#(and shattered glass is always so sharp; she knows that too)

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[coryndoll]

what would you do for love?

exboyfriend!rafe cameron x exgirlfriend!reader

— in which y/n spirals into a possessive obsession over her ex-boyfriend rafe. she quietly pulls the strings from the shadows, creating accidents, bribing others, and doing whatever it takes to maintain control—believing she is the only one truly capable of loving him.

warnings: dark!reader, rafe being the love quinn to readers joe goldberg i fear, or is reader delusional? world may never know !!

authors note: i couldnt help myself in writing this, ill write for waking up to you immediately soon LMAO, but i do have class today so it may be delayed even longer. if u arent part of the tag list, feel free to lmk thru replies, anons, dms, or reblogs !! notifications are always on <3

previous

you flinch when you hear the sharp shatter of glass nearby, some bottle smashing against the wall. a group of guys, mostly drunk and reckless, laughing as the shards scatter. your eyes roll somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the noise, the chaos.

you’ve been lingering around the same group for too long, and you need something new, something to distract you, pull you into a different space.

your shoes scuff against the concrete as you walk, weaving through people like you’re on autopilot, not really paying attention to where you’re headed until you catch sight of something—a fold-out table tennis table being hauled out of the back of someone’s beat-up van.

you almost laugh, but stas, your friend, is already there, pushing some guy off of her and reaching for you when she spots you walking by.

“y/n, you have to play!” she shouts, her voice a little too loud over the music, excitement making her words slur slightly. she pulls at your arm, trying to drag you into whatever drinking game they’re about to start. beer pong, flip cup, it doesn’t really matter. you’ve already had enough.

your head swims as she pulls you closer to the group, and you shake your head, gently pulling away. “i’ll watch,” you mutter, but stas barely hears you, already distracted by the table being set up.

stas keeps talking, about what? you don’t know, because you’re not listening anymore. her words turn into background noise as your eyes trail off somewhere else. across the way, your other friend shaw has set up his makeshift dj booth, some way for everyone to hear something rather than just screams, chants, and talking the whole time.

it’s not much of a dance floor, more of an invisible line where people stand around, swaying and talking, their heads bobbing to the beat. a few are bold enough to move in closer, letting the music take over, but most are just hanging out.

and there, right in the middle of it, you spot her. sofia.

her hips sway as she leads rafe toward the music, her hand wrapped around his, holding it above her head like she’s pulling him into some private little world. she’s got a drink in her other hand, laughing as she moves, carefree in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

rafe is smiling, but not at her. not really. you see the moment he catches sight of shaw behind the dj booth, the way he briefly pulls his attention away from sofia, stepping toward shaw to greet him. sofia, left without rafe’s guiding hand, stumbles for a second—just a second—but it’s enough. it’s like watching a baby take its first steps. cute, if you cared.

you don’t.

instead, your lips curl slightly. you glance over at stas, who’s still chattering about god knows what, oblivious to where your mind’s gone.

“shaw’s been eyeing you lately,” you say casually, tossing the lie out like it’s nothing. stas stops mid-sentence, blinking at you like she’s processing it. she turns her head to look at shaw, her grip on your arm tightening slightly.

you can practically feel her swallow, the way her expression shifts into something unreadable, and she tugs on your arm. “i wanna dance now,” she says, voice flat, but you can feel the pulse of urgency behind it.

perfect.

she pulls you with her, cutting across the skatepark toward the music, dragging you closer to where rafe and sofia are. no questions asked, and you let her lead.

you weave your way behind stas as you move to the rhythm of the music just enough to blend in. your body moves without thought, hips swaying as the heavy bass pounds through the skatepark.

stas releases your hand once she’s right in front of the makeshift booth, standing on her tiptoes and gripping the edge of the table, leaning in to talk to shaw. her voice is high, maybe a little slurred.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, stepping back for a moment, trying to make space for yourself. that’s when you feel it—someone bumping into you. the contact is light, unintentional, but it snaps you out of your daze. you spin around quickly, ready to apologize, but the words freeze in your throat the second you see who it is.

sofia’s standing right in front of you, staring back with a soft, almost shy smile, her lips parted as if she’s about to say something—probably an apology too.

she doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize you, doesn’t have a clue.

you take her in, your eyes scanning her from head to toe. “cute dress,” you say, the words slipping out with a smile that never quite reaches your eyes. it’s polite enough, but there’s a sharp edge, a venom she doesn’t seem to catch.

sofia beams at the compliment, completely oblivious. she’s sweet, sure. her niceness, her smile—it’s all so carefully curated, like it’s been drilled into her.

the way she smiles up at you, so clueless, so unaffected. it almost makes you want to laugh.

you stand there for a split second longer, savoring the moment before stas calls your name, tugging on your arm, pulling you back toward the booth. you let yourself be dragged away, but not before stealing one last glance at sofia.

stas pulls you along behind the booth, and shaw greets you with that easy smile of his. without hesitation, you throw your arms around him, squeezing him tight. it makes you laugh the moment you let go. stas is right in the middle of it all, her laughter joining yours. shaw switches the track, a new beat pulsing through the speakers, and the three of you dissolve into your own little bubble, wrapped up in the party.

but sofia—well, she hasn’t moved far.

you can feel her eyes on you, lingering, like she’s trying to piece something together in her head. something about you must not sit right with her, something off. maybe it’s the way you looked at her earlier, or maybe it’s just that gut feeling people get when they sense danger but can’t quite place where it’s coming from.

she keeps watching you for a second longer, her expression faltering. she’s trying to convince herself there’s nothing to worry about, that you’re just some random girl at the party. after all, you complimented her dress, right? you even smiled—so what’s the harm?

but the crowd around her is thick now, people pressing in from all sides, dancing, shouting, moving like they own the night. she’s swallowed by the chaos. you see her hesitate, her movements more uncertain, her eyes darting around like she’s looking for an escape. and that’s when her gaze finally breaks from you—she’s searching for him.

you watch her weave through the crowd, her small frame almost lost in the mass of bodies, that anxious look in her eyes growing. she’s trying to keep calm, to pretend she’s not bothered, but it’s written all over her face.

the smugness spreads through you again, sinking deeper.

and then you see him.

rafe moves through the crowd with ease, his eyes landing on sofia immediately. he slips an arm around her shoulders like it’s second nature, his voice low as he probably asks if she’s alright. sofia nods, but you can see it—she’s unsettled.

and you? you just keep watching, your gaze fixed on them, every part of you relishing the control you hold over the situation without even lifting a finger.

then you hear it—some girl’s laugh from near the skate drop-ins. it pulls your attention away from sofia and rafe for a second, and you spot her almost immediately. you don’t know her, but she’s crouched near the concrete, spraycan in hand, adding some half-assed tag to the wall. her laugh is carefree, like she’s proud of her work, like it means something.

but your eyes trail away from her, settling on something else, something familiar in the mess of graffiti scrawled across the concrete.

blue spray paint. initials. r and s.

it should mean nothing, right? just random letters like all the other tags scattered around this place. but no, you know better. the handwriting—it’s too familiar, too practiced, almost like a signature you’ve memorized without ever really trying.

did you do this, rafe?

the thought sends a wave of bitter amusement through you, twisting your lips into something resembling a smile, but one that’s more cold than kind.

r and s.

simple. stupid, even. but it’s not. you know better. it’s rafe, leaving his mark, tying himself to sofia in a way that’s so casual it makes you sick.

and worse? he did it without you noticing.

it’s not about the letters themselves. it’s about what they mean. this isn’t just some random graffiti. no, this is a declaration—small and hidden enough to go unnoticed by anyone else, but not you. never you.

your mind convinces you that he’s playing with you, testing how much you’re paying attention, how closely you’re watching. and of course, you’re always watching.

really, rafe?

the thought burns as it settles in your chest. rafe cameron—practically born with a spotlight above his head—has the nerve to blend in when he wants to, to pull something like this off without you even seeing it happen. it’s impressive, really. he did this when your guard was down. when you weren’t watching.

you imagine him, crouched by the wall, glancing over his shoulder, making sure you weren’t looking. the thought twists something in your chest.

when did he do it?

when you were busy pretending not to care?

when your eyes were somewhere else for once?

he’s smooth, you’ll give him that. it’s a reminder, subtle but sharp, that he can always be a step ahead, always just out of reach when you think you’ve got him cornered.

you stand up straighter, licking your lips as that familiar bitterness floods you. the ownership, the jealousy, it all wraps tight around your gut. yeah, he’s got skills, huh? skills you didn’t give him enough credit for. he might be running around with her, playing his little game, but he’s still yours.

you smile, but it’s empty, more a grimace than anything else. it’s almost funny, really. the whole thing. r and s, like that’s supposed to matter. like it could ever really mean something.

it won’t last, and you’ll be here when it falls apart, picking up the pieces like you always do. because that’s the truth, isn’t it?

no matter where he runs or who he tries to hide behind, he always comes back to you.

he just doesn’t know it yet.

tags: @iissza @lotuslovers @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @yootvi @skyslowalking @ariiwritess @beebeerockknot @hoelesslyt @enchantinglovergirl @katekells @maybankslover @icaqttt @xcinnamonmalfoyx

[dead-boys-club]

†  what do you want? : the fatui.

❥ scenario: answering a simple question. ❥ no triggers ❥ i don't have any beta readers - you get what you get. ❥ taglist: @mimis-happiest-day

"what do you want from me?" the words slip out, trembling in the cold. your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if the weight of the question itself could shatter the silence around you. they stare back—each gaze colder or hotter, more calculating or more devouring than the last. whatever their answers, you know the fatui don’t give anything freely.

❥ arlecchino.

her gaze remained sharp as you stared at her, cutting through you like glass. "what do i want?" she repeated, almost mocking, but there's a softness - she thought over your words. "everything," she finally says, her hand reaching to trace over your jaw with the tip of her nails. "your loyalty, your strength, your heart. and, only if you're strong enough, your soul." her words are both a demand and devotion, the only way she would deliver them.

❥ dottore.

he chuckles, the sound low and unhinged. "what do i want?" he purrs in amusement. he takes your hand to hold it open, his thumb rested against your pulse. "to see what makes you tick, of course. to pull you apart, piece by piece - and then, perhaps, if you're good.." he trails off for a moment, his smile mischievous. "i'll put you back together, better than you ever were."

❥ childe.

he grins, a mischievous glint to his eyes. "what do i want? hm.." he echoes, moving closer, voice playful but laced with a surprising depth. "i want everything you've got - every laugh, every secret, every scar." his hand finds yours, fingers threading between your own. :i want to fight beside you, protect you, and maybe.. just maybe, find another reason to stop fighting."

❥ pantalone.

his smile is knowing as it forms, eyes shining with something dark and calculating. "ah, my dear, you know very well what i want." he steps closer, fingers finding your cheek, his gaze holding a weight you couldn't name. "loyalty, love - such beautiful words." his hand lingers a beat too long. "but, what i truly want.. is to see how far you'll go for me."

❥ signora.

her gaze is fierce as always, though tempered by something gentler, softer than her usual demeanor. "what do i want?' her voice is barely audible and she pauses, eyeing you closely. "i want to burn the world down, watch it all turn to ash - with you by my side. you're the one spark i never expected," she adds, a rare smile gracing her lips. ❥ scaramouche.

he scoffs, arms crossing in his usual fashion, acting like your question offends him. his tone is biting and mocking as he repeats your question. "i want you to stop asking stupid questions." but he looks away, letting out a deep sigh, annoyed. "you should know by now.. i wouldn't keep you around if i didn't think you were important."

❥ columbina.

her smile is serene, unsettling so, as if she sees far beyond you. "what do i want?" she hums, thinking over the answers as her fingers dance against your shoulder. "i want you, my songbird. to sing for me, to shatter the silence. most of all.." her voice drops, becoming a whisper, like the next words were a deep secret. "i want you to stay, forever bound to this melody only we share."

❥ pierro.

his gaze is unreadable, maybe solemn if you had to choose a word, carrying to weight of worlds and beyond. he repeats your words, considering the question. "loyalty. strength. is that not what everyone wants? but with you.." his hand fingers your shoulder, steadying and grounding you both. "i want.. peace." there's a softness to his voice, a rare vulnerability that you deemed impossible. "stay besides me, and let us carve a legacy that will never be forgotten."

❥ sandrone.

her head tilts, observing you with an eerie, calculating gaze. she always looked at you as if you were a piece of her collection. she repeats the words, quiet and detached, in a way that made you feel like she didn't quite understand. "i want you to stay perfectly still, exactly as you are. i've never been fond of things that break too easily." he fingers lift, tracing your cheek bone, a possessive, chilling touch. "for you, i might make an exception. just don't disappoint me."

❥ capitano.

the weight of his voice is that of unspoken promises, deep and quiet, a rumble if nothing else. "what do i want?' he asks, his tone unwavering but something told you he'd never been asked such a thing. "i want you to stand beside me without fear. to see the world through your eyes and remember what it is i'm fighting for." a gloved hand rested on your upper arm, a surprisingly gentle touch. "and, you're willing, i want you.. as my reason to keep moving forward."

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi!! I had a dream last night and i was wondering if someone can make a readerxhotch fic about it. Reader are Hotch girlfriend for some time now, and she's having a really bad day. Everything she does, it goes wrong. Hotch comes by to take her to some date (because he was away for too long), she is SO frustrate with her bad day and Hotch is always gentle and patient with everything (even he's frustrate too) and reader start to crying because she is sorry for him, and he is just Hotch! Thank You!

Through the chaos | [A.H]

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘈𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘞: 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘤𝘺. 𝘌𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩? 𝘞𝘊: 1𝘬

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 ;)

           The apartment was a mess, and you felt like a mess along with it. The day had been a relentless string of mishaps - spilled coffee, missed calls, and the final blow: dropping your phone and watching the screen crack. Every small failure piled up like bricks on your chest, and you couldn't catch your breath beneath their weight.

           You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, staring at your reflection. The dress you'd picked for the date with Aaron felt wrong. It clung too tightly to your skin, the color too harsh under the fluorescent light. You ran your fingers through your hair in frustration, pulling at the strands, trying to tame it into something presentable. But nothing worked today. Nothing.

           The knock on the door startled you, and your heart skipped a beat. Aaron was here. He’d been away for weeks, chasing case after case, and you’d been so excited for this night, for the chance to finally be with him again. But now? Now, everything felt wrong.

           Taking a deep breath, you walked to the door, hesitating before pulling it open.

           “Hey,” Aaron greeted you with a soft smile, his eyes warm and full of affection as they swept over you. He looked exhausted, but that didn’t stop him from being present, he cared too much about you not to come to see you instantly after getting home. “You look beautiful.”

           You tried to return the smile, but it felt forced, like the last bit of energy you had left was spent just trying to stand upright. "Thanks," you muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

           He frowned slightly as he stepped inside, sensing something was off. His eyes, always sharp, took in the cluttered apartment, the way your shoulders slumped in defeat. “Everything okay?” he asked gently, his voice filled with concern.

           You wanted to tell him it was fine, that it was just one of those days, but the frustration had built up too high, and you could feel it bubbling under your skin. "It's just been… a really bad day," you muttered, rubbing at your temples. "Everything is going wrong. I can't do anything right today."

           Aaron stepped closer, his hands reaching for you, but you backed away instinctively, shaking your head. "I don't even know why we're doing this tonight," you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. "I can't… I can't even get ready properly. I look awful, and—"

           "Hey, hey," Aaron cut you off, his brow furrowing. "You don’t look awful. What’s going on?"

           But the glass had already shattered. "I’ve had the worst day. My phone’s broken, my hair won’t cooperate, I can’t get anything right, and now I’m ruining our night. I just wanted it to be perfect, and it's… it's not."

           His face softened, and he stepped closer again, but this time, his frustration showed too. He’d been away for so long, and all he wanted was to spend this evening with you, to take a break from the stress of his job. “I know it’s been a hard day, but I’ve been gone for weeks. I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

           You knew he was right, but the pressure of everything going wrong had you unraveling. "I know, but everything’s just…" You choked on your words, the tears rising, unbidden. “I’m sorry, Aaron, I didn’t mean to make this harder. I just… I can’t take it anymore.”

           The tears slipped down your cheeks, and you turned away, feeling overwhelmed, and guilty for snapping at him. The last thing you wanted was to make him feel bad after he’d just gotten back.

           But he didn’t let you pull away. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into his chest, his hand gently smoothing over your hair. “Shh,” he whispered against your temple, his lips brushing your skin. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

           You couldn’t hold back the sob that tore from your throat, your body trembling as the weight of the day came crashing down all at once. But Aaron held you tighter, his embrace steady and unwavering, grounding you.

           “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs, burying your face into his chest. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just so… so overwhelmed.”

           Aaron pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft and full of tenderness. “You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I get it. Sometimes it’s all just too much, and that’s okay.”

           You leaned into him, your tears slowing as you let yourself melt into his comforting presence. It wasn’t just the physical closeness - it was the safety he brought with him, the support that reminded you that you didn’t have to be perfect all the time, not with him.

           “I just wanted tonight to be nice,” you mumbled, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

           “You haven’t ruined anything,” Aaron assured you, his tone gentle but firm. “We don’t need perfect. I just want to be with you. That’s all I need.”

           His words made you feel lighter like the weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You looked up at him, his eyes gentle and full of understanding, and a small, tearful smile broke through your exhaustion.

           “You sure?” you asked, your voice trembling.

           He smiled, the kind of smile that made your heart feel full even on the hardest days. “I’m sure,” he said, wiping the last of your tears away with the pad of his thumb. “We’ll make tonight whatever we want it to be. As long as we’re together, that’s enough for me.” Aaron had a way of making everything feel okay.

           You pressed your forehead to his, letting out a long, shaky breath. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling the warmth of his love surround you.

           "What do you say, I cancel the reservation, we order take out and maybe go for a walk later, yeah?" Aaron murmured as he pressed a kiss to your lips.

           "I'd like that."

[munsonsreputation]

i can't talk to you when i'm like this

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: [2.1K]

warnings: warnings: no use of y/n, established relationship, reader has a history of shitty ex's, steve accidentally makes reader cry, a lot of angst regarding past relationships (feelings wise), steve's shitty childhood & terrible dad (brief), fluff at the end (yes because i am a softie)

summary: steve never raises his voice at you, but the first time he does, you can’t find it in yourself to tell him what's really bothering you when you’re seconds away from breaking down.

You hate how the tears coming springing to your eyes the second Steve raises his voice a little too loudly beneath his already apparent annoyance.

Your brain blanks out the second it bellows against the walls and comes hurtling down to your eardrums. It feels like glass shattering in a million different ways, cutting you open and killing you with a thousand cuts.

He’s frozen in front of you, blinking with a look of oblivion on his face because he’s waiting. His arms still held wide open after he asked a question: one that was posed with a tone too sharp for your liking.

“Why are you making it such a big deal?”

His usually sweet and gentle tone was long gone, or at least that’s how you heard it. Instead, it dribbled with irritation and resentment meshed all in one. The kind that sounded like he was fed up and wanted nothing to do with you anymore.

He was just trying to do a sweet thing by picking you both up some coffee and yet here you were starting an argument — you always had to ruin a good thing.

Your teeth dig into your gums, trying to find any way to hold off on the waterworks that you know are about to pour any second now. Cloudy orbs shoot down to your bare feet, trembling against the floorboards while you excuse yourself from the kitchen.

“I’m g-going to the bathroom.”

Your voice is delicate yet not the kind that Steve knows like the back of his hand — the one where you keep it so quiet like an oath when you whisper you love him when you think he’s asleep and no one else is around to hear it.

This time the oath is broken, cracked, just like your voice, torn at the seams between fear and panic. Its edges are frayed and tattered, and its tenderness that is usually formed out of affection is long gone as it cuts through your chest and causes your back to heave as you walk away.

He knows he messed up.

It’s stupid. You shouldn’t be so worked up over the barista leaving her number on Steve’s cup. But you are. You’re worked the hell up and you want him to understand why it is such a big deal to you.

It’s upsetting because you shouldn’t be this wound up and insecure. You know Steve would never even dare to dial the numbers left on the cup, let alone remember the name she left on there. He’s head over heels in love with you the same way you are with him — yet you just don’t get it.

You don’t get the way this makes your insides turn and the thoughts to start whirlwind in your head. At first you were just upset about the number, maybe even just mildly irked — but then the second Steve’s voice came to you like that… that’s when you entirely forgot how to even tell him how you felt.

Now you just felt stupid for making it such a big deal and turning it into this.

“Breathe….” you murmur to yourself jaw trembling as you try not to tense.

The tears finally roll when your back collides with the bathroom door and your shaky fingers lock it shut. Your heart feels like it’s on fire, one that consumes your entire being and engulfs you in the bluest blue instead of the blazing red.

The only thing keeping you from collapsing is the door that’s holding up your weight and it’s not long after that the person you love yet are avoiding is on the other side making it more difficult for you to attempt to make it seem like it’s not a big deal.

“B-baby… I’m so sorry.”

The apology comes in an instant, and you could almost feel his breath hitting your neck from behind the wood. You know it’s genuine…Steve has never ever made you cry. You feel now like you’ve taken everything out of proportion — you should’ve just giggled and said ‘oh that’s cute! too bad you’re my boyfriend!’

All of the things you wished you would have said play in your mind like punishment for the way you’ve acted. How you know you’ve turned the tables on him and made him look like the bad guy when he was far from that.

He was just shocked to come home and hand you your favorite drink only to be asked about the barista he barely gave his attention to. Your accusing voice after he did something nice wasn’t something he was expecting.

Your throat tightened, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to cover it up and make it seem like you weren’t upset. You shuffled from the door, towards the sink, turning it on yet making no move to put your hands under the water.

“I’m fine! I—I just had to wash my face!” You lie, trying to cover your tracks as if Steve doesn’t already know it.

There’s been times when things have upset you, not things that Steve has done, but things that life throws at you and most of the times you hate how wound up you get. Without failure, you sneak away, just wanting a moment by yourself to cry without anyone feeling bad for you or asking questions because they’ll never get it. They don’t understand that the littlest things can trigger something inside of you to completely shut down from the rest of the world.

No one gets it… but Steve does.

“Baby,” His voice is stronger this time, yet tender, “please, can I come in? I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Your fingers finally come in contact with the frigid water, dabbing the droplets over your eyes attempting to get them to settle instead of looking like you were just crying. There’s a sniffle that comes from you as you clear your airways and a pathetic smile that you press onto your face to try to hide how you’re really feeling.

The water shuts off and you’re opening the door, cutting his apology off altogether.

“I’m fine, Steve!”

Your voice isn’t swaying even with the volume it carries and neither with the faint laugh you give him when you meet face to face. Your lashes still bear the droplets of salt and your cheeks tinted red with the path they’ve traveled down.

He can feel the pain in your voice and see the wobble of your chin as you hold back everything inside. He hates that you feel like you have to mask how you’re really feeling when, in actuality, you should be furious at him for what he did.

“Baby,”

Sadness joins his concern, and he doesn’t bother to hide it — he’s not sure he can when his eyes leak the same emotion, “Baby, you’re not fine…I know you’re not fine.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes unconvincingly. “I literally am, babe… it’s cool. Everything is fine.”

He knows that now you’re trying to reassure yourself rather than him. Trying to play it off and make it seem like everything was okay. Like he’s just supposed to accept it and let you hold everything inside like torture when that’s far from what he wants.

Your attempts to brush past him are futile when his hands come out to hold your shoulders, his fingertips kneading your tense skin. He can feel the blood rushing from under your clothes and it’s not the kind of warmth you usually carry — you are blistering and if he looks hard enough, he can see the way your chest is trying to level itself out as you hold back.

It takes everything in you to not draw your eyes away from his because you don’t want him to know that you’re still feeling it. Feeling stupid and at the same time nothing at all because you don’t know what to feel anymore. There’s a whirlwind of emotions and none of them you can put a finger on because you’re just lost.

You just don’t want him to think you’re crazy… like you reacting to him raising his voice like that was something that would daunt him away.

One of his hands stops its movement on your skin, raising up to your cheek and cradling you gently. There’s a crease between his brows and his eyes seep with regret and guilt. His lips part and the words that leave them come in whispers and fragility — croaks and cracks guiding them.

“Everything isn’t fine… I acted like an idiot and raised my voice at you. I’m sorry baby, I—I never meant to do that on purpose. It just came out, but that isn’t an excuse.” He shakes his head at himself disappointingly because he knows better.

Steve was far from perfect in his own eyes, but he knew better because all his life if there was one person he didn’t want to be like, it was his dad. The dad that used to scream at his mother, and scream at him, and scream at the world when everything went wrong, and didn’t know how to talk if it wasn’t screaming.

He’d never forgive himself if he made you feel that way or even became a smidge of what his father was. But it wasn’t him who he was blaming for this — this was all Steve himself, and he knew that. Accountability needed to be taken from himself because the only person he was hurting was you and it was going to be okay.

Not in the heat of the moment, not ever.

You hadn’t even noticed you had tugged your bottom lip between your teeth, the faint taste of iron trickling onto your tongue when you realized you were biting down on the skin too hard trying to stop yourself from crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry baby, please just—just tell me how to make it better.” His voice pleads and reasons, wanting to make it right with you anyway he could.

You close your eyes, letting the tears fall as you feel his thumbs wipe them away. He’s done this times before, wiping away your tears that had spewed from another’s doing. Never did he ever think he would be the cause.

“I-it’s nothing… it’s stupid, I’m stupid and dramatic.” You swallow thickly, sniffling and twisting your fingers in your hand to fight off the lingering feelings.

He shakes his head. The obvious look of disapproval for your words covers his face because this was far from your fault. Sure, he was bewildered about the whole incident, considering he didn’t even know the number was left there until you brought it up, but for him to not know how to convey his frustration better was the real issue at hand.

Not the accusation, not the stupid number, not the oblivious girl who left her number: it was him, Steve’s idiotic actions that got you both here.

“Stop, don’t talk to yourself like that.” He insists, staring deeply into your eyes, searching for a reason why you were blaming yourself,

Your jaw shakes roughly before a sob rips through your mouth. Tightening your eyes to try to get the tears to stop, yet they don’t cease no matter how hard you try. Frustration builds inside of you because you should be over it by now. The fact that he apologized and was here trying to comfort you should be enough.

But something inside of you won’t let it die. The silence is filled with the memory of his voice shouting at you and the face that he stared back with.

“I—I don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with me.” You croak, covering your face and turning away from him to save you the embarrassment.

But he strays to where you are, sticking beside you with a comforting hand resting on your back, “Sweetheart, nothing is—”

You sob one more, this time with a grunt that is direct to yourself. Stomping your foot against the cold tiles, your hands come down to grip the edges of the counter tightly. Your reflection in the mirror is only half of what you feel, and when Steve steps behind you, all you can see is guilt, but at the same time patience knowing he’s ready when you are.

You try your very best to at least keep your sobs at bay just enough for you to speak through them and for him to understand.

“You’re not gonna wanna be with me anymore knowing I can’t—I can’t talk to you when I’m like this! I don’t know why, but I can’t… it makes me feel stupid, like I’m crying over something so tiny and now I’ve totally forgotten why we were even arguing in the first place.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head and reaching in front of you to bring your hair back and away from your face. His eyes keep yours in the mirror, watching at you with such a gentleness that even now doesn’t falter.

“We weren’t arguing. I was just dumb and raised my voice when you were asking me about it.”

You move your sights from his to the bottom of the sink, shaking your head, “No, b-but I shouldn’t have reacted like that and made you look like the bad guy when yo—”

Your voice is traveling faster than you can think, spewing out words so hastily like you have to make him understand that it’s not his fault, but yours. It takes your breath away, hiccuping and coughing between a sob that leaves your mouth and bobbles in your chest.

Steve’s instantaneously rubbing your back, shushing you and trying to get you to calm down knowing you going on and on like this wouldn’t do you any good. He understands that you feel a lot of things very deeply and sometimes it isn’t an easy task to get them all out at once: he knows it and he’ll spend forever with you until you got it all out.

“Hey, hey, baby, c’mon… breathe,” He coos, his palm never stilling on your back feeling the deep breaths in and out, watching the tears fall down your cheeks and drip onto the counter.

It’s a kind of scene he hates to see, the one he wishes he could take from you and shoulder instead because watching you in such a state breaks his heart more than he could imagine. And this time it stings a little more knowing that he not only cannot shoulder your pain, but was the one creating it this time.

“Talk to me, please. What’s going on? Why’re so you upset at yourself and not at me?” He begs, trying to get a glimpse of what you’re feeling so he knows where the root is.

“B-because… I made it such a b-big deal.” You hiccup.

When you swipe angrily at your eyes with a ferociousness, that’s enough to make Steve step in and take it from here now that he knows where you’re coming from. A warm hand comes down onto your shoulder, pulling at you just enough for you to face him completely, weakly hanging your head low not knowing if you were strong enough to see him just yet.

“You didn’t make anything a big deal. I promise, we’re okay.” He whispers quietly, cupping your face in his hands, and bringing you face to face, “You’re not stupid and I could never think that you were. You’re human honey. It’s normal for you to be upset by things.”

“B-but I…I don’t want you to think you did something wrong—“

He stops you with a shake of his head. “But I did. I did something so wrong. I yelled when I shouldn’t have, and I made you feel like shit.”

Steve desperately needs you to know it. That this was his fault and no one else’s. That him making you feel like crap was the worst thing he could have ever done, but he was willing to man up to it and try to make things better, and at the same time he would understand if you wanted nothing to do with him after this.

Still, even after his words, you’re somehow even angrier at yourself, mind blaring at you for being such a dramatic person for making him go out of this way with all of this. That this was surely your fault and yours only, and if you didn’t take it off his plate, it was just something he would use against you one day to realize that he didn’t want to be with you anymore.

It’s what they all did — held it over your head and made you feel like you were wrong for feeling how you felt, so instead it was best not to feel anything at all. To hide it away and hope that being noncombative meant that everything was going to be okay and it wouldn’t give them a reason to run.

“I-it’s my fault—” You pinch your eyes, gulping back a cry as you shake your head in his hands.

His brows pull together, eyes squinting at you, not completely understanding why you’re doing this.

“Hey, stop, it’s not your fault. Don’t do that. Don’t take the fall for me,” Steve assures you with a sternness to his soft voice, continuing to wipe the seeping tears.

Somehow you can’t let it go, “But—”

“But nothing.” He starts, his voice composed yet unyielding in his tone.

He can’t stand it, clutching your face a little firmer, hoping that you would peek your eyes open to see him because he desperately needs you to. The second you do, your face twists again with heartache, praying that he would just let you go and walk out already, because by now, he probably thinks you’re insane — there’s no way he’s not thinking it.

His lips part, trying to find the right words to say, needing the perfect ones to get through you because he hates how you won’t let him take the fall, the one he so rightfully deserves to come crashing down on. You are everything to him and in some ways the feelings that you feel hit him right in the heart, and right now is no different, but there’s a wall between you both and his only goal is to knock it down completely.

“I—I don’t know why you feel like you have to protect me, but I promise you don’t.” He whispers, watching as you try to calm yourself, little sniffles going in and out and broken cries leaving your mouth.

His thumbs rub back and forth across your cheeks, soothing your withering skin. Slowly but surely your cries die little by little, eyes fixed on his, trusting that he means everything that he says, because Steve isn’t like the others — something that you should’ve known judging from his character alone.

“If I do something that makes you upset or sad, you should be able to voice that, not keep it in. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t tell me when I’ve done something wrong. I—I want you to feel safe and okay around me, enough to know that my love for you isn’t gonna change, just because you bring something up. You have every right to be upset, and angry, and disappointed, everything.”

He says it like he means it and you know it’s because he does. He lets every word hang from the stars as if he put them up there, and points them out just for you to know that they are there and true, because that’s all he ever wanted. For you to know that every word he speaks comes from his heart, and no matter how many times he needs to repeat it, he’ll do it over and over again, just so you know it’s real and until you believe them and know he won’t ever break them.

“Don’t ever blame yourself for me, please? I-I don’t want you to do that to yourself because I’m here and…and every time I fuck up or make a mistake, I swear I’m gonna own up to it and try to fix it. But I’m not gonna let you take the blame, okay?”

Being with Steve for so long still feels so new, especially when you know he isn’t like the rest of the boys from your past. He’s patient and kind with a big heap of understanding. Like everyone else in the world, he’s guilty of his own poor moments, but he’ll be damned if he takes that out on you or makes you feel like it’s your responsibility.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” He murmurs, letting his hands fall away from your face, letting you decide what the next move is.

The tears that escape are more so in between the remains of the sadness being washed away with tears of love and gratitude. Your arms wrap around his torso, pulling yourself into him and burying your face into his chest where the tears soak through his chest. Without a second thought, his arms envelop you, rocking you both back and forth as he presses kisses on the top of your head.

It mends your heart not merely because he’s just sorry, but because you didn’t get plenty of sorries before. Left only with sweeping things under the rug and pretending like nothing ever happened — it never solved anything and never gave you much.

But Steve gives you everything and so much more.

A big chunk of you feels like you don’t deserve him because he seriously is the best person with an even better soul wrapped up into one and yet he chooses you — every day. He sees you through all the good and the bad and never makes you feel like you’re alone even when you could be a distance away when you’re right beside him.

When you talk too much, say too little, or sometimes say nothing at all — he’s there giving you a listening ear and comforting shoulder to lean on whoever you need it. And on the days when you can’t talk to him when you’re like this… he’ll wait until you’re ready and show you that he’s always going to be there every step of the way.

He’s everything you could have asked for and more.

You pull your face away from hiding, resting your chin up on his chest as you stared up at him.

“I’m sorry too. I—I shouldn’t have been so indifferent earlier and just told you what I was feeling from the get-go.” You sniffled, rubbing your hands over his back, smiling faintly when he nodded understandingly.

He knows that sometimes he might not quite get it, might not see things in the same light as you, but he would never try to dismiss your feelings. He would sit beside you through the storms and sunshines, knowing that he was learning more about himself and you with you in his life.

That because of you, the younger version of himself got to heal his deepest wounds and open himself up to a love he only through he could dream up. You were here making him a better version of himself, all while he was doing the same for you. Showing you that the scars and fears of your past didn’t have to live in the next person you met — that you could let it go and open yourself up to the love you deserved.

His love.

“I forgive you only if you forgive me,” Steve grinned, swiping away at the dampness on your cheeks.

You grinned, nodding up at him. “Of course, I forgive you.”

“I love you so much… nothings ever gonna change that.” He hummed, cupping your face, taking you all in for the person he loved so dearly.

You closed your eyes blissfully before a kiss was placed on your lips.

“I know, I love you too.”

💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌

a/n: hi all, I hoped you like this little one-shot/imagine... i had this one sitting in my wips for awhile and it was nearly finished but I didn't have the inspiration to finish it until now. I don't usually write angst bcs i am a fluff girl, but this concept just came to me bcs like a lot of people when someone raises their voice at me...i just freeze and i don't know what to make of it and i just start crying. i think steve would be super apologetic and i wanted to write this bcs i needed some stevie!comfort so yeah... i hope you all enjoyed!!!

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[star-har]

fading

it’s your birthday.

gojo’s been dreading it.

it had felt like carrying a heavy weight— a boulder that grows in size as the days passed by, until the calendar finally marked what he’s been fearing.

when he wakes up on your morning, he can’t get out of bed. doesn’t see a reason to.

it’s raining, loud and relentless. the drops patter against his windows, almost somber and melancholy and angry— as if the world itself is mourning your loss.

he doesn’t blame it. the world should be mourning, now that its one shining light and been burned out.

it’s late afternoon when he clambers from his bed, bounding to the kitchen to make his usual coffee; he used to make two. yours would be simple— coffee, milk and sugar. a complete contrast to his own, filled with syrups and chocolate and anything sweet his hands could find.

he would cringe in disgust as you sipped at it, wondering just how you drank yours such bitterly.

he only makes one cup now.

with the exception of the morning he’d woken up from a dream with you. he’d sauntered off to make your cup, assuming you were in the bathroom, and it was midday that it had dawned on him— you were only a dream.

your cat, mochi, is curled up on the couch, pawing aimlessly at where you usually loved to sit.

it’s the perfect view, you’d like to say as you scratched mochi’s belly, the sky looks beautiful from here.

she knows what day it is too. gojo had caught her waiting by the door as your birthday lingered nearer, waiting for your nonexistent arrival.

‘she’s not coming back, damn it,’ gojo would mutter as she pawed at the door. but the stubborn cat would return back to her post everyday without fail.

he decides to stand out on the balcony, despite the thundering rain. he’s remembering the way you’d hug his waist from behind and pepper kisses into his skin as you two watched the sun disappear, being replaced by the moon.

he grinds his teeth and throws his coffee on the floor, the glass shattering and scattering.

you’re everywhere— and it’s almost as if it’s amplified today. the one day gojo already feels like he shouldn’t be here. not without you by his side.

he curses and closes the balcony door, sweeping the glass so your cat won’t hurt herself. you’d kill him if she ever did.

he shrugs on his coat and leaves his flat after, stopping by a flower shop that you’d love to visit.

each, and every time, you’d pause by the pretty, pink lilies. with gentle fingers, you would caress their stems and sniff their fragrance— that beautiful smile always staining your mouth.

he sees them today. they’re beautiful, dainty. but the muted pink is replaced by a brighter one, full of life and colour and beauty.

as if they were a reincarnation of you. the love of his life given form again.

he picks them up with agile hands like you’d always do, making his way to the cashier.

the lady at the register seems surprised to see him there. “gojo, dear?” she says, thin lips pursing with a smile. “it’s been so long, sweetie.”

he hadn’t really had the courage to step into this shop when you passed last year— this has been his first time in a very long while.

“i’ve been busy, mrs. murphy.” he says the words softly but can hardly find it in himself to muster up a smile.

she seems to understand because she doesn’t pry and lets gojo leave with no more question. he’s grateful.

he places them in his car with the same gentleness you’d have, and reverses out of the parking lot.

your grave is a knife in his chest. a sharp stab that hurts and is recurring and painful because seeing it makes it so much more real than gojo thought it would.

as if all those months of reaching to your side of the bed to be met with cold emptiness hadn’t been because you were gone to use the washroom or to brew late night tea.

you were gone. you are gone. gojo can’t do anything about it.

he cries. he hasn’t cried since your funeral. he drops to your grave— polished with no rust because he’d paid monument care a hefty price to maintain your resting place. it only makes sense— for your grave to be as beautiful as you.

he places the flowers on the grass, tucking it into the mud so the wind doesn’t carry them away.

his tears mix with the rain, still thrumming down on him hard.

the rain continues as he spends hours there. wordless, quiet, staring with you as the sky turns pink and then dark blue.

he leaves before he can cry again and when he comes home, gojo pads off into your library. he hasn’t been there since you left him, but it’s a sudden urge— like he needs to feel you again in anyway he can.

mochi’s already there, scratching at the door, meows woeful.

he twists the door handle, and with a deep, shuddering breath, pushes in.

flowers. vanilla. love. your smell hugs him so tightly and gojo has never felt so warm. your embrace only tightens as he slips further into your library, fingers tracing shelves as mochi purrs after him, her paws scratching the wooden floorboards.

he stops by your window seat, heart breaking a little as he sees the book you’d been reading before you died. a classic— pride and prejudice.

he drops onto the seat and picks it up, mochi following in his wake. the fat, ginger cat curls up in his lap— he knows mochi is pretending. hoping he’ll give her the same feeling you used to.

in truth, no one can. your presence is one no one can replace nor match.

she meows in his lap, mourning. sad.

“I miss her too, mochi,” gojo says and pats the cat on its head.

the two sit there, long into the night, as gojo reads where you’d left off. you’d do this a lot, have mochi and gojo huddle around you as you read aloud to them.

he wishes he could remember how you sound. your voice had been a comforting melody to his ears, something that never failed to ease gojo’s pain away.

but as the days ticked by, his memory had grown to lose it.

had grown to lose nearly everything about you. your eyes, your smile, your singing. everything.

gojo cries again. he can’t help it. no matter how hard he grinds his teeth or how strong he fists his hands. he doesn’t try to stop the flooding, either. he needs this. needs a good cry to remember you and miss you.

only when mochi has gone to sleep in his lap and gojo reaches the final page to your story, closing his eyes, does he feel it.

a soft brush of wind.

the rain had stopped, being replaced by a humid and quiet night. odd for the wind to be out. but he feels it, nonetheless.

feels a breeze brush past his cheek, wisp through his hair and ruffle mochi’s fur.

he feels you. your warm embrace, your soft touch. and everything in gojo’s body calms. his thoughts quieten, his heart thrums steadily, his tears dry.

it’s you— he knows it. he’s never believed in an afterlife or anything alike it, but you could make him believe in everything and anything.

it’s you. your love, your touch, your kiss.

you engulf him with a hug that feels so natural and beautiful and gojo finds that this is peace. this is what he lives for— remnants of you and your love lingering in unexpected places and unforeseen ways.

you were always like that, in a sense. unpredictable and so, so peaceful.

gojo falls asleep soon, to the hum of your love and your whisper on the wind. and he finds it’s the best sleep he’s had in a while.

———

did I cry 10 times while writing this? yes. I hate angst. but oh how I loooooveee it.

I can never bring myself to right angst because I always end up making the ending a happy one but today I sat down and was like I need a good cry and I threw up this.

i hope it made u sad as much as it made me sad… <3

kisses and lots of love,

har xx

[aquaticmercy]

Waste a Moment / Part 12

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by :  @remoony

Word count : 2.8k

Note : Hi all!!! Got a lot of messages and comments in the last couple of days but have been busy so bear with me while I catch up! Please let me know if I miss anyone on the tags!!! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

"Out in the Dark"

Saturday evening.

Hours bled into an endless stream of time after he left, the lock on the door clicking like the final nail in the coffin. You’d felt your world shatter like brittle glass, splintering into a thousand jagged shards, each one a reflection of a future you’d foolishly imagined with him. 

You hadn’t just kicked him out of your home; you’d ripped him out of your life, your heart, leaving behind a cold void of absolutely fucking nothing.

You were starting back at square one. Again.

His voice still lingered, a ghost haunting the room, quiet and pleading, cracking with a fragility you’d never heard before. He’d tried to explain, hoping you might understand. 

But you weren’t going to give him the luxury of hope. Not anymore.

You could still remember how he looked at you then, eyes bottomless blue pit of despairs as he begged you to listen, to hear the truth he was too afraid to voice until it was too late. 

But all you could see was betrayal. 

You sank onto the couch, knees folding beneath you, arms crossing over your chest in a feeble attempt to hold yourself together. Your fingers dug into your sides as if you could press the splintered pieces of yourself back into place. 

Then, a sharp knock disrupted the veneer of calm you’d built around yourself. Startled, a jolt of white-hot fury flared up in you. 

Of course, he’d come back. 

You’d told him to leave, and he hadn’t listened. He never did. Did he think that if he could just say the right thing, everything would be okay?

“I told you to leave!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the strain of false strength.

After a moment’s hesitation, a familiar voice seeped through the door. “It’s me,” You heard through the door, “I… I heard what happened. I thought you might need a friend.”

You froze, the breath catching in your throat. 

It wasn’t Bucky.

It was Yelena.

How dare she show up here, now, pretending to be a friend when she’d known all along? She’d been part of the lie, part of the deception that destroyed the illusion of your waking nightmare. Sure, it explained why she was mad, why she looked like she would’ve killed Bucky if she could— but that was no excuse to be complicit for as long as she had.

“No,” you spat. “You don’t get to show up like everything’s fine. You knew, Yelena. You knew, and you didn’t say a word.”

If she had been hiding this from you, what else was a lie?

The silence was broken only by a weary sigh. “I was going to,” she admitted quietly. “I told him to, but he… he was scared. And I gave him time… I thought it should come from him.”

Her gaze fell to her feet, almost as if she couldn’t bear to look at the door. 

She knew she should have told you. But now, hearing all that joyous life drained from your voice… she wasn’t so sure if she could’ve.

Maybe she didn't tell you because she didn’t want to be the one to see your heart break. Now confronted with this, she realised that maybe all that anger, all that big talk to Bucky was… all a facade.

She started wondering, maybe, deep down, when the time came,— when her ultimatum needed to be fulfilled— if she would have faced you at all. Maybe she had given Bucky a week, more time than he deserved, because she needed time to brace herself for the fallout. And now that the moment was here... she realised she wasn’t ready after all.

She wasn’t ready to see you empty. Hollow. Broken.

Just as she couldn’t see you after your injuries.

In its own twisted way, it was a mercy to her that you didn't let her in, that she couldn't see the state you were in.

You laughed then, a bitter sound that tasted like ash on your tongue. “And look where that got us.”

Yelena leaned on your door, dropping down to the floor. She didn’t care if your neighbours walked on her like this— she just wanted to try to save a sliver of connection, any crumb she would give you.

She only ever wanted you to be happy.

“But it is real,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper. It was a kind of sorrow you hadn’t heard from her before. She’s reverting back to the thick Russian accent, thicker than she’s had for years, in this moment of vulnerability. “The way he feels about you, even when I hated him for not telling you. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he said your name.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. She sounded like she was pleading, begging you to see something you couldn’t, wouldn’t allow yourself to see. 

“I knew he wasn’t kind to you before,” she continued, the words tumbling out. “But I think… I think he loved you then, too. Back then he… he always made sure there was always one of your favourite donuts left in the fridge. He made sure to always buy your favourite tea to stock up the training kitchen. He once asked me what… um… what your favourite flowers were so he could put it in a vase in the common room.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the memory of his distant, haunted eyes flashing through your mind. 

After your memories were wiped, you spent so many nights staring into his piercing eyes as if it was a never-ending abyss, trying to find a way in, trying to reach the part of him that seemed determined to stay locked away. You’d thought you had. You’d thought you’d finally reached him. 

But you hadn’t. Not even close. 

“I don’t know if I can believe that,” you choked out. “I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”

“I’m not lying.” Yelena’s voice cut through your spiralling thoughts, but you had no reason to believe her. “The Bucky you told me made you feel safe— he’s real. Maybe I... I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the peace you found.”

She remembered all those years spent hoping Natasha was happy, that she was okay, that she was safe. And then, in an instant, all of that hope was stripped away.

Maybe it was the same with you. After your injuries and memory loss, you weren’t just a new beginning for Bucky, but for Yelena, too—an opportunity to feed her saviour complex. Maybe she needed an excuse to protect you from Bucky, who only ever wanted your happiness, too.

Maybe they had both been approaching this all wrong. Maybe she shouldn’t have sparred with him that night, leaving him bruised. Maybe she shouldn’t have antagonised him. Maybe she should have encouraged him, worked with him, instead of standing in his way.

You could feel the anger slipping away from your fingertips. You didn’t want to believe her, didn’t want to let that tiny flicker of hope take root. 

Because if you did, it meant facing the possibility that maybe, just maybe, there was something left to salvage. 

And that took work.

You were exhausted— all you did for months was work and work to get a tiny piece of yourself back. What if you just wanted to let go altogether?

“I should have told you sooner,” Yelena murmured, voice barely a whisper now, “We both should have told you sooner.” 

She never meant for you to find out this way—she had hoped that either she or Bucky could explain the context behind his actions. But now you've seen everything—the raw truth, stripped of memories or emotions to soften the blow. You couldn’t remember what you’d once felt for Bucky, couldn’t fill in the gaps on your own— and wouldn’t listen anymore.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, hot and stinging as it traced the curve of your cheeks.

After what felt like an eternity, you heard her exhale, a soft, defeated sigh. “I’ll go,” she said quietly. “But… don’t let this destroy you both.”

Sunday.

The next day, Bucky stood outside Happy’s office at the compound, teeth clenched so tightly he could feel the strain in his temples. His body was hot with frustration, bitterness curling through him like smoke from a slow-burning fire that had been left for far too long. 

He hadn’t slept, hadn’t even bothered trying to—every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was you. 

The look on your face, the look of hurt and betrayal. The shock, the disbelief as you told him to leave. For the first time since he’d known you, you felt… small. 

That image had made a home in his mind, festering until he could feel it like a sickness spreading under his skin.

Now, out here in the hallway, he felt he was being torn apart from the inside out. His chest was heavy, his hands shaking with a rage that had no target. Every barrier he’d put up over the years to keep himself calm had crumbled. Now, his mere existence was just a raw, open wound, bleeding fury and self-loathing. 

He hated Happy for showing you the footage. He hated himself for letting it come to this. He hated fucking everything. But more than anything, he hated the truth he was beginning to confront, a splinter that he’d ignored until it was too deep to pull out.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, his metal hand slamming against the wood. The loud, brutal sound echoed through the room, and Happy looked up from his tablet. Sam, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow..

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bucky’s voice was rough, nearly a growl, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “She wasn’t ready for that!”

Happy’s expression tightened as he set down the tablet. Sam turned back, arms folded across his chest, leaned back.

As Bucky's anger burned, he caught the look in Happy’s eyes—a flash of real fear, his line of sight fixed on Bucky’s metal arm with paranoia, shoulders closing in as if bracing for a blow. 

No.

His reaction pulled Bucky back from rage that had consumed him, a cold dread quickly replacing it instead. 

He’d seen that look— that fear— a thousand times as the Winter Soldier. 

On his victims.

He forced himself to breathe, to loosen his fists and soften his stance. He didn’t want anyone to fear him like that ever again. Not now. Not ever.

Especially not Happy, who only meant well. Not Happy, who cared about you. 

“Good morning to you, too, Buck,” Sam replied, tone sharp but calm, cutting through Bucky’s anger like a blade. “Maybe take a second before you start throwing blame around for your mess.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched tighter, a tendon twitching in his knuckles. He forced his gaze back to Happy. “I’m not blaming you,” he said, his voice calmly grating against the words. “But she didn’t need to see that.”

Happy looked down, a small look of misplaced guilt in his eyes. “I… I assumed she knew everything.”

“You can’t just assume these things,” Bucky was trying everything— everything in his power to stop the anger from bubbling.“You can’t just keep this from me.”

Beside them, Sam let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. He looked pointedly at Bucky, an edge of irony in his otherwise cool voice. “You’re one to talk.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, to defend himself, but Sam raised a hand, silencing him with no room to protest.

“Look, man, I get that you didn’t want to hurt her,” Sam’s tone softened slightly, trying to cut through Bucky’s defences. “But you’ve been handling this wrong from the start.”

“I only wanted to protect her.” Bucky said, his tone tinged with sadness, by a guilt he didn’t want to acknowledge. “She’s been through enough.”

Sam’s expression hardened, the warmth fading from his eyes. “Protect her from what? The truth? From you?”

The words struck Bucky like a punch, leaving him exposed, vulnerable in a way he fucking hated. He knew Sam was right, but admitting that was like swallowing broken glass.

“I was going to tell her,” Bucky muttered, the words weak even to his own ears, flimsy excuses for his failure.

Sam’s gaze sharpened, eyebrows raised in doubt. “Were you?” he asked, voice laced with scepticism. “Or were you just hoping she’d never find out?”

Bucky stared at the floor, words caught in his throat as shame rose like a frostbite nipping on his cheeks. He knew the answer, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

He had hoped for that once, but that hope had been selfish, born out of a desperation he was too terrified to confront.

“If you love her,” Sam continued, “you’ve got to own up to it.”

“How do I even begin?” Bucky shook his head, hands fisting at his sides as he tried to hold onto the last shreds of his resolve. “I wasn’t in a good place back then. I didn’t know how to… handle things. I didn’t even want to let her in. But now? Now, I—”

Happy interrupted him, a gentle understanding in his voice. “Then tell her that.”

Bucky’s head lowered, eyes fixed on the ground. Sam shook his head, frustration etched deep in his features.

“Come on,” Sam said, voice softer but tainted with disappointment. “You can’t expect her to fill in the blanks. You can’t keep pretending like the past doesn’t matter just because it’s easier for you.”

Bucky’s fists tightened, his frustration slowly bleeding away, leaving behind a hollow space in his chest.

Finally, Bucky looked up, deep lines of exhaustion etched on his forehead. “What if she doesn’t want me anymore?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows, pity in his voice. “That’s not for you to decide.”

It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was an overwhelming regret, a bitter knowledge that he had robbed you of something he himself had fought for— choice. He had taken away your ability to choose for yourself, just as Hydra had taken it from him. They had stripped him of his free will, turned him into a weapon, a shell of a man. And now, unknowingly, in your most vulnerable state he’d done the same to you. 

It almost didn’t matter that he meant well.

He had spent so long trying to protect you from his past, trying to keep you safe from the darkness that lived inside him. But all he’d done was push you closer to his guilt.

He’d let his love for you warp into something possessive— he’d let it twist into the worst kind of love.

Suddenly, a piercing alarm blared throughout the compound. Red emergency lights started flaring as FRIDAY’s voice echoed coldly through the speakers. 

“Intruder detected at Hangar One.”

Bucky’s head snapped up, a sick, sudden dread forming in his gut. He and Sam exchanged a single glance before they broke into a sprint down the hallway. Behind them, Happy picked the tablet back up, “Show me cameras, FRIDAY.”

“Cameras in Hangar One are damaged,” FRIDAY’s voice cut in.

Bucky’s stomach twisted. He knew who it was before he even reached the hangar— knew it with a certainty that terrified him to his core.

They skidded to a stop at the open doors of the hangar just as the quinjet’s engines roared to life, its sleek outline gleaming under the overhead lights. There you were, your hands gripping the controls, eyes fixed on the holographic map.

For one heartbreaking second, you looked up just as Bucky reached the hangar entrance. 

Your eyes met his through the glass, and in that instant, Bucky felt his world collapse. 

The look on your face was one he knew he would never forget: a storm of emotions—hurt, betrayal, sorrow, and the faintest hint of something like goodbye.

He raised a hand as if he could reach you, almost pleading, but you were already looking away, turning back to the controls as if you couldn’t bear to see him one second longer.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw and breaking, the word swallowed by the whine of the engines.

The quinjet began to rise, and for a second, he thought you might stop. That maybe there was still time to make things right, to find the words— that you’d let him explain. But then the jet shimmered, the cloaking system engaged, vanishing into the air.

A haunting  silence filled the hangar as the engines faded to the distance.

Bucky’s arm dropped, his chest feeling like it had been ripped open. He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder, but it did little to stop the despair clawing through him. 

He had lost you before.

But this time, he was afraid he might have lost you forever.

-to be continued...

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[a-ikuoliver]

w/c: 1.8k tw: blood, bloody makeout, don't look at me notes: this is my first time writing toga i want her so bad tagging ml @papersirens <3

too much. too much. too much. too much. too much. too much.

friends, teachers, parents, that's all they'd ever say — every school report, every play date, every fight some variation, always too something.

"himiko," her friends would sniffle, pouting at the edge of the playgrounds, rubbing palms into their watery eyes, tossing himiko's doll at her feet, "mama says you play too rough."

too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough. too rough.

"himiko. let go." older know, she knows to obey, to loosen her grip on her best friends hand, not to argue, not to pout. "you're hurting me."

a painful pang hits her heart as miu's hand slips from her grasp, her hand flopping uselessly to her side; why didn't miu want to hold her hand? keep her close? hold her so hard she won't slip between the gaps?

too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard. too hard.

"himiko," miu's voice is soft, like feathers, like cotton, like her lips.

"please, himiko? i need to practice, yumiko said naruhito is going to ask me out friday." her voice is sweet, like sugar, like peaches, like her tongue.

practice. that's all it was. her first kiss already not really her own, it belonged to naruhito. like miu did.

"toga!" her shout is sharp, like a knife, like a razor, like glass, shattered into tiny shards at her feet.

"why would you do that!" the back of her hand comes away red when she glares at the blonde, himiko's pointed canines grazing against her bottom lip, she just wanted her, wanted her love, wanted all of her.

"you're too rough, boys don't want to kiss like that."

too much. too hard. too rough. too overwhelming. too suffocating. too much.

miu was right. no one wanted to kiss her. no one wanted to walk hand in hand. no one wanted to love her. no one wanted her affection.

"himiko," your voice is soft, like cotton, like feathers. "please, angel."

your voice is different than miu's. lower. hungrier. your grip is bruising, clutching her hips like your life depended on holding her in your hands, painted nails raking over her burning skin beneath the knitted dress.

you're breathless when you say her name, like being in her gravity sucks the oxygen from your lungs, like miu sounded talking about naruhito before she kissed toga.

your lips are less than an inch away from hers, glittering, citrine eyes staring into yours, finding nothing but the same insatiable desperation mirrored from her own; nothing like the eyes that came before you, no apprehension, none of the disappointment, the fear.

you slot between two plush thighs, pushing her dress higher on her hips with your movement, one hand sliding down past her belly button, ghosting over her hips to move to the back of her thighs, squeezing the pillowy fat there hard in your hands, gripping her like you're worried she'll disappear, slipping through your grasp.

"kiss me, please, kiss me."

himiko wants to speak, to wield a sharp tongue before you can cut her with yours, to tell you your affection meant nothing, that she was indifferent, nonchalant, unaffected, just like miu had been. another swift squeeze to her ass has her head falling back onto plush pillows instead, a low, drawn out sigh from her parted lips.

your bed is squishy, like miu's, the scent of clean cotton and your perfume filling her nose, muskier than miu's had been, the scent clouding her mind the more she sunk into the comfortable cushions.

soft.

aren't you worried she'll slice and stab and rip the softness apart? claw and cut and tear through the sweet-smelling fabric until she was surrounded by fragile feathers, floating down around her as she lies in the centre of her destruction?

you can feel her heart pounding in her chest, practically hear it in the silent room (save for your panting as you kiss her cheek and jaw) when her thighs slip apart absentmindedly, the short woven dress sliding higher on her hips at the movement, exposing just a sliver of cotton panties, already wet at the centre.

"you want me to say it again, angel? i'll say it as many times as you want to hear it." you're panting against her skin, smiling lips planting another kiss beneath her jaw, hot breath tickling the hair at the nape of her neck the more you begged. she's certain you can taste her erratic heartbeat when you lick at her pulse point, smell her desperation, her fear. like a fawn cowering beneath a wolf, your canines bearing with every word you spoke, "please, please, please."

sliding one hand up her chest, you rest it on her pulsing ribcage, just beneath her tits, your other travelling lower, easing between her thighs, feeling her heart race the closer you inched up her thigh, closing in towards her cunt.

her pupils have almost swallowed her entire amber iris, full and dark with an insatiable need, thick eyelashes fluttering when the tip of your finger ghosts over the crease of her thigh, only a breath away from her pussy. she jumps, the muscles in her thigh twitching beneath your fingers.

"i-i can't," it's the murmur of a church mouse, of tiny, wild prey, trapped beneath a murderous predator. her voice soft, like your pillows, like your hands.

"can't kiss me?" your voice is light, teasing, drawing another blissed sigh from her when you kiss the column of her throat with a grin, "or don't want to kiss me?"

god, if you knew how much she wants you. if you knew how all-consuming her appetite was. himiko sinks her claws into you, sharp plum nails digging into the meat of your upper arm, tugging you closer, closer, closer, your hips pressed to hers so hard she jerks again, hungrily searching for you. you let her, allow her to pull you where she wants you, to tug you above her, to bruise you. to mark you. have you as her own.

she waits for your yelp, your cry, 'himiko, stop, too much. too hard. too rough.'

she aches for more as she stares up at you, for your touch, your tongue, your lips, your teeth, your fingers. she can't let go of you, sinking her claws deeper into your skin, even as a bruise begins to bloom beneath painted fingertips. she feels her heart might explode beneath your hand, that your fingers will be stained with her desperation for more, her ache to make you hers.

you don't wince. you don't pull away. you don't pout. you don't tell her she's too much. you don't say anything. you only grin, biting your bottom lip before you finally dip your head to meet her lips.

your kiss is nothing like miu's, apprehension replaced with a hunger, a desperation no one's ever felt for himiko before, your tongue searching for hers, not avoiding her kiss. sighing into your lips, her spine arches into you, chest pressing to yours, rib cage to rib cage, your heart pressing to her heart. there's not an atom keeping you apart.

her hand travels down your arm, over your waist, resting on your hip where she pulls you closer again, her hips jumping to meet yours, desperate for any stimulation, for your body heat.

she thinks she hears you mumble again, a breathless plea from your mouth into hers, your sigh breathing life directly into her lungs.

pressing your hips into hers, you take advantage of her soft moan, sliding your tongue into her mouth, tasting her lips, her teeth, sucking her tongue into your own mouth. himiko all but whimpers against you, the sound high, needy.

she is needy, needs your touch, needs you to need her.

too much. too much. too much. too much.

like a mantra, she reminds herself, glass heart fracturing at the idea of your kiss laced with trepidation, of your mind racing with excuses to leave her, of you sniffling when soft skin tears beneath her razor-sharp touch.

a needle-sharp incisor catches on the plump of your bottom lip, blood already pooling to the surface, spilling into her mouth. glimmering golden eyes roll back, you taste so good, breath taking, so fucking addictive. she wants to savour your taste before you pull away, before you tell her she's too much for you, before you storm out and leave her barren of your heat, of your adoration.

"fuck, himiko," you sound… different than miu did. she spoke sharply, angry. you were… hungry, needy, desperate.

your hand slips out from beneath her dress, flying to her jaw to slam your lips into hers again, spreading blood and saliva over your lips and chin as you sloppily kissed her, your metallic tongue tracing over hers. himiko's hands follow, one forming a bruise on your ass, the other tangling at the back of your neck. she can't get close enough to you. tugging you closer, closer, closer, kissing you deeper, deeper, deeper.

her moans sound angelic, even more so when her head falls back, unabashedly loud in her pleasure when you suck on her throat, bringing blood to the surface with your tongue until you sink your teeth into her neck, at the join of her shoulder, her chest, leaving deep, purpling indents in your wake, a memory of you cemented in her epidermis for the days to come.

crimson runs down the centre of your chest, a deep vermillion trail travelling down between your tits, her tongue relentlessly chasing the taste until her face is pressed to your sternum, licking and sucking hungrily at your skin, neither of you caring about the mess of blood and saliva between you. not when her tongue was swirling between your tits, when your fingers are twitching against her plush cunt.

"himiko, himiko, himi-ko," her cat-like eyes are fogged over with lust, staring up at you, no thought in her mind other than the taste of your skin, of your blood, of your lips, teeth, tongue, of you.

blood rushes in her ears, pumping through her arteries and gathering at the base of her throat, spilling from the shallow wound on her chest, smearing between your bodies. himiko's dizzy, her head swimming when you lick at her tongue again, the taste of coppery blood spreading between your mouths; she doesn't know what's yours anymore, your saliva and blood mixing with hers between your mouths, you both becoming one.

her hand settles at your jaw, pulling your gory lips back to hers hungrily, eagerly parting your lips with her tongue, licking at the wound in your lip, your blood-stained teeth. dark red spreads between you both, from your veins to her tongue, from her tongue to your mouth, from your mouth back to hers, a terribly erotic mix of blood and saliva that had her heart racing like it wanted to jump from her rib cage into your hold, for you to hold and kiss like it was her.

"fuck, himiko," you pant, breaking the kiss to press your forehead to hers, planting kisses between every word,, between every breath, leaving pretty red marks along her jaw, "you're perfect."

she's perfect. perfect. perfect. perfect.

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[plussizefantasia]

Don't Cry over Spilled Lemonade pt.2

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x f!reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: A little bit of dread on the reader's part but mostly it's fluff and yearning, just the way I like it.

A/N: hahaha I finally finished it!!!! Thanks for all the love on part one it really made me so happy to see so many people liking the little story that I wrote half asleep <3

Anthony wrestled with his thoughts for the rest of the evening. He hated himself deeply for hurting you and even more for not remembering it. Knowing himself though, he knew that his actions were probably fueled by a desire to leave the gathering and visit Siena, she had been his refuge in the years before and during Daphne’s debut. 

He would never forgive himself if the reason you would not ever stand to be in the same room with him was his naive infatuation with the opera singer. Especially given the fact that as soon as he met you all thoughts of her flew from his eyes and he never thought of her in that way again. Deep down he knew that his heart now belonged to you although that thought was much too terrifying to dwell on for more than a minute.

You on the other hand were reeling with the new information. You had vowed to hate Anthony Bridgerton until your dying day but his pleas for forgiveness had shaken your will. You still held a deep anger towards him, one that you didn’t think would go away any time soon. But it was becoming harder and harder for you to find the detestation in yours that had once been bubbling at the surface.

You didn't know what to expect from the Viscount anymore, you had always had a pretty clear picture of the man in your mind, and in one fell swoop he had shattered it like glass. Seeing him playing with his younger siblings in the park the day after your conversation in the hallway certainly didn’t help settle your mind.

If there was one thing you knew about Anthony Bridgerton it was that he loved his family. Sometimes he goes about it in the wrong way but you could tell that he does everything he does for them, even getting grass stains on his trousers because Hyancithy and Gregory are insistent that he plays tag with them in the great park.

It is their laughter that draws your attention first followed shortly by a sharp shout and even more giggles. You are fortunate enough to catch sight of the Viscount tripping and landing on his backside, his hands falling to the side of him and right into what looks to be some freshly planted flower beds. His head hangs and he takes a heaving sigh before pushing himself back up. You can’t help but laugh at the sight.

Anthony would be able to recognize your laugh anywhere, he hears it flowing through the halls of his home enough that it’s become ingrained in his mind. His head turns to where you are and your eyes meet. He is taken aback by the warmth he finds in them. How long has it been since you’ve looked at home with anything but detached coldness?

It is Hyancinth who bridged the gap between the two of you, with a shout of your name she comes bounding across the green and practically leaps into your open arms. 

“Hello sweet girl, having fun are we?” Your hand runs down the back of her head and you smile down at her.

“We were playing a game of tag, would you like to join us.” Sometimes you forget how innocent the young girl is. Her smile is contagious as it spreads across your own face.

“On any other day my darling but I’ve only cut through the park on my way to visit with Lady Danbury and you know how she is about punctuality.”

“Oh.” Her face falls and your heart follows.

“How about this? Once I am done calling upon her ladyship I shall stop by and you can finally show me the new dresses you got for dolly Molly okay?”

Her smile returns full force and she squeezes you a little tighter before conjuring up a mask of faux indifference.

“I suppose I can accept that.” 

“You’re starting to sound like Viscount grumpypants over there.” You tickle at her side.

“I heard that,” Anthony calls from a ways away, Greg held under his arm.

“I was not trying to keep quiet my Lord.” Your eyes meet his once again and Anthony cannot help the little bubbling of hope that builds inside his chest when he sees the lightheartedness contained in your gaze.

“That’s Lord Grumpypants to you.” He shoots back and delights in the way your smile widens. 

“Very well Lord Grumpypants, I must be off but I’ll see you all later.” You say the last words down at the young lady still wrapped up in your arms. You give her one final squeeze before releasing her and bowing your head slightly at her older brother. You try not to dwell too much on how much you enjoy the viscount’s smile.

Anthony takes the day in the park as a sign, one that shows him all hope is not lost. All he needs to do is fix his mistake. He craved you, that much he knew. He craved your smile and your laugh, he yearned for your kind eyes and the way you seemed to float when you walked. He has never considered himself a particularly creative man but the images his mind conjures of the two of you make him second-guess himself.

He did not have time to imagine for very long, however, as Colin was due to return today for the start of the season and Eloise seemed to need constant supervision lest she run away the first chance she got. The Danbury ball could not come soon enough.

The Danbury ball was one of legend, the older woman’s opening ball was not one to be missed as it set the tone for the rest of the season. Young women not lucky enough to gain the Queen’s favor had a second chance at the Danbury ball, a chance to show themselves off to the ton once more in the hopes of catching the eye of an eligible young man. 

You were no different than those young ladies, primping and preening all day long with the hopes that you would be able to secure a match this season before you become too old to do so. Your mother was adamant that this season had to be spectacular, you had to look and act your best always. She was weary and weeping, moaning about how you’d be letting down the family if you were unable to secure a match.

It was interesting you thought, how quickly she changed her tune. During your debut season, she had spoken dreamingly about a love match and finding happiness and now you were sure that she would shove you off to whoever if it meant that you would be married. It seemed your Mama’s greatest fear was you becoming a spinster. 

You obliged her whims, after all, you did wish to find a match. You had always dreamed of a love match. With every year that passed by the candle of hope held within your heart flickered, it was small now, but you had to admit that it still burned. You still soothed your restless nights with dreams of a husband and children, a loving home full of laughter and joy. That is the future you want, that is the future you will fight for.

Tonight you aim to make an entrance, any attention at this point is better than being snubbed. You wore a gown of deep red, with golden lace around the bodice and black and gold beading around the waistline and down the back. Your maid pulled and twisted your hair, piling it upon your head and creating a bold and dramatic look. You were going to pull attention, you had to.

And pull attention you did, from the moment you entered the ballroom all eyes were on you. Ladies whispered and hid behind their fans. Men stood in circles with their peers but you caught the glance of more than one bachelor. And yet, nobody had approached you. You were beginning to feel the flash in your cheeks. Perhaps this was too much, such boldness was offputting and you should have stuck to the known. Dressed in soft pinks and whites, proclaiming purity and softness. 

Anthony was beside himself. You were the most ethereal creature he had ever had the privilege of laying his gaze on and he wished to spend the whole night by your side; catching up on all the lost time. He knew though, that you would never allow that, and he would rather die than hurt you again. 

So he watched and watched and watched. As time ticked on those cowards kept you waiting. Dances began and ended, people arrived and left and all the while you were stood, bathed in candlelight and alone. 

The sun had long since set and you were done. No longer would you endure this embarrassment. You had followed your gut and put yourself out there and it had failed. You were destined to be alone you suppose.

Just as you were getting ready to turn away and retreat back to the safety of your family home a hand entered your sight. Palm up and inviting, your eyes traced slowly up the arm and towards the face of the gentleman who had finally put you out of your misery.

Anthony Bridgerton stood before you, arm outstretched and a small smile on his face. “A lady as beautiful as yourself does not deserve to spend the whole night without a single dance.” 

“Are you offering?” You looked him in the eye and raised a brow. This was the first time since your conversation in the hallways that Anthony had approached you without one of his siblings present to be a buffer.

“I’m giving you an opportunity.”

“And what might that be?” You tilted your head to the side and watched as a smirk slowly spread across his face.

“You have a choice, right here and right now. Either grasp my hand and we dance the rest of the night away, opinions be damned. Or you snub me, snub me like I snubbed you that night, and get your revenge.”

You exhale a laugh and look at him. His face held a smile but also a certain seriousness that belayed his intention. This was him making it up to you. He would accept rejection if that is what you wanted. 

Here he was, the man who had hurt you and who you still held a flame for offering himself up to like a lamb to slaughter. 

You must’ve been taking a long time to answer because the Viscount began shifting on his feet. He looked around the room at the other couples who began to take to the dancefloor.

“I do not mean to rush you my lady, but the dance will be starting soon.”

“Anthony you must promise me.”

“Anything, name it and it’s yours.” 

“Promise me that you will never hurt me again, I don’t think my heart could take it.” You took his hand. And let your lips curve into a gentle smile.

He pulled your hand wrapped within his own close to his heart, and vowed, “I will do everything in my power to protect you for the rest of my days, even if the one I am protecting you from is myself.”

“I don’t need protection Anthony,” you looked deeply into his eyes, “I just need your love, honest and true.”

“Then you shall have it.” 

Anthony pulled you to the dancefloor and led you in far too many dances to be appropriate that night. And every night for the rest of the season. And neither of you cared about what the rest of the ton had to say. You had each other, finally, and neither of you was letting go anytime soon. 

taglist: @ilikestuffs-stuff @cat-lockwood @wolf-phoenix-lover

@tenshis-cake @bridkesby @divergentalwaysandforever-blog @lillysfrogsandbogs @unholyhuntress

[soulofapatrick]

Belong To Me - Cassian x female reader 

Summary: You ask Cassian to dance 

Words: 2.6K 

Warnings: none 

Y/N’s POV

The music pulses through the room, deep and hypnotic, winding around the crowd like an enchantment. On the dance floor, Eris and Nesta move in perfect, dangerous harmony. Her fierce grace matches his controlled elegance, their steps smooth and intimate, drawing every gaze in the room. But I can’t look at them for long, because my eyes find Cassian, and suddenly he’s all I can see.

He’s watching Nesta, his expression stark and unreadable, a glimmer of something raw and unguarded in his gaze. There’s a quiet intensity in his eyes, a vulnerable pull, as if every part of him is reaching for her—and the sight tightens around my heart like a vice. His jaw is clenched, fingers gripping his glass so tightly I half expect it to shatter. I’ve seen Cassian in battle, laughter in his eyes and blood on his knuckles, but I’ve never seen him like this, exposed and aching. And gods, it hurts. It hurts in a way I thought I’d prepared myself for, but the pain still surprises me, a sharp twist I can’t shake.

I glance down, swallowing against the ache. I’ve loved him quietly, fiercely, since the day I arrived in the Night Court. I was drawn to his strength, his warmth, his laugh that could fill even the darkest room. But it was the way he was with his family, his quiet, steadfast loyalty, that made me fall in love with him. He’s never known, of course. My love for him has always been a silent, patient thing, as if waiting in the shadows was enough, as if being near him was all I needed.

But tonight… something inside me snaps. I can’t keep standing on the sidelines, watching him look at someone else like she’s the only thing in the room. If he’s going to look at someone like that, even just once, I want to know what it feels like for that gaze to be on me.

Before I lose my nerve, I set my glass down and cross the room, heart pounding with a courage I can’t quite explain. I reach him just as the music swells, and my hand touches his arm, soft but sure. “Cassian,” I murmur, surprised at the gentleness in my voice. “Would you… would you like to dance?”

He blinks, surprise flashing in his eyes, as if he’s only just remembered there’s anyone else here. For a moment, he just stares, and I feel every second stretch between us, heavy and thrumming. But then, his gaze shifts, softening as he studies me, and something unreadable flickers across his face. Slowly, he sets his glass down, his hand sliding into mine, warm and solid and safe.

The world seems to fade as he guides me onto the dance floor, his touch gentle but possessive, as if he’s anchoring me here with him. His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me close, and I can feel the strength of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of armour he wears. When our eyes meet, there’s something different in his gaze, something that feels like he’s seeing me for the first time.

For these precious moments, he’s mine. The dance is a slow, deliberate rhythm, each movement drawing us closer, his touch whispering promises that I don’t dare name. His thumb strokes over my hand, soft and reverent, and my breath catches, warmth spreading through me, banishing the ache I’d felt only moments ago. I feel my heart racing, the silent hope stirring within me that maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to feel it too.

Cassian’s hand remains firm at my waist, his other gently guiding mine as we move across the dance floor, steps in perfect harmony. I can feel the eyes of the court on us, though they’re still captivated by the vision of Nesta and Eris moving like dark flames on the other side of the floor. Nesta’s gown is the colour of midnight, deep and endless, studded with faint glimmers that catch the light and make her look like she’s wrapped in stars. She’s magnetic and fierce, all shadows and starlight.

In contrast, my gown is bold and unapologetically red, the same shade as the siphons gleaming on Cassian’s armour. The fabric flows around me, as vibrant and alive as the fire that dances in his eyes, and I feel a strange thrill as I catch the way his gaze lingers. It’s like he finally sees me, really sees me, not just as the newest member of the Night Court but as someone who’s been beside him all this time, yearning for him from afar. He moves closer, and his hand on my waist shifts, his touch spreading warmth through me as we move in sync.

“Didn’t think you had it in you to pull me out here,” he murmurs, voice low and quiet, his gaze intent on mine.

“Maybe I’m just full of surprises,” I reply, my voice lighter than the intensity bubbling inside me. I manage a playful smile, but my heart’s racing, every inch of me aware of how close he is, how he’s looking at me like he’s seeing something he’s never noticed before. He smiles in return, soft and a little surprised, his hand firm on my waist as we sway together in the warm glow of the room.

Cassian’s gaze flickers to mine again, his lips curving up in a soft smile that makes me feel like we’re the only two people in the room. For a moment, I forget about the rest of the court, about Nesta and Eris and the others watching from the shadows. It’s just Cassian, his hand on my waist, his fingers warm as they guide me, strong and steady. There’s a hint of something in his eyes, something deeper than amusement, and it gives me a thrill that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

We’re moving in perfect sync, and I wonder if he feels it too—this strange, magnetic pull between us. I’m just about to say something, to ask him if he’s felt anything different tonight, when his gaze shifts. He looks past me, toward the centre of the floor, where Nesta and Eris are still dancing, their movements sharp and intense, like they’re sharing some secret language of fire and shadow. I see the way Cassian’s expression changes as he watches them, something almost wistful crossing his face, something I can’t quite name but recognise all too well.

And then it happens—a sharp, painful tug deep in my chest, like a string I didn’t know existed has just been pulled taut, anchoring me to something I can’t see. The feeling is sudden and fierce, a rush of longing and hurt that steals the air from my lungs. I stumble forward, my hand clutching Cassian’s shoulder as I try to steady myself, feeling like I’ve been struck from within.

Cassian’s arm tightens around me, pulling me close as he steadies me, and I feel the firm press of his chest against mine, the steady beat of his heart. His gaze snaps back to me, all concern, and I see a flicker of something in his eyes—a rawness, a vulnerability that looks so achingly familiar. For a split second, it almost looks like he might cry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, his hand firm and grounding at my waist. “Are you alright?”

“I… I think so,” I manage, though I don’t know if that’s true. My chest aches with something I don’t understand, and the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t want to let go of him. I don’t want to lose this moment.

Cassian’s thumb strokes gently along my waist, his touch warm and reassuring, and he looks at me with that same strange expression, like he’s on the verge of saying something he can’t quite bring himself to say. “Do you feel alright?” he asks quietly, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze searching mine with a depth that makes my heart ache.

“Yes,” I whisper, though I don’t know what I’m admitting to. I don’t know what this feeling is, this pull deep inside me, only that it feels like I’ve been connected to him in some way I can’t explain, some way I don’t yet understand.

Cassian’s eyes soften, and he watches me with something close to wonder, as if he’s seeing something he never expected to find. Cassian’s gaze lingers on mine, and for a heartbeat, it’s as if we’re suspended in a world of our own making, one where I can feel the unspoken question in his eyes, the pull that ties us together yet keeps us apart. And then, as if steeling himself, he lets go. His hand slips from my waist, the warmth of his touch fading as he turns, taking a single step away.

My heart tightens, a fierce ache blooming in my chest, a sensation so overwhelming it steals my breath. I remember something Feyre told me once about the mating bond—that it wasn’t only a connection, but a part of you that awakens, that allows you to feel the emotions of your mate as if they were your own. A bond of heart and soul, she’d called it, and it had sounded mythical, something too profound to be real. But here it is, a whisper in my chest, a raw pain that is not mine alone. It’s him. His longing, his sorrow—because he’s my mate.

The realisation shakes me to my core, and in that moment, I know with absolute certainty that I can’t let him go. I don’t want to.

Without a second thought, I step forward and reach for him, grabbing his hand before he can slip further away. His stride halts, and I tug him back, my fingers entwined with his, refusing to release him. He turns, startled, and stumbles into me, his chest brushing against mine as his hands instinctively come to my waist, steadying us both. His touch is steady and warm, grounding me, and his eyes—those deep, searching eyes—are filled with a glimmer of something that pierces through me.

His expression is vulnerable, torn open, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for the answer he never dared to hope for. My heart twists with the weight of it, of everything he’s tried to tell me with glances, touches, every unspoken word between us.

I reach up, my hands trembling as I cradle his face, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingertips. His breath catches, his eyes wide as he stares down at me, waiting, still and breathless. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare hope—so I close the distance myself, lifting onto my toes as I press my lips to his.

The kiss is soft, hesitant at first, but the moment he realises I’m not pulling away, that I’m here and that I choose him, something within him gives way. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me against him, his mouth pressing against mine with a tenderness that shatters me, as if he’s pouring years of restraint and unspoken devotion into this one kiss. The world falls away, and there is only this: his heart against mine, his breath mingling with mine, his lips speaking all the words he’s never said.

His thumb strokes my hip, his touch reverent, as if I’m something precious. And I feel it, the bond between us, a golden thread that pulses with life and warmth, binding us in ways I can’t yet understand but feel deep in my bones.

When we part, I keep my hands on his face, feeling the roughness of his stubbled jaw beneath my fingertips as he leans his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged, unsteady. He opens his eyes, and they’re shining with something raw and aching, and I can see a single tear slip down his cheek—a tear that holds years of longing, of hoping against hope that he would find his mate.

He whispers, his voice a low, trembling murmur, “I thought… I didn’t think you felt it too.” His words hang in the air, as fragile and vulnerable as the look in his eyes, and I feel the truth of them settle over us, heavy with the weight of all the silent years, the lingering glances, the quiet sacrifices he’d made without ever asking for anything in return. A warmth floods my chest, raw and all-consuming, and I brush my thumb over his cheek, wiping away the tear that slips free.

“I didn’t know what it was,” I murmur, my voice barely a whisper, trembling as I meet his gaze. “I didn’t know why my heart hurt whenever I looked at you. Why being close to you made everything else fall away.” My fingers trace along his jaw, and I feel him shiver under my touch, see the way his eyes darken as he takes in my words, drinking them in as if they’re everything he’s been waiting to hear.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if steadying himself, and then he pulls me closer, his forehead resting against mine, his hands moving to cup my face, rough and calloused yet infinitely gentle. “I was ready to wait forever,” he breathes, his voice breaking over the words, low and filled with a longing so intense it steals my breath. “I would have waited forever for you to feel it, for you to choose me.”

There’s something in his voice, a tenderness I’ve never heard before, that tightens around my heart, and I know in that moment that every ache, every confused feeling, every quiet pang of jealousy was leading me here—to him.

The bond between us pulses again, a golden thread winding tighter, drawing us closer, until there is no space left between us. I close my eyes, letting the warmth of him, the strength of his presence, seep into me. I feel it in every beat of my heart, in every breath that shudders through me. He’s mine. And I’m his.

I slide my hands from his face to the back of his neck, pulling him to me as I lean up and press my lips to his once more, letting every ounce of feeling I’ve kept buried spill into that kiss. Cassian’s hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the kiss deepens, becoming something fierce, desperate, as if we’re both trying to make up for all the moments we could have had, if only we’d known.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, our foreheads still touching, his hands cradling my face as if I’m the most precious thing in the world to him. His eyes are shining, full of wonder, as if he can’t quite believe this is real.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way,” I say softly, my voice filled with awe. “I didn’t think I’d ever belong to anyone like this.”

“You belong to me,” he whispers, a fierce protectiveness colouring his words, his gaze unwavering as he looks at me with an intensity that makes my heart ache. “And I belong to you. Always.”

The words wrap around me, filling every empty part of my soul, and I know that this is it—this is home. Right here, in his arms, where I was always meant to be. And as his hands find mine, threading our fingers together, I can feel the bond between us solidify, a golden promise that no matter what comes, we’ll face it together

ACOTAR Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

TAGS:

@lilah-asteria @maleficmuse @fanficscuziranout @angelbunny222

[iamgonnagetyouback]

𝟷𝚔 || 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐕𝐄

♡ ︎ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Jess was not what everyone made him out to be, and you were not too naïve to believe that...right?

♡ ︎ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: None

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: Jess Mariano x Reader

Stars Hollow has always had a way of wrapping itself around you. Every corner of the quirky little town, every face that smiled back at yours, it felt like safety. You’d grown up here, where everyone knew your name and the soft way you saw the world. It wasn’t naivety, at least that’s not how you saw it. You just always chose to believe the best in people, even when the town buzzed around you, warning you to be careful, to protect yourself.

But it was always protective of you. The town. They treated you like something fragile, like a porcelain doll that might shatter if handled too roughly. You never saw it that way. You were just… you. Seeing the good in people wasn’t a weakness; it was just how you were wired. But that didn’t stop everyone from fretting.

When Jess Mariano moved to town, all those concerned whispers turned into full-on conversations. “Be careful,” they’d say, watching you like you were made of glass. “He’s trouble.” And sure, you’d seen his rough edges—the sarcastic comments, the lingering smirk, the way he pushed everyone away before they had the chance to get close. But somehow, with you, he wasn’t any of that.

You’d catch him slipping books into your bag when you weren’t looking, ones he knew you’d love. He’d hold the diner door open for you without even thinking, and sometimes, in those quiet moments when you’d both sit by the bridge reading, his arm would brush yours, and instead of pulling away, he’d linger just a little longer.

But Rory didn’t see that. Rory, your best friend, and when you told her—voice soft, words barely above a whisper—that you thought you might like Jess, it felt like the ground beneath you shifted.

"Jess?" Rory’s tone was sharp, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "You can't be serious. He’s just playing with you, you know that, right?"

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden coldness in her voice. “What do you mean?”

Rory sighed, crossing her arms. “Look, you’re… you’re sweet, okay? Too sweet. You always see the good in people, and Jess—he’s just… Jess. He doesn’t care about anyone, especially not you.”

Your heart sank, her words landing like stones. "How can you say that? You don’t see the way he is when it's just us."

Rory laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He's not different with you. You're just… you're the easiest person to fool in this town. Everyone knows that. You’re the nice one. The innocent one. He’s just going to break your heart."

The sting of her words was sharp, like a slap you hadn’t seen coming. "You don’t get to decide that," you murmured, feeling the familiar burn of tears behind your eyes. "You don’t know him like I do."

But Rory was relentless. "There’s no way Jess actually likes you. He’s just bored. He knows he can mess with you because you’ll let him." Her voice was firm, unyielding, and it left no room for argument.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not when the hurt clawed its way up your throat, silencing you. Without another word, you turned and left, the tears finally spilling over as you opened the door to leave.

You made it to the porch, when you saw Lorelai already sitting there, a mug in her hand. Her eyes softened when she saw you, the slight quirk of her lips not quite enough to hide the concern etched in her face.

“So,” she said, trying for a lightness that didn’t quite land. “Guessing you had a little chat with Rory, huh?”

You stood there, heart aching, lip trembling, before finally breaking. “I guess you heard.” Your voice was barely a whisper, and it broke halfway through.

Lorelai’s smile faltered, her eyes filling with that knowing kind of sadness she always got when she wanted to fix something but couldn’t. “Well… she’s not exactly quiet. Or subtle. But hey, that’s our Rory.” She tried to laugh, but it only made your chest ache more.

You sat down beside her, your shoulders slumping as the weight of everything pressed down on you. “What if she’s right?” you whispered, staring down at your hands as they twisted together in your lap. “What if… he doesn’t really like me? What if I’m just… the easy one?”

Lorelai sighed, long and deep, before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Kid, you’ve always seen the good in people. Sometimes more than they deserve. But that’s part of what makes you… you.” Her voice was softer now, less playful, and it only made the tears come faster.

You wiped at your face, sniffling. “He’s not like that with me, Lore. I know he’s not.”

She stayed quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing gentle circles on your arm. “Tell me what he’s done. What’s he done that makes you think he cares?”

You swallowed hard, trying to hold it together. “He… he gives me books. Ones he knows I’d like. And he… he waits for me after school sometimes. Even when I didn’t ask him to. And when I’m upset, he just… listens. He’s not the guy everyone says he is.”

Lorelai pursed her lips, thinking. “Sounds like he’s a little softer than the town likes to think, huh?”

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper now. “I think he cares about me.”

She sighed again, this time a little less heavily, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Maybe he does,” she said quietly, reluctantly, like she didn’t want to admit it, but couldn’t deny the possibility. “Maybe he does, kid.”

You sniffled again, leaning into her, the warmth of her arms the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. “I just… I just want to believe in him.”

Lorelai pulled you closer, her arms wrapping tighter around you. “I know you do. And maybe you’re right. Maybe Jess Mariano does like you. And if he doesn’t… well, Luke and I will take care of that. But you… you're not the naive one for believing in him.”

Your lip trembled again, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. “I just don’t want to be wrong about him.”

Lorelai’s voice was soft, soothing as she rocked you gently. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

And you stayed there, curled up against her, wondering if maybe, just maybe, Jess Mariano wasn’t the villain everyone said he was. Maybe he was just waiting for someone to believe in him the way you did.

[flwrkid14]

You Don't Get to Call Yourself Family (Tim Drake is a Fenton)

part 1 , part 2

It starts with another of Dick’s attempts to be Tim’s Big Brother™.

It’s well-meaning, of course. They’re mid-patrol, crouched on a rooftop, when Dick gently brings it up.

“You know, Tim, we could be family if you’d just let us.”

Tim freezes for a moment, his grip tightening on his grappling gun. But then he exhales, forces himself to focus, and mutters: “I told you. You’re coworkers. That’s it.”

But Dick doesn’t drop it. And when they return to the Cave, the rest of the Batfamily piles on—each in their own way.

Jason: “C’mon, Replacement. Admit it. We’re at least kinda family.”

Damian, sneering: “He’s too much of a coward to acknowledge it.”

Bruce, quiet but insistent: “Tim, this is your home. We are your family.”

And Tim—who’s been holding this in for years—finally snaps.

“Family?!” Tim’s voice echoes through the Cave, sharp and brittle like glass about to shatter. “You think you’re my family?!”

Everyone goes still.

Tim takes a step forward, fury radiating off him in waves. “Let me ask you something—what kind of family depends on a thirteen-year-old to pull their grieving father out of the abyss because no one else could be bothered? What kind of family calls him Replacement and then beats him bloody because he’s not good enough?!”

Jason flinches, but Tim doesn’t stop.

“What kind of family tries to kill him multiple times and laughs it off like it’s a fucking joke?” His eyes land on Damian, who looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t. “And what kind of family stands by and watches it happen and does nothing?!”

The silence is deafening.

Tim’s breath hitches, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “If you’re family, then why—why the hell did you all hurt me so much?”

No one can look him in the eye. Not even Bruce.

Tim’s voice drops, tired and cracked. “I can’t call you family. Because if I did, I’d have to accept that my family treated me like shit. And I already have one family, that loves me—I don’t need another one that makes me feel like I’m nothing.”

He turns on his heel, heading for the exit. “You’re my coworkers. That’s all you’ll ever be, and honestly? It's more than you deserve.”

And then he’s gone.

————

Later, Jazz calls him.

“You okay, Timmers?” she asks gently, voice soft in that way only Jazz can manage.

Tim sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. I just… lost it at them. Finally told them off.”

Jazz hums thoughtfully. “Good. They needed to hear it.”

Tim doesn’t respond right away, staring at the faint glow of the Batcomputer across the Cave. “Do you think I was too harsh?”

Jazz doesn’t hesitate. “No. You set a boundary. They’ve been pushing it for years. Let them sit with it for a while.”

Tim doesn’t know if he believes her, but he nods anyway. “Thanks, Jazz.”

“Always,” she replies. “Now come home for dinner. Mom’s trying a new ectoplasm casserole recipe, and Danny is threatening to ‘accidentally’ destroy the kitchen again.”

He laughs, already grabbing his things. “Be there in ten.”

[thewritetofreespeech]

Anything is Possible

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: with Jaehaerys gone, you & Aemond make plans more than just battle plans and strategies. [sort of a part ii to my previous scenario X. based on the series, not the books, so don't come at me]

-----------------------------⚔️----------------------------------

“You need to be careful.”

“I am always careful.”

You frown at your husband as he looked at you from over his shoulder. That cheeky grin. That look in his eye. All of it letting you know he was planning something not even remotely close to careful.

“You know what I mean. We’ve already lost enough. It will break us if we lose you too.”

Aemond scoffed and returned to his papers & drawings. “Hardly. I am no heir. I could disappear come morrow, and no one would even wonder where I went off to. So long as I didn’t disappear off Vhagar.”

“It would break me then.” You told him. Coming up to his side to lean against his desk. One facing east and one facing west so you could look at one another.

Aemond scoffed again, only this time out of amusement rather than disgust. “You’re a better person than most.”

“And, technically, you are the heir.”

Your prince’s back straightened a little. His good eye flashing towards your for a second to let you know he had thought of that too. It had been several weeks since Jaehaerys assassination. Though you all still wept and grieved, kingdoms could not wait for those to recover. All of you must think toward the future. “So you need to be more careful.”

“Aegon will have other sons.”

“Hmm…perhaps.” You slide over on the desk, directly in front of Aemond, before properly sitting on it. Your legs hanging loose about either side of his lean frame. “I’m sure he’ll have a slew more sons. More bastards for the crown to feed. Unless Helaena recovers.” The death of her son had taken a toll on the crown’s sweet sister, to put it gently. Her grief was driving her slowly to madness. Coupled with the fact that she never seemed to like it when Aegon bedded her, though who could blame the Queen, the likelihood of Aegon II having another legitimate heir was a distant memory.

“She could recover.” Aemond replied. Voice calm and stern even as you undid his belt.

“I hope she does.” Truly, you did. It hurt to see her like this, and you knew it hurt Aemond. He held very tender feelings for his meek, soft older sister. Their lily amongst the thorns. “But what if she doesn’t.” Aemond takes a sharp inhale as you grasp him begin to stroke. “What of the line then?”

“Aegon has other sons.” His attention so fixed on watching your hand that he seemed to not realize he was repeating himself. “He could legitimize.”

“A bastard, legitimate or not, will never sit on the Iron Throne.” Not in 100 years. Not in 1000 years. It would never be accepted. “Jaehaera can’t inherit.” Otherwise, what was all this for? “So, it falls to you. Last true son of Viserys Targaryen.”

“Aegon could take another wife.” Aemond reasoned. His voice was still calm, but breath quickening. “Like his namesake.”

“Do you think your mother will really allow that?” Alicent was a lot of things, in your opinion, but deep down she was a good mother. She’d never let her fragile girl be cast away to shatter like glass. “And, who knows, Aegon could die.” Aemond breath hitched at the thought and he stumbled a little before he caught the table. “He’s reckless. Impulsive. And Rhaenyra always seems to get her way. But if there was an heir. A legitimate one.” Your free hand pulled up your skirts and the two of you gasp as you lead Aemond’s cock inside you. “With a legitimate heir in his wife’s belly, no one would question succession.”

The prince stood up to his full height. Looking down on you as his hips rocked slowly between your legs. “That’s what you want then, hm? My princess wants to be the Queen?”

“I want to be by your side.” It was all you ever wanted. From the day you met Aemond and felt not fear like the others, but lust at this tall, handsome, dutiful prince, who was willing to sacrifice an eye to get what he wanted. You had to have a man like that. You would accept no others. And you would sacrifice everything to have his dreams come true in return. “I don’t want to be the Queen. I want to be your Queen.” Aemond hissed loudly when you gripped the back of his long hair and pulled his head back hard. “And I can’t do that if your fucking dead!”

You can see the tether in Aemond snap just before he descended on you. Hips no longer slow and deliberate but rutting against you. Using his height now to box you in on the desk and in his arms. Grunting like an animal. Gods it was thrilling.

It was over very quickly though, as this wasn’t a moment for gentle embraces and soft words like your many nights. It was still the middle of the day, in a semi-private forum, with your skirts up around your hips and husband inside you while ink dribble off the back in your ruckus while Aemond’s cum dribbled out of you at the front. “Do you think it will really happen?”

You try to turn and look at your love, but he caught your face in his hand and kissed the side of your neck first, only able to face him once he was done. “Who knows? Anything is possible. It’s also entirely possible we’ll all be dead come winter.” Aemond chuckled. He always appreciated your practicality for things. You lifted his head up to meet you in the eye. “Which is why you must be careful.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Seeming to think on it before he told you, “I will try.” Which was honestly the best he could offer you.

The prince stepped back and slipped himself free from your cunt. Your legs pressing together to keep what was left of him inside while he helped pull down your skirts. “And if you leave me a pregnant widow, I will never forgive you.” Aemond laughed at that. Legitimately laughed at that.

He leaned in to brush a kiss past your lips and helped you down. “Well, can’t have that now can we.”

Aemond told you he had work to do and asked you to leave as you were too much of a distraction. He also asked, as if it were a passing thought, if you would check on Helaena. You were one of the few people who she would allow to see her these days. And although you may have just plotted her overthrow, you and Aemond still loved her very dearly. He probably asked because he felt guilty about that now. Or he just doesn’t want her to be alone with their mother all the time. You tell him of course and make your leave. Promising to see him tonight.

As you walk down the halls towards the other wings, the throb in your apex and mind still on your prince, you wonder if your musing could be a reality. The likelihood that Aemond could be king was not so far fetched as him dying, although the latter just seemed more likely.

Your hand drifted to your stomach for a moment, thinking on other futures time might have in store for you. Anything was possible after all.

part x xxx xxxx

[judebelle]

Gavi breaking up with the reader bc he needs space and stuff and she takes it really hard and it affects her a lot but he realizes he was wrong for it and gets her back. Just a lot of angst but fluff ending plssss. You are the bestttt

rekindled - p.g. x reader

authors note : thank you guys for the love on my recent posts, and for sending in requests. psa, the more requests i get, the more motivated i am and the more i post!

cw : just heart wrenching angst for the most part, but it gets fluffy dwww!!, swearing, sad :(

wc : 2.3k

pairing : pablo gavi x fem!reader

---

“i just don’t have the time for you anymore!”

his words truly devastated you, tearing apart the delicate threads of your heart. couldn’t he at least try? why was he just giving up?

“i don’t understand why we can’t just try to work it out, pablo! we could compromise, we can even make a schedule.. we could make it work!”

it seemed like only you were really trying, and he seemed eager to end this relationship. over what? a busy schedule? you felt useless, standing in his empty home, the echoes of your voices ringing in your ears. it was as if you were singlehandedly trying to stop a sinking ship from descending deep into the dark and bottomless blue.

“it’s not that easy, y/n! i have a lot on my plate! between football practices and matches, i barely have time for myself anymore. and then adding on this relationship, i need to make time for you as well! its too much. i know you wouldn't understand but-"

"i wouldn't understand? what is that supposed to mean? there are two people in this relationship. and it's not like i sit around all day and do nothing! i also have my own things to do! you make it seem like i am so high maintenance, like i'm too much for you to handle!"

you were growing increasingly angry as the argument progressed. how little did he think of you?

"you know that's not what i meant.."

you sniffled, "i dont think i know you at all anymore."

---

it had been a week since the break up.

you tried not to let it affect you too much, but his absence left a crater in your heart you were left too weak to fill.

the breakup casted a shadow over the once vibrant hues of your life. you found yourself dealing with the aftermath of shattered love. you were picking up the shattered pieces of your heart, the sharp glass cutting through the skin of your hands. you felt the pain during tearful nights when sleep also abandoned you, and in the empty spaces that once resonated with shared laughter.

the breakup left an indelible mark on you.

you didn't call anybody. you just sat at home. it was like pablo's words became your new reality, now you were truly sitting around all day and doing nothing.

you hadn't heard from him at all, thanking the universe knowing that if you did, it would be too much on your aching heart.

---

one month had passed.

you were finally feeling like yourself again. yes, you missed his warm embrace and touching words, but you learned to live without it.

you couldn't depend on someone to be the sole reason for your happiness. you still loved him, and you always will, but fuck did he cut deep.

---

pablo's pov

pablo found himself grappling with an unexpected wave of regret.

the relentless demands of his busy life had driven a wedge between the two of you, leaving him to confront the harsh reality of what he had lost.

pablo now spent the time he would've spent with you alone, in his home. he didn't hang out with friends. he didn't go out for dinner, just ordered food to his house. he felt lonely and bored without you.

how ironic.

the void left by your absence became easily recognizable to everyone around him, and he began to yearn for the warmth of your shared moments.

but pablo kept the painful truth of your breakup to himself, unable to utter the words aloud to anyone.

"hey bro, what's on your mind?"

he felt an arm drape across his shoulders, startling him from his thoughts.

pablo was at barcelona's training grounds, and didn't realize his slumped posture and absentminded features were noticeable to anyone but him.

pedro was walking next to him, his arm slung around the back of his neck.

"hola?? what's up with you?" pedro was insisting on finding out why his close friend was acting so strange.

"sorry, just tired.. didn't get much sleep last night." in all honesty, he hadn't. he spent most of his night lying awake, thinking of how badly he had messed up. his screen time was through the roof, scrolling through your feed and posts, reminiscing on what was once his, about the warm soul that would sleep next to him in this very bed.

"ai, don't lie now. you know i can see right through you. what's wrong, bro?" pedro wasn't giving up, pestering pablo on his silence.

pablo gulped and turned to his friend, "i.. i messed up bad bro, like really bad..".

he didn't elaborate further, unable to bring himself to come to terms with what he had done.

"uhh, that's cool and all, but it would be helpful if you explained, man. i can't help you if you dont tell m-"

"i broke up with y/n."

pablo shut his mouth after, the words leaving the bitter taste of regret in his mouth. he might've said that too loudly, causing some staff members and teammates to look his direction.

pedro didn't seem to believe it, raising his eyebrow at the boy.

"you what? wha... when?"

everyone who knew pablo knew that he was absolutely smitten with you. you were always on his mind, and he was quick to talk about you if he had the chance. it annoyed his friends sometimes, but it was cute how much he loved you.

the fact that he had broken up with you was appalling.

"around a month ago.." pablo confessed, his hands hidden behind his back like a guilty child. "i told her i was too busy to focus on our relationship, and i told her that i needed to focus on my career. it's honestly a load of bullshit. i think i was just stressed and took it out on her."

pedro's confusion was evident, his eyebrows drawn together.

"i don't understand, bro. your schedule was never an issue for you before. and why didn't you tell me? i could've, i don't know, been there for you!"

it was like pablo was being scolded, and he really did deserve it. he'd lost you because of his own stress and poor time management. you didn't deserve to suffer because of him.

"pablo, what were you thinking? i mean, i can't believe it! i would've never expected you to- okay, i'm sorry.." pedro stopped his lecturing upon seeing his friend growing increasingly upset. "my advice to you is to go apologize. and not just a quick 'sorry', but a good one. get her flowers, chocolate - i don't know, whatever chicks like. just go say sorry."

pablo looked up at his friend, hesitation on his features. "what if she doesn't take me back? w-what would i do then?" he stuttered. he was worried you would realize how big of an asshole he was, and how much he didn't deserve you.

"i mean, i wouldn't blame her," pedro smiled teasingly. "but i know y/n pretty well, she would understand." he laid a comforting hand on pablo's shoulder. "don't sweat it bro, it'll all be okay."

---

your pov

you were currently sprawled across your couch, stuffing popcorn in your mouth as you binged a show you had already seen a million times.

the bell rang.

that hadn't happened in a while. the unfamiliar sound rang in your head before you pulled yourself up from your comfortable position, walking to the door. you yanked the door open, popcorn still in your mouth.

you looked up to see the man you thought you'd never see again.

"..hola.." he whispered before sending you a soft smile. you froze in your spot. not knowing what to do as you weren't expecting this at all.

it was like you'd turned cold from shock. you acted before you thought, slamming the door on his face. you scrambled to fixed your hair and finish chewing your popcorn.

giving yourself a moment to breathe and think, you quickly opened the door again, worried he might leave. surprisingly, he was still standing there, waiting for you.

"can i come in?"

---

you let him in, of course. how could you not?

he walked in with a hunched back. his feet dragged against the floor wearily.

you told him to sit on the couch and wait as you grabbed two waters, one for him, and one for you.

the unexpected arrival of pablo, whom you thought had become a distant echo of the past, sent tremors through the newly rebuilt walls around your heart.

is there a possibility of rekindling what was once lost?

you finally dragged yourself out of the kitchen and back into the living room to where pablo was sitting with his legs shaking anxiously and his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. there were still popcorn crumbs on the couch, the halfway eaten bowl of it placed on the table across from the paused movie displayed on the tv.

oh, how you wish he warned you before showing up at your doorstep.

he turned his head to see you standing tensely in the doorframe. he smiled awkwardly as he scooted over to give you some space to sit far from him.

you sat down and placed the waters on the table in front of you. you took a deep breath before gulping hard. you eventually found the courage to croak out a few words.

"what happened, is everything alright?"

the air was thick, the unspoken history you shared lingering in the air. his eyes were red and cratered by bags. he tried to hide the lines on his face by putting on a decent outfit and gelling his hair back, but you saw right through his façade.

"i just.. wanted to apologize.."

your silence was his cue to continue speaking.

sitting in the soft glow of your living room, pablo took a deep breath before breaking the heavy silence.

"i need you to know how sorry i am for what i did, y/n. breaking up with you was the biggest mistake of my life, and i've spent every day regretting it. i miss you, not just the idea of you, but you - the way you laugh, the way you challenge me... i was foolish, and i can't keep living my life without you in it. i came here to make things right, to find a way for us to work through the challenges together. can we try again? can you forgive me?" His vulnerable pleas hung in the air while also knocking you down like heavy wind.

your gaze flickered with a mix of surprise as pablo's heartfelt words settled in the room. the weight of his apology hung between you, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch as you discerned the sincerity in his eyes.

you took a moment before responding, your voice a sorrowful blend of vulnerability and caution.

"pablo, you hurt me deeply when you walked away. i've spent nights replaying those moments, the day you left me, wondering if i meant as much to you as you say now...". The room held a fragile hope as your eyes locked.

in a desperate plea, pablo's words spilled forth with an intensity so raw it stung in the depths of your heart. his eyes reflected the sincerity of his emotions. "y/n, i can't imagine my life without you. every moment without you feels like a void i can't fill. i was foolish, and i let something so precious slip away." his voice wavered with a mix of regret and hope, showing the depth of his desire to rebuild what was lost.

"please, i'm begging you, give me another chance. i know i hurt you, and i'm willing to do whatever it takes to make things right. i've learned from my mistakes, and i'm not the same person who walked away. i love you, and i'm ready to fight for us. please, take me back."

you listened to pablo's heartfelt pleas carefully. after a thoughtful pause, you spoke with a calm and resolute tone,

"pablo, i appreciate your honesty and the effort you're putting into this. it's not easy to admit mistakes, and i can see the sincerity in your eyes. but i need some space to process everything. let's take things one step at a time."

pablo quietly absorbed your response. he nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of his actions. "i understand, y/n," he said with a quiet sincerity,

"i know i hurt you, and i can't expect you to erase that pain overnight. i'm here, whenever you're ready." his words left a subtle sting on your heart. he raised up from the couch, before leaving with the same hunch of his back and drag of his steps that he entered with.

the sound of the door latching closed sent a stab through your heart. your eyes began to water as the painful image of him leaving stuck in your mind.

you were standing in the doorway, and felt a sudden surge of clarity and yearning. spontaneously, you threw the door open and rushed after him, the urgency to convey your changing feelings propelling you forward. "pablo!" you called out, running down the driveway, and as he turned in surprise, you closed the distance between you. without a word, you reached out, cupped his face in your hands, and pressed your lips to his. his hands wrapped around your waist as he dipped you forward slightly, embracing your warmth and forgiveness. your brows furrowed into the kiss as you felt the craters in your heart fill slowly.

the kiss was heavy, holding many unspoken emotions—forgiveness, longing, and the realization that sometimes, the heart finds its way back when the connection is too strong to resist.

in that moment, under the dim streetlights, things changed between you two, and it seemed as though the process of reconciliation was beginning to unfold.

[inkspiredwriting]

The Last Goodbye

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

The train station was a cold, cavernous expanse, its marble floors gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The sounds of distant announcements, the rumble of trains, and the murmur of conversations created a haunting symphony that filled the air. Five Hargreeves stood by the platform, his jaw set and his eyes betraying the storm of emotions he kept tightly controlled.

Y/n stood across from him, her fingers trembling slightly as they clutched the edge of her coat. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were now clouded with worry and sorrow. She knew this day would come—knew that Five’s duties with the Commission would eventually take him away from her. But knowing did little to dull the ache of reality.

Five glanced up as the sharp whistle of the incoming train echoed through the station. His heart clenched at the sight of Y/n’s tear-streaked face. Leaving her felt like tearing his soul apart.

“Y/n…” he started, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He took a step closer, reaching out to gently brush a tear from her cheek.

Y/n’s lips trembled as she tried to muster a smile, but it faltered under the weight of her sorrow. “You don’t have to say it,” she whispered. “I know you have to go.”

Five’s fingers lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. “I wish I could stay,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than anything.”

Y/n’s hands found his, gripping them tightly as if to anchor herself in the moment. “Promise me you’ll come back,” she pleaded, her voice breaking.

Five’s heart shattered at the desperation in her eyes. “I promise,” he said, though they both knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep. “I’ll do everything I can to come back to you.”

The train pulled into the station, its brakes screeching in protest as it slowed to a halt. The doors hissed open, and a cold gust of air rushed past them, carrying the scent of iron and dust.

Five and Y/n stood in the middle of the platform, the world around them fading into a blur. Five pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, memorizing the feel of her body against his. “I’ll miss you every day,” he murmured into her hair.

Y/n clung to him, her tears soaking into his coat. “I’ll miss you too,” she choked out. “I’ll think of you every moment.”

They pulled back slightly, their faces inches apart. Five cupped her face in his hands, his eyes searching hers. “Stay safe,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And be happy. No matter what happens.”

Y/n nodded, biting her lip to keep from sobbing. “You too,” she said, her voice trembling. “Take care of yourself, Five. And come back to me.”

Five’s heart ached at the sight of her, so strong and yet so vulnerable. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, pouring all his love and longing into that single moment.

When they finally pulled apart, the train conductor’s voice echoed through the station, announcing the final boarding call. Five took a step back, his hand slipping from hers, the physical distance mirroring the chasm that was about to separate them.

“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I love you too,” Y/n whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Always.”

Five turned and walked towards the train, each step feeling like a betrayal. He could feel Y/n’s eyes on him, the weight of her gaze pressing into his back. He boarded the train, the doors closing behind him with a final, ominous thud.

As the train began to move, Five found a window and pressed his hand against the glass, his eyes locked on Y/n’s figure growing smaller in the distance. She stood on the platform, her hand raised in a futile wave, her tears glistening under the station lights.

He watched her until the train rounded a bend, and she was lost from sight. The world outside blurred as tears filled his own eyes, the magnitude of what he was leaving behind crashing over him like a tidal wave.

Y/n stood on the platform long after the train had disappeared, her heart aching with a hollow, unrelenting pain. The echoes of their last moments together reverberated through her mind, each memory a bittersweet reminder of what she had lost and the hope she had to cling to.

She turned and walked away, her steps slow and heavy. The world felt emptier without Five, each day a struggle to hold onto the fragments of their love. But she knew she had to be strong—for him, for the promise they had made, and for the hope that one day, against all odds, he would return to her.

In the quiet of her apartment, she found solace in the small things—the smell of his jacket, the feel of his favorite book, the lingering warmth of his last touch. Each item became a talisman of their love, a beacon of hope that guided her through the darkest days.

Five, on his dangerous mission, carried the memory of Y/n with him like a lifeline. In the moments of quiet between the chaos, he would close his eyes and remember the feel of her arms around him, the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her kiss. It was those memories that kept him going, that gave him the strength to fight and the determination to survive.

Despite the danger, despite the uncertainty, Five held onto the promise they had made. And as he faced the unknown, he whispered into the void, a silent vow to return to the woman he loved.

In a world where time was his enemy and his ally, Five clung to the hope that one day, he and Y/n would be reunited. That the train would bring him back to her, and their future—fragile and precious—would be waiting, ready to be reclaimed.

[delulustateofmind]

Love

SatoSugu x Reader Blurb

TW: Angst. No Comfort

WC: 2k

a/n: Just a thought. Might write a full-fledged fic at some point. Two angsty fics in one weekend? Man, I need to touch grass.

It began subtly, with a sense of stillness, like a candle flickering before it goes out, its warmth not so much extinguished as quietly abandoned.

The words you once shared, rich with meaning, now sounded like echoes in an empty room. Touches that once felt familiar began to feel... unfamiliar. The silence, once comforting, now grew awkward. The spaces between you widened, unnoticed at first, until they stretched so far apart that the distance slipped right through your fingers. 

A quiet mourning settled in—a grief not loud or dramatic but heavy, like a book once beloved now gathering dust on a shelf. This was what it felt like to fall out of love.

You sat there, resting against the countertop, waiting for the water to boil in the kettle. The soft hum of Suguru’s voice in the shower drifted down the hall, a gentle melody. He always loved to slow dance with you in the kitchen when you first moved in. Humming a tune as he would twirl you around in the kitchen. You used to love moments like that.

Satoru was at the dining table, papers spread out before him, focus etched into his forehead, his brows furrowed, dark-tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. You remembered teasing him for how much he used to hate babysitting; now, he loved his students as if they were his own. 

You could recall how it felt to love them, but the feeling seemed to belong to someone else—a distant version of yourself, as if it had existed in another life. You stared off into the distance until Satoru’s teasing voice pulled you back.

“The water’s boiling, baby. You too busy thinking about our trip to your parents? Man, I’m so excited to see Mom—I mean, your mom. Well, she is practically our mom, right?” His playful voice faltered when you didn’t respond immediately. “Right?” he repeated.

You offered a soft smile, one that didn't reach your eyes before reaching for a mug from the cupboard. 

They weren’t bad partners—far from it. They were amazing, loyal, loving, and considerate. You had never felt more cherished. Despite their duties as the world’s strongest sorcerers, they always made time for you. Satoru brought back gifts from his travels, treats you used to love sharing with him. Suguru noticed the little things, stocking up on your favorite snacks, making you tea after a stressful day, pressing a kiss to your temple with a knowing smile. 

Your reverie shattered—quite literally—when the mug slipped from your grasp, splintering on the floor.

“Baby?” Satoru’s voice was sharp with concern as he rushed into the kitchen, finding you sinking to the floor, tears brimming in your eyes. “Oh, honey, I know it was part of a set, but we can get a new one. Are you hurt? Let me see your hands, please?”

He knelt before you, eyes wide and filled with worry as he took your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his touch, once so reassuring, now sent a wave of guilt coursing through you, making your tears spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the apology spilling out in a broken mutter.

“Hey baby… honey bun…” Satoru continued, one of his hands drifting to your cheek to pull your face up so your eyes met his. The concern etched into his features clashed with the forced softness in his voice. “It’s just a cup… Is the trip stressing you out? You know we love seeing your parents, right? They’re like ours, but way better... if you want, we can postpone it. We can set the tickets for a later date.” His voice was so gentle, stripped of the teasing lilt he so often carried.

The sight of him like this—the cracks forming in his confident facade—only made it worse.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed out in a sob, your body trembling. The words came from somewhere deep, somewhere raw and exposed. “I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. I want... I want to break up.”

You could almost hear another shatter, louder than the mug. It was the sound of something precious fracturing beyond repair. You met his eyes—the once bright blue eyes that resembled the ocean on a summer’s day, that once mirrored the clear sky. Now, they seemed dull, storm-clouded, as if the life had been siphoned from them in an instant.

“What?” His voice cracked, disbelief painted on his face, twisting into desperation. “Honeybun… it’s just a... we can postpone the trip! We can tell Suguru right now… he’ll be a bit disappointed, but he’ll understand… We can fix this. We can fix us.”

Satoru’s breathing became shallow, each inhale a ragged attempt to hold onto something slipping away. His fingers tightened slightly around yours, as if trying to anchor himself—or perhaps, to keep you from drifting further.

The room felt too small, too silent. The only sound was the erratic thumping of your heart and the soft patter of your tears hitting the floor. Between you lay the shattered remains of the mug, glinting under the harsh kitchen light. Was the room always this dim?

You heard the padded footsteps of Suguru entering the kitchen, droplets of water trailing behind him. His honeyed, melodic voice was tinged with concern and confusion. 

“Everything alright?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over the scene—Satoru on the floor beside you, his face stricken with panic, and you, a trembling mess cradling the broken pieces of what once was whole.

“We have to unpack,” Satoru said in between breaths, hurriedly rushing toward the backpack on the dining room chair. “I’ll call your mother... everything’s fine... everything’s fine.” He gasped between words that came out broken, tears now brimming in his eyes.

Suguru grabbed him by the shoulder, anchoring him. His violet eyes scanned his love, searching for answers. 

“Satoru…” Suguru began.

You spoke up first. “I want to break up.” The words came out meekly, as if you were speaking through someone else’s voice, a stranger in your own skin.

The calm and collected Suguru—the smooth-talking Suguru—was now silent. He stared at the floor, unable to meet your eyes as the weight of your words settled around him.

“I’m sorry... I just... I don’t love you both anymore.”

It was as if those final words made Satoru panic more. His gaze flicked down to the small ring box that had fallen to the floor from his bag. The shiny blue box with a silver ribbon.  

Every breath you took felt like it took more effort than the last, as though the reality of what you were doing was a slow, painful suffocation you couldn’t escape.

You shifted your gaze to look at Satoru, whose eyes were wide, still full of disbelief, and yet there was something darker in them now—something raw. His breath came in shallow bursts, like he couldn’t quite catch up with the truth, like he was trying to find something to hold onto before it all slipped away. He wasn’t ready for this. And maybe, deep down, you weren’t either.

Suguru’s silence was worse than Satoru’s desperate words. Suguru, always the calm one, the steady anchor between you three, stood frozen. His eyes moved from you to Satoru, as if looking for the words, for some kind of lifeline he could throw into the drowning space between you. But there was nothing. The room had already become too heavy, the space between you all too wide.

Satoru’s voice cracked again, desperate, pleading. "We can fix this," he choked out, his hands shaking as they reached for you. "I swear to you, we can fix it… I'll do anything. Please don't say that. Please." His knees hit the floor with a muffled thud as he fell to his knees, his hands grasping for yours like a lifeline, but you could feel the way his grip trembled, how the pressure wasn’t comforting anymore. It wasn’t love, or at least not the kind you recognized anymore. 

You pulled your hand away slowly, as if his touch burned, as if his touch itself was a reminder of something that was slipping away—of a love you couldn't hold onto, no matter how tightly you tried. The absence of his warmth seemed to create a coldness inside you that you couldn’t ignore, couldn’t push away. "I don’t... I don’t know if I can anymore, Satoru," you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, heavy and hoarse.

Satoru stood abruptly, his knees knocking against the floor as he scrambled to his feet, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his shirt. But the tears, those damned tears, they refused to stay hidden. They gathered in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded, his voice breaking on the edges of each word. “I—I don’t understand. What do you want from me? Just tell me what I did wrong. Please… I’ll change. I’ll be anything you need. Anything. Just don’t leave me. Don’t leave us.” His voice cracked on the last word, a fissure in the facade he always wore so confidently.

You sat there, frozen, unable to look at him. At them. The love, the passion, the certainty of your connection—it was all still there, somewhere. But it felt so far away, like it belonged to someone else—a version of you who wasn’t sitting in this kitchen, watching everything slip away. "I just… I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s not fair to you both." You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold onto the clarity in your words even though it felt like they were slipping from your grasp the more you spoke them.

The truth of it crushed you. How could you be the one to pull away when they both needed you? How could you betray the love they had shown you, the life you had built together, just because something inside you was empty? But it was true. The love that had once seemed so full and unbreakable had worn thin, stretched too far to the point where it no longer made sense to keep pretending. The band had finally snapped.

Satoru’s face crumpled, his lips trembling as he shook his head, as though the words you’d spoken didn’t quite reach him. “Please,” he begged, voice small and broken. “You’re our family. You are family. I don’t care what’s changed... We can fix this. We can work through it. Together. I’ll do anything. Anything, just—don’t leave us. Don’t leave me.”

Suguru stepped forward then, his silence heavier than ever before, his gaze unreadable. He moved as though to reach you, but he hesitated—just for a moment, as though unsure whether touching you would make it worse. But then his voice, soft and gentle, cut through the tension. “Don’t go,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting yours. “Please” Suguru was never one to beg. To plead. 

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, but it wasn’t just for the love that was fading, for the love that you couldn’t bring yourself to hold onto. It was for them, for how badly they wanted this, how much they needed you to stay. It felt like an impossible weight pressing on your chest. Your hands trembled at your sides as you tried to steady your breath, but it was as if the room itself was spinning. 

"I don't know how to fix this," you whispered, more to yourself than to either of them. “I’m sorry”