#also i just ran out of everything and replaced it

[romanofftherealest]

Good Luck, Babe

Chapter 9: Curtain Call | 5.3k

Summary: Changes in breathing patterns, reduced vital signs, altered skin color and temperature, and decreased consciousness. These are the signs your loved one feels when you're about to lose them.

But those are the things that you feel when you are losing someone you love.

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Tags | Warnings: +18 angst, divorce

Author's Note: I was told to ask y'all what you wanna see after this chapter...

⧗

"Are they here yet?" 

Natasha's heart was racing and so is she in the foyer, her eyes constantly darting towards the door. She couldn't remember the last time she was this nervous. Probably after the last time she saw you, but at that moment she was hysterical, so definitely not nervous.

"Natasha, calm down." Yelena's words snapped Natasha back to reality. "Fix yourself, you got this." 

It had been days since that nightmare encounter. 5 nights of Natasha tossing and turning in bed, 4 days of uncontrollable crying spells, 4 days and 5 nights of not having to drink even though she badly wanted to—no, needed just for herself to sleep hoping to forget the look on your face that day. 

She has been a wreck since, completely lost without you. And she will not deny that anymore.

And today, she is going to see you…

Natasha walked her way to the backyard, the main venue of the event. She has been staring at her phone, specifically on your contact that says Wife❤ Natasha didn't remove it nor did she replace the wallpaper. And Yelena caught her once again in the act when she tried catching up on her speed walking.

"Don't Natasha, we talked already." 

Oh, yes, the talk where Yelena actually did not just talk but also showed her sister some…tough love—literal tough love.

Natasha had never called you, but when she did, she called non-stop, clicking the green phone icon like a damn stalker. First was the day you were with some friend for some drink, and the next one was that very night you ran away where Natasha did nothing but drink and click the call button of your contact on her phone until she passed out. 

And right now, the urge to add more to that 86 calls that you missed from her is very tempting. Each one a silent scream for attention and apology, each missed call piercing through Natasha's desperate longing and her inability to cope without you.

You, you, you!

Every thought, every dream, every nightmare was consumed by you. She couldn't think straight without you. She couldn't sleep without imagining you. She couldn't eat without remembering your taste. 

You were everything.

You, you, you…

Only you.

"Sestra." Yelena, noticing her sister in deep thought, fished her out of it. "You'll be fine."

You had called everything off, the catering was canceled, delivery for decorations too—the party in whole. And Yelena had to convince you not to because Natasha practically begged her to talk to you and it's definitely not because it will only be the chance she will finally see you and Aliah both, well, maybe.  

Natasha looked around the backyard, her eyes scanning the pink and purple balloons, glittery princess cutouts, the catering, and the giant castle she stayed up all night building proudly standing at the center of the garden. This was all your plan and this party was supposed to be cooperated by you and Natasha but due to some unfortunate circumstances which she had taken as her fault, she executed it alone and she had no problem with that.

She had wanted everything perfect for Aliah's birthday party because it is going to be the first time she will celebrate it with her, with you. 

With your whole family.

She went back inside the manor to see her reflection staring back at her. She had been checking and re-checking her appearance for what felt like hours. She was getting out to check the venue and coming back inside the house to check herself. She was wearing a king costume looking handsome and beautiful at the same time. The gold brocade jacket hugged her curves, and the white breeches and boots completed the look. She turned this way and that, making sure nothing is wrong with her—she relentlessly fixed herself.

Because she wants you to see her fixed, put together, not drunk or hysterical—not a mess like what she has been with you.

And as the minutes ticked by, Natasha found herself becoming more and more restless. She had started walking around again. The fake sword she had strapped to her waist, swinging as she circled like a caged lion. She sees Yelena, who is dressed in a knight costume, welcoming each parent and kids that were arriving at the manor. Couldn't bear overthinking, she walks over to her to ask her for the 6th time again if you're really coming over.

"They'll be here soon. Rick called, he already picked them up." Yelena said, Natasha hasn't even uttered a word yet. She now pulled Natasha aside, her expression turning serious as she began briefing her on the plan for the party, again. "Slushat'," (listen) she started, pointing a finger at Natasha, "You're going to behave today. Once they're here, I will give you Aliah and you will help her get dressed. The gown…"

"Is already in her room, I know." Natasha finishes.

"And I will assist Y/N with hers. Got it?" Yelena says as she looks intently at her sister.

"Got it." Natasha nods.

"And Nat, give Y/N a space. Okay? I think it's better to wait for her this time. You can make small conversations and I know you'll know when she's off and once you feel that, you know what to do." 

"Yeah, this day is about Aliah."

"Good, behave. Okay?"

"C'mon, do I look like I am going to cause some chaos?" she pushed herself away from her younger sister, she doesn't like the feeling of being reminded to behave like she's a toddler.

"Oh please," the knight rolls her eyes, "Do you really want me to remind you?"

Natasha's jaw clenched, "Not today," she murmured under her breath like she almost just said it to herself. She actually doesn't need to get reminded of it because what she did was already ingrained in every corner of her mind, that even when she sleeps it never fails to bring her nightmares.

Yelena watches her sister take a deep breath, seeing the unspoken guilt in her eyes—today is not the day to bring up bad memories so now she feels guilty too. And to ease the guilt she immediately changed the supposed to be memories she was about to bring up. "No, no, no, I mean with that look? You will definitely cause some chaos, king."

"Can we just remove the sword, it's…it's intimidating and exaggerated." Natasha clears her throat while she adjusts the brocade that's making her sweat already.  

"I have the same and I ain't saying a damn word. Just be grateful you're not getting a face lift with an iron helmet!"

"You two." 

"Mama?! Kak dolgo vy zdes'?" (How long have you been here?) Melina smiles as Yelena runs over to her and kisses her cheek.

"Not too long, dear. Just enough time to watch you two banter." She pats Yelena's arm affectionately. "Go get Y/N. They're here now."

"They're here? I thought Rick…" Yelena's eyes widen in shock but stops when Melina simply nods at her with a knowing smile, silently urging her daughter to go get you without further explanation.

Natasha had rehearsed her words countless times before this very moment, knowing exactly what she would say to you and Aliah. She had imagined about every scenario and how to handle them—she thought.

But not with her mother.

"Kak vy?" (How are you?) Melina didn't ask her anything. She didn't confront her about the things she figured out her daughter did nor her side of the story. What she just wants to know is how she's doing, if her daughter is okay.

"Pytayus' byt' luchshe." (Trying to be better) Natasha's lips quivered, she finally eyed her mother and tried her best to smile and not let that damn tear that is threatening to fall from her eyes.

"Vse budet khorosho." (Everything will be fine) 

It's a phrase she's heard a million times before, it was a simple statement becoming overused and plain overtime. But hearing it right now from her mother made her heart feel some different kind of pain and comfort. 

"Yelena's probably with Aliah, go." 

Natasha nods, feeling a lump form in her throat. But she cannot cry right now, well, not yet, so she just kisses her mother before going.

The walk to her daughter's room is quiet, but her heart is pounding loud in her chest. Just as she was outside, Yelena exited the room. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the moment she has been both dreading and longing for. 

"She's there already, I told her to wait for you." Yelena said as she pointed at the door behind her, she wanted to remind her once again to behave but chose not to. So she just gave her sister a pat of support. "Go."

Natasha breathes before opening. And her now four years old is already standing by the door, waiting for her. Natasha immediately lowered herself to her knees, and wrapped her arms around Aliah's tiny form, pulling her close.

It feels like forever.

"Happy birthday, Princess Aliahnovna Franceska Romanoff," she swallows hard to hold back her sobs, instead letting out a groan as she lifts Aliah into her arms. 

"I missed you, mama." Was the first thing Aliah said, the way she said it was with pure genuineness but her voice was so small like she's not sure if she's supposed to say it. Natasha knows her daughter too, she's giddy and jolly, and right now Aliah is lacking those.

And Natasha doesn't know why. 

"Princess, mama missed you too. I missed you so, so much." Her voice cracks slightly.

"But you don't love me any'ore." 

Now, she knows.

Natasha was in pure disbelief and her heart ached at the pain of that statement. She immediately brings her down and kneels in front of her, gently cupping her small face in her hands and there she sees the pain in her daughter's eyes.

"That's not true," Natasha carefully says, trying her best not to sound offended. "Of course I love you, more than anything in the world. W-why would you say that?"

"But you don't love mommy any'ore, so that means you don't love me too."

Now, she knows.

Natasha shook her head, frowning to hold her tears back and it's getting really harder this time. "That's...that's not true baby," she managed to say, her voice cracking. "I love mommy. I love mommy as much as I love you. I love you both." Her voice grew more desperate as she tried to defend herself—defend her love for you.

She thought she had imagined all the possible scenarios, she thought she was ready but it seems like you really don't know what to expect.

"You not gonna make mommy cry? Mommy cry a lot, mean people make mommy cry. I don't want her to cry any'ore." She pouts, crocodile tears in her little eyes. "You're big mama, you can portect mommy so she will not cry."

"Not gonna make mommy cry." Natasha repeated as if she's on oath. 

"You not hurt mommy."

"I will not hurt mommy." 

"You are mean to mommy, she cries." Although Aliah isn't crying, the hurt is something you wouldn't miss in her tiny voice. It's not the usual hurt of a little girl who's upset because she didn't get a toy or something she wants. This hurt goes deeper.

"And I am sorry." Natasha couldn't face her daughter anymore. "I am sorry."

"You hurt mommy." That overwhelming wave of shame is hitting her really bad.

"Y-yes, I…I know. I'm sorry, baby." Natasha nods, a tear now falling down to her lap. 

"You promised." Her little girl is stating facts like an adult. The fact that Natasha might be the first person to break a promise on her daughter's life made her guilty even more.

Then suddenly, Aliah's tiny arms wrap around her neck, her little face pressing into the crook of Natasha's neck. She is frozen, stunned by her daughter's sudden gesture. She doesn't dare move, afraid that any sudden motion might pull her little girl away. Natasha couldn't help it anymore, she breaks down completely, burying herself in Aliah's small body like it's the only thing keeping her alive. 

Aliah pulls back slightly, her small hands cupping her mama's face gently. Her tiny fingers wipe away her mother's tears with a tenderness that belies her age. She looks into Natasha's eyes with such love, and understanding. And there is a look of pain in her innocent eyes that breaks Natasha's heart all over again.

At Aliah's age, she should be out playing, learning about the world, and finding joy in discovery. Instead, she is here, confronting her mother about something that she did—about something she wants to know but wouldn't understand. Exposed with no young child should have to face. And Natasha felt responsible for it.

"Mama...I don't want you cry too."

⧗

Glancing in the mirror, you couldn't help but force a smile at the sight of yourself donning a queen costume. Yelena was behind you, grinning through your shoulders. 

"I think it's a bit…exaggerating?" you say carefully.

"Ouch."

Okay, maybe that was not careful at all. Dressing up as a queen was not a part of your initial plan for Aliah's birthday and you knew it was Yelena's added plan, well, she could be extra at times.

"You know, that's what Natasha said too." Yelena snorts.

She was not careful there too.

You dodged Yelena's comment about Natasha, instead shifting the focus to the dress. "I just don't want to get attention with the dress." It was something straight out of a fairy tale—a flowing silk dress in a shimmering shade of green and a delicate pearl headband that matched it.

"Oh c'mon, it's you who's overreacting. It's simple but elegant!" She tries to convince you when she sees you slightly doubting the whole look.

"Can I be like…you?" you slid your palms in the lengths of the fabric of the dress, clearly uncomfortable. "Or like be a maid or something?"

"Definitely no—"

"Is that a castle?" you ask in rush disbelief, when you get the view of the party in the garden and some kids playing around.

"Oh yeah, Natasha did that overnight." Yelena's words hang in the air, a casual yet powerful endorsement of Natasha's efforts—backing her sister up.

Despite everything she's done—despite the pain she caused—you can't deny that she will always be brought up to you. That is something you have no mastery to shut out. But you have conditioned yourself and put things aside for now because you know avoiding her today would be just impossible. 

Today isn't about you or Natasha or whatever drama that is going on between you two; it's about your daughter.

An announcement from the host was heard from where you're from that the event was about to start. 

"Your Highness, I think that's our cue." The knight said with a smirk.

"Okay, now you're really exaggerating." You covered your face with your hands, the teasing and attention Yelena is giving you is making you embarrassed already.

"C'mon before I make you a stable girl."

At this point, you'd rather be a stable girl.

Yelena separated ways with you, telling you she needs to check on something so you continued on your fast walking. You were nervous, a bit shy—embarrassed but you don't care now, for Aliah you will do anything. 

As you walked through the living room overseeing the venue, a familiar blonde bumped into you and it wasn't Yelena.  

"Oh, sh—" the blonde stopped at her tracks when she was able to take a good look at whoever the medieval queen she just bumped into, "My Highness, apologies." 

"Carol?! Oh guh-please, stop." You almost whined in embarrassment, once again covering your face—you let out a muffled cry as you did.

Then, you felt Carol's hands grip your wrists softly so she could take them away from your face. But your arms remained ironed, you just moved your fingers to uncover your eyes and peeked at her.

"You're pretty, c'mon." 

Natasha watched everything until the blonde completely disappeared. The sight of you with someone whom she considered a threat only reinforced the guilt she felt for her actions when she cheated on you. She doesn't even know if she had a right to feel that way, but she couldn't help it. What she did to you is just haunting her down, and she knew it was a thousand times worse than what she is witnessing right now.

"Mama, c'mon. Mommy's there." Natasha had been so engrossed in watching you  that she hadn't even noticed Aliah tugging her exaggerating costume.

The birthday girl practically dragged Natasha towards your direction.

Your face lit up with joy as you spotted Aliah approaching you. You knelt down, your eyes brimming with affection. 

"Baby!" you exclaimed, opening your arms wide to hug her. Aliah giggled and ran into your embrace, her little hands encircling your neck as she snuggled into you. "Oh, look at you," your voice slightly shaky, taking the sight of your daughter who is dressed up like a real princess—which she really is. "My baby, my princess, my everything please don't grow older."

"Mommy, mama will give you something." Your daughter removed herself from your embrace and took your hand, guiding you to stand while her other hand pulled Natasha towards you.

"O-oh…okay." 

Natasha's heart races as she holds your gaze. For a moment, everything else fades away—the party, the thick fabric that she is wearing that is making her sweat really bad, and even her own daughter that is between.

For a moment all that exists is you standing before her.

"For you," Natasha nearly cracked her voice, but hell, she didn't stutter. "You're really beautiful."

"Thank you."

Your smile is like a double-edged sword, beautiful but painful as you carefully took the small paper rose from her hand. You're not cold or distant, Natasha thought. You're not ignoring her either, but rather treating her with the same polite detachment as everyone else. As if she was just a duty you're supposed to make—a duty for your daughter's sake.

The smile didn't reach your eyes like it always did before and she cannot see what's in there anymore, not clearly. The distance between you feels both too close and not close enough. She wants to touch your cheek, to pull you closer, but she's terrified of what she might find there.

"Hi, royal fam." The host greets with a wide smile and you quickly shift your focus from Natasha to the woman. "So, we will introduce Aliah in a minute and then my partner will give the cue when to make the entrance with her. Okay?"

"Okay, yeah. Sure, sure." You say cooperatively while Natasha didn't listen at all, she was just looking at you…

Like a dandelion, slowly disappearing from her reach. 

⧗

Changes in breathing patterns, reduced vital signs, altered skin color and temperature, and decreased consciousness. These are the signs your loved one feels when you're about to lose them.

But those are the things that you feel when you are losing someone you love.

Natasha stood slightly apart, the party had come to an end, with the festivities winding down gradually. She watched as you bid goodbye to each child, a gentle smile on your face as you handed them the small trinkets and treats. 

The sight of you with Aliah, a warm smile on your face while your little one giggled, hugging her friends for the last time.

This is the beautiful family she had destroyed.

"Hey," Yelena placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder, noticing her once again in deep thought. "We already brought every gift to Aliah's room. Mom already left too."

"Oh, yeah sure. Thanks." Natasha clears her throat.

"You good?" Yelena asks as she finally sees the view her sister has been looking at—you and Aliah.

"Nervous." The word is understatement, Natasha is scared.

"You two gonna talk?" 

Natasha nodded, her expression serious. "If she wants to talk," she said quietly.

Yelena gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Well, good luck, Nat," she said. "Please, fix it this time. I don't want to have to pick up before your mess again."

"I'm sorry." Natasha let out a weary sigh.

Yelena chuckled softly in response. "C'mon," she said, gently punching her sister on the shoulder, a huge difference from the punch she did to her last time. "That's what siblings do. We try to almost kill each other when we think the other is being an idiot..." she trails off and eyed her sister comfortingly, "but we never leave each other."

Natasha looks down to her boots, the corner of her mouth lifting up in a half-smile. "Thanks," she said, finally meeting her sister's smile. 

Yelena has always been the one to step in and save Natasha from her own impulsive decisions, whether it's stopping her from causing further damage in her marriage or preventing her from completely embarrassing herself. She has always been the voice of reason in her sister's life, she never tolerated her but she never failed to offer guidance and support when she thinks she needs it. Especially now, Natasha being so desperate to see you and have this party for Aliah, without Yelena, this whole thing wouldn't be successfully done.

Before she can even say more to Yelena, she saw you and Aliah walk in her direction, all her friends are now gone home. She glanced to her side, expecting to find her sister. But much to her surprise, she was nowhere to be seen. 

What happened to the we're never going to leave each other?

Aliah, who has a sleepy expression on her face—yawns every chance she gets, eyes drooping slightly as she stares off into space while hand in hand with you. Her little arms now stretch out towards her mama, Natasha knowing exactly what her daughter needs, immediately runs and scoops her up into a warm embrace. 

"Who's my sleepy princess?" Natasha asks. Aliah snuggles against her neck, letting out a contented sigh as she nestles in.

"Mommy." Your little one slurs while her tiny finger pointed at you, you made an offended look that made your daughter giggle slightly. "Mommy's sleepy."

"Sure, my love." You carefully removed her tiny crown and smoothed her hair back before placing a kiss on her forehead. And with that, she's hit the sack.

Natasha placed her gently onto the soft bed, you decided not to change her clothes afraid that any move will ruin her sleep. You silently watched as Natasha tucked her in then looked around your daughter's room that is surrounded by the mountainous kingdom of presents waiting for her the moment she wakes up.

When Aliah is finally settled, Natasha placed a kiss on her forehead, the same area you had kiss your daughter. She stood and turned to face you, and for a moment, you both stood there in silence. Your gazes remained fixed ahead, neither of you daring to look at each other directly. But your bodies seemed to betray your emotions, subconsciously turning towards each other as if waiting for something to happen.

What now?

"Natasha, can we talk?"

Her heart races at the sound of her name on your lips, a name she hasn't heard in a while. 

"S-sure yeah." Natasha was nervous, she was scared but her eyes are shining with a familiar obedience and willingness to please you. 

That she will do everything, anything just to make things right.

She holds the door open for you, her eyes never leaving your face. Once you step inside, she closes the door behind you softly. The office is indeed unfamiliar territory for you; it's a space she's kept private until now. Natasha will never bring you to her old one, the place where she always caught herself in between a mess.

The two of you stood away from each other, the costumes of the earlier party of your daughter still clinging on your bodies making it a bit awkward.

"Here, sit," Natasha quickly walked towards the couch, she even offered her hand to which you declined. She's overly attentive, almost nervous…and desperate. "Do you want some drinks? Or juice? Come, sit, you must be tired in that dress."

"I'm fine." Natasha's face falls slightly at your short response, but she quickly masks it with a smile. "How have you been?" 

Natasha blinks slowly to your sudden question as if it has stirred something deep within her. Her eyes glisten slightly, and she takes a moment before responding. "I was...a mess," she admitted, blinking again to keep any tears at bay. She looks down briefly before meeting your gaze once more. "I'm so sorry," she now said, finally addressing the elephant in the room.

You nod silently, your eyes starting to water as well but you did not say anything.

Then there is a flicker of something in your eyes that Natasha can't quite place—longing? Hurt? It confuses her but you are definitely not angry. And the absence of any anger or disappointment in your eyes seemed to hurt her more than if you had shown what you truly felt. It was like a cruel reminder of how she had pushed you away, and now she couldn't even tell if there was still any love left in you. 

She takes a deep breath before starting again, "I...I just want to make things clear that nothing happened between me and that woman you saw that day. I promise you, nothing," she emphasizes each word carefully. Her voice shakes with emotion as she looks into your eyes pleadingly. 

And you nodded again, you believed it, tracing no lies in her words. "But what about the days...or weeks before that? Did something happen between you two?" you didn't need to ask but you just had to confirm your suspicions—you still have that right. 

The woman in front of you drops her head down as she nods, confirming everything you've been crazy about. "Yes. The last time was in...in my office. Long time now." Her voice full of genuine shame and guilt.

Now you wish you hadn't asked. The thing you saw that night in her office...and the things that happened between the two of you after that, the things you let her do to you are still burning freshly in your memories.

"Wow, long time." The words tasted like copper in your tongue. A single tear finally escapes down your cheek when the reality of her confession sinks in. You were quick to wipe it away. You hated the fact that she said it's been a long time now, she still cheated on you. No matter how many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years—she still betrayed you. And yet she's here saying it like she's trying to downplay what she did since it's been a long time now.

"I...I am sorry I didn't mean it that way. I promise..." Natasha tried to consider her words now. "that meant nothing b-but still it was wrong, Y/N. And I am sorry, it will never happen anymore." 

You nodded, again. 

"I want a divorce." 

Natasha thought she had imagined all the possible scenarios, she thought she was ready but it seems like you really don't know what to expect.

She freezes at your words, it was heavy and final—you sounded so sure. She doesn't move, doesn't breathe for several heartbeats. It was now her turn not to speak, not that she doesn't want to because if anything, she wanted to speak, to shout, to cry, to beg—anything. But nothing. It's like someone stole her voice. Her shoulders stiffen as she swallows hard. She won't look at you. She can't.

Not when you're really slowly drifting away.

"Those things that I said the last time, they're true. I wasn't lying." You deepened your frown to fight the tears back, "And even now, I still love you, it has always been you and it's still you. And I think it will probably always be you. But sometimes..." you feel your chest constricts with your every word. "I couldn't tell if you're closer to me or you're out of reach again. I did my best to understand where it's all coming from, because I hurt you and I was willing to take it all. But..." you paused, swallowing a sob, then a painful chuckle emitted from you, "it's making me crazy. I was losing myself. One minute you're letting me in, I thought we're okay and then when I blink you're pushing me away again like...like I'm the thing you hated the most." You wiped the tears that started to fall shamelessly on your cheek. "It's just so hard having you in between, Natasha. I feel sorry for myself, I'm getting tired."

Shared sobs filled the room.

"I thought if I let things be, if I let you do whatever you wanted to do even though it was killing me—it will save us. When I tried doing everything I thought it will fix us. But how do you fix something that keeps breaking itself? Something that doesn't want to be fixed?" your swollen eyes search hers intensely, painfully. "Never in my whole life did I think you were hard to love, Natasha. Just..." you gasp for air, voice strained.

"Just now."

Natasha thought she had herself together, collected. But now she's falling apart again—she is a mess again.

"I-I'm so sorry, Y/N…" Natasha is out of breath now, pleading with you through her tears. "Please..." she doesn't even know what she's begging for anymore. 

You took a step back and Natasha didn't like that at all, all the distance you were putting.

"Maybe our time has really gone by. We had such beautiful time before but I'll admit, I wish it was under different circumstances—" 

"No."

She doesn't wanna hear what you're about to say next. She doesn't like where this is going. But still, you continued and rephrased each word in your mind, despite everything you're still being careful not to hurt her, but the new careful words didn't do anything to sting less.

"We're going to keep hurting each other like this."

The way you said it feels like you've been pondering this for ages with your already made up mind. You sounded so resolute as if you've been sitting there, in the dark, staring at the ceiling, repeating these words in your head until they've become a part of you. 

And Natasha didn't like it at all.

"Y/N—"

You clear your throat that made her stop, maybe you didn't want her to have at least a damn millisecond to talk, not even a word because if she did you're afraid you're going to lose it again—it will make you crazy again. So what needs to be said and done should be said and done. You wiped the trail of wet tears from your cheek and composed yourself again. 

"I will let you have Aliah's full custody." Your heart aches as you say those words, but you know it's for the best. "I just don't want us to get dirty."

Without warning, the woman in front of you drops to her knees in front of you. Her hands wrapped your legs desperately as she pressed her forehead against your stomach. A choked sob escapes her throat. "No, please...don't leave me. I can't do it without you." Her voice cracks with emotion and desperation. "Please...please I'll make it right, baby."

You had expected this to happen, you've seen it. Her doing something that will make you crumble, just like you always do. She knows your weakness—seeing her like this—and she's playing it perfectly. The last time it was you begging like this, it was you who was a sobbing mess. You were the one desperate for a chance, a chance to make things right. 

All of these felt familiar to you.

Her grip tightens, making it nearly impossible for you to escape when you try to wiggle your body around her.

"No," Natasha mutters, her voice dropping dangerously low. "Don't, don't. Please…" Her arms are like steel bands around your waist. You try to unravel them gently, but she refuses to let go. "Baby, baby, baby..." she cried.

"Natasha." You tried again, pushing her by the shoulders this time but she only rushed to put her head back to your stomach as if trying to burrow into your warmth. 

"It's Natty…" from hating you say it, now she's begging you to call her that again. "T-tell me what to do. Tell me baby. Please, Y/N…please."

Now you stopped pulling away from her. You stopped fighting. You didn't move. You didn't push her away. Instead your hands went to caress her shoulders and there you felt her body shaking. You gently run your fingers through the back of her head with such tenderness Natasha has been yearning for. Then, slowly and carefully you tried untangling her arms that is tight around you.

"Please, Natty. Let me go." 

She said she will do everything—anything to make it right.

But to let you go? 

That doesn't seem right.

Good Luck, Babe: Masterlist

[sadclowncentral]

my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it's becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.

it's a beautiful bonding activity, but the "creative" fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that's just the kitchen.

it's all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it's a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don't pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don't move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Slipping through my fingers"

ok yall this is an emotional one!! it expands more on reader and jason's dynamic before he died and shows why jason is an especially sore spot for reader. it's also jason who she's most vulnerable and willing to forgive.

You and Jason ate the popcorn chicken on your bed in silence. For a moment, you pretended that everything was normal again. That Jason was still just Jason and you were still just you. That he was still your big brother that meant the world to you and that you were still his baby sister who he adored and couldn't go a day without.

For a moment, jason could pretend he wasn't the Red Hood, a vigilante who struck fear even in the darkest of hearts, he could pretend he was just comforting his little sister who meant the world to him.

Jason stares at you, his eyes locked onto yours like he’s trying to burn through the walls you’ve built between you. His breathing is shallow, tight with something unspoken, something raw. He’s been holding it in, holding it all in—his guilt, his regret, his anger—but it’s all starting to crack. The cracks are sharp now, and they’re starting to bleed.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he spits, his voice gravelly, thick with the weight of what’s unsaid. “I didn’t want to become this. I didn’t want to lose you.”

You let out a bitter laugh, harsh and mocking, and you can feel the edge of your own frustration clawing at you. “Well, newsflash, Jason, you did. You lost me the moment you decided that pushing me away was the best option. You don’t get to sit there and tell me how you didn’t want to hurt me when you were the one who abandoned me without a second thought. I ran into your arms and you acted like you couldn't care less.”

His jaw tightens and you see something almost vulnerable flicker across his face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by something darker; guilt, maybe, but also something like self-loathing.

“You think I wanted to leave? You think I wanted to hurt you?” His voice is quiet, almost deadly calm, but the tremor in his tone betrays him. “I didn’t want to drag you down, okay? I didn’t want to make you part of this... mess I’ve become. I thought if I just kept my distance, kept you away from all the shit in my life, I’d be doing you a favor. ”

“And what the hell makes you think I needed your protection, huh?” You snap back, “You think I couldn’t handle whatever shit you were going through? You think I couldn’t handle you? You never gave me the chance to help. You just shut me out, Jason. Like I was just some... some stranger. Like you weren't the closest thing I had to family. There wasn't anything I wouldn't have done for you. you were my brother. I loved Dick but he was never you.”

Jason’s eyes flash, anger mixing with the guilt, there’s an almost pleading intensity to him now. “I wasn’t protecting you,” he murmurs, voice breaking, just a little. “I was protecting myself. Because every damn time I saw you, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I needed you. How much I wanted you in my life, and I was so fucking scared that if you stuck around, you’d see everything I was trying to hide. That you’d see how broken I really am. And you didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve to get caught up in my shit, in the mess I was making of myself.”

Your heart clenches at the rawness of his words, the vulnerability creeping in, uninvited and unwelcome. You want to scream at him, to tell him he’s a coward, to tell him how much it hurt, how much it still hurts. But instead, you feel a lump form in your throat, something tight, constricting. The years of silence between you, the hurt, the loneliness—it hits all at once.

