#and he has me do it and he said i had it????

[em1i2a3]

I Want You (Fever)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Grocery shopping turns into one of the most nerve wrecking nights that Bob has had in a long time (This is a continuation of “Plainclothes Man”)

Warnings: No Warnings only like…Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob? lol, this is just pure fluff with a hint of jealousy mixed in

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! I had this in my drafts this weekend and needed to do a little bit of fine tuning before I posted (I ended up throwing out the original idea and reworked it!). Hope y’all enjoy :) (ALSO WHAT A HIGH QUALITY GIF GOOD LORD)

Word Count: 4,465

Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He’d been trying for the last twenty minutes, gripping the cart like it might keep him tethered to reality, but every aisle felt like a trap laid by fate itself. Every glance at you was a temptation, and every time he failed to resist it, it got worse.

It wasn’t just the sweatpants anymore–though God help him, those were doing their own slow damage. It was the way you moved in them. The lazy sway of fabric, the way the drawstrings danced against your thighs when you walked, the casual tug you gave them to keep the waistband in place. Like you’d forgotten they weren’t yours, even though that was far from the case.

But more than that, it was you in general. It was the quiet laugh you gave when he made a bad joke in the cereal aisle. The way you picked up the most ridiculous snack and turned to him with a grin, asking, “Okay, but what kind of monster thought making sour patch flavoured Oreos was a good idea?” just to keep him talking. The way you read your grocery list out loud like you needed him to hear it–like he was part of the journey. Like you wanted him woven into the moment.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, and that might’ve been the part that killed him the most, because you weren’t trying. You weren’t teasing him, you were just being yourself–open, warm, familiar in the kind of way that made his chest ache and his stomach twist into knots. You could’ve led him off the side of a mountain for all he cared and once he hit the ground he would’ve said “Thank you, now help me up so I can do it again.” You had so much power even though you weren’t aware of it.

”There’s your chips!” You said suddenly, and just like that, Bob’s brain and eyes were back to focusing directly on you.

You were a few steps ahead of him, half-turned toward the shelf with your hand already reaching up. There was such mundaneness to it, the way your fingers flexed slightly as you overextended your arm like you had done this a hundred times–which technically you had, though Bob just wasn’t around to see it. The oversized shirt lifted enough with the extension and his eyes–against his better judgement–flicked down.

And then he saw it, not just your skin, not just the soft slope of your waist. He saw the scar. He could see the faint, silvered edge of it–just a little shimmer near your lower back, peeking out where your shirt had roadie up and the waistband of his sweatpants dipped with movement. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to remind him of it.

You’d told him about it once offhandedly, like it didn’t mean much to you anymore–but your voice had caught halfway through the story. A mission gone sideways. A blade you didn’t see coming. You had offered to show it to him, but he said no in the most polite and sheepish way he could manage.

Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. Not in a way that would’ve crossed a line–but in a way that would’ve revealed too much. That he cared too much. That seeing something that had hurt you, marked you, and almost taken you might undo him completely.

He remembered the way your lips had twitched–half-amused and touched–when he mumbled something like “I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me…” And you let it go.

But now, standing behind you in the aisle lit by flickering fluorescents, with your shirt riding up and the edge of the scar showing and glistening like a silver thread stitched into your soft skin, he felt like his soul was going to leave his body.

Because it wasn’t just a scar. It was proof that you trusted him enough to offer to show him it. Proof that he knew you–in ways not everyone did. And yet…Not in the way he wanted to.

And he wondered what it would feel like to press his palm there. Not to possess, nor to claim, but just to be close to you.

When your arm finally dropped, and the shirt settled back, you put the chips into the cart as if nothing happened.

”Extra crunchy plain kettle chips…I never thought these would be so popular.” You said jokingly. He opened his mouth–but he didn’t even know what he was going to say back. Maybe it was going to be something stupid, or maybe he was just going to confess right then and there, something along the lines of “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to touch you, not just because of how perfect you look to me, but because of everything that’s made you who you are.”

But the words never even formed in his throat.

”Y/N?” Your name rang out behind you, clear and surprised and full of recognition. It was a gravelly and deep voice, a man's voice. Bob could feel his stomach fall through him.

You turned first, and your smile lit up like a struck match.

”Oh my god! Connor?” The excitement in your voice almost killed him, and immediately he could feel himself grow hot with the idea of what he was about to witness.

He watched as the man appeared from the far end of the aisle–tall, sharp-edged with a little scar over his eye, clean-shaven and still somehow scruffy in that confident, ex-special ops kind of way.

Connor was already walking toward you with the familiarity of someone who used to share early morning missions and late-night runs with you. His voice was warm, loud, and confident, he was unmistakably sure of himself.

”I thought that was you!” Connor grinned, coming to a stop just in front of you, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical vest and blood on your face.” You gave him a short laugh and glanced down at yourself.

”I clean up well enough, right?” You motioned to the clothes that you were wearing.

”More than well enough,” Connor replied, tone light but lingering, his eyes sweeping over you quickly before adding, “I always said you were the best-looking one in the unit.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile you gave him was real–warmed by shared history, by something friendly and effortless. Bob felt himself wanting to interject, but all he could do was stand there, and watch, like he was just part of the scenery now.

”You only said that because you didn’t want me breaking your nose during drills.” Connor smirked.

”Hey, you were always close to doing it though, you always had that elbow twitch. I remember.” And you laughed again–open, easy, head tilted back just enough that Bob saw the line of your throat, saw the way you leaned in just a little when you nudged Connor’s arm.

You weren’t really flirting, it wasn’t anything heavy and meaningful, it was like two friends catching up on lost time. But Bob felt it like a shard of glass under his ribs. He didn’t know what hurt more though–the way you smiled at Connor, or the way that Connor had so many experiences with you, and so many stories. Bob only had a few months, a few soft mornings, and one mission where he was the person they were up against. It was hard to imagine that you and him could ever be that close, and all he could feel was his heart sinking lower and lower.

Connor slung his hands into his pockets, “So, what’ve you been up to? I figured you were halfway across the world still setting fire to buildings and pissing off diplomates.” You shook your head, brushing your knuckles across your forehead.

”Took a break from international chaos. I’m with The New Avengers now. It’s a stateside thing, mostly.” Connor raised a brow.

”The New Avengers, huh? Never figured you to be the reformation type.” He commented, continuing to look at you.

”Yeah well…” You shrugged, “Figured I’d try being a little less feral, for now at least.” He laughed at that, then glanced over your shoulder for the first time since the conversation started–like he just remembered you weren’t alone.

”And who’s this?” He motioned with his chin, “Your backup?” You turned slightly to Bob, tilting your head with a small smile, waving him over like you were finally letting him in on a secret. The look in your eyes was unreadable as he approached slowly, and it made him nervous.

“This is Bob. Bob Reynolds.” You said. There were no titles, no explanations, no qualifiers, just his name–spoken like it was enough. Bob offered his hand to Connor automatically, even though his mind was already spiraling from the lack of any defining words.

The handshake was firm, yet casual.

“Bob Reynolds,” Connor repeated with a smirk, giving him a once-over, before glancing over at you, “Didn’t peg you to be someone who dates within the team.” Bob froze. The words landed like a live wire straight to his chest. His vision didn’t blur–but it tunneled. Everything around him narrowed, and went strangely quiet, like the store had vacuumed the sound right out of the air.

And then–you smiled. Not with embarrassment, or hesitation, but with this soft, relaxed kind of warmth–like the mixup didn’t bother you at all. You didn’t correct him either. You didn’t say no, that’s not what we are. You didn’t say we’re just teammates. You said nothing at all, and neither did Bob.

Because in that moment, something inside him had short-circuited, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something about your silence felt good to him. Terrifying, yes. But…Good. Dangerous, and hopeful as well. Like maybe–just maybe– you liked the idea that people thought he was yours.

Connor chuckled, and nudged your shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d go for the soft ones, but I get it. Balances you out.” He commented, which made Bob turn a bit red in embarrassment and you shrugged.

”He grows on you.” Bob nearly forgot how to stand upright, because you weren’t joking. There was affection under those words, and just by hearing you say them, it was like his blood had turned electric beneath his skin. Like every inch had been tuned too tight, and he was about to snap in half from the tension. From the possibility.

Connor clapped him lightly on the arm, “Well, hey–good luck surviving her. She’s the reason I still have shoulder pain in cold weather.”

“I’m very proud of that,” You replied breezily, already reaching for another snack on the shelf like your words, or lack thereof, just hadn’t rearranged his. Connor gave you a small wink and started to walk off.

”Always good seeing you Y/N, you two have fun playing house.” And then he was gone, just like that. Bob stayed frozen where he stood, realizing he said absolutely nothing during the conversation. You turned back to him with a small smile, tossing a bag of popcorn into the cart.

”We still need to go to the dessert section for Walker's cinnamon rolls.” You said, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

——————-

Once you were done shopping, Bob loaded the trunk with all the bags and returned the shopping cart to the store, sliding into the passenger seat in complete silence.

The engine hummed low beneath the weight of all that was unspoken, and the grocery bags rustled faintly as you rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy car. You pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, glancing once in Bob’s direction.

He hadn’t said a word since Connor left, and he looked absolutely dazed.

His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched–but fidgeting. His fingers were tangled loosely together, thumbs moving over one another in slow rhythmic circles. It was the kind of motion that only meant one thing when it came from Bob: he was nervous, really nervous. Tied-up-in-knots and about to implode kind of nervous.

You flicked your turn signal and merged into the next lane.

”Are you okay?” You asked gently. Bob didn’t answer right away, his eyes just stayed locked on the road ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it–you could tell. His mind was miles away. Still stuck in aisle seven, maybe.

You hit a stoplight.

The soft red glow filtered into the car through the windshield, casting a faint warmth across your features. It slid like watercolor across your cheekbones, deepened the shadows around your mouth, and softened the bridge of your nose. It made you look celestial, like something that was too alive to exist in a place as mundane as this.

Bob turned his head to look at you–and once he did, he couldn’t look away.

The red glow painted you like a portrait Bob didn’t think he deserved to see. Something about it made everything more unreal. More dangerous. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been staring–until you caught him doing it.

You blinked and tilted your head, eyes narrowing with something like concern.

”Bob,” You said softly, “What’s going on?” His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

And then the light turned green.

You let the car roll forward slowly, but then you took the next turn–off the main road, down a quiet street lined with trees that filtered the dying daylight like gold dust. You pulled the car over, your tires crunching softly against gravel. And then you put it in park and killed the engine.

The silence fell like a held breath, as a gust of wind blew the cool spring air into the car. It smelled like moss, with a hint of dew, like it was going to rain, even though the sky was showing to be clear.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, shifting so you could see him fully. His profile was tight–tense in a way you rarely saw. He was breathing, but too shallow. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

“Okay,” You said, voice calm but firm. “You haven’t said more than three words since we saw Connor. You’re fidgeting so much your thumbs are gonna rub raw. And you keep looking at me like you’ve got something to say…”Bob blinked, once and swallowed the lump in his throat, as a sheen of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

Still nothing.

“So,” You continued, leaning a little closer to him, your tone gentler now. “Tell me. What happened?” Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to finally speak—but the words caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a half-breath instead.

You watched him closely, waiting.

“I… n-nothing happened,” he stammered, eyes flicking toward the windshield like it might offer him an escape. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean it’s not—it’s not not fine—but it’s not, like… bad. It’s just…”

He trailed off, his voice shrinking with every word until it was barely audible.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. Really looked.

Then you slowly shifted closer.

Your thigh brushed his. Barely. Just enough that the contact registered like a spark. And when you leaned in, the warmth of you carried with it the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg–the smell of fall during spring, and Bob’s lungs forgot how to behave.

“Is it me?” you asked softly.

His eyes shot to you like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“I—no,” he blurted, too fast, too flustered. “No! I mean. Not like—It’s not bad. It’s just, um…”

He trailed off again. His shoulders sank.

You tilted your head. “Bob.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“…I don’t know how to be around you right now.”

That made you pause. Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched even closer–your arm brushing his this time.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t teasing. Just curious. Barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked at you again–and this time, there was no hiding in the silence.

“Because Connor thought we were together,” he said, breathless. “And you didn’t c-correct him at–at all. And I’ve been trying not to hope for too much. Trying no–not to want that so much. But the second he said it, and you didn’t say anything–I haven’t been able to think straight since.”

You stared at him for a second, the air between you charged like a live wire.

And then…

“Did you ever think,” You said slowly, “That maybe I didn’t want to correct him because I liked what I heard?”

That made him blink–hard. His breath hitched audibly.

His mouth parted, but no words came. His hand–still folded in his lap–tightened slightly, like he was holding onto something that might float away.

You watched his lips part and close again, watched his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, and you could feel the space between you contracting, the tension building like something was about to snap.

“Bob,” You said, softer now, “Am I the one that’s making you nervous?”

He nodded–tiny. Almost imperceptible. Then managed a whisper:

“A-Always.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then you reached up, slow and steady, and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He flinched–not from discomfort, but from shock, closing his eyes at the sensation of your touch tracing along his stubble. Like he didn’t know how to receive that kind of closeness. Like he hadn’t dared imagine it outside of his dreams.

Your voice stayed low. Intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me,” You said. “Not if you want the same thing I do.”

He could feel his heart seizing in his chest, his mouth going dry, lips parting again. “A-And what do you w-want?”

You smiled–just barely, just enough for him to see the truth in it. Something quiet and unguarded. Something only for him.

Then you leaned in.

And he felt it first in the air—how your breath brushed across his lips before your mouth ever touched his. Soft and warm, like the stir of wind before a storm. It made every muscle in his body go tight with anticipation. The space between you was shrinking by the second, his senses narrowing to the way you looked at him–like you already knew what this would do to him.

”You…That’s what I want.” You whispered. Bob swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His hand twitched in his lap like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

And then–

You kissed him.

Your lips found his like they’d been there before in a hundred different dreams. They were soft, impossibly soft, and he swore time folded in on itself. It wasn’t rushed, or messy, or careless–it was a moment made of weightless things. Breath and longing. The quiet hum of the earth under your feet and the echo of a hope that had waited far too long to bloom.

Bob didn’t kiss back at first–not out of hesitation, but out of sheer disbelief. His breath hitched like he was afraid he’d ruin it by moving. But then your hand slid into his hair, your thumb grazing the curve of his jaw again, and something in him unspooled completely.

He kissed you back like he’d been drowning for years and only just now found air. Gentle at first–uncertain–but then a little more desperate. His fingers found your thigh where your legs were still touching, squeezing it gently, anchoring him to the here and now. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t get closer. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, the soft sigh you let out when his lips parted just barely against yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing else. No car. No road. No Connor. Just the two of you suspended in something delicate and golden and sacred.

He was still breathing like he’d just run ten miles when you pulled back. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shutting tight like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, preserving it in his chest like a light in a jaw. The windows were fogging at the corners now, despite them being open, and the air between you had turned warm and close, while every shared breath was a little shallower, a little hungrier than the one before.

You tilted your head just slightly, brushing the tip of your nose along his cheek, and he shuddered.

“Jesus Y/N…” He whispered, “I-I think I’m gonna pass out.” You smiled gently against his skin, letting your lips brush over the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doing better than you think.” You whispered, as your hand slid down from his jaw to rest against his chest, right over his heart–feeling it pounding like a war drum. He looked at you then, dazed and wide-eyed, mouth still pink and parted, and when you shifted your weight toward him, his breath caught.

“Can I…?” you asked, your voice softer than ever, your gaze flicking downward–toward his lap.

He nodded before you could finish the question. Like it wasn’t even a decision, just a reflex. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Please.”

You climbed over the center console slowly, carefully, and Bob’s hands went to your hips instinctively, steadying you like you might disappear mid-motion. The second you settled on top of him, straddling his lap, he tensed beneath you–shoulders rigid, breath shallow–but his grip never wavered.

“Okay?” you asked again, brushing your thumbs over the fabric of his shirt.

He nodded again, voice trembling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

You smiled, sliding yours over his. “You’re already doing fine.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

It was warm and slow, sure–but there was something boiling under the surface now. A spark that had caught flame. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for this, starving for it, and Bob melted into it like he didn’t know how not to. His hands tightened at your hips, not possessive, just desperate for anchoring. For something real.

He moaned against your mouth when your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just lightly. It was a sound you felt before you heard it–a low vibration in your chest where your bodies were brushing, where your thighs pressed against his hips.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, more a shift than a grind–and Bob gasped into your kiss.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, voice trembling, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second as he tried to collect himself.

“You okay?” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He nodded, his voice shaky and stunned. “Y-You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, and this time his hands slid under your shirt, trailing up your back, like he wanted to feel every inch of you he was allowed. The smooth skin was vast, and all he realized was just how soft you truly were as he pulled your body against his. His mouth opened beneath yours, and you deepened the kiss slowly, tilting your head, tasting the warmth of him, the desperation he was too shy to say out loud.

And then his hips shifted under you, unintentionally–and the friction made you both gasp. His fingers flexed against your back, clinging. Needy. His breath came faster, rougher, and he whined into your mouth when your hips shifted again, intentionally this time–grinding against him with slow, aching friction.

“Y-Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking apart, and your hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him harder. The car felt too small now, too warm, too full of air that wasn’t moving–but neither of you could stop. Not yet.

His mouth opened wider, tongue brushing yours hesitantly–like he was asking permission even now, like he didn’t know if you still wanted this. But the second you deepened it, the second your lips parted and your tongue met his with a soft, slick slide–he lost whatever fragile control he had left.

He moaned–quiet and broken–and then his hips lifted just barely into yours. You both froze at the pressure, the friction.

His fingers dug into your hips. “I-I can’t–” He breathed, forehead falling back to yours. “I’m gonna–if we keep–I can’t think.”

“Hey,” You whispered, brushing your nose against his, breathless, lips still ghosting his, “It’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” He blurted, and it sounded like a confession, “I just–I need to. I want to…So so bad, it’s just–god, I want to do it right.”

You smiled, fingers slipping up to his flushed cheeks, holding him there–trembling, dazed, burning beneath you.

“You are doing it right, Bob,” You murmured, kissing him once more—slower this time, gentler, reverent. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

His arms slid around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go, like if he did the whole thing might vanish like a fever dream. His breath was hot against your collarbone now, lips resting against your skin, and he nodded, finally beginning to breathe again.

“I-I just want to be close to–to you,” He whispered. “Even if it’s just like this. Even if we don’t–y’know. Yet.”

You leaned your head against his, your hand stroking the back of his neck slowly, grounding him.

“Then let’s just stay like this,” You said softly. “You and me.”

He nodded again, arms tightening around you.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “You and me.”

The windows stayed fogged, your breaths remained shallow, your lips kiss-swollen and raw. But you didn’t move.

And in the quiet heat of that parked car, it felt like something had finally started. Something that didn’t need words.

[fozmeadows]

The Parable of the Wolf

On a fine spring day, an errant young Wolf wandered away from his pack and, in a sunny forest glade, encountered a Hunter.

"Please don't kill me!" said the Wolf, as the Hunter raised his gun. "I'm not here to hurt you!"

"I don't believe you," replied the Hunter. "Everyone knows that wolves are vile, dangerous creatures. You have claws that rip and tear - how can I possibly trust you?"

"If I pull out my claws," said the Wolf, "will you let me go?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

One by one, the Wolf pulled out his claws. The Hunter watched with a lazy smirk, and when the Wolf was done, he lowered his gun.

"I believe you now," said the Hunter. "You're free to go."

"Thank you!" said the Wolf, who tottered home on bloody paws and told his pack of the Hunter's benevolence. "It's only clawed wolves that the hunters don't like," he said. "So long as we remove them, we'll never be shot." And though some wolves disagreed with this, the most fearful of them listened, and soon a third of the pack was clawless.

A month went by, and in due course, the young Wolf found himself once more alone in the forest. A twig cracked behind him, and when he turned, there was the Hunter, his shiny gun at the ready.

"Wait!" said the Wolf. "I've got no claws, remember? I'm not dangerous!."

"I'd like to believe you," the Hunter said, "but last week, I heard that a little girl was mauled by something with big, sharp teeth, and your teeth look pretty sharp to me."

"If I pull out my teeth," said the Wolf, "will you let me go?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

One by one, the Wolf pulled out his teeth. The Hunter watched with silent intent, and when the Wolf was finished, he let his gun droop low.

"I can see you're a well-behaved pup," said the Hunter. "Go, be on your way."

"Thank you!" said the Wolf, and lolloped home, his jaws dripping blood, to tell the pack of the Hunter's caution. "Something with fangs has committed a terrible crime," he said. "So long as we don't look like them, we'll never be mistaken for monsters." And though the eldest wolves exchanged worried looks, the younger ones listened, and soon a third of the pack was toothless, too.

Another month went by, until one day, drinking at his favourite part of the river, the Wolf realised he wasn't alone, and raised his head to see the Hunter walking towards him, his gun once more at the ready.

"This stream is in my territory," the Wolf said, panicked and puzzled. "What are you doing here? I have neither claws nor teeth, and pose no possible threat to you."

"You don't, it's true," said the Hunter, "but many among your pack have both teeth and claws. How am I to trust your good intentions when you associate with such creatures?"

"If I chased away the toothed and clawed members of my pack," said the Wolf, "will you no longer be afraid of me?"

"Of course," said the Hunter. "Why would I lie to you?"

"I'll do it, then," said the Wolf, and when the Hunter gave the nod, he hurried back to his pack, assembled all the obedient wolves, and told them what had to be done. Though some were troubled by the Hunter's presence in their territory, they all agreed it made no sense to have sacrificed their claws and teeth while still associating with those who hadn't - after all, their stance was a principled one, and what good was principle if it wasn't firmly applied? With that, they banded together to chase the other wolves away, and when they were finished, more than a third of the pack was gone.

His task achieved, the Wolf returned to the river, where the Hunter was patiently waiting, and told him the good news.

"It's done!" he said. "The only wolves left are those without claws, or those without teeth, or those without both, like me."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Hunter. "I hope the others didn't give you too much trouble?"

"Some of them snapped at us, it's true," said the Wolf, "and others swiped at us with their claws. It was frightening; I understand now why you were afraid."

"That's good," said the Hunter, and tipped his hat as he strolled back the way he'd come.

That night, as the remaining wolves lay sleeping, the Hunter and his fellows snuck up on the den and started shooting. The Wolf awoke in terror and confusion to the sound of gunshots and the howls of his dying friends. Desperately, he tried to fight back, but his toothless jaws found no grip on the limbs of the hunters, and his clawless paws left not a dent in their sturdy coats. All too soon, he was knocked to the ground, and as he lay there, panting in fear, the Hunter came and stood over him.

"Why are you doing this?" cried the Wolf. "I did everything you asked!"

The Hunter shrugged. "At the end of the day, a wolf's a wolf. We never could've trusted you."

Horrified, the Wolf asked, "Then why did you have us pull out our claws and remove our teeth and chase away our friends?"

"Because you were strong together," came the reply. "Like this, you're weak."

"But you said you weren't afraid of us!" begged the Wolf.

The Hunter smiled, and sighed, and raised his gun. "Oh, little pup," he said, "this was never about fear. Why would I lie to you?" And before the Wolf could answer, he pulled the trigger.

[mothofmyth]

DC x DP

The Justice League summons the ghost king.

Unfortunately, the safest way JLD can find requires a host body to contain the being.

Obviously Superman, Wonder Woman, and Flash are out - who knows what this being would do with a super-powered body. They have no idea how Captain Marvel or Green Lantern type magic would interact with the summoning, so not them either. They need Constantine and Zatanna to perform the ritual.

Basically it's down to the bats.

Batman tries to volunteer - better him than one of his kids if anything were to go wrong.

That gets vetoed. As do a lot of his offspring. The safest options (ie the least contaminated by magic, lazarus water, time shenanigans, and everything else) are Red Robin, Spoiler, and Nightwing.

Nightwing pulls rank.

After a lot of arguing, everyone at least agrees to tolerate the arrangement.

Nightwing removes every possible weapon from himself, allows himself to be tied to a chair in the middle of a summoning circle, and waits for JL Dark to complete the ritual.

It's not long before he feels a surge of cold burning through him.

He expected to be unconscious while the Ghost King took over. That's what Zatanna said had been reported the last time this ritual was performed many years ago.

They had all expected a lot of things.

Pariah Dark was supposed to be terrifying to behold - a massive, cruel, FURIOUS dictator who turned to violence at the smallest sleight.

This was... definitely not that.

Dick was present. He had no control over his body, but he could see and hear in an almost dream-like state. Foggy and indistinct, maybe a little warped, but definitely present.

He felt his heart rate and breathing pick up in panic even though he felt mostly calm (or at least no more anxious than he had been, waiting for an angry deity to possess his body and all). It was a strange sensation.

He felt the vibrations of his own voice as it left his throat, high and confused.

"Wha... Where..." It asked, warbling and afraid.

He felt his eyes blink and his limbs struggle against the bindings.

His head tilted down without his say so, and he looked at his own body as if through rippling water, warped lenses.

"I'm not..." His voice came out, still confused. Still afraid.

"Your Majesty?" Zatanna asked from beyond the limits of the circle.

His head whipped up, and he felt his neck click at the abrupt motion.

His breathing picked up again. Dick felt the ghost (pun not intended) of anxiety, like it was leaking from the other consciousness inhabiting his body.

"We mean you no harm. Our associate has agreed to lend you his body for the duration of this meeting." She continued.

Dick felt the king's anxiety again, stronger this time. Other emotions too, guilt, sorrow, anger, and a strange sort of pressing-tugging sensation.

Suddenly, Dick was back in control. He could still feel the king's consciousness, stronger now than before, but he could also move and speak freely.

"What just happened?" He mumbled, speaking to the ghost, not the audience of heroes.

"Nightwing?" Someone called from outside the circle, but he ignored them for the moment, feeling instead the consciousness inhabiting his body push back fear, guilt, and apology.

"Yeah, it's me. He's still in here, though." Dick frowned, trying to figure out how to interact with the being.

He heard a voice in the back of his mind. It sounded like him. It sounded different. It was younger than him. It was small and afraid. It was neutral and quiet and him. But it wasn't. It was speaking. It was silent. It was emotions and thoughts and nothing.

"Oooookay, this is really weird. I think we're communicating. I don't know how to talk back, but if he's in the same situation I was a minute ago he should be able to hear us just fine. Is that right?" Nightwing tried.

The 'voice' (he figured he'd call it a voice for now. He wasn't sure what else he could call it) responded in the affirmative. Like a hand outstretched, flipping up and down in a 'kinda' type of gesture. Like a nod and a hesitant smile. The feeling of victory by default.

Dick beamed.

"Okay yeah he can hear us." He announced for the benefit of their audience. "Why didn't you stay where you could speak? Wouldn't that have been easier?" He looked at his own chest, as if he could somehow find a way to see the presence inside of him.

Disgust. Guilt. Fear. An unexpected step at the bottom of a staircase. Falling off a pier into tempestuous water. A stranger pinning your hands above your head.

"Oh." Dick breathed. "Thank you, but I can handle it."

Guilt. Guilt. GUILT.

"Okay. It's alright. You can speak through me or we can manage like this." He soothed.

"Nightwing, report." Batman demanded.

"Uhh, right. I think he's trying to be courteous? To me, I mean. From what I can gather, he doesn't want to possess me or take over. He seems pretty repulsed by the idea, to be honest. I think he can see and hear and generally experience everything I'm experiencing, he's just more passenger than driver? I can feel him, and he's communicating, he just can't speak through me without taking my autonomy again, and he really doesn't want to do that." Dick explained, looking at the various states of thinly-veiled bewilderment across the faces of the heroes.

"Ask him if he's Pariah Dark, High King of the Infinite Realms, Ancient of Rage and Destructio-" Constantine begins, before Dick cuts him off

"I just said he can hear everything we're saying. Ask him yourself."

Constantine huffs. "You heard me, mate. Are you him?"

Denial. Contemplation. A battle. Single combat. A crown made of black thorns and green flames. A throne too big for he who sits in it. Victory. Desperation. Insufficiency. A question.

"I think..." Dick starts, trying to understand. "I think he's the King... but he's not Pariah Dark."

Agreement. Apology. Questioning.

"He wants to know if we're looking for Pariah Dark, or if we're looking for the High King of the Infinite Realms." He glances between Zatanna and Constantine, uncertain of the answer himself.

Constantine pales.

"Whatever is inside you defeated the ancient of Rage and Destruction in single combat, Nightwing. It's a powerful motherfucker, and a total unknown." He warns cautiously.

"Get him out of there, now. Send it back." Batman demands.

TERROR. Pleading. Unbearable suffering. Shiny metal dripping with green blood. The end of love. Unfathomable loss. Death without release. Unending torment. Begging.

"NO!" The voice tears its way out of Nightwing without his consent.

Cowering. Apology. Apology. Guilt. Apology.

Dick clears his throat. "I don't think he wants to leave."

"All the more reason to send it back." Batman growls.

"Don't." Dick protests. "I know it's a risk, and there's a chance it's manipulating me. But, something doesn't feel right about all of this."

"Ghosts are well known for their skills regarding manipulation, mind control, and emotion tampering." Zatanna cautions.

"According to those dehumanising rags maybe," Constantine scoffs.

"Every source we have-"

"Two sources, Love. Both of which have a bit of a vested interest, wouldn't you say?"

Fear. FEAR. Frustration. Heartbreak. An unheard voice in a crowded room. A layperson lecturing an expert. Mockery. A spectacle of suffering. Lies. Hurt. Fear.

"He agrees with Constantine." Dick pipes in.

Exasperation. Reluctance.

"I don't think he's too happy about it." He laughs.

"Of course he agrees with Constantine, he's giving him what he wants." Red Robin huffs.

"He's afraid." Dick's voice cuts through the argument and the heroes turn to look at him. "I don't know exactly what's happening, but he's terrified of being sent back."

Zatanna sighs. "Let's do what we came to do, and then maybe we'll talk about letting him out."

(Something goes wrong and Dick and Danny end up stuck like this for a while.

Dick moves back into Wayne Manor while they try to figure out how to remove Danny from Dick's body without hurting either of them.

Everybody starts referring to Phantom as Dick's little passenger.

Eventually they repeal the Anti-Ecto Acts and find out all of the trauma Danny's been through via talking and dream/memory bleeding between him and Dick.

When Danny does finally manage to tumble out of Dick he is promptly adopted into the Batfam (what did anyone expect, he's a traumatised young teenager with black hair and blue eyes and barely any sense of self preservation).

In the meantime, however, Dick is happily going about his daily life with his little passenger, and Danny is still very traumatised but he's also contentedly curled up in Dick's chest, thrumming with happiness whenever Dick takes care of him.

Once or twice when Dick gets into Big Danger while vigilante-ing, Phantom forcibly takes over Dick's body to save him, using his ghost powers to fight the bad guy and escape the scenario. He cries afterwards because even though he needed to save Dick's life, he knows how terrifying and violating it feels to have someone else controlling your body (thanks Circus Gothica) and never wants to put anyone else through that.)

[gayeddiejuice]

🚨🚨 boots on the ground reporting 🚨🚨

ok just got off the phone with my friend, she is the mvp called me as soon as she clocked out while she walked to the train.

ok. first things first i asked. we’re they nice? and she said YES she said they were probably the easiest table anyone had she felt bad for everyone else cause she kept seeing all the handlers running back and forth and she was just chilling pretty much. she said they dinner was pre ordered but they didn’t eat much of it cause they probably ate at the pre party event. she was also like “did you know oliver is vegan?” LOL anyways. as the main handler the job is to make sure the vips have everything they need, so for example she would take all their food orders and then send it to the kitchen and then there’s a team of waiters who bring the food, the handler never leaves the table you have to be there in case they need anything.

she said since their team preordered most of the food it made her job so much easier, she basically just stood by their table all night just in case they needed anything. she did order lots of drinks tho she said they drank A LOT 😂😂 but it was mostly for all the people that kept coming over to their table, apparently they were super popular people from other shows kept coming over to talk to them. also lots of the other guests which is mostly just the advertisers, that’s the whole point of the party abc/disney has all these celebs there to mingle with advertisers to get them to sell stuff on their network. and she said everyone wanted to come to the 911 table!!

after the dinner portion the actual party starts and that’s when things get hectic cause the vips always scatter and if you’re their handler you gotta know where they all are at all times. i do not miss this job btw it gave me major anxiety.

during the party they pretty much stuck together which made her job so much easier and she said they all remembered her name when she only told it to them once when she introduced herself. listen she doesn’t know anything about this cast she kept calling them the girl and the asian guy or the two hot guys. which. yall. she said they were all extremely beautiful she said she kept blushing cause ryan (she fell in love with him btw) kept calling her by her name and asking her questions and he kept organizing the plates and glasses on the table to make it easier for the wait staff to pick up.

other than that she said later in the night she kept losing track of them cause again they were so popular 😂😂 mostly aisha, she said she seemed to be friends with EVERYONE and she said, i repeat she knows nothing about rpf she didn’t know what her words would mean, she said ryan and oliver (the two hot guys) hung out together the whole night especially once kenny left, she said he left at like 8 right after dinner, and aisha kept going to talk to other people but ryan and oliver stuck together all night. I said oh im so sure. 🤭

that’s pretty much it, i asked if she could hear their convos and she could but she didn’t really pay attention cause she didn’t recognize any names. she did say that they were all cracking jokes all night and they laughed a lot which idk warms my heart 🥹🥹

btw ryan and oliver did leave together and i think they were going to either go somewhere else with other people or they were having like an after party at the hotel? cause they kept telling people yeah we’ll see you “after” she didn’t really catch where “after” was but when they said bye to aisha ryan said “see ya at the hotel” and oliver told her to not take too long 😂😂 so idk I guess they’re still partying.

[bloomseishiro]

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls ! 

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go. 

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed. 

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe. 

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing. 

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips. 

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize. 

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly. 

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there. 

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully. 

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him. 

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee. 

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that. 

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure. 

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach. 

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…” 

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves. 

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one. 

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself. 

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely. 

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look. 

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it’s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise. 

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.” 

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Melatonin in Human Form

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: can’t sleep without Paige—childhood naps turned forever habit.

A/N: I would like to publicly apologize for my most recent post. It was very wrong and insensitive of me to post, and I take full accountability for the harm it may have caused. Please forgive me.

Especially too: @iwasbored-okay , @cowboybueckers , @yailtsv , @elalfywhore , @elswhore , @sillylittlepop , @elliesglock , and @authentic-girl03

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @starfulani , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom

I don’t remember the first time I fell asleep with Paige. Her dad probably does, because he never stops talking about how we were “two little Velcro babies who refused to nap without being tangled together.”

My parents even saying the same.

I do remember the warmth.

The safety.

The way her breathing always found its rhythm first, and how mine followed like it knew where home was.

We were maybe six, freshly worn out from a birthday party and some feral rendition of musical chairs, when I ended up passed out on her beanbag chair with her arm slung across my waist like we were puzzle pieces.

And from that moment on, I was done for.

Sleep, for me, has never just been about closing my eyes.

It’s always been about proximity.

Paige-shaped proximity.

And now, years later, that hasn’t changed.

Back in high school, before we were anything more than best friends who happened to blush a little too hard during sleepovers, I tried to downplay it.

I’d crash on her floor during study nights or after games, making excuses about her mattress being comfier or my house being too loud.

She never called me out for what it was—pure, undiluted dependence.

By the time we got to UConn, it was a running joke with her teammates.

“I swear Y/N has Paige set as her melatonin,” Sarah once said, deadpan, as I yawned through breakfast after a night apart.

Paige had just come back from a weekend home, and I barely made it 48 hours before showing up at her dorm door like a stray cat.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” she asked, smirking knowingly.

“Define sleep.”

Now we’re in Dallas.

New city, new league, new pace—but the same me.

Same needy, cuddly, sleep-inept me.

And the same Paige, only shinier.

She’s Paige Bueckers, WNBA rookie, endorsement magnet, face-of-everything-all-at-once. And she’s also my fiancée.

Which still makes my stomach flip if I think about it too hard.

Our apartment is big enough to breathe in—exposed brick, sunlight that spills into every room like a golden retriever.

We even have a home office now.

Which I’m currently standing outside of, barefoot in a hoodie and cocooned in a fluffy duvet like a deranged burrito.

It’s 12:42 a.m. I’m tired. But not the kind of tired that leads to sleep. Not when I’m in bed without her.

I knock softly on the office door.

“Paigey?”

No response.

She’s got her AirPods in, probably typing an email to her Nike rep or something equally business-y and important.

I open the door just enough to peek in.

Her laptop casts a blue glow over her face, and her glasses—glasses that I specifically told her made her look like a hot librarian—are sliding down her nose.

I shuffle in like a slug wrapped in cotton.

Her eyes flick to me and soften instantly. “Baby… what are you doing?” she asks, voice low and warm, pulling one AirPod out.

I don’t answer. I just wobble toward her like I’ve been drugged and then, without warning, climb into her lap, duvet and all.

“Y/N!” she laughs, startled, but instinctively adjusts her chair and cradles me like I’m made of something delicate.

“I can’t sleep,” I mumble, face smushed into her neck.

“I told you I’d be done in fifteen.”

“You said that forty minutes ago.”

“You were awake then.”

“I tried. I really tried. I even put on our playlist and laid on your pillow. But it’s not the same.”

Her hands start tracing circles on my back through the blanket. My eyes flutter, already sinking.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, kissing my temple. “I just had one last email to send about the Puma shoot next week.”

“Mmm.”

“I should’ve stopped when I saw you still tossing around twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re forgiven,” I murmur, “if you never leave me alone at night again.”

She snorts. “Deal.”

I feel her return to typing, hands moving carefully so she doesn’t jostle me.

My cheek is pressed to her collarbone, and her heart is beating in that perfect, sleepy metronome I’ve known since childhood.

“Do you remember that one time we fell asleep in your trampoline net?” I ask, already halfway gone.

“I remember waking up covered in mosquito bites and somehow still thinking it was worth it.”

“Because I was there?”

“Because we were there.”

There’s a pause. She finishes typing, clicks her trackpad softly, then wraps both arms around me fully.

“I’m done now,” she whispers.

“Good,” I sigh, pulling the duvet higher over both of us.

“I really am your melatonin, huh?”

“You’re more effective than any sleep aid known to man. I should bottle you up.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and kisses the top of my head.

“I’ll never get tired of being needed by you, you know?” she says, her voice humming against my skin. “Even if it’s just for sleep.”

“It’s not just for sleep,” I yawn. “It’s for everything. I only function right when I’m close to you.”

I expect her to tease me, maybe crack a joke about my codependency, but she just holds me tighter.

“I love you, burrito girl,” she murmurs. “You can stay in my lap forever if you want.”

“I plan to. Even when we’re eighty.”

“You’ll still be dragging your blanket into my wheelchair like this?”

“Yup. Snoring on your shoulder while you answer emails from the grandkids.”

She hums a soft chuckle, and it’s the last thing I hear before I finally—finally—fall asleep.

Wrapped in her arms. Right where I belong.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[iydiamartinx]

THE TODD-LER PROBLEM

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader ft. batfam

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 2.9k synopsis: Jason gets hit with a magical regression spell during a mission and ends up… five years old. Still foul-mouthed. Still somehow armed. a/n: Don't ask me how or why I wrote this, it just happened... warning: This is utterly unhinged, its a crack fic

There were many things you expected when you opened your apartment door at 3 a.m.

Your boyfriend, Jason Todd, in full gear. Shrunken to approximately three feet tall. And trying to pick your lock with a paperclip. was not one of them.

You blinked once. Twice. “…Jason?”

The tiny figure looked up, scowling, with his tiny leather jacket zipped to the chin and a modified red helmet under one arm. His helmet was clearly a custom fit because of course someone on the team had taken the time to resize his gear. Probably Tim. Or Alfred. Or Jason himself while he’d been cursed into a fun-sized menace.

He tilted his head. “Took you long enough.”

You stared. “You’re three feet tall.”

“Yeah?” he snapped, voice high-pitched but filled with all the rage of a war vet denied his nap. “Well you’re late, an’ I’m cold, and some guy in a sparkly cape turned me into a—” he waved a tiny hand wildly— “a frickin’ gremlin!”

You stared.

“I mean child!” he corrected, stomping past your legs and into your apartment like he owned it. “A frickin’ child. I have to use a stool to pee. I’m livin’ in hell.”

“Excuse me—”

He pushed past your legs like an angry little linebacker. “Also, someone tried to feed me carrots at the manor. Carrots. Like I’m a damn rabbit. I had to escape.”

“Jason, are you seriously—”

“—And Alfred was this close to making me take a bubble bath.”

You raised a brow. “You love bubble baths.”

“Adult me loves them. Toddler me has dignity.”

You shut the door with a sigh, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “Fine. One night. But if you pee on anything, I’m calling Bruce.”

30 MINUTES IN...

You stared at the miniature version of Jason Todd standing dead center in your apartment. You still hadn’t gotten over the fact he was now a child.

He stood with his arms crossed. Eyebrows furrowed. Scowling so hard his little nose scrunched up. The resized red helmet was sitting crookedly on his head, and somehow, somehow, he was still wearing a tiny leather jacket like it was battle armor.

“Jason,” you said slowly, kneeling down to his eye level, “where did you get the gun?”

His eyes narrowed, suspiciously smug. “Trade secret.”

“Jason.”

He pouted. “You left your sock drawer unlocked.”

You blinked. “My sock drawer doesn’t have—”

Realization dawned.

You groaned, standing up and rubbing your face. “You hid weapons in my sock drawer?”

“Of course I did,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What if you got mugged doing laundry?”

You turned on your heel, already pulling out your phone. “Zatanna needs to reverse this spell immediately. How is his five year old self more dangerous than his adult one.” You muttered to yourself. 

From behind you, Jason stomped his tiny boot. “I am not five! I’m five-and-a-half!”

You didn’t even look back. You just sighed and started texting Alfred for backup.

And possibly restraints.

Or duct tape.

Maybe both.

ONE HOUR IN...

You found him in the kitchen standing on the counter—barefoot, wