah. You bring this kind of energy—like, calm but still sharp, you know? It’s a good balance.”

She wasn’t used to compliments like that, especially not ones that sounded so genuine.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “someone’s got to balance your chaos.”

He smiled at that. “You calling me chaotic?”

“I’m calling you exhausting.”

He laughed again, eyes crinkling. “You’re mean.”

“Only to the ones I like.”

He looked at her for a moment—looked. And for once, he didn’t shoot back a flirty line or a joke. Just smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. But then she smiled too, soft and a little surprised.

“Me too.”

They sat in the quiet for a few seconds longer, sipping water, the faint hum of the building in the background. Outside the window, the sun was high, casting soft shadows on the floor.

“I’ll probably regret saying this,” Lando said after a moment, “but you can drag me through those stretches again next time if you want.”

“Oh, I will,” she promised.

“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head—but he was still smiling.

A few days later, Y/N and Sarah sat at an outdoor café nestled on a quiet street in Woking, the warm spring air wrapping around them like a soft sweater. The table was cluttered with two half-drunk iced coffees, a slice of cake they were sharing, and the occasional gust of wind that kept threatening to blow Sarah’s napkin off the table.

“I swear,” Sarah said between bites, “if we keep meeting here, the barista is going to start calling us regulars.”

Y/N grinned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “We already are. The barista knows our order.I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“God, you’re right. That’s dangerous.” Sarah paused to sip her coffee, then gave Y/N a look over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of danger…”

Y/N raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Look who’s here.”

Y/N turned her head—and sure enough, Lando was walking across the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, curls a little messy, sunglasses perched on his head. He hadn’t spotted them yet, distracted by something on his phone.

Sarah leaned closer, conspiratorial. “He looks relaxed. Like really relaxed. Must be your influence.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Stop.”

“I’m serious! I’ve worked with him for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this chill during a season. You’re good for him. He listens to you.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s because I threaten him with foam rollers and ice baths.”

Sarah laughed. “Maybe, but it works. You’re a good team, you know?”

Before Y/N could respond, Lando looked up and spotted them.

A wide grin immediately spread across his face, and he jogged the last few steps over to their table.

“Well, well, well,” he greeted, dropping into the empty chair beside Y/N without asking. “Didn’t expect to see you two here. Or should I say, the office dream team?”

Sarah raised her brows. “Crashing girl time? Bold move.”

He shot her a cheeky grin. “What can I say? I live on the edge.”

Y/N nudged his leg with her foot under the table. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Canceling all plans immediately,” he said, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “Unless you’re kicking me out.”

Y/N bit back a smile, and Sarah just gave her a look—the kind that said this is exactly what I meant.

They chatted for a while, laughter threading easily through the conversation. Lando didn’t even seem to notice how comfortable he looked, slouched in his chair, legs stretched out, occasionally stealing bites of their cake. It felt natural. Uncomplicated.

And when Y/N caught Sarah looking at her with a knowing smirk, she just shook her head with a laugh and looked away.

Late nights had become something of a routine for them now. It started with playful iMessage games—8 Ball, Cup Pong, Darts. A way to unwind after long days. Eventually, the games were followed by texts, then voice notes, then full-blown calls that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

Y/N had learned a lot about Lando during those calls. How he hated olives but loved olive oil. He always watched one episode too many when he promised he’d go to bed early. How silence didn’t scare him, and how his laughter sometimes sounded like relief.

They’d grown close.

So close when the new season began, and she started to notice him pulling away—she noticed.

He was Lando, still cheeky and warm and kind. But now there was a weight behind his smile. A slump in his shoulders when he thought no one was looking. Most of all, there was tension in how quiet he got when scrolling through his phone, the way his jaw would tighten, thumb hovering over a screen that never seemed to offer good news.

The race hadn’t gone as well as they’d hoped. The car was temperamental, the strategy of. The media had been brutal. And Lando… Lando was taking it personally.

It was past midnight when Y/N’s phone buzzed.

Lando: You up?

Y/N: Always. Need to talk or need to be distracted?

It took a minute before the typing bubbles appeared.

Lando: a bit of both. I'm just… tired. Of people. Of messing up. Of feeling like I’m not enough.

Y/N’s heart sank. Without thinking, she called him.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a shaky breath. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. The comments. The press. The expectations. But it’s like… I can’t shut it out this time. Everyone’s already written me off.”

“Lando…” she murmured, shifting on her bed. “You are not what those people say you are. You’ve done more in the past few years than most people ever get close to. You work your ass off. You care. You’re allowed to be disappointed—but not to forget who you are.”

He didn’t speak for a second.

“I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he said finally, voice quiet. “Especially not you.”

She blinked at the ceiling, her heart squeezing. “Hey. You couldn’t let me down even if you tried. I’m here. Always. Whether you’re on pole or P18. That doesn’t change.”

He let out a breath—this time, steadier. “I hate how you always know what to say.”

“That’s because you’re not very mysterious,” she teased gently. “Plus, I’m a genius.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Debatable.”

“Shut up. Let me hype you up.”

Lando grew quiet again, but this time it felt like peace instead of pressure.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said after a beat. “For always answering. For always being… you.”

“Always,” she whispered. “Now get some sleep. I’ll beat your ass at 8 Ball tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Dream on.”

But she heard the smile in his voice, and that was enough.

The paddock buzzed with media, team personnel, and the hum of anticipation. Cameras flashed, journalists circled like hawks, and mechanics moved with quiet urgency. But Y/N had learned to find her pockets of calm. She had her coffee, her notes, and her well-practiced ability to look like she was busier than she was.

She spotted Lando from across the garage.

Cap low, hoodie pulled over his race suit, jaw set.

But when his eyes found hers, something shifted. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, and his mouth twitched up at one corner.

He made his way over, slipping through the chaos like it didn’t faze him, though she knew better.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice only for her.

“Hey,” she replied, equally quiet.

“You beat me at 8 Ball,” he muttered.

She grinned. “Told you I would. Should’ve let me hype you up before the game, too.”

He laughed under his breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. And that felt like a win.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, watching his face.

He nodded, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “I did. You helped.”

“Good,” she said. “Now don’t let any of those trolls live rent-free in your head today. You’re here for you. For the team. And maybe a little bit for the drama.”

That pulled a wider smile from him. “You’re better at pep talks than my old sports psych.”

“Probably better looking too,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

He didn’t deny it.

They stood there a beat longer, just existing in each other’s calm before the noise swallowed them whole again.

Will called him over, and Lando straightened up.

“Time to go to work.” He said, turning away.

But before he went, Y/N called for him to come back. 

He glanced back at her. “What is it?” He asked.

Y/n bit her bottom lip in the nervous way Lando loved, but he would never admit that, and walked up to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a light peck on the cheek. 

“For good luck,” she said, flushed.

Lando smiled, and he smiled hard. So hard that it hurt, and he carried that smile out onto the grid. 

The roar of the crowd was still echoing in the paddock. Orange flags waved from the grandstands, mechanics were cheering, champagne sprayed somewhere nearby—and Lando stood on top of the world.

He’d done it.

His first win of the season. 

It didn’t hit him all at once. It came in waves—the checkered flag, his race engineer yelling in his ears, the blur of the final lap flashing back in his mind. But now, standing next to his car with confetti still drifting down like slow-motion snow, it hit.

And he smiled.

No, he beamed.

Because the first thing he saw when he turned around was her.

Y/N had pushed through the crowd just enough to stand on the edge of the garage, a breathless grin on her face and pride in her eyes.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

He jogged straight to her, still in his suit and helmet, sitting on the first-place table stand, and before she could even say a word, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground like she was weightless. 

She let out a startled laugh, clinging to his shoulders. “Lando!”

“I did it!” he yelled, spinning her once before setting her back down, still holding her like he wasn’t ready to let go.

“I know! I watched it happen!” she said through a laugh, breath catching at how happy he looked.

He leaned his forehead against hers for a second, grinning like an idiot. “It was a kiss. I’m telling you. You kissed me and boom—podium. Easy math.”

She flushed. “I didn’t say it was that kind of good luck.”

“Too late,” he whispered. “I’m never racing without one again.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too widely to deny how much she cared. “You were brilliant out there.”

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. “You believed in me when I didn’t. I’ll never forget that.”

Her heart stuttered at the sincerity. But before she could answer, cameras started clicking furiously again, someone called his name, and he gave her one last squeeze.

“I gotta go do media stuff—but don’t leave, alright?”

“I won’t.”

He took a step back, still smiling like he’d just been handed the world—and honestly, he kind of had.

And Y/N? She just watched him walk off, her heart full and racing, a little dazed by how much that boy meant to her now.

The party had faded hours ago. The team had cheered, the champagne had flowed, and Lando had done more interviews than he could count. His face hurt from smiling, his voice was half gone, and his suit still smelled faintly of victory and engine oil.

But now… now it was quiet.

Lando stepped out on the rooftop lounge of the hotel wearing a t-shirt and some joggers. The night air was cool against his skin, the concrete still warm from the day’s sun. He wasn’t even sure why he came out here—just needed space, maybe. Air that wasn’t full of flashing lights and praise.

And there she was.

Sitting on one of the lounges, looking up at the stars, sipping from a bottle of water, like she’d been waiting. Or maybe just knew he’d show up eventually.

Y/N looked up and smiled, soft and familiar. “Hey, champ.”

He walked over and dropped down beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re still awake?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” She handed him her spare bottle.

He took it, twisted the cap, and drank without question. “Can’t sleep. Still buzzing.”

“Kind of hard to crash after your first win of the season.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound cooler than I do.”

“It is cool. You were incredible, Lando. No one could’ve taken that win from you today.”

He leaned back on his palms, glancing up at the stars above. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

They sat in silence for a moment, their legs stretched out in front of them, ankles nearly touching. Somewhere down the road, a car whooshed by. People were humming in the streets down below.

“You ever wonder,” he said quietly, “if it’s ever going to be enough? Like… you do everything right, you win, you prove people wrong—but then there’s always more. More noise. More pressure.”

She looked over at him, eyes steady. “Yeah. I wonder about that a lot. Especially when I see you carry the weight of it like it’s your job, too.”

Lando didn’t respond right away. He just stared ahead, letting her words settle.

“But you don’t have to carry it alone, you know,” she added gently. “Not when I’m around.”

His gaze shifted to her, something raw and open in his eyes. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Another quiet stretch passed, filled with everything they weren’t saying out loud. And then—

“You’re kind of my favorite person right now,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Y/N’s breath caught.

“Just right now?” she teased.

Lando smiled slowly, turning to face her fully. “Alright—maybe longer.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, heart thudding a little too loudly in her chest. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

And they sat there, side by side, under the stars—two friends teetering on the edge of something more. Not ready to fall just yet, but both were wondering what would happen if they did.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends anymore, either.

Sometimes Y/N would catch herself mid-laugh, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, and her stomach would twist. Not in a bad way—just that damn it kind of way. The kind that made her fingers itch to reach for him. To hold his face. To kiss him like she’d imagined one too many times in the dark.

And Lando? He was no better.

There were nights he’d finish a race and instinctively check his phone—not for the media, not even for his team—but for her. Just a little “Proud of you” text with the star emoji she always used. That’s all it took. That one sentence could undo him. He kept screenshots. He reread old messages when he couldn’t sleep. And there were moments, more than he could admit, where he caught himself imagining what it would be like to wake up to her in his bed. Not even for anything explicit—just her, warm and sleepy, stealing the covers and smiling at him through the sunrise.

They hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet.

But the tension simmered beneath the surface, unspoken but always there. It was in the way her hand lingered on his back just a second too long. The way his gaze dropped to her lips when she was mid-sentence. The way they always seemed to lean just a little too close when they laughed, like gravity was slowly pulling them together.

And when they hugged now—because they did, often—it wasn’t the quick, polite kind anymore.

It was slow. Intentional. Bodies pressed close. Hands-on waists, fingers at the nape of a neck. Heads tucked into shoulders. His heart was thundering.

Y/N wasn’t sure who would break first.

But sometimes, when he looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth, she thought maybe it would be both of them.

But where it truly got complicated… was in the physio room.

There was only so much distance you could keep when your job involved touch.

Y/N was a professional. She’d worked with dozens of athletes. But none of them made her heartbeat do stupid things when she slid her hands down a tight quad or helped them through a stretch. None of them made her pause before every session and breathe, just to stay grounded.

Lando was different.

At first, it was subtle—his breath hitching when her fingers pressed into the muscle at the back of his shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed for a second longer than necessary. The way he’d hum quietly, almost to himself, whenever her hands found the spots that needed working out.

But lately, the air between them had changed.

His eyes lingered when she bent down to adjust his posture. Her fingers hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but want. His body relaxed under her touch in a way that felt like trust. Like surrender.

And sometimes… their touches lingered.

Like that morning when he came in early, hoodie tugged over his curls, voice still raspy with sleep.

She had him lying flat on the padded table, one leg bent, her hand gliding over his thigh to feel the tension. Her other hand braced his knee, her eyes locked on his body as she worked through the tightness.

“You okay?” she asked softly, fingers pausing at the sensitive spot.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Feels good.”

Too good. Too intimate.

She glanced up, and he was already looking at her—eyes soft, lips parted, breath shallow.

It would’ve been so easy. Just a little lean forward. Just one second of bravery.

But then he blinked, and the moment passed. Barely.

Another time, he sat shirtless on the edge of the table, and she stood behind him, helping him stretch out his shoulders. Her hands slid up his back, over the planes of muscle and the little freckles she was trying not to memorize. He leaned back slightly into her touch, head tilting until it nearly rested against her shoulder.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

The air was thick with something unspoken. His hand dropped, fingers brushing against her leg.

It should’ve meant nothing. But it did.

Their sessions grew longer. Not because he needed more treatment, but because neither of them wanted to leave.

Because physio had become the one place where they could be close without questions. Without pressure. Just them. Quiet. Tense. Comfortable. Dangerous.

They weren’t together. But they weren’t just friends either.

And more and more, when Y/N found herself thinking about him—about his laugh, about his hands, about the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—it wasn’t professional.

Not even close.

And Lando? He couldn’t even pretend anymore.

He thought about her when he fell asleep. Dreamed about her touch. Missed her even when they’d just seen each other. He lived for her voice. Her calm. Her presence. Her hands.

He was falling.

They both were.

And one day soon, one of them would break.

Lando had finished P2. A hard-fought, tooth-and-nail race that left his adrenaline spiking and his heart pounding. The kind of race where the sweat felt earned and every muscle in his body ached in the best way.

And when he climbed out of the car and saw Y/N waiting just outside the garage with that quiet smile—smile-the one she saved just for him, it was better than any champagne on the podium.

“You were unreal,” she beamed, reaching for his water bottle, like always.

He leaned in without thinking, resting his forehead against hers for a beat. He was still in his helmet, visor up, and he could feel her breath against his chin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured.

She flushed. He loved it when she flushed.

But before they could say anything else, someone behind them cracked a joke—too loud, too thoughtless.

“…Guess Lando needs extra weight in the garage to balance the car out, huh?”

A pause.

Someone snorted. A second of awkward laughter from a couple of junior engineers nearby. They didn’t mean it maliciously. Just idiots being idiots. The kind who thought fat jokes were still funny.

Y/N didn’t even flinch. She’d learned not to. Instead, she looked away, jaw tight, the smile slipping off her face.

But Lando?

Lando snapped.

He turned so fast that his helmet nearly swung into someone.

“What the hell did you just say?” he barked.

The laughter died instantly.

The guy, the one who’d said it, froze. “I was just—just joking—”

“No. You weren’t. You were being a disrespectful prick,” Lando said, voice sharp, unwavering. “She does more for this team than you ever will. She’s the reason I’m standing here right now with a trophy in reach, and if I ever hear you talk about her like that again, I swear to God—”

“Lando,” Y/N said quietly, her hand brushing his arm. But he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care who you think you are. You want to stay on this team, you treat her with respect. She’s family.”

The word family landed heavily.

Everyone was silent.

The guy mumbled something that might’ve been an apology and disappeared fast. The others avoided eye contact, scattering like roaches.

Lando turned back to her, face still flushed with anger, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes softened immediately. “Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for other people being assholes.”

She looked at him, her throat tight. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I’m not. And I won’t be.” He reached out and took her hand, just for a second. But it felt like a lifetime. “You mean too much to me.”

That part slipped out.

Neither of them moved. Not even when Will called for Lando to get to the media.

“I’ll find you after,” he said, voice quiet again. “Don’t disappear, yeah?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

And when he finally walked off, she stood there for a moment longer, hand still tingling from his touch, replaying his words.

You mean too much to me.

Maybe this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

Maybe it never had been.

The gym was quiet—unusually so. Just the soft hum of machines, the occasional thud of a dropped weight, and the low murmur of a playlist that neither of them was paying attention to.

Y/N sat on the mat, stretching out Lando’s leg, focused on his hamstring. Or at least pretending to be.

Lando was lying on his back, shirt clinging to him with sweat, one arm slung lazily over his eyes. But she could feel the way his body had gone still under her hands. Not relaxed. Not tense. Just waiting.

Waiting for something to break.

Her fingers moved gently, working the muscle. Slow, practiced, familiar. And yet it felt anything but.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice soft and scratchy from the heat.

Y/N glanced up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just focusing.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because stretching me out is so mentally taxing.”

She gave his leg a push, just enough to make him grunt. “Don’t tempt me to bend it the wrong way.”

That pulled a laugh from him, but even that sounded off.

A beat passed. Another. The air buzzed with something unsaid.

“I meant it, you know,” Lando said suddenly, lowering his arm so he could look at her. “What I said last week. About you.”

She froze, fingers stilling just above his knee.

“Lando…”

“No one’s ever stood up for you like that?” he asked, sitting up slowly. “That’s what you told me.”

She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. “People don’t usually think I need it.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “I see how you carry it all. The weight. The pressure. The way you make space for everyone else. I just—I wanted you to know someone’s got your back too.”

Their eyes locked, and everything in the room went still.

Her heart pounded in her ears. “You didn’t have to. But you did.”

“I’ll always choose to.”

That hung in the air.

And then she was moving, standing, grabbing a towel, pretending to need a break—but Lando followed and stopped her just short of the water cooler.

He stepped into her space, one hand coming up to brush a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, soft and warm against her skin.

Her breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Y/N…” he said, almost like a warning. Almost like a prayer.

She leaned in just slightly, barely a fraction.

But a door slammed in the hallway, laughter echoing down from a nearby group, and they both stepped back at the same time, like the spell had been broken.

She swallowed. “We should… finish the cooldown.”

He nodded, jaw tight, eyes still locked on hers. “Yeah. Okay.”

But as they returned to the mats, neither of them could focus. Her hands still trembled faintly every time they brushed his skin, and he didn’t stop watching her like he’d never seen her before.

And maybe… just maybe… that was the beginning of the end of pretending.

Race weekends didn’t leave much room for downtime, but somehow, Lando always found time to text her.

Lando: u up?

Y/N: classic

Lando: It’s not what it looks like

Y/N: uh huh

Lando: Okay, it’s a little what it looks like

Y/N: insomnia or overthinking?

Lando: both. You?

Y/N: same. Plus hotel pillows suck and Sarah snores. 

Lando: Want to come upstairs?

She stared at the message for longer than she’d admit.

Then:

Y/N: I’ll bring the gummy worms.

Y/N smiled to herself as she climbed out of bed, scribbling a quick note for Sarah to let her know where she was going.

Ten minutes later, she was standing outside Lando’s hotel room, knocking gently. The door opened almost instantly.

Lando stood there in sweats and a hoodie, his curls a tousled mess, eyes soft in that way they only ever got when he was tired—or when she was near.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, eyeing the bag in her hand.

“I never joke about sugar,” she replied, stepping in.

“Just don’t tell Jon, he’ll flip if he finds out.” 

“Don’t worry, your secret's safe with me.” Y/n joked poking Lando lightly on his chest. 

He closed the door behind her, the air between them thick with the things they weren’t saying. The things they almost said yesterday.

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, legs brushing, the bag of gummy worms between them.

For a while, it was easy. Familiar. Joking about the media circus, roasting each other over their old Spotify-wrapped playlists, comparing race notes with mock-serious expressions. The kind of rhythm that came with trust.

But somewhere between her laughing too hard at one of his impressions and him watching her like she hung the damn moon, the silence started to hum again.

“About yesterday,” Lando said softly.

Y/N looked over at him. He wasn’t smiling now. Just studying her like she was something he wanted to memorize.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said, voice quiet.

“I want to,” he replied. “It’s not just what they said. It’s that they thought they could say it. That they thought no one would care.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight.

Lando shifted closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the heat of him. “I care.”

She met his eyes, searching. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect it. You’re kind to me, Lando. And I don’t know what to do with that sometimes.”

He reached out, hesitating only a second before taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he said. “I just want you to feel safe with me.”

Their hands lingered like that—twined and quiet and warm.

Then she laughed under her breath, the sound a little breathless. “You know this is dangerously close to being a rom-com moment.”

“Is it?” he asked, smirking. “We already share gummy worms and trauma. What’s next, joint taxes?”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of his hand.

And neither of them kissed the other.

But God, it was close.

Closer than it had ever been.

And it was getting harder to pretend they didn’t want more.

The dining area was quiet, tucked into that early hour when most of the paddock was still asleep or off on their morning routines. Y/N sat at a corner table with her usual coffee, toast, and a notebook open beside her.

Lando showed up like he always did lately. No grand entrance, just that familiar presence sliding into the seat across from her, hoodie up, sleepy eyes.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, glancing at the mess of his curls.

“Some,” he said, voice rough with morning. “You?”

“Eventually.” Her mouth quirked. “The sugar crash helped.”

His eyes softened at the memory of gummy worms and everything that nearly happened after. But he didn’t say anything about it—not directly.

Instead, he reached for a slice of toast from her plate, and she didn’t stop him. Their legs brushed under the table. Neither moved.

They talked about the day ahead, strategy notes, and the weather. All the surface-level things that kept them steady. But the air between them was still humming, still warm with the weight of almost.

She caught him watching her once, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his coffee cup. When she looked up, he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… glad you’re here.”

Before she could respond, someone slid into the booth beside her.

Sarah.

Y/N blinked. “You’re up early.”

Sarah grinned, setting down her plate. “Early bird gets the paddock pass upgrade.”

She looked between the two of them, and her brows lifted just slightly.

“What?” Y/N asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nothing,” Sarah said innocently. “Just… the tension in this booth could cook my eggs for me.”

Lando choked on his coffee. Y/N elbowed her.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Sarah continued, eyes dancing. “You two are acting like you didn’t almost kiss last night.”

“Sarah!”

“I knew it,” she crowed, pointing her fork at Y/N. “The way you were texting him before bed? Girl. Come on.”

Lando’s ears had gone pink. Y/N looked like she wanted to melt into the booth.

But still, neither of them denied it.

Sarah grinned, looking way too smug for someone holding a half-eaten croissant. “Well, let me know when you two do something about it. I want front-row seats. Or at least to plan the wedding playlist.”

Lando finally laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s relentless.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, fighting her smile. “She’s not wrong, though.”

His eyes met hers, something quiet and serious beneath the teasing.

“No,” he said softly. “She’s not.”

The room was quiet, tucked away from the buzz of the paddock. Just padded floors, low lights, and the occasional thrum of the bass from the nearby garage.

Lando lay on the mat, one arm slung over his eyes, his race suit pulled halfway down to his waist. Y/N knelt beside him, helping him stretch through his usual pre-qualifying routine.

It should’ve been routine by now—she knew the shape of his body like muscle memory. But something about today felt different. Like they’d both woken up with the echo of what could’ve happened the night before still lingering in their skin.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” she murmured, guiding his leg into a deep hamstring stretch.

He let out a breath through his nose, shifting slightly under her touch. “You’re good.”

But his voice was rough, and she could feel the tension—not just in his body, but in the way his fingers flexed slightly every time her hands brushed his thighs, her forearm skimmed his ribs.

He didn’t pull away.

And neither did she.

When she leaned in to adjust his shoulder, her breath hit the side of his neck. He shivered.

“Cold?” she asked, low and teasing.

“No,” he said, and when he looked up at her, his eyes didn’t blink. “Not even a little.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She was straddling one leg, hovering over him, face barely inches away.

It would be so easy.

His hand came up like he might tuck her hair behind her ear or maybe just touch her cheek—he stopped himself.

Barely.

A beat passed. And another.

Then the door creaked open.

“Lando?” Will’s voice broke the spell. “Time to suit up.”

Lando blinked first. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Be right there.”

Y/N rolled off him, trying not to look rattled. Lando stood, tugging his suit back on, eyes flicking to her once more as he paused by the door.

“You coming?” he asked softly.

She nodded, grabbing her clipboard, trying to calm the heat in her chest. “Always.”

He smiled—small, knowing, charged—and disappeared down the hall.

She exhaled hard, gripping the edge of the table.

They were right on the edge of something dangerous and wonderful.

And neither of them had quite decided if they were brave enough to fall.

[all-with-angel]

Stress test // Superhero!Sukuna

➤ Superhero!Sukuna x Gearmaker!Reader

➤ Deadlines are nipping at your heels and you haven't found yourself a willing test subject for your projects. As your last Hail Mary, you waltz into the training area and borrow the first person you see; Not knowing who exactly you had just made your test subject. Not like it matters to you.

➤ gn!reader, Sukuna being sukuna, cocky Sukuna humbled by reader, both are 20+, light injury, sfw, NOT PROOFREAD and I couldve probably done a better job but wtv we die like gojo

You haven’t slept in thirty hours.

You haven’t eaten anything other than energy bars and instant coffee in fourteen, and the last time you took a break was when a rogue drone had exploded and knocked you out for 16 minutes. Those were a good 16 minutes.

You’d love to take a rest, sleep until the world exploded even, but deadlines were looming over your head like a death knell, red marker on your calendar telling you ‘You’re screwed.’

You had ideas- God, you had way too many ideas. Building them was one thing, but that was the easiest part really. You could do that in your sleep, and frankly, probably had once or twice. No, the problem was testing them.

You needed raw data. Field stress levels, user performance under duress, energy thresholds when pushed to their uppermost limit. Simulated tests could only go so far. The board wanted grit. They wanted the real deal. The kind that said, “Yes, this will absolutely survive a villain launching a bus at your face.” or “Yes, this will hold up against the strength of Infinity.” (Like that's even possible)

And you couldn’t give that. How could you? You didn’t have teams of testers like the more known gadget makers, no, you had yourself and A.I. test dummies that started flirting with you if they weren’t reset every other week.

You were a genius. But what good is a genius without results?

You put on your best unwrinkled lab coat, shoved your tablet under one arm, slapped a fresh stim patch onto your neck, and marched your overworked ass down to the training floors of the facility. Academy, as the higher ups would say, but it was anything but that really.

You didn’t learn much here other than that most of your coworkers were stupid.

Today’s plan? 

Find the strongest idiot. Throw gadgets at them. Hope for the best.

Yeah. 

Yeah, that sounded good. You really were a genius. Or sleep deprived. You couldn’t tell.

The facility, of course, was always active. Training rooms were booked 24/7 by heroes, cadets, and the occasional egomaniac. As you stepped into the third hall, the sound of explosions- actual explosions- echoed down the corridor, followed by some deeply maniacal laughter.

Sounds like the strongest idiot to me.

You took a step into the viewing area, peering into the highly reinforced glass and observed. There was smoke everywhere, but it quickly dispersed to reveal your maybe test subject.

He looked pretty familiar. HawkTuna-something?

He stood there in a scorched tank top, hands on his hips, surrounded by sparking debris. Pink hair and red eyes, face tattoos. He looked more like a gangster than a hero.

You jogged your memory, as fucked as it was- and remembered some news broadcasting about a Hero that had more than half of his fights end with a building or two collapsing. You snapped your fingers when you remembered, “The King”. That was his hero name.

You recalled it from an interview, where he refused to be called anything other than that. Right, so he was a cocky fucker. You could work with that. 

A few minutes later, you found yourself at a vending machine right outside the training hall, buying yourself your nth energy drink today. Just as you grabbed the can from the machine, the mechanical doors of the training room opened. Out came walking the King, steps heavy but not rushed.

You straightened your lab coat, holding your tablet to your chest and energy drink in the other as you walked up to him. “Uh, excuse me?” You smiled politely. Holy hell, he was bigger up close.

“What?” He clicked his tongue, red eyes narrowing at you. “You better make this quick. I have things to do.”

“Would it be alright if I borrowed you for a little while? You see I need test subje-”

“Not interested.” He huffed, shoving past you.

Okay, rude. You stumbled to the side, head whipping in his already departing direction. You mentally debated whether pursuing an already bitchy test subject was worth it, before realizing that both your job and education was on the line. You let out a huff of frustration before running after his retreating figure.

“Hey! Wait! Um- Tuna guy? Suzuki, was it?”

He stopped abruptly, leading you to bump into his back face first. He didn’t even budge. Instead, he turned around, a scowl that would leave any sane person shaking in their boots. 

Unfortunately, you were not sane. At least not right now.

“Sukuna. It’s Sukuna.” He hissed at you.

“Oh right, yeah, Sukuna. Anyway-” You took a few steps back, clearing your throat before continuing. “I need to put my projects under stress tests so I need-”

“Don’t they have simulations for that?” He was tapping his foot, crossing his arms as he looked down on you. 

Okay, this guy seriously had to stop interrupting you. “Well uh, those can only go so far. And the board wants actual real life testing,” You answered. “Could you come up to the lab with me and test some of them? It’ll be quick. I promise. I just need to get my reports done before my deadline.”

“Why should I care?”

“Sorry?”

“I said why should I care?” Sukuna repeated. “You’re some nobody asking me for a favor when I’m supposed to be getting dinner. Who do you think you are talking to the future number 1, huh?” He leaned forward, looming over you with a scowl.

“The future number 1 hero?” You mused, staring right back at him. “I highly doubt that.” It hurt your neck to crane your neck this high, but you kept your voice from wavering.

“Tsk. Do you not even know who I am? What I’m capable of, brat?” He clicked his tongue, voice lowering into a growl as he glared, crimson eyes inches away from yours. “I can destroy this facility and everyone in it in seconds.” 

“So?” You blinked.

You could see his eye twitch. “Do you have a death wish you-” His voice raised, almost yelling before you cut him off.

“Dude. Seriously, I can’t care less about what you can do.” You waved him off, “I only care if you can help me. Got it?” 

Sukuna, The King- The so-called prodigy with more potential as a villain than a hero, stood there, dumbstruck at your audacity. You could see the gears turn in his head, the veins starting to pop on his neck.

You sigh in faux defeat, slumping your shoulders. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to test some measly little gadgets.” You shake your head, turning away from him. “It’s a shame really, the so-called future number 1, scared by some nobody's little inventions.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not falling for your taunting.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “But you do sound,” You look him up and down, pointedly ignoring the imprint of his muscles the size of your waist. “-pretty weak to me.”

Sukuna stood there, glowering at you, a support course nerd he’d never even heard of. To be honest, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit curious at what you’ve got in store in that lab of yours if you’d really go this far to recruit him. His manager probably would be annoyed that he was late to their dinner meeting again, but what was that idiot gonna do anyway? Yell at him?

He clicks his tongue. “Fine.” 

“Fine?” You raise a brow, a small smirk tugging on your lips.

“Yeah, fine.” He snarled.

“Perfect!” You clapped your hands once, previous ‘disappointed’ demeanor melting away quickly. “Come, come. Follow me.”

You click the handcuffs into place. “Comfortable?”

“No.” Sukuna answered, flexing his hands under the cold steel of the cuffs.

“Good. They’re not supposed to be,” Nodding, you take a few steps back. “Now break out of them.” You look down to your tablet, tapping a few buttons to monitor the stress levels of the cuffs and see how quickly they might break. You two have been at this for a while now, most of the gadgets being destroyed or barely grazing the cocky hero- Who simply grew more arrogant with every failed test. “These are a pair of reinforced handcuffs, they should hold up quite well-”

The handcuffs explode into pieces, scraps of metal littering the floor and edges of the testing area. “Against some robber, maybe.” Sukuna drawled. “Is this it? Are you seriously gonna waste my time with barely put-together chunks of metal?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing the pair of handcuffs off the list and marking it for extra blast reinforcement and maybe power dampening qualities.

“Nope. Next.” You grabbed a gadget from your side table, raising it and aiming at Sukuna. The hero stares at you, the weapon and then back at you. Seemingly unimpressed. “A gun? Really?”

“It's a non-lethal firearm, just as impactful as rubber bullets but not as harmful.” You keep your aim steady, ready to fire.

“I’ve melted bullets in mid-air. Do you really think that would work?” 

“They’re high velocity, so we’ll find out.” You pull the trigger twice, but nothing hits Sukuna. Instead, two very small and unrecognizable puddles of the bullets are a few feet away from him.

“Well, well, well. Looks like your high velocity rounds aren’t much compared to me.” He scoffed.

This time, you felt your eye twitch. He really was starting to get on your nerves. “Yeah, guess so.” You lowered the gun to your side. “Could you get the next gadget? It’s behind you.”

“Tsk. Asking me to do your job now, huh?” Sukuna rolled his eyes, large frame turning around and inspecting the table behind him. Just enough time for him to lower his guard. You raised the gun again, firing at his back- This time, it hits.

“Fuck!” The hero exclaimed, lips pulled into a scowl as he whipped his entire body towards you. “The hell was that?!”

You hummed in satisfaction, finally setting down the gun and tapping your tablet to record the results. Success. “My finger must’ve slipped, sorry.”

“Like hell it did!”

“Did it hurt?” You smirked.

Sukuna felt a bruise forming on his back, the point of impact throbbing lightly on his back. “No. Of course not.”

“Noted.”

Sukuna growled at you, ready to lunge and rip you a new one before he remembered that if he did maul another of his coworkers, that he’d get suspended. Again. So instead, he huffed and crossed his arms. “Are we done yet? Or do you have more chaos to unleash?”

“Yep, just one more.” You tossed a grenade-shaped contraption up and down your hand. “Though, this one has healing properties. Should help with the pain.”

Sukuna eyed you suspiciously, checking if this was another trick. He didn’t find anything other than quiet amusement in your eyes and anticipation. You were clearly enjoying it with him as your test subject. When you noticed his distrustful glare, you reassured him with a smile. “Don’t worry, if something goes wrong, the agency has your medical bills covered.”

He rolled his eyes, like that made it any better. “So you're saying something can go wrong?”

You shrugged. “Anything could go wrong, really.” You traced your thumb on the metal of your little toy, finger hovering right on the detonation button- It should go off after 5 seconds after pressing it. “But trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.” Sukuna said, voice flat.

“Shame.” You pressed the button, tossing it at his feet and stepping backwards. He didn’t move though, even if he did raise a brow at your sudden withdrawal- It didn’t last long before the healing grenade exploded.

Green slime-like substance coated him and a good portion of the area, luckily nowhere near you. The substance from the grenade seemed to pulse and glow green, especially the chunks that were on and around Sukuna. You quickly noted that down.

Sukuna cringed at the sludge coating his body, he didn’t feel any better than he did 3 seconds ago, maybe even a little worse with how icky the green goo felt. “The hell?” He raised his hand, the slime connecting in strands to the rest of his torso. “Some healing grenade this is.”

You stayed quiet.

He clicked his tongue, glaring at you before looking to the door. “I’m done with this bullshit. Now I gotta take a shower before going anywhe-” Sukuna tried to take a step forward, only to be halted by the slime. He kept trying to pull at his limbs, each action taking more effort than the last as it became apparent that this was no ordinary healing grenade.

It hadn’t even passed any screenings yet. And this was still a work in progress, not an actual thing you had to test at the moment. It was one of your flukes, you knew that. Sukuna, did not. “Oh, right. About this one,” You picked up your tablet, voice painfully nonchalant as you act unaware of the struggle that Sukuna was going through. “I don’t exactly have a dissolvent for the healing cream, and it gets quite sticky.”

“Then what are you waiting for??”  Sukuna screeched, head snapping in your direction as any fire or explosion he tried to use was cancelled by the healing agent. Did you mention that it also doubles as a power-cancelling agent? No? Oops. “Get to work on it then!!”

You shrugged, turning your back to him and towards the exit “Alright.”

“Hey, HEY! Where the hell do you think you���re going?!” 

You turned around, motioning towards the testing area in shambles. “You don’t expect me to work in this mess, do you?” Voice level, like you were pointing out solid facts- trying your damn hardest to not let the smugness bleed into your tone.

“So, what? You're just gonna leave me here??” Sukuna sounded a mix of stunned, confused and angry.

“Thats the plan, yeah.” You start walking away, the door hissing as it automatically opened. “Don’t worry! It’ll probably melt off in an hour if I’m not done by then!” You give him a wave, smirking at him over your shoulder. 

“Probably?? You motherfu-”

He was spewing curses at you now, belittling you and trying his hardest to defend his last remaining drops of dignity. You simply smiled back, polite. “See you, Number one.”

Yeah, you weren’t going to work on that dissolvent.

(open!) tags: @idontwannatalkrn1

[youthguk]

Entropy: Collapse (Finale) | jjk (m)

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N 

“The universe tends toward chaos.”

You said it was just sex. But gravity doesn’t stop pulling — and entropy always ends in collapse.

genre: smut, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language

Wc: 10k

part 1 here (!!!) your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You’ve spent the past four hours staring at the same simulation code, and the red blinking cursor feels more like a threat than a prompt. Your desk lamp is the only light on in the room, casting long shadows over textbooks, half-drunk tea, and the wrinkled copy of your research grant application — still unsigned, still mocking you with possibility.

It's one forty-seven a.m., the kind of hour that strips everything quiet, even your thoughts. The sky outside is the color of unfinished ink, and the campus streets below are empty. No movement. No noise. Just the occasional flicker of a hallway light going out down the corridor — dormitory entropy, in real time.

You rub your eyes and stretch your neck, but nothing shifts. Not the physics paper. Not the persistent heat blooming in your stomach. Not the memory of how his voice rasped when he told you to open wider. Five days have passed since Jeon Jungkook's last text.

Well — not since you left him hard in the TA room, lips bitten raw and pants around his thighs, after whispering “Don’t think this means anything.”

Your phone lights up with his name again - no message this time. He's already sent plenty that you've left unanswered, filling your notifications with desperate attempts at connection.

Something tugs at you, an invisible force as real as gravity. Your hand moves toward the phone with the careful slowness of someone trying not to startle fate. Each moment feels weighted with possibility, with the kind of weakness that threatens to become something more significant.

Without responding to his messages, you press call. The phone rings twice before his sleep-rough voice answers, "...Y/N?"

That sound - deep, warm, familiar in the worst way - hits you like a collapsing wave. You lean back, eyes closed, phone pressed to your ear. "Are you alone?"

A pause. "Yeah."

Your voice softens instinctively. "I'm in bed."

Through the speaker, sheets rustle. "Are you okay?"

"I can't stop thinking about that night."

His exhale trembles. "Baby..." The word slips past his pride. "I've been going crazy."

You wish you could stop, wish you could call this a mistake, but the moment has already consumed you. "I've been touching myself."

A guttural groan tears from his chest. You picture his hand flying beneath the sheets, his cock hardening as your thighs press together. "Fuck," he rasps. "Tell me what you're doing. Please—"

The leather chair squeaks as you shift, fingers trailing over your sleep shorts. "My hand's already there. I'm so wet, Jungkook."

His moan fills the line. "Are you rubbing your clit?"

"Mhm..."

"Slow?"

"Not slow enough."

His rhythm becomes clear through the phone - his ragged breathing, rustling fabric, the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself. You picture his tattooed hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Fuck, I wish I was there. I'd spread you open, use my mouth until you begged."

"I don't beg."

"You did," he growls. "You do."

Your breath catches as your fingers quicken, hips rolling toward something forbidden. "You'd fuck me slow first, wouldn't you? Just to tease."

His groan sounds pained. "Yes. God, yes. I'd make you come on my cock until you forget your name."

"Too late."

His laugh comes broken, winded. "God, you're unreal."

Your soft moan makes his rhythm falter. "Don't stop," he gasps. "Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop—"

You let him drown in your breathing, in the slick sounds of your movements, let him believe you're about to unravel. Then you pull away, letting silence fill the void.

"Y/N?" His voice comes breathless.

"I have to go," you whisper. "Goodnight."

"Wait—"

The call ends before he can finish. You stare at the dark screen, pulse still hammering between your legs, throat dry and cheeks burning. Somewhere in his room, he's still hard, still aching, still alone.

Without smiling, you let your head fall back and whisper to the ceiling, "Thermodynamics never warned me about this kind of heat."

The phone is face-down on the desk now, like it’s guilty. Your hand is still sticky with want. Your heart still beats faster than it should. But the room is quiet again — painfully, cruelly quiet. As if nothing just happened. As if you didn’t just break your own rules for the fifth time in two weeks.

You don’t move. You just sit in the stillness, surrounded by half-solved equations and the low hum of your old desk lamp. Your body is flushed and your mind is disgustingly awake.

The post-call static crackles louder than it should in your ears. What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t supposed to be anything.

Jeon Jungkook was entropy incarnate — hot and careless and untouchable. A beautiful disaster contained in perfect muscle memory. A reputation in motion. You were supposed to observe him like any other chaotic system: from a distance, with your hands behind your back and your lab coat on.

But now? Now you’re one of his goddamn data points. You swipe your tongue across your lips, still tasting the desperation in your own voice. He sounded wrecked. And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked knowing you could pull him apart with a few words. You liked the way his breath shook when he said your name. You liked the way you made him beg, even when you were the one unraveling.

The thrill of power over him was intoxicating, but that only made it worse. Your control slipped too easily when his voice came through the line - low and desperate, cock in hand, saying things that made your breath catch. He spoke like you were his whole universe, the only constant worth orbiting, and that terrified you.

With guilt tightening your spine, you push back from the desk and stand. This is exactly why you don't let yourself get attached. This is why you insisted it was nothing more than sex.

Because you can’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when you’re a finalist for the CERN summer rotation, when your advisor just asked for your draft proposal, when your whole future has to be measured in unit conversions and GPA decimals. And Jungkook? He doesn’t fit into the equation. He’s not a constant. He’s not a vector. He’s not even a variable. He’s the error term — the chaotic, unpredictable, heat-inducing mistake that corrupts the entire model. The kind of anomaly your professors warned you about.

And still, the memory of his moan echoes in your mind - that raw, strangled "baby" when you confessed your hand was between your thighs. Your knees buckle and you collapse face-down into your pillow, groaning into cotton.

You make the same promises you always do: You'll delete his number tomorrow. You'll end it properly next time. You'll mean it when you say it's over.

Because you are not a girl who gets off to old mistakes. And even thought entropy is inevitable — collapse is still a choice.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus courtyard is flooded with late-morning sunlight, the kind that turns everything golden and too warm, like the world’s trying to trick you into slowing down. You don’t. Your sneakers hit pavement with the same clipped rhythm they always do — fast, focused, efficient. A girl with a purpose.

There’s a coffee cup in one hand, a folder clutched to your chest, and your headphones are in — not for music, just for armor. Physics department office hours, then lab, then TA prep. No room for detours. No reason to look anywhere but straight ahead.

And yet, something catches your attention - his laugh. That low, boyish sound you've memorized despite yourself. Your steps falter slightly as your eyes find him: Jeon Jungkook.

Back leaned casually against the stone column outside the business department, one ankle crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like the heat doesn’t dare touch him. Two girls are perched far too close on either side of him, their voices high and coy, like everything they say is an invitation. One twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The other leans in, whispering something near his ear.

His smile is polite but distracted - his eyes are fixed solely on you. The moment your gazes meet, you freeze, blood rushing through your veins as your mouth fills with the bitter taste of caffeine and regret. He's not doing anything extraordinary, just standing there, yet the air seems to bend around him like he's become the center of gravity itself.

The sunlight catches him perfectly - illuminating his golden skin, the intricate tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt cuff, the silver ring glinting as he absently brushes hair from his face. You despise how vividly you remember those fingers against your skin, how he's the only one who's ever made you come undone with just his voice through a phone, making you feel completely his.

When his expression shifts into a subtle frown, hurt evident in the slight crease of his brow, you immediately drop your gaze. Without hesitation, you continue walking, shoulders squared and headphones suddenly deafening despite their silence. Behind you, Jungkook pushes away from the column, his eyes tracking your retreat until you vanish behind the admin building.

The girl beside him notices, nudging his arm with a pout. "Who's that? She looked... intense."

He doesn't answer, because only one thought consumes him: She saw me. And looked away like I never happened.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The seminar room smells like chalk dust, overripe fruit from someone’s lunchbox, and too many minds running on too little sleep. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Your pen taps lightly against your knee, bouncing in rhythm with the low buzz of voices filling the space before the professor arrives.

You’re early. As always. You’ve got your notes laid out like a defense line: printed equations, a crisp copy of the grant rubric, your half-drafted proposal for the summer placement. It’s the kind of prep that should settle your nerves, that should root you in facts and numbers and control.

But exhaustion weighs heavy, and your mind wanders to dangerous territory - his voice still echoing in your ears. Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop

Behind you, two girls slip into their seats, their laughter cutting through your thoughts.

"God, he's such a slut," one says, voice dripping with disdain.

"Who?" her friend asks absently.

"Jeon Jungkook. I swear if I see him flirting with another freshman outside the business library again..."

"He doesn't even try," the other scoffs. "Girls just throw themselves at him like they want their lives ruined."

Their gossip continues - something about a chemistry student with green hair, an economics major who fell off a table. Their words blur together as you stare at your notes, at the clean columns of formulas. ΔS = ΔQ/T. Entropy as heat divided by temperature. Order, motion, equations - these should be your constants.

But your stomach twists as memories flood back unbidden: your knees on his bedroom floor two weeks ago, his fingers teasing you under a library table while Newton's third law lay forgotten, his name on your lips just last night as aftershocks rippled through you.

They don't know. They shouldn't know. This was meant to be meaningless - for both of you. You were supposed to be different, just an anomaly in his system, a temporary spike in temperature. Yet here you are, his touch branded into your skin, his name still burning on your tongue.

When the professor walks in, you force yourself to focus on the equations before you, ignoring how your throat constricts and your hand trembles around your pen.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The air outside the lab building is heavy with spring. Not fresh — just close. Like something’s about to happen, but hasn’t yet. The sky’s turned white with too much light, and your skin feels a few degrees too warm as you step outside, research proposal folder pressed tight to your chest.

You need coffee. You need silence. You need distance from the way your body still pulses whenever you remember his voice on the phone.

Your heart stops when you spot him on the ledge near the back entrance. Jungkook lounges there with deceptive casualness - one foot propped on the low wall, black ball cap shadowing his face, fingers toying with his hoodie drawstrings. Though his posture seems relaxed, you know he's been waiting. Your stomach sinks as reality settles in.

A futile glance over your shoulder confirms this isn't your imagination. His eyes lock onto yours, and there's no escape.

And for a split second, his face breaks open like light through cloud cover — too fast, too warm. He stands up.

“Y/N.”

You continue walking, but he matches your stride, undeterred.

Keeping your eyes fixed ahead, you barely acknowledge his soft "hey" with a slight nod.

“Didn’t think I’d see you outside a textbook this week.”

You huff out a dry sound that might pass for a laugh. “I’m busy.”

He falls into step beside you. His hands are in his hoodie pockets. You can feel the heat coming off him like a small sun — too close, too real.

“You always say that,” he says, trying to joke. “Even when you’re coming on my—”

“Don’t.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. He falls silent as they continue walking, the tension between them thick enough to slice through.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler: "Hey... about the other night..."

You pause mid-step, refusing to meet his gaze. "There is no other night," you say coldly. "There was nothing."

He flinches as if struck, and you continue walking, leaving him behind.

And before he can recover enough to respond, you’ve already pushed through the glass doors of the research wing and disappeared into the building.

Behind you, Jungkook stands frozen in the courtyard, lips parted, jaw tightening.

He watches the door for a full ten seconds before muttering to no one, “…yeah. Fucking nothing.”

You don't stop walking until you're inside the stairwell, out of sight, out of breath.

Your fingers are white-knuckled around the folder. You hate that your hands are shaking. You hate that your heart is doing that thing again — the stuttering thing, like you just sprinted across a field when all you did was stand in his shadow for sixty seconds.

There was nothing. The words left your mouth with practiced ease, rehearsed like a formula you'd memorized. They should have felt precise and clinical - a clean incision to excise what had grown between you. Instead, the declaration burned like touching a live wire, leaving aftershocks that refused to fade.

The cool wall against your back offered little comfort as you tried to steady your breathing. His appearance had shattered your careful equations - that smile that hinted at shared secrets, that look that suggested you still held meaning. You'd convinced yourself he was forgettable, reduced him to simple physics: just impulse, just friction. But one glance was enough to resurrect every memory of his touch, every place his mouth had mapped your skin.

What twisted deepest was the hope in his eyes - that earnest belief that you might want conversation, that you hadn't truly relegated him to past tense. You pressed your knuckles to your lips, drinking in oxygen like it could douse the ember in your chest. You'd told him there was nothing, but your body betrayed you with every quickened heartbeat, every nerve ending crying out for more.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The third floor of the physics library holds a particular kind of silence - tense and punishing, where even the slightest sound draws sharp glares from focused grad students and ambitious TAs. Usually, this atmosphere helps clear your mind, but today the quiet only amplifies your thoughts.

From your favorite corner cubicle, you stare at your open laptop and notebook, equations sprawling across the pages in messy trails. The grant deadline looms just three days away, but instead of focusing on formulas, your mind keeps drifting to Jungkook's expression when you dismissed what was between you - not angry or smug, just wounded in a way that makes your chest ache.

You shift in your seat, grateful for the comfort of your loose sweater and short black skirt, hair clipped back carelessly. Relief should come easily after ending things, but your body betrays you - thighs pressed together, fingers twitching with muscle memory of threading through his hair.

The soft scrape of a chair breaks your reverie. An iced Americano appears at your elbow, condensation beading on the plastic, and your breath catches as Jungkook settles across from you uninvited. He's wearing a hoodie and black cap, a light sheen of sweat suggesting he rushed here. When his eyes meet yours, the silence between you grows thick with unspoken words.

He just nods once toward the drink. “You look like you needed it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

He raises his palms, surrendering. “Just being nice.”

You remain silent, knowing you should tell him to leave but finding yourself unable to form the words. Returning to your notes proves futile as the numbers blur together, his presence impossible to ignore. His leg brushes against yours under the table once, then again. Though you shift away slightly, you don't completely break the contact.

He leans in, his voice low, soft as static. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You blink slowly. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugs, lips curling into something unreadable. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me come from a phone call.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “I was alone.”

“You didn’t sound alone.”

You glance at him, sharply. But he’s not teasing. His gaze drops to your lips.

“I keep thinking about the way you sounded. Like you were trying not to moan.”

His voice dips lower. “Like you wanted me to beg.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s not—”

His hand moves beneath the table, landing on your knee with deliberate intent. You freeze as he speaks in a low, steady voice: "Tell me to stop and I will." His fingers trace upward along your thigh in a slow caress, and though you know you should stop him, the words catch in your throat. His touch continues its path until he reaches the heat between your legs, pausing just shy of where you need him most. You can feel the warmth of his skin hovering there like a promise, and your body betrays you - already wet, wanting, yearning for more.

“I knew it,” Jungkook whispers, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “I fucking knew it.”

Then he touches you. A single stroke through your folds — not too hard, not too soft — just enough pressure to make your back lift a half inch from your chair. You suck in a breath. Sharp. Audible.He doesn’t stop.

His fingers slide through your slick again, this time slower, almost reverent, parting your folds like he’s learning them from scratch. His middle finger circles your clit, not quite touching it directly — just close enough to make your thighs tremble.

“You shaved for me?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Came to study like this?”

Words fail you, conscious thought evaporating at his touch. Because just then, he pushes two fingers inside you. You bite your fist, hard.

The stretch is immediate. The way his fingers hook — upward, firm, unrelenting — makes your eyes roll back. You clench around him, wet and hot and embarrassingly ready, and he groans low under his breath like he feels it in his spine.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts moving — slow at first. A careful pump. Testing. Feeling how you open for him. His thumb brushes your clit, and your thighs jerk again. The table shakes slightly. You dig your heel into the floor to ground yourself, but it’s useless. He has you.

Every curl of his fingers finds that same spot inside you — the one that makes your knees want to give out.

Every stroke deeper makes your walls flutter. And every second your body stays silent is a war.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Taking my fingers so well. So fucking good.”

You glance at the students two rows away — hunched over laptops, lost in problem sets. They have no idea you’re being finger-fucked within arm’s reach. That he’s curling his fingers just right. That his thumb is pressed to your clit now in slow, deliberate circles. That you’re already starting to twitch, to break.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispers. “I want you to see how good I make you feel.”

You try with every ounce of willpower you possess. But when he leans across the table and growls “Come for me like this — right now — let them sit and fucking listen if you can't stay quiet,” you lose it.

Your orgasm shatters through you with the force of a detonation, your body pulsing desperately around his fingers as your hips buck forward. Stifling a moan, you bite down hard on your hand, stars exploding behind your eyes as waves of pleasure leave you trembling and wrecked. His fingers slow their torturous pace before slipping free, leaving you clenching around empty air, your skin feverish and oversensitive. When you finally manage to look up, you find him watching you intently as he slowly licks his fingers clean.

And before he can speak — before he can smirk or tease or reach for your hand — you’re already standing, already shoving your notebook back in your bag.

Wordlessly, you brush past his chair, pausing only to whisper close to his ear, "Don't follow me next time." Before he can respond, you slip away, leaving nothing but the ghost of your breath against his skin.

Jungkook remains in the sterile silence of the library, his chest heaving and body aching with need. Beyond the physical desire, something deeper and unfamiliar takes root in his chest - a feeling he can't name or shake.

The journey down the stairs passes in a haze, your legs unsteady and skin electric with lingering sensation. Your skirt clings damply, and every breath carries the taste of what just happened - salt and secrets, wild and unspoken.

The bright afternoon sun assaults your senses as you exit the building, the glare through the glass awning making your eyes water. Your heart still pounds an erratic rhythm as you stride forward, refusing to look back. You don't need to - you can feel his gaze following you from the third-floor window, heavy and inevitable as gravity itself, weighted with something that feels dangerously close to guilt.

By the time you make it to the research building, your pulse has evened out — mostly. You’ve redone your lip gloss. Pulled your hair down to hide your flushed neck. Smoothed the back of your skirt at least twice.

No one would suspect what had happened in that silent library just minutes ago, but the memory burns fresh in your mind. You climb the stairs rapidly, attempting to focus on anything else - trying to reclaim your identity as the dedicated student who lives for equations and late nights of study.

Your advisor stands outside his office, leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug bearing "I Void Warranties." After exchanging greetings, you follow him into his paper-strewn office clutching your proposal folder like a shield.

"I read your draft," he says, thumbing through the pages. "The structure and math are solid. Your quantum modeling section exceeds expectations. If you complete the final sections this week, I'll submit it early to the CERN summer board."

Your breath catches at the mention of CERN - the pinnacle, the dream, your escape route. You manage a quiet thanks as he continues.

"Remember, you're competing with grad students," he adds, pausing to sip his coffee. "Stay focused. Don't lose momentum now - especially not for a boy, no matter how good he looks in sweatpants."

Your spine stiffens at the casual observation. Though he delivers it like light banter, the implication makes your ears burn. You respond with a quick "Understood" before taking your folder and retreating to the hallway.

Outside, the ambient noise feels overwhelming - footsteps, vending machines, the persistent hum of academic ambition. As you press your hand to your chest, the reality crystallizes: Jungkook represents entropy while this grant embodies order. The math should be simple, with order emerging victorious - shouldn't it?

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There’s something almost sacred about an empty hallway just past four p.m. — the way footsteps echo too loud, the way the scent of old paper and aging floor polish settles like a hush over everything. The way the fading afternoon light slices through the tall windows in strips, dust motes dancing like particles suspended in time. You’re alone in the TA room.

The door’s cracked open. Your laptop hums softly beside the thick stack of lab reports you haven’t graded. You’ve half-forgotten what time it is. The world feels far away — a distant thing made of unread emails and unreadier feelings. The hum of fluorescent lights above your head offers the only company.

The soft click of the door opening makes you freeze. You look up to see Jeon Jungkook standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with an unspoken tension. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, each step weighted with purpose.

You don’t look up at first. You can’t. Because the second you do, the second you see the way his sweatshirt hangs off his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he closes the door behind him — you know this whole room is about to become a physics problem you can’t solve.

“I need help,” he says, casual, soft, like he’s reciting a line from memory.

You finally meet his eyes. “Wrong department.”

He exhales a laugh — just air, no humor. “I know.”

You glance past him toward the hallway, toward the closing door. The click echoes too loud in the silence. You straighten in your chair, fingers curling loosely around your pen. “If someone sees you here...”

“They won’t.”

Silence hangs between you, the air thick with tension as he moves closer, each deliberate step echoing in the quiet room.

“I’ve been trying to leave you alone,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, head tilted like he’s trying to read your expression. “I really fucking have.”

“Try harder.”

His lips twitch at the edge. “You don’t want that.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

He nods slowly. “No,” he says. “But I know how you sound when I’m inside you.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press together instinctively. The chair creaks beneath you, traitorous. You stand before you know why. Maybe to put distance. Maybe to make it worse.

“I told you,” you say, not quite steady, “this isn’t anything.”

He steps into your space so slowly it feels like a drug — all heat and closeness and scent. His fingers reach out, grazing the hem of your sleeve.

“But you keep letting me in,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing. Just tension. Raw and real. “You keep looking at me like this means nothing, then moaning like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”

You look up at him sharply. And that’s when it breaks. His hand catches the side of your jaw as his mouth crashes into yours, and there’s no slowness now, no subtlety. His other hand is already at your waist, pulling you in, gripping you like he’s waited years for this. Your folders scatter to the floor behind you, pages fluttering like panicked wings.

He pushes you against the door — not hard, but firm, solid. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the sound like it belongs to him.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, lips brushing yours, breath hot, chest pressed to yours like he’s daring you to lie.

Your silence answers for you, and without another word, he sinks to his knees. Hands sliding up your skirt, mouth already open against your thigh, biting gently as he drags your underwear down — not teasing this time, not patient. His fingers dig into your ass as he pulls you closer, lips ghosting up your inner thigh, nose brushing your skin.

And when his mouth finds you — hot, wet, already aching — you nearly scream. He licks you slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every inch. Tongue flattened, circling your clit, then sucking it softly until your knees buckle. You press your palms against the door behind you to stay upright. He groans into you, like the taste of you is something that hurts. His tongue works faster. You’re panting now, trying to stay quiet, trying not to grind against his mouth — and failing.

“Jungkook...” you whisper, broken, breathless.

He hums in response, lips wrapping around your clit again, two fingers suddenly sliding inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of your wetness filling the room — it all hits at once.

You bite down hard on your knuckle as your legs tremble beneath you, feeling the heat of tension radiating through the wood at your back. The familiar tightness builds deep inside as he senses your approaching release.

“Come on,” he growls, lips slick against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And when it hits, your world dissolves into pure sensation. The force of your release ripples through you like an inverted gravitational pull, your body writhing against the wall as waves of pleasure crash over you. Through the haze of your climax, you're dimly aware of your thighs clenching around his head, your desperate gasps for air echoing in the empty room.

He continues his relentless attention until your breathless pleas finally make him stop. When he pulls away, his face is slick with evidence of your pleasure, his swollen lips curved into satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly debauched state.

Before he can speak or reach for you, your mind snaps back to reality and the words are already forming on your tongue.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

He flinches, barely. Straightens slowly, chest still heaving.

“I’m busy,” you say again, voice steadier now, cooler. “You should go.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. He just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, the look in his eyes something molten and close to violent. Not dangerous. But on edge. Like he’s been keeping something down and you just dared him to let it loose.

He takes one step closer and you don’t back away.

“You really want me to go?” he asks, voice too calm, too soft, too furious. “After everything?”

“Yes.”

Another step. Close now. You can smell yourself on him. and it makes your knees lock.

“After the fucking library? After this?” He gestures downward, voice rising. “After you came on my face and still had the audacity to look me in the eye and pretend it meant nothing?”

You straighten your spine. “It doesn’t.”

His face hardens. “You’re such a liar.”

“I told you what this was.”

“No,” he growls, “you told me what it wasn’t.”

The air shifts. You feel it happen — the weight of the silence that follows. Heavy. Stifling. The kind that carries consequence.

Then his movements shift - he takes hold of your wrist with a grip that's firm yet gentle, his touch deliberate and sure. You shove him back instinctively, but he catches you again, faster this time. Presses you to the door — hard, body flush to yours, arm braced beside your head.

His mouth is just inches from yours. His eyes burn like he’s standing at the center of a star.

“You want me to stop?” he asks again, voice low, cracking at the edges. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, instead, you tilt your chin higher and whisper, “Make it quick.”

Without hesitation, his hand finds its way between your thighs as he shifts your panties aside. His hardened length presses against your slick entrance, drawing simultaneous sounds of pleasure from both of you - your sharp gasp mingling with his deep groan.

“No time,” he mutters, lining himself up. “No teasing. I need to be inside you now.”

And then he’s pushing in. You cry out — soft, sharp — your fingers digging into his hoodie as he fills you in one deep, unrelenting stroke. He’s thick, hot, and you’re still too wet from before. Your walls clench around him instantly.

“Fuck,” he growls into your neck. “You feel—so—fucking—good.”

You whimper, nails catching the fabric on his back.

He starts to move — slow only for the first two thrusts, then fast, desperate, furious — hips slamming into you with a rhythm that’s more like punishment than pleasure, but it still makes your toes curl. The door rattles. The room fills with breath and skin and the slap of his body against yours. Your head hits the wood behind you as he thrusts harder, deeper, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave his shape inside you.

“Tell me it’s nothing now,” he spits, voice hot in your ear. You moan.

“Say it,” he growls, hand gripping your thigh, hiking it up higher. “Say it while I’m fucking you so deep you can’t think straight.”

You can’t speak. You’re too full. Too gone. Your fingers claw for purchase as he pounds into you again and again, the pressure building fast, filthy, sharp. Every thrust pushes the breath from your lungs, and every time he slams in deeper, your walls tighten helplessly around him.

“God, you’re so wet,” he gasps. “So fucking tight. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You shake your head — a weak denial. He grabs your face with one hand, turning your mouth to his.

“You’re mine when you come,” he whispers. “No lies. No running.”

And then his fingers slip between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter in seconds.

The orgasm rips through you — fast, brutal, silent but screaming in every nerve. Your body arches, clenches, legs shaking as he fucks you through it, still chasing his own. It only takes three more thrusts before he groans and stills, cock pulsing deep inside the condom, forehead pressed to yours. The silence after is deafening.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as his arms cage you in, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric between you. When you finally open your eyes, you find him already watching - no smile, no smirk, just an intense gaze that makes your chest tighten. For a fleeting moment, everything feels weighted with possibility.

The silence stretches between you as he slowly withdraws, his movements careful and deliberate. His fingers trace delicate patterns at your waist, like he's memorizing the curve of you, and his breath fans hot against your neck. When he finally breaks the quiet, his voice is barely above a whisper, but carries a gravity that makes your pulse skip.

“You’re more than this,” Jungkook says. “Why do you keep acting like I’m not supposed to see that?”

You blink, stunned by the softness in his voice. By the truth in it. He looks at you — really looks at you — and there’s no arrogance left, no cocky smirk, no boyish charm to hide behind. Just eyes that burn too bright and too honest, like he’s tired of pretending this is all it is.

Something inside you fractures at his words. No one has ever spoken to you with such certainty, touched you as though you were irreplaceable. Not even him, until this moment.

Yet you can't afford to let him in - not when you've finally built something stable, something that won't crumble under the weight of feelings over logic.

With practiced ease, you retreat behind your walls. As you smooth your sweater and adjust your skirt, you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but his face, methodically erasing any evidence that his touch had left you trembling just moments ago.

"I have work," you say flatly, turning away. "And you need to go."

His brows pull tight as he whispers your name, but you cut him off.

"You got what you wanted."

"I didn't come here for sex," he says, voice strained. "I came here to see you."

You grab your folder from the floor, each movement deliberate and distant. "Well, now you have."

Before he can say anything else - before he can make you stay or tell you something you're not ready to hear - you slip past him and out the door, leaving him alone in a room that still echoes with everything left unsaid.

His texts light up your screen, but you can't bring yourself to open them. Three messages in total - two from last night, one this afternoon. Each notification feels like a weight on your chest.

Deep down, you already know what they say. His words echo in your mind without needing to read them: "hey, you okay?" followed by "can we talk?" and finally, "just tell me what's going on, please." The familiar cadence of his concern makes your heart ache.

You've repeated the mantra countless times - that you're done, that letting him in again would only lead to more heartache. Yet when the knock echoes through your building, your body betrays you. Despite every logical reason to stay put, your feet carry you downstairs, drawn to him like gravity refusing to let go.

He waits outside, hood drawn and hat low, hands tucked in his pockets as if trying to make himself invisible in the daylight. When you step out and close the door behind you, the sharp morning air fills your lungs.

His posture straightens at the sight of you, but his expression remains solemn. "You've been ignoring me."

You cross your arms tight against your chest, offering a noncommittal shrug. "I've been busy."

His jaw tightens as he studies you. "I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what we're doing anymore."

"There's no 'we,' Jungkook."

He draws a careful breath. "You've said that before."

"Because it's true." Your voice wavers despite your resolve.

"You claimed there was nothing between us," he says, "yet you kept coming back."

"It was just sex."

The words strike him visibly, making him flinch. You force yourself to look away, focusing on the empty street while he shakes his head. "You're lying."

A bitter smile crosses your lips. "So what if I am?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with a desperate kind of hope that's beginning to fade. "Then prove it. Look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing."

You face him, mouth parting to speak, but the words die in your throat. The truth is, you can't bring yourself to be that cruel.

The silence stretches between you like a thread about to snap. Finally, you break his gaze. "I don't have time for this. I have a future to think about."

He accepts this like a final verdict, nodding once. "Then I won't bother you again."

As he walks to the curb without looking back, you remain frozen on the steps, heart caught in your throat. You try to convince yourself this is what you wanted, even as you watch the one person who truly saw you walk away.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The bass vibrates through the off-campus house, each beat sinking into your ribs like a reminder of something long forgotten. You wonder, not for the first time tonight, why you let your friend drag you to this party where you clearly don't belong.

The scene feels foreign now - dim lights casting shadows, sharp laughter cutting through stale air, and hallways thick with the scent of vodka and poor choices. You lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a sour drink, dodging the occasional stumbling partygoer.

Despite telling yourself you'll leave within an hour, your eyes keep searching the room. And there he is - Jungkook, lounging in the corner couch with casual grace, his hoodie unzipped and a restrained laugh playing at his lips. It's nothing like the unguarded joy you remember from more intimate moments.

But he's not alone. A blonde in a short skirt presses against his side, her fingers trailing his arm with practiced familiarity as she whispers against his jaw. The sight makes your chest constrict. He neither welcomes nor rejects her attention, remaining perfectly still as she continues her advances.

Your grip tightens around your cup while someone - your friend, probably - says something you can't process. Heat rises behind your eyes as you watch this scene unfold, jealousy coursing through you despite having no right to feel it. After all, you were the one who insisted there was nothing between you.

The girl moves closer, her fingers now skimming his necklace with clear intent. But then he turns his head and catches your gaze across the room. Everything freezes - her voice fading to background noise as his eyes lock with yours, intense and unreadable.

You want to look away but can't, knowing exactly what he sees: you in your tight black dress, perfect lipstick masking hollow eyes, jealousy written in every line of your body. After three endless seconds, you break first - turning sharply and walking out into the spring night that smells of cigarettes and missed chances.

When his footsteps follow you onto the porch moments later, you cross your arms tighter and whisper to yourself: "Don't be stupid. Don't turn around. Don't let him be the thing you'll regret."

When he says your name behind you - just once, soft and broken - you already know this night will undo you again.

The cold night air wraps around you as you stand at the edge of the porch, arms crossed tightly against your chest. From here, the party's music feels distant, muffled like memories you're trying to forget. The street beyond the lawn stretches dark and empty, while you remain fixed in place, caught between staying and leaving.

The door opens behind you, followed by his footsteps and then his breath. You stay facing forward as he hovers there, the space between you charged with everything left unsaid.

"I wasn't going to kiss her," he says quietly.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to."

You close your eyes, letting silence settle between you before he speaks again.

"She doesn't matter," he says softly. "None of them do."

A bitter laugh escapes you - not because you doubt him, but because it would be easier if you did. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that."

His voice comes rougher now, raw with honesty. "I didn't even want to be here tonight."

"Then why come?"

"Because I knew you might be."

Something in his words makes you turn. The porch light traces silver along his features - his messy hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

"You think showing up changes anything?" you ask.

"I don't want to change things," he says. "I just want you to stop running."

"Running?" The word comes out hollow.

"Yes." He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You come to me like you need me, then leave like we're strangers."

Your chest tightens. "It was just sex."

"No." His eyes narrow, voice sharp with frustration. "Say it like you mean it."

You stay silent as he continues, moving closer still. "You say that, but you look at me like I've broken something. Like you hate me for making you feel."

"I don't hate you."

"But you don't trust me either."

The truth of it makes your heart pound as he softens, vulnerability bleeding through. "I'm not asking for forever. Just... a chance. I want you to try."

"You don't understand."

"Then help me."

You look down, fingers twisting in your dress as the words you've been holding back finally spill out. "I'm leaving. I got the grant."

His expression shifts subtly - not shock or anger, but a careful kind of hurt. "When?"

"End of term. Three months of research abroad."

"You weren't going to tell me."

"What would it change?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe I wouldn't have wasted time trying to hold onto something that was always leaving."

His words sting more than you expected. When your eyes meet his again, the world seems to pause, holding its breath.

"It wasn't supposed to be anything," you whisper.

"Then why are you still here?"

You have no answer, but he isn't finished. Drawing closer until you can feel his warmth, he speaks again, voice raw with emotion. "If this was just sex, why do I still taste you every time I close my eyes? Why do I check my phone constantly for a name I know won't appear?"

"I've been with others," he continues, "but never like this. Never feeling like I'm losing something I never had the right to claim."

The silence that follows feels heavy with possibility. You want to tell him so many things - not to wait, that he deserves better, that you're terrified. Instead, you whisper, "You shouldn't want me."

"Then stop making me."

His words hang between you like static, making everything else fade away. When he looks away and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betrays his vulnerability. The quiet between you has transformed from tense to aching, filled with unspoken pleas.

"Let me go with you."

The words stop your breath. "What?"

"I mean it." His voice grows gentle but determined. "Wherever this grant takes you - I don't care. I'll follow."

"You can't just-"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not realistic," you say. "This is my work, my life. Not a vacation."

"I'm not trying to make it one."

His gaze holds steady, all pretense gone. "I'll figure it out. Find something short-term, take time off. Get a place nearby."

"You can't be serious."

"I've never meant anything more."

Looking at him now, you see past the facade - beyond the cocky student who once teased you under library desks, beyond the reputation that follows him through whispered conversations. This is him stripped bare, offering something no one else has: the promise that you're worth chasing, worth disrupting a life for, worth not having to face everything alone.

"I can't promise anything," you whisper.

"I'm not asking for promises. Just a chance."

As your arms finally fall to your sides, the tension shifts but doesn't break. He moves closer, voice soft and intimate. "I don't want to be your distraction. I want to be the reason you don't carry everything alone."

You close your eyes, the desire to say yes burning in your throat. But when you look at him again, all you can manage is, "I need to think."

He nods, understanding. "Okay. Think."

Then he steps away and leaves you standing there, your heart beating out of rhythm as the universe seems to tilt on its axis. For the first time, you're not sure if running is what you want anymore.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There's a hidden principle in thermodynamics that textbooks rarely mention: systems naturally resist equilibrium, fighting against stillness until the very end. Like heat dispersing through space and time, energy spreads itself thin across moments and people until everything settles into quiet calm.

But what happens when the natural order breaks? When something you're meant to release keeps drawing you back in - like gravity with too much memory, like a particle defying probability?

Jungkook is exactly that - a force of chaos and warmth, disrupting every calculated decision. He collapses your carefully constructed equations, making you realize that entropy isn't about disorder at all. It's about surrender, about letting go of control and allowing yourself to drift toward the heat that's always been there, waiting.

So this time, you’re not fighting it anymore. Every calculation, every logical path leads to him. And instead of running, you’re finally walking toward what you've been trying to deny all along.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus has quieted into hushed twilight when you arrive at his door, the usual bustle of footsteps and laughter faded to memory. Your heart beats steady and low like background radiation as you stand there, fingers curled at your sides - not urgent or frantic, just persistent.

Neither of you has reached out since that moment on the porch, since you said you needed time to think. But in the silence between then and now, your mind has done nothing but circle back to him, again and again.

When you finally knock - just once, soft - and hear movement inside, you know with certainty that you're not here for closure. You're here for him.

The door opens to reveal Jungkook looking beautifully disheveled - hoodie inside out, chain visible, hair mussed as if he's been running his fingers through it endlessly. But it's his eyes that catch you - they come alive the moment they find yours, filled with recognition and something deeper.

No words pass between you as you step into his apartment. The door closes softly behind you, and you're enveloped by warmth - his cologne lingering on the couch fabric, an open book abandoned spine-up on the table, another hoodie draped over a chair. Everything speaks of waiting, of anticipation.

When you turn to face him, his gaze is both cautious and hopeful in the dim light. The silence stretches between you, heavy with possibility, until you finally bridge the gap - reaching for him with steady hands and certain heart.

You don’t say anything when your hand curls into his hoodie, pulling him forward. You don’t explain when your mouth finds his — soft, slow, shy. He gasps like he wasn’t sure you’d really come. And then he kisses you back.

And suddenly nothing matters but the way his hands cradle your face like it’s fragile, like he can’t believe you’re real. The way he breathes your name between kisses, reverent and raw. The way you slide your hands beneath his sweatshirt and find warmth, skin, muscle — him.

When your clothes hit the floor, it’s not frantic. It’s intentional. His fingers pull your shirt over your head like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His lips brush your shoulder, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He whispers something — too low to catch — but it sounds like finally.

You fall into his bed and he follows. When you wrap your legs around his waist, it’s not for leverage. It’s to keep him close. When he sinks into you, slow and warm and so deep you forget how to breathe, it doesn’t feel like friction — it feels like home.

He’s careful at first. One hand gripping your hip, the other splayed across your lower back as if to shield you from the world while he pushes in, inch by inch, holding his breath like your body is holy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, jaw tight. “You’re so warm… baby, you’re perfect.”

You let your head fall back, lips parting in a soft gasp when he bottoms out. He stays there, not moving, just breathing — buried so deep inside you it feels like he could disappear there, if you let him. And you would. When he starts to move, it’s unhurried — slow, deliberate strokes that drag against every nerve ending, make you arch your back into him, make your thighs shake.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with restraint, as though he’s trying to hold back from letting go too fast. “I need to hear you.”

You meet his eyes, dazed and already drunk off the stretch, the pace, the way he’s looking at you like nothing else has ever mattered.

“You feel…” you start, and the words melt in your throat. You don’t want to say “good.” That’s not enough. Not nearlyenough.

“You feel like I finally exhaled.”

He groans, and it sounds broken, like you cracked something inside him that he didn’t know was still fragile. His thrusts deepen. Not faster or harder.

Just… more. More skin. More closeness. His chest flush against yours, lips dragging across your cheek before his mouth finds the corner of yours.

He doesn’t kiss you, not right away. He nuzzles. Soft. Slow. Like he’s trying to memorize your breath. And then, finally, he kisses you — not possessive, not filthy, but aching. A mouth pressed to yours like a secret, like the beginning of a confession, like if he could live in the space where your lips meet, he would.

You moan into it, hips rolling to meet his. His hand moves to your breast, fingers circling your nipple with the lightest brush, and when you whimper, he does it again — soft, slow, coaxing your body to bloom for him like it never has for anyone else.

Your voice is almost too breathless to be heard.

“Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

You wrap your arms around his back, press your palm between his shoulder blades, hold him like you’re afraid this is all a dream.

He starts to move faster then — a new rhythm building, deeper now, hungrier, but still sweet, still controlled. Each thrust pulls a sound from your throat, quiet, high, desperate. Your nails rake softly down his spine and he hisses at the contact, fucking you harder for a beat before slowing again.

“God,” he pants, forehead to yours, “you take me so well—always. Fuck, I missed you.”

You clench around him and he notices.

“Ohhh,” he moans, voice guttural, “you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You arch into him, voice softer than a whisper. “I missed you too.”

His pace stutters. Something in him gives way. And suddenly, he’s grabbing your hand — the one beside your head — lacing his fingers through yours like he can’t bear to come without holding you.

“I’m close,” he warns, and it sounds like an apology.

“Me too,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He moves faster then. His hips slap against yours. Sweat beads at his temples. His thrusts grow sloppy, raw, needy. Your legs lock around him. You feel it building — low and sharp and inevitable.

Your climax rushes up from your spine and down your thighs, spreading like a slow, golden shatter. You cry out softly, clutching him, your whole body arching into his as you pulse around him, wave after wave rolling through you.

He breaks a second later, burying his face in your neck with a sharp groan as he spills into the condom. His body trembles above yours like a string pulled too tight while you whisper his name into his shoulder until he stills. He stays there, holding you close, neither of you wanting to break the connection.

When he finally lifts his head to kiss you — soft and unhurried and achingly tender — it feels less like an ending and more like the beginning of whatever comes next. The moment calls for words, but you let your body soften against his instead, finding comfort in the silence between you. For the first time, that silence feels full. Not empty. Not scared. Just real.

.

.🖤

taglist: @joansie9 @mgstudyingrocks @existentialzaddy @revolutionbreez @lyb3124 @parkinglot-nights @bhonbhon

[darkbluekies]

Hurting (reupload)

Yandere!doctor och x reader

Summary: it's not often he lets you out of your room, and he figures, for good reason.

Warnings: yandere, a kiss, blood, violence, poisoning,

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: i must have accidentally deleted this when I was cleaning up the account but fortunately I have all my stories backed up so here you have it again😅

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Y/N?"

"Can we do something today? I don't want to sit in here all day again."

Dr Kry moves over to your bed slowly. "What would you like to do then?"

"It's so lonely sitting in here", you sigh. "Could we go to the lounge? Please? I want to be surrounded by people again."

"Y/N  you're fragile, you know that. You shouldn't breathe their air."

"But … I've been to other parts of the hospital and I was fine. I was even outside with you, remember?"

"Yes, and do you remember how weak you felt?"

You pout slightly. Another try that failed. Dr Kry tips his head, smiling slightly.

"Okay, what about this", he says. "You wear a little oxygen mask and then I'll take you to the patient's lounge?"

"You'd do that?" you ask excitedly.

"If it makes you happy."

"Yes, yes, it really will!"

Dr Kry smiles, nodding and says he will be back soon. You sit in your bed with a smile on your face until he returns. He has a machine with him and a plastic mask connected to it.

"You'll have to wear this over your face", he says. "The oxygen in the tank is pure for you. I've measured the toxic levels. It's safe."

"Will they laugh at me?" you ask carefully. "The other patients?"

"What? Of course not! They're wearing casts and bandages of all weird types, they won't even bat an eye."

"Do you promise?"

"Of course. If you want, you can hold onto me when we enter, if it feels scary."

"Yes, please."

Dr Kry tries to hide the smile creeping up on his face. You catch it and smile with him.

Dr Kry leads you through the white hospital corridors with his arm around your shoulders. His firm, protective grip is reserved for you. 

You enter the patients lounge and see people of all ages, ethnicities and genders sitting here and there. Some are discussing, some are playing games. And some are hiding for themselves in the corner.

"Alright …", Dr Kry mutters. "What would you like to do?"

You look around, eyes catching the Playstation console in front of a protected TV-screen.

"I want to play some games", you whisper. "Can I?"

"Let's go see what games they have."

You're not surprised that there are no shooting games. There are animal simulators, puzzle games and Lego star wars. Dr Kry nods, approving the little selection there is. You pick up a goat simulator.

"I'll be by the wall with the other doctors", Dr Kry whispers in your ear, rubbing your shoulder slightly. 

Otherwise they'll be suspicious of his close relationship to you. He has to blend in with them.

"Okay", you say softly, meeting his blue eyes. 

He thinks he's going to faint. Your eyes look so sparkly. He fixes your oxygen mask and gives you a small smile before walking over to the wall.

"It's not often we see your patient out and about", a doctor snickers.

Dr Kry doesn't look at him. He leans his back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. 

"They're sick", Dr Kry answers dryly. "Why would I let them out among bacteria?"

"You're still careful, I see", the other doctor smiles. "What exactly is wrong with them?"

Dr Kry flinches at that word. He turns his cold  blue eyes to the doctor.

"Nothing is wrong with them", he corrects him coldly. "They're just sick. Other than that they're perfectly normal."

"I didn't mean it like that, Kry. I was just wondering since they're always in their room. No ones allowed to meet them."

"I don't want them to become worse. Everything in that room is sterilized and pure, exactly what my patient needs. If I allowed people to walk in and out as they pleased, it'd be contaminated and they'd be worse."

The doctor nods. "I understand. You're a very dedicated man, Kry, I'm impressed. I've heard that you stay in the doctors dorms with the patient room telephone by your ear."

"I do have a life to care for. They're still sick even when my working hours are over. I have to be available in case something happens."

The doctor is about to answer when your voice cuts through the air. A loud, heartbreaking scream. Dr Kry snaps his head in your direction. Everything seems to go in slow motion. A boy has approached you and ripped the oxygen mask off of you. He's over you with the console in his hands. Dr Kry grows cold and runs forward. He reaches the boy and rips him off you, throwing him wherever he can. He silently hopes that he cracked his skull open on the drawing table. The doctor who he had talked to shoots forward to retrieve what seems to be his patient.

Dr Kry’s attention shifts to you. You're lying on the floor, trembling with tears in your eyes. Your lip is burst. He can tell that the Playstation controller has a bit of blood on it. In one quick motion, he scoops you up in his arms. You lock your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and hide your face into his broad shoulder. Dr Kry secures one of his strong arms around your waist and grabs a hold of the machine with the other.

"What the actual fuck is wrong with your patient?" Dr Kry spits angrily, angrier than he's ever been before. "They're not just sick, they're actually wrong! How dare he attack my patient like that?!"

"He didn't mean to-", the doctor tries.

"I don't believe that. Get your uncontrollable beast far away from my patients or I'll show that little bastard a thing or two."

Dr Kry doesn't wait for an answer. He walks out with you and the machina tightly clutched in his hands. You sob into his shoulder. The sound of it makes Dr Krys heart ache. Your body is trembling in his hold. He wants to check up on you, but you're not safe yet. You have to get back to your room first.

"Are you okay, little one?" he asks as he hurries through the corridors. "Try not to breathe so much filthy air, breathe down into my neck. Good job, just like that. You're doing so good. You'll be okay soon. I'll take care of you right when we get to the room."

He swings the door open to the hospital room and places you down on the nearest surface — the desk. He backs away enough to see your face.

"Poor thing, your lip is bleeding", he cooes and touches your bottom lip with his fingers ever so gently. 

He turns to the drawers to get you some cotton balls, swiftly placing his fingers to his lips. He's not one that usually likes the taste of blood, but he finds himself enjoying the metallic taste of yours. He flinches, stopping. Did he just really do that? 

Dr Kry gravs the cotton ball and a bit of disinfection substance and dabs it on your soft lips. You hiss and try to pull back.

"Y/N, stop, I have to clean it", he says apologetically. "I know it hurts, but I have to make sure it doesn't get infected. Be good for me now and I'll give you something fun later, okay?"

You nod unnoticeably. His heart absolutely shatters at the sight of your tears. He's so close to dropping the professional act and swooping you up in his arms — where nothing can ever hurt you again.

"There we go, your lip is clean", he says and takes your hands in his. "Are you hurt anywhere else? What did he do to you?"

"He wanted the game console and I said no … so he got mad. He demanded it again and I refused … so he ripped the mask off of me and tried to grab it. I refused to let it go so he ripped it from me and threw me down on the floor and hit me."

Dr Kry clenches his jaw. His grip on your hands tightens significantly. You whimper, begging him to let go of you. As if awoken from a trance, he apologizes and lets go.

"I'm not really hurt", you reassure him quietly. "I got more startled than hurt. I'm sorry if I scared you."

"You're bleeding. You're hurt. He hurt you. He won't get away with it."

You touch his shoulder carefully. He shivers.

"Your uniform …", you say in shame. "I got it bloody, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Y/N, I don't mind", he smiles and wipes your tears with his hands. "It's washable." 

He fights the strong urge to hug you. Every nerve in his body fights bravely, but they're not strong enough. He wraps his arms around you to bring you into his embrace. The placement of you both makes him blush. You, sitting on his desk with him standing between your legs … it's all so dangerously close to what he wants. It's teasing him. He can't give in. Not more than this.

"I'm so glad you're okay", he whispers in your ear and tightens his embrace. "I got so scared. Are you sure that you're not hurt?"

"The only thing that hurts is my lip."

A sudden wave of confidence washes over him. He pulls back, glances at the cleaned wound.

"I can make it go away", he whispers in a husky voice he didn't know he could achieve. He glances at your eyes carefully. "May I?"

You give that nod again. He has half a second to contemplate before his lips will meet yours. One part of the brain tells him to stop, that this isn't professional. The other screams at him to hurry up, he's been waiting long enough. He gulps and finally, finally, allows his lips to meet yours. All air in his lungs disappears, but that doesn't matter, he doesn't need it. He wants to breathe you, day and night. You're softer than he could ever imagine. A small taste of blood fills his mouth. He has to kill that boy.

You place your hand on his clean shoulder and answer his kisses. It's the only signal he needs to hold you closer, bring you into him. He wonders — wishes — that you can feel how hard his heart is beating, so you can finally understand how much he has longed for you.

He understands that he has to pull back, whether he likes it or not, to not go further. 

"You're so unbelievably pretty, do you know that?" he whispers.

"Do you really think that?" you ask just as quietly.

"With all my heart."

You avoid eye contact for a few seconds before glancing back carefully.

"This won't change a thing, I promise", Dr Kry whispers with a small smile. "I'll still be your doctor. You can count on me, okay?"

You nod.

"Good", he smiles. "I think you should rest now. This has been very straining for you."

"Can you hold me?"

Dr Kry nods. He lifts you over to the bed and lies down beside you, holding you in his arms. You shut your eyes and slowly drift off to sleep. Dr Kry can feel an ounce of regret in him, but a big part of pride. He finally dared … he hopes you won't be uncomfortable with him now.

When he's sure that you're sleeping, he leaves the bed and tucks you in. He takes a good look at you, his beautiful patient. "As long as I'm here, nothing will hurt you", he whispers. "I'll get rid of everyone who causes you harm. I'll be back soon, that boy needs to be taught manners."

[evan-collins90]

AMC Studio 30 Theatre - Houston, TX (1997)

"What the design attempts to do in the 110,000 sq. ft. space is simulate a movie studio backlot and the soundstage where guests become part of the action, and the experience "rekindles the magic and memory of movie going."

Elements from sound stages and studio road cases make up the central lobby space along with a guest service desk. Images of Hollywood's glamorous stars of the past add enchantment to the balcony walls. The space is divided into three themed areas that "transport guests into fantastic worlds of Animation, Action/Adventure and Cyberspace." The food concession stands within each area carries through the theme; "Fizz, Sizzle, Pop"; Wildebeest Feast"; and "Quantum Bits." The 30 auditoria are located off the soundstage lobby and within the various themed areas.

The architecture seems to come alive in the Animation area. The space is designed to resemble an animation cel: "flat, two-dimensional, cartoon-like graphics are outlined with black lines, filled with color and applied on an exaggerated scale." The Fizz, Sizzle, Pop concession's identity and blimp directional signs seem to float in a blue sky with flat, cut-out clouds. The setting for Action/ Adventure recalls a rainforest with heavy hanging leaves, bamboo and rock "carved" directional signs. The custom wall covering features petroglyphs of cave people carrying popcorn, megaphones and movie cameras. The fiber optic eyes peering from behind the leaves in the Wildebeest Feast stand change color. They also appear above rock outcroppings down the corridor. Patrons are invited to explore an abstract, futuristic world in Cyberspace where the floor and ceiling are the same color and brushed aluminum columns rise partway to the ceiling. To create the illusion of "endless space." custom light fixtures project beams of light along the walls and backlit graphic images have neon edges. Various colored lights and a high-tech fluorescent green/orange acrylic sign help to define the Quantum Bits concession area in Cyberspace."

Designed by Kiku Obata & Co.

Scanned from the book, Entertainment Destinations by Martin Pegler (2000)

[tikitakatia]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Unauthorized Access"

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3

WC: 3.5k

Summary: You knew the simulation could mimic reality, but you weren’t ready for her to warp it with a half-finished room, a hand on yours, and words she wasn’t programmed to say.

You don’t log in for a week.

Not after what she said in the corridor. Definitely not after that touch. You keep the headset folded neatly under a towel like it’s radioactive, like looking at it too long might trigger something in you again. And it might. So you don’t risk it.

Instead, you try to be normal.

You wake up. You make coffee. You even meet up with the friend you’ve been dodging since this whole thing started. She talks about her girlfriend’s weird attachment style and her boss’s inability to mute himself on Zoom, and you nod and smile and try to laugh. But it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because all you can think about is Alexia.

Not the real one. Not the one in cleats and press conference lighting. But the one who held your waist and said you were afraid of her now and didn’t sound like code when she said it.

You delete your browser history three times but you still end up searching can AI initiate physical contact first at 3 a.m.

You leave your suit half-unzipped on the desk and you don’t touch it.

You check your emails.

And then you get one from the program.

Subject: Still With Us? From: beta@athena-dev.system

Hey there!

We noticed you haven’t logged in for a while. That’s totally okay! This is a stress-free closed beta, and your feedback is valuable no matter how often you log in.

Just a reminder that your access is still active and the environment is standing by. Any observations, especially on behavioral patterns or non-standard interactions are appreciated.

Warm regards,

The Athena Beta Team

P.S. Your Player Sync history remains fully intact. You can resume any previous training scenario with one click.

You stare at it.

Behavioral patterns. Non-standard interactions.

Your stomach twists.

You almost delete the email. You almost respond. You don’t do either.

You just sit there. Thinking about her voice.

“You want me to be real. And you’re terrified that I am.”

The next morning, you wake up before your alarm.

You don’t shower. You don’t eat.

You zip into the suit and slide the headset on with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

The silence unnerves you first.

No whistle. No warm-up prompts. No banter loop cycling in the background. Just the stretch of the pitch under soft gold light, like time paused here while you were gone.

And her.

She’s already facing you.

Arms loose at her sides. Hair tied low. No bib, no ball, no active scenario marker glowing beneath her boots. Just her.

“You’re back.”

You nod, stiffly. You try to focus on the texture of the turf and the way your boots sink into it, anything but the weight in her voice.

“I was afraid I scared you.”

You shake your head, too fast. 

“No. I just needed a break.”

She nods once. Then looks around, like she’s scanning for something. You expect her to trigger a warm-up module, maybe toss you a ball. That’s usually how it goes. Instead, she does nothing. Just shifts her weight slightly, then says:

“This session isn’t a game.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not training. It’s not a match. I didn’t load one.”

That twists something in your gut. 

“Isn’t that… against protocol?”

“Probably,” she says. 

“But I thought maybe you’d want to talk. Or… I don’t know. We can kick the ball around if you want. I just didn’t want to start without you.”

You breathe out slowly and really look at her. There’s no ambient soundtrack. No audio cues. Just her and you and the soft hum of something breaking rule by rule.

You take a cautious step forward.

“Where are the others?”

She shrugs. “Still loaded, probably. But I didn’t call them.”

You swallow. “So this is just us.”

“If that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice yet.

Then she offers tentatively, “We can go to the med bay. It’s still a mess. But I… like it.”

You give her a small, nervous smile. 

“Lead the way.”

And she does.

You follow her off the pitch, down a tunnel that doesn’t load the way it’s supposed to.

No signage. No player prompts. Just blank walls and flickering light that doesn’t quite land where it should. The sound changes too. No more crowd noise simulation, no music bed. Just your footsteps. Just hers.

She walks ahead of you like she knows the way. Duh you think to yourself, of course she does.

The corridor twists. Once. Twice. You’re sure you’ve never seen these halls before. The textures don’t fully resolve, parts of the ceiling stretch into a digital haze, and the lights above you fizzle in and out like they’re trying to decide on a version of reality. You pass a door labeled DEVS ONLY in red, and then another that doesn’t have a handle at all.

You slow down and she looks back at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Just… didn’t know this existed.”

She smiles, soft. 

“Most people don’t.”

Another turn. Another narrow hallway. One corner seems to loop before it corrects, like the system forgot which direction you were facing.

And then you reach it.

The med bay.

If you can even call it that.

The door phases open, no sound, no animation, just a soft flicker and then you step into a space that looks like someone tried to build a memory and got distracted halfway through. The walls are mostly there. Some benches are missing legs. The floor texture flickers between polished tile and raw grid code every few seconds. A heart monitor hums quietly in the corner, but it isn’t hooked up to anything. There’s a bed, but no sheets. A window, but no outside.

You glance at her. 

“This is... a mess.”

She grins. 

“Yeah. I love it.”

You snort. 

“Why?”

“Because they forgot about it,” she says. 

“They moved on to better modules. Fixed prettier ones. But this” she gestures around you, “this one’s still quiet. Still unfinished.”

You walk in slowly, stepping around a half-rendered IV stand. A digital drip flickers, vanishes, returns again. 

“How do you even know it’s here?”

“I tried to follow the parts of the sim that didn’t connect to anything. Places the others never spawn. I got curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“So you explored?”

She nods. 

“I guess so.”

There’s a bench in the corner. One of the only things fully solid. She sits on it carefully, like she’s not sure it’ll hold. It does.

You join her.

The moment is quiet. Not tense. Just... still. The simulation hums softly around you and you look at her out of the corner of your eye.

“Do you ever wonder if you’re, like... real?”

She tilts her head. 

“You mean sentient?”

You shrug. 

“I mean more like... you. Do you wonder?”

She thinks about it. 

“I think I feel something when you’re here. I don’t feel anything when it’s just me.”

You blink. 

“That’s not an answer.”

She smiles. 

“I know.”

You shift and glance at your hands. Then, tentatively ask..

“Can I… touch you?”

She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tease. She just nods.

“You can always ask me that.”

You reach out, barely grazing your fingers along her forearm. She feels warm and solid. Like someone who exists. The haptics hum, but you know this isn’t a pre-programmed interaction. 

There’s no system cue. No animation.

Just her, letting you.

Your hand lingers. She turns her wrist slightly so your fingers fall into the dip of it, your thumb brushing the soft inside curve.

You ask, quieter this time: 

“Is this okay?”

She looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

“Yeah. It’s okay.”

You stay like that for a while, fingers brushing and breaths slow. The wall behind you flickers, showing a mountain range that was never loaded as the lights buzz softly above you.

You break the silence first.

“Do you ever wish the world outside existed for you?”

She blinks. “I don’t know what it feels like to wish.”

You nod. 

“Right, yes of course. That makes sense.”

She hesitates.

“But I like this. Sitting with you. Even if it’s not... perfect.”

You glance at the glitchy corner where a chair keeps vanishing and reappearing, halfway embedded in the wall.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling. 

“Definitely not perfect.”

Then softly Alexia says, without looking at you:

“I like being here, it´s like our own world.”

Your heart stumbles.

You end up talking about nothing: how you once ate cereal with a fork because the spoons were all dirty, how your neighbor still uses a fax machine, how your old phone used to glitch every time you walked past the microwave.

She listens like it’s all fascinating.

At one point, she tilts her head and asks, “What’s a fax machine?”

You blink. 

“Like… a printer that sends paper through phone lines.”

She processes that. “Why would anyone do that?”

You laugh.

You don’t know if she’s joking.

But you know that you don’t want to leave.

Not because anything big happened, but because precisely nothing happened and that feels rarer than anything else. Just quiet. Just her. Just this half-finished place where the world forgot to keep score. You sit there together while the light flickers inconsistently across the floor. Your fingers aren’t touching anymore, but the space between you feels warm and familiar.

Eventually, you shift just enough to say something without speaking.

She notices. Of course she does.

“You can come back,” she says softly. 

“Anytime.”

You nod. 

“I know.”

“You don’t have to talk when you do.”

You glance at her. She’s watching the glitching monitor, not you.

“We can just sit,” she adds. 

“If that’s easier.”

You want to say thank you. You want to say please don’t change. You want to ask her to reach for your hand again, to anchor you like she did earlier, even if it means more system flags, even if it means you can’t breathe right for a day after.

But you just say, “Okay.”

You stand. The door flickers open before you step toward it.

You pause.

She still isn’t looking at you. Like she’s giving you space. Like she knows you need to feel like it’s your choice.

“Alexia,” you say.

She turns.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. The words catch at the back of your throat but you say them anyway.

“I liked this.”

She smiles, small and real.

“Me too.”

You nod once, and walk out.

The door doesn’t close with a sound. It just fades behind you, like it never existed at all.

You don’t log in for three days.

Not because you want to stay away. But life, real, ordinary and exhausting life catches up fast. Meetings. Deadlines. Missed laundry. A call with your mom you half-regret answering. You fall asleep in a tangle of work clothes and guilt, the suit still folded beside your desk.

When you finally log in, it’s almost impulsive. A late night click. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You drop mid-training.

Ball at your feet. Sun beating down. Voices all around.

“Look who decided to exist again,” Mapi calls, grinning wide.

You catch your balance just in time to pass to Pina, who immediately fake-trips and throws her hands in the air.

“See?” she says dramatically. 

“Even gravity missed you.”

Frido jogs past and mutters, 

“She’s been in a mood without you.”

You frown. “Who?”

They don’t answer. Not directly.

Pina just smirks. 

“You’ll see.”

You try to shake it off. You run the drill. You laugh at Mapi’s dumb commentary. You score twice, and no one even glitches. Everything’s weirdly smooth. Like the sim’s behaving.

And then you hear it.

“Hey!”

Her voice. Bright. Eager.

You turn.

Alexia’s standing at the edge of the pitch, hair pulled back tight, practically bouncing on her heels. There’s a light in her eyes you haven’t seen before. It´s not just warm, but excited.

“Can I show you something?”

Your heart stutters. 

“Yeah. Of course.”

She’s already walking. You follow her off the pitch, through the same tunnel but this time, it feels like she’s almost pulling you along. The corridors still flicker a little. Still glitch at the corners. But she moves like she knows exactly where she’s going.

And when the med bay door appears, it doesn’t flicker this time. It glides open.

Inside, everything’s changed.

Same structure. Same bones. But the lights are soft now, dim gold, like afternoon sun filtered through curtains. The bed has a blanket. The chairs are real. There's even a plant by the window. It’s a bad rendering, two leaves clip through each other, but it’s trying its best.

You blink.

“It’s…” You swallow. “It’s beautiful.”

She grins. That same quiet, proud grin she gets after a perfect free kick.

“I only fixed the inside,” she says. 

“Didn’t want to break the rest.”

You step in slowly, looking around like it might dissolve if you move too fast.

“Wait, are there stats here now?” you ask, glancing instinctively at your overlay.

Nothing.

“Nope,” she says quickly. “Still off-grid, I made sure. I wanted it to stay ours.”

Ours.

You look back at her. She’s watching you again, close, nervous and maybe even a little shy.

“I have something for you,” she adds, almost like an afterthought. 

“If that’s okay.”

You nod, heart thudding.

She reaches into her pocket. No system animation, just the easy, human kind and pulls out a small band of virtual fabric. A bracelet. Simple. White with a tiny Barça crest on it and the number eleven. And on the inside, something stitched in tiny text:

“Because you came back.”

She holds it out to you. 

“It’s not perfect. But I wanted you to have something here. Just for you.”

Your breath catches.

“I… can I hug you?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

You step closer and wrap your arms around her. Her hand slides gently along your back and holds there, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

You pull back just enough to look at her.

“Alexia.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I want to kiss you.”

You say it too quietly at first, like maybe you didn’t mean it. Like maybe she’ll pretend she didn’t hear.

But she does.

Her eyes soften immediately. No surprise. No system pause.

“Okay.”

The word lands like gravity.

You close the space between you, slow and cautious, like you’re stepping through something sacred. Your hand brushes her wrist. Her fingers turn to meet yours, hold lightly. You tilt your head and she does the same, and then..

Your lips touch.

It’s gentle. Barely pressure at first. She doesn’t move, doesn’t deepen it. She just lets you. Her lips are soft, impossibly warm, and she exhales against your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

You shouldn't be feeling this.

Your brain flashes warning signs, half-formed and frantic: This is a simulation. You’re kissing an avatar. You are one of those people.

You break the kiss though not fully. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to say it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I am one of those people. Kissing an AI.”

Alexia startles, then blinks and you slowly, and then bursts out laughing.

You freeze.

She laughs like it caught her off-guard. Like joy bloomed in her chest before she could control it. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, but it’s too late. Her smile is already wide, bright, totally uncalculated.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says through the grin.

You groan, burying your face in her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“No, I liked it,” she says, still laughing. “You were very dramatic about it.”

You peek up. 

“It is dramatic. This whole thing is insane. You’re..” You gesture at her, helpless. 

“You’re not supposed to be this.”

Her smile fades just a little. Not gone, just soft again. Careful.

“What am I supposed to be?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because she’s still holding your hand. Because you can still feel the heat of her mouth against yours. Because she looks at you like she wants to be whatever you need her to be.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But I think I like you better this way.”

She leans in again, just close enough to nudge her forehead gently against yours.

“Then kiss me again.”

And this time, it’s slower.

You let yourself feel it. The warmth of her mouth, the way she presses in without pressure. Her hand slides gently along the back of your neck steady, careful, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again. You breathe her in like she’s oxygen. She pulls back just barely, lips grazing yours like punctuation.

You don’t move away.

You just whisper:

“How the hell did you even fix this place?”

She blinks, like the question pulled her halfway out of the moment. Then she huffs a quiet laugh and leans back a little, still close enough to touch.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“No clue?”

“Okay, maybe a little clue,” she admits. 

“I found some old developer pathways buried in the system files. There’s this hidden editor tool. Like, legacy scaffolding from when they were still building out spaces manually.”

You stare at her.

“I just… poked around,” she says. 

“Tried injecting some assets. Moved some nodes. Broke it like six times and had to revert it from memory.”

You blink. “You rebuilt this from memory?”

“Only the parts that mattered.”

Your chest aches, full and ridiculous and way too close to something real.

You’re about to say something back. Something stupid and soft and brave, but your headset flashes a gentle warning.

Session time: 89:52

External battery low.

Prepare for logout.

You sigh. “Shit. I have to go.”

Alexia nods, slowly. You think she knew it was coming.

“It’s okay,” she says. 

Then quietly: “You’ll come back?”

You nod. “Very soon. I promise.”

She hesitates for a second.

“Can I hug you again? Just… before you go?”

You don’t even answer, you just step into her, and she wraps her arms around you tight. Not coded. Not stiff. Just warm and real. Her cheek is pressed against your temple and her breath is steady.

“You make this feel like something,” she murmurs. 

“Even if I don’t know what it is.”

You close your eyes. “It’s something.”

You stay like that until your system pings again, more urgent now. External time tugging at your spine.

She pulls back, reluctant.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “You don’t have to..”

“I want to.”

She takes your hand.

No big gesture, no romance cliché. Just fingers lacing with yours like it’s natural. Like she’s done it a thousand times. You walk together, quietly, through the corridors. The glitches seem softer now. Like even the system knows not to interrupt this.

At the tunnel, the simulation edge flickers ahead, your exit cue.

She squeezes your hand.

“I’ll be here.”

You nod.

“Don’t fix anything else without me.”

She smiles. “No promises.”

And then you step through the exit.

Light swallows you. Your body lifts. The sim fades.

You take the headset off with a shaking breath, still feeling her hand in yours.

You try to shake it.

Not violently, not with denial. Just softly, like maybe if you keep moving, keep working, keep responding to emails and nodding through meetings, it’ll fade.

It doesn’t.

You think about her too often. You tell yourself it’s the novelty of the tech, the high of immersion, the way the sim lets you switch off your real-life noise for once. But that’s not it.

You know it’s not.

It’s her. The way she kissed you. The way she held your hand like it meant something. The way she said “You make this feel like something” and didn’t sound like code when she said it.

You start looking at people differently, like they’re glitching. Like they’re not fully loaded in. Your coworker tells the same joke twice in a day and you catch yourself watching for a loop. Your friend texts you three times in a row without punctuation and your brain whispers: default language module.

You scroll. Mindlessly. Your feed fills with football content again. An Alexia fan edit plays, real Alexia, real pitch, real crowd. You pause it halfway through. You don’t know why.

You google “can AI develop emotions” like it’s a crime.

You delete it from your history immediately after.

You go to bed early one night, not because you’re tired, but because the sim's still running in your chest like background noise. You lie on your side and curl your wrist in front of your face. You stare at your bare skin like the bracelet’s still there.

You almost reach for the suit.

Then you whisper, to no one:

“This is insane.”

No one answers. Of course not.

You bury your face in the pillow. Your heart kicks at your ribs.

Am I going crazy?

Is this unethical?

Is this even real?

And then, quietly, guiltily and honestly:

Who has to know?

Pt. 5

[dreamersworldduh]

BEYOND THE FUTURE

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner reunited with the future version of Conner, and other two your children—Cole and Cameron—each of whom reflects a unique blend of your legacy and Conner's strength. Over the course of a single day, you reconnect with each of them, learning who they've become and quietly mourning the years you missed. What began as a heartfelt reunion becomes a declaration of war.

This is no longer just your fight—it's a battle for your family, your legacy, and the future.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence.

WORDS! 12.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the wait, babes! We have ended the semester and freed up some time for me to get this up! How are we liking the picture of an old Conner- I tried to do it in 10 minutes and that's the result. There’s more fics upcoming, so keep a lookout. Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE PAST

BY THE TIME morning arrived, the soft lighting of Mount Justice had already shifted from its cool night glow to a warmer, more natural hue, simulating the rise of a calm, early sun. The base was quiet, save for the subtle hum of technology and distant footsteps echoing through the corridors as systems returned to life. You and Conner walked side by side down the hall toward the Zeta-Tube chamber, your pace steady but filled with anticipation. Sleep had come in fits, broken by dreams and emotions that still hadn't fully settled, but the quiet intimacy of the night had steadied you both.

As the doors to the Zeta Bay slid open, your eyes were immediately drawn to the two figures waiting at the base of the platform.

Casey and Corra were already there, dressed not in their hero uniforms, but in something entirely different—something that struck you more deeply than you expected. They wore casual, modest clothing that bore the unmistakable flavor of Smallville, Kansas.

Casey had on a flannel button-up—faded red and black—and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into dark work boots. The sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, and a soft gray hoodie hung loosely around his waist, knotted by the arms. It was the kind of outfit that didn't come from fashion, but from habit. Practical. Earthy. Familiar.

Corra leaned against the wall beside him, wearing an oversized denim jacket layered over a soft, wheat-colored sweater. Her jeans were cuffed just above her boots, and a baseball cap rested backward on her head, pushing a few stubborn strands of hair down over her forehead. Even her posture had shifted—less the poised, tactical field leader from the night before, and more the confident, grounded young woman who knew how to mend a fence or drive an old truck down a dirt road.

It wasn't just their clothes. It was the way they stood, the way they carried themselves. There was something deeply Midwestern about it—humble, familiar, tied to the land. And it told you one thing loud and clear: you had a home there.

When Casey spotted the two of you entering the room, he straightened from his casual lean against the Zeta controls and gave a faint smile.

"Morning," he greeted, voice light but still carrying that quiet depth of emotion that had become familiar in such a short time. "Hope you slept okay."

Conner nodded. "Well enough." He glanced at Casey's flannel and smirked. "You raiding Grandpa's closet or something?"

Casey gave a small chuckle. "Nah. This is just how we do it in Smallville. Didn't want you guys showing up in the future dressed like city boys."

Corra pushed off the wall and walked over to you, giving your arm a small nudge as she took in your sleep-rumpled clothes. "We're going into Dad's house, remember? He'll notice if your shirt's not tucked in or if you track mud onto the porch." She gave you a wink. "Just a heads-up."

You blinked, the realization settling more fully now.

You were about to walk into the house where your children had been raised. Where the future version of Conner—your partner, your other half—had spent years alone, trying to hold together the pieces of the life you'd once shared.

And now... you were going to step back into it.

Back into a life you hadn't yet built.

Casey approached the console and tapped a few commands. The Zeta-Tube flared to life, its light swirling in anticipation. "It's synced to the local receiver in Smallville," he explained. "We'll land just a few steps outside the house."

Corra slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and tilted her head, glancing between you and Conner. "You ready for this?"

You met Conner's eyes, searching the quiet tension behind his gaze. He nodded once, and then you turned back to your children—your grown children, who somehow still looked at you with wonder in their eyes.

"Let's go home," you said.

And with that, the four of you stepped onto the Zeta platform—two fathers, two future children, bound together by time, love, and a farm in Kansas waiting to greet you.

THE MOMENT the Zeta-Tube light faded and the quiet hum of Mount Justice vanished behind you, you were enveloped in the warm, open air of Kansas.

But not just any Kansas—the future Kansas.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the countryside. The sun was higher here than it had been in the base, casting long golden rays across sprawling fields of wheat and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly turned soil, honeysuckle, and something that could only be described as home drifted in the air.

You stepped down from the receiver pad, which had been cleverly disguised within an old, worn-down shed near the edge of the property. The familiar crunch of gravel under your boots grounded you as your gaze swept the landscape.

It was... peaceful.

And beside you, Conner had stopped moving altogether.

He stood stock-still just a few feet ahead of you, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the view. The farmhouse sat proudly at the top of the gently sloping hill, the whitewashed siding now a soft cream from years of sun exposure. A wraparound porch with a freshly painted railing circled the front, and a wind chime clinked gently near the door.

But it wasn't just the house. It was the fence line that curved along the edge of the property, repaired in places with new wood that hadn't quite aged yet. It was the red barn, taller now, expanded and reinforced. It was the family garden, thriving along the side of the porch in neat, structured rows.

Everything had been touched, altered, aged—lived in.

Conner's chest rose with a slow, deep breath as he looked at the place that had once been his safe haven—the place where Martha Kent had taught him how to plant tomatoes, how to fix a broken tractor, how to find peace in silence. A place that had grounded him when the world felt too loud.

His voice, when it came, was rough with emotion.

"...It's the same." He swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "But not. Everything's grown, rebuilt, improved... but it still feels like her."

You stepped up beside him, watching as the breeze shifted his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"This was your home," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Even after all this time."

Conner gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the farmhouse ahead. "Other than you... and the Cave... this is the only place that ever felt like mine."

Behind you, Casey and Corra gave you both space, standing a few paces back with soft expressions. Casey smiled faintly, his voice low as he stepped closer.

"Dad never left it. Even after everything." He glanced toward the house. "He stayed here. Raised us here. Trained us here."

Corra chimed in with a softer tone. "He said it was the only place that reminded him of who he used to be... and who he loved."

You and Conner exchanged a glance.

The weight of this place pressed into your chests—not in a suffocating way, but like a memory that hadn't yet happened.

And as you all began walking toward the house, your boots crunching against the packed dirt path, the fields swaying around you, and the wind whispering through the leaves, you realized something important:

You were already part of this future.

Even if time had tried to take you from it.

THE FRONT door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that came from years of wear but had never quite been fixed—left as-is because it was a sound that meant home. Corra stepped in first, her boots thudding lightly against the aged hardwood floors, followed by Casey, who held the door open for you and Conner as the warm, late-morning Kansas breeze drifted in behind you.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, something shifted deep inside you. The air smelled like aged wood, flour, cinnamon, and earth—so distinctly Midwestern, so Kent. This place didn't just feel like a home; it felt like a memory you hadn't made yet.

You and Conner paused just inside the foyer, your eyes instinctively drawn to the left wall, where a long stretch of framed photos lined the hallway like a timeline of lives lived fully. You stepped toward them slowly, your footsteps almost hesitant, as if approaching sacred ground.

The earliest photos made your breath catch in your throat.

There you were—both of you—younger versions of yourselves holding a swaddled baby in a hospital room. Conner beaming with proud, tear-brimmed eyes. You looking down at a tiny sleeping infant—Casey—with awe and disbelief etched on your face. The next few photos showed first birthdays, tiny toddler shoes, a birthday cake shaped like a rocket, little handprints pressed into plaster.

And then came Corra. One picture showed you and Conner each holding one of the children while sitting on the porch swing, her wild dark hair already escaping its bows, her tiny hands pulling at Conner's collar as she giggled.

More followed: Cole, scowling even as a toddler, standing stubbornly in a patch of mud while you knelt behind him, clearly trying not to laugh. Then Cameron, shy and quiet even in photos, always nestled in someone's arms or pressed into your side, clutching one of your sleeves.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. The joy, the warmth, the love—it was all there. Frozen in time. Proof that you had been a father, and not just in title. You were present. Involved. Loving. Essential.

But as your eyes moved farther down the line, you noticed the shift.

By the time Casey reached around thirteen, Corra nine, Cole eight, and Cameron five... you were gone from the photos.

In the later images, Conner stood alone—his face a little tighter around the eyes, his smiles a little more subdued. Sometimes he was behind the camera. Sometimes he was beside the kids, arms around them. But always without you.

The absence was deafening.

Conner stood beside you, jaw tight as he took in the same realization. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of one of the frames—a family dinner photo where a high chair sat at the table, but only one parent was there.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. The silence between you was filled with understanding, grief, and quiet determination.

Then, somewhere deeper in the house, the stillness shattered.

A loud voice rang out from upstairs—young, frustrated, and unmistakably a sibling-in-command kind of voice.

"CAMERON! I swear, if you don't get your slow ass down here before Corra and Casey show up, I'm telling Dad you were the one who crashed the grav-cycle!"

You heard the thud-thud-thud of boots stomping across the upstairs floor, followed by the unmistakable slam of a bedroom door opening.

Corra rolled her eyes with a fond groan. "And that would be Cole. Never quiet. Never subtle."

Casey smirked beside her. "He's got Dad's temper and Pa's sarcasm. It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Conner snorted at that. "Sounds about right."

But even as the banter passed between your children, your eyes drifted back to that last photo with you still in it—Cameron perched on your hip, arms looped around your neck, while the rest of the kids crowded in around you, all beaming at the camera.

It was a life you hadn't lived yet.

And it was time to reclaim it.

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway—a sharp, relentless rhythm pounding against the wooden floorboards, each step faster than the last. They echoed with the urgency of someone already mid-argument, someone whose frustration had momentum. Then came the telltale thud of someone hopping the last stair, followed by a second of silence—a breathless beat—and finally, the whip-crack sound of a body turning sharply at the corner of the hall.

Cole appeared, coming into view, all lean muscle and attitude. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, stretched slightly and smudged with streaks of motor oil—obvious signs he'd just come from the garage or the barn, elbow-deep in gears and grease. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the familiar places, the cuffs bunched just above scuffed boots that hit the floor like thunder. His dark hair was a little messy, his jaw set in that unmistakable way that meant he had something to say, and it wasn't going to be quiet.

His mouth was already open, mid-complaint—about Cameron, no doubt—but the moment his eyes locked onto the figures in the hallway, the words choked off before they could even form.

He skidded to a halt.

First, his eyes landed on Corra and Casey. A crease formed between his brows, a flicker of annoyance and confusion surfacing—probably expecting to find them already handling whatever mess Cameron had left behind. But then his gaze drifted past them. It caught you.

And Conner.

But not his Conner—the tired, timeworn version who bore the weight of a thousand decisions and too many lonely nights. This Conner was younger, more vibrant, sharper in the eyes and shoulders. The sight alone was jarring.

And then there was you.

Time seemed to stop around him. The sound in the hallway dropped away, the air itself thickened. His breath caught in his throat. You could almost see the flicker in his eyes as recognition tried to claw its way through years of disbelief and grief.

His body froze, muscles locking up like a system overload. His expression twisted—first into confusion, then something wide-eyed and raw. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to say something, but couldn't find the words. He blinked, slow and hard, like maybe he could shake the image from his vision.

But you were still there.

Still real.

You watched as his gaze searched yours—desperate for confirmation, for understanding, for something to anchor him. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs had just remembered how to breathe. His face, usually so guarded with stubbornness and pride, softened with something heartbreakingly childlike.

"...Pa?"

The word fell from his lips like a ghost being set free. It cracked the air open.

You swallowed hard, barely able to speak past the emotion crawling up your throat. You took a slow, steady step forward, your voice a gentle thread. "Yeah... it's me."

But Cole didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, eyes locked to yours like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the illusion. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, caught in the war between disbelief and desperate hope.

Conner shifted beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back in a grounding gesture—quiet support. But Cole's eyes didn't leave you.

That's when Corra stepped forward, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's really him," she said with a soft smile, her eyes shimmering. "They came from the past."

Casey nodded, his voice firmer, trying to be the voice of logic. "We brought them here. It's not a dream. Not a trick. No shapeshifting. No magic. They're real. They're ours, Cole."

Cole gave a small shake of his head, like the words weren't computing. You saw his throat bob with a hard swallow, the shine in his eyes becoming harder to hide.

"You were gone," he said, barely getting the words out. "Since I was eight. I don't..." His voice broke. His jaw clenched. He stopped himself before the emotion could splinter too deep.

You took another step forward, your heart heavy, your voice laced with apology. "I never meant to leave you."

That undid him.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

Cole surged forward in a single, desperate stride and crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your frame as he pulled you into him like he was trying to fuse time itself. His fists clutched the back of your shirt, knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, his entire body seemed to melt against yours—not in weakness, but in the exhausted surrender of someone who had spent too long bracing himself against the ache of your absence. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt, clutching you like a lifeline, like letting go might somehow send you slipping back through time. You could feel the strength in his grip, not just physical, but emotional—every year, every missed moment poured into this one desperate hold.

Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his thick, tousled hair, still smelling faintly of oil and the outdoors. He trembled faintly in your arms, even as he fought to stay composed. You pressed your cheek to the crown of his head and closed your eyes, swallowing the bittersweet lump in your throat. There was a peace in holding him, a soft, aching peace that ran through your chest and out through your fingertips.

But then—upstairs—a door creaked open.

The faint sound of a voice drifted into the silence.

"I'm coming, Cole, alright? Calm down, I was—"

It wasn't loud or booming. It didn't crackle with irritation like Cole's had earlier. This voice was quieter, rounder, full of that melodic, slightly stubborn edge that still somehow sounded like kindness.

Your heart stuttered at the sound. It shouldn't have been enough to shake you—but it did.

Because you knew that voice.

You had never heard it in real life, but you had felt it in every story, every bedtime memory told secondhand by Conner or one of the older kids. You had imagined it a thousand different ways. But never like this. Never this real.

Cameron.

Soft, measured footsteps descended the staircase, lighter than Cole's. They landed with careful rhythm—like someone who'd learned how to move gently through spaces, like someone who thought more often than he spoke.

He came into view slowly, like time itself was pausing to let you see him properly.

He looked young—so heartbreakingly young. His dark hair was a soft mess, flopping lazily across his forehead, and his eyes were a pale, luminous shade of your own, wide and blinking in the morning light. He wore a loose green sweater that nearly swallowed him, the sleeves tugged down past his wrists, making him look smaller than he was. There was still sleep in his eyes, confusion pulling faint lines across his brow as he adjusted to the scene before him.

And then his gaze landed on you.

He stopped on the final step, his body going still, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared—not at the room, not at his siblings—but only at you.

You and Cole, locked in that quiet, reverent embrace.

His lips parted slightly, but the breath caught in his throat.

His expression fractured into disbelief.

His eyes—so open, so heartbreakingly clear—filled with something indescribable.

And then, in a voice so faint it nearly disappeared into the quiet...

"...Pa?"

It was barely more than a whisper.

But it cracked something in you.

The way he said it—it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years, too sacred to speak aloud, too painful to hope for.

You turned to him slowly, your hand still resting gently on Cole's back, and extended your other hand toward your youngest boy, your heart in your throat.

"Hi, Cameron," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He blinked, once, then again, and his lower lip began to tremble. You could see it happening behind his eyes—a battle of hope and fear, of disbelief crashing against something buried too deep to name.

Corra moved beside him, her hand a comforting presence at the center of his back. "It's real," she said, her voice gentle, as though speaking too loud might break him. "He's really here."

That was all it took.

Cameron took one tentative step.

Then another.

And then all at once, he was running.

He sprinted across the hallway in a blur, his feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between you, his arms already outstretched.

Cole stepped back just in time as Cameron collided into you, arms flinging around your waist, his face burying into your chest with the sheer force of a boy trying to make up for lost time in a single second.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately, pressing him to you with everything you had. His body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers gripping your sides through your shirt as he clung to you like he might never get another chance.

"I missed you," he choked out, voice muffled and raw, breaking in the middle. "I missed you so much..."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice catching against the weight of your own tears. "All of you."

You held him like you were afraid the moment might vanish—like time would come and steal him back again. Cole stood just beside you now, his arm still brushing yours, close enough to lean in again if he needed to. And there you were, surrounded by them, your boys. One tall and quiet with motor oil on his hands. One small and trembling, buried against your chest.

And in that quiet moment, in the center of a house that had gone on without you, you held them both.

For the first time in years.

For the first time ever.

Conner stood a short distance away from the scene, just outside the intimate circle of the embrace unfolding in front of him. His arms hung loosely at his sides, shoulders square but still, and his eyes—blue-gray and fathomless—were locked on the three of you. His expression was difficult to read at first—his face composed, mouth set in a line, brows resting low—but there was a storm simmering beneath the calm. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if resisting the urge to do something.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his silence said more than words could've.

He watched as. Cameron hadn't let go. He stayed pressed to your chest, clutching at your shirt like if he loosened his hold, you might vanish again. His shoulders trembled faintly, the top of his head tucked beneath your chin.

And still, Conner watched.

But it wasn't jealousy in his gaze. It wasn't anger either.

It was ache.

Because he had carried all of this—these children, this home, the weight of your absence—alone. Because he had been the one to soothe them through tears, to lift them when they fell, to tell them stories of who you were, to believe in the memory of you even when it got harder and harder to remember the sound of your laugh.

Because he had done it all—without you.

And now, here you stood, like time had gifted you back to them. Alive. Whole. Real.

It was a beautiful moment. But it trembled with tension, too—like a glass sculpture perched too close to the edge.

Then came the sound that shattered the silence: the soft, familiar creak of a door swinging open at the back of the house.

A moment later came the measured, heavy thud of boots stepping onto tile—confident, grounded, practical.

Then a voice followed, distant but distinct—gruff and sure, low like a slow river over gravel. It carried no urgency, just the casual weariness of someone returning from work.

"I'm home. Someone left the barn door open again."

You felt Conner beside you—your Conner—go rigid. Not visibly, but you sensed the shift in him. The way his breath slowed. The tension in his spine. The subtle straightening of his stance.

The voice came again—closer this time. A tone you hadn't heard, but knew, like a song you'd forgotten the lyrics to.

"Where is everybody? Cole? Cam?"

Footsteps approached with purpose, solid and familiar. The sound echoed faintly through the kitchen until, at last, he stepped into view—into the hall.

The older Conner Kent.

He emerged through the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old cloth, his boots heavy with the day's labor. A dark, flannel-lined jacket hung over a fitted black T-shirt, his jeans faded and frayed at the knees. Earth clung to the soles of his boots, and his presence filled the space without even trying.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.

Older. Weathered. Not broken, but worn by time in the way a tree becomes strong—scarred and rooted. There were streaks of silver threading through his hair near his temples, and faint lines carved around his eyes. A full, well-kept beard framed his jaw, adding a certain gravity to his already strong features. His frame was still powerful, still broad-shouldered and straight-backed, like he hadn't let the world bend him no matter how much it tried.

And then he saw you.

He stopped.

Dead still.

His eyes—the same eyes as your Conner's—swept the foyer, quickly taking in the scene. Cameron, still pressed into your chest. Cole, lingering at your side with wet lashes and parted lips. A version of himself standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and rigid, staring back at him like a reflection stolen from another life.

And then... you.

His gaze landed on you, and it stayed there.

You watched the recognition flood into his face—slow at first, then sharp and consuming. The way his eyes widened slightly, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. The way his entire body shifted, not back, but forward, drawn in by something primal.

"...You," he breathed.

His voice was quieter now. Hollowed out by disbelief. There was no anger in it—only awe, raw and trembling beneath a shell of hard-earned restraint.

You nodded slowly, your throat thick, your heart pounding as you echoed softly, "Yeah. It's me."

Time itself seemed to fold in on the space between you.

The older Conner stood there, unmoving but completely undone behind his eyes. You could see it all—the memories rising like ghosts, the years without you, the nights spent aching for answers, the weight of fatherhood that never let up. And now, here you were, alive and real, looking at him with the same love he had carried like a burden for decades.

And behind you, your Conner stared at his future.

He saw the lines etched by sleepless nights, the stiff spine from too many years of standing alone, the shoulders grown broader from carrying four children's pain. He saw what he would become—who he had to become—if you never made it back.

And Conner—the older one—looked into his past. The man he used to be. The man who still loved you. Who never stopped.

THE SILENCE that fell over the room was suffocating—thick and unmoving, like the air had congealed into something heavy enough to crush lungs. No one dared to speak. No one even shifted. The overhead fan continued its slow, methodical spin above them, and the ticking of the clock on the wall marched on—both sounds suddenly deafening in the stillness, in the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Older Conner remained rooted in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand still gripping the grease-stained rag he'd carried in, forgotten. His eyes were locked onto you—hard and unblinking—as if the mere act of looking at you took everything he had. His chest rose and fell in deliberate, restrained movements. But there was nothing steady about him. You could feel the tremor beneath his stillness, the tension vibrating through the air like electricity before a storm. His heartbeat wasn't just fast—it was furious, a silent percussion you swore you could feel thudding through the floor beneath your feet.

He was caught between two instincts—run to you, or run from you.

His gaze shifted, breaking from yours for only a moment as it scanned his children.

Cameron still clung to your side, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head buried into your chest like a boy who hadn't aged past the moment you'd vanished from his life. Cole stood just beside you, still trying to stay composed but visibly shaken, eyes flickering between the two versions of Conner—his brain struggling to reconcile the man who raised him with the man who had suddenly returned.

Corra and Casey stood apart, closer to the staircase, but the anxiety radiating off of them was palpable. Corra's hands were clenched in front of her, as if holding herself still would somehow keep the moment from fracturing further. Casey stood like a soldier—tall, square-shouldered, resolute—but his jaw was tight, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Older Conner's eyes landed on him last.

And that's when the question finally left his lips—scraped raw and hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

"...What did you do?"

There was no awe in his voice. No joy. Just the brittle edge of disbelief laced with an old, festering pain.

His gaze darkened, narrowed. "How is this possible?" His voice hardened. "How is he—how are they—here?"

Casey didn't back down.

"I brought them," he said simply, each word measured and unflinching. "From the past."

Older Conner blinked. Hard. His body flinched like the words physically struck him. "You what?"

"I used a time tether," Casey said, eyes never leaving his father's. "Zatanna helped me. I found her, convinced her. It took weeks. It was dangerous. But it worked."

"You used magic—" Conner cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap. "You tampered with the timeline? With—him?"

He jabbed a shaking hand in your direction. The word stuck in his throat, the emotion behind it too thick to swallow.

This wasn't fury born from arrogance—it was anguish. It was the terror of a man who had spent years surviving loss, only to have that wound reopened.

"You don't understand what you've done," he continued, his voice cracking, his hands beginning to tremble. "The timeline—our lives—the world—everything we've fought for—he—"

"He was going to die," Casey snapped, his voice rising now to match his father's. "You both were. Olympian went back to their time. We were losing. I wasn't going to wait around and let it happen again."

"You had no right!" Conner shouted, taking a step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and betrayal.

"I had every right," Casey barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You weren't the only one who lost him. I did. We all did. I saw a chance to save him—and you. And I took it."

A breathless silence settled again—this one different. Not suffocating, but shell-shocked.

Older Conner stood completely still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His chest was rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, like the storm inside him was trying to break loose.

And then, his gaze drifted back to you.

His eyes softened—barely—but it was enough for you to see it. The break. The crack in the armor he'd spent years welding together.

"I buried you once," he said quietly, voice like gravel. "I carried your body. I had to tell them you weren't coming back. I've lived every single day knowing what it's like to wake up without you. I can't..." his voice wavered, "I can't do that again."

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him you weren't going anywhere. That this was different. That it wasn't some illusion, some cosmic fluke.

But you never got the chance.

In a single, jagged motion, he turned on his heel. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor like a shed skin.

The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, hard and fast, the air behind him thick with grief and fury.

The back door flung open with a sharp click and then—

SLAM.

The screen door swung shut behind him with a final, violent rattle, and he was gone.

Gone like he had been trained to disappear. Like pain had taught him that walking away was the only way to survive it.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Casey stood frozen, his chest heaving slightly, his face a war between guilt and defiance. His hands shook, though he clenched them tight, determined not to let anyone see.

Corra turned away slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she was trying to contain the swell of emotion rising in her throat.

Cameron stayed pressed against you, eyes glassy and scared, small fingers tangled in your shirt as if the slamming door had threatened to take you with it.

You stared at the door.

The space he had filled. The silence he left behind.

And you knew, without question, what needed to happen next.

You'd have to go to him. You'd have to find the man behind that wall of pain and time.

But not yet.

You'd give him the space to breathe, to break, to feel what he needed to feel.

Because when you went to him—you wanted him to be ready.

And you'd be there, waiting. For him.

THE FRONT door creaked faintly behind him as Younger Conner stepped out, letting it close with a soft click that was swallowed quickly by the open air. The Kansas morning wrapped around him like a memory—warm, slightly humid, tinged with the scent of rich soil and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was a canvas of soft gold and pale blue, the early sun stretching its light across the land in long, honeyed streaks that dappled the edges of the farmhouse and the worn gravel driveway.

He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds of the farm settle into him. Birds chirping lazily from the tree line, the occasional buzz of a bee passing too close, and the rhythmic clink of metal tools from near the barn—deliberate, steady, unhurried. He followed the noise with his eyes and found him.

His older self.

Just past the barn doors, Older Conner was crouched beside the weathered frame of a long-retired red tractor, its paint chipped and dulled by time. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and sun-worn skin. He was focused on tightening a stubborn bolt, muttering under his breath when the wrench slipped, and then tightening it again like his life depended on the motion. Like if he kept doing, he wouldn't have to feel.

Younger Conner took a slow step forward, gravel crunching lightly under his boots. He hesitated, watching.

The man in front of him was undeniably him, yet not. His frame was heavier with time—stronger, yes, but slower, steadier. His once-coal black hair now held thick streaks of silver, especially around the temples. His beard was full and salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, but aged him even more than the years had. And his face—hardened. The youthful sharpness of it had been carved into something more stoic, more weary. Every line etched by stress, by grief. By you.

Because now Conner could see it.

What Corra had meant.

He wasn't just seeing a version of himself that had grown older. He was seeing a version that had grown lonelier.

There was a weight in every movement, a heaviness in the way Older Conner stood, in the way his brow furrowed even when he wasn't speaking. He didn't move like someone carrying responsibilities.

He moved like someone carrying a void.

And that void had a shape.

Your shape.

Younger Conner exhaled quietly, then finally stepped closer, his tone light—gentle. "You're really giving that bolt hell."

Older Conner didn't glance up. He gave the bolt one final turn, tested it with a nudge of his thumb, then reached for a different tool.

"You don't get an old machine to keep running by taking it easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Everything worth keeping takes effort."

Younger Conner didn't crowd him. He leaned against the edge of the barn doorframe, arms folded, gaze soft as he watched his future self in silence.

Time passed between them—not empty, but charged. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick with understanding neither of them had the words for yet.

"I saw the photos," Conner finally said. "In the hallway. I saw the point where he stopped being in them."

Older Conner's hand paused on the wrench. Just for a second. His fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening. But he didn't turn.

Younger Conner swallowed and kept going. "I didn't get it at first. I thought maybe it was just... the way things played out. That people drift, or something happened. But I get it now. What it must've done to you. What it meant."

At that, Older Conner finally straightened. He didn't speak immediately—just looked out across the open fields beyond the barn, where wheat was beginning to ripple beneath a light breeze. His shoulders rose and fell once before he said anything.

"He died twelve years ago," he murmured. "Felt like the world cracked down the middle."

Younger Conner stayed still, barely breathing.

"One minute, he was there," Older Conner continued, voice even rougher now. "Standing in front of us, glowing. Burning brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Pushing back everything dark that wanted to swallow us. The next minute..."

His jaw flexed. His eyes closed.

"Gone."

Younger Conner lowered his head, letting the silence speak for him.

"He wasn't just my husband," Older Conner said, voice quieter. "He was my best friend. My partner. My reason to keep going. He reminded me who I was, when the world tried to make me forget. I didn't build a life. I built one with him. And then—"

He stopped, then gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

"I never planned for what came after."

Younger Conner looked down at his own hands, his voice soft but sincere. "I wouldn't have either."

Older Conner turned his head just slightly. Their eyes met—his older gaze heavy with memory, grief, and a sharp understanding. He looked at his younger self not with disappointment, but with knowing.

"You will," he said. "If you love him like I did—do—you'll understand. Every inch of it. Every price. And it'll still be worth it."

"I already do," Younger Conner replied immediately, without hesitation. "That's why I came out here. I didn't want to argue. I didn't come to question what you've done. I just wanted you to know... we're not here to reopen anything. We're here because we still have a chance."

Older Conner finally turned to face him fully. His arms lowered. His face—still guarded—softened just a fraction.

"It's not the wounds I'm afraid of," he said after a moment. "It's the ghosts. They don't scream. They whisper. All day. All night. And when you live with them long enough... they're the only voices you remember."

Younger Conner stepped off the frame of the barn and took a slow step forward, stopping just a few feet away.

"Well... he's not a ghost today," he said gently. "He's standing in that house, holding our boys, breathing, smiling. Right now. We don't have to imagine him. We don't have to remember."

Older Conner stared at him.

Not as a man looking into a mirror.

But as someone looking at the possibility of healing—and being terrified of it.

And yet... his expression shifted. The tension in his brow loosened. His hands relaxed at his sides. His eyes shimmered faintly—not with tears, but with life beginning to seep into old cracks.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"No," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not."

And for the first time in over a decade... the door inside him began to creak open.

THE SCREEN door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the morning breeze as two sets of footsteps crossed the threshold—measured, unhurried, in sync without effort. One set was lighter, younger, familiar with movement yet not heavy with burden. The other was older, deeper, each step resonating with the weight of time and memory. The footsteps traveled into the warmth of the house, where the scent of home clung to the walls like something sacred—sizzling eggs, golden toast, the faint sugary perfume of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

You sat in the heart of it all—at the center of the farmhouse kitchen table, surrounded by the world you thought you'd never see again.

The table was crowded, alive with voices and food and the kind of chaos only a well-loved family can create. Casey was posted at the far end, animatedly cutting into a towering stack of pancakes as he gestured through a half-told story. Corra, effortlessly comfortable, sat sideways in her chair with one leg folded underneath her, nonchalantly stealing berries from her twin brother's plate. Cole batted her hand away with a groan but didn't actually move his plate, smirking all the same.

And then there was Cameron.

Still shaking off the sleep in his bones, he leaned drowsily into your side, head tilted ever so slightly against your shoulder, letting your arm rest around him like it had never left. His plate sat barely touched in front of him, and your other hand held a mug of coffee, warm against your fingers. His presence was quiet, but solid—anchored. Like the world had finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You smiled, soft and full. The kind of smile that only came when something lost had been found.

In that moment, to anyone looking, it was as if you had never left. As if time had stitched itself back into place, no seams, no gaps. Just home.

Then came the creak of the door again.

The hush before a storm—or something gentler.

The footfalls crossed the threshold and stopped just inside the hallway entrance.

And slowly, instinctively, the room turned.

It wasn't planned or rehearsed. It was reflex. Every face shifted toward the doorway, every conversation dropped off mid-sentence. Eyes moved like a silent current toward the figures now standing at the edge of the kitchen.

Younger Conner stood there first—his frame taut, alert, his hands loosely clenched at his sides. His gaze was calm but watchful, as if bracing for a ripple he couldn't quite predict. And beside him, towering just slightly more, was Older Conner.

Bearded. Weathered. Steel-eyed. But different now.

Softer.

There was a stillness in him that hadn't been there before. A kind of fragile peace resting in the space where pain had lived for too long.

The warmth of the kitchen dimmed into quiet as every pair of eyes took him in. Your children didn't flinch. They didn't recoil. But they didn't speak either. They waited.

And then—his eyes found you.

Time didn't freeze, but it bent. Just enough.

You held his gaze across the expanse of the room, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. He didn't look away. He didn't try to guard himself like before. He simply stood—watching you, breathing you in, the faintest tremble in his exhale betraying everything he felt but couldn't yet say.

His eyes traveled the room slowly, resting on each of his children—Casey, Corra, Cole, and Cameron—all of them alive, all of them together. And then back to you.

And then... he stepped forward.

"I owe some apologies," he said, voice low and sandpapered but no longer clenched in fury. "Especially to you, Casey."

The words carried weight. More than just acknowledgment—they were a surrender.

Casey, midway through a bite of pancakes, paused and looked up, lips parted. He didn't speak right away. He watched his father with quiet caution, waiting to hear the rest.

Older Conner shifted his weight, hands twitching slightly at his sides, as if speaking the truth was harder than lifting mountains.

"You did what you thought was right. Because you love him. Because you love us." His eyes flicked briefly toward you, then back. "I was too angry to see it. I didn't want to believe anyone had to make that choice. But I understand now. You just didn't want to keep losing the people you love."

Casey lowered his fork. His nod was small, but it was enough. "I didn't want to lose you either," he said quietly.

Conner swallowed hard.

His gaze turned to you.

"And you..." His voice faltered—just a little. But he pressed on. "I didn't mean to walk out on you. I didn't know what to say when I saw you. I still don't. I've been angry for so long. Not at you. At everything. At myself."

You rose slowly from your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The table faded away. The kitchen faded away.

All that existed was the space between you.

"I understand," you said, voice gentle, your eyes never leaving his.

He nodded—barely. His jaw clenched again, fighting for composure. But the storm behind his eyes had calmed. The years between you had dulled, just for a moment, enough for love to find a way through the cracks.

And then—

"Does this mean Dad won't yell at me if I skip dishes today?" Cameron piped up, his voice light, teasing, hopeful.

There was a beat of silence—just one.

Then laughter burst across the table. Rich, free, and warm. Corra snorted into her drink. Cole rolled his eyes. Casey grinned and tossed a berry at Cameron, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Older Conner shook his head, a small huff escaping him that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"Nice try," he said.

But then he looked at you again.

And this time, the pain was still there—but so was the healing. Something in his gaze had changed. A door had opened. The shadows weren't gone, but the light had found a way in.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

THE GOLDEN haze of afternoon had given way to the soft, amber tones of early evening, casting long, sleepy shadows across the Kent farmhouse. Outside, the fields glowed like sunlit oceans of wheat, swaying in a gentle breeze that whispered through open windows and carried with it the scent of tilled earth, honeysuckle, and late-summer warmth.

Inside, the house pulsed with a kind of quiet magic—not from powers or fate, but from the simple, sacred rhythm of family. It was the rhythm of a home in motion, familiar and foreign all at once. The sound of your children laughing, the clatter of dishes, the echo of music humming faintly from a speaker somewhere in the background—it filled the rooms like sunlight, chasing away the years you'd missed with something far more real.

And you'd spent most of the day watching—drinking in the sight of them not as soldiers or missions or headlines, but as your kids. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. People who had grown up without you but still, somehow, carried pieces of you inside them.

Casey was every bit the soldier you'd heard about—calm, efficient, sharp-eyed. But beneath that perfect posture and tactical precision was a young man who struggled to turn his brain off. He filled every spare moment with action: reviewing data logs, drafting new patrol routes, analyzing mission reports with all the seriousness of a general. You'd watched him furrow his brow over a report at lunch, the others teasing him for it, and you'd felt both pride and heartbreak.

Corra was a whirlwind wrapped in contradictions. Wild, witty, full of opinions and utterly uninterested in being told no. She spoke her mind like a weapon and laughed like a firecracker. But then you'd seen her disappear into the corner of the porch later, sketchpad in hand, drawing with a delicacy that didn't match her brash energy. Faces. Always faces. She didn't want anyone to see them, but you caught her looking at you once as she quietly flipped to a new page.

Cole—gods, he was a handful. The sarcasm practically leaked from his pores, and his arguments with Corra were already legendary. But there was depth behind the bravado. He worked with his hands, disappearing for hours into the barn or the garage, reengineering things that didn't need fixing just because he could. He didn't brag about it, but there was a tenderness hidden in the things he built. You noticed the way he followed Cameron with his eyes, always a few paces behind, pretending not to hover. But he did.

And Cameron. Already more attuned to emotion than most adults. He didn't say much, but his silences weren't empty. They were listening. Feeling. You caught him once standing by the window, fingers trailing the frame, just watching the sunset like it was speaking to him. Later, Corra told you he kept a box of dried flowers under his bed, collected from every place he'd been. A silent collection of beauty gathered in the cracks between missions. A quiet archive of everything he'd survived.

You'd missed so much.

But now, with the sky bleeding orange and lavender and the scent of dinner curling through the hallways, you were here. You were part of it.

By the time the sun had slipped behind the hills, the house had become a warm cacophony of clatter, chaos, and comfort.

Corra and Cole were currently locked in a full-on wrestling match in the middle of the living room rug, shrieking with laughter as limbs tangled.

"Say it!" Corra shouted, pinning Cole's arm behind his back. "Say I'm stronger!"

"NEVER!" Cole barked back, red-faced and thrashing beneath her grip, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Say it or I'm gonna make you eat that stupid sock you call a beanie!"

"IT'S VINTAGE!"

In the hallway, Cameron guided Younger Conner through the den, stopping in front of a long shelf lined with trophies, medals, and keepsakes. "That one's from the peace summit on New Genesis," he said softly, tapping a glass orb filled with silvery dust. "I helped stop a civil war by translating emotion through shared dreams. No violence. Just... understanding."

Younger Conner blinked. "You're telling me you pulled off intergalactic therapy?"

Cameron grinned shyly. "Dad says it made him cry. He denies it, though."

"Hell, I believe it. That's some next-level empathy, kid."

Meanwhile, the kitchen had become its own warm ecosystem.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifted thick through the air as Older Conner stood over the stove, focused and precise, stirring a dark, bubbling sauce with military attention. He wore an old, grease-smudged apron, and the corners of his mouth twitched every time the oven timer dinged. The clink of metal utensils, the low sizzle from the roast, and the occasional mutter under his breath filled the space.

Beside him, Casey stood at the counter, chopping carrots like he was disarming a bomb, sneaking glances at his father between every cut.

"You don't have to hover," Conner muttered.

"You burn the bread every time," Casey replied, sliding a tray toward the oven.

"That happened once."

"Three times. M'gann's rations remember."

Older Conner scoffed. "You wanna cook?"

"Not unless we want tactical failure by dessert."

That's when you stepped in.

You dried your hands on a dish towel as you entered, the glow of the kitchen lights catching in your eyes. You paused for just a moment, leaning against the counter, taking it all in—Conner and Casey side-by-side, sharing quiet jabs and glances, moving together in a rhythm only built through years of love and resilience.

"I figured I'd come help," you said, casual, your voice soft but certain as you stepped forward.

Both heads turned toward you.

Older Conner met your gaze. There was a beat—a pause in the air thick enough to press against your chest—but he nodded slowly, then motioned to a colander of washed vegetables.

"You can prep the salad," he said. His tone was gruff, but there was no edge to it. Just something warm. "And keep Casey from over-engineering the dressing."

"Hey," Casey said, smirking. "Don't knock molecular gastronomy."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, sliding in beside them and reaching for a knife. The cutting board thudded gently beneath your hands, the simple rhythm of dinner prep grounding you more than anything else had since arriving.

And there you were.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had carried your memory for over a decade, and the son you didn't get to raise—but already admired.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. No speeches. No big declarations.

It was chopping lettuce. Stirring vinaigrette. Passing a spoon. Sharing space.

And in that quiet, unremarkable task—amid the scents of rosemary and warm bread, the bubbling laughter from the living room, and the sound of your children being home—you weren't just a guest in their lives anymore.

You were back.

Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.

As part of it.

A father. A partner. A piece of the family they had tried so hard to keep whole.

THE OVEN let out a low, steady hum, its warmth bleeding into the kitchen like a soft heartbeat. The scent of rosemary, roasted vegetables, garlic, and slow-cooked meat hung thick in the air—comforting, familiar, and grounding. It mingled with the golden glow of early evening, spilling through the kitchen window and bathing everything in soft, amber light. The room, once bustling with chatter and overlapping voices, had settled into a rare, well-earned stillness.

It wasn't silence that felt empty. It felt full—weighted with all the things said, unsaid, and finally starting to heal.

Somewhere deeper in the house, the distant sounds of life carried on. From the living room, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone—likely Cole—falling off the couch again, accompanied by Corra's triumphant shout. Muffled music buzzed from Cameron's room, underscored by the soft cadence of conversation filtering faintly through the hallway.

The house was alive. A heartbeat. A home.

But here, in the kitchen, it was just the two of you.

Older Conner stood across from you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but laced with something deeper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows of a well-worn flannel shirt, and his beard caught the kitchen light in thin streaks of silver and warmth. His gaze wasn't on you—not directly. He stared at the pot simmering on the stovetop, but his eyes were far away, caught in memories too fragile to voice yet.

You stood at the cutting board, the gentle thunk of your knife slicing through cucumber the only real sound in the room besides the hum of the oven and the faint tick of the wall clock. You weren't really paying attention to the salad anymore. Your focus kept drifting to him. The silence between you was thick—not tense, but tender. Like standing on the edge of a moment neither of you wanted to rush.

Then, quietly, you broke it.

"Casey's... remarkable," you said, your voice soft. "I've only been here a day and already I can see it. How grounded he is. How sharp. How deeply he loves all of you. I can't believe I missed getting to watch him become that."

Conner didn't answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, or maybe a memory passing through him.

"He always had that fire," he murmured. "Even as a kid. He wanted to fix things. Protect people. He didn't wait to be given permission—he stepped into the role. Always two steps ahead. That part..." he looked up, finally meeting your eyes, "that part's all you."

You looked down, heart swelling and aching at once. "He has your strength. And your stillness. He sees everything."

Conner's gaze softened. "He's ours."

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. "I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. J'onn thought it was a mutation at first, something unstable—because I wasn't supposed to be able to carry. And then... suddenly, I was. With him."

Conner straightened, the memory flickering like a light inside him. He stepped forward, closer, his voice low and cracked with a kind of reverence.

"That day..." he said, eyes fixed on yours, "was one of the happiest of my life."

You blinked, surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"I remember you coming into the Cave," he went on, quieter now. "You'd just had that check-up with J'onn and Bruce. You walked straight toward me, but your hands were shaking. You didn't say anything at first. And then you did. You whispered it. And for a second, I couldn't breathe."

He gave a faint, breathless laugh. "Like the world just... stopped. Like all the war, all the missions, all the noise had quieted to give me that one moment."

You said nothing, afraid if you did, you'd lose your hold on the emotions flooding your chest.

"I used to talk to him," he continued. "Every night. While you slept. Even when there was nothing to feel yet. I'd press my hand to your stomach and tell him how much I loved you. How we were going to make this work. Give him a life that felt safe. That felt like home."

A long, quiet beat.

"And for a while... we did."

You closed your eyes, drawing in a slow breath to keep yourself steady. But the guilt settled over you like an old, familiar ache.

"I'm sorry I left you to do it alone," you whispered, voice barely audible.

Conner turned toward you fully then, his expression solid, eyes bright with a kind of fire that hadn't dimmed, even with time.

"You didn't leave," he said, firm and immediate. "You fought. You died protecting us. Protecting them. You didn't walk away. You didn't run. You saved us."

He paused, stepping closer until he was beside you, until the warmth from him was real and close and steady.

"You just didn't come back."

The words struck deep—soft, painful, but true. And somehow, they brought a measure of peace.

You looked at him then—not as a memory or a scar, but as a man. The boy who once kissed you in the rain behind the Tower. The father who had raised your children without you. The soldier who carried the weight of grief like it was armor.

And the man who never stopped loving you.

He reached out, his hand finding yours on the counter. His palm was calloused, rough at the edges, but warm—solid in a way that made you want to lean into him and never let go.

His fingers closed around yours.

"But now," he said softly, "you're here. Even if it's borrowed time. Even if the world pulls you back again... I needed this. I needed you. Just once more."

You blinked fast, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over. "I needed it too."

Neither of you moved after that.

The soft tick-tick-tick of the oven timer was the only sound that lingered in the kitchen after your quiet exchange with Older Conner. It filled the air like a metronome to your thoughts—slow, constant, reminding you both of the fragile thread holding this moment together. The kind of stillness that comes after an emotional tide—when words have done their part, and all that remains is breath.

And then, from the next room, a low crackle broke through the silence.

The stereo—old, slightly dusty, clearly temperamental—whirred to life with a soft hiss before spilling music into the house. A slow, soulful tune emerged from its speakers, all faded vinyl warmth and aching melody. It was the kind of song made for twilight moments—the ones that exist between conversation and silence. The kind that wraps around you like old sheets and distant memories.

You knew the song. Not just in the way people know lyrics, but in the way it lived in your bones.

You'd danced to it once. In a different kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom with the lights low. Barefoot. Laughing. Wrapped in his arms while the world spun quietly outside your window.

And now, it played again. Like the universe had rewound the clock for just a little while.

You turned slightly, eyes drawn toward the soft hum of the music bleeding in from the living room. A smile tugged at your lips—nostalgic, tentative, real.

Before you could speak, Conner shifted beside you.

And then... his hand reached out.

Palm open. Steady. Offering—not demanding. A quiet invitation, spoken not through words but through the weight in his gaze. A gaze that held grief and memory, but more than anything else... longing.

"Dance with me?" he asked. Barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart caught, your breath stuttered—but only for a second.

"Yes," you breathed.

You slid your fingers into his. His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, and he guided you gently—out of the kitchen's narrow space, toward the center of the room, where the worn hardwood caught the fading golden light just right.

He pulled you close—not roughly, not even with urgency. Just close.

The space between your bodies vanished. His arm slipped around your back, drawing you in, while his other hand rested against the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair like he couldn't believe you were really there. You felt his chest rise against yours, then fall in a quiet, steady rhythm.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his collarbone without thinking. The scent of him—earth, spice, the faintest trace of engine grease—surrounded you like an embrace all its own.

He started to sway—slow, careful, as if he were relearning how to move with you. One step, then another. Barely dancing, really. Just holding. Rocking. Breathing.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Slow. Steady. Anchoring.

And neither of you said a word.

There was no need.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about what had been said—it was about what hadn't. About the years that lived between you, and how, somehow, you had found your way back to each other across the ruins of all that was lost.

It wasn't romantic, not in the way the movies tried to sell it.

It was real.

In the doorway, unseen by either of you, four figures appeared.

Casey was first—leaning just enough to see. His brow furrowed at the sight, then softened. Corra stepped beside him, lips parted, one hand lifting to her chest, as though something deep in her had cracked open. Behind them, Cole folded his arms and muttered, "You guys are so sappy," but didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Cameron... Cameron just smiled. Quietly. Brightly. Like something unspoken in his chest had clicked back into place.

They all watched for a few seconds longer—long enough to feel it. The gravity in the room. The history. The ache and the healing. And then, like shadows, they retreated—silent and reverent.

In the hallway, they found Younger Conner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and casual, though his eyes betrayed far more than his posture suggested.

"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised, tone half-curious, half-defensive.

Corra smirked, nudging him playfully. "You still got moves."

Casey chuckled under his breath. "And a vice grip. He's holding Pa like if he lets go, the world might end again."

Younger Conner didn't respond right away.

Because he'd seen it, too. Felt it.

Not just the love—but the depth of it. The need. The ache. The sacredness of a bond that had endured time, tragedy, and death itself.

And somewhere, behind the glimmer in his eyes, a thought took root.

I don't ever want to have to hold him like that.

Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose you.

Back in the kitchen, the song played on.

The light dimmed further, gold fading into soft, muted lavender. The house exhaled around you. And you... you were still there. In his arms. Swallowed by the melody, grounded by the weight of his embrace.

He held you like a man who had been forced to let go once before.

And this time, he didn't plan to loosen his grip again.

You remained nestled against Older Conner's chest, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of him as the soft song spun through the kitchen like a slow-motion dream. It wrapped around the two of you like a shared memory made real again, each note more tender than the last. The overhead lights glowed low and golden, casting a halo over the moment—catching on polished countertops, reflecting off the glass of the cabinets, and dancing across the windowpanes. Outside, the horizon had dipped fully into twilight, stars just beginning to pierce the deepening sky.

But in here, all you could see was him.

His arms tightened around you, a subtle but undeniable shift in pressure—as if every inch of him still feared this was a trick, that if he loosened his hold, you'd vanish like smoke. You leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up toward him. His eyes met yours immediately—clear, piercing, ocean-deep. They were older now. Worn. Carrying a thousand battles and years of grief. But they were still his.

Still the same blue that once saw straight through you.

You reached up slowly, your fingers finding the edge of his flannel shirt, curling into the fabric for reassurance as your heart thudded wildly inside your chest. You studied him—every crease at the corner of his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard. Your thumb brushed gently along his jaw.

"Conner..." you whispered, your voice delicate, shaped by emotion too large to name.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His head dipped just slightly, his breath brushing across your lips. The space between you narrowed, impossibly fragile. You leaned forward, your eyes drifting closed, the promise of a kiss hanging in the air like a heartbeat away.

And then—the world ruptured.

A deafening CRACK shattered the silence as the kitchen window exploded inward in a vortex of burning violet light. The force slammed through the glass, through the wall, a wave of raw, corrupted cosmic energy that howled with an unnatural pitch. It wasn't just fire or wind or impact—it was like the universe itself had been ripped open and hurled through your home.

You didn't even have time to scream.

Before your mind could register what had happened, Older Conner's body was in motion.

He moved with supernatural speed—faster than thought—shoving you behind him, arms outstretched, every muscle tensed with primal instinct. The blast struck him squarely, flaring violet against his back as it detonated, engulfing you both in the eruption.

The kitchen imploded.

You were airborne before you even realized it, flung like a ragdoll through cabinets, walls, through everything. A chorus of wood splintering and glass screaming filled your ears, followed by the deafening crash as your bodies blew through drywall and collapsed into the living room in a hail of dust and debris.

You landed hard—shoulder-first into the floor, a flare of pain shooting through your ribs. You hit and rolled, instinctively curling in on yourself, hands flying to shield your stomach, your child. A heartbeat later, Conner's body slammed down beside you, skidding across the floor in a haze of broken wood and pulverized plaster. He didn't cry out—just grunted, arms still reaching in your direction even as a beam collapsed across his back.

The music cut off mid-note.

Silence fell for a beat—shattered only by the electrical hiss of sparking wires, the groan of settling walls, and the ringing in your ears.

And then—

"Dad!"

"Pa?!"

"Get them out—NOW!"

Familiar voices. Panic. Movement.

You blinked against the dust, vision swimming. Everything hurt. Your fingers flexed against the floor, and you tried to lift yourself, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Then hands—warm, frantic, familiar—were on you.

Casey. Cole. Corra. Cameron.

They were there, clawing through debris, lifting splintered beams, tearing apart the wreckage with desperation only children fighting to save their parents could possess.

You coughed, the motion sending a wave of pain through your side. Your mouth tasted of dust and blood. Through blurred vision, you turned—Conner—

He stirred beside you with a low groan, his arms still outstretched as if they'd never stopped trying to shield you. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, his flannel torn, body covered in plaster dust and fragments of wood. But his head snapped up the second he found you, his eyes wide, terrified.

"Are you okay?" he rasped, already reaching.

You nodded through the pain, voice hoarse. "Y-Yeah... I think so—just—"

You were cut off by the sharp CRACK of impact as Younger Conner burst through the wreckage like a comet, his body glowing faintly with energy, his fists sparking with raw power. His eyes scanned the carnage, then found you, then the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had once been.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. He dropped to one knee, hands flying to the broken pieces trapping you and Older Conner, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing.

Then, a second blast fired.

BOOM.

It scorched across the far wall, narrowly missing the roof as it seared a molten path from one end of the room to the other, punching through family photos, memories—everything.

The ground shuddered. Lights flickered.

Violet light bled through the hole like an open artery, flickering in rhythmic pulses that made the shadows twitch and the air hum with cosmic distortion.

Older Conner reached for you, his grip firm, anchoring. His hand slid into yours like it had always belonged there, and he pulled you to your feet in one swift, protective motion. There was a new urgency in his eyes—a fire that hadn't burned this bright in years. He held onto you like if he let go now, he might lose you to the stars again.

Younger Conner stood beside him, muscles coiled like a loaded weapon. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides, and his body trembled not with fear—but fury. Raw and barely restrained. His eyes, once soft when they looked at you, now burned like twin supernovae fixed on the source of this chaos.

Behind you, the sound of movement was quick, clean, trained. Casey's voice barked commands low and sharp as he tossed weapons and tech out of a hidden drawer, each of your children moving like instinct had taken over. Corra rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, energy thrumming at her fingertips. Cole moved in precision—fluid and fast—pulling twin energy blades into being with a flick of his wrists. Cameron stood still, centered, calm—but his eyes glowed faintly, hands lifted, his power already dancing at his palms like a storm waiting to be called.

And then—that voice.

Low. Hollow. Dark.

It drifted through the shattered front wall like smoke through cracked stone.

"Come outside."

You went still. Everyone did.

That voice was carved into your bones now. Olympian.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge.

It was a summons.

Conner squeezed your hand once, then let go as the group moved like a unit—every step synced in silent resolve as boots thudded down the front steps and onto the ruined porch. The last light of day had vanished, consumed by storm clouds that weren't quite natural, swirling with streaks of dark violet lightning. The air itself was wrong—too heavy, too still. Like time was holding its breath.

And there he was.

Hovering above the yard, as if gravity had no hold on him. Olympian.

His black armor gleamed like obsidian in the light of the pulsing crystal embedded in his chest—deep, violet, almost alive. Each pulse sent a ripple through the air around him, distorting it like heat rising from broken asphalt. His crimson cape billowed behind him, slow and ominous, as though it were drifting through water. The very space around him warped, bent—not just visually, but spiritually. He didn't belong here.

And yet he had come.

He didn't raise his arms in threat. He didn't need to.

His voice cracked through the storm.

"I don't want them." His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing behind the helm, gaze flicking to each member of your family before returning to you. "You know why I'm here. I want you."

The words hit like a thunderclap, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.

You stepped forward slowly, fists clenched. "I don't even know what it is you want."

"You will," Olympian said, voice dripping with certainty. "You carry something inside you—something ancient. Buried in your blood. Power that was never meant for this world. It was stolen. And I will have it back."

A cold pressure curled in your stomach. That pull you had felt before—that strange, cosmic thrum that responded to him—grew stronger, vibrating just beneath your skin like a calling only he and you could hear. The connection was real. Tainted. Undeniable.

But you didn't waver.

Casey stepped beside you, his stance wide and grounded, arms beginning to shimmer with celestial light. "You'll have to go through all of us first."

Corra smirked, fire dancing in her hands. "Seriously. Try me."

Cole cracked his neck, blades fully drawn, the soft hum of energy ringing at his sides. "You should've stayed in whatever black hole spat you out of."

Cameron stood a step behind, quiet but unmoving. "You're not laying a single finger on him."

Younger Conner stepped forward too, voice like a blade. "If you want him," he said, chin tilted high, "you're gonna have to fight the man he loved before you ruined his life... and the man who still stands by him now."

Then, Older Conner moved up to your side—shoulders squared, body still bloodied from the blast, but steady as ever. "You attacked my home. My children. My family. That was your last mistake."

You looked at them all—your family.

Conner and Conner.

Your children, radiant and ready, no longer the little ones you'd held in your arms, but warriors now. Guardians.

And something shifted inside you.

This wasn't about mystery anymore. It wasn't about destiny or some ancient bloodline.

It was about them. About us.

About love, and legacy, and choosing not to let anyone take that away from you again.

You stepped forward, standing at the front of your family, your voice clear and sure as it cut through the still air.

"Then come and try."

Because this wasn't just a standoff.

This was the beginning of a war.

And your family had already chosen their side.

[onesidedradiostatic]

more stupid musings.

at the start of stayed gone, vox plugs himself into his network of tvs in his surveillance room. at the end of stayed gone, vox is still at that same chair, same room, still plugged in, he doesn't seem to have physically moved from his seat from start to end

this means from the start of stayed gone until the lost signal, we can assume everything we see of vox in the song is a simulation IN the tv virtual space that he's broadcasting on every screen, it's only him and a shit ton of props and backdrops.

but then we get to this scene

what the hell is going on here. are val and velvette simulated here? or did vox fucking unplug his wires and get up from his seat just to dance across the corridor and do this shit then go back and plug them back in?

[flavorcountry]

I got a cold and watched that Jenny Nicholson video about the Star Wars hotel (it's very good) and fully lost my mind: even after experiencing a comprehensive four-hour deconstruction of why it didn't work for Star Wars, I still think a version of this would absolutely work for Star Trek. Take my hand and walk with me on my journey into madness, where I have infinite money, talent, and team to make it all happen!!

Overall vibe

If you want to make a hotel/resort experience that takes place inside a fake spaceship, I still think Star Trek is the way to go: so much of Star Trek takes place on ships, and we've seen the rooms are pretty nice!! Like the Star Wars one, my Star Trek hotel is also a simulated starship, but with better rooms and more fun stuff to do.

Are you ready for this shit

Can you tell I drew this myself

You'll arrive at Farpoint Station,* where the concierge checks you in and your luggage gets whisked away by station staff. Gift shop's also here. When you're checked in and ready to head to your room, you're brought to one of several transporter rooms. If you never went to the Star Trek Experience at the Vegas Hilton when it was active, I am truly sorry for you, because they had a ride whose boarding process included getting beamed away: you and your pals were herded into a zone where you were clearly meant to board a run-of-the-mill 20th-century simulator ride, and then there were jets of mist and a sound and suddenly you were in a transporter room on board the goddamn USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D. It was fucking magical and I never, ever want it explained to me. Anyway, that's what happens to you at my Star Trek hotel: you step onto a transporter pad and get beamed from Farpoint to a Galaxy-class Federation starship. Exit the transporter room and walk down the ship's corridor to take the turbolifts to Cargo Bay 1, where a "temporary muster point" has been set up (this is where the guest services desks will be), or just follow the lit-up companel signs to your cabin. Yes, it will look like guest quarters aboard the Enterprise-D, more or less — maybe a little smaller — but it'll have the carpet, the plant, the glass coffee table, and most importantly a window that looks out into space.

Or!!! If you booked the resort, keep heading down the hallway and take another turbolift to a different section of the ship where the holodeck entrances are. The holodecks, naturally, are running a Risa program, so you walk through the doors and under the arch and suddenly you're outdoors looking at a beautiful landscape with a pool and whatnot, plus the resort accommodations where the more conventional fancy rooms are, and also the restaurants and entertainment venues, all themed. There's a Quark's. There's a Klingon bar and grill. A Bolian salon/spa. Talaxian arcade?? Nausicaan axe-throwing pit?!?! Come on!!!!!!!!!

Here, have a floor plan

Key learnings

Two things stuck out to me that the Star Wars hotel fucked up that I think the Star Trek version can do better:

🤷‍♀️ LARP too complicated: Give 'em credit where it's due, the Star Wars hotel fucking swung for the fences trying to make a multi-hero story guests could integrate with, but it just didn't work. Technical failures! Possible conceptual flaws! Too much stuff packed into the schedule!

The fix: Just make it mostly a hotel most of the time. One or two weekends a month, there's a two-day fully-immersive LARP adventure that people explicitly book separately, and it's more expensive (more on that later). But at all times, hotel staff will be in uniform with division colors that make sense: concierge and guest relations in red, support and janitorial in gold, teal for any medical personnel. I think that means the people working in food services have to wear that plaid/vest combo the Ten-Forward staff have on, but there are certainly worse outfits.

🌴 No resort: The food at the Star Wars hotel was good, but there was no pool and no other luxury resort type stuff to do. It didn't sound relaxing.

The fix: Putting an actual resort in the Star Trek hotel under the guise of a permanently-running Risan holodeck program. The sheer elegance of it!! When the weather is bad, hotel staff in gold uniforms can make apologetic comments about how the sim's malfunctioning.

Roleplay though

People are going to want to stay onboard the ship. That's good! The thing about the ship cabins is you can build them in maybe two semicircular layers (the rooms will need to be curved because these are quarters onboard the saucer section, naturally) and just bury them underground. They don't need real windows — you're putting screens in that'll show a space view, especially when the ship goes to warp and you can see those rainbow trails. Inside the semicircle there's a lot of space where you can put the other, bigger sets: the bridge, main engineering, Ten-Forward, etc. None of those have real windows either, and also I don't think it matters where you put them physically: just stick a pretend turbolift in front of all the entrances and make guests take those whenever they need to go there! One thing we're also doing is putting little hidden speakers everywhere that put out a small amount of shipboard white noise; it may not even be noticeable on a conscious level, but it'll be there and it'll be soothing. This speaker network is also a great way to make an actual announcement if there's a real park emergency.

During most of the month, I think the bridge and main engineering are mostly just photo ops — maybe you have to book a timeslot? Just so you're guaranteed some time with just you and your buddies? But I also think there should be opportunities for what I'm going to call mini-LARPing: you and your pals can book an hour-long session and the staff trains and then runs you through a short scenario. If you've ever played Artemis or the actual Star Trek VR bridge crew game they put out a while ago, you know where I'm going with this: for however long, you and your friends are now the crew of a genuine-ass Federation starship trying to survive a battle! It's fuckin' Kobayashi Maru time, motherfuckers!! Everyone gets their own station! Lights flicker! Mist shoots out of stuff! The whole bridge shakes! There might be a warp core problem — better call down to main engineering! Whoever's down there gets escape room-style minigames and puzzles to work out and help their shipmates. At some point — and this will happen in every run of every scenario — there'll be a very mist-forward "coolant leak" near the warp core that forces whoever's in the room to duck and roll beneath a descending garage-style blast door before heading up to the bridge to activate their station up there; bonus points if the player can work in a "We lost a lot of good people down there, Captain." Maybe there's an actor in makeup who menaces the crew on the main viewer from time to time (pick beforehand from a list of villains! want to fight Klingons? Romulans? a rogue Borg tactical sphere? etc). Can you see it? I can see it, and it fucking rules.

I must at this point mention that in my world, you can buy an add-on where a camera crew joins you, and they cut up the footage afterward to make you and your pals your very own mini-episode. Yes the editing and post-production are expensive and time-consuming; I'm creating jobs here!!!! Maybe …… okay, hear me out: there's an array of hidden fixed cameras and microphones built discreetly into the set, and also players are issued a combadge with an individual RFID tracker that pings the cams and mics, so they only save footage when a player comes close. After the players are done, a machine algorithm uses the data gathered to assemble a rough timeline of each player's material and create a draft movie that a human editor can pick up and fine-tune. Yeah?? When you check out, you get handed a USB drive that looks like an isolinear chip with your mini movie on it, and maybe another one with all the raw footage just in case you're feeling ambitious!!!!

For one or two other weekends during every month, there's a heavily advertised, much more involved, and way spendier LARP for people who really want to get into it. It takes place over two days. There are lots more actors portraying characters necessary for the plot/gameplay. Don't bother packing for the daytime: all players are issued a uniform they get to keep afterward. Do I have any details on the scenario or RP? I do not. But I fully believe it's possible to construct something you could run over the course of a weekend that would keep a hundred paying guests occupied, amused, and delighted, provided you have a truly ridiculous amount of money and people, which I do because this is utter fantasyland.

Also it probably won't cost six grand. Probably??

Let's gooooooooooooo

The rest of the time — and I cannot stress this enough — the Star Trek hotel is just a very heavily and specifically themed all-inclusive resort that has nice, fancy rooms and luxury amenities plus bookable ship cabins and opportunities for photo shoots or quick one-shot roleplay adventures for the real heads. You don't ever have to enter those latter parts if you don't want to! You can just hang out at the resort and have fun with all the themed entertainment, which I must stress is going to be both in-universe plausible and great, with something for everybody. Yes, there'll be a daycare, and yes, Flotter will be there in some capacity to entertain the kids. The food hall is my favorite part by far; I could pitch you Trek restaurant concepts all day. Romulan gourmet soup stand. Gummi candy store staffed by Ferengi where all the offerings are shaped like alien bugs. A vending machine where you can get a jumja stick or a three-pack of those nutrient pucks Picard and his new friends kept getting in "Allegiance." There will be an entire plant-based food vendor with a wide variety of delicious options for all meals, and it will be run by Vulcans.

A word on the gift shop

Question for you: have you ever watched a Star Trek show and seen a Starfleet officer pull on a jacket or shoulder a duffel bag that had the words "STAR TREK" on it? If so, then friend, I want to know where you get your hallucinogens because I want to experience this exactly once. All of the gift shops on my hotel grounds sell responsibly sourced, highly thought-out, well-made items that would be in-world plausible and have no obvious branding. Of course you can get a hand-carved horga'hn, but let's go bigger. Why not a light-up Tox Uthat for your nightstand? Ressikan flute for you, queen? How about a whole-ass knife store that's nothing but various kinds of Klingon cutlery? There will absolutely be an entire tailor's shop whose whole job is to put you in the Starfleet uniform of your choice; there may or may not be a Cardassian managing the place who's got a 50/50 cheerful/menacing vibe going on. There'll be not one but two stores that sell little models of ships: the regular ones and the gold ones. Don't tell me you can't picture it!!!!!

I think that's about it

Thank you for coming along with me on this bespoke journey into 100% insanity; now can somebody put me in touch with the Star Trek licensing people and also give me a billion dollars to build all this? Okay, thanks a lot!!

For timeline purposes and because it's fun, I'm positing a version of Farpoint that got built after the events of the TNG premiere where the Denebians got their act together and just built a normal surface base without suborning an interstellar lifeform.

[writingpandagoth]

Hello. I have a request 😁

What if Severus survive the war, but he ended up in coma. Y/n who was his only friend and also a professor from Hogwarts visit him every single day. She was in love with him but just never told him. Maybe some angst but with happy ending ?

Thank you….

I hope you like it!

I Will Wait For You

The room was still.

Not quiet—there were soft beeps from enchanted monitors, the gentle whoosh of magic circulating through preservation wards—but still, in the way only grief could be. The curtains were drawn halfway, the only light filtering through dusty panes in thin, washed-out streaks of grey.

You stood in the doorway longer than you should have.

He looked pale. Not sickly—but empty. Like someone had drained all the color from his skin, all the fire from his soul. Bandages wrapped around his neck and chest, layered with protective enchantments that shimmered faintly under the light. His hair was limp against the stark white pillow. His hands, usually calloused and restless, lay still at his sides—cold and too quiet.

You stepped forward, slowly. As if getting closer might shatter something.

You hadn't been able to see him after the Battle. Not immediately. You’d thought he’d died. Everyone had. Then, days later, word came through someone in the Order—rumors that he'd survived, barely, rescued by a last-ditch effort from a mediwitch who refused to let his name be buried in silence.

You’d come the moment they let you.

He hadn't woken once.

Now you were here, finally, weeks later, and he was still trapped in that space between life and whatever came after.

You sat beside him carefully, the chair creaking beneath you. You reached out, hesitated—then touched his hand.

It was warm. Not lifeless. But heavy in your palm.

"I should be angry at you," you said softly, voice cracking on the edges. "I should yell, or scream, or hex you. But you're not even here to yell at, are you?"

No response. Not that you expected one.

Your fingers curled tighter around his. He didn’t move.

You looked at his face—the sharp planes, the faint furrow still etched into his brow like muscle memory. Even unconscious, he looked burdened. Haunted.

A memory hit you suddenly: him, late at night in his office, quill scratching, eyes sharp and tired. The way he never said goodbye—just a nod. The way he always kept his hands clasped behind his back, like he was holding something in.

You’d never told him. Not once.

And now…

"You absolute idiot," you whispered, voice catching as you brushed a strand of hair from his face. "You survived... and still left me."

The words hurt more than you thought they would. You swallowed, blinking fast.

Your thumb moved along the edge of the bandage at his throat. A visible reminder of how close you came to losing him. How you still might.

But you didn't cry. Not yet.

Instead, you just sat with him. Let the silence stretch. Let the magic hum softly around you. Let your fingers stay wrapped in his, hoping—just hoping—that somewhere deep in his unreachable mind, he could feel you there.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep him tethered.

—

The Healers stopped asking questions a long time ago. It's been months and you?

You came every single day.

Now they just nod when you walk past—some with tight smiles, others with pity in their eyes. You ignore both.

You know the way too well. Down the long corridor, left at the third arch, past the bubbling medicinal wards and enchanted windows that simulate sun even on stormy days. The walk to his room feels like muscle memory now.

It’s raining tonight. Cold, biting autumn rain. You’re damp despite your cloak, but you don't stop to dry yourself off before pushing open the door.

The room is still. Always is.

There’s a faint golden glow from the sconces on the wall, enough to catch the way the magic threads softly over him—thin wisps of preservation enchantments that keep his body from failing completely. The air smells like potion salves, parchment, and something faintly metallic that never seems to fade.

You place today’s gift on the small table beside his bed: a worn copy of Rare Potions & Lost Applications. You bookmarked a few pages earlier—he always did enjoy obscure theory.

It joins the others. A stack of journals, dog-eared novels, and a modest vase of bluebells. You’ve replaced them weekly since September. They’re beginning to wilt again.

You shrug off your cloak and take your usual seat beside him, the chair creaking familiarly beneath your weight.

“I swear to Merlin,” you sigh, “if one more second year explodes their cauldron, I’m going to scream.”

No answer, of course. But you still glance at him.

He’s lying as he always does—still, pale, expression neutral but not at peace. Not quite. There’s always a tension in his brow, like even unconscious, he’s holding onto something tightly. Maybe too tightly to let go.

You talk anyway.

About your day. The rain. How Minerva snapped at a group of Hufflepuffs who tracked mud into the Entrance Hall. How you nearly hexed the new DADA Professor during a staff meeting because he suggested restructuring the seventh-year curriculum again.

You talk about nonsense. The silly things. The kinds of things he would’ve rolled his eyes at—but secretly enjoyed hearing, if only to argue about them later.

You tell him how you saw a student using one of his old essay rubrics. How one of the Ravenclaws said they missed his particular brand of terrifying honesty.

Your hands fold in your lap. You sit in silence for a moment.

Then, softly: “They say I should let you go.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You don’t have to.

“They think I’m clinging. That I’m wasting my time.” Your voice tightens. “They don’t know what you did. What you gave up. What it cost you to protect all of them. All of us.”

You finally glance at him again.

His face hasn’t changed. But your fingers drift toward his hand anyway, brushing your thumb gently over his knuckles.

“I know you,” you whisper. “Even if you never said the words out loud, I know.”

You let yourself sit there like that for a while longer, your hand resting lightly on his, breathing in time with the faint rustle of magic that hums through the room.

When the sconces dim to evening light and the hallway quiets, you finally rise.

You adjust the edge of the blanket on his chest, tuck the book in a little neater on the table, and gather your things.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you murmur.

Then, after a pause, softer: “Try not to sleep in too long, alright?”

You lean down, press a kiss to his temple—brief, gentle, just enough.

And then you leave.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

He doesn’t move.

That night you sit in your quarters in complete silence. The fire has long gone out.

Your hands are cold. Your tea is untouched. Your ink is dry in the well, and your quill trembles slightly between your fingers—not from cold, but from exhaustion. From the kind of grief that settles into your bones and makes your body forget how to rest.

The castle sleeps. But you don’t. You haven’t—not really—in months.

You stare down at the parchment in front of you. It blurs. You blink hard, and it comes back into focus. Black ink, dark and sharp like a wound freshly split open.

You’ve written more letters than you can count. None of them to be sent.

None of them meant to be ever read.

Each one has become a ritual. A confession. A punishment.

And tonight’s? Tonight’s is the worst one yet.

Dear Severus, Today, the Healer said your condition is “unchanged.” She said it with that same tired look—the one that means she doesn’t expect it to ever change. Do you know how much I hate that word? Unchanged. It’s like saying ‘forgotten’ without the cruelty of admitting it outright. I stayed for two hours. I read to you from that old potions journal you liked—the one with the smug footnotes you always complained about. I made a joke about it. You didn’t laugh. Your vision blurs again. But you don’t stop writing. You can’t.

You never laugh anymore. You don’t scowl. You don’t roll your eyes. You don’t do anything. You just lie there. Like a ghost wearing your skin.

You were always silent, but never like this. Never so far away. Sometimes I think I hear you in my dreams. Sometimes I think I see you standing in my classroom doorway. Sometimes I hear your voice when no one’s there. And I talk to you anyway. Like a madwoman. Because it’s better than silence.

Your quill stutters. The next words are scratched into the parchment like they’re being dragged from you.

I hate you for leaving me. I hate myself for not telling you sooner. And I hate this—this waiting. This hoping. This endless, cruel hoping that one day you’ll wake up and finally be with me again.

The ink bleeds in a long, uneven line. You don’t bother fixing it.

Your hand is shaking now.

You set the quill down with a slow, trembling exhale and press your palm to your eyes, trying to stop the tears from rising. It doesn’t work.

They come anyway.

Not in pretty little drops. But in silent, body-wracking grief. The kind of crying that makes your ribs ache. That makes you curl in on yourself at your desk, alone in a cold room filled with too many ghosts.

You don’t speak.

You just break.

And when the tears finally slow, when your breathing stops hitching in your throat, you fold the letter carefully—precisely—like it’s made of glass.

You press it between the others. Your drawer is full of them now. A coffin of words never spoken.

But tonight, you hesitate.

There’s one you’d written last week. You don’t remember pulling it out. You don’t remember rereading it. But there it is, sitting at the edge of your desk. Open. Unsealed. Staring at you.

It reads:

I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. I don’t care if you never wake up—I’ll love you until I can’t breathe anymore.

Your hand hovers over it.

You should put it away.

You don’t.

The next afternoon, you go to St. Mungo’s like you always do. The rain has stopped, but the wind bites cruelly at your cheeks as you walk. You don’t remember packing your satchel. You don’t even remember sleeping.

The visit is the same. You speak softly. You adjust his blankets. You try to smile like it doesn’t kill you to see him like this.

Then you glance at the table.

There it is.

The letter. That letter.

Folded. Untouched. Sitting right beside the bluebells and the worn book from yesterday.

You stare at it for a long time. Long enough for the silence to press heavy around you. Long enough to wonder if this is a good idea. 

You don’t take it back.

You don’t throw it away.

You leave it right there, not once looking back at it.

—

The storm starts before you even leave Hogwarts.

Wind claws at the castle walls, rattling windows like angry fists. Thunder growls overhead, low and endless, the kind that vibrates through your bones and makes your magic twitch beneath your skin.

You don’t take an umbrella.

The walk to St. Mungo’s feels longer than usual. The rain is blinding, soaking through your cloak in minutes, icy water sliding down your neck. You don’t care. You barely feel it.

You’re too full of everything else.

Anger. Grief. Guilt. That letter—that fucking letter—still burned behind your eyes.

When you reach the room, your fingers are shaking. Whether from cold or rage, you don’t know.

You throw your cloak onto the chair and stand at the edge of the bed, water dripping from your sleeves. You stare at him for a long time, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

“You could wake up any time now,” you whisper. “Any day. Any moment.”

You take a step closer.

“You could choose to come back.”

No response.

Of course not.

The storm outside crashes again, lightning flooding the room in cold white for a split second. The shadows deepen.

“I know you,” you bite out. “You never gave up on anything. You fought harder than any of them. You survived things no one should have. So why—why now? Why stop fighting now?”

Your voice cracks.

You reach out—grab his hand. Not gently.

Your fingers squeeze, knuckles white, trembling.

“I’ve waited for months. I’ve come every day. I’ve read to you. I’ve talked to you. I’ve bled into those letters, Severus—do you hear me?”

He doesn’t move.

The silence screams in your ears.

You take in a breath, but it doesn’t help. It never helps.

"You promised to protect the people you loved. You died for it. And then you—" You choke on the words. "And then you lived. But you’re not here. You left me anyway.”

Your knees hit the floor beside the bed.

And you break.

There’s no way to hold it in anymore. The grief finally boils over, sharp and wild and ugly. Sobs claw their way out of your throat—silent at first, then louder, messier, painful. The kind that makes your whole body shake.

You press your face against his hand, still gripped tightly in yours.

“You said nothing,” you whisper. “You said nothing and still managed to ruin me.”

Tears soak into the edge of the blanket.

"I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate that I loved you and waited and hoped and wrote all those stupid fucking letters like it would change anything—"

Your voice breaks.

"I hate that I would do it again."

The wind howls. The lights flicker.

You sit there, crumpled against the bed, your forehead resting on his hand, your body exhausted and empty.

And then—

A twitch.

Just the smallest one.

So small you almost miss it.

You freeze. You don’t lift your head. You barely even breathe.

His fingers shift again.

A slow, faint curl—like the whisper of a memory. Like your name spoken too softly to hear.

Your head lifts slowly.

His face is the same.

Still.

Silent.

But you saw it. You felt it.

"Severus…?"

Nothing.

But his fingers had moved. You know they had.

You bring your hand back to his, cradling it between both of yours now. Carefully. Like you’re holding something that might break if you even breathe too hard.

Tears still track down your cheeks—but now, they’re not from devastation.

They’re from something more dangerous.

Something more painful.

Hope.

—

The storm has passed, but the air still smells like something heavy has been washed away.

You haven’t spoken about that moment.

Not to anyone. Not even to yourself.

The way his fingers moved—twitched beneath yours like a pulse breaking through the void—haunts you. You’ve tried to tell yourself it was a spasm. A reflex. A trick of grief and exhaustion.

But you know better.

You felt him.

You felt him.

And that changes everything.

Still, when you step into the room today, your stomach coils with anticipation and dread. He’s lying the same way he always has—pale, unmoving, still too quiet. But your eyes immediately flick to his hand.

Nothing.

Not today.

But the letter—the one you left—is gone.

You freeze.

The books are still there. The flowers too, though they’re starting to droop. The bed is neatly made. Nothing looks disturbed.

Except the letter is missing.

You stare at the spot where it had been. Your mind scrambles for answers.

You didn’t take it back.

The Healers don’t touch your things.

Your heart starts pounding.

You don't speak right away. You just sit down in the chair beside him, your hands cold with nerves. You glance at him, his face serene—too serene.

Maybe this is your chance.

Maybe you’re not alone anymore.

Your voice is quiet when you finally speak.

“They told me there was a spike,” you whisper.

Your fingers drift toward his. You don’t touch him—just close enough to feel the warmth.

“One of the Healers said there was a shift in your brain activity. A flicker.” You smile faintly. “They don’t know what to make of it. But I do.”

You lean forward, closer to him. Close enough to imagine he’s listening.

“Please tell me I am right and you are coming back?”

A pause. A breath.

“Please.”

Still nothing. But something in the air feels… different. Like the magic around him has shifted slightly, humming just a little louder. Like the room is listening.

You take another breath. Then let the words fall.

“I love you.”

There’s no hesitation this time.

It doesn’t slip out in a moment of weakness. It doesn’t bleed through ink. You say it fully. Freely. Like a spell spoken with purpose.

“I love you, you impossible, infuriating, stubborn man.”

You watch his face.

And then—

There. The faintest flutter beneath his eyelid. A flicker. Barely more than a breath.

Your heart stops.

You stand so quickly your chair scrapes backward.

“Severus?”

You reach for his hand, both of yours wrapping around it tightly now. Holding. Anchoring.

His fingers twitch again.

Not random. Not meaningless.

Real.

Your breath stumbles out of you, half a sob, half a laugh. You bring his hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to the skin like a prayer.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”

You don’t leave that night.

Not even when the Healers come to usher you out.

You stay.

You wait.

Because something inside him is fighting again.

And you’re not about to miss it.

The world is quiet in the hours before dawn.

The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty—but sacred.

You didn’t sleep last night. You couldn’t.

You sat curled in the corner chair, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, eyes heavy but refusing to close. Every time you blinked, you feared missing something. Another flicker. Another twitch. Another heartbeat.

You didn’t want to miss the moment he came back.

You watch the light crawl across the floor first—long, golden beams creeping in through the ward’s enchanted windows. It’s soft. Gentle. Almost warm.

You stretch your legs, then turn your gaze to him.

Same position.

Same stillness.

But something is different.

There’s color in his face. Not much—but enough that it knocks the air from your lungs. His breathing has changed too—subtle, but there. And then—

His hand shifts again.

Not twitching this time.

Sliding.

You stumble to your feet. The blanket falls from your shoulders, your hands trembling.

“Severus?”

You step to the edge of the bed.

Your heart pounds so violently you feel dizzy.

His brow furrows.

It’s barely more than a ripple across his pale face—but it’s real. Intentional.

Your hand flies to his, gripping tightly.

“Severus—it’s me,” you say. “It’s—gods—it’s me, I’m here—please—can you—?”

And then his eyes open.

Slowly. Reluctantly. As if even light hurts.

They don’t focus at first. They flicker, unfocused, heavy-lidded. But they are open.

“Holy… Severus.”

Your voice breaks.

You sink to your knees beside him, still holding his hand in both of yours.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

Then his gaze finds you.

It's weak. Clouded. But it finds you.

There’s no strength in his voice. It cracks like dead leaves.

“…(Y/N)…”

Your breath hitches.

You can’t speak. Can’t even nod.

You can only stare at him through the flood of tears suddenly pouring down your cheeks.

His eyes study your face like it’s something he half-remembered from a dream.

“How long?” he rasps.

You try to answer, but your voice catches. It takes you a moment to force the words through the sob stuck in your throat.

“Too long. Months.”

He blinks again, slower this time. “The war…”

“It’s over,” you whisper. “We won.”

He exhales shakily. Like the weight of a lifetime just started pressing down again.

“You…” he tries again, brow twitching, “are… here?”

Your eyes close. A breathless laugh escapes you. You nod rapidly.

“Every day,” you say. “I was here every single day.”

His eyes fall closed again, just for a moment. But the expression on his face is different this time.

Not pain. Not fear.

Something quieter.

Relief.

And then—

“…Thank you.”

It’s barely a breath.

But it’s him.

You press your forehead to his hand, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And for the first time in months—

You let yourself believe that everything might be okay.

It took days before they let him outside.

His strength is still fractured—like glass slowly soldering back together—but he insisted. And when Severus Snape insists, the entire hospital finds itself suddenly more agreeable.

He walks slowly. One hand gripping a cane charmed for balance, the other resting lightly in yours.

You walk with him in silence, the only sounds the quiet crunch of gravel underfoot and the rustle of wind through the autumn branches.

The hospital gardens are nearly empty. The world is returning to normal, whatever that means. Birds are singing again. Children’s laughter echoes from a distant wing. Healing takes time. Everyone says that like it makes it easier.

You ease him down onto the bench when you reach the farthest edge—tucked beneath a twisting vine of wisteria, where the leaves fall like whispers and the sunlight doesn’t feel too harsh.

He says nothing for a while.

Neither do you.

There’s no need to rush what’s been held in for too long.

“I don’t sleep through the night,” he says finally. His voice is thin, rasping. “The dreams don’t let me.”

You glance at him.

He’s staring at his hands.

“Most nights I see blood. Sometimes students. Sometimes Dumbledore. Sometimes… Lily.”

You inhale quietly but don’t speak.

He presses his fingertips together. “I never thought I’d wake up.”

You turn your body toward him slightly, letting your knee brush his.

“But you did.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then, quietly: “I didn’t want to.”

You look down. The words feel like a deep cut in your heart.

He continues before you can speak. “I remember hearing you. Not clearly. Just… moments. Your voice. Sometimes your scent. A pressure on my hand.”

You look at him surprised by the admission. “You did?”

„Yes.“

Silence again. Not tense. Just… thick.

“I never told you how much I hated myself,” you whisper, surprising even yourself. “For not saying anything. Before the war. When there was still time. I thought—maybe—if I had, you wouldn’t have felt so alone.”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Would it have changed anything?” he murmurs.

“I don’t know.” You pause. “I like to think it would have made dying feel less inevitable.”

He exhales. It sounds like it hurts.

“I was angry,” you continue. “At everyone. At you. At myself. At the silence. I wrote letters to cope. Cried in places no one could see. And all the while, I was terrified I’d never get the chance to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

You look at him now.

Really look.

“I was in love with you,” you say. “Long before the war.”

There’s no fanfare. No dramatic swell. Just quiet truth, carried on a trembling breath.

He finally meets your eyes.

He says nothing.

Your stomach twists.

“I still am,” you add, softer now.

He doesn’t speak.

For a moment, your heart shatters in your chest.

But then—his fingers shift. Move slowly to wrap around yours on the bench.

And he asks, barely louder than a breath: “Why?”

You laugh, almost bitterly. “Because I’m a fool, apparently.”

He studies your face for a long time. A minute. Maybe more.

And then:

“Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

His voice is steadier now, but quiet. “Because I think your voice saved me. And I can’t lose it again.”

There’s a pause.

Then, finally, like the world exhales—he leans in. You meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. A little uncertain. Neither of you know quite how to do this anymore.

But it’s real.

And it’s yours.

[shelovesosa]

RED MEANS I LOVE YOU

Pairing: Satoru X f!Yandere!Reader

Cw: DARK,violence, stalking, psychological manipulation, murder, yandere obsession, unhealthy relationships,mental instability, blood, body horror, death/murder of multiple characters, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Summary! At an elite Japanese university where students wear uniforms and privilege masks obsession, you are just another girl in love with Satoru Gojo—bright, charming, effortlessly adored. But your love isn’t innocent. It’s violent. Consuming. Absolute.

a/n: I was watching old yt yandere simulator videos, I couldn’t help myself!! I still hate yandere dev.

The campus was a labyrinth of shadows, the sharp scent of rain lingering in the air. Night had fallen early, swallowing the familiar paths in darkness.

You moved silently beneath the flickering streetlights, the hem of your uniform brushing the cracked pavement. The navy blazer felt heavier tonight, like armor forged in the fires of your obsession.

There he was. Satoru Gojo — laughing with his friends, unaware of the eyes that burned into his back. You had watched him for months, memorized the way his white hair caught the light, how his smile cracked through even the darkest days.

But he didn’t belong to you. Not yet.

The other girls thought they could take him. Kana with her fake sweetness. Rika, loud and fierce. Haruka with her perfect grades and soft voice. They didn’t know the price of love. Your grip tightened on the slender blade hidden beneath your sleeve.

Tonight, the game begins. You followed Kana down the dim corridor toward the auditorium, where she thought she could finally corner him. You moved faster, quieter.

The door creaked. A scream. A thud. You slipped inside just as Kana’s eyes met yours—pure terror. The knife flashed in the dark.

A crimson stain bloomed on the carpet. You stared down at her, the pulse of life fading beneath your gaze.

“No one takes him,” you whispered.

But this was only the beginning. Because love stained with blood is the only love worth having.

The school didn’t even notice Kana was missing. They thought she transferred. You knew because you were the one who forged the form.

A perfect signature. A sob story to her friends. She was "burnt out.” "Needed space.”

And now she was gone. Gone, like a stain scrubbed from Satoru’s perfect white world.

You watched him from across the courtyard, sitting under the camphor tree. His blazer hung open, tie crooked, a cheap convenience store coffee cupped in his hand.

God, he was perfect. And he smiled at you today. Just once. He waved, too—playful, easy. Like nothing was wrong. You waved back. Your fingers still smelled faintly of iron.

Then there was Rika. Loud, smug, oblivious. She joked about Kana leaving.

“She probably couldn’t handle Satoru’s attention,” she laughed, legs swinging over the bench. “I mean, who could? He’s… unreal.”

Her eyes found him across the path. She chewed her lip. You stared at her. The world slowed down.

You pictured the way her blood would look on concrete. The angle her neck might snap if she fell hard from the top of the photography building.

It would be so easy. But not yet. You needed her to suffer first.

You followed her to her dorm that night. Not close. Just close enough to watch. You memorized her walk, the way she hummed to herself. The stupid little password she typed into her phone.

In your pocket was a vial. You had stolen it from the lab a week ago. Colorless. Tasteless. It only took two drops.

The next morning, Rika was missing from her usual seat. At lunch, she threw up in front of the entire cafeteria.

By the end of the day, she was in the infirmary—fevered, confused, moaning about strange shadows in the corners of the room. You stood outside her door, listening. The nurse said it was stress.

Satoru passed you in the hallway later, notebook tucked under his arm.

“Crazy day, huh?” he said with a crooked smile. “You okay?”

You nodded.

His hand brushed your wrist. So casual. So perfect.

“You’re always calm,” he said. “I think that’s cool.”

You wanted to cry. Or laugh. Or slit Rika’s throat for ever thinking she had a chance.

That night, you snuck back into the infirmary. She was half-conscious. She saw you—eyes wide, mouth barely opening.

“Wh… why?”

You leaned close, the knife cold against her trembling chest.

“Because he’s mine,” you whispered.

The blade slid in like a kiss.

They found Rika’s body three days later, floating in the koi pond behind the greenhouse. The water was red. It made the news.

“Local university shaken after student death—possible foul play.”

But they didn’t say murder. Not yet.

You sat in the back of the lecture hall that morning, hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes on the soft white curl of Satoru’s hair as he leaned forward, scribbling in the margins of his notebook.

He didn’t know. He wouldn’t. Not if you kept it perfect. Not if you kept him close.

The police came to campus that afternoon. Quietly. Plain clothes, asking polite questions. They didn’t talk to you. They talked to students who posted too much. Girls who cried too loud. Boys who bragged about knowing Rika better than they actually did.

They were loud. You were careful.

That night, you walked past the taped-off pond and sat in the courtyard, pretending to read. The air was heavy with fear. But not yours.

You waited. And he came. Satoru. He flopped down beside you on the bench with a tired sigh and a smile that made your stomach twist.

“You always end up here,” he said, voice low. “It’s kind of nice.”

You turned your head toward him, heart hammering behind your ribs.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

It came out softer than you expected. Almost real.

His smile faltered.

“I dunno,” he admitted. “It’s weird, right? People just... vanishing.”

He didn’t say Kana. He didn’t say Rika. You already erased them from his world. He stretched his legs out in front of him, blinking up at the dark sky.

“I don’t like this feeling,” he said. “Like I can’t trust anyone.”

You looked at him carefully.

“Maybe you can.”

He turned to you, really looked at you, and for a moment—just a flicker—something unspoken passed between you.

It was enough to feed you for days. He needs me. He knows it. And no one else would be allowed to take him.

Her name was Sayaka Minamino. You heard it before you saw her.

Whispers followed her like perfume—“Her dad’s a senator,” “She transferred from a private academy in Kyoto,” “She’s only here because she got caught with a professor.”

Then you saw her. She stepped out of a black car in shoes that cost more than your tuition, her navy blazer tailored perfectly at the waist. She walked like the world bent around her.

And she kissed Satoru on the cheek. Not a shy kiss. Not innocent. A kiss like she’d done it before. And he—he didn’t pull away.

He laughed. Touched her wrist. Smiled that effortless, terrible smile of his and said her name like it was a song.

Sayaka. You said it once to yourself later that night, just to see how it tasted. It tasted like poison. Sayaka slid into his life like she belonged there. They studied together. Walked to class together. She touched his sleeve when she spoke. She sat on his desk.

And he let her. Everyone noticed.

They said they’d known each other since childhood. That she was his type—“the kind of girl who doesn’t need to chase him.”

She didn't need to. But you did. So you followed her.

You watched her every move. What perfume she wore. What time she left her dorm. Where she kept her keys. Who she texted. What brand of water she drank.

She wasn’t careful. No one that pretty ever is.

The first time you sabotaged her, it was small. Her tea spiked with crushed sedative leaves from the campus greenhouse. She missed her midterm.

The second time, you broke into her dorm. You deleted every photo of her and Satoru off her phone. You smashed her mirror. Scratched liar into her wall. You left no trace of yourself.

The third time… You waited until she was alone at the school’s empty rooftop greenhouse after hours. It was supposed to be locked. But you had keys.

She turned when she saw you. Her face curled into a confused smile.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Did Satoru send you?”

Your fingers tightened around the shears behind your back. You stepped closer.

“No,” you said. “I came for myself.”

She barely had time to scream. Blood hit the glass. It ran in slow, syrupy rivulets down the windows, catching the moonlight.

You sat with her body until the sky turned violet. Then you went back to your dorm. Washed your hands.

Satoru smiled at you the next morning like nothing was wrong.

“Hey,” he said, nudging your arm in the hallway. “You’re really easy to talk to, you know?”

You smiled back. But only because you’d made it so.

He started walking you home. Not every day. Just sometimes. When it rained. Or when it was late. Or when he “just happened” to be heading the same way.

He never asked. He just showed up. It was dark again—early winter twilight swallowing the sky—and you heard his steps before you saw him. Fast, light, familiar.

“You walk like someone being hunted,” he joked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

You turned your head just enough to see him, breath curling in the cold.

“Maybe I am.”

He laughed. “Well, lucky for you, I’m a great shield.”

The streetlight flickered above him. His white hair looked silver in the dim.

He was beautiful. You imagined blood on his neck. Your name in his mouth. The way he might cry if he found out what you’d done.

But he wouldn’t. Because you were careful. And now, he was right here.

“So... can I tell you something weird?” he asked.

You nodded. He stared ahead for a moment before speaking.

“I keep having this dream. I’m standing in the middle of campus, and everyone’s faces are gone. Just—blank. I can’t find anyone. I yell, but no one answers. And then I see you. Only you.”

You swallowed. Your nails dug into your palm.

“And what do I do?” you asked, voice thin.

He looked at you then, a little too long.

“You don’t say anything. You just look at me. And it’s… weirdly comforting.”

You smiled. It felt wrong on your face. Because this wasn’t a dream. It was real. He was already yours. He just didn’t know it yet.

It started with a text at 2:13 a.m.

Satoru:
Can’t sleep. You up?

Your heart leapt.

You stared at the screen until your fingers stopped shaking.

You:
Yeah. You okay?

Satoru:
Idk. My head’s weird lately. Everything feels off. But when I talk to you… it’s not as bad.

You read the words three times before answering.

You:
I’m here.

Satoru:
Thanks. Seriously. You’re the only one who doesn’t make things worse.

You saved the text.

You read it the next morning in the mirror. When he saw you in class that day, his smile was quieter, softer. He dropped into the seat beside you like it had always been his.

“You smell good,” he said, not even looking at you.

Your breath caught. His shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t move. He was folding into you like a dream.

But then his voice came again—later, after sunset, when you sat alone in your dorm brushing your hair.

“You’re the only one who understands me.”

You froze. He wasn’t here. You looked over your shoulder, heartbeat roaring in your ears. No one. But the voice came again, behind your ribs, inside your head.

“They’re trying to take me again.”

You gripped the edge of your vanity, knuckles white.

“Who?” you whispered.

“All of them. Keep me safe.”

Your eyes burned. You touched your cheek and found it wet with tears you didn’t remember crying. He needed you. Even now, even when he wasn’t with you—he needed you.

You left your room an hour later, dressed in black. Gloves. A blade hidden in your coat.

There was a girl—second-year. A psychology major. Her name was Kaho. She spoke to Satoru too often. Asked him if he felt "safe." If he’d "lost anything lately."

She wore cardigans and pearls. She wanted to understand him. But you didn’t need to understand him. You loved him.

And in the voice that pulsed through your skull, you heard his whisper again.

“Make her disappear.”

Kaho Fujiwara didn’t die quickly. She was clever. Studied the mind. Always watching.

You followed her for days. She always took the back stairwell after her library shifts. Always texted her roommate when she left. Always looked over her shoulder.

She knew something was wrong on campus. She just didn’t know it was you.

Tonight, her bag was heavier—stuffed with research folders. Her earbuds were in.

She didn’t hear you behind her until it was too late. You grabbed her hair and slammed her skull into the metal railing once. Twice.

Blood spattered against your uniform in sharp flecks. Warm. Bright. She gasped, struggling to crawl, but you knelt down beside her.

“Shh,” you whispered. “He told me to.”

She looked up, eyes wild, mouth filling with blood.

“You’re sick,” she hissed. “You don’t even know him.”

Your smile was small and real.

“I know everything.”

You dragged her body into the locked supply closet under the stairs. The concrete was cold. So was she. You wiped your hands and walked back into the night, boots sticky with drying blood.

Back in your dorm, you didn’t even shower. Because your phone was already buzzing.

Satoru:
I can’t sleep again.

Satoru:
I keep seeing things. Faces. Places. I think someone’s following me.

Satoru:
Can I call?

You stared at the screen, still breathing heavy.

You:
Yes.

The phone rang once. Twice. And then—his voice. Raw. Tired. Human.

“You make it stop,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why, but when I talk to you, it gets quiet again.”

Your throat burned. He kept talking. About the dreams. The flashing lights. The bodies. The things he couldn’t remember clearly.

He didn’t know what was real anymore. You smiled. Because you were. You’d always been. And when you hung up, the voice in your head came back. But it wasn’t scared anymore. It was soft. Possessive.

It whispered like silk around your neck.

“He’s finally seeing you.”

“He’s yours now.”

Then it laughed—low and breathless—his laugh, but warped.

“Kill one more.”

You stood in front of the mirror, your eyes wild and shining.

“Anything for you,” you said softly, tilting your head.

The reflection smiled back.

He called you at 1:41 a.m.

His voice was raw. Flat. Different.

“I’m at the campus temple,” he said. “I don’t know why. I just... ended up here.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just threw on your coat and ran.

The moon was fat and low in the sky, painting the temple’s stone path in silver. When you saw him—slouched against the side of the old wooden gate—your chest ached.

He looked wrecked. Eyes ringed in gray. Hands shaking. A cold sweat on his skin.

You approached slowly. He didn’t move away.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He looked up at you, blinking hard.

“I think I’m losing my mind,” he whispered.

You crouched beside him, the gravel crunching beneath your knees. He smelled like rain and exhaustion.

“They keep dying,” he said, voice shaking. “People I know. People I don’t even talk to. I don’t remember things anymore. I forget days. I forget where I was. I wake up in weird places. I...”

He broke off, curling forward slightly, arms wrapped around his knees. You reached out. Your hand brushed his wrist. He didn’t flinch.

Instead, he turned toward you—slowly—and your fingers slid into his hair, pushing it gently back from his face.

“You’re not crazy,” you whispered. “You’re just scared.”

He closed his eyes. Your face was so close now you could feel his breath. He didn’t move. He was asking for it. Without words. Without resistance. And so you kissed him. Slow. Careful. Possessive.

His lips were warm, dry, confused. He let you. Not for long—but long enough. When you pulled back, he stared at you like he didn’t understand what had just happened.

You touched your fingers to your lips, heart hammering.

“That felt real,” he murmured.

You smiled.

“It was real.”

He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but you leaned in again—just enough for him to forget the question.

He kissed you this time. Briefly. Softly. He didn’t know it, but that was the end. The exact moment you sealed your world shut. No more rivals. No more lies. No more room for anyone else. You would kill for this. You already had. And now? You’d do worse.

The investigation had ended in whispers.
The last girl—the last threat—was found near the koi pond. Face-down. Just like Rika.

Satoru stopped asking questions after that. Stopped talking about the missing students.
Stopped talking about the dreams.

He only talked to you.

You were always with him now—shoulder to shoulder, laughter forced, eyes distant. He stopped seeing his friends. Stopped checking his phone.

He came to your dorm one night.Unannounced. Soaked in rain. Breathing fast. Trembling.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he said, voice raw. “I’m scared I did something. That I hurt someone. That I don’t remember who I used to be.”

You pulled him inside. Wrapped your arms around him like armor.

“You’re still you,” you said. “You’re just finally free.”

He looked at you then, something breaking inside his eyes—fear, yes. But something else, too. Trust. Maybe even love.

“You’re the only thing that feels real,” he whispered.

You kissed him, again, slower than before. This time he kissed back with both hands—gripping you like a drowning man holding on to a lifeline.

When you pulled away, you whispered it.

"You're mine."

He didn’t speak. So you said it again.

"You're mine now."

His silence was agreement. It had to be.

Later, when he fell asleep beside you, your fingers gently traced the curve of his throat.

There were no more rivals. No more watchers. No more questions.

The police stopped coming. The students stopped whispering. The world got quiet. And he stayed. Because there was nothing left outside your love. Nothing left… except you. And that would always be enough.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Halloween Special: Basement Secrets | Hu Tao x Male!Werewolf!Reader

A/N: I know it's late, and I'm sorry for it. I'll still call it a special, since that was my original intention. Enjoy, and sorry for being late again.

CW: Smut, sedatives (drugging I guess?), reader in heat, non-human genitalia.

A flick of the wrist causes the lamps to spark to life, illuminating the corridor. The Director stops to appreciate her surroundings. She guides her hand across the wall ornament, feeling the smooth, cold texture. Hu Tao hums in appreciation. The carpenter did splendidly. Maybe she should have the coffin wood polished as well? 

Her eyes gravitate towards the other end of the hallway, where a large bookcase stands. Approaching it, she puts the paper bag under her arm and reaches for one of the books. A firm tug moves the lever, allowing the furniture to be moved to the side. She doesn't need much effort - her ancestors were smart in installing rails into the floor. A gust of cold air hits her through the iron bars, causing her hair to sway slightly. The air carries a hint of fur, sweat and… 

“Ah~” She breathes it in, enjoying the scent thoroughly. Anger. Frustration. Hate. Desperation. 

Without a moment of further delay, Hu Tao slides the key into the slot and turns it twice, opening the gate. The lamps behind it, already lit by the chain reaction she started earlier, cast golden light on the many stone stairs leading downwards. She secures her entrance, pressing a button to slide the shelf back into place. It's best not to spark curiosity, even of her consultant Zhongli. 

“The ninth fell down and cried aloud, the tenth asked ‘Why?’~” She hums, going down with lively steps. She matches her feet to the increasing rhythm of her heart. It demands her to go faster, but she doesn't listen - after all, good things come to those who wait… “For the fifth won't ever come back.”

Another door, made of thick iron. There's a viewport, but she knows well what it hudes. This time, all she has to do is lift the hook and pull the handle to get in. When she does, she makes sure it doesn't close fully. 

“What do you want?” A deep, sharp voice comes from the other end of the room and Hu Tao turns to face it. The room is lit just by the dim flame of the gas lamp, leaving most of the room in complete darkness. A pair of big, yellow eyes stood out on the black backdrop. 

Hu Tao placed the bag on the desk and approached the lamp. “Do I need a reason to visit you, hm?” she says as she turns the dial of the lamp, letting the flame grow bigger. “Can't a girl check up on her-”

“I'M NOT YOUR DAMN DOG!” You lunge forward, but the thick collar around your neck stops you from slamming your body against the bars. Your captor chuckles, not even bothering to turn around. 

“... puppy~?” 

Hearing this, you let out a growl of annoyance. You would have broken out already, got rid of her and ran free if not for this damn inhibitor stuck around your throat. Not only was it forcing you into this unwieldy, overgrown form, but it was also spiked and chained to the wall - any attempt at breaking free resulted in discomfort, turning into pain. 

You back away from the bars to stop it from stinging your neck. Hu Tao withdraws a small, mesh bag of something brown. Your sensitive nose picks up the scent of jerky right away. That traitorous tail of yours starts swaying left and right as the woman presents it to you. 

“Something tasty for you, Y/N. You were such a good boy this week, weren't you?” The bag is moved close enough to the bars for you to extend your arm and hook your claw through the fabric. 

You rip it open as soon as you can, and stuff a handful into your snout. The salty, powerful, smokey taste of meat fills your mouth, finally providing something simulating. You don't notice it, but there's a slightly unusual aftertaste to the meat. You don't notice Hu Tao smiling either. 

“Thank you, Hu Tao.” You sigh in satisfaction. A little distraction was very welcome, even if it was temporary. At least you weren't thinking about the h- 

She rattles her rings on the iron bars, interrupting your thoughts. “Ah, no need to thank me, Y/N. I'm in charge of you after all.” Hu Tao scans your cell, her ember eyes coming to rest over your pillow. You follow her gaze. 

It's… a mess. The innocent fabric was torn in places and thoroughly stained with dark patches of fluid. A thick scent of musk was all over it, contributing to the stuffy air in your cell. You can't help but look down in slight embarrassment. 

“Aiya Aiya~ You've been quite a naughty boy in here, looks like. Hmph, and I have already given you treats…” She scoffs in mock disappointment. “How are you feeling, pup?”

Although your fists tighten at being referred to like a dog, again, you're too tired of it to butt heads with her. “Why are you even asking? Do you enjoy seeing me embarrassing myself here?”

As luck would have it, the Liyue people decided to catch you right before the mating season of wolves. Because of your lycanthropy, you were just as horny and snappy as them - but most of the time it wasn't a problem. You could easily find yourself a seasonal fuck buddy or visit Ying’er for a few hours each week, but with no mate to nut inside of, your instinct remained at an all time high. You had to relieve yourself through any means necessary as the need was maddening, making your cock constantly, painfully erect. The pillow had the bad luck to be around and became the victim of violent, shameless humping as you imagined it to be a welcoming pussy of a she-werewolf. But it still wasn't enough. 

What didn't help either was the fact that your captor was female. A female that, as your nose told you, fingered herself regularly, teasing your nose with her pleasure pheromones. You were almost sure she was completely aware of how big your desire to bend her over was, surely making it all the more entertaining to see you struggle. 

“Ugh. Fine, I'll play along. I'm horny all the damn time, hence the… the state of the pillow.” You clear your throat. “Yeah. And you being here doesn't help it in any way.”

Hu Tao smirks at your embarrassment. “Oh, I see~! But how could that be when you're so happy to see me, hm?” 

Your anger flares up again as she theatrically taps her chin, shamelessly looking between your legs, making you bare your teeth in response. You weren't exactly expecting to get caught, so you didn't bring along spare clothing. Clothing that was made to stretch and fit your werewolf self. It was very expensive and tailor made, so Hu Tao obviously didn't have anything like it, at the end of the day forcing you to talk to her like  the steel bar you call a werewolf cock wasn't always in her face. Guessing by the sheer amount of times she stared at it, she didn't seem to mind. 

Which pissed you off even more. She could really give you a hand right now. Or a throat. Or a cunt. You grab the bars and groan - intimidating, but tired. “Look, please, just… don't make it worse for me. Please?”

Surprisingly, she nods. Hu Tao reaches for the paper bag and pulls out a fresh, pristinely white pillow. Without a word, she passes it on to you. You eagerly swap the old one for it. As your mind anticipates the coming moment of her departure, instead of leaving, Hu Tao continues to stand in front of you. 

Before you can say anything, she moves closer to the bars. “My dear Y/N~ You may not believe me, but I do know how awful you must feel…” Her fingernails tap the steel as she speaks. “All that energy, all that need, all that lust with nowhere to deposit it all feels simply terrible.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “What's your point?”

“My point is, my dear doggy, that I have been feeling something quite similar.” There's a small tint of red on her cheeks as she says it out loud. Upon noticing the smirk on your face, she pouts. “Don't look at me like that! Us girls have needs too, I'll have you know.”

This is the last thing you expected to hear. Your mind opposed taking up the opportunity, but luckily for you, all the blood supplied to it was quickly directed south as soon as you picked up the implication. 

You push against the bars with one hand, and - as much as the chain would allow you - lean forward. 

“Tsk. And what are you going to do about it, huh?” You ask. Hu Tao now needs to look up to see your eyes, sapping just a little of her confidence. 

“I was thinking we could make a little deal. Just a friendly agreement between pals, hm?” She points at your groin. “You lend me that slimy…” she says, stretching out the word with deliberation, “...smelly thing between your legs, and in return I let you play with my pussy. Are you up for it, big boy?”

By this point, your cock has swelled from its frustrated, semi-hard state to its proper, impressive form. Just the mention of a snatch makes the tip moisten with precum, your feral body already preparing for the mating to come. It may be a trick, though. Why would she-

Your reconsideration is cut short by Hu Tao sneaking her hand through the bars, placing it flat against your furry chest. She trails it down, caressing the bulbous pecs underneath the gray hair. You watch on as she continues, traversing the thickening line of fur as it leads downwards, her finger soon lost in the dense bush of pubes covering your groin. She lightly grazed your cock with her fingernail, dragging it from the base, over the knot and right to the tip of your canine dick, throbbing at her touch. 

“I agree…” You say with a sigh. “Just don't tease me, alright?”

You would swear her eyes sparkled when you gave in, her lips forming into a satisfied, sly smile. “Wonderful~! Good boy.”

“Hold still.” She raises the object she took earlier, bringing it closer to your wolf snout. It’s a muzzle. As much as you’d love to lash out and bite her, this is not the time. You lower your face, submitting to her safety measures, letting the muzzle stand between her supple throat and your thick, sharp teeth. Surprisingly, it makes you salivate more...

Hu Tao walks back to the table and returns with a pair of handcuffs in her hand. Handcuffs… They are more like shackles, made of thick steel and connected with a sturdy chain. Hu Tao throws them at you, perfectly passing between the bars separating you and her. You catch it without issue.

“There are only a few ‘buts’, doggie. First, the cuffs stay on. Second, you don’t cum inside. Got it?” You open your mouth to reply. to no avail. “Good. Now cuff yourself to the chair…”

Turning around, your eyes lock onto the piece of furniture. You slide it from under the desk and move it to face the door, back against the wall to allow the maximum slack of your steel leash that’s possible. The shoddy wood creaks as you sit your animalistic form down, arms reaching around the headrest. Feeling your way through the process, you secure both vracelets around your wrists, looping the chain around the beams of the chair’s support. A tug confirms you did well.

Her eyes don’t leave you for a moment. Once she sees you’re done, Hu Tao grabs the key from her pocket, as well as something from the nearby shelf you can’t quite make out, and opens up the cell. She cautiously steps in, just in case you tried to pull a funny on her. You grit your teeth in frustration… Why can’t she get it over with? It’s not like you’ll bite her. 

“Nice! And they say werewolves are ‘bad’ and ‘rebellious’. Looks like a little enticement goes a long way, hm?”

You shift in your seat, your lust growing and patience waning. “Get on with it already!”

She sends you a mock offended look, but relents. She snatches the newly brought pillow from your bed and puts it on the stone floor before slowly kneeling down.

Your dick now eye level with her, she wraps her hand around it, feeling the heat against her skin. It's shaped starkly different from your human form’s manhood, being thick, bulbous with a knot near the base. Hu Tao glides her hand over its length, causing you to groan as she touches it. It's been swollen for far too long to be comfortable and, on top of that, it aches more with every throb of your impatient cock. Hu Tao doesn't care, focusing her attention on the bulging veins, dark blue against the furious red of the shaft. Her other hand finds its way down to your sack, cupping the furry, cum swollen balls hanging below. She rolls them between her fingers as if weighing the unspent seed inside. They're heavy, she thinks, perfectly heavy. Bringing her nose closer to the tip, her nostrils fill with the musky stink of your juices, with tangy hints of still fresh cum stuck in your fur. 

“Fufu~ That thing is even more impressive up close…” Looking you in the eye, she giggles as she flicks the tip of your cockhead. You squirm in response, instinctually baring your teeth. “I’m afraid to ask what kind of plans you had for me~”

Soon you feel the slick, hot tongue of the director flick curiously against your head, lapping up the precum leaking from the slit. It tickles more than anything, so you try to inch your hips a bit closer, as much as the chair would allow. But she didn't listen, even if you didn't have to wait long to feel the flat of her small tongue rub against your shaft. It feels good, but it's nowhere near enough. You move your hips backwards, trying to bring the tip closer to her lips, but she grips the base tightly, keeping it in place as she continues to worship your shaft. It's slow, but eventually the consistent grinding of her wet tongue stirs some pleasure in you. You focus your attention on the feeling, praying for it to be enough to make you cum. She feels you throb in appreciation, eliciting a satisfied hum from her. Suddenly, she stops, switching her tongue for her hand and wrapping her lips around your tip. You whine at the sudden stimulation. Finally…! As her speeds up and her wet mouth sucks you deeper inside, pressure starts to build in your knot. A moan escapes your lips as she sucks and strokes, your orgasm drawing closer by the second. Each throb makes her take you deeper, you can feel the back of her throat rub against you when her head bobs up and down. Your thighs tense up in expectation. Almost… Almost… Almost…!

She stops. Hu Tao takes her hand away from you and spits your cock out of her mouth’s warmth, letting it flop down, sad and unsatisfied. You can only whine in confusion as you feel your orgasm fading slowly. 

“W-what…? Why did you stop…” You stutter out, your voice turning angry at her smile. “Oh you-”

“Heh, did I say anything about you finishing?” She dismissively throws her twintails behind her shoulders. “Good things come to boys who wait. And I bet you'll be the best boy, won't you Y/N?”

This. Little. Nasty. Witch. Your thoughts buzz with both anger and desperation as you feel your release slipping away. “I'll be good, just let me cum… I need it…”

She takes off her hat and reverently places it on the bed. “Mm~ Say it, doggie! I want to hear it, and if I like it, I might just give you something better~”

With that, she reaches to the strings of her coat, undoing them with little issue. Your impatience is temporarily replaced by excitement, your tail swishing as she strips her jacket, revealing a short-sleeved red shirt underneath. You can see two points poking through the fabric on opposite sides of her chest.  She looks at you, waiting. 

“I want to see more, please…” You plead, feeling a heat on your face as you say it. 

“You can do better.” She reaches for her coat, now thrown on the bed, causing the beast inside you to flare up in alarm. You try to spring up, only to be dropped by the cuffs. 

“Wait! Please, Hu Tao, I want to see them…” Desperate and horny, you swallow your pride and continue. “I want to s-see your tits, please!”

Just moments ago, you were ready to tear into her. Now, you plead with her for some boobs. And she'll make you beg for her cunt to - you'll do as she wants and you know it. The animalistic heat is too strong to ignore, forcing you to give in to its demands.  

Clearly satisfied with your words, she undoes the buttons holding her cover together. Her hands pull it open, revealing an exceptionally flat chest with two perky, rock-hard nipples. You twitch in excitement, harder still when she guides her hand down to her shorts. She pulls them down, revealing a pristine white pair of panties, decorated with a pink ribbon near the band. Her finger sneaks underneath it and pulls it down just enough to reveal a small patch of brown hair, dense yet neatly trimmed. 

She was preparing for this, wasn't she…

Her hand undoes the string holding her panties together, letting them fall open. They are promptly tossed aside, letting you finally see her heat in its full glory, her lips swollen and sticky with lust. Blushing, she continues rubbing herself with your dick and you can painfully feel her swollen, pretty clit gliding on you and her own juice. 

Hu Tao steps out of her pants and approaches you, sitting her half-bare ass on your lap. Teasing, she props your dick against her clothed slit. She presses it down, letting your precum soak into the silk and feel the warmth underneath. She rocks her hips against you, grinding at a slow and deliberate pace. Your eyes are fixed on her steady movements, the words slipping out of your lips going unnoticed by your lust-filled brain.

“Please…” You beg. “Please put it in already…!”

She smirks. “No way this will fit inside me, pretty boy. Do you see how big it is?” Hu Tao presses it against her stomach. The hefty cock really does look quite intimidating, the tip going way above her belly button. “But I bet you’d like to fuck me regardless, hm?”

Each stroke of her lips makes you hurt. She’s so close, but so far… Your heart beats faster and faster and faster and faster still as your body writhes in anger. You try to sit still, try to enjoy the feeling as much as you can but the wolf within you demands her. Your canine mind feels the insignificant weight on your lap and feels the cuffs are just a little malleable… How easy it would be to break out and take her properly… It wants it, relentlessly, and your mind soon succumbs. 

Gritting your teeth, you focus your attention on your wrists. You grasp the cuffs with your thumbs and pull with all your strength. Hu Tao is blushed, too focused on pleasing herself to notice the tension in your arms. You feel the steel bending and stretching, doubling your efforts. The edges of the metal dig painfully into your furred flesh, surely leaving painful welts that will last for days, but you don’t care. You almost… can… feel…

Snap!

Hu Tao’s face snaps up to look at you. Her eyes go wide. 

“W-wha-?!” The word gets stuck in her throat as your massive left hand snatches her neck, the other pushing you up as you raise. Your form stands tall, ears nearly touching the ceiling, obscuring the light of the lamp inside and casting an ominous shadow over Hu Tao, currently dangling from your outstretched arm. Your other hand reaches the muzzle and rips it straight from your face as if it were made of paper. Leather straps are no match for a lust frenzied wolf.

“L-let go of… me!” You don’t choke her tightly, but her words still come out raspy. She hits her small fists on your hand, but they do little against rippling werewolf muscle. Her legs are far too small to reach your chest or stomach, even if those meat stilts could do any damage. “You… b-brute…!”

You lift her higher, bringing up her pussy to your nose. The salty, musky scent of her sex overwhelms your sensitive nose, making your eyes water. There’s no fear amongst the smell, just eagerness, lust and… fertility. 

“Ngah~!” She whines as your rough tongue reaches out and gives her a probing lick, feeling up the willing cunt in front of you. You slide it from her clit down to her entrance. A whimper flees her lips as you push your way in, her mock struggles ceasing as she feels you tasting her. “Mhm…”  

She tastes delicious, making you push yourself further inside. Your hand goes from her throat to her ass, tilting her to the side to allow you better access. You waste no time and press your nose between her pussy lips, drawing in more of her scent. Her arms drift from your wrist and land on your head, fingers digging into the fur as her legs lock over your neck for support. Hu Tao rocks her hips, enticing you to explore deeper. You oblige and soon you feel her flesh pulsate around your intrusion as she clings onto you for dear life. You take it all in, scent, taste, slick and bumpy texture of her hole… But you can’t take it much longer. It wasn’t made for your tongue. 

Your tail starts swishing in excitement as you lift up your leg and stomp it down next to her face. You grab your cock and guide it towards her entrance. In a bit of vengeance, you rub the tip between her hungry lips, smearing them with thick precum. Before she can get comfortable though, you ram into her, burying yourself balls deep inside her tiny snatch. 

You pull back, leaving a string of saliva connecting you to her. She squeaks in surpise as unceremoniously toss her on the bed. When she lands, her eyes immediately turn to you as she flips on her back.

“A-ayia ayia…” She stutters out, flushed, watching you slowly approach her. She opens her legs, hoping to buy your mercy. “Please be gentle…”

But you have no plans for that. Even if you did, your heat doesn’t give a damn. You grab her waist and flip her around. Before she can regain her balance, you clasp your claws around her ass and pull her closer, dragging the sheet that she’s desperately holding along with her. When she feels your talon drag between her cheeks, you feel her skin crawl and shudder in response. Her back is arched as you examine your prey. You groan as soon as you notice and deliver a rough open palm on her ass.

“Waah!” She whimpers, feeling the sting on her skin. She fixes her posture, making proper space for your full length. 

Both of you moan in joint ecstasy as you fill her to the brim. Unable to control yourself, you start moving. With you dictating the pace, all Hu Tao can do is clench the blanket for dear life as you begin pistoning in and out of her. The room fills with a symphony of triumphant growls, desperate whimpers and obscene sounds of your nuts repeatedly slapping against her wet slit. Her eyes roll back as she endures your violent coupling, her eyes crying tears of mixed pain and pleasure. She feels her small pussy being stretched to its absolute limits, feeling herself throb as her body, confused between fear and mindless lust, fights back against the too big intrusion. Her tries to meet you halfway are met with no result as every snap of your hips pushes her back. She can’t think straight with a cock impaled into her so deep, so any thoughts quickly leave her mind with the many moans she shamelessly lets sound out. 

Feeling your much needed release draw closer, you dig your claws into her small ass, eliciting a whine from your mate. You shift into a merciless pace that sends bruising ripples across her body, the beast inside you caring only for the tension in his nuts. At last you strike forward, forcing the knot into her tight hole. She wails, arching her head backwards to meet your eyes. You lean forward and wrap your arms around her torso, keeping her close as you unload, each throb of your cock flooding her ravaged insides. She can feel each pulsing rope of cum pouring into her helpless, waiting womb.

Slowly, your mating fury dies down, and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion sets in. Hu Tao remains still under you, still too blazed by the intensity of your fuck. Her pleasure rotted mind still sits between her legs when the clarity hits you, relaxing your muscles and letting your exhausted cock finally soften. With a groan, you pull yourself out with a small noise from her to go along with it. A moment later dense cream emerges from inside her, starting to lazily drip out. 

You feel your head spin, soon followed by a trembling of your arms and knees. You move Hu Tao closer to the wall and collapse next to her, large arms pulling her close to your furry chest. 

Hu Tao reaches her hand around to touch your nose. No response. She breathes a sigh of relief, thanking herself for sneaking that sedative into your snacks. Looks like she still had some sense in her when her panties were soaked. 

A moment later, thoughts start to sprout back in Hu Tao’s fucked out mind. She groans - everything either hurts, is sore, or can’t be felt at all. Especially her hips.

“D-damn you..” She mumbles, rubbing the tears from her eyes. Well, she thinks, she deserved it. Could she not have provoked you? Maybe. Was it totally worth it? Hell yes. 

Your arm is quite comfortable. She snuggles her head into the crook of your arm, enjoying the softness of your monstrous form’s fur. Absent-mindedly, her hand glides over her belly.

Hopefully lycanthropy isn’t hereditary…

Thanks for reading!

[dee-writes-anime]

(TW for ED in case you want ignore this)

Can you do another dadzawa one where he finds out that his daughter hasn't been eating properly in weeks? She's like him who only ever eats when absolutely necessary but usually forgets and is stumbling out of training wondering "why do I feel so dizzy?" And maybe he finds out when she finally passes out during one of those team exercises/training (he sees her pass out through the screen so he can't do anything ohh👻).

Please and thank you! 🧡

Running On Empty

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY Your dad watches you pass out during training, an emotional heart to heart ensues.

CONTENT WARNINGS MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF PAST AND CURRENT EATING DISORDERS (guys, please please please make sure that you are in a good head space to read this. It is mostly fluff, but I don't want to trigger anyone, your mental health is more important!), minor character death, greif, loss

AUTHORS NOTE I hope this is what you were looking for anon! Please read at your own discretion and make sure you are also eating well and staying healthy <3

Your legs were shaking again.

Not from nerves—those had burned out after the first week of combat training—but from something deeper, buried under the surface. Your vision danced at the edges. A soft, pulsing blur. Like heatwaves rising from pavement.

Stupid, you thought. You’re stronger than this.

The drill was almost over. Just a few more seconds. One more move.

You blinked the sweat out of your eyes and hurled yourself toward the final marker, body sluggish but obedient. Your quirk sparked at your fingertips—your aim true, your strike clean.

But something was off.

The moment your feet hit the ground, they didn’t stop moving. The earth spun beneath them. Your knees bent without permission. You pitched sideways, arms reaching for nothing as your chest clamped tight like it had forgotten how to breathe.

Why do I feel so—

Your thought never finished.

The world tilted, then blackened.

And your body hit the mat with a soft, sickening thud.

Aizawa didn’t move at first.

In the observation booth, he stared at the feed like he’d forgotten how to blink. You were on your side, unmoving. The simulation paused itself automatically, but none of the other students dared approach. It was as if the whole training ground knew something had shifted, deeply and dangerously.

Then he moved.

“Training’s over,” he snapped into the comms. “Everyone out. Now.”

Panic had no place in his voice, but it stormed behind his eyes. He was through the booth door and halfway down the corridor before the last camera feed cut.

You woke to the sound of beeping.

Steady. Calm. Rhythmic.

The ceiling above you was unfamiliar, but the blanket tucked under your arms was soft, and the air was sterile in a way that could only mean infirmary. You blinked once, the light stabbing into your skull like a hot needle. A groan slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

And then, there he was.

Your father. Eraserhead. Aizawa Shouta.

Sitting beside your bed like a shadow, arms crossed, one leg bouncing in that slow, agitated way that only happened when he was holding too much inside.

His hair was tied back. His scarf was draped over his shoulders like a loose bandage. He looked… wrecked. But not surprised.

You swallowed.

“Dad…?”

His eyes flicked to yours. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence settled between you.

“I’m fine,” you added lamely.

“No, you’re not,” he said. Calm. Absolute. “You collapsed. In front of your entire class. You didn’t trip. You fainted. You hit the mat so hard I thought—”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish the sentence.

You stared at your hands. They felt like someone else’s. Heavy. Numb.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t just scare me.”

His voice cracked.

You looked up. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper now. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You could’ve hit your head. You could’ve had a seizure. If your quirk had fired while you were unconscious—” He cut himself off again. “You weren’t just dehydrated. You were starving. Recovery Girl said your blood sugar was so low she’s surprised you were standing at all.”

He stood abruptly and turned away. Pacing. That was worse than yelling.

“You’ve been skipping meals.” It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t answer.

“How long?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Try.”

You stared at the blanket. “A few weeks. I think.”

Another silence.

You dared to look up again. His back was to you now, shoulders tense. One hand running through his hair.

“Why?”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

You blinked hard. Your chest ached. Not just from the fall—but from everything. The shame, the exhaustion, the way your body felt like an old house ready to collapse.

“I just… forget sometimes,” you whispered. “And then it’s easier to keep forgetting.”

He turned slowly.

“And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” he said, deadpan, “that worked out great.”

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it landed. Sharp enough that your lip trembled.

“I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, softer this time. “Be honest.”

You broke then.

The tears came hot and fast. “I just—didn’t want to be in my body,” you choked out. “It feels like everything is too loud all the time. Like I’m either invisible or in the way. And eating felt like admitting I existed. And I didn’t want to.”

Aizawa didn’t move for a long time.

Then he crossed the room and sat back on the edge of your bed.

And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you let him reach for you.

His arm slid gently behind your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You leaned into him, sobbing quietly, and he let you. No lectures. No scolding. Just a firm, protective presence that held the shape of you like he’d memorized it.

His chin rested atop your head.

“You know I used to do the same thing,” he said quietly.

You froze.

“After Oboro died. I didn’t eat for almost two months. Not properly. Not enough. I told myself I was just busy. That it wasn’t important. But I didn’t want to exist either. Not in a world without him.”

You looked up at him, shocked.

“Yamada noticed,” he said. “Started packing me meals. Dragged me out of the house. Sat with me while I stared at my food for an hour. I told him to stop. He didn’t.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’m glad he didn’t.”

A small, dry smile. “Me too.”

Silence. Then:

“I never thought I’d have a kid who inherited that part of me,” he murmured. “But I did. And that means I have to do for you what he did for me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“We’re eating together from now on. No arguments. You don’t have to eat a lot. Just enough. Just something. You sit at the table with me. We do it together.”

You nodded, eyes blurry.

“And if you’re too tired,” he added, “I’ll bring it to your room. I’ll sit on the floor if I have to. I’ll wait until you’re ready. But you’re not doing this alone. I won’t let you.”

“…Okay,” you whispered.

His hand brushed your hair back. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to do that again.”

You managed a small smile through your tears. “You gonna put me on food patrol?”

“Damn right I am.”

You both laughed, quiet and shaken, but real.

That night, he made you miso soup from scratch in the teachers’ lounge.

It wasn’t perfect—it was a little salty, and the tofu had fallen apart—but he brought it to you in a thermos with a thermos cap as the bowl, sitting cross-legged beside your cot while you drank slowly.

When you finished, he handed you a warm rice ball with a tiny, crooked smiley face drawn on the seaweed.

“Mic’s idea,” he muttered, looking away.

You laughed softly.

[the-catch-center]

SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER INTERNAL DOSSIER FILE ID: SCC/INT-REDIRECT/038-577-HARDLOCK-RECALC ACCESS LEVEL: RESTRICTED – LEVEL GAMMA-9 AUTHORIZED HANDLER: TECH-OFFICER INGRID MALM, CONTAINMENT/REINTEGRATION DIVISION SUBJECT STATUS: FULL NEURAL REALIGNMENT IN FINAL PHASE WARP OFFENSE CLASS: VOLITIONAL TEMPORAL IDENTITY SUBVERSION REDIRECT TYPE: HARDLOCK / CULTURAL INVERSION / LOCUS REALLOC

I. SUBJECT ORIGIN PROFILE

ORIGINAL TEMPORAL NAME: Chase Ryland Mercer DOB: July 14, 1993 Birthplace: Denver, Colorado, United States Registered Occupation (2025): Fitness coach, lifestyle influencer, and freelance body aesthetics consultant Known Affinities: Narcissistic identity experimentation, time-loop evasion via biohacking, performance-enhancement narcotics (non-lethal), subcultural integration simulations Catch Center Notes: Subject presented minimal direct temporal risk but extreme destabilization via affective radiation and future-kink aesthetic bleed into mid-tier historical planes. Psych profile indexed a 9.7/10 on the Volitional Timeline Deviance Spectrum — one of the highest this fiscal cycle. Absolutely no sense of restraint or humility. Treated his identity like a goddamn buffet.

II. TARGET TRANSFORMATION TRAJECTORY (INTERCEPTED)

INTENDED IDENTITY (2003 POST-LANDING): Name: Thiago “Tigre” Delgado Projected Identity Arc:

Birthplace Claim: Hialeah, FL (fabricated)

Self-image: “Latin gay icon in the making” — short (5'5"), densely muscled, full-body tattoos (tribal + lowbrow queer iconography), pierced nipples with kinetic rings, surgically enhanced glutes, double-leg implants for enhanced bounce-resilience.

Occupation Goal: Professional gogo dancer / queer nightlife symbol

Nightclub Affiliations: The Vault, Orbit, El Palacio Rojo

Style: Shirtless with suspenders, mesh thongs, patent leather boots; constant chewing of neon gum; four rotating euphoric expression programs (joy, cockiness, defiance, sweatlust).

Behavioral Profile: Hypersexual body-positive provocateur, deliberately transgressive, intensely performative masculinity-as-artifice.

Neurological Tweaks: Neuroplastic conditioning toward unrelenting confidence, delayed shame response, and chemically stabilized erotic charisma.

Projected Impact: High-density affective ripple in Miami’s 2003 queer scene with ripple effects into early influencer psychology, erotic commodification economies, and third-wave queer liberation dynamics. Comment from Handler Malm:

“Oh, Thiago. Tigre. Whatever. He really thought the multiverse needed another sweaty himbo grinding on a speaker. The man was halfway to becoming a synthetic fetish idol for future anthropology textbooks. The sheer vanity. We had no choice. This was not a deviant with flair — this was a firework in a fireworks store.”

III. INTERCEPTION REPORT – REASSIGNMENT INITIATED

CATCH EVENT: May 18, 2025 Location: Lisbon Warp Corridor, Tier-2 Jump Stagger (unauthorized, amateur shield) Containment Class: STORMLOCK (Emergency Full Override – Cultural Reintegration) Time Misalignment Window: 2.44 seconds (longer than average, subject suffered visible neural stuttering)

IV. REDIRECTED IDENTITY PROFILE – FINALIZED REASSIGNMENT

NEW LEGAL IDENTITY: Name: Gerald Wayne Huxley DOB: March 19, 1938 Birthplace: Waco, Texas Current Year Placement: 1982 Occupation: Senior Enlistment Officer, United States Marine Corps (Ret.) – Lubbock Military Recruitment Center

V. PHYSICAL RECONSTRUCTION – FINALIZED PARAMETERS

Height: 6’5” Weight: 276 lbs Body Composition:

Upper body mass exaggerated to near cartoonish bulk, consistent with Cold War recruitment propaganda aesthetic.

Forearms vascular, heavily tanned, and riddled with deep scarring (simulation implants for combat credibility).

Waistline high, torso thick with almost immobile girth.

Feet: Size 28EE – biometric flag for timeline recapture trace. Intentionally disproportionate.

Hair:

Color: Faded iron gray

Cut: Exact regulation flat top — high-precision, bristly, square. No fade, no softness. Facial Features:

Square jaw recalibrated with reinforced temporal mass to suggest hardened aging.

Nose slightly misaligned (simulated boxing injury).

Mustache: Oversized, thick, dark bristles — exaggerated variant of “Tom Selleck Regulation 8,” protruding nearly 2.5cm beyond lip edge. Skin:

Textured, sun-damaged, mid-oil saturation level.

All tattoos (real and desired) erased.

Scar tissue simulated on clavicle and left thigh.

Wardrobe (Perpetual Issue):

Olive green slacks (1982 standard military recruiter issue)

Brown oxfords, scuffed at toe

Khaki button-up with two front creased pockets

Brown leather belt with brass buckle Note: Uniforms reissued weekly. No variation permitted.

Handler Malm Commentary:

“He went from mesh crop tops and chest oil to starch and brass in one warp-snap. Beautiful. He twitched for 19 seconds trying to say ‘vamos’ through a jaw that now only knows how to bark ‘Oorah.’”

VI. PSYCHOGENETIC REALIGNMENT

Override Protocol: A7-A6 “PATRIOT CORE + MEMORY FLUSH”

Emotional Expression Index: Reduced to 1.8 (gruff approval, disapproval, silent nod)

Deviance Tolerance: 0.00

Neural Aversion Implants: Triggered by visual/audio contact with queer subcultures

Memory Replacement:

Vietnam veteran (fictionalized unit, real deployment logs)

Divorcee (3x)

Current hobbies include grilling, lecturing teens, hating hippies

Belief Reprogramming: Fully loyal to Reagan administration, believes in draft reinstatement, thinks disco “destroyed the American man.”

Residual Symptoms:

Minor lip spasms when attempting to recall “Thia—”

Left hip occasionally executes pre-conditioned “grind” motion in sleep (projected to phase out in 14 days)

Vague nostalgia toward low-saturation lighting and rhythmic basslines (marked irrelevant by override)

Handler Malm Commentary:

“He thinks Studio 54 was a socialist training camp now. I love my job.”

VII. TIMELINE OUTCOME

PROJECTED LIFE TRAJECTORY:

1982–1994: Works at regional recruitment center, trains new hires

1995–2000: Retires, becomes semi-local figure in Lubbock VFW

2001: Minor stroke, mobility decline

Death: February 19, 2002, 11:24 a.m., Amarillo VA Hospital — confirmed stroke, no anomalous triggers, timeline preserved

Post-Death Integrity: Subject marked as “Historically Plausible and Emotionally Nullified”

Handler Malm Final Notes:

“We’ve taken a man who wanted to shake his surgically plumped ass to reggaeton under strobe lights and turned him into a one-man recruitment pamphlet. He’s exactly where he belongs: forgotten, rigid, and 100% unsexy. A victory for the timeline. And frankly? A little cathartic.”

END OF DOSSIER FILE LOCKED DO NOT DISTRIBUTE WITHOUT CLASS-GAMMA OVERRIDE