“You were never a mess to me,” you say, quieter now, as if the weight of his confession is slowly wearing you down. “I knew you, Jason. I knew who you were before all this. The guy I could talk to about anything. The guy who knew me better than anyone. The one who made me feel like I actually belonged. ”

Jason’s eyes widen, his breath catching as if you’ve just hit him in the chest. “I thought about you every day, you know?” he says in a hoarse whisper, his voice trembling. “Every day. You think I didn’t miss you? I thought about those times, the way we used to be... how you would just be there. You and me against the world. I remember laughing with you. Just... sitting there, talking about stupid stuff, and it felt like we were the only two people who really got it. I missed that, more than anything.”

You feel a tightness in your chest at the words, something fragile breaking open. You remember. You remember the late nights, the quiet conversations that meant more than anything else in the world. He was everything to you, back then. But now... now everything is just fractured pieces, fragments that don’t fit together anymore.

“You left,” you whisper, voice shaking, barely audible. “You left me, Jason. You left me without a word, without a reason. And I don’t care how much you missed me. That doesn’t change what you did. How you let her in after years of ignoring me.”

Jason’s face twists in pain, the anger shifting into something else, something raw and regretful. “I thought you’d be better off without me,” he admits, his voice breaking, the quiet words ripping through the space between you. “I thought if I just stayed away, you wouldn’t have to deal with my shit. You wouldn’t have to deal with... me.” His fists unclench, and he runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it in frustration. “I didn’t think you’d need me anymore. I thought I was dragging you down. I was so damn scared of ruining everything we had. But instead, I ended up ruining everything. And I can’t fix that. I know that. I just... I just wanted you to know that I didn’t want to leave. I thought if I stayed, I’d hurt you even more. I thought... I thought it’d be easier to let you go than to keep pushing you away. I was wrong.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and painful, like a confession he’s carried for too long. You want to reach out, to say something—anything—but the words are stuck, lodged in your throat. The vulnerability between you is unbearable, but you can’t ignore the truth in his eyes. He’s not the same person who walked away all those years ago. And maybe, just maybe, he’s not the same person he was when he left. But you don’t know if that’s enough. You don’t know if you can trust him again.

"I wrote to you, you know? When i thought you were.... gone. I wrote to you almost every single day, I figured you'd like it, think it's something out of those books you used to read. It made me feel like you were still with me, like you were watching over me. When you, when you came back, I was convinced I wished you alive." You admitted your childish thoughts, voice breaking in between sobs.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” you say, your voice trembling with emotion. “I don’t know who you’ve become. I don’t know if you’re the person who cared about me, the one who sat with me and talked about everything or if you’re just some... some shadow of him. And I don’t know if I’ want to find out. Or if i'm ready to let go and forgive”

Jason stares at you, his face pale, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and frustration. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t deserve that,” he says quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “But I’m begging you. just let me try to make it right. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove that I’m not that guy anymore. I can’t erase what happened. I can't erease Tiffany. I can’t take back the years we lost. But I can try to be the person you used to know. The person you trusted. I can be your big brother again. I can still keep the nightmares away”

The silence between you stretches, each second heavier than the last. You’re caught in the middle—caught between the person you were, the person you are now, and the person he’s trying to be. But for the first time in a long time, Jason isn’t running. He’s not hiding from you. And as much as you want to shut him out, to protect yourself from more pain, something inside you is aching—aching for that connection you once had, aching for the possibility that it’s not too late to fix this.

What really broke you was seeing him cry. It was like you were a child again. It nearly broke your brain seeing Jason, your fearless big brother, your idol, cry.

“We can try” you whisper, your voice small, fragile, like it’s a decision that could break you. " it’s not gonna be easy, Jason. Things cant magically change no matter what we wish."

Jason nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his face stricken with the weight of everything he’s put you through. “I know,” he breathes, barely audible. “But I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Never again.”

After Jason left, you had to sit and process what happened. In truth, you didn't know if things could ever be the same between you and jason. So many years of neglect and anger couldn't disappear with just a conversation and apology. No, you would make him, them, know what it feels like to be begging for scraps. Maybe things wouldn't be the same with jason, maybe after time and effort, they could be better. You missed him. So much. It would be easier to forgive him than Bruce. Yeah, Bruce is your father but Jason was your hero.

When Bruce reaches your door, he hesitates for a moment. The heavy weight of guilt in his chest is hard to ignore, but there’s something more, something that unsettles him even more than the tension in the air: the fear that you’re slipping through his fingers. That what happened today might have cracked something too deep to repair.

He knocks once, then opens the door.

You’re sitting on your bed, your back to him, staring out the window as if you’re already a million miles away. It’s almost as if you’ve already shut everything out, ready to move on.

His voice comes quietly, strained. " we need to talk.”

You don’t respond, not right away. Bruce steps into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. The air feels heavy, like something’s already been decided, but he won’t let that deter him. He takes a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rising panic in his chest.

He’s careful, almost too careful, when he speaks again. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. But what happened today, what you did to Tim and Damian, it can’t go unanswered. It wasn’t just about the fight. You crossed a line, and I need to know that you’re aware of that.”

You turn slowly to face him, your eyes burning with frustration, and Bruce can see the rawness in them. The anger. The hurt. It cuts through him, deeper than any physical wound ever could.

“And what should I have done, Bruce? Sit there and take it? Let them walk all over me? Let ya'll act like nothing's wrong? Like you didn't ship me away because some bottle blonde bitch said to?” You scoff, the bitterness in your voice thick enough to choke on. “I’m sick of being treated like I don’t matter. Like I’m just an afterthought. You and your little Batfamily can keep pushing me to the side, but don’t expect me to sit quietly while you pretend I’m not even here. Not anymore. Never again”

Bruce’s face tightens with guilt, but he doesn’t back down. “That’s not what I want. I never wanted you to feel that way. I know I haven’t been there like I should have. I know we've all been horrible and cruel. But that’s no excuse for what you did.”

The words sting, but your anger doesn’t dissipate. If anything, it flares up again. You stand up abruptly, pacing, the frustration too much to keep inside. “Oh, I get it. You don’t want me to do anything that inconveniences you or your precious Batfamily. You want me to apologize for fighting back like I’m the one in the wrong here, right? You want me to crawl back to them, all nice and meek, because that’s what you think I should be. What I used to be. But I’m not that person anymore, Bruce. I’m not. And it’s about damn time you realize that. If anything, me and Damian aren't even close to even, he's hurt me before, threatened me before, that always went unanswered. Because fuck me right? Who cares about me? Tell Tim he's welcome to come get his lick back, I wasn't thinking when I hit him.”

Bruce flinches, his jaw tightening at your words. You’re right, he’s failed you. He’s allowed the distance between you two to grow, let it fester until you finally exploded. He’d told himself that you would always be there, that you were part of his family, but he’d taken that for granted.

You were right, Damian was never punished but Bruce would ensure that no one, not even Damian would ever get away with hurting you again.

But then, just when he thinks he has a handle on the situation, you drop the bombshell that completely shatters any control he had left.

You cross your arms over your chest and exhale, your voice soft but full of finality. “I’m leaving tomorrow. For the South of France. I’m staying with Ariel and her dad for the summer.”

The words land like a punch in the gut. Bruce freezes, his hand almost involuntarily reaching out toward you, though he stops himself just short. His breath catches in his throat.

“France?” His voice cracks for the first time since he entered the room. His mind races, how could you leave like this? How could you just walk away? You two were making progress, learning to understand each other. How was he supposed to fix this if you left? Was it that easy for you? Was it that easy for him to lose you? “You can’t.” He states, his tone final and unforgiving.

“I can. I already have everything packed, in fact, I literally didn't even unpack.” You shrug nonchalantly, trying to hide the ache in your chest behind a mask of indifference. “Ariel and I have been talking about this for months, it's our trip.”

Bruce takes a step toward you, voice low and edged with something darker, more possessive. “You’re not leaving. Not like this.”

You shake your head, the fire in your eyes fading just a little, replaced by something more resigned. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve barely noticed me, Bruce. You’ve been too busy with your missions, your family, your life, and I’ve been here, waiting. But not anymore. I’m not going to sit around and wait for you to remember I exist. I deserve more than that. That boarding school was the best thing that happened to me.”

Bruce can feel the weight of your words, the sting of rejection, and it makes something inside him snap. He knows he’s messed up. He knows he’s made mistakes. But the idea of you leaving—of you walking away, out of his reach—is something he won’t stand for. Not now. Not when he’s just starting to recognize how badly he’s failed you. Not when he can still feel the resentment rolling off you in waves.

“I can’t let you go,” Bruce says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His eyes lock with yours, the intensity between you two growing, thick with unspoken emotions. “Not like this. Not when I’m just starting to understand everything that’s been wrong. I’ve messed up, but don’t leave. I’ll fix this. I promise. I’ll fix it.”

You stare at him, unmoving, but the fire in your eyes softens just a little. There’s a flicker of doubt now, a tiny crack in the armor you’ve put up. But it’s not enough. Not yet. Not enough to change your mind.

“I don’t know, Bruce.” Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with hurt. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. You’re not the person you used to be. And neither am I. Maybe that’s just... something we both have to face.”

Bruce steps closer, close enough now that his presence seems to fill the room, heavy and suffocating in a way that only he can. His hand reaches out slowly, this time not hesitating, and he places it on your shoulder gently.

“I don’t want to lose you, not when I've just started to see you,” he says, his voice hoarse with a desperation he’s never let show before. “I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right. But I need you to stay. I need you here with me, please.”

The words hang in the air between you two, a fragile plea that feels both urgent and terrifying. The mighty Bruce Wayne, billionaire, playboy, the Batman, stood in front of you begging.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you stand there, staring at him as if you’re seeing him for the first time in a long while. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a flicker of hope in your eyes. But not enough.

"Compromise. I'll stay with Ariel for two and a half months and i'll come back here for two weeks before school." You say, eyes gleaming with the signature look all Waynes get when negotiating. Yes, you wanted to give him a small chance but there's no way you're backing out of this trip and leaving Ariel and her hot dad hanging. You weren't about to give up a summer of tanning, flirting, partying, and country hopping with your best friends for the chance that you might fix things with your father.

Bruce raised his brows, almost smiling. You were cute when you tried to be tough, but the deal is what made him falter. Two teenagers, two months unsupervised in a foreign country, who knows what could happen? Who knows what kind of influence this Ariel is? But what was really funny was that you talked like you were going back to New York for school! No, you were coming back to Gotham Prep and staying the manor, where you belonged. But Bruce wasn't cruel. He'd let you hope. "We can go as a family, a family vacation. I'll meet your friend and decide if she's trustworthy. I have a villa right in the-"

"No! Please no! I would rather die. This is a girls trip. As in only me and Ariel. We've been planning this forever. I won't cancel. Or bring my family, that's so lame. You never would've cared before." You say almost stomping your feet, playing the guilt card. You couldn't have your family there seeing what you get up to and who you get up to it with!

"One month and you take Dick with you." There was no way you were going alone. Bruce wouldn't cave, nor would he be guilt tripped.

The mighty Bruce Wayne got hustled by his 16 year old daughter. In the end he caved, you would stay with Ariel for two months and two weeks, not a day more nor a day less. You would apologize to Tim and leave tomorrow after a peaceful family breakfast. You would have your location on at all times. Yeah Bruce got played, but as he walked out your room and looked back to see you grinning from ear to ear and calling your friend, jumping up and down, he decided it was worth it to see you this happy.

He would let you have these two months, then you'd be back home where you belonged.

The morning felt too still. Too quiet. The clock ticked on in the background, but it didn’t seem to matter. Every movement felt exaggerated, every breath, every shift of your weight, every step as you made your way around the dining table. It was as if the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Something to shift.

As you went and sat down at the table, it was quiet once again and the air was even heavier than yesterday.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, his face unreadable as he sipped his coffee, eyes occasionally flicking toward you but never fully meeting yours. He was distant, but somehow… present in a way that felt more intrusive than comforting. He hadn’t been this present in years, actually never. Not to you.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t leave you as you walked, his eyes colder than you remembered yesterday. Your fingers tightened around the strap of your suitcase, the weight of his attention pulling at your chest.

Jason sat to his right, his hand resting on his mug with a white-knuckled grip, his expression hard and unreadable. Every so often, his eyes would slide over to you, watching your movements, the way you tucked things into your bag or adjusted the straps of your suitcase. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at you, like he was mentally memorizing every detail, every shift.

Bruce’s gaze was fixed on you as he slid the black card across the table, its dark, sleek surface catching the light just right.

“Take it,” he said quietly, his tone laced with authority. “Use it for whatever you need. You don’t have to go without. Don't forget, you're a part of this family, always have been. I want to make sure you have what you need.”

You almost recoiled at the gesture, the black card a symbol of everything that tied you to this mansion, to this family. It was a physical representation of his control, their attempts to make you feel like you were part of something. But it felt more like a chain. But it is unlimited money... You didn’t take your eyes off him as you slid it into your bag, the tension in the room making your throat dry.

Your outfit—intentionally revealing, a far cry from the usual soft layers you wore when you spent time with them—felt more out of place than ever. The shorts, lulu lemon in the shortest length, the cropped top—it had been a subtle rebellion. A way to assert yourself, to feel free. But now, as their eyes flicked over you, you felt too exposed. Too seen.

Jason’s eyes lingered on your exposed skin, his expression unreadable, but his lips were pressed together in a thin line. There was an edge to his stare, like he didn’t like what he saw, but he didn’t speak. Not directly. His fists were still clenched at his sides, his jaw taut.

Damian’s eyes flicked over you as well, but his anger seemed to burn hotter, sharper. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear. But it wasn’t meant for you—it was meant for himself, for the way he couldn’t control you. For the fact that you’d gotten away. For now.

And then, there was Bruce. His gaze never wavered, never softened, just cold and steady. He said nothing more about the card, but his eyes held something that felt too heavy to bear. Possession. It hung between them like an unspoken truth. And the way his eyes moved over you—lingering just a little too long on the exposed parts of her skin—made your skin crawl.

Jason’s voice broke through the silence next, but it was low, playful, but edged with something else. Something that made her skin crawl.

“No boys,” he said, his tone playful, even as his gaze flicked to the door. “I don’t care who you’re staying with, but no boys. Got it?”

The playful tone didn’t match the intensity in his gaze, though. She raised an eyebrow, clearly trying to play it off.

“I’m sorry, what?” you replied, letting a smirk cross your face, trying to make it clear that this was just Jason being Jason. They were back to normal.

“No boys,” he repeated, the humor slipping from his voice now, replaced with something colder. “I’m serious. No fucking around while i'm not there. No fucking around in general, figuratively and literally.”

Your heart skipped. You glanced at Bruce, expecting him to give a soft chuckle or a reassuring nod to say it was just Jason being… well, Jason. But Bruce didn’t flinch. His gaze remained locked on you, unwavering. His expression was cold, his lips pressed into a firm line. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even looking amused.

“Jason’s right,” he said, his words steady and resolute. “No boys. Not while you’re here. Not while you’re under this roof.”

You almost scoffed, good thing you weren't gonna be under this roof for long.

You blinked, the sharpness of his words catching you off guard. He wasn’t joking. His posture was rigid, his eyes locked onto yours in a way that almost felt like a command.

Jason didn’t speak again, but the message had been clear.

No boys.

You nodded stiffly, the weight of his demand sitting in the pit of your stomach.

Duke, who had been mostly quiet up until now, was the next to speak, but his voice was softer, more thoughtful, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation.

“You don’t have to go. You know that, right?” he said, his voice tentative, though there was an undercurrent of something else—something protective. "We could all go together. It’s better that way."

But his offer hung in the air like a dream you couldn’t quite reach. You could see it in his eyes—a hint of something, perhaps concern, perhaps something more. It wasn’t quite the same as Bruce’s cold stare or Jason’s intense grip on control. But there was an edge to it.

Cass, perched at the far end of the table, seemed as unreadable as ever. But there was something in her posture today—an intensity, like she was bracing herself, like something was about to happen, even if she couldn’t quite put it into words. She didn’t speak, but her gaze tracked every movement, every gesture, as if she were memorizing it.

Tim, seated next to Cass, had barely said anything all morning. His eyes flickered to you now and then, but it was more of a quiet observation, something far too careful and deliberate. He was almost… detached. But there was a coldness in the way he looked at you, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was waiting.

Barbara was the exception—her smile was too wide, her eyes too bright, like she was trying to convince herself of something she wasn’t sure about. She kept trying to fill the silence with light conversation, but it always felt forced. And when her gaze landed on you, it lingered a little too long.

Steph, across from her, was the only one trying to keep things light. But the way she kept glancing at the door, at the phone on the table, at her own reflection in the polished surface—it was obvious she was uncomfortable. She was nervous. Especially after yesterday. And it was more than just the impending trip.

The room was alive with their watchfulness. It wasn’t just their presence—it was the way they didn’t speak directly to you, but everything they did seemed to be a reminder that they were there, that they could be there.

Damian scoffed from the end of the table and opened his mouth but closed it as Bruce looked at him sternly. He just rolled his eyes and went back to glaring at the wall, muttering things under his breath and gripping the table tightly.

He had been unusually quiet up until now and scoffed from his spot at the table, his eyes narrowed as he shot you a glare so venomous it was almost rivaled your actual venom.

“You think you can just leave, after everything?” Damian hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. His fists clenched under the table. “You think a simple apology makes everything okay? You punched me and left. You don’t just get to walk away from that.”

His anger seemed to grow with each word, but there was something beneath it, something that felt darker than simple sibling rivalry. As if the violation of his personal space and authority left him feeling more than just hurt, but threatened.

You knew that hitting him, striking him with all the force you could muster—had been the culmination of everything you couldn’t say, couldn’t express after all these years. But now, facing him again, you felt the weight of his anger. His rage wasn’t just directed at the punch. It was everything: the way you were walking out. The way you were leaving.

“Alright, listen up,” Dick said, his grin playful, cutting through the tension though his voice carried that same underlying weight. “Rules. You're not running off on some crazy solo adventure without us knowing every detail. I’m serious, okay?” His smile remained, but it was a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not a little kid anymore, but that doesn’t mean you get to act like an adult. I’m gonna need you to check in—like, every single day. Got it?”

The way he said it, like it was a joke, yet his tone was so firm that it left no room for argument. And then, with a playful but almost possessive look, he added, “No crazy parties, no boys, no drinking, and if you get yourself into trouble, don't come running back here. Just kidding! If you need anything, call me.”

His words had a strange effect, both reassuring and infuriating at the same time. You didn’t need him or anyone else telling you what you could or couldn’t do, you didn't need him acting like cared. Like he was suddenly your big brother after years of ignoring you and brushing you off.

Dick was still watching you, like he was hoping you’d cave to whatever soft version of control he was offering. “Alright, just... make sure you come back. I know we don’t say it much, but we care about you, okay? I can't change the past but I do regret it and I do love you. Don’t forget that.”

And there it was—his mask slipping for just a second. His voice softened, but there was something underneath it. Possessiveness, cloaked in affection. It was hard to ignore, the way his eyes followed your movements just a little too closely, the way his words lingered like an unspoken demand.

You didn’t respond immediately, your mind swirling with everything you wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, you let the silence hang in the air, a heavy, thick thing. There was something off about the manor now. Something that hadn’t been there before. The way they all watched you, their glances lingering a little too long, the small, subtle ways they tried to control your every movement—it was suffocating, and yet... it was addicting.

It felt nice being cared about, knowing you had control over their feelings now.

Your mind wandered, thinking of the freedom waiting for you in France. The sun, the beaches, the boys, the carefree nights with Ariel and your other friends—the perfect escape from all this suffocating attention. They don’t get it.

And then you realized—it wasn't just you going on vacation. Something would change when you came back.

When the time came, you’d have to navigate this new, tense version of your family. A family who acted like they cared.

The game had shifted, and now you were part of a strange, unspoken power struggle—your power over them was now as much as theirs over you used to be.

As you were leaving to the airport, your family bid you goodbye. None of them were driving you, they all had busy days today. Jason wrapped you in a short, tight hug, telling you to text him when the plane took off and landed and telling you to be careful, his eyes hard and filled with warning.

Something is his tone set you off, you pulled away before you realized it and got in the car, ignoring Bruce and Dick's awkward attempts to hug you and not even glancing at everyone else.

As you pulled away from the manor and watched their figures in the distance, dread pooled in your stomach. You didn't know why but you were already dreading coming back.

OK YA'LL SORRY ITS LATE. Idk why is struggled writing this chapter so much! lmk what yall think of it and why the reader thinks things are off.

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@angelunatic @littledollete @cutelittlesugarfairy @darbystrange @sxftiebee @zealous0mouse @trashlanternfish360 @galaxygirlsblog @euphoria-looney @1simpchunkygirl @a-lurking-fae @analuixxy @naturallyspontaneous @horror-lover-69 @pastel-mouse @ladyrosemone @frankie-moon3 @catley1011 @justannie18 @yandereaficionado @ithoughtthinks @asdfghjklgayblog @shadowyknightbeargoth @peche4et3chocolat @boredselkie @rogueofbullshit @iamabeaner @rosesunderthegarden

[maskedbyghost]

Please do like more bestie simon stuff, where’d he’d do anything and everything for you so discreetly that you don’t even notice, then just casually admits he’s in love like he just told you he got some tea for base. Just like the ”bestie” fix you wrote😋😋

I believe it started with the gloves.

You forget them after training one morning, and it's nothing new; you always forget something, but they’re in your locker before your next session, clean, dry, and folded.

Then it’s the hoodie you left on the range. It shows up two days later, and it's already washed. The same goes for the spare charger you lost, the one that just magically ends up on your bunk with no note. You figure someone’s being nice, but no one says anything. No one takes credit.

Then it’s your boots. You mention that they’re starting to rub, and a week later, they suddenly have your exact size in the model you actually like, even though they’ve been out for months.

It keeps going with little things.

Your favorite protein bars are back in stock. A cracked mug you loved was replaced without a word. Your reports? Suddenly flawless. No red marks, no nitpicks, nothing.

“Do you think I’m, like, haunted?” you ask Soap one night while stretching.

“Haunted,” he repeats. “By what, a ghost?”

“I’m serious. My locker jammed last week—I couldn’t even get it open—and then the next morning it’s fine. Like, not just fixed. Like it was never broken. And my nameplate was polished.”

Soap raises his brows. “You think a ghost did that?”

“I don’t know! I just know I didn’t fix it.”

He snorts. “Oh. That’s not a ghost.”

“…What is it then?”

“Mate. That’s Ghost.”

You stare. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head. “Saw him after you stormed out of the locker room, all pissed off. Waited till no one was around, pulled out a screwdriver like it was nothing. Fixed the hinge and wiped it down like a bloody maintenance guy.”

You go quiet.

—

You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.

Simon walks behind you when you’re both in crowds. Waits outside rooms without saying why. Walks with you after meals like it’s a coincidence, even though you know your schedules don’t line up.

He lifts the heavy stuff without being asked. And it’s never a big thing. He does it all like it’s just something that happens.

You try to call him out once.

“You’re like my silent guardian angel or something,” you tease, flopping onto the rec room couch next to him. “All these little favors and no credit?”

Simon doesn’t even look up from the file he’s skimming.

Later that night, you find him up on the roof like always, sitting in his usual spot with two mugs of tea. He passes one to you without a word.

You sit next to him. He waits.

You lean back against the concrete, glancing at him. “So. You’re not denying the angel thing?”

He takes a slow sip and shrugs.

“‘m not your angel.” He pauses before he shrugs again. “Just in love with you, is all.”

You blink. “Come again?”

He completely ignores us as he raises his mug. “Also got your favorite blend. The mess hall ran out, so I got it off Price’s stash.”

“No, no, back up.” You shift to face him fully. “Did you just say you’re in love with me just like that?”

He shrugs. “Thought you knew.”

“How would I know?!”

He looks at you, totally deadpan. “Who else am I doin’ paperwork for?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Simon!”

He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m in shock.”

Another sip. “Same thing, really.”

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He finally turns toward you, shoulder nudging yours. “So, what now?”

You pretend to think as you sip your tea. “Well. I guess I kiss you. And then maybe I let you keep doing my reports.”

Simon huffs. “So I do get something out of it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah. All my love and a mountain of paperwork waiting.”

He bumps your shoulder again. “Worth it.”

-------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog

[redflagshipwriter]

Chef Beef part 1 of 2

inspired by this post.

Part 2

Jason squinted at his laptop screen. It turned into a confused scowl. “What,” he said, “the hell are they saying?”

Perturbed, he slammed the thing shut. Whatever! He didn’t need validation from viewers. He turned to finish cleaning up his kitchen. He had scrubbed everything down on camera, but the dishes still needed to be put away and he had to shut his kitchen for the night.

His nighttime phone pinged. It wasn’t the Bat business one, at least. He hesitated. 

Fuck. It probably wasn’t important. But what if it was, though?

Jason heaved a massive, dramatic sigh. He put the mixing bowl back and then dug the phone out to check. It was just the stupid intergenerational Titans group chat. The first message flicked away before he could read it, replaced by a series of fire emojis and a…drooling face? Yuck. Superboy was a lot. 

Jason screwed his face up in disgust and dismissed the notification without reading. Tim’s grungy little friends continued to be off-putting gremlins.

Kori chimed in with a series of hearts and flexing arm emojis. 

Yeah, okay, the topic definitely wasn’t important. Goddamn social media. He just didn’t get it.

He didn’t check the video comments again until the next day, curled up in an armchair stolen from Wayne Manor. It was vigilante morning, also known as noon. He tucked his feet into the seam where the cushion met the back of the chair and took a long sip of steaming tea. Thus fortified, he typed in his password and loaded up the video he had done yesterday.

“...Huh.” He opened up his phone to do a quick search on what it meant to go live. Jason ran a hand through his hair and thought it over.

The top comments were begging him to livestream, not post after he was done. That seemed… Well, it seemed social. He pursed his lips and stalled for thinking time with more tea. Part of the reason he was doing this was to motivate himself to cook more, but putting it online, he had to admit, could only stem from a desire for some sort of attention and connection.

Ew. Jason put that bit of self reflection somewhere far away where it couldn’t hurt him, and started thinking about how to change his setup. 

“One week,” he told himself. “I’ll do that for a week and see how I feel about it.” 

Monday

12:07PM

Jason set up a laptop on the counter so he could see any comments while he streamed. 

“Not that I’ll get comments.” He wasn’t doing anything that special. Embarrassed even alone, Jason got busy setting up. Ingredients in place and oven preheated, he started the livestream. 

He waited. 

Then he felt stupid. Probably no one was going to come. So he pulled over his cutting board and held up his first ingredient. “I,” he said to no one, “am going to make the best quiche you sorry motherfuckers have ever seen.” He pointedly twirled the cutting board and glanced back at the screen just in time to see notifications that people were joining. 

“I’m making a quiche now,” Jason reiterated. “Best goddamn thing you’ll see all day, so make a note.” 

He blinked. “Can I crush the onion in my hand?” He repeated, brow furrowing at the screen. “It would be unusable, Caitlin15.” He hefted the onion. “This beautiful motherfucker needs to be diced into perfect pieces.” 

Perplexingly, that didn’t stop it. More viewers chimed in. “Uhh,” Jason said. Was this some kind of streaming social norm? “…I only have one onion. I can crush this instead?” He reached over and pulled out a carrot from the basket on the far end of the counter. 

The screen erupted in all caps. He squinted. Did it have meaning? It looked like gibberish.

“Seems like a yes.” Well. Whatever. Jason crushed the carrot to a mush in his hand, catching the end that fell. He let the mush fall into the bowl he had meant for the onion. Thoughtlessly, he snapped off a bit of the carrot with his teeth and braced a forearm on the counter in front of the camera. “You gonna behave now?” He asked the stream, making sure to level an unimpressed expression to his viewers. “Sit the fuck down and listen.”

The screen erupted with ear emojis and weird dramatic shit like, “I am seated, King. 👑” Someone purchased a … sticker? What the hell? What was the point of that?

…Alright. He picked up the carrot mash bowl and considered it. “Might be making a carrot cake or bread later,” he said. “I can’t stand waste.” He shifted it out of the way and stretched up to get a new bowl from the storage up high. When he looked back down he saw there was a flurry of “six pack alert” messages and more notifications of people buying ‘stickers.’

He wheeled around to see what they must have– behind him was a collection of bottles. They were not alcohol.

“I don’t drink!” Jason snarled. “My body is a goddamn temple. No fuckin beer here.” He leveled a finger at the screen. 

That first stream went alright. He got a lot of subscriptions off of it, which probably at least meant that some people liked it. Jason closed his laptop with the vague impression that things were going to be alright. 

He was washing up when someone knocked on the door. Jason shook his hands twice to flick off water and then dried them with the hand towel. He threw it over his shoulder on the way to open the door. “Dick.” He opened the door, one eyebrow raised. “Everything alright?”

Dick pushed his way in, wearing his beat cop uniform. He had his pretty boy smile on, but Jason saw right through that. That fucker wanted money. “Hey, Jay!” He sniffed his way to the kitchen. “I, uh, heard you have a cooking thing going on, how’s that going?” 

Hm. Alright, maybe he wanted free food, the goddamn hyena.

“How do you know this shit?” He wondered fondly. “Creep.” 

Dick grimaced and put a hand to his head. “Roy showed me.” Dick sounded like he was in pain. Fair enough. That was a reasonable reaction to Roy Harper.

Jason closed the door and watched his sort-of-brother scavenge around the apartment. “Want some quiche?” He cast his thoughts back. “Oh, I have carrot bread.”

Dick gave him a slightly harried smile. “Oh, I heard about that. Crushing the carrot made an impression.” 

Jason blinked.

They looked at each other. 

“Are you watching my streams?” Jason asked slowly. “Hey, I’ve been getting a lot of slang in the comments I don’t know.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled to the list he had compiled. “People keep commenting ATE, in all caps. But I’m not eating.”

Dick stared off into the air mournfully. “It… It means you’re doing a great job. It’s not about food.”

Jason nodded. “Noted,” he murmured to himself. “Uh, raw?” He tried to make eye contact. “People send me that, also in all caps. But obviously I am cooking my goddamn food, that is the whole premise.”

Dick screwed up his face in pain and stuffed half a roll into his mouth to avoid answering. “Buddy,” he said through a mouthful of food, “I don’t want to tell you the details. But your watchers think you’re hot. That’s the gist of it.”

Jason stared at him. “...They think I’m hot,” he echoed slowly. “I am hanging out in my pajamas and cooking. I am being sloppy and rude. I call them names,” he pointed out.

Dick’s face twitched. “Yeah, some of them are into that. But also your whole…” He gestured vaguely up and down Jason’s body. “The t-shirt and sweats work for you.” He looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. “I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re comfortable and safe. Having fans is kinda a lot sometimes.”

Jason snorted. “It’s not like I’m modeling like you or Kori did,” he pointed out. 

“It’s not that dissimilar.” Dick rolled his neck. “Lemme see your account?”

Jason hesitated. “Why?”

“I bet you’ve gotten sponsor messages.” 

He snorted. “Yeah right.” He handed the phone over and watched over Dick’s shoulder. “…Didn’t know there were messages on this app.” His eyebrows crawled upward. “These people want to give me money?” 

“You need a manager,” Dick said promptly. “And a moderator to crack down on the horny comments.”

Jason physically recoiled. 

“That’s what I thought,” Dick said wryly. “I can get you a mod for free. I’ll manage your account for a modest 50% of your profit.” 

“Bullshit,” said Jason, despite thinking he’d make no money. “That can’t be the going rate for a manager. Fuck you. I’m going to ask Kory what she pays her manager.” He snatched back his phone and DMd her his question. “And why would anyone mod for free?” 

“A loser would do it,” said Dick. “And I know just the motivated loser. Anyway, how would you feel about doing a separate livestream where you eat?” He stuffed quiche in his mouth and talked around it. “Lonely people like that, they pretend they’re having a meal together. It’s a public service, Jaybird.” 

“Who on this goddamn earth would want to pretend they were eating with me?” Jason wondered. 

Dick eyed him. “Who indeed.” He sniffed. “I’ll do it for 30%, if you are gonna be so cold about it. I’m not in it for the money, I’m your brother,” he wheedled. 

“Your shitty cop job doesn’t pay for your lunches,” Jason said flatly. “Go get money from Bruce.” 

“Never.” Dick shoved the last of the quiche in his mouth so violently he actually choked. “Gotta go. I have your passwords now, I’ll set up sponsorships and pay out your stickers.” 

“Pay out what?” Jason asked, bemused. 

“My break is 30 minutes,” Dick hollered over his shoulder. “Gotta get back to 3rd in the next 4 seconds.”

“…You are a mess.” Jason watched Dick whirlwind out of his apartment less than five minutes after entering to steal his food and money he didn’t even know he had. “You’re gonna be at least ten minutes late.” 

“It’s fine, I’m ungovernable.” His footsteps thumped rapidly down the apartment stairs. A car tire screeched outside. A police siren started up and rapidly faded. 

Jason sighed. “Dinner with lonely people, huh?” He eyed his apartment. “I guess I could set up the table there…”

Tuesday 

12:51PM

“Good morning,” Jason greeted the camera. “Yeah,  yeah, it’s one pm. I just got up, so sue me.” He took a pointed sip of his morning drink. It was coffee this time. “I,” he said pointedly, “had a long night. And I need some comfort. So we are starting the day with cinnamon rolls.” He gestured to his oven. “I already have the first batch cooked and cooled, so you can see me ice it and eat.” He rolled his shoulders. “First, this bowl is going to be for my wet ingredients-” He blinked. “I don’t need a new bowl. I- why do you hate this bowl?” He tilted it, perplexed. “Do you all— okay, look, I’ll show you all my bowls and you will acknowledge the superiority of this particular bowl for this task.” Shaking his head, he extended up as far as he could reach to get the rest of the bowls down.

“...I still do not drink,” Jason scowled. He felt confused and vaguely uncomfortable. “Stop saying that, I don’t like it.” 

The chat listened, so whatever. He whipped up this batch of cinnamon rolls, set it to proof, and then got out his finished rolls to show the screen. “We need to make the frosting for these, but I am excited.” He let his voice rasp. “It’s gonna be way more than I can eat, but…” He shrugged. “Hey, meat? Why are you sending meat emojis– I can do you a good meaty dish tomorrow. Roast?” He brainstormed. “Steak, maybe, oh hell yeah, HawaiiHunk,  I could use some meat in me too,” he agreed. “Tomorrow, yup, you and me.” 

He cleared his throat and set out his supplies. “But first, let’s get that frosting.”

20 minutes later, once he had licked the frosting off his spoon, Jason showed a single perfect roll to the camera. “I’m going to sign off and have my breakfast now,” he said. Someone called GOATman said, “good job, it looks delicious.” He flashed them a smile.

“And then I guess I gotta find someone to shovel off my spare rolls to. Wish me luck.” He turned the stream off without checking what they were actually saying.

Wednesday

5:00 am

“Jason.” 

He stifled a shriek. “You’re an asshole.” Jason swore. He threw the shower curtain aside violently to glare at Tim. “I’m getting ready for bed, you little shit. You still follow my patrols?”

Tim stared at him with big, resentful eyes. There were bruises under both of them. “I heard you made cinnamon rolls. Heard a lot about that. Something about a carrot, too.”

“...Yeah.” Jason frowned at him. What a weird thing to say. “Did you get a concussion?”

“Put your clothes on,” Tim groused. He pushed himself off the counter and sauntered out of the room, as if he wasn’t the weirdo who had snuck into Jason’s home after patrol, followed him into the bathroom, and waited there.

Jason pulled on a t-shirt and shorts and made his way out to see Tim’s baleful stare. “What,” he said gently, “the fuck?” He made a shoo gesture. “I didn’t say I was open to strays.”

“Should I tell Kon that he isn’t getting any of your cinnamon rolls or quiche?” Tim said waspishly.

Jason reeled a bit. Kon? Leather jacket Superboy? The hell did he have to do with anything?

There was a more salient point to address.

‘Why does he know what I’ve been cooking?’

Jason pointed at him. “You’re creeping on me again. Do you have an alert set for anytime I send a text?” He sneered. “And yeah, I am not cooking for you or your friends. Besides, the quiche is gone.”

Tim let out a violent huff. “I wish I heard less about you.” He waved a hand. “But, yeah, Kon can give up any hope?”

“What,” said Jason, “the Hell are you talking about?” He frowned. “Hope for what? Does he wanna learn to cook or something?” 

He momentarily considered that. Kon was a C list celebrity. That was exactly the type of guy you might invite as a guest to your livestream.

Tim eyed him. Jason stared back. “Nothing.” Tim rolled his eyes. “To be very clear, you would never for a moment consider Kon as-”

“I never think about the guy,” Jason cut him off. “He’s a nice guy, does good work. But you’re being so fuckin weird. Take the plate of cinnamon rolls over there and get the fuck out of my house.”

Once Tim had been shoved out the door, Jason went to bed. He woke up again at 1 in the afternoon and started to set up for his next live stream.

That was a lie.

He intended to wake up at 1. Instead, he sat up from a dead sleep at 10:32 am when Dick banged on his door, dragging along his dumb cop partner and an armful of shitty coffees.

“I hate you,” Jason croaked. He wiped the protein from his eyes and snatched a drink.

“Everyone does,” commented the other cop.

Dick snorted a laugh, but both of them looked at her. “Why are you here, pig?” Jason asked pointedly.

She sniffled. “Oink, oink,” she said pointedly, and stole a cinnamon roll off the counter. “Because prettyboy is taking a break from ending the corruption of the Bludhaven cops in order to benefit from the corruption of the Bludhaven cops by selling access to his shitty little brother online.” She peeled the cinnamon roll open.

Dick pointed at her. “Amy, you said you’d be nice to me.”

She took a very large bite of her cinnamon roll and flipped him off with a smile.

“...Fair enough,” Jason said, and turned his tired glare at his shitty elder brother. “Why are you even up this early, I swear you were up as late as I was.” 

Dick hefted his ass onto Jason’s clean countertop and ignored the strangled sound he made. “I have an intricate system of micro naps at traffic stops and unimportant meetings. I can get by on as little as two hours of sleep at night.”

“What happens if you miss one?” Jason asked, darkly curious.

“His whole life falls apart,” Amy said, talking with cinnamon roll in her mouth still. Jason gave her a disgusted look. 

Dick waved that off. “Anyway, did you see that Kory messaged you? She wants to do a collab.” His brilliant smile faltered for a millisecond. “That would get views.” He smiled winsomely.

“...This hurts you,” Jason observed, reluctantly fascinated. “Why are you doing this? You don’t want me to hang out with your ex-fiance.” He cocked his head to the side. “Have you considered telling her that you want her back?”

“I never look back,” Dick lied breezily. “How about Raven? She’s open to a cooking video. Or.” He looked pained. “Kon. He has been messaging. A lot. He’s watching your streams.” 

“...This does seem more Kon’s speed,” said Jason, thinking of all the times he had seen that motherfucker scarf down chilidogs or nachos on camera. “Kind of below Kory, honestly. Raven?” His voice tilted upward in disbelief. “She’s your friend, not mine. Why don’t you do some kind of stream with your friends?” Jason shrugged. “If you like it, I mean.”

“I’m done modeling,” Dick said. “The body shaming really got to me.” He ran a hand up his perfect body and gave a little shrug. 

“That also why you’re done with a career as a world-class athlete?” Amy asked wryly. “Your career trajectory is the garbage can. I know why I’m giving parking tickets for 12 dollars an hour, but it’s just insulting that you’re here. Take your shitty Dad’s money.”

“Never,” Dick vowed. “So, collab with Raven? Great! She’ll be here tomorrow at noon.”

“I will kill you!” Jason shouted, but it was no use. The fucker was already halfway out the door.

Amy toasted him with the remainder of the cinnamon roll. “I’ve been making him buy us all donuts with what he’s making from your streams,” she told him.

Jason thought that over. “I guess you’re alright for a pig.”

She saluted him on her way out.

He managed to get a little more sleep before his stream. “I might have a guest tomorrow,” he told his viewers idly as he set up. “Feel free to guess who. My shitty manager is setting it up.”

Some of the world’s worst guesses rolled down the screen– Amanda Waller, President Luthor, Nightwing. 

Jason accidentally laughed. “No, uh, none of them.” He snickered. “Think younger.” He blinked. “No, probably not you, HawaiiHunk, you goddamn flirt,” Jason shook his head. “You better watch your ass, I think I have a mod today.”

Someone sent the salute emoji. “That you?” Jason squinted. “GOATman– greatest of all time man?” He snickered. “Everyone is on notice.”

The guy was vicious. The first time HawaiiHunk commented “ur sooo sexi babe,” he got a warning. 

A while later the mod said, “This is your final warning.” Jason looked up to see what the poor thirsty idiot had said. He snorted involuntarily when he saw that HawaiiHunk apparently wanted to be the dough. He wanted to see where this was going. 

“Ignore himmmmm,” said Sparklefairy. She somehow sent an explosion of glitter over his stream. Dollar emojis scattered. 

Jason raised an eyebrow and put some muscle into the bread he was kneading. 

‘Are some of them trying to buy my attention?’ he wondered, bemused. ‘Should I tell them I’m an independently wealthy criminal? I feel like I’m tricking them.’

HawaiiHunk typed up, “I’m so wet.” 

Jason stuck his tongue out and then shuddered dramatically. “That’s not my business, I don’t need to know that.” 

“That’s it,” said GOATman, a fantastic mod. “Blocked.” The official notification appeared a moment later.

“Goodbye, HawaiiHunk.” Jason saluted with a laugh. “And let that be a warning to the rest of you.”

GOATman sent the salute emoji and was immediately copied by others in a flood. Jason had to laugh.

That night, before patrol, Jason sat with a frown, scrolling through his comment section. He barely noticed when Spoiler sat her ass down beside him and started doing her inventory check. He did notice when she leaned into his space to see what he was looking at. 

“Dude, what the hell?”

Jason shrugged. “I don’t know. Look at this weird shit people are saying.” He tilted his phone screen. “Raw,” he repeated, disbelievingly. “Raw. My meat is not raw.” 

Stephanie choked on air.  

“I cook all my meat– I cooked it to 65C.” Jason gestured pointedly. 

“What, uh… Are you streaming?” Stephanie looked at him with wild eyes. “So, uh, these are fans?”

He looked at her. “Does it mean something?”

“...Yeah,” she said, after a suspiciously long pause. “It’s slang. They like you.”

“So it’s not about my meat?” Jason clarified.

“It is kind of about your meat.” Stephanie swallowed, hard. “I, uh– I think that we should… We should go. On patrol.” She pushed herself off the ledge and did a flip. “Time to hit the streets.” She flashed him a pretty, toothy smile, and then was gone.

Jason was not an idiot. Stephanie was avoiding telling him something embarrassing. 

Whatever. There was something off about it. He had caught that on his own, even if he didn’t know what. Maybe they were mocking him. The concept sent a sick feeling through his gut. But– she wasn’t a liar. It was overall positive, whatever it was. 

“It’s gonna be some pop culture shit I missed.” He grimaced. He wasn’t that old, but he felt old as balls sometimes. “I don’t need to be cool.” 

That affirmation hanging in the air, he blew out his bangs and then scraped them back so they wouldn’t plaster to his forehead with sweat when he went on patrol. He zipped his jacket closed and swung a leg over his motorcycle. Time to go.

[thestarsaboveme]

Reader thinks the Lads men are cheating with MC

masterlist

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: angst with comfort, reader and lads men having a misunderstanding because reader is overthinking that they’re cheating on her with the mc since they always spend time with the mc and spending less time with the reader.

xavier ver. | rafayel ver. | zayne ver. | caleb ver.

sylus x reader | angst/comfort

You were used to Sylus being quiet.

Not cold. Just…quiet.

So when his messages started getting shorter, when his gaze didn't linger as long on yours, when his kissed turned into brushes of habit more than affection, you didn't notice right away.

Until it started to hurt.

-

You saw them again.

Sylus and MC in the lab.

Her laughter reached you before their voices did. Sylus stood beside her, arms crossed, watching her monitor as she demonstrated something. He wasn't smiling. But he also wasn't pulling away like he did with most people. He was listening. Engaged.

You waited for him to notice you.

He didn't.

After ten minutes of watching from the hallway, you left.

-

Are you free tonight?

You messaged him later.

We haven't spent time together in a while.

He didn't reply for two hours.

Can't. Late testing with MC. Tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow. It was always tomorrow.

-

You told yourself you were being irrational. That he'd always been closer to MC, given their compatibility, their shared background, their synced missions. This his loyalty ran deeper than words, and if he was cheating, you'd know, right?

But your gut twisted every time you saw them together. Every time he mentioned her like she was another heartbeat.

And tonight, as you sat alone in your room again, you couldn't hold it in anymore.

You called him.

He answered on the second ring, voice calm. ''Hey. Everything okay?''

''No,'' you said, and your voice cracked more than you meant it to. ''Can you come over?''

A pause. ''Now?''

''I need to talk to you, Sylus. Please.''

A longer pause. Then: ''I'm on my way.''

-

When he arrived twenty minutes later, he looked tired. Dark circles under his eyes. His hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it too many times. He took one look at your expression and stepped in without a word.

You stood by the couch, arms folded across your chest.

He said nothing at first, just watched you. Waiting. Patient.

That made it harder.

''Are you cheating on me with MC?''

The words came out like broken glass.

Sylus blinked. No dramatic reaction. No flinch. Just stilness.

Then a slow, quiet, ''No.''

You let out a shaky breath. ''Then why does it feel like you're never here anymore? Why does it feel like you replaced me with her?''

Still calm, he asked, ''Is that what you think I've done?''

''I don't know what to think, Sylus!'' you snapped, voice rising. ''You've been with her constantly. You talk about her like she's in your head all the time.'' You make time for her, not me. And I sit here, waiting like I'm some background character you forgot about.''

He stepped forward slowly. ''You're not.''

''Then explain it to me,'' you whispered. ''Because I'm tired of guessing where I stand with you.''

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Quietly, heavily.

''There's nothing going on between me and MC,'' he said. ''But I haven't made that clear. That's on me.''

You swallowed hard. ''Then why have you been so distant?''

He hesitated, then moved to sit on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. Not his usual posture. He looked vulnerable. Smaller, somehow.

''I've been working with MC on some dangerous tech,'' he said slowly. ''There were…anomalies in her readings. We thought they were unstable. I needed to make sure she was okay.''

You frowned. ''So you were protecting her?''

''I was doing my job. I was trying to prevent another incident. Something like what happened to me.'' He looked up then, eyes locking onto yours. ''And I didn't want you anywhere near it.''

You hesitated. ''Why not tell me that?''

He looked away again. ''Because if you knew, you'd want to help. You'd want to be involved. And I couldn't handle the thought of something happening to you.''

Silence fell between you.

You sat beside him on the couch, not touching.

''You think keeping me in the dark is protecting me?''

''I thought I could carry it all without hurting you,'' he said. ''But I was wrong.''

You exhaled. ''You made me feel like you were slipping away. Like I was being replaced by someone who understands you better.''

His jaw tightened. ''No one understands me like you do.''

You met his eyes again. ''Then why couldn't you just say that?''

He stared at you for a long time.

And finally, he said, ''Because you're the only person who makes me feel like I'm still human. Like I'm more than what I was built to do. And that scares me more than anything.''

Your heart clenched.

''Sylus…''

''I'm not used to needing someone,'' he admitted. ''But I need you. And I didn't know how to say that without feeling like I was putting you in danger.''

''You're not,'' you whispered. ''You're just hurting both of us instead.''

He nodded, slowly. ''I know. I'm sorry.''

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his hand. He didn't move away.

''I don't want to be protected from your truth, Sylus,'' you said. '' I want to stand beside you, not behind you.''

he finally turned his hand over, letting your fingers intertwine.

''I can try,'' he said softly. ''If you'll let me fix this.''

You leaned into his shoulder, the silence between you no longer cold. But healing.

''I want to,'' you said. ''But next time…talk to me.''

''I will,'' he promised.

And somehow, in that quiet, broken space between heartache and hope, you began to believe him.

[cheftsunoda]

heal your heart—cl16

part four (a hefty amount of words)

smau + real life

carlos sainz x !sister singer reader

charles leclerc x sainz reader

catalina sainz has it all— she is a successful grammy award winning artist, her brother is a well known formula 1 driver, she has an amazing family and wonderful friends. she was also blessed with a fiance and a beautiful baby boy.. she had everything.. until she didn't. her fiance disappears and takes her son with him. catalina watches as her world crumbles...who will be there to help pick up the pieces?

fc : kali uchis

⚠️ATTENTION : TRIGGER WARNING! mentions of abuse, kidnapping, depression. ⚠️

part one here

part two here

part three here

-

f1gossipgirls

834,741 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz had her custody hearing today and gave a raw and emotional testimony opening about years of mental, verbal and physical abuse by the hands of her fiance. Catalina was awarded full custody with absolutely no visitation rights for the father. Charles Leclerc - her suspected partner- and Carlos Sainz were by her side the entire hearing. Along with Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly, George Russell, Lewis Hamilton and more. Baby Mateo will return to the paddock soon!

-

username00 : i am SOBBING. she did it. she FOUGHT and she WON. queen mother catalina sainz we salute you

username10 : the fact that she stood in that courtroom and relived all that trauma… and STILL protected her baby boy. hero status.

username5 : charles, carlos, pierre, LANDO, LEWIS??? she really said “assemble the avengers” huh

username15 : OUR BABY MATEO IS COMING BACK TO THE PADDOCK

username0 : carlos sainz as big brother of the year. no further questions. the man was READY to go feral.

username1 : lando didn’t speak ONCE during that press conference after the hearing. just stared down the reporter that asked if the ex will appeal

username0 : literal death glare

username20 : I hope whoever said “she was being dramatic” when she left the spotlight chokes on this news. SHE WAS FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE

username17 : “suspected partner” lmao pls. charles was holding her hand, wiping her tears, AND glaring down the ex like a villain origin story. it’s not a suspicion. it’s fate.

-

now back to where we really left off...

charles pov

The laughter inside the house had faded, replaced by an unbearable silence. Carlos and I exchanged a look — the kind that says, something’s wrong. Horribly wrong.

“She went outside a few minutes ago,” Carlos said, his voice tight, nearly breaking.

My chest tightened. “Where is she?”

We ran out into the night, the cool air suddenly feeling sharp against my skin, like a warning. The streetlights flickered overhead as we scanned every shadow.

Then Carlos’s voice cracked, pointing ahead. “There.”

I followed his gaze and saw it — Catalina’s phone, smashed against the cracked sidewalk, its shattered screen reflecting the harsh light like broken promises. My heart lurched. I dropped to my knees, fingers trembling as I reached out, terrified of what this meant.

Carlos’s voice was rough, raw with fear and anger. “Who would do this? Where is she?”

I pulled out my phone, frantically dialing the number to her business phone, over and over. Each ring echoed like a countdown to despair. No answer. No signal.

"I think we both know who would do this." I managed to choke out.

Carlos’s jaw clenched so hard I thought it might shatter. “This... this isn’t just some stupid fight. He is gonna hurt her. Or worse.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Carlos. The pain in his eyes mirrored my own — helplessness, guilt, and a burning need to fix this.

“We have to find her. Now,” I said, voice low but fierce.

We called her name into the darkness, our voices raw, desperate. Every second felt like an eternity, every shadow a cruel reminder of how much was at stake. Carlos’s hand found my shoulder— a steady anchor amid the chaos. We wouldn’t stop until she was safe. We had to.

-

I was running before I even knew it—phone clutched in one hand, the broken pieces of Catalina’s still burned into my mind. Carlos was close behind, yelling her name into the darkness like it could somehow bring her back.

“Catalina!” I shouted, heart thundering, lungs burning. “CATALINA!”

No answer. Only the eerie quiet of the night, like the world was holding its breath.

We split up, scouring the streets, knocking on neighbors’ doors. Pierre and Lando had followed us out, confusion quickly turning to fear as we told them what we found.

Pierre’s jaw was tight. “Do you think it was him?”

“It has to be,” Carlos said. “He’s the only one who’d do something this reckless. He knows he’s lost.”

Lando pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“I’m calling the lawyers,” Carlos added, already dialing. “And her security team—where the hell were they?”

I didn’t wait. I kept running. Past the corner. Past the line of hedges where we used to walk Mateo in the stroller. Past every version of safety we’d tried to build around her. My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t stop picturing her terrified, alone, in danger. I had promised her she was safe now. I had promised. The second I got signal, I pinged her phone’s last location. The dot blinked. Then vanished.

“She was taken,” I whispered. “This was planned.”

Carlos’s face hardened like stone. “Then he’s going to regret it.”

Sirens began to wail in the distance — too far, too late. The rest of the drivers had gathered by the time we returned to the house, George, Alex, even Lewis. No one had to ask what was happening. They saw it in our eyes.

“She’s family,” Lewis said quietly. “We’ll find her.”

“I won’t stop until we do,” I replied, and I meant it.

-

catalina's pov :

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Everything was muffled. My head throbbed. The last thing I remembered clearly was the buzz of my phone, a number I didn’t recognize, the instinct to step outside for air. Then — nothing. Now it's-- dark. cold. Something scratchy pressed against my skin — the seat of a car, maybe? My wrists were sore. Duct tape. My heart started to pound. No. No no no. I opened my eyes slowly. Blurry shapes. The interior of a van. The smell of cheap air freshener barely masking gasoline and something else — sweat and fear. Then I heard it. His voice.

“I told them this wasn’t over.”

The chill that ran through me was worse than anything I’d felt in that courtroom. Worse than childbirth. Worse than the endless nights I’d spent replaying years of him trying to erase me.

“You think some judge can take my son from me?” he growled. “You think Carlos and your boyfriend can protect you?”

"You think you can just get up there and make me look horrible in front of everyone? You are a lot more stupid than I thought, Bitch."

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing my fear. But I couldn’t stop the tremble in my limbs. My baby. Mateo. Was he okay? Was he safe? Where was Charles? Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them away. I needed to stay clear. I needed to survive.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” he hissed.

"But you didn't and now I have to ruin your life...or end it."

I turned my face away. I wouldn’t cry for him. Not this time. Not anymore. I breathed, slowly, counting in my head like Charles taught me. Like I had done on the nights when Mateo wouldn’t stop crying and I was sure I was unraveling.

1… 2… 3…

He could hurt me. He could scream. He could drag me into the dark. But he wouldn’t win. Not this time. And somewhere, I knew — Charles was looking for me. Carlos was raging. Lando was running. Pierre was calling every contact in Europe. My family was coming. I just had to hold on. Just a little longer.

-

charles pov :

The sun was rising, but the world still felt dark. I hadn’t slept. None of us had. Carlos looked like he’d aged ten years in one night. His jaw was set so tightly it looked like it hurt to speak. He hadn’t said much, anyway. Just made calls. Punched a wall. Made more calls. I sat at the kitchen table, her phone laid out in pieces in front of me like a puzzle we couldn’t put back together.

“What was she doing out there alone?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone. “Why didn’t someone see something?”

Lando walked in with two coffees and handed me one. “She probably thought it was safe. Home. It was just a step outside. Who would’ve expected—?”

“She should’ve expected,” Carlos snapped. Then immediately winced. “Not her. I meant him. He waited for a crack. That’s how he always was.”

I nodded. My fingers were still trembling.

Pierre came in next, phone to his ear. “Interpol is involved now. That’s something.”

“Interpol,” Carlos repeated, rubbing his eyes. “Jesus.”

We had nothing. No new footage. No new leads. Just her broken phone and an eerie silence. No ransom note. No contact. Just... gone. And Mateo — God, little Mateo — he was upstairs in his crib with Rebecca and Kika taking turns holding him, like keeping him close would somehow keep Catalina safe, too. My heart physically ached. I kept thinking of the way she looked at me that morning, just before she went outside. Her eyes were soft. A little tired, but brighter than they’d been in weeks. She had finally seemed steady. Like she was climbing out of the wreckage of the last year. And now… she was out there somewhere. In pain. Scared. Maybe worse.

“We’re missing something,” I said suddenly. “Something small. Something stupid.”

Carlos looked up. “Like what?”

I gestured to the remains of her phone. “She wouldn’t have picked up a random number. She blocks everything that isn’t saved.”

He nodded. “Unless—”

“Unless she knew it. Maybe it was disguised.”

We both lunged for the laptop at the same time. Minutes later, we found it. A call routed through a system. Masked, but underneath… an old number. One she’d deleted. One she had asked me to delete from her contacts months ago. But one that, maybe, in a split-second of familiarity, she answered out of instinct. His number. We had a trace. Not much. But it was more than we’d had an hour ago.

Carlos stood. “We take this to the team. And to the police. Now.”

I followed him to the door, turning one last time to glance at the stairs where Mateo was sleeping.

“Hold on, Catalina,” I whispered. “We’re coming.”

-

catalina's pov - two days later

I think it’s been two days. I can’t be sure. The light doesn’t change much in here. A sliver of sun cuts through the boarded-up window in the corner, but it doesn’t reach me. Nothing does. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding. Everything hurts — my cheekbone, my ribs, my wrists, my pride. Hunger gnaws at me in dull, endless waves, but worse is the thirst. And worse than that is the silence. Except when he talks. He doesn’t yell. Not yet. That would require energy. He speaks slow, calculated. Like a man who’s convinced he’s won.

“I told you they’d never protect you,” he said this morning, crouching in the doorway like a shadow. “Where are your drivers now, Lina? Where’s your precious brother? Where’s Charles?”

Charles. The name hit me like a breath I couldn’t take. He doesn’t know what Charles is capable of when he loves someone. He doesn’t know that Carlos would burn the world down for me. That Lando would fly across oceans in a heartbeat. That Pierre has too many ghosts of his own to let me become one. That I am not alone. But… in this room, in this silence, it’s so easy to believe him. So easy to believe I was stupid to think I could ever win. I close my eyes and press my forehead to my knees, curled up on the floor like a child. My body is screaming, but I’m too numb to listen. My lip is split. My shoulder might be dislocated. Or maybe just badly bruised. It doesn’t matter. None of it feels real anymore. Maybe I should’ve just kept quiet. Maybe I shouldn’t have testified. Maybe this was always going to be the end. A quiet room. A locked door. And him winning. I hear his voice again — lazy, mocking.

“They’ll forget you. They’ll move on. I told you. You were never strong enough for this.”

I grit my teeth and hold back the sob clawing up my throat. My hand presses to my stomach, not for comfort — just to feel something. And then…A whisper of a memory. Mateo’s laugh. Tiny and warm and real. Charles’ arms around me, steady and strong. Carlos’ voice in the courtroom, cracked and furious. “She is not alone.” Maybe I was stupid to think I could have peace. But I’m not stupid enough to give up now. He hasn't won. Not yet.

-

charles pov :

We were running on fumes and adrenaline. Carlos hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a time. He was in full-blown survival mode — locked in, eyes cold, voice clipped. I don’t think I’d seen him this terrifyingly focused since our first years racing together. But this wasn’t a track. This was his sister. It had been 56 hours since Catalina vanished. And every minute she was gone, something in me frayed further. We’d been in Spain, back and forth between the coast and the countryside. Carlos had a private investigator running traces off her ex’s last known associates. The police were treating it like a domestic abduction, which gave us some pull — but not enough. Not fast enough. The break came from a toll booth camera. A grainy shot of a rental van heading into a remote wooded area northeast of Zaragoza — the driver matched the rough description of him. Catalina wasn’t visible, but Carlos knew. We both knew.

“He’s taken her off-grid,” he muttered, studying the map spread across the kitchen table of his parents’ house. “This road here — barely anyone uses it. There are old farms, vacant cottages.”

“Hideouts,” I said.

“Exactly.”

The investigator confirmed an abandoned property registered under a fake name. The kind of thing he would’ve set up before the trial — a plan B, just in case. He was always a few steps ahead. But not anymore.

Carlos stood up, clenching his fists. “We go now.”

I didn’t ask if we were waiting for the police. I didn’t ask if it was legal. I just grabbed my jacket and followed him out the door, lando following behind.

-

catalina's pov :

It’s getting harder to stay upright. I’m bleeding. Dizzy. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely keep them up, and he’s still coming. He has beaten me to the point where I can slowly feel the life draining out of me. I keep fighting. He’s enjoying it now. Enjoying watching me fight for what life I have left.

His voice is a cruel hum in my ear, saying things I’ve stopped registering. I just keep thinking about Mateo — the weight of him on my chest when he sleeps, his tiny laugh when I make the dinosaur voice, the way he says “mama” like it means everything. I feel the anger and strength in my core. If I die here, he won’t remember me. I scream and thrash as hard as I can, even though I know I won’t win. He throws me against the table. My shoulder hits first. The pain’s white-hot, and the world blurs. He steps over me. Knife in his hand. A jagged edge. My blood already on it.

“No one’s coming,” he spits. "You thought you won, huh bitch?"

"Well time is up." He said and pressed the knife against my jugular. The cool blade snaps me into reality. This is really it - this is my own chance.

BOOM.

The front door slams open like it’s been ripped off the hinges. I barely register the sound before I hear him.

“CATALINA!” Carlos. My brother. His voice is hoarse, shaking, wild with panic.

“Where is she?!” Charles.

“Oh my god—there!” Lando.

The three storm toward me and rip him off of me. I pull myself up, adrenaline being the only thing keeping me up straight. Charles rushes over to me, taking in my appearance.

“Cat, Cat—baby—it’s okay. I’m here.” He’s fussing, his hands moving over my arms, my face, checking me, grounding me—but my mind is only on one thing.

Revenge.

Revenge for the years of abuse and trauma. Revenge for stealing my son. Revenge for bringing me to the edge of death. Revenge for tearing me away from myself.

I can barely hear Charles. My vision has narrowed, tunneled in. I see the blade on the floor, slick with my blood. I reach for it.

“Catalina—wait—” I hear behind me, but it’s faint.

I wipe the blood on my pants. Cold. Mechanical. My heartbeat isn’t even racing anymore—it’s steady. Deadly steady. I push past Carlos, who startles as I move. My eyes lock on him, crumpled on the floor. Whimpering. Pleading. Just like I had, minutes ago.

His voice breaks. “Please—Cat—please—don’t—”

“I begged you too,” I whisper.

“Catalina—” Charles says again. This time closer. His voice is shaking now.

Carlos grabs at my arm, and pulls me towards him. His lips against my ear.

"It isn't worth it, Lina. I will have him dealt with, trust me." He said in a whisper.

The blade clattered against the floor. It echoed louder than I expected. Louder than his cries. Louder than my heart, which had finally begun to beat again, now in chaotic thuds against my ribs. I didn’t even feel Carlos pulling me against his chest until I was there — until the heat of his palm curled behind my head and my forehead met his collarbone. I was shaking. Violently. My knees buckled under me, and he held me upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and fierce. “He’s done. He’ll never touch you again.”

Behind us, I heard the sickening crack of Lando’s fist connecting with his face. Then the shuffle of movement—Lando swearing as he pulled his belt off to bind the bastard’s wrists behind his back. But my body wouldn’t move. My eyes were wide open but I couldn’t see anything. I heard his voice again. Choked. Spitting blood through split lips.

“A fit mother wouldn’t think about ending someone’s life, Catalina.”

The words sliced deeper than the blade ever could. My spine tensed. I started to turn back—but Carlos held me fast.

“Don’t give him what he wants,” he said. “Don’t let him take this moment from you, too.”

I was trembling, mouth parted in disbelief. In rage. In grief. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the wetness slide over my chin. Charles was suddenly in front of me again, his hands on my face, gently guiding my eyes to his.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

I searched his face—his beautiful, worried, furious face—and nodded. Barely. Carlos stepped in closer and wrapped his arms around both of us. His hand rested between my shoulder blades like a tether. Behind them, Lando was still working, his jaw tight as he finished tying the man’s ankles and muttering to himself in disgust. The air was thick with blood and the heavy fog of aftermath. No one said anything for a long moment. Then— I whispered, barely able to form the words.

“He tried to break me.”

Charles leaned his forehead to mine. “But he didn’t.”

Carlos nodded, voice sharp. “He never will again.”

-

Lando pulled the car up to the front, tires crunching over gravel, and I barely registered the sound. Everything was dimming now — the adrenaline had drained from my system, leaving behind only pain, exhaustion, and a hollow ache in my chest. Charles lifted me into his arms again, holding me bridal style as if I weighed nothing, though I could feel how careful he was being with every step. My body ached in ways I couldn’t describe, and it was getting harder to keep my eyes open. I clung to his shirt, my head pressed into the crook of his neck. As we approached the car, I spotted two unfamiliar men standing near Carlos — tall, serious, armed. Definitely not security. Not bodyguards. Something… darker. Carlos handed one of them a large, worn leather bag without a word, just a nod. The man accepted it like they’d done this before.

Carlos turned to us. “Get her to the medic. She’s fading fast.”

Lando didn’t hesitate—he slipped back into the driver’s seat, engine already rumbling. Charles eased me into the back, laying me down as gently as if I were made of glass. He didn’t let go of my hand. Not for a second. Carlos leaned into the open window, his eyes sharp but softening when they landed on me.

“Go get well. Go hold that beautiful baby of yours. I’m keeping my promise, hermana.”

He pressed a kiss to my bruised forehead, lingered there for a breath.

“See you soon. Love you.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I… I don’t even know what to say—”

He cut me off gently. “You don’t have to. My job is to protect you. Let me do it.”

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat. He tapped the roof of the car, and Lando pulled away. I kept my eyes on Carlos in the side mirror, watching him grow smaller, more distant. The two men flanked him as they entered the building. The door swung shut behind them. Five seconds later, a sound split the silence. Gunfire. Rapid. Merciless. Then screaming — awful, blood-curdling. I flinched. Charles squeezed my hand tighter.

“Don’t look back,” he said softly.

And I didn’t. I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. Because for the first time in a long, long while…I wasn’t afraid anymore.

-

The car jolted to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. I was barely aware of where we were, my head lolling to the side as the pain surged again, sharp and punishing. My body had become one deep bruise. My breath came in short, shallow gasps.

“We’re here,” Charles whispered, his voice close, grounding.

Warm arms gathered me again, lifting me from the back seat. I tried to speak—tried to ask if Mateo was inside—but the words wouldn’t come. Everything was static. Charles and Lando carried me through the gates of my childhood home, now transformed into a place of refuge. Safe. Familiar. It smelled like lemons and wood polish and my mother’s old perfume. We entered through the back, where the lights were dim and someone had already cleared a guest room. A woman stood waiting—middle-aged, with kind eyes and medical gloves already on. The medic.

“She’s lost a lot of blood. I need to check for internal injuries,” the woman said to Charles in a low voice. “You can stay, if she wants you to.”

“She wants me to,” he replied instantly, like it wasn’t even a question.

They laid me on the bed. The pain exploded when I moved and I couldn’t hold in the sound that tore from my throat. Charles was instantly beside me, holding my hand, brushing my hair back from my face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, again and again. “I’ve got you, mon ange.”

The medic worked quickly—stitching a gash near my ribs, wrapping the bruises around my midsection, checking for concussion signs, forcing water down my throat in small sips. I tried to focus on Charles. On the way his eyes never left mine. On how he murmured soft things in French like a prayer under his breath.

When it was over, and I was clean, bandaged, and trembling in fresh clothes, the medic nodded at him. “Let her rest. Stay with her. She needs to know she’s not alone.”

I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to say everything. But exhaustion crashed over me. Charles climbed into the bed beside me without hesitation, pulling me carefully into his arms. I tucked my head beneath his chin. My whole body ached—but in his arms, I finally felt warm.

“You did so good,” he whispered against my hair. “You survived, mon cœur. You’re home.”

“I don’t feel like myself anymore,” I mumbled, my voice small and wrecked.

“You will. Piece by piece,” he said, kissing my forehead. “We’ll find her again.”

I clutched at his shirt, letting the sobs rise now that it was safe to let them. He held me through every single one. And in that room, in the house I’d run from and come back to, I started to believe maybe healing was possible—because Charles was holding my broken pieces like they were sacred.

-

The room was bathed in golden dusk, the last traces of sunlight curling around the edges of the curtains. I was curled beneath the blankets, every muscle in my body sore and frayed, but the pain was quieter now—held at bay by bandages, medicine, and the steady presence of the man who had barely left my side since I’d been carried out of hell. Charles had stepped out to take a call. It was quiet now. Too quiet. The door creaked open. I didn’t look up—I didn’t need to.

Carlos.

He stepped in with the same careful energy he always used when I was hurting, like he was afraid one wrong move might crack me open again. He didn’t say anything at first. Just dragged the chair beside my bed a little closer and sat.

"Hey," I said softly, turning my head toward him.

He looked tired—bone deep. There was dried blood on the sleeve of his sweater. I didn’t ask whose it was.

“You okay?” he asked. The words were simple, but his eyes were swimming with something far heavier.

I nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

He gave a slight nod back, jaw tight, like he was holding something inside he couldn’t quite let out.

“You got me back,” I whispered.

He exhaled hard. “Yeah.”

A pause stretched between us.

"Thank you, Carlos. For… everything."

He didn't answer at first. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. Then, without looking at me, he said, "There are some things a brother shouldn’t have to forgive himself for. And there are some things… a man shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from."

My breath caught. My stomach twisted—not from fear, but from understanding.

“You don’t have to say it,” I whispered.

He finally looked at me, and for a moment I saw something behind his eyes—something dark, final, and brutally calm.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I need you to know you’re safe now. Really safe. No one’s ever going to touch you again.”

"I knew that if I let you do it, you'd live with it the rest of your life and that haunted me. I need you to be able to grow from this, to move on, to get married to someone who actually loves you, to raise my nephew."

A slow silence fell between us. My throat felt raw, my chest too full to breathe.

“Carlos…”

He shook his head and stood, coming to the edge of the bed and brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You rest. Be with Mateo. Be with Charles. Let yourself come back.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. He didn’t pull away.

“You always knew how to clean up my messes,” I said softly, trying to smile.

He gave the faintest smirk, but his eyes were glassy. “You were never the mess, Lina. He was.”

He leaned down and kissed my forehead gently—just like he had when we were kids and I’d fallen off my bike or woken from a nightmare.

“Te amo, hermana.”

And then he left—quiet as he’d come in. He didn’t say what he did. He didn’t have to. I knew. And for the first time in a long time, I felt safe enough to close my eyes and sleep.

-

The house had gone still. The kind of stillness that comes after a storm—the air heavier, quieter, like even the walls were holding their breath. I lay curled under a soft throw blanket in my childhood bedroom, every inch of my body aching, stitched together by gauze and silence. My heart, though—my heart was still trying to remember how to beat. How to believe I had made it out. That I was still here. That I was whole enough to hold him. I heard the soft pad of footsteps outside the door. Then a knock. Not Charles—his knock was always gentle, hesitant. Carlos had already come and gone. This one was quieter. Then came a second sound: a soft, hiccupping whimper. And I knew.

“Come in,” I rasped, barely above a whisper.

The door opened slowly. Rebecca stepped in first, eyes kind and brimming. In her arms, bundled in a soft blanket, was Mateo. My breath caught in my throat. He was heavier than I remembered. Bigger. His curls had grown, messier, darker. But his eyes—those wide, soulful eyes—were still the same. He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was real.

"Hey, mi amor," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Hi, baby."

Rebecca crossed the room slowly and knelt by the bed, lowering him into my arms. The moment his small body rested against mine, it was like the world cracked open. He blinked up at me. Then touched my cheek with his chubby fingers, right where a bruise was fading. I cried. Quietly. Without restraint. The kind of cry that comes from a place buried deep—where grief and joy and relief live all tangled up together. And he—my beautiful boy—just nestled into me.

“I missed you so much,” I whispered, kissing his forehead, over and over again. “I looked for you every second. I didn’t stop. I never stopped.”

He made a small cooing sound, like he understood. I wrapped my arms around him tighter, careful not to press too hard against the bruises still healing, and rocked gently side to side. Just the two of us. The rest of the world melted away. I didn’t care that my body still throbbed or that I hadn’t eaten more than toast and soup. I didn’t care that my phone was buzzing somewhere or that tomorrow there would be lawyers, reporters, whispers. Right now, I had him. And he had me. And we were safe. Rebecca stood back quietly. I caught her eye and mouthed, thank you. She gave a soft nod and slipped from the room, closing the door gently behind her. I curled myself around Mateo and hummed the lullaby I used to sing to him when he was a newborn—broken, uneven, and trembling, but still a lullaby. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed. And as his tiny fingers curled into my shirt, I finally let myself believe -We were home.

-

The room was dim, lit only by the golden spill of late afternoon sun through gauzy curtains. Mateo slept against my chest, one small fist still tangled in the fabric of my shirt, his cheek warm against my collarbone. I hadn’t moved in over an hour. I didn’t dare. I’d forgotten what it felt like to just breathe with him in my arms. To feel the rise and fall of his tiny chest. To know he was safe. That we were safe. The door creaked slightly, and I looked up. Charles stood in the doorway, quiet as a shadow. He didn’t speak—just leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folded, eyes soft. A look on his face like he was witnessing something sacred. I gave him a tired, barely-there smile.

“You’ve been standing there a while,” I whispered.

He smiled back. “Didn’t want to break it.”

I looked down at Mateo, brushing my lips against his forehead. “He didn’t cry once,” I murmured. “Just... curled into me. Like he remembered. Like he knew.”

Charles stepped in slowly, his movements careful, reverent. He crouched beside the bed and reached out, brushing a curl from my cheek. His fingers were gentle, but the way he looked at me—like I was breakable and invincible all at once—nearly undid me.

“You’re his entire world, mon cœur,” he said softly. “Of course he remembered.”

Tears welled in my eyes, and I let them fall. For once, I didn’t feel the need to apologize for them.

I leaned into Charles’ touch, closing my eyes. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this moment,” I whispered. “I thought... he’d grow up without me. I thought he’d forget my face.”

“He won’t,” Charles said. “He won’t forget. And you’ll remind him every day.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, my voice cracking. “For everything. For not giving up on me. For finding me. For staying.”

Charles leaned in and kissed my forehead, just next to a fading bruise.

“I would’ve searched every corner of the world,” he said. “I would’ve burned it down to bring you home.”

Mateo stirred slightly and let out a small sigh, his little hand patting against my chest before settling again. Charles smiled, his hand now resting gently over Mateo’s back.

“Is this what you want?” he asked quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the fragile peace in the room. “This... life. With him. With me.”

I blinked at him. “Charles,” I whispered, “You are the only thing that has felt safe in the middle of all this. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

He nodded, pressing another kiss—this one softer, lingering—against my temple.

“Then we start here,” he said. “The three of us. One step at a time.”

And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I believed we could.

-

p4:)))

i decided i will add a part 5 just to show how cat has healed and her relationship with charles and her happy ending!! will be posted shortly

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[presentmacandcheese]

bring you some peace

jason todd x gn reader

summary: you discover your boyfriend jason is the Red Hood, to his surprise and concern you're not upset in the slightest

or 5k on loving and appreciating your hardworking vigilante boyfriend

a/n: back at it again! This isn't exactly a sequel to softer than, but it's not not a sequel either. I picture it being the same reader, but this piece can absolutely still be read standalone! That said, go forth and please enjoy my second ever DC fic

also on my ao3!

A sigh pushed its way from his diaphragm as the mattress caught Jason’s fall. He ran a hand over his face and into his hair, taking another deep breath, thoughts of your relationship began to fill his mind.  

Things with you had been going well lately, too well, the anxiety in his brain was certain.

You were suspiciously patient and understanding, especially when he bailed last minute on plans. Sure, you’d meet him with a pout, but it’d disappear as quickly as it’d come and be replaced with a smile that must have been a trick of the light as it seemed... empathetic? Where was the upset? Shouldn’t you be fighting about him “not prioritizing you” enough? It’s what happened the last time he had a romantic partner. 

His partner had felt Jason wasn’t willing to put them over his work, which... He made what time he could for them, but there were lives at stake. He couldn’t be with them every second of every day like they attempted to demand, and they weren’t willing to compromise when the truth of his work remained hidden. 

His chest ached at the thought of losing you, knowing it would hurt significantly more than his last relationship. They were nice, mostly. But you. You meant more to him. You meant... everything. Something felt different lately, off in enough way that he felt it making home in his bones. 

Maybe he needed to come clean, maybe that was the honesty this relationship required. His heart raced as the thought settled, stomach churning. Would you still want him once you knew? Was he risking his safety, his family’s safety, your safety in vain? 

Jason mulled it over, knowing the other shoe may drop with this decision, but pleading with the universe that just this once it wouldn’t have to. Maybe he’d be allowed to have and keep something good. 

You knew your boyfriend was the Red Hood.  

Jason, bless his heart, had certainly been trying to keep it away from you. But the more time you spent around him, the more little details you were able to put together. 

At first, the nights he was unable to spend time together made sense. He told you he worked graveyard shift most nights and his behavior and absences backed that up. 

Until he started canceling at confusing moments with vague excuses. The timing of his walk outs beginning to raise a flag in your mind. 

“Work thing, gotta go.” When his phone buzzed as your heads had just hit the pillows. 

“My brother needs me.” Two minutes into the TV show you watched together weekly. 

“I have a thing to do.” When you were about to be that thing. 

Jason went out of his way to make it up to you, finding alternate times to see and spend time with you, leaving you far more curious than upset. 

The curiosity increased when you noticed the influx of injuries he’d have after a night of cancelled plans. The dots didn’t begin to consciously connect until Jason had walked out on your movie night early, a murmured “work errand, sorry.” Leaving his lips as he parted. 

You were more concerned than anything, he’d been wanting to watch Pride & Prejudice with you for weeks after you’d read the book together; a re-read for him and a first for you, only to leave half an hour in? 

Your thoughts roamed as you snuggled into the hoodie, he’d purchased solely for you to steal, burrowing into the blankets on your couch and settling in for the new plan of a night to yourself. You wondered what errand could be so important to need urgent tending to. Maybe you’d ask Jason later, maybe you’d finally get your curiosities quenched. 

You’d just gotten comfortable, pulling out a project you’d been working on for fun and throwing the news on in the background when a story caught your attention. 

“Red Hood takes mustard gun to the face. Fresh off an Arkham Asylum breakout this evening, Condiment King stood off against Crime Alley’s very own Red Hood. It seems to have been Condiment King’s lucky day as he managed a hit on the rehabilitated crime lord, launching mustard directly at the so called “eyes” of his helmet. That’s bound to leave one hot dog of a bruise if you ask me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you processed the pun, it felt in poor taste given how much worse the situation could have been, especially if Red Hood had been without his helmet. The idea made you frown. You’d found yourself with a soft spot towards the vigilantes of Gotham for years, but along the way Red Hood had become your favorite. 

You admired what he stood for, the protection he offered women and children, the way he was willing to offer it no matter the cost. The other vigilantes seemed more black and white, you respected that Red Hood appeared to often understand the world was gray.  

You zoned back into the TV, focusing again on the reporter’s words. 

“Witnesses reported Nightwing ketching up to the scene shortly after, promptly taking down Condiment King and assuring he won’t be able to a salt anyone again anytime soon.” 

You groaned, turning channels so you wouldn’t have to listen anymore to the attempts at making crime more lighthearted. 

The night passed rather calmly for you, but the same could not be said of the streets. Checking social media and news sites revealed the Arkham breakout was much larger than merely Condiment King. 

And as you realized multiple heavy hitters were loose, you sent out a quiet prayer to whoever was listening that your city and its protectors would remain safe. 

Jason needed to see you.  

Adrenaline left his body wired, hands trembling and breaths labored. The night had been harsh to them all. Rogues left and right hellbent on freedom and destruction. Every Bat had taken far more hits than preferred throughout the night, but they prevailed without serious injury. Somehow luck was on their side with a swift recapture. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t frazzled.  

Going from a peaceful night in; snuggling his sweetheart, to getting two black eyes from fuckin’ Condiment King of all people was bound to leave a man off-kilter. Especially when the ante of it all was only upped from there. A night’s full of adrenaline catching up to him as the morning latened. 

Exhaustion ran bone deep, his knocks on your door muddled as if his blood had turned to molasses. The rush that got him through being patched up and taking a shower drained from his body and left Jason half asleep on your doorstep.  

He leaned against the frame, eyes blinking slowly as he heard the lock click before the door opened. 

“Baby?” There it was, confused voice still dripping gentle honey as your eyes met his. 

He was fading fast, Jason knew he’d be unconscious in minutes, but that was okay. He had proof that you were safe, and that was all he needed. 

You took Jason’s arm, guiding him inside and towards your bed. You’d seen him tired plenty of times, but never quite like this. This was exhaustion. His movements slow like you were trudging through quicksand, every step heavy as though the second you stopped moving, he’d begin to sink. 

It was worrisome. Clearly, his job was burning him out or something worse. You’d noticed the redness under his eyes, the way they were swelling in what would surely become two black eyes. What happened to him last night? 

Oh god. 

As you moved the blankets on your bed to open a space for him, your mind was stuck on an awful thought. What if he’d been caught in the Arkham attacks? 

Pushing Jason into place on your mattress was more than easy, once the opening was created a soft wind could’ve blown him down. He collapsed into the plushness, face immediately buried in your pillow and body going lax. It would’ve made you chuckle if you weren’t so worried. 

You removed his shoes before covering him with the blankets, tucking the sides in to secure him. Sitting beside him on the bed’s edge, you lifted a hand to run through his hair, delicately untangling any small knots and lightly scratching his scalp. 

A shaky breath left your lips, watery eyes locked on where Jason’s chest rose and fell. You could see he’d had a night, but he’d survived that night. He was here. he was safe. You just needed to get your anxiety to catch up with reality. 

You watched him sleep for half an hour before your body regulated, your heartrate lowering and allowing your mind to clear now that the fear was dissipating.  

Your fingers finally left his hair, trailing down to lightly caress over the side of his face that’d emerged from the pillow. Hovering over the swelling under his eye your brain whispered what happened, Jay?  

Did someone hit you? Why? How?  

A nugget of information from the previous night floated to the foreground. There was someone you knew had gotten hit in the eyes last night. 

Red Hood. 

Your hand slowly retreated, lowering to a stilted rest on his shoulder. It. It was absurd, wasn’t it? 

Except.  

You grabbed your phone from the nightstand nearest you, opening the internet and searching ‘Red Hood.’ Your hand left Jason’s body as you frantically searched at length, looking for evidence. The builds were damn near the same, Red Hood seemed only the slightest bulkier, your guess was an armor-padded suit. Articles highlighting injuries he’d received in the recent past aligned with nights he’d rushed away from you. 

And the most damning. A picture someone had managed to get of him without his helmet. 

He still wore a mask, but even in a far and grainy picture you’d recognize the love of your life’s face anywhere. 

Jason Todd was the Red Hood. 

You locked your phone, not wanting to stare at the image anymore and turned your gaze to Jason. You expected fear to roll in, knowledge fresh of some of the brutality he’d committed, but the longer you looked at Jason the more your shock calmed. 

He was a hero. A statement you figured he’d argue, but that’s how you’d felt about Red Hood for ages. Sure, his methods were unorthodox especially when he first debuted in Gotham, but he’d been trying to better the city every step of his way. He stood up for the underdogs, for Park Row and everyone in it that were constantly overlooked.  

You knew firsthand how much it needed that. Park Row, Crime Alley had been your home for a spell of time. The first ten years of your life had been spent struggling there. At your youngest and most vulnerable, you learned that life wasn’t always fair. Life wouldn’t always give people what they deserved, not when the cards were stacked against them. 

Park Row needed help, it needed a protector. It needed someone who would stand up and fight for and in it, that never seemed up Batman’s alley. 

But Red Hood? Red Hood was doing what needed to be done. Jason was doing what needed to be done. 

Heavens, he must be so tired, so unappreciated. Even if his methods seem to have calmed since the start, reports on him still labeled him as more violent than the rest of the Bats, treated him as more of a threat and a borderline villain at times. Like he was a ticking time-bomb. 

A frown twisted your mouth, disappointment setting in that others couldn’t see how wonderful your vigilante was. The shift to determination was easy, you’d just have to show him how appreciated he was. 

Jason woke up in darkness, disorienting him until his eyes adjusted to the surroundings. The weight of the comforter on him as familiar as the plushness of the pillow, your scent wrapped around him more fully than the blankets. 

He turned his head to the walls, pictures and posters of the things you love adorning them. A soft smile graced his lips, he was in your room, he was okay, he was safe. His eyes trailed along to the window, wanting to peek out and gauge the time of day. He was met with confusion as he saw a blanket pinned to the wall over it, blocking out most all the light. 

Jason lingered on the detail only a moment more before he sat up. He was in your room, where were you? He stretched as he stood, making his way out of the dark room and further into your apartment. The soft tones of you singing led him easily to you in the kitchen. 

“Good evening, sleepyhead.” You greeted over your shoulder, hands in the sink as you washed dishes, your tone was playful, but there was a glint in your eye he couldn’t quite place. 

“It’s evening?” His eyes flitted to the clock on the microwave, just after 6 pm. “Wasn’t sure with the makeshift blackout curtain.” He raised a brow. 

You looked away, but Jason came closer, spotting the blush on your cheeks. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were able to rest properly; my curtains didn’t make it dark enough.”  

The words came out sweet and simple. An easy care in them that had Jason’s cheeks reddening too. Your thoughtfulness never failed to make him flustered, knocking him giddy and disbelieving of what he’d done to deserve you.    

“Dinner will be done soon, too.” Jason recognized an out when he saw one, you were giving him the room not to reply directly to being taken care of, he appreciated it. 

He stepped closer, arms wrapping around your waist and leaning his head onto your shoulder.  

“Thank you.” It was weighted with everything he could be grateful for. When you let him in this morning and put him to bed, when you chose to care for him instead of making him feel like shit for leaving you, you cooking for him now and continuing to be kind. 

“Anything for you.” As you settled back into him, leaning your weight on him, Jason had no idea how deep that promise would run. 

It’d been a month since you’d discovered Jason’s secret. A month of showing him extra kindness, understanding, and appreciation. You were content to wait to talk about his vigilantism with him until he was comfortable sharing with you. You were letting your actions speak louder than your words anyhow.  

Making sure to give him praise on his character whenever he was around. 

“You have such a beautiful heart, Jay.” Said with a sincerity that threatened tears in the right moment. 

“Your mind is incredible, you’re so intelligent.” Said with an awe that spoke of true wonder. 

“You’re such a good man, Jason.” A promise, a vow of the truth the statement held for you. 

Making sure to care for him through blankets draped over him in his vulnerable states, enveloping him in the softness the outside world never would.  

Making sure to keep him well fed, showing your love through recipes passed down and long since mastered by your family. 

The final action that spoke of your empathy though was one utilized when Jason wasn’t around. You were helping cover for him. Disappearances made around your friends were easy for you to excuse. When he gave you an apologetic kiss and uttered to the group an “it’s work, I’m sorry,” you’d follow up with “he has a highly demanding job, I’m so impressed by how much of himself he gives.” Your confidence and understanding kept people’s opinions of him high, your appreciation seeping into the roots of their minds the more you spoke tenderly of him; to help people see him as you saw him. 

All in all, it’d been a great month of loving your boyfriend. 

Jason was going to burst. Anxiety filling him to the seams as he came to terms with what he’d need to do. He had to confront your relationship problems. Trying to figure out when all this good would be ripped away was eating at him like termites in the wooden home of his brain. 

All the praise, the home cooked meals, the soft blankets and somehow even softer greetings. The gentleness of your touch, like you thought he deserved to be held as something delicate. It was all too good to be true.  

Something had to be wrong. This was the calm before some sort of storm. Overcompensation for how badly you wished to break up, maybe. Jason couldn’t fathom another explanation for why you’d be treating him like this. Like something precious. 

The cruelty of whatever joke this was had self-doubt eating him alive. Itching beneath his skin and clawing its way out of him. 

“What’s wrong with us?” Jason blurted one night, watching you make a pot pie crust from scratch, you’d been prepping dinner for at least an hour and a half while he simmered and stewed with anxiety. His eyes were locked on your hands, covered in flour and dough as you pressed the crust into your desired shape. 

“I mean we’re a little strange as people, but I wouldn’t say anything otherwise.” Your lighthearted tone, still focused on the diligent work at your hands, did nothing to ease his worries. 

“No. What’s wrong?”  

The plea in his voice had you turning to look at him. His eyes were swimming with desperation; a broken shine to them that made you frown in concern. 

“Jay? What’s this about? I don’t think anything’s wrong, but I don’t believe you’d ask unless you thought there was.” Your hands were rinsed and wiped on a dish towel as you stepped closer to him and there it was again, that empathetic lilt to your being that made him feel so undeserving. 

The anxiety in his skin bubbled, a cauldron overflowing and exceeding containment, spilling over until no more was left inside. Every ounce of fear and worry splashed around him, rolling out in waves. 

“I don’t deserve this.” Rushed words, a harsh admission in light of your softness. 

“What do you mean?” Jason took a step back as you took one closer, he couldn’t let you touch him right now. Not when you’d slip in his mess and get swept away by the current, never to be seen again. You paused before moving back half a step, Jason found himself simultaneously weighed down by guilt and able to breathe easier. 

“I don’t... This is all too nice. You are too nice. All this care and consideration, it’s wasted on me. Why are you being so fucking good to me?” His hand flew into his hair, tugging at the strands as he tried to let the pain ground him enough to suck in a deep breath. 

“Jay, baby. You deserve all the good the world has to offer.” 

“I DON’T! How can that possibly be true? The things I’ve done, the people I’ve hurt. You don’t know. That’s how you can be so fucking kind to me, because you don’t know what I’m hiding.” 

You nodded, seemingly undeterred by the panic Jason knew he was getting lost in. 

“Okay. So, tell me? I bet you I can still find kindness to give no matter what secrets may unfold.” 

That gave him pause. If anyone could look past what he’d done, it probably would be you. Hell, his family had forgiven and accepted him, and you hadn’t been through an eighth of the shit he put them through.  

“I’m. I’ve hurt people. I’ve done some ugly things, some I’m not proud of and worse, some that I am. Are you sure you want to know?” He needed to hear you choose this, choose him, his truth. 

“Tell me. Please.” It sounded more reassuring than afraid. 

“I’m the Red Hood.” As the words left Jason’s lips, he looked down to the floor. He couldn’t face the look in your eyes yet, the horror that he might find in them. The disappointment as you realized your boyfriend was a murderer. 

“Thank you for telling me.” That... didn’t sound horrified? It was almost... daresay, proud? 

Jason hesitantly lifted his gaze to your form, watching you turn back around, fingers dancing as they always did when you considered the next step in your cooking, a soothing hum befalling your lips. 

“That’s it?” That couldn’t possibly be the only reaction you had. He was expecting tears and anger and distrust. Even the worst case, being kicked out and never spoken to again, losing you entirely in the wake of this revelation. 

You faced him again and Jason stilled as he saw the peaceful look on your face, posture relaxed and no less welcoming than it’d been before. With the light hitting just right, there was an air of relief as well. It was as though nothing had changed. As though this information... wasn’t... new... 

Oh. 

“You knew.” Not a question, a fact. 

He watched as a guilty smile graced your lips, your legs shuffling where you stood and a breath of nervous laughter left your mouth. 

“Maybe a little.” The admission felt both damning and relieving. 

“I- What? How?” 

“Maybe we sit down for this one? I get the feeling your emotions are awfully overwhelming right now.” You started to walk to the living room, making grabby hands behind you to get him to follow. Jason’s lips upturned at the cute habit, steps aligning with yours as he geared up for this conversation. 

You placed yourself on one end of the couch, giving Jason the option of space if he still needed. He sat further than when he joined you for comfort, but within arm’s reach which was progress from the kitchen. You took a deep breath and began to explain. 

“Okay, so it was about a month ago, when you got injured by the mustard gun. You came over the morning after, exhausted and worried about me, which just had me worrying about you, so I got to more thinking than usual, and it started to connect.” 

“The way you frequently disappear at night and leave our plans, the injuries you end up with and the lack of explanation you tend to have for them. I thought for a minute that you were being abused at work. I suppose I wasn’t exactly wrong.” The laugh that left your lips came with a disbelieving head shake. 

“I started looking deeper into the vigilantes of Gotham, well, just Red Hood. He was the only one I needed to look at that morning. Once I had pictures, it was all too easy to recognize the man I love. I could recognize you anywhere. I could recognize you by touch alone, by smell; I would know you blind, by the way your breaths came, and your feet struck the earth. I would know you in death, at the end of the world.” 

You watched Jason’s eyes light up, some of his anxiety melting away at the familiar quote from a book you knew he favored despite the tears it’d brought you both.  

“You don’t have a problem with that though? My identity? The crimes I commit, the lives I’ve taken, the families I’ve destroyed.” His voice trailed off at the end, quieter as shame clouded his gaze. Beneath it there was a desperation that screamed of a little boy’s fear. A young one’s need to be accepted with open arms and loved unconditionally. 

“Jason, my love. You’re a hero. You have done more to save this city than I’m sure anyone gives you credit for. I don’t have a single problem with what you do nor what you’ve done to look out for our city, our home. You’ve been cleaning up in the ways you felt were needed. How could I fault you for that?” Your eyes locked with his, hands coming up to cup his face and reaffirm how genuine your words were. 

“I love you. I love what you stand for. I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you do, everything you are, and everything you will ever be.” You promised.   

For a moment, Jason sat frozen, looking at you as though his whole world view was changing before his eyes. Given his earlier insecurities, it very well may have been. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?” A whispered curiosity uttered after moments of silence. 

“I was waiting until you were ready. It wasn’t my secret to force out of you. I figured you’d share eventually, and until then I just wanted to care for you. I wanted someone to show you some damn appreciation, and I was more than content with that being me. That’s why I’ve been doing more for you, because you deserve it with all the hard work you do to clean this city up and keep her safe.” Your thumb stroked over his cheekbone, your touch matching the ease of your words. 

Your head tilted slightly; lips downturned as you continued to speak. “I’m sorry my behavior left you so uneasy, it was never my intent for my compassion to scare you.”  

In the seconds of quiet after, your heart rate picked up, this was going to be it huh? The moment when yet another partner confessed you were “too much.” That your affections were overbearing, your intensity frightening and something they weren’t willing to match. That it’d be better if this ended. 

You’d accept Jason’s will if it were the case. You’d let your heart be sliced open, bleeding out from every cut so long as it would make him happy.  

You moved to pull your hands from his face, feeling as though your permission was already being revoked. He caught them with his own, holding them sweetly. 

“It wasn’t that it scared me. You could never scare me. It was that... It felt far too good to be true. I have a hard time believing that good things can happen to me without being ripped away.” Jason’s admission made your heart ache, longing for him to receive only the best from the world and to know that he deserved it. 

“Jay...” He released hold of you to briefly put one hand up, asking you silently to wait a moment before speaking. When you kept quiet, he returned to his full hold on you. The light grip reassuring and soothing while you anticipated his next words. 

“Sweetheart, you are the best thing that has happened to me in this and any lifetime. I am terrified of losing you, that’s what I’m scared of. I don’t want you to be ripped away like so many things I’ve tried to love before, and I don’t want you to leave. I fear that I would not survive a world where I no longer had you in my life. That’s where my panic came from, that’s why I was afraid to reveal my identity. I didn’t want to lose you.” Vulnerable eyes turned down to look at your combined hands. The feeling of his thumbs soothing over your skin providing as much assurance as his words. 

You waited a handful of extra breaths to see if he had more to say, but it seemed no further words were making themselves known. 

“You are the love of all my lives, Jason Todd. I’ll be here for as long as you let me.”  

“That could be a long time, ya know?” 

“I’m counting on it.” 

Snuggled against Jason’s chest on the couch, dinner long since forgotten, a thought came to mind. 

“So, you’re the Red Hood.”  

“We’ve covered that, yes.” 

You gave him a light nudge with your shoulder. “Hush.”  

A brief chuckle before his lips pressed atop your head. 

“So, you’re Red Hood. I know you work closely with the rest of the Bats, and you wouldn’t work closely with people you didn’t trust, not on this. You only trust a handful of people beyond me, and I know I’m not a vigilante. Since you’re all Gotham based, they must be around here too. The only people in the state that you trust are your family. Ergo, the rest of the Bats are the other Waynes, no?”  

“And they call Batman the “world’s greatest detective.” 

“Holy crap, that means they call Bruce that. Brucie Wayne the greatest detective. Oh my god.” You sat up, turning to face him with excitement. 

“Hang on, I didn’t confirm your theory.” 

“You didn’t deny it either!” Your finger pointed in his face, Jason leaning in to nip at it and making you both laugh. 

“Don’t distract me! I’m totally right!”  

“No comment.” 

You leaned over to reach for your phone on the coffee table, Jason gripping your free arm to keep you from toppling over in your excitement. You smiled appreciatively at him before doing an image search on Gotham’s vigilantes. Looking closely at the pictures with what you knew only solidified your belief that much further. 

“Would you... want to meet them?” 

Your gaze snapped from the phone to look at Jason’s face, a nervous smile graced his lips, and his eye contact wavered as he waited for you to process. 

“You want me to meet the Bats?” A light test of the waters, dipping your toe in. 

“I want you to meet my family.” A hand taking yours, pulling you further in with a promise of security. 

“Same thing.” A grin born of playfulness and safety.  

“I’d love nothing more, Jay.” Left your lips whispered, excitement so encapsulating that it need be forced into something serene lest it overtake your entire being. Jason nodded, like he understood how deeply you were feeling before pulling you into a kiss. The unspoken words the kiss provided promised that he did, in fact, understand.  

And the deeper the kiss found itself, the more it felt like an oath he always would. 

[tojikai]

Sundered 2: EMBERS

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Alt. Ending

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, mean!gojo(kinda), babydaddy!gojo, babymomma!reader, motherhood, insecurities, arguments, implied pregnancy, mentions of abortion

word count: 5.4k

a/n: it's not sad.

Pining so intensely for something you never had to the point where you physically ache.

Each step that you take away from Satoru’s house feels like a stomp to your already broken heart. Your eyebrows furrowed, feeling the waterlines of your eyes start to get hot and itch. You recalled the noises and laughs that you heard from them while you walked out of their door. 

They have no idea how much you want to get down on your knees and beg them not to take away the only thing you have left. 

Your feet feel heavy with each stride you make toward your car. You could taste blood inside your mouth as you bit your inner lip to channel the pain away from your heart and to your body instead. You found yourself looking for answers on why all of this has to happen to you. As if being replaced by the man you love so easily and having to see how he treats someone else a thousand times better than you were not enough, you also have to witness your own flesh and blood turn away from you. Am I really that far behind that woman?

Is she that much better that even my own child prefers her over me?

You placed your hands on the steering wheel, looking down at your lap as you let the tears fall. You kept glancing over at the gate, hoping that Satoru would come out, running with your baby in his arms. Yet, you don’t want him to see you crying miserably. You swallowed thickly, letting out a large breath in an attempt to get rid of the painfully heavy feeling in your chest.

Driving away was numbing, and all sorts of thoughts ran inside your mind. But above all of them, your eyes were focused on the toy store as it got bigger in your view. You wondered about what you could get your little love to at least make her smile when she comes home. You remembered how your gift to her, her favorite bear that she used to hug as she sleeps ever since she was an infant, was cast aside as she clings to her new ones. 

Is that a foreshadowing of how you’d end up being in her life? It scared you.

Reaching the parking lot of the store, you looked at yourself in the car mirror, noticing your bloodshot eyes. You inhaled and let a big breath out slowly, puffing your cheeks as you assured yourself that it’ll be fine when she comes home later. Your head hurts so much but you can’t afford to care, stepping out of your car and heading to the front door of the store. The first thing you saw was a pregnant, young lady checking baby books. 

She reminded you of yourself when you were still pregnant with Yui; curious about everything, eager to learn, and all was about the baby. You admit that it wasn’t like that at first, given that you were young and had to drop out of college at that time. You were anxious, torn between decisions, and terrified of what life would be like for you from that point in time. During that period, you and Satoru were ignorant but trying hard to figure everything out.

You met Satoru at a nightclub where you worked as a bartender. He was flashy, and women just flock to him as if it was the most natural thing to do around him but that night, his eyes were on you. What with persistent offers of buying you drinks and talking to your manager to let you off early for the night, you ended up in a luxurious hotel suite with him. 

He even wrote his number on the price tag of the fancy lingerie set that he bought you after he ruined the one you were wearing the previous night. He was joking that you’ll never get enough so he’s providing you his contact for next time. You thought that would be the end of it. You didn’t think that it was just fate giving you a helping hand in advance because you’d end up with a child together. 

You consider it a dumb mistake. You know that Plan Bs exist. But with a working student like you who couldn’t even have time to get a proper boyfriend, it slipped your mind. The first thing you did after you got the results was call Satoru. You thanked the heavens that he wasn’t seeing anyone, and that he remembers you. It was a tense meeting, what with you asking if he wants you to abort the fetus. Next thing you know, you two were already dealing with your mood swings. 

“Look, I really want to work this out with you, Y/N. For the baby.” Satoru sighed, slamming the door behind him as he watched you sit on your old couch. You lean your elbows on your knees as you covered your face with your hands, harshly running them down your cheeks to wipe away the big, fat tears that fell from your eyes. There are just so many things going on with your life. 

“I’m only 21, Satoru. I got my whole life ahead of me.” You looked up at his tall figure, frustration was evident in your eyes. You can tell that he was also distressed. His hair was messy, his jaw was clenched tightly, and even if you cannot see behind his tinted glasses, you can tell that he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. The dark half-circles under his eyes and the redness in them show just how exhausted and disquieted he has been in the past few days.

Satoru’s five years older than you. He was born to a rich family of politicians who don't and probably will never need support from him or the other younger generations in their household. He has a stable source of income, he could probably make life investments that could cover your yearly living expenses. He has nothing to worry about, he won’t be dropping anything if he decides to take in another mouth to feed. But you…

You’re basically your mother’s retirement plan and now you got pregnant with a kid of a man you barely know. “Y/N, listen to me.” He got down on his knees in front of you, trying to take your hands off of your face as you sob, struggling to catch your breath. What’s going to happen to you now? You didn’t even get to finish the degree that your mother was working her ass off day and night for.

“You won’t have to worry about anything, you know? I’ll handle everything you need—” He trailed, trying to calm you down as he gently grabbed your forearms. “You don’t understand!” You cut him off, snatching your hands away, aggravated that he’s not thinking about how it could affect everything in your life. “Then, what the fuck do you want to do?!” You flinched as he raised his voice at you, breathing hard as he backed away.

“You think you’re the only one who’s going to be affected by this? You think you’re the only one who’s being robbed of another future! Open your fucking eyes, stop being selfish!” Satoru snapped back, harshly taking his glasses off before throwing it across the room. You started to cry, whimpering as you used the collar of your shirt to wipe your tears away.

“I’m scared, Satoru. I’m just so scared. I can’t even take care of myself, how am I supposed to raise a child…” You broke down, turning your body away from him. There was a long pause, a moment of pure silence, save from your sniffs and Satoru’s ragged breathing. 

You felt the couch dip as he sat down before pulling you to him, letting you cry on his chest.  “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” You would be lying if you said that the back rub, the temple kisses, and his whispers of reassurance didn’t calm you down. Those thoughts were recurring in your head and now that you finally let it all out and got answers from him, you were soothed.

You blinked hard, shaking your head to get out of your trance. You went straight to the dolls section. You can’t believe you just had a flashback of Satoru comforting you in the warmth of his chest. Your mouth started to twitch, wishing that he held you like that earlier when his girlfriend was slapping into your face that they’re gonna give your child siblings. It shouldn’t hurt you, but it still did. You realized that this girl, this woman is gonna have everything you wish you had with Satoru.

You walked past the kiddie pools and trampoline section, stopping when you saw a playpen, almost similar to the one Satoru bought for your little girl but smaller. The size doesn’t really matter though, because you know that you don’t have enough space in your place for something so big, anyway. 

Going closer to check the prices, you bit your lip as your eyebrows bumped together. You were calculating your monthly expenses along with the money for your savings in case of emergency. It’s expensive but you’re determined to cut back just to buy it. You kept your eyes on the tag as you took half a step away from it but your back was met by something, or rather someone behind you.

“It’s not cheap, is it?” A man’s deep voice boomed as you turned around, but your eyes were met by a broad chest. He’s big, you thought. He’s literally blocking your view. It didn’t help that you were short enough to have to look up to see his face. He was also staring at the playpen as he held the pushcart beside him.

“Y-yeah…” You answered, a bit awkward as you found yourself admiring the guy. You admired fathers who are active when it comes to their children. You grew up without a father so, you just found it endearing. You looked away from the man, gritting your teeth as an image of Satoru and his girlfriend shopping for baby things appeared before your eyes for a split second.

“Excuse me, sir. I still have to buy my daughter a gift.” You bowed slightly before turning away. He just nodded his head, too occupied to even look at you. You proceeded to check out the little dolls, hoping that you’d find something that’ll really catch your daughter’s eye. Picking up a dark-haired baby doll with big blue eyes sitting on a stroller, you smiled as you remembered how it has the same eyes as your baby.

You went to pay for the doll, and your heart was filled with joy despite the throbbing pain in your skull and the hot feeling behind your eyes. You reminded yourself not to forget to take your medicine. Thinking about getting sick and having to leave your child for a couple of days with them again makes you anxious, afraid that she’ll never want to go home to you again. 

You hurriedly went home, driving in the midst of the rain. You put the little doll on the chair, ready to surprise your baby girl when she comes back. You had to bear with the time, constantly checking your phone if your little girl and her dad are on the way to you. Your heart swelled at the thought. 

Though, you know that you’ll never be the one he comes home to, it’s still nice to think about. 

—--------------------------------

“She really called me Mama.” Naomi giggled as she kissed his daughter’s cheek. Satoru smiled, watching them play together warms his heart. It made him feel like he was staring at his family even if he knows that his daughter isn’t hers. He pursed his lips, remembering the look in your eyes at what you heard the child say.

He felt conflicted, not knowing how to react to all of it. He doesn’t want to embarrass his girlfriend by correcting her in front of you. But he also felt bad that he just watched you walk out that door on the verge of tears. Satoru had you memorized after all this time, it wasn’t a long time but he used to watch everything you do.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, though.” Satoru sighed, shaking his head as he pushed a bit of Naomi’s hair away from her face. Her expression dropped as she adjusted the toddler in her arms. Satoru pulled her close to his side, hugging her waist as he thought about how to explain it to her without making her feel disheartened.

“I’m worried about how Y/N will feel about it, to be honest. I don’t know but it may worry her.” He kissed the side of her forehead before stepping away as he watches his daughter’s eyes look at them. He knows that she’s still too young but he feared that she’ll get confused by all of this. 

Like why is her father not with her mother, and why is he holding someone else?

He wondered if she’ll grow to hate him for giving up on their family. “Oh, Is that so…I thought we were fine already.” Naomi’s voice was quiet as she bit her lip, making Satoru rethink. “It’s not that, I just think that maybe that’s how she might feel.” Satoru took one of her hands, kissing it before rubbing his thumb on her soft skin. “No, I understand, I got too comfortable. I’m just a girlfriend, I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Satoru doesn’t want to make her feel like this, she’s just really attached to his baby. He knows that Naomi adores kids, they often joke around about it, so he could see why she’s excited about his daughter calling her Mama. Thinking about it now, maybe this shouldn’t be so bad. After all, she’s not gonna be just a girlfriend to him forever, right? Naomi is a great person, and Satoru thinks that it’s not impossible to have a future with her.

“Don’t say that. That’s just my assumption. She’ll tell if it’s not alright, I know. We’re co-parenting so we have to talk about those stuff.” Three squeezes to her hands made Naomi smile sweetly at him, her eyes as kind as the stars. “Yeah, discussions are important. I don’t want her to feel like I’m trying to keep her away from us.” The calmness in her voice comforted Satoru.

—-------------------------------------

After receiving a text from Satoru, you found yourself staring at the mirror, retouching your makeup like it’s gonna make him fall for you. Hopeless. Not long after, the doorbell rang and you dashed to the door. There, Satoru stood with Yui asleep on his shoulders. You took her bags, along with the teddy bear that she was hugging to her chest. Seeing her holding it again made you feel relieved.

“Are you feeling better now?” Satoru inquired, walking past you to put your kid in her little bed. You hummed in response, “She’s full, don’t give her any more milk. Naomi fed her before she fell asleep.” Her again. You thought as the small smile on your face dissipated. You’re just thankful that he didn’t take her with them here.

There was a moment of silence as the two of you watched your daughter sleep peacefully. A sigh escaped Satoru’s lips before he turned to you. He was about to say something, but closed his mouth, thinking. You took a deep breath, pursing your lips as you collected your thoughts. You started to rub your hands together, trying to get rid of the cold feeling on your fingertips.

Your communication issues with Satoru only worsened when he got a girlfriend. Seeing how he is with her made you doubt the importance of your words to him. It’s like if you get stuck in a room together with her and something happens, you’re almost certain that he’d accuse you first. You wouldn’t admit it but you yearn for him. You yearn for the way he acts towards her. You yearn for the things he does for her. 

You yearn for the things he so easily, willingly offer to her; things you had to beg for when you were still together.

“Satoru, I just want to ask…Since when did Yui start to call Naomi Mama?” You looked at the ground, somewhat embarrassed of your question but can’t pinpoint why. It just made you feel…weak and insecure. And you are that. But you can’t let Satoru see it. You don’t want him to feel even more sorry for you. You can see it in his and his girlfriend’s eyes whenever they look at you. They probably pity you and the state you are in. 

Alone. With no one to hold your pieces together but you.

“I don’t really remember. Look, I was going to mention that…” Satoru trailed, looking everywhere but you. He probably noticed your discomfort earlier. “I know it doesn’t seem right to you because she’s just my girlfriend but…” Here’s the “but” again. How come he can always find the good when it comes to her, even when she literally did you so wrong by letting your daughter call her Mama and even acting like one in front of you?

Ever since Satoru got a girlfriend, arguing with him started to feel like fighting in a war without any type of armor in your body. How are supposed to stand strong, when the fact that he’ll always be on her side was your weakness? There were times when you wanted to fight for yourself but you couldn’t bear to because you know that he was shielding her from everything, heedlessly deserting you.

“I didn’t really appreciate it. I mean… I-I just think she’s not in the place to—” You thought the words you chose to describe the situation were too risky when you were cut off by Satoru, taking his glasses off. You can’t read him but he’s looking at you with that apologetic gaze again. His face was filled with contrite and you can’t quite understand why. But like a mouse sensing danger, you wanted to run away.

“I…I’m thinking about proposing to Naomi.” It shouldn’t hurt. You told yourself again. You don’t have the right to feel hurt. This man disrespected you, hurt you, and made you feel so incredibly small yet here you are, wishing you were the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. “I know she’s just my girlfriend now, but it’s bound to change.” You suddenly just wanted him to leave. “She…she’d like to ask for permission to let our daughter call her Mom. You know she treats Yui like she’s her—” 

“I don’t want to.” You whispered firmly through gritted teeth, cutting Satoru off. You don’t wanna hear it anymore. You can’t go through that again and you can’t let that happen again. “Yui is my daughter, and I don’t want her calling anyone else Mama.” You looked up at him with glassy eyes before turning away to walk out of the room, not wanting to startle the toddler from her slumber. Satoru was instantly on your tail, calling your name.

“She’s my daughter, too. Y/n, what is wrong? I know that you have your limitations and that’s why I’m here to talk about it with you, but why are you acting like this?” He walked closer to you, trying to catch your eyes. “I know it’s not just about this, I know you’ve been having problems with her but give a reason, at least. She’s been nothing but good to our kid. ” It’s getting hard for you to breathe as you tried to process your emotions and his questions.

You proceeded to the kitchen, hurrying to grab yourself a bottle of water before you collapse, but failing terribly when Satoru spoke the next sentence “Y/N, we all have to adjust, don’t be unfair to her, she doesn’t deserve it.” 

“And I do?!” You shouted at him, taking him by surprise and making him take a step back. 

“You think she doesn’t deserve any of that shit but I DO?!” You lamented, shaking your head in pain and disbelief. There were tears streaming down your face and no pattern of breathing can help you control it. You were able to keep it in when he shoved his new girlfriend in your face several months ago, but now it’s taking its toll.

You were about to get the clothes that he bought for your daughter on your way home from work but were met with a woman snuggled up to him on his couch. You hated him for allowing you to see them like that when he knows that you haven’t even processed your split yet because a month before that, he was saying that he could fix his shortcomings for you and his daughter. 

You remember how sick you felt in your stomach when he introduced her, saying that you weren’t supposed to see them like that. It’s revolting; how he thought that you were upset because of what you saw and not because he just went back on his words. Naomi kept her head down, standing in front of you as she muttered an apology before scurrying to Satoru’s room. 

Naomi was his father’s new assistant and unlike you, she got to finish her studies. Despite being classmates in high school, she was three years older than you due to the frequent relocation of her family. Regardless of her tough childhood, she was known to be a smart kid. No wonder his mother approved of her in such a short amount of time. 

You and Satoru were never perfect but it doesn’t mean that you were never happy with each other before. The issues overpowered your interest in each other, making it hard for the two of you to bounce back. You admit that you’ve been negligent of Satoru at a certain point of your relationship but it was only because you got tired of his ways.

He would come home late, making you stay up all night because he failed to reply when you texted him, asking him his whereabouts. He’d be out drinking with friends, and it wasn’t a problem but you just wanted him to at least let you know so wouldn’t be worrying to the point that you can’t even sleep.

His mother was overbearing. You got pregnant by someone’s son in a one-night stand and that’s all she paints you with. You were belittled and told that you can’t even take care of the child properly. Hell, was she so eager for Satoru to leave you and find someone better who achieved something in life.

Consequently, this negligence led to fits of jealousy from Satoru. This drove you to quit the job you used to have after a coworker of yours who only wanted to help became the subject of his suspicions. His mother saw you getting dropped off by your friend while she was babysitting your daughter. 

It was only because your car broke down and you don’t want to bother Satoru at work. You couldn’t really blame him for thinking that way because you know that he’s been feeling invisible to you which wasn’t true. You just don’t know how to deal with it anymore and you started to pull yourself away.

It got to the point where you couldn’t even communicate how you truly feel about him because it was overshadowed by your problems. You were arrogant enough to tell him that someone could treat you right and do much better and now, look at you; standing before him and his girl. Longing for him and eating the words you spitefully told him.

Pining so intensely for something you never had to the point where you physically ache.

The memory was tormenting, heart-rending, and traumatic to you. And now you get to watch them write their happy ending while you are here, left in the dust, drowning in the feelings that will never ever get recognized and will never ever be relevant. 

It hasn’t even been a year, and he’s already planning to marry her. He’s been nothing but better to her, yet, he couldn’t even change his ways for you and your child? Couldn’t he learn to truly love you after everything you endured just to be with him? You know that you have flaws, and chose some wrong steps and paths in your relationship. 

But you can’t bear to lose him like this. You know that you could have fought more for your relationship. He’d always say that you’d work things out. So, why did he stop? How could he stop choosing you so easily?

“How could you give her the world, yet refuse me the tiny bit of what I have left?” 

Your voice was small as you backed away, defeated. Satoru couldn’t move. From everything that has happened that morning, he could tell that you’ve been on edge. To Satoru, the only thing that connects you to him is his daughter. He refuses to believe that after all of that, you can still make it work.

At least, that’s the realization he came about when he met Naomi. She taught him that love isn’t supposed to be strenuous, it isn’t always about fighting. Within his tumultuous relationship with you, she came around and showed him that he’s seen. That his feelings are valid. He came to the conclusion that maybe he just wanted to love you because you have a child together. 

“Tiny bit?” He asked, frustrated that you just won’t let this go easily, irked that you always think you’re the only one having a hard time. If Satoru’s being honest, he’s just tired of it all. He just wants you to understand his point and get it over with. But now you’re crying in front of him and again, he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t even think of the right things to say or the right decisions to make. It’s like it’s all back to square one with you.

“You call it ‘tiny bit’ when I couldn’t even live my life because of you?! I’ve given everything, Y/N! I just want to be at peace with everything and I’m obviously not having it with you!” You couldn’t even breathe through the piercing ache in your chest from the daggers that are coming out of his mouth. Your hand reached over to your chest, grasping your shirt as his every word irreversibly pulverized your already wounded heart.

“I wish I never met you that night and I wish I never had Yui with you. You’re a thorn in my side, Y/N!” By the time he finished screaming at you, you were shaking like a leaf, grabbing a chair beside your table as your wide eyes stared at him in shock. Grief, mortification, and agony were plastered on your face, and only then did Satoru’s words sink into him.

“Y/N, I—” Before he could even form a proper phrase, a loud cry erupted from the other room. Yui. He watched as you quickly wiped away your tears, seeing the emotions mix inside your eyes until they turned into a weeping void with all the tears pooling inside them.

“I…I loved you, Satoru. And I hate that even now that you’re kicking me while I’m down for the sake of someone else, I still love you.” The crack in your voice had Satoru subconsciously moving closer to you, opening his arms to pull you into him but you were quick to flinch away, sniveling.

“Please, just—just go. Do whatever you want, just d-don’t take Yui away. I’m fine with it now, Satoru.” It’s almost as though something in you died when he spoke those words to you. You don’t know if he heard because you couldn’t even hear yourself. You could feel the beat of your heart in your chest and each one of them sends a burning ache to your body. “Just go, please.” You whimpered as you bit your upper lip, looking down on the floor. 

Satoru can’t take his eyes off of your fragile figure as you leaned on the kitchen counter, slowly walking back to your daughter’s room. He remained unmoving until you exited the kitchen area. It was only after a few minutes that he decided to go, not bothering to wipe away the tears that rolled down his face as he listened to your muffled cries behind the closed door.

Each sob was filled with anguish that Satoru knows he’ll never be able to erase.

—------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later have passed yet Satoru still doesn’t know what to make of himself. He couldn’t focus on anything that he works on. He couldn’t even workout properly, he always ends up getting angry. It was a good thing that both he and Naomi were swarmed with tasks; they didn’t have time to interact any more than what their jobs would allow. If they did, Satoru isn’t sure if he’ll be able to focus on her. She still has time to visit every week, though. During those days, she spends her time with Satoru and sometimes, Yui.

He makes sure to free his time and himself completely when he’s with his daughter so he can give his full attention to her. Satoru picks her up from your house, same schedule as before. Sometimes it’s you, but other times, it was your mother. “All I asked of you was to never break her, Gojo.” were the first words she spoke to him. Satoru can’t look her in the eyes. Your mother was a kind woman, humble and unjudging. And to have her talking to him like that, Satoru was beyond ashamed.

He couldn’t give her a reason, or an answer. All he did was apologize. Like he should. Naomi was unaware of it all and the proposal that Satoru was planning for her was set aside due to all that had happened. He just doesn’t think it’s the right time to plan about it when his relationship with you is strained. Yes, you’re not together anymore but you’re still the mother of his child and he wants to be civil with you, at least.

Yui kept asking for you even when she was with him as if sensing that her Mama was hurting. She’s always carrying the new doll that you bought for her. Satoru once asked her if you cry and she would simply shake her head. He gets nothing out of it, of course, she’s just a kid. But who else could he ask?

Satoru has no idea what you have been doing. He knows that you go to work, but other than that, he’s clueless about the places you go to and why your mother started babysitting his daughter more during the past few days. Satoru thought that maybe you just can’t stand seeing him anymore and is refusing to face him whenever he picks his daughter up. You have every right and reason to despise him, after all.

So, now he stands on the other side of your door, wondering if he’ll get to see your face this time or be welcomed with the frowning face of your mother. He knocked three times, like he always does, adjusting the collar of his shirt. To his surprise, it wasn’t any of the two women he was expecting holding the door open for him. 

“Who are you?” A shirtless man with a muscular build stood before Satoru, a curious yet accusatory gaze scanned him like he was an intruder in his own woman’s home. He leaned on his tattooed arm against the doorframe, blocking the tiny view he has of the inside. It pissed him off, clenching his jaw for a few seconds before speaking.

“Who are you?” Satoru bit back, raising his brows in an attempt to intimidate the guy. He’s only a couple of centimeters taller than the stranger but he’s bigger. It wasn’t a big deal to him until the man opened the door wider. A short, deep chuckle escaped his lips before a smug smirk appeared on his face. 

Tilting his head, the man gave Satoru a clear look at the scratches adorning his nape and the purple and maroon marks on his jaw. It made Satoru’s blood boil, unreasonably so.

“Think you know who I am now?” 

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a/n: just send an ask if u want to be removed :>

[hamilton-here]

Hi, I have a request if you want to write it.

What about Lewis and reader having a big argument before the race in Monaco because she has to go on a work trip and Lewis is super upset because she won’t be there for him and says some mean things to her that he actually doesn’t mean ……… reade leaves upset and he is also in a very bad mood and then the video of him dancing with this girl in the club appears and reader sees it and texts him something like "so I guess that’s it then?" and attaches a screnshot or so.

If you like the idea it would be amazing if you could wrote it. Thanksss

𝐹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝒯𝓇𝓊𝓉𝒽𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Another request completed. Hope you enjoy. Lots of love xx

Summary: After a heated argument you and Lewis a viral video sparks rumours about Lewis and random woman. He comes to clear the truth to you, and together you slowly rebuild trust away from the spotlight

Warnings: angst

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The late afternoon sunlight poured in a warm, golden cascade through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lewis’s hotel suite. The Monte Carlo harbour sparkled beneath the clear sky, boats lazily drifting on the turquoise water. Outside, the streets thrummed with the excitement of race weekend - the hum of engines, distant cheers, the clinking of glasses in open-air cafes but inside, the air was heavy, suffocating, as if the entire energy of the city had been drained away and replaced by a dense, choking silence.

You stood near the bed, hands methodical but trembling as you folded the last few pieces of clothing into your suitcase. The fabric slid through your fingers like water, but your mind was tangled in a gnawing knot of anxiety and exhaustion, pressing hard against your ribs. The soft ticking of the old clock on the wall grew unbearably loud in your ears, each second stretching thin, dragging out with the relentless weight of dread.

Lewis stood by the glass balcony door, his silhouette rigid against the fading light. His arms were crossed so tightly over his chest the muscles in his forearms bulged, and his jaw was clenched with such force that the sharp tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. Usually, he wore his calm, confident mask an armour honed by years under relentless media scrutiny and the brutal pressure of racing. But now, his face was stripped bare, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache. His eyes flickered with something brittle and dangerous, a storm barely contained beneath a fragile surface.

You swallowed thickly, words caught like thorns in your throat, before forcing yourself to speak in a quiet voice. “I have to leave tomorrow,” you said, not quite daring to meet his eyes. “For the work trip we talked about. The one in London.”

His head snapped around with sharp, unreadable eyes that searched you for something anger, disappointment, maybe even a flicker of understanding. “Tomorrow?” His voice was flat, heavy like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of tension through the room.

You nodded slowly, lifting your chin just enough to meet his gaze for a brief, shaky moment, steady despite the flutter of nerves twisting painfully in your stomach. “Yeah. I know it’s Monaco weekend, and I know how much it means to you. But this trip was booked months ago. I can’t cancel now.”

Lewis shoved off the doorframe abruptly and began pacing in restless, uneven strides, his usual measured grace replaced by frantic agitation. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging roughly at the roots, as if trying to wrench the frustration free from his chest. The crease between his brows deepened, cutting harsh lines into his face. His voice came out sharp, tense, brimming with barely contained anger.

“You know how important this race is to me. Monaco isn’t just any weekend it’s everything. And yet, here you are, telling me you’re going to be somewhere else. Again.”

That again stabbed deep, hanging in the air like a dark accusation. Your stomach twisted painfully. “Lewis, it’s not like I’m choosing this over you on purpose. I wanted to be here. I wanted to watch you race, to support you. But—”

He cut you off, voice rising, rough and sharp as broken glass. “But what? But your ‘career’? Your ‘important opportunities’? Maybe you just don’t care as much as you say you do.”

The words hit you like a sudden, cruel slap. Your hands froze, clutching the soft fabric of your shirt until your nails dug painfully into your skin. “That’s not fair. You don’t get to say that.”

Lewis spun, his eyes flashing cold fire, hard and unyielding. “Maybe it is fair. Maybe you’ve been making your choice clear for a while. I’m always the one waiting - waiting for you to show up, to make time for me, to choose me. But you never do.”

Your voice trembled, the hurt twisting into something raw, fragile, and brittle. “You think I don’t want to be here? You think I’m choosing something else over you? You don’t know how hard this is for me.”

He scoffed, stepping forward until barely an inch separated you. His breath was hot on your face, sharp with frustration. “Then what is it? Hiding behind your job? Using it as an excuse to avoid things? Maybe you’re just not that into this. Not into me.”

A hot rush of tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve been through?”

“Because it feels like that,” he snapped back, voice low but venomous. “Like I’m always the second option, the one who’s there when it’s convenient for you. Like I’m just your fallback plan when the ‘real’ things aren’t happening.”

His words dug deeper than you expected, unraveling something fragile inside. You shook your head, voice breaking. “That’s not true. You mean more to me than anything. More than any job, any trip.”

He sneered, disbelief heavy in his tone. “If that’s true, then why do I feel like I’m fighting tooth and nail for scraps of your time? Why does it feel like your life is a thousand miles away even when you’re standing right in front of me?”

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with everything neither of you dared say aloud. Your hands trembled as you lifted them, fingertips brushing the edge of your suitcase as if it could hold you steady.

“I’m trying,” you whispered, voice raw. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Lewis’s eyes darkened, and a bitter, humourless laugh escaped him. “Trying? Trying isn’t good enough anymore. Maybe I’m just tired. Tired of being the one who’s always left waiting for you to decide if I’m worth the fight.”

The vulnerability hiding beneath his anger was almost unbearable, and the tears you’d been holding back slipped free, hot and unforgiving down your cheeks. “Maybe I’m tired too. Tired of feeling like I have to choose. Between what I want, what you want, and what we could be.”

His expression faltered for a fleeting second the sharp edges softening with regret but then hardened again as if afraid to show weakness. “Maybe we’re just not meant to be.”

Your breath hitched painfully. “Maybe you’re right.”

The walls seemed to close in, the space shrinking as the weight of those words fell heavy between you. Your bag suddenly felt impossibly heavy in your hands. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Maybe I should just go. I talk to you later when you decide to grow up.”

Before he could answer, you turned and walked out, each step echoing the breaking you both felt. The door clicked softly behind you cold, final. Lewis stayed rooted by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. He stared out at the glittering harbour, the yachts, the fiery sunset melting over the water but his mind was miles away, lost in the sting of regret.

His cruel words the ones born of fear and frustration replayed over and over in his head. He hadn’t meant any of it not really. But fear had gripped him like a vice: the fear of losing you, of being left behind in the chaos of your life. And that fear had turned his love into something jagged, harsh, and raw.

The loneliness was suffocating. The image of you walking away hurt, angry, distant was burned into his vision. He wanted to call you back, to apologise, to explain, to fix the damage but pride and frustration held him captive, silencing his voice.

So, he remained, alone with the storm raging inside, waiting for the next move, for a sign, for anything.

The first light of dawn seeped softly through the airplane window, casting gentle pastel hues across the clouds below. London’s sprawling cityscape slowly came into view beneath you with rivers winding like silver ribbons, clusters of buildings catching the early sun, and the awakening pulse of the metropolis stretching out endlessly. The steady drone of the plane’s engines hummed like a lullaby, constant and soothing, but inside your chest, your heartbeat unevenly, tangled with exhaustion and an ache that had nothing to do with physical tiredness.

Hours ago, you had folded the last piece of clothing into your suitcase in Lewis’s hotel suite in Monaco. You still remembered the way the late afternoon sunlight had poured in, casting long golden beams over the glittering harbour and the narrow, winding streets below. You remembered the dense silence between you thick and suffocating as you both wrestled with the weight of unspoken words and fragile hopes. Saying goodbye hadn’t been a gesture of hope or closure, but a necessity carved from desperation and exhaustion.

Now, as the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac of London Heathrow, the emotional weight of that moment settled over you once again like a stone sinking deep into still waters. The bustling energy of the airport engulfed you - announcements crackled overhead, wheels clattering on polished floors, and the sharp scent of freshly brewed coffee and buttery pastries wafted from nearby cafes. But beneath all that noise and life, your own world felt hollow, echoing with the emptiness of absence.

You moved with practiced efficiency collecting your suitcase, threading your way through the crowds but each step was heavier than the last, burdened by the ghost of what you left behind. The messages you hadn’t sent and the apologies you couldn’t say circled relentlessly in your mind. You found yourself clinging to a fragile hope that this trip wouldn’t be a fracture in your story with Lewis, but a pause a breath before the next chapter, however uncertain it might be.

Outside the airport, the city was waking up in earnest. Yellow cabs and black taxis surged through the streets, the air crisp with early morning freshness and the scent of rain still lingering from the night before. The Thames glinted under the pale sun as the city’s pulse quickened with the day’s unfolding.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Monaco, the heat of the Mediterranean sun beat down on the narrow streets as the roar of engines echoed through the circuit. The grandstands were alive with thousands of fans, their excitement electric and palpable, hanging thick in the air like static. The air was redolent with burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, the scent mingling with the salty sea breeze drifting in from the harbour.

Lewis was already deep in the zone, his entire being focused on the task at hand. The frustration from last night your parting words, the tension still simmering lurched beneath the surface but had to be buried, locked away in favour of razor-sharp concentration. Every sense was heightened: the vibration of the steering wheel, the precise feedback from the tires gripping the asphalt, the rhythm of the engine pulsing in his chest.

Lap after lap, he pushed relentlessly, chasing the perfect line through the unforgiving Monaco streets, threading between barriers mere inches away. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his face remained a mask of fierce determination. This was his battlefield, the place where every millisecond counted, and giving anything less than everything wasn’t an option.

When the final lap ended, the screens lit up Lewis had secured fourth place on the grid. It was a respectable position, but far from the ideal podium spot he craved. His expression was tightly controlled, disappointment buried deep beneath layers of professionalism and focus. There was no room here for the vulnerability he’d shown last night.

Then came the blow news of a three-place grid penalty due to a technical infringement during qualifying. The penalty was a harsh and bitter setback on a track where overtaking was nearly impossible. Fourth place became seventh, and with it, the dream of a perfect weekend slipped further out of reach.

Lewis exhaled slowly, jaw clenched in frustration as he ran a hand through his hair. The disappointment was real and raw, but so was his resolve. The race wasn’t over yet, and he was already shifting gears mentally plotting, strategising, readying himself for the battle ahead. If he couldn’t win from pole, he would fight from wherever he started.

Back in London, you sat quietly in the back of a black cab, the city rushing past the window in a blur of glass and steel and endless possibilities. Your phone vibrated softly in your bag another message from a colleague confirming details of your work trip but your mind was far away, entangled in the image of Lewis’s clenched jaw, the flash of anger and hurt in his eyes, and the fragile thread of hope you both still clung to.

The contrast between your two worlds couldn’t have been starker. You, immersed in the rhythm of work, presentations, and meetings, wrapped in the anonymity of a crowded city; and Lewis, battling under the glaring sun, surrounded by noise and pressure, fighting for every inch on a circuit that was as unforgiving as it was iconic.

And beneath it all, the silent question hovered in both your hearts fragile, uncertain, and aching:

Could what was broken between you still be mended?

By mid-morning, London was fully awake.

The city moved with a kind of relentless rhythm rain tapping steadily against the windowpanes, double-decker buses growling through puddles, and commuters weaving between umbrellas like ants in a hive. Canary Wharf pulsed with sharp lines and glass towers, its polished skyline rising into the misty drizzle. Inside one of those towers, on the 27th floor, you sat at a long, gleaming conference table, your fingers curled tightly around a branded notepad as your supervisor clicked through the slides of a high-level presentation.

The words on the screen were clear— “Cross-Border Intelligence Exchange” but they may as well have been in another language.

You tried to focus. You really did.

But your attention kept slipping past the datapoints, the statistics, the dry professional chatter about new crime mapping models and drifting instead to the vibration of your phone tucked discreetly beneath your notes. Not that it had buzzed. Not even once. Still, you checked the screen under the table again, almost instinctively, hoping for a flash of a message. His name. Anything.

Nothing.

Your last text “Landed safely. Hope quali goes well.” was still sitting there, delivered but unread. A cold echo.

You shifted in your seat, your posture a little too stiff, your jaw tight with the effort of holding yourself together. Around you, your colleagues nodded, made notes, asked thoughtful questions. You smiled where you were meant to, scribbled things that didn’t register, and tried to ignore the quiet storm brewing just beneath your ribs.

Your body was in London, dressed in a sleek black suit, surrounded by peers who saw you as capable, confident, sharp. But your mind was still in Monaco, caught in a moment that kept looping on repeat.

That final night.

His silence.

The heaviness of your goodbye.

Even now, you could feel the warmth of that hotel room the golden light spilling through gauzy curtains, the hum of Formula 1 coverage playing low on the TV, the faint clink of your suitcase zipper as you packed in slow, deliberate motions, half-hoping he’d say something to stop you. But Lewis had just stood there, arms crossed, his eyes locked on the horizon like he didn’t know how to look at you without unraveling.

“Maybe I should just go.”

You had said it softly, not out of spite, but resignation. And when he didn’t answer when he only turned his back you had left. Quietly. Like someone tiptoeing out of a dream.

Now, that distance stretched between you like a taut wire one you weren’t sure could bear the weight of everything left unsaid.

As lunch neared, you stepped out of the meeting early, claiming you had to make a quick call. You didn’t.

Instead, you took the elevator down and crossed the slick marble lobby, heels clicking in sharp rhythm as you moved through the revolving doors. Outside, the cold hit you instantly biting wind cutting through your coat, the smell of wet concrete and fresh coffee curling into the air. You ducked beneath a small awning, shielding yourself from the rain as you pulled out your phone.

Still nothing.

You stared at the thread for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You started to type:

“How are you feeling about the penalty?”

Deleted. Too casual. Too soon.

You tried again:

“I hated leaving that way.”

Deleted. Too raw. Too desperate.

Another pause. The grey clouds shifted above, heavy and unrelenting, like they could sense the ache behind your eyes.

Finally, you typed:

“I know you’re focused. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. Good luck tomorrow.”

You stared at it. Read it again. Then hit send.

The message disappeared into the ether. A digital bottle tossed into an ocean.

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, exhaling slowly as you leaned against the railing. The city stretched before you cold and humming with movement but your reflection in the glass window beside you told a different story. You looked tired. Hollowed out by the kind of emotional fatigue that doesn’t show up in meetings or resumes.

You missed him. You missed the warmth of his laugh in the mornings, the way he always stole the last bite of your dessert, the way he’d whisper encouragement into your hair when he thought you were asleep. But what you missed most was the way you felt when he looked at you like you were safe. Like you were known.

Thousands of miles away, under the golden sun of Monaco, Lewis sat in his driver's room at the back of the Ferrari paddock. The air was thick with the scent of engine oil, rubber, and anticipation. Mechanics bustled outside, voices called out over team radios, but inside, it was quiet. Still.

He sat hunched on the edge of the bench, elbows braced on his knees, his phone resting beside him like a weight.

The technical debrief was over. The penalty had been confirmed.

A three-place grid drop for a minor but unavoidable infraction something to do with track limits and a yellow flag in Q2. He’d qualified fourth. Now he’d start seventh. On a track like Monaco, where overtaking was damn near impossible, it was more than just a penalty. It was a sentence.

His jaw clenched. Frustration simmered low in his chest, but beneath it was something else. Something heavier.

His phone vibrated.

He didn’t need to check it to know who it was.

He reached for it anyway. Her name lit up the screen.

I know you’re focused. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you. Good luck tomorrow.

He inhaled sharply, thumb hovering above the message. It was gentle. Thoughtful. Her way of saying, I’m still here.

But he wasn’t sure he deserved that.

He hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t told her to stay. Hadn’t even said goodbye.

He thought about that last moment in the hotel the tremble in her voice, the way her eyes shimmered even as she held her chin high. And still, he hadn’t moved. He’d let her walk away.

Now here she was again, reaching across the silence. And he couldn’t even bring himself to answer.

Instead, he locked the screen and leaned forward, the phone gripped tight in his palm. His muscles ached, not from the car, but from tension the kind born of regret, of pride, of fear that maybe this time, he’d gone too far.

A soft knock on the door.

Angela appeared, her expression calm but knowing. “Media pen,” she said gently.

He nodded, standing slowly. Cap in hand. Mask in place.

But as he stepped out into the glare of cameras and microphones, his heart remained behind in that quiet room still holding your message in the silence he couldn’t bring himself to break.

That evening in London, your hotel room was quiet.

The TV played a news recap in the background something about Parliament and crime statistics, but you weren’t listening. You sat curled on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, your work bag tossed unceremoniously in the corner.

You held your phone like it was something fragile. Like if you stared hard enough, the screen might light up. It didn’t.

You opened your camera roll instead.

Scrolled.

Past courtroom snapshots. Team photos. Coffee cups. Notes scribbled in the margins of textbooks.

Then, him.

Lewis had taken it the morning after Barcelona. You were laughing with a croissant in hand, his arm around your shoulder, bed hair wild, cheeks flushed. He’d said, “Look at us F1 and FBI.” You’d rolled your eyes, laughing at his joke about your dual lives.

Now, the memory was a needle.

You traced the image slowly. “I miss you,” you whispered into the dim room.

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t cry. You couldn’t. It felt like if you let one tear slip, the rest would never stop.

Outside, rain tapped against the windows. A city alive and moving.

Inside, silence.

And somewhere in Monaco, Lewis lay awake in a dark hotel suite, listening to the sound of waves lapping at the harbour.

His phone glowed softly on the nightstand. Your message unread but not forgotten.

Neither of you slept.

Both wondering how long silence could stretch before it broke something you couldn’t fix. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rain had eased by the time Sunday rolled around, though the skies still hung low and stubbornly grey, casting the city in a muted, melancholic light. Drops clung to the windows of your hotel room like they were afraid to let go, reluctant to slide down and disappear. It was the kind of weather that made the world feel like it was standing still. Or maybe it was just you.

You sat curled in the corner of the room, in that old, creaky leather armchair that had somehow become your anchor over the past few days. Legs pulled tight to your chest, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders like armour, and a mug of tea on the armrest now lukewarm and untouched.

The TV was already on, the volume low but steady, filling the room with soft piano keys and the gentle hum of pre-race commentary. You barely heard the words. Your eyes were fixed on the images on the screen.

Monaco.

Even seeing the word flash across the screen twisted something in your chest. That place was never just a race to you not anymore. It was where the world had felt too small and too big all at once. It was the place you’d left him. The place where something in your chest had cracked open wide and raw, too afraid to stay, too heartbroken to go.

Now you were back in London. Alone.

The broadcast painted a familiar picture sweeping drone shots of the glittering harbour, yachts bobbing like pearls on dark velvet water, and the streets of Monte Carlo sunlit and shimmering with anticipation. Celebrities wandered along balconies, camera flashes sparked like tiny stars, and the orange of the marshals’ suits burned against the greys of the narrow circuit.

Somehow, despite the fanfare, it all felt so far away. Distant. Removed.

They cut to the Ferrari garage.

And there he was.

Lewis.

He stood against the wall; red fireproofs clinging to every line of his body like molded steel. His helmet was on, visor up, eyes locked onto his engineer as he listened with that sharp, quiet intensity he always had before a race. Arms folded. Jaw tight. Shoulders set.

Even through the screen, you could tell something wasn’t sitting right with him.

You knew him too well.

There was a flicker of something just beneath the surface tension, or maybe disappointment. Not in the car, or the strategy. In himself. In how things had played out. In everything that still hung between you, unresolved and aching.

Your grip tightened around the blanket. You hadn’t heard his voice in days, not since you’d left Monaco. The silence had been heavy, mutual, painful. He hadn’t chased after you—and you hadn’t expected him to. You both needed air, maybe. Or clarity.

But that didn’t make the ache any softer.

“Lewis Hamilton starting from P7 today after a grid penalty—” Crofty’s voice bled through the speakers, but the words floated past you like smoke. All you could focus on was him. The way he gave one last nod to the team, then turned toward the car.

You closed your eyes for a moment, imagining it. The sound of his breathing inside the helmet. The weight of the wheel in his gloved hands. The hum of adrenaline humming in his chest as he pulled away from the garage and rolled out onto the grid.

And then, lights out.

The race launched into motion engines screaming down into Sainte Dévote, tires kissing barriers, sparks flying through the tunnel. It was everything Monaco always was tight, relentless and unforgiving.

But your world had narrowed to one red car. Number 44.

Lewis hovered behind Sainz for what felt like an eternity. Lap after lap, you watched him try looked for the signs in his lines, in the onboard feed when the camera cut to him. He was fast. Determined. But trapped.

The Ferrari team called the undercut around lap 35. You leaned forward, heart rising to your throat. For a moment, just a breathless heartbeat, it looked like it might work.

But Monaco didn’t forgive boldness unless it was absolute.

He came back out still stuck in traffic, still watching the podium drift further away.

Verstappen was untouchable.

Leclerc was possessed driving like all of Monaco would collapse if he didn’t hold onto that win.

Lando was pure poetry.

Lewis fought. God, he fought. You felt every gear shift like it was your own heartbeat. Every millisecond mattered. And when he finally overtook Alonso after a perfectly timed pit window your hands flew to your mouth, and you exhaled a wordless, quiet laugh. A spark of something warm, proud, despite everything.

But it wasn’t enough.

The race ticked toward the end. Lap 78 came faster than you wanted.

And Lewis crossed the line fifth.

Respectable.

But not his goal. Not with the week he’d had. Not with what was weighing him down on the track and off.

The screen cut to parc fermé.

Lewis pulled off his gloves and helmet, sweat slicking his curls back, his face unreadable. He didn’t punch a wall. Didn’t drop his head. But something in the way he moved told you everything.

He was holding it together. But barely.

The interviews followed. Button. The same carousel.

“The team gave everything.”

“We’ll take the positives.”

“We go again.”

Words that didn’t touch the rawness underneath.

You reached for the remote and hit mute.

Silence settled over the room like a blanket, heavier than the clouds outside.

You sat there, motionless. Your tea had gone cold. The blanket had slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your waist. The only sound was the faint hum of London traffic six floors down, and the distant ringing of church bells in the breeze.

You stood and drifted to the window. Pressed your forehead to the cool glass. The Thames shimmered below, the city lights blinking slowly to life as the sun finally surrendered to dusk. People laughed on the sidewalk, umbrellas tucked under arms, their evenings just beginning.

Yours still felt stalled. Stuck in the moment you’d walked away from the one person who made the world feel bearable.

Then your phone buzzed behind you.

You turned slowly.

The screen lit up.

Lewis Hamilton.

Not a call. A message.

You hesitated; breath caught in your throat.

Then you picked it up, hands trembling slightly.

“Saw your message. Thank you. I felt it.”

“P5 wasn’t what I wanted. But I think you already know that.”

“I miss you.”

Three simple sentences. But they hit you like a tide.

You sat back down, heart thudding wildly, unsure if it was hope or heartbreak that pulsed harder in your chest.

The cursor blinked on your phone screen, waiting for your reply.

And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel paralysed by what to say.

You typed slowly, deliberately.

“I miss you too.”

“We need to talk. Really talk.”

“When you’re ready.”

You stared at the words for a moment. Then hit send.

There was no immediate reply. No sudden knock at the door. Just the soft hush of the world outside your window, the golden haze of early evening, and the faint echo of cars on wet streets.

But the silence between you didn’t feel as loud anymore.

It didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like a breath.

A pause.

A space to begin again, though it all came crashing down…

You woke to the pale hush of early morning light filtering through the hotel curtains, painting long, golden lines across the ceiling. The kind of light that should’ve felt peaceful. Soft. Safe.

But the moment your eyes opened, that brief illusion of calm was replaced with something heavier something that sank into your chest like a stone. You blinked slowly, willing yourself to move, to breathe, but you just…stayed there. Still. Listening to the quiet.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The air in the room was still. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir distant footsteps on wet pavement, the rumble of a delivery truck, a siren somewhere far off. The kind of morning noise that usually made you feel less alone.

Not today.

Your gaze drifted toward your phone on the nightstand. Its screen was black. Still. No missed calls. No new messages. Nothing from him.

Nothing from Lewis.

You rolled over slowly, reaching for it anyway, the faintest shred of hope still clinging to your ribs like an ache you didn’t know how to silence. You thumbed it open, almost too afraid to look.

Still nothing.

You stared at the screen. Your last message to him glowing back at you:

I miss you too. We need to talk. Really talk. When you’re ready.

It had been hours.

You told yourself he was probably exhausted. Or traveling. Or buried in debriefs. You tried to believe it, to believe in him, the way you always had quietly, faithfully, even when he didn't know it.

He’ll reply, you told yourself again. He just needs time.

You slipped out of bed, wrapped yourself in the plush hotel robe, and padded to the bathroom. The cold water on your face helped, a little. Just enough to clear the fog from your thoughts, but not enough to ease the pit in your stomach. You stared at your reflection in the mirror skin a little dull, eyes still puffy from sleep, from emotion, from everything you’d kept in for too long.

And still, behind it all…hope.

You made a cup of tea, letting the warmth of the mug seep into your palms as you curled back up in bed. The TV was still muted from the night before just flashing images of podiums and press conferences and glossy post-race montages.

Your phone vibrated suddenly, sharp and loud against the stillness.

Your heart jumped.

You grabbed it.

Group Chat: F1 Gossip Alert 👀

Of course. Your shoulders sagged slightly.

You considered muting it but then your eyes caught the preview:

“Not Lewis Hamilton in the club last night dancing like that when he just said, ‘we keep working’ LMAOOO”

Your stomach dropped.

Your thumb hovered. You tapped it open, heart already thudding painfully in your chest.

The video had already been downloaded, reshared, reposted. It took less than five seconds to know exactly what you were looking at.

Low lighting. Loud music. A packed club somewhere deep in Monaco. The kind of place where neon lights blurred against skin and secrets melted into sweat.

And there he was.

Lewis.

Wearing that deep red shirt you’d once helped him fold into a suitcase. Unbuttoned now, showing his chest, his chain catching the flash of strobe lights. He looked good. Effortlessly so. Like he hadn’t spent the night before finishing fifth in one of the most brutal, unforgiving races of the year.

And he wasn’t alone.

She was blonde. Almost the same height as him in heels. Her body moved like she knew she was being watched. Confident. Comfortable.

Her back was pressed firmly against his chest, fitting like they belonged like that. His arms loosely around her middle, pulling her into him. Her head tilted back, exposing the smooth line of her throat, her hand rising to cup the back of his neck.

His lips were at her ear.

She was laughing.

He was smiling.

That lazy, relaxed smile the one he wore when he was buzzed or trying not to feel too much. The one you’d seen a hundred times in private, in quiet hotel rooms, not places like this.

They were swaying to the beat, slow and close. His hand slid low on her waist, fingers splayed. Her arm lifted, curling back to rest behind his head like they’d done this before. Like they did this.

The video looped.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each repetition cut deeper.

Your tea burned against your thigh, unnoticed until the sting snapped you out of it. You jolted, setting the mug down with a soft thud, but your eyes were still locked on the screen.

You didn’t even realise you’d started shaking until the phone trembled in your grip.

You hadn’t expected much. Not a grand gesture. Not even an apology. But not this.

Not this.

Not her.

Not him, like that.

Not after what he said.

Not after what you said.

You opened your chat with him. Your fingers moved on their own, faster than your thoughts.

So I guess that’s it then?

Your breath caught. You hesitated for a second, but the video kept playing in the back of your mind. You took a screenshot. The frame caught her hand at his neck. His smile. The soft haze of intimacy that didn’t need sound to be understood.

Attached.

Send.

The little grey "delivered" checkmark appeared almost instantly.

So final.

So quiet.

So goddamn hollow.

You stared at the screen, your hands still trembling, heart pounding in your ears so loud it was hard to hear anything else. The ache that bloomed in your chest wasn’t sharp it was dull, slow, and spreading.

Maybe it meant nothing.

Maybe from the recording what had happened was misjudged and nothing to worry about.

Maybe she was a friend. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he wasn’t thinking.

Maybe you were stupid for hoping.

You let the phone fall onto the bed beside you. Let yourself fall too, back against the pillows, your chest rising and falling like it was trying to hold in the storm that had been building since last night.

Your eyes burned.

You pressed your palms to them, willing the tears not to fall. Not yet. Not again.

The clouds outside had returned. The golden morning had faded into a cold, dark smear against the London sky.

And still your phone stayed quiet.

No reply.

No explanation.

Just the silence.

And the screenshot.

And the girl in the video who wasn't you.

The hours slipped by like fog thick and indistinct, blurring everything into a slow, heavy silence.

You hadn’t moved much.

Not really.

The tea stain on the duvet had dried, a faint outline now shadowing the white. The TV flickered in the background with race recaps you couldn’t focus on. Your phone lay face down on the nightstand, banished after you’d checked it for the sixth time in ten minutes. Still nothing.

You had tried to distract yourself. Ordered breakfast, left it untouched. Stared out the window until your eyes stopped registering the view. You even debated texting him again something colder, sharper. Something that would make you feel less pathetic.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because despite everything…you still wanted him to be the one to reach out.

The phone pinged once.

Then again.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t move at first. Like your body didn’t trust your mind to handle whatever was waiting. But your hand eventually reached out, slow and reluctant, turning the phone over.

Lewis

Typing…

Your heart slammed once, violently, like it had been yanked back to life.

The dots disappeared.

Came back.

Then - finally:

Lewis: It’s not what it looked like. Please don’t shut down on me yet.

You stared at the message, jaw clenched, fingers tightening around your phone like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

You didn’t respond.

Not yet.

A second message appeared.

Lewis:

I was at the club. Yes. But she’s not…we’re not. I should’ve gone home, the media got it wrong. Should’ve replied to you. I saw your message and I didn’t know what to say.

You let the words sink in, letting them twist and ache. There was no denial of being there. No claim of innocence. Just a string of poor choices hung between you like rusted wire.

Your thumbs hovered. Then you typed: You didn’t know what to say, so you danced with someone else?

Three dots.

Disappeared.

Came back.

Lewis: I was avoiding it. Avoiding us. Because I don’t know how to fix it. I miss you more than I know how to explain, and that scares me. That makes me do stupid shit like this.

Another pause.

Lewis: I shouldn’t have been out. I shouldn’t have let her touch me. I wasn’t trying to replace you. I couldn’t if I tried.

You closed your eyes, pressing your head back against the headboard.

It wasn’t good enough.

But it was honest.

And that’s what hurt most.

You could hear his voice in the messages low, quiet, a little frayed around the edges. Not defensive. Just tired. Raw.

Just him.

You typed slowly.

You didn’t break my heart in that video. You broke it by not replying when I needed you.

The typing bubble didn’t return right away.

You imagined him reading it. Re-reading it. Maybe even closing his eyes like you had earlier, with regret heavy behind his ribs.

The phone vibrated again.

Lewis: I’m on the first flight out. If you don’t want to see me, I’ll go straight home. But I have to try. Because I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t matter.

You matter. More than I’ve ever admitted. Even to myself.

You covered your mouth with your hand.

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them.

You hadn’t even realised how badly you’d needed to hear. Something that sounded like him.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard again.

You didn’t type yes.

You didn’t type no.

Just -

You better not be lying to me, Lewis. Because I don’t think I could survive it this time.

Lewis: I’m not.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Lewis:

Don’t check social. Don’t look at the comments. Don’t let them tell our story before I can. Just wait for me.

Please.

You curled into yourself, phone pressed to your chest, eyes closed.

For the first time since waking up, you breathed without pain.

He was coming.

And this time, you weren’t sure what would happen when he arrived.

But you knew it would matter.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Hours later...

There was a knock at the door.

Not loud. Not rushed.

Just…there.

You froze mid-motion, one hand clutching the soft fabric of your robe, trying to pull it tighter around your waist. The sky outside had slipped into a moody, restless grey, filtering through the tall windows and casting your hotel suite in a dim, dusky blue. The entire day had passed in a strange limbo your thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a restless wind, your chest tightening with the weight of every unanswered question, every half-remembered memory that refused to settle.

Another knock came, firmer this time. A deliberate punctuation in the quiet.

You didn’t have to peer through the peephole. You already knew who was there.

Your fingers trembled, hovering on the cold metal of the door handle. The air felt thick, like the room itself was holding its breath.

And then, slowly, you turned it.

Lewis stood there. Cap pulled low over his forehead, dark hoodie zipped up to his throat. But it didn’t matter. His presence filled the doorway with a gravity that almost knocked the air out of you like a storm front had just rolled in and swallowed the light whole. His eyes found yours instantly, dark and searching, wide and vulnerable beneath the shadow of the cap. He looked wrecked not in the way exhaustion breaks a person down, but as if he’d been holding his breath for days, carrying the weight of something heavy, something raw.

You felt it too.

“Hi,” he said quietly, voice low, almost rough like he was still wrestling with the words.

You didn’t move. Your throat felt dry, your heart a slow drum under your ribs. “You flew all the way here.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Yeah.” His voice cracked on the word, honest and ragged. “I said I would.”

There was a long beat a silence thick with things left unsaid.

Then, gently, as if testing the air between you, you stepped aside.

He moved in cautiously, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile in the space you shared. Like the room itself might reject him if he pushed too hard. But it didn’t. It held him. Just like you.

You watched him cross to the centre of the room and turn, facing you directly. He didn’t sit. Didn’t make himself comfortable. He knew better than to pretend this was casual. This was a reckoning.

“I saw the video,” you said flatly, voice steady but cold. “Again. I’ve watched it probably twenty times.”

He nodded slowly. “I figured.”

Your eyes never left him. “And I keep asking myself why you didn’t push her away. Why you smiled like that. Why you looked like you’d rather be there with her than answering me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you held up a hand, stopping him.

“I let myself hope, Lewis. Even after everything. Even after how we ended. I let myself believe that when you said you missed me, you meant it. I wanted to believe that this time… maybe you’d fight for us.”

His jaw tightened. “I am fighting for us.”

His voice cracked, raw and thin, and something inside you trembled in response.

Lewis took a tentative step forward, hands raised slightly, like he was trying not to startle you. “Please. I need you to hear what that video didn’t show. Just let me explain.”

You nodded stiffly, a fragile thread of trust stretching taut.

He drew a slow, shaky breath. “That girl’s name is Violetta. She’s a friend of a friend. I don’t know her like that. I wasn’t flirting. And I damn sure wasn’t replacing you.”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, eyes narrowing. “You looked pretty damn close.”

He gave a small, rueful nod. “Yeah. We were close. But not like that. She’s trying to get into DJ’ing. She told me she was nervous to try it in front of everyone, so I was showing her the basics. I don’t know much about DJ’ing myself honestly, I just know enough to press a few buttons and mess with the decks a bit.” He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “So, I stood behind her, leaned in close to explain the mixer and the crossfader, tried to get her comfortable. She laughed a lot. The music was loud, and I didn’t think about how it looked. I should have. I was stupid.”

You studied him, searching for any sign of deceit. “Why didn’t you text me back, Lewis? After you saw my messages?”

His face twisted, as if that question cut deeper than any other. “Because I saw your message and I froze. I didn’t know how to answer without fucking it up even more. I didn’t want to say something half-true or half-healed. You deserved better than that. But instead of giving you better, I gave you silence. And then I gave you that.”

He gestured vaguely toward your phone, the endless thread of missed calls and unread texts.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes. “You could’ve just told me you were scared. You didn’t have to go out and look like you’d already moved on.”

He stepped closer again, voice fierce. “I haven’t. Not even close. Do you know how many nights I’ve thought about you? How many times I wished I’d handled things differently? Wished I’d held on?”

Your arms dropped a fraction, but not all the way. Not yet.

“I came here because I need you to see me. Not the tabloid version. Me. I fucked up. But I need you to believe me when I say nothing happened with her. Nothing would’ve. I couldn’t do that. Not with you still in my heart the way you are.”

Silence stretched between you like a fraying rope, taut and fragile.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

At the pain buried deep in his eyes. The exhaustion etched into every line on his face. The weight he carried in his shoulders.

And it hit you. He hadn’t come here with smooth words or easy apologies.

He’d come to bleed, if that’s what it took.

You exhaled shakily. “You broke something in me, Lewis.”

“I know.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But if you let me, I’ll spend as long as it takes helping you heal it. Even if it means starting from scratch.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “And if I say I don’t know if I can trust you again?”

“Then I’ll wait,” he said simply. “However long it takes.”

Another pause.

Then, softer still:

“Can I hold you? Just for a minute?”

You hesitated. The walls you’d built around your heart felt brittle, but something inside you craved his touch.

You nodded once.

He stepped forward slowly, tentative, as if afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast. The moment his arms wrapped around you, your resolve cracked. Your hands clutched the fabric of his hoodie; your cheek pressed against the steady beat of his chest. Suddenly, the ache in your ribs felt a little less unbearable.

He smelled like travel, like rain on asphalt and the faint musk of his cologne like him.

He didn’t say anything more.

He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, you felt something you hadn’t in a long time: like maybe you were home again.

After that night, nothing changed all at once. There were no dramatic declarations, no sudden leaps back into what you once had. Instead, the two of you chose to rebuild something fragile but genuine, slowly and with care, like piecing together a delicate glass sculpture.

Lewis made it clear from the start: this time, everything would move at your pace. There were no expectations, no pressure. Just time quiet, unhurried, and yours to share.

Weekends became sacred. Away from the prying eyes of the media, the flashing cameras, the endless schedules of races and interviews. These stolen pockets of time were yours alone. You cooked together, sometimes clumsily navigating recipes neither of you fully trusted. His laughter the rich, warm sound you’d missed filled the kitchen as he burnt toast or forgot to set the timer. You’d catch the sparkle in his eyes when he saw you smile at his silly mistakes.

There were evenings spent curled up on the couch beneath a heavy blanket, binge-watching shows neither of you cared much about but found comfort in sharing. Your head rested on his shoulder, and for the first time in a long while, the world outside felt distant and irrelevant.

Long walks in the evenings became a routine, the two of you wandering without direction. The only competition was in who could spot the first star shining in the twilight sky. Sometimes he’d catch your hand, fingers threading together naturally, and the simple touch grounded you both.

And most importantly, you talked. Truly talked. No distractions, no interruptions. You shared fears you’d buried deep, the scars left by the past, and your hopes tentative but real for the future. Conversations stretched into the early hours, full of honesty and vulnerability. You both knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but you were willing to walk it together.

Meanwhile, Lewis refused to hide behind silence or vague statements. When the tabloids churned their stories and that video still haunting surfaced again, he faced it head-on. The media wanted a scandal, but he gave them something different: truth.

In a rare, heartfelt interview, Lewis spoke quietly but with conviction.

“What people saw in that video wasn’t the whole story,” he said, voice steady but soft. “It was misleading, taken out of context. I want everyone to know I’m genuinely happy with my girlfriend. We’re not rushing, not pretending. We’re building something honest, something that really matters.”

His words weren’t rehearsed soundbites; they carried the weight of sincerity. The world could speculate and gossip all it wanted, but the real story your story was unfolding quietly, away from the public eye.

And with every day that passed, trust grew a little stronger between you. Not based on headlines or fleeting impressions, but on quiet mornings sharing coffee, on whispered conversations in the dark, on shared struggles and tentative hopes.

It wasn’t perfect. There were moments of doubt, of fear. But it was real. And for the first time in a long time, it was yours.

[alltheirdamn]

DECLINED | Mechanic!Joel x f!reader

Summary: You're on a cross-country road trip when your tires blow, and you're forced to get them fixed at a small town mechanic shop. When your card declines, you only have one other option to get your car back. Rating: 18+ Explicit Word Count: 3k Warnings: Pre-outbreak AU, mechanic!joel, sex for favors, oral sex (f + m receiving), blowjob, deepthroating, cum eating, fingering, squirting, semi-public sex, unprotected piv sex, size kink, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, joel being a disgustingly nice gentleman, porn with absolutely no plot A/N: I saw this gif float across my pinterest and had a terribly fun idea... so here it is. Enjoy a lil fun ;)

PART 2 | Masterlist | Ko-fi

“S’all fixed up now,” Joel said, walking into the waiting room.

You had been waiting a few hours to have your alignment fixed and tires replaced, and now you could finally breathe a sigh of relief. You were on your way through the small town headed east towards Tallahassee when both of your back tires blew out on the highway. You were lucky not to cause a crash and thankfully found a local mechanic shop only half a mile off the road. 

“Thank you so much,” you exhaled as you stood up and stretched your legs.

Joel rounded the counter to the register, typing up the work order to charge you out. Wallet in hand, you waited for the cost, praying it wouldn’t make a dent in your bank account. You only budgeted so much for the road trip, and this definitely wasn’t in the budget.

“Alright, ma’am, lookin’ like it’s gonna be around $500 for everything. Shaved some off just for the hassle you been through,” Joel smiled.

Shit.

“Uh, okay. Great.”

You reluctantly handed over your card, praying it would be enough. Joel swiped it on his machine followed by a loud beep that clearly meant DECLINED. You let out a shaky breath, fishing through your wallet for another card.

“Shit, try this one,” you said.

Joel nodded, his brows furrowing a bit when it also beeped in the same tone. He slid your card across the table, cocking a brow as if to ask, ‘Got another one?’

“Fuck,” you laughed nervously. “Okay, how ‘bout this one?”

Another card. Another decline. How the fuck were you going to get out of town now?

“Sorry, ma’am,” Joel sighed. “No payment means no car ‘m afraid.”

You ran your hand through your hair in frustration, trying to come up with something. Glancing up at him, you took in his broad frame covered by a simple black t-shirt that seemed to hug the planes of his chest perfectly. You hadn’t even noticed the patchy beard or kind grin that he donned so well earlier. Maybe…

“Look, I gotta get out of here tonight,” you pleaded. “Is there anything I can do to just get my car?”

Joel crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps looking much bigger in that position. With a frown turning down his lips, he shook his head.

“Afraid not, ma’am.”

“Anything? Please, I'm begging you.”

He considered you a moment, his eyes raking over your figure. You felt your cheeks warm at that look, knowing what he might be insinuating. If that’s what it took to get your car and get the fuck out of this town, then why not?

“Anything?” He repeated.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m pretty fucking desperate right now.”

Joel came around the corner of the counter, crowding you until your neck craned up to meet his eyes. Your heart thrummed in your ears, warmth blossoming in your stomach the longer he stared at you. 

“Desperate lil’ thing, huh?” He teased.

Backing away from you, Joel walked to the shop entrance and slowly turned the lock. He looked back at you as he flipped the sign to CLOSED as if testing your judgment. You gave him a meek nod, never letting your eyes off him as he stalked toward you again. His finger ran up your forearm, catching on the sleeve of your top and tugging it lightly.

“Follow me, darlin’.”

That sentiment, followed by the twang of his accent, was enough to make your knees buckle, and you followed him like a dog in heat. Joel led you back into the heart of the shop, scraps of tools and car parts littering the makeshift garage. And right in the center of it all was your car. Leaning against the hood, he patted the metal, beckoning you over. You dropped your purse on the workbench and walked toward him on shaky legs. Joel spread his legs a bit wider as you approached, his fingers wrapping around your belt loops to pull you in close.

You were a breath apart now, just the barrier of clothes separating you. Joel’s hands snaked around your waist and firmly palmed your ass through your jeans. You let out a small yelp as his fingers dug into the supple flesh, kneading and massaging until your eyes drifted shut at the feeling.

“You pay off all your debts this way?” His voice dropped an octave, and you felt the bulge in his jeans prodding against your stomach as you leaned closer.

“Fuck off,” you scoffed. “Wasn’t planning on my car taking a shit out here and definitely wasn’t budgeting for it either.”

“Hmm,” he mused. “Ain’t got a boyfriend to give you some cash to help?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be out here tryna fuck you for my car,” you quipped.

A grin split across his face at your defensiveness, as if he enjoyed you being a brat. You weren’t trying to be— honest to god—but you desperately needed to leave this town, preferably with your car. 

“Y’sure are a bratty little thing,” he said, tugging you closer.

“Why don’t you stop talking so much and fuck me so I can get the hell up out of this small fucking town?” You grumbled.

Joel raised one of his hands to grip your chin, steadying your gaze on his. Sliding his thumb over your lips, he coaxed your mouth open and urged you to suck on his finger. Without breaking eye contact, you swirled your tongue over the skin of his thumb before wrapping your lips around it.

“Christ, darlin’,” he exhaled. “Might just let you suck my cock and send you on your way.”

You released it with a pop, a trail of saliva dripping from your bottom lip. Reaching down, you massaged the bulge in his pants, letting out a soft gasp. He was massive—bigger than expected. He let out a small chuckle as if reading your mind, bucking his hips against your touch.

“You’d give me my car for a little blowjob?” You questioned, squeezing his cock tighter.

“S’nothing little about me, darlin’.”

“Aren’t you just full of yourself,” you rolled your eyes.

Your fingers danced over the zipper of his jeans, tugging it down as he helped pull his cock free. You peeked down to catch a glimpse of it, your eyes growing wide. His cock was girthy and thick and definitely had no shortage of length, either. Precum leaked from the tip, and you wet your lips at the idea of trying to fit it all in your mouth.

“Y’gonna suck it or what? Car ain’t gonna pay for itself.”

“You gonna give me my car after?” You tossed back.

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Those tires might cost you extra.”

“We’ll see about that,” you smirked.

Sinking to your knees, you pulled down his jeans and underwear until he adjusted himself at the tip of your lips. You wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, squeezing softly as you guided it into your mouth. Stretching your lips wider, you swirled your tongue around the tip, basking in Joel's groan as you did so.

“S’fucking perfect, darlin’. That mouth feels fucking amazing.”

 You took him deeper, moving your mouth in a rhythmic motion until you felt his hand come down to grip your hair. He held you steady as he snapped his hips back and forth, pushing his cock further down your throat. Sputtering around him, you dug your nails into his thighs as leverage while he continued fucking your throat.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he rasped. “C’mon now, take this fuckin’ cock down your throat.”

Opening your throat wider, you swallowed every thrust as tears streamed down your cheeks. Joel was relentless with his thrusts, your nose brushing against the curls at the base every time you took him deeper. You could sense he was close to the edge, so you dragged your tongue against the base of his cock with each stroke, spurring him on further. It elicited a primal growl deep within his chest, and within seconds you could feel the warmth of his cum sliding down your throat. His cock twitched inside your mouth as he came down from his high, and you hummed as you swallowed every last drop.

Using the grip on your hair to pull you off, you sat back on your heels, coughing and heaving to try and catch your breath. Joel looked down on you with heavy lidded eyes and a smug grin as if to taunt you. Cupping your cheek, he slid his thumb against your skin and brushed away the rolling tears.

“Open,” he ordered. “Show me.”

You quirked a playful smile, leaning your head back as you stuck your tongue out to prove you swallowed it all. Slapping your face softly, Joel let out a soft chuckle.

“Atta girl.”

You brushed the remainder of your tears away, wiping the makeup from your eyes, and you stood on wobbly legs. Smoothing down your shirt and jeans, you crossed your arms over your chest and cocked a brow.

“I think I earned my car back,” you insisted, your voice hoarse from how hard he fucked you.

“Hmmm, y’think so?” Joel questioned. “I think I deserve a taste of that pussy.”

You shoved at him playfully, rolling your eyes. 

“In your dreams, cowboy,” you laughed. 

With his pants still hanging down, Joel spun you until your ass was pressed against the hood of your car. Working at the button and zipper of your jeans, he shoved them down and pulled your legs free until your bare ass was pinned to the cool metal. Joel gave you a lopsided grin and shoved you further onto the hood.

“I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t return the favor, darlin’.”

“You don’t need to do that,” you said, your voice shaky.

“Oh, but I want to,” he argued. “Gotta see how sweet you taste.”

Sliding down, Joel situated himself between your thighs, tugging your calves up to rest on his broad shoulders. He gave you a teasing kiss on your inner thighs before delving in, his tongue flicking at your sensitive bud. You careened back against the hood, your back arching as his mouth suctioned around your clit. Crying out, you carded your hand through the brown curls of his hair, anchoring his face against your wet cunt as it pulsed against his mouth. Joel plunged his tongue inside you, forcing another whine from your lips.

“Fuck!” You cried. “Right there! Oh my god, yes!”

He hummed in satisfaction, bringing his fingers into the mix as he opened you up, curling them against that sweet spot inside you. Keeping his mouth on your clit he worked in tandem with his fingers until that coil inside you wound tighter and tighter. With one more curl of his fingers, your orgasm surged through your body, forcing a gush of liquid to stream out of your wet cunt. Joel sat back in awe, staring at your glistening folds as your body trembled from the release, your juices covering his beard and mustache. 

“Fuck babydoll,” he grinned. “You a squirter, too?”

You laughed awkwardly and watched as he removed his two fingers and brought them to his lips. Sucking them into his mouth, Joel groaned as he tasted the remnants of your orgasm. You knew you could squirt—it was your own dirty little secret—but something about seeing him covered in your juices made you want more. Tugging him softly with your calves on his shoulders, you urged him back to your soaked entrance, silently begging for another round. 

“Gonna cover me in your juices again, darlin’?” Joel smirked. 

“Mhmm,” you whined. 

“Drench me babydoll, let’s see it.”

Joel’s mouth was on you again, lapping up the juices leaking out of you until you were crying out for him. He didn’t let up as he sucked your aching clit between his teeth, his tongue working at the bud in earnest. He pushed his fingers back into you, your cunt pulsing violently each time he curled them. Slipping a third finger in, he stretched you wider and moaned against your clit as your body tensed with another orgasm. Another rush of liquid made it past his fingers, soaking his mouth and chin. You could feel it trickle down the seam of your cunt, drenching the hood of your car as you thrashed against it.

“Christ, Joel,” you mumbled, your head lolling to the side. 

He rose to his feet, wiping a hand over the hair covering his chin as he smiled at you. You sat up slightly, positioning yourself on your forearms as you watched him slide his jeans further down his legs. You were already in this deep; you might as well keep going. Spreading your legs a bit wider, you raised a finger to beckon him closer. 

“C’mon cowboy,” you teased. 

“Y’really need that car, huh?” He smiled, lining his cock up to your entrance. 

“I really do,” you whimpered, nodding your head vigorously. 

Joel eased himself inside you, inch by fucking inch, until he was fully seated at the base of his cock. You both groaned in unison, his cock sliding in and out of you easily from all the juice leaking from you. Crossing your ankles behind his back, you pushed him deeper, mewling at the sensation of the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix. You could feel that stinging stretch of your cunt as he picked up his thrusts, your ass sliding up the car each time. 

“Shit, babydoll,” he growled. “S’fucking tight around my cock.”

“You feel so good, Joel,” you hummed. “Please, I need it harder.”

Listening to your pleas, Joel planted his hands on either side of your face, pistoning into you with brute force. He bent down, sucking and biting the skin of your neck until you were crying out from the pain mixing with the pleasure. You rolled your hips to meet him thrust for thrust, your cunt fluttering against his cock each time. That blinding orgasm was on the horizon as your muscles tensed up for its release. Running your hands up under his shirt, you dug your nails into his back muscles, dragging them down his tanned skin. Joel groaned into your ear, his hips snapping against yours harder and faster.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” You sobbed. “I–I’m gonna fucking cum, Joel!”

“Yeah, babydoll? Fuckin’ soak me with it.”

He pulled out at the last moment, a heavy stream of liquid pouring from your cunt and coating your inner thighs and Joel’s cock. Without wasting a second, he drove back into you, picking up the pace despite your body still shaking and dripping from your orgasm. You could feel your tears rolling down the sides of your face, that warmth still coursing inside you. Joel’s thrusts grew erratic and off-rhythm, and you sensed his orgasm was pushing him to the edge. 

“Y’gonna let me fill that pussy, darlin’?” His lips grazed the shell of your ear as his voice sent shivers up your spine.

“God, please,” you cried.

With one…two…three final strokes, Joel was grunting and painting your insides with thick bursts of his cum. You both lay there limp and fucked out for several moments, catching your breath and chuckling as reality settled back in. He slipped out of you and drew his pants back up his legs, his eyes roaming over your sweaty body. With one hand, he tugged up the zipper of his jeans, using the other to push the cum leaking out of you back into your wet cunt. 

“Gotta send you off with some sort of parting gift,” he laughed.

You couldn’t help but laugh, too, adjusting yourself and sliding off the hood. Joel bent down to ease your pants back over your thighs and hips, helping with your own zipper as you stood awkwardly in front of him. Joel leaned in to kiss your cheek before walking to the corkboard hanging from the wall. Retrieving your keys from one of the hooks, he offered them to you with a kind smile.

“I’m free to go?” You asked, reaching for them. 

He pulled them away, shaking his head with a teasing grin. You pouted sarcastically, opening your hand and waiting.

“One kiss, and we call it even, babydoll.”

You grabbed either side of his face, pulling him in for a hungry kiss. You coaxed his mouth open, teasing your tongue over his, tasting your arousal still lingering on his tongue. Joel deepened the kiss, tangling his free hand in your hair to anchor you closer. Pressed up against him, you found yourself thirsting for more but knew you had no obligation to stay. Sucking his bottom lip between your teeth, you pulled away reluctantly and snatched the keys from his hand. 

“Thanks for the new tires, cowboy,” you grinned. 

Joel dazzled you with another gorgeous smile, the lines around his eyes creasing as he gave you one final nod. You squeezed your way out of his embrace, making your way to the driver's side door. He followed you over, opening it like the gentleman he was, waiting till you were situated inside. Leaning in for one more kiss, he lingered a moment too long before breaking away.

“Safe travels, darlin’. If you ever need some work done, y’know where to find me.”

You dug your keys into the ignition, letting the car rumble awake. Joel shut the car door with one final smile and watched you reverse out of the mechanic shop. Giving him a small wave, you turned onto the street and back toward the highway with a soreness creeping up your thighs.

[safination]

The Only Temptation

|Masterlist| Pairings: Alastor x Reader Tags/ Warnings; f!Reader, Demon! Alastor. Heats! Ruts! Alastor and Ruts! dual POV, Handjob, dirty talking, phone handjob, TLDR: Alastor's rut is being drawn out by a doe who is definitely not you, but weirdly enough or not so weirdly enough, he only seems to craves you. AN: Hello! I haven't posted in a while, but pshhh we'll just ignore that. Since I'm turning the big 22, this fic will also be 2/2. This is just 1/2 (Truthfully, I just ran out of time and decided to cut this into 2 parts.) Also, will you look at that! My first smut! Handjobs should count as smut right? And here I thought my religious ass would never make one of these. Oh, well. It goes without saying but I'm going to say it anyway: MINORS DNI

There’s a doe in the Hazbin Hotel.

You bumped into her as you were making your way to Alastor’s radio tower. There would be more of these types of interactions if you actively lived in the hotel like you want, but Alastor refuses to allow you to stay for too long with the excuse of it being safer to hide you away at home while he stays here.

There are ears on the top of this doe’s head. It reminds you of Alastor. They’re a bit cute – more than, ‘a bit cute’ if you were being honest. Downright adorable if you were really being honest. Spots trails over her shoulders and continue into her clothes.

What an itty-bitty doe. So ready to be devoured! (Part of you wonders if Alastor would appreciate the taste of a doe’s flesh. A surprise gift, maybe?)

You’ve never seen a doe in Hell before, but she’s not really important to you right now. So, you throw her to the back of your mind and make your way to Alastor’s radio tower.

All of Alastor’s senses are heightened because of that damn doe. It’s quite a predicament as rut season nears, and the pheromones being released place him in quite the difficult spot.

It gets worse when his ears catch upon a slight knock and . . . and the scent of you.

Alastor can’t describe what prickles his nose, but it’s the scent of morning coffee shared through one mug. He takes a deeper whiff and it becomes the scent of soft music playing through the radio as you dance around the room.

It seems that doe has unlocked something in him. The scent of you has never tasted like that until now. It brings out a hunger for you that goes deeper than normal.

The smell intensifies when the door clicks open, and that hunger strikes even deeper. It travels through the air, settling itself in his stomach. Alastor pierces the tips of his claws into his skin before he could fully lose himself.

It becomes worse . . . better? . . . when you remove your coat, hanging it on the rack. The scent becomes so strong that he’s enchanted for more than a second. Actually, it’s so heavenly to his senses that blood pools between his legs and settles into his thighs.

Alastor inches closer to the desk, hiding the way his cock has pitched a tent from just the scent of you. He pretends to busy himself with the buttons on the panel, even when the broadcast ended five-minutes ago.

You swat his hand away, and sit on the table. There’s deliberate care in the way you prop yourself, careful not to hit any of the knobs.

A small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi . . .” Alastor lays his head on your thighs, shighing into their plumpness as he swipes his thumb on your skin. Everything about you sends high frequency pitches into his skin. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Well, my dearest,” you begin, massaging the base of his antlers, “the purpose of a surprise if for it to be unsuspecting.”

The witty response to your statement dies in his throat. A groan of relief replaces it as you continue to massage his antlers. That annoying itch lessens when you press on the base just a little firmer.

That fact that it feels good to have his antlers scratched can only mean one thing . . .

“You’re nearing your rut,” you say, plain and simple, as if his unnoticed erection already isn’t an indicator. “Hmmm, it seems I picked a good time to drop by.”

Alastor leans his cheek a little bit deeper into your thighs. “It’s still too early.”

“Does it have to do something with that little doe I spotted earlier?”

Alastor isn’t getting used to your scent.

Usually, strong scents should fade into the background after some time. Usually. Alastor is constantly and painfully aware of the scent of heaven on your skin.

Everything about you is driving him up the wall. So much so, the Alastor stays limp in your hold, afraid that shifting will cause his already sensitive erection to brush against you.

“What a silly thought,” he says, even as his cock throbs uncomfortably in his pants. Alastor’s never been this hard before. That heavenly scent means he’ll have to send you away soon if his rut is hitting a little early.

How has he never noticed how good you smell?

“There’s no reason you have to go through this alone.” You pull on the ends of his hair. “Maybe there’s a reason why it takes you a month to calm down. Wouldn’t getting your satisfaction speed things along?”

“That’s out of the question.”

“You won’t know if we don’t try,” you say, frowning a little. “We can at least try, dearest. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Alastor allows himself to dream about it. It would be nice to have you to himself for a month, if his erection is an indicator. Your very presence is already causing a wet patch of pre-cum to spread. He’s so painfully hard that he can feel the beat of blood going through his veins.

Alastor would take you, hiding you at home. It’s purposely far from the prying eyes of the bustling city. There he would spend the next month burying himself into you. The hunger that gnaws on his belly will be satiated with the taste of the combined fluids dripping down your cunt.

No, that wouldn’t do. That would just be a waste of perfectly good cum. It needs to stay inside you if he’s going to defy a Sinner’s biology. Alastor would need to take every drop, and make sure it’s not wasted. He would fill you up until a large bulge would—

What is he thinking about?

Giving in to his instincts would do you more harm than good. You weren’t a doe, and that means your body isn’t meant to handle his rut.

“It’s not safe for you to be at the hotel at the moment.” Alastor is playing a dangerous game – one where Heaven has set its hat into the ring.

There’s a reason why he’s hidden the house from prying eyes. It’s much safer . . . or at least that’s the reason he’s giving you.

A small frown. “Then we can hide away at home.”

“I don’t appreciate having to repeat myself.” Alastor nuzzles into your thigh. “We have the same argument every season.”

“I see,” you say, and that’s a proper frown on your lips now. “I won’t be seeing you for some time then.”

“Now, now. Don’t frown, cher.” Alastor pushes your lips up into a bright smile. “You look absolutely ravishing in one of these.”

There’s a small smile that grows on your face.

You tilt his chin, and press a kiss on the edge of his smile. Alastor crosses his legs, digging his claws into them to try and regain any semblance of control.

“I think I would almost miss you, my dearest,” you tell him, showing off that cheeky, little smile. “It’s bound to get incredibly dull around here. It always does when you’re not around.”

Alastor barks out a laugh, pulling your face into his hold to stare into you. Just a little longer. That’s all he needs. “Flirting? That’s certainly a new tactic,” he says, swiping his thumb across your cheek. “I think I would miss you as well, cher.”

Alastor pulls off his bowtie in one swift motion, throwing it off somewhere irrelevant. It’s been hours, yet he’s still so painfully hard. It forced him to hide away in his room the moment you left. Changing into looser clothing helps, but every brush of his cock sends tingles up his spine.

His shadow crawls up the wall with a scowl. The thing zooms around, seemingly in a mood as foul as his. It disappears under the cracks of the door, and Alastor doesn’t have enough blood circulating through his brain to question where it went.

Maybe, the blood would be passing through his brain if it wasn’t pooling in his throbbing erection. It’s been throbbing all day long.

Damn that does.

Alastor should kill her; end the madness she’s bringing. If the hormones from her heat stop, then his rut won’t start for another few days, or maybe even a week if he’s lucky.

The delay of his rut means the delay of his departure. Alastor can keep you by his side for a moment longer. Just a little longer until the inevitable.

You can be by his side. You can stay with him. You can . . . you . . . you!

The scent of you invades his nose. It hits harder the more he inhales. But you shouldn’t be here. Alastor sent you away. He made sure you exited those hotel doors, and he kept his eyes on the horizon until he could no longer see you and then a little longer after that.

His shadow slithers back into the room, something in its hands. Alastor lifts his head from the pool of pillows and . . . and it’s your coat.

The scent of you lingers on it.

“Get that thing away from me,” he hisses even as his cock twitches against his underwear. “Go burn it in the fireplace.”

The shadow slithers closer, dropping the coat Alastor just demanded to be burnt. It’s never defied one of his orders before.

His shadow pushes it closer to his face, and all anger fizzles at his throat when the smell of you breaches his nose. It drives him crazy, but it brings some sort or soothing effect as well.

Did you forget it here?

Or did you leave this for him?

Alastor buries his face into it, even when he knows he should return the thing. Alastor isn’t a dense Sinner. He’s well aware of what will happen if he allows something like this to stay . . . but what if you really did leave it for him?

The cloth of his pajama chafes against his skin. It’s too warm, and the scent of your coat is a splash of gasoline in an already burning sea of flames.

The image of holding you plagues his mind. Despite the burning in his skin, Alastor wouldn’t care as long as it came from you. Burning would feel heavenly as long as it was you who held the other end of that matchstick.

The echo of your laughter bounces in his mind, and blood shoots straight down, fueling his erection even more. The cloth from his underwear brushes against it, and a tiny groan escapes him as it goes over the sensitive head.

Alastor’s had enough. It’s adding fuel to his already foul mood. He shreds his clothes off, tearing it with his claws. He lies in a pool of scrapped fabric, his dick springing forth.

The shadow scoots your coat just a little bit closer. Alastor inhales the scent, burying himself into it. It’s a fuel to an already burning flame, but it’s coming from you. So, how bad can it really be?

He shifts his legs, and the way his cock rubs against the silk sheets tears coaxes a moan from his throat. It’s debauchery. It’s sinful . . . but it feels too good. Wet patches of pre-cum stains his sheets.

Alastor trails his palms lower, running them through his stomach until he’s fisted his cock. He pumps his shaft through his fist, trying to find relief.

It’s not . . . It’s not working?

He searches his mind, trying to remember how your fingers would work him into his release.

How tight would you squeeze him?

Where would you start? Alastor should remember that much, considering it was your hand pumping his cock.

Right . . . The head.

Alastor rubs his sensitive head, swirling it around like you do, and fuck! It’s just a shitload of nothing.

His fingers are too rough. You know how to build him into cumming, but you’re not here right now. Haphazardly fisting his cock isn’t going to bring him anywhere.

The temptation to give up is there, but he’s been erect all day. Alastor needs to end this tonight.

Alastor massages the tip once more, but with more purpose, just like you do. A moan releases into the air. If he shuts off all senses, he can pretend that it’s your hand that’s—

His shadow holds up a ringing, landline phone.

Alastor looks at it, then at the hand still fisted around his cock, and the back at his shadow.

The shadow looks back at him.

Alastor squeezes himself, ignoring the shadow as he tries to build that same mood. “Throw it away.”

His shadow has a look on its face, and pushes the thing closer. Alastor’s about to destroy it himself when he realizes there’s only one Sinner who has the number to this landline – You.

Alastor grabs the receiver, ignoring the fact that he’s very naked, lying on a bed that’s stained with his pre-cum, and a very erect dick.

“Alastor!” The sound of your voice stuns him a little, even when he knew it would be you on the other end. “Alastor?” you call out. “Hello?”

It takes him more than a second to take the blood that’s throbbing his erection, and force it up his brain. “And what have I done to displease you, dearest,” he says, “that you would force me to use this blasted phone?”

“That’s what you say every single time you pick up the phone.” You chuckle a little. A small chuckle – that’s all it took to shoot the blood back down. “Yet, not once have you missed my call.”

“This is my punishment, not yours.”

“I’m calling to let you know I made it home with no problem,” you tell him. “And . . . I think I left my coat there.”

“Ah . . . yes.” Alastor swirls the head of his cock. Maybe hearing your voice would be the push he needed. “I’m looking at it right now.”

“Are you alright, dearest?” you say. “You don’t sound too good.”

“Just . . . a little tired.” His breath goes through the receiver, even as his claws dig through the pillow. It’s doing nothing for him – nothing at all. “There’s no need to concern that ridiculous head of yours.”

It’s silent at the other end of the receiver. Alastor can hear the gears turning in your head. You always were a bit too perceptive about him. “Did you run into your new little, doe friend?”

“That thing is not my friend,” Alastor hisses, still trying to pump his shaft.

“My apologies then,” you say, snickering. “I forget that you do not allow yourself the pleasure of friendship, but I’m starting to think that it’s not you who turns away from it.”

“Hilarious.” Alastor’s eyes twitch. Coincidentally, so does his dick. “Well, as lovely as this has been, I’m in the middle of something important. I’ll have one of the ink puppets drop off –”

“I think I left something important in my left pocket,” you say, and despite being miles apart, Alastor can hear your smile. “Could you check it for me, and make sure it’s still there?”

Alastor dips his fingers into your left pocket, finding what seems to be a small card. He flips it over, and this definitely is not a card. It’s a small, polaroid photo. It’s you in that picture. You’re wearing—

Actually, what you’re wearing doesn’t really matter. Alastor will take a look at it later. It’s probably something red. What catches his attention is the fact that your ass is pointed to the air. There are a myriad of bite marks and hickeys around your thighs, leading a path up to your glistening cunt.

“Do you like it?”

Alastor blinks at it for a second . . . and then, another second . . . and its laughter that echoes around his room despite how the picture rushes blood down his already throbbing cock. The need for relief grows stronger.

“Did you take this for me?” Alastor wheezes, eyes bulging in different directions. Tears fall from his eyes as he laughs. “How ridiculous of you, dearest! You’re propped up like a stretching cat.”

“That’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” you say, chuckling. “However, I am glad that you’re enjoying it, one way or another.”

Alastor shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, and glances at his painfully throbbing erection. “I’m in quite the predicament because of you.”

“Oh!” You sound a bit too delighted. “So, you’re—”

“As a rock.” Alastor pokes his dick, hoping it would do something.

“How amusing!” Your laughter rings into the receiver. Alastor revels in it, enjoying the sound. “You’re eerily responsive tonight. Shall I send you more?”

Alastor rolls his eyes at you. “Take responsibility for what you’ve caused.”

“Al, I already did my portion,” you say. “I can’t exactly do the next part for you, unless you drag yourself home.”

“And what do you expect me to do with this?”

Alastor swears he can hear the way your eyes roll at him. “I think you know what to do.”

“Don’t mock me.” Alastor flicks the head of his cock. “It’s not working. So, take responsibility for your actions.”

It’s silent for a little bit, but his ears pick up the way you lick your lips. “Why don’t you take a moment to get comfortable.”

Alastor takes a moment he doesn’t need. Talking to you always brings him comfort. “That’s been taken care of.”

“My naughty buck . . . I start with the tip,” you tell him. “I use a little bit of that pre-cum to lubricate you. Swirl it around before pumping it down.”

Alastor does as he’s told, massaging the sensitive tip as he lubricates himself. The sound of your breathing . . . the lingering scent from your coat . . . it coaxes a small moan from him. Alastor makes sure you can hear him through the receiver.

“I trail my fingers up the back, tracing that little line,” you tell him, and there’s definitely a smile on your face. “Can you do that for me, my sweet Al?”

Alastor gasps into the air, using the tips of his sharp claw to trace a path from the base to the head. It’s exactly how you do it. He can almost believe that it’s your hand that’s touching him.

“What’s next?” He breathes through the receiver, closing his eyes to revel in the feeling of everything. “What’s next, cher? Tell me what to do.”

“Make a ring with your finger, and wrap it around the base,” you tell him, voice a bit low. “Tighter, Alastor. Make it tighter than you think you need it to be.”

Alastor will never have the ability to deny you. So, there’s really nothing really else but to make a ring with his finger. The constant pressure feels so heavenly sinful. His hips buck up as he squeezes even tighter. Alastor takes his other hand, and pumps the length of his shaft in slow motions, making sure he feels every ounce of his building pleasure.

“Are you thinking about me right now?” you say. “Am I running around in that head of yours, pressing kisses before I take you into my mouth? Or am I on your hips, bouncing along to the beat of your drum?

“You never stopped.” Alastor thinks he moans your name, but the way he buries his face into your coat overloads his senses. The fire in his stomach burns faster, rising to the way you stroke his flames. “Cher . . . cher.”

“I’m right here, Alastor,” you say, and there’s a playful tint in the way you say his name. “Faster, dear. Lose yourself into me.”

Alastor jerks his hips, driving his cock into his hand faster and faster and faster.

The sound of your breathing pulls him along as he ruts into his hand, chasing sinfully sweet release. Alastor glances back at the photo of you, ass so high it’s practically worshiping him.

As he drives his hips up, Alastor notices something glistening around your folds.

A loud moan rips itself out of him. That’s his seed painting your cunt, slowly dripping out of you.

Finally, finally, his pleasure builds to its peak, and topples him over. Ropes of cum shoot out of his cock, pooling around his stomach. Alastor keeps pumping, dragging out all it’s worth as he spurts all over the bed, watching his seed drop to your coat.

Alastor doesn’t stop humping his fist, even as cum on your coat changes the smell on it. He keeps going until he’s still holding his still erect cock, driving it faster up his own sticky seed.

There’s a second where his mind clears for a fraction. Alastor takes a look around at the mess he’s making, and to the mess that he will make.

 No . . . no.

It’s all wrong.

Why is he cumming on his fist? This . . . this should be inside you.

If you happen to read this, I wanna thank all my friends in this fandom. The friendship I found in all of you makes me happier than I can ever express. I dedicate this handjob to : @nyx-umbrakinesis @redfoxwritesstuff @redvexillum @whatswrongwithblue @inuhalfdemon @crackrodent . I hope each and every one of you knows that you have all pushed me to become a better writer, and pushed me out of my own comfort zone. Each and every one of your works inspire me to become better and push myself to my limits. If it wasn’t for everyone at VoxTek, I would have dropped Alastor a long time ago. There’s a tweet I found that says we should be writing not for an audience but for ourselves and our five friends who are crazy enough to read what we write. I write for me and for you.

[enwoso]

words of wisdom | leah williamson x teen!reader

(part of the grumpy universe)

read blood, not bond to get up to speed and for this little blurb to make any sense😅 i thought i had already posted this but clearly not..

grumpy masterlist

the house had quieted again. dinner was packed away, dishes done. the dog had curled up on the end of the couch, blissfully unaware of the emotional wreckage that was still lingering in the walls.

alessia was in the shower while leah was pottering around the house doing the little jobs while you had disappeared upstairs for a while but you hadn't really said much since you'd stopped crying in your mums arms.

leah had carried a pile of fresh washing up the stairs placing it on the end of the bed in hers and alessias room as she stood in the hallway lingering outside your room door before knocking gently.

knock, knock.

"hey angel. can i come in?" there was a pause. then a soft, "yeah."

leah stepped in cautiously, aware of what had happened. you were curled on your bed, duvet over your legs, hoodie pulled up over your head. you looked smaller than usual. softer around the edges in that way you get after an emotional storm.

leah walked in slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed but not too close. giving you the space like she always did, leah never pressed always waited for you to talk first. "thought i'd check in."

you glanced at her, then looked away again. "m' okay."

"you don't have to be." silence settled between the two of you. not uncomfortable, but full of the things that hadn't been said yet.

you let out a breath, you mind thinking too much but also nothing at the same time. "i don't even know why i got so upset."

leah smiled gently. "you found out something big. something that changes how you see someone who's supposed to be... safe. that's enough to knock anyone sideways."

"he never really been safe to me though..," you mumbled, playing with your fingers. "not like you or mum has been."

leah tilted her head slightly. "no. but he is yours. that's a kind of tie you don't just shake off."

you looked at your hands in your lap. "it's not even about the kids. not really. i mean, yeah, it stings, but... i think what hurts is that they get him. properly. all the parts of him i waited for and never got."

leah nodded slowly, she knew what you meant, heck she had lived through it with you. maybe she didn't feel it directly but she saw everything, every tear, every time he let you down. she saw the lot. "yeah. i get that."

you glanced at her. "you do?”

"i do." leah gave her a half-smile. "course i do, i remember it all angel, maybe more parts than you do."

you tucked your knees to your chest. "it feels like he replaced me. like i was a mistake, and now he suddenly knows how to do it right."

leah's voice was quiet, steady. "you weren't a mistake, angel. not ever. and he didn't replace you. he ran from his responsibilities and decided it was easier to try again than show up for the hard stuff."

"but why now?" you asked, eyes beginning to get glassy again. "why tell me now, like i'm just supposed to want to meet them?"

"maybe he thinks it's the right time. or maybe he's trying to clean up something messy with a nice little reunion. either way—it's not about what he wants. it's about what you need."

you looked over at her. "and what if i don't want anything to do with them?"

"then you don't," leah said without a beat of hesitation. "you draw your line, and you protect your peace. no guilt. you're allowed to do what's right for you, not what makes him feel better about disappearing."

you were quiet for a moment, like you were absorbing it. then: "it doesn't make me a bad person?"

"it makes you someone with boundaries. someone who knows what hurts and what doesn't feel safe. that's brave, not bad."

your throat wobbled again. "i just... i feel so angry. and then i feel guilty for being angry. and then i feel sad. and then i feel stupid for being sad."

leah scooted a little closer, gently nudging her shoulder. "that's grief, angel. you're grieving the dad you should've had. doesn't matter if he's still around—when someone doesn't show up for you, you lose something anyway."

you finally let out a shaky breath. "it just sucks. like big time"

"yeah," leah said softly. "it really does."

they sat in silence again for a beat, then leah reached over and offered her hand. no pressure. just there. you took it. and after a moment: "thanks mama."

leah smiled. "always my girl."

[theonottsbxtch]

Can I get a tartiflette for race engineer! reader x Max where she's replaced GP and he hates it at first bc he misses GP but she starts to grow on him?

Also congrats!!!

max hated change, he really did so when gp announced he was retiring he didn’t want to hear it.

at first he offered a cut of his salary to the man but when he realised that it wasn’t happening, he grumbled and accepted he’d be hearing a new voice in his ear during his races.

oh how he hated it, he hated everything about her being his new race engineer.

he didn’t hate her though.

he hated how she distracted him.

max struggled to focus in debriefs and that was not who he was, he was a three time world champion for fucks sake.

but after a drunken night in miami he couldn’t hold it in anymore and he told her.

and who could deny the max verstappen, she too had caught feelings.

they were really good at hiding their relationship at first, i mean they were in the same hotel so it never raised suspicion, they saw each other in milton keynes as well as monaco and they had even adopted a cat together, their life was going so well.

it wasn’t that she wanted to keep it secret but she didn’t want to force max into telling anymore.

it turned out that it didn’t take long for people to find out because max felt like it was completely normal to call her love on a public team radio.

“congratulations on your fourth title max, you did it!” she’d shouted through the headset, wiping her tears so that the cameras didn’t catch her emotional reaction.

“thank you love” and she panicked for a moment because she saw the way christian looked at her, they’d heard it - everyone had heard it. not just her but the entire world.

“i think that last part cut out” she said in hopes to fix it.

“no, i said thanks you love” and she lost it, she couldn’t hold it in much longer, she ripped off the headset and ran to parc fermé where she waited for him to park the car and when he did.

he ran straight to her.

[manlysun]

Jack O'Bros

You'd think attending a slutty Halloween party full of hot guys would be a blast, but you'd be dead wrong. My god were they all brain-dead! Don't get me wrong, I like a good old-fashioned hot dumb ass from time to time, but all of them?! Also, I never imagined pumpkin heads being the hot costume for men this year? Who'd want to wear a carved-out dirty pumpkin on their head all night? I guess that's dumb jocks for yah. What sucks is I was really looking forward to that party, but I just had to get out of there. They were all starting to give me the creeps, not in that fun Halloween way but actually.

Those pumpkin heads were all acting so hive-like, talking in monotone and endlessly repeating the same phrases. "The pumpkin heads must grow. All men must be seeded. We must grow. We must seed." What the fuck is all that?! I thought it was all some elaborate joke but nope. The creepiest part was that you could barely hear them unless you got up really close to their carved-out pumpkin mouths. However, if you did that, they'd suddenly garb you—a little too tightly I might add. I eventually dipped out after getting grabbed one too many times. Uh, that party sucked. At least they were all shirtless, so I got something out of it.

Thank god the party wasn't too far from my apartment, so I could clear my head over a nice walk. However, halfway home, I ran into another Jack O'dumb ass.

Aside from the pumpkin on his head, he was carrying one in his hand. He was muttering the same hive-like crap the others were, but I could only focus on that and instead how the carved-out pumpkin he was caring looked exactly my size. It was creepy. I walked past him, trying to ignore him, but the second I had my back to him, he forcefully shoved that disgusting pumpkin he was carrying on my head!

It was so fucking gross, the smell was repulsive—not like a pumpkin, but axe body spray mixed with masculine musk. It was as if my head was shoved in a jock's sweaty pit. The reek instantly made my head spin, causing me to fall to the cold concrete beneath me. I could barely think, my eyes rolling back from the intensity. Suddenly, both my ears were penetrated by something that felt like a vine. I started shaking in pure fear, grasping the ground. The pain was excruciating, but the pleasure of my conscription soon took hold. The vines drained my thoughts—my everything—and replaced them with only what should remain in a pumpkin-head drone. I gasped in agony, not in pain but utter pleasure. It felt so fucking good. I wanted more, so much fucking more.

Within a few seconds, I finally heard the sweet mantra of the pumpkin heads. "The pumpkin heads must grow. All men must be seeded. We must grow. We must seed," I said with a smile, although you couldn't see it behind my new head. I quickly got up from the ground and tore my shirt off, revealing my sweaty ripped abs. How else are you supposed to entice the future recruits, bro?

After all, the pumpkin heads must grow. All men must be seeded. We must grow. We must seed.

Join us, bro.

[womanofwords]

Darling Demon (Part 4)

Yandere!batfam x betrothed!neglected!male!reader x yandere!demon!spouse

Alfred served you toast while the rest of your family ran around like headless chickens. Bruce was making lots of calls, Dick was fretting about you being raped by a demon, and Damian was avoiding you. Jason was lugging heavy-duty tools over to you.

"OK, slugger, those restraints must be heavy," Jason said. "Luckily for you, I have what you need."

"Can't you just let me have it? I'll ask Azrir to make them removable later," you said.

"You shouldn't trust that demon. He's openly made plans to assault you." Jason didn't look at you as he talked, searching for the perfect tool to cut off the metal around your wrists.

"Azrir said he was waiting for my agreement. He or she was going to wait until I became ready."

"Shut up, you idiot!" Jason was about to shake you, but remembered how Azrir treated Damian and decided against it. "Azrir cannot marry you! Now let me take these off!"

Jason took the biggest bolt-cutter in the bag and tried to hook it under your bracelet. Far too big. He tested out different metal cutters until he got to one that could go under the bracelet while still being big enough to do damage. He kept his hand steady, clamped down on your new bracelets . . . and the metal cutter broke.

"Oh." The metal cutter came away from the bracelet, its teeth snapped clean off. "So I can keep it?"

"Until we find a different method to remove them," Jason sulked, storming off. You continued to eat your toast.

"Master Y/N, allow me to extend my condolences about your situation," Alfred said. "Rest assured your father is doing everything in his power to ensure that you are not harmed."

You snorted with disbelief. "What's he going to do? Bribe Azrir to marry another human?"

"He has contact with a Mr John Constantine, who can potentially get your 'marriage' annulled. You do not need to worry about . . . consummating anything."

"Alfred, would Azrir really be so bad?" you asked. "At least he noticed me. Even with the blatant talk of consummating the marriage, I still felt more important than I had ever felt in my life." Already, you were developing a crush. "They even defended me. Nobody ever does that."

Alfred looked at you with concern. "Your family can defend you."

"I know they can. I also know that they won't."

"Your siblings are worried about you. They aren't going to let that demon take you away."

"They've been wanting me gone for ages. Why does this upset them? Damian should be partying. He can be the only biological son with me gone."

"GONE?!" Dick rushed in, terror personified. "YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE! NOT HELL, NOT ANYWHERE WITH THAT DEMON RAPIST, NOT EVEN OUT OF THIS HOUSE! YOU ARE STAYING WHERE WE CAN SEE YOU!"

You stared at him with blank, confused eyes. "Um . . . what?"

"We need to put some new things into your room." He led you away from Alfred to show you a box full of crosses. "Nothing too serious, just some crosses and holy water. You'll be rid of him soon enough, little wing."

You continued to look at your eldest brother with dead eyes. "Dick, do you know where my room is?" you asked.

"Um . . ." Dick chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. "No. But I can figure it out."

"Of course you don't," you groaned.

_*_*_*_*_*

"Why is everyone so religious all of a sudden?" you asked. "I'm not even Christian. Why are there rosary beads in my room?"

Dick ruffled your hair. "Just trying to protect you, little wing."

You've never protected me once, you thought, but you kept that little idea to yourself.

Your room was filled with enough religious paraphernalia to make most religious cults think you were overdoing it. Dick relaxed into your bed to admire his handiwork, only to sit up with shock. "Why is something sticking me?" he asked.

"Oh, that's just one of the springs. My mattress hasn't been replaced since I got here," you said.

"Oh, I see," Dick said. "I'll tell Bruce for you. This can't be comfortable."

"It isn't, but that's never been anybody's problem but mine."

Dick's stomach churned with guilt. His butt ached with pinpricks of pain from your mattress. You lived like this right under their noses? Azrir could probably track you down from your deplorable living conditions alone. "Little bird, you'll be safer rooming with me. It won't be comfortable in this room while we're refurbishing," Dick said.

"Is this my birthday present or something?" you asked.

"Um . . . partly," Dick said. "Just . . . stay with me. You can take your blanket with you."

You were taken to Dick's room and led towards his bed. "Do I have to be here? You usually prefer to be alone."

"No, that's Jason. Why would you think that about me?"

"You just never seem like you want to talk to me."

"Oh. Right. Well, I suppose this is as good a time as ever to bond." Dick's arms dragged you into his bed. "No demons in here, little one. Just your family."

"Same difference," you muttered.

Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @c4xcocoa, @darkmoka.

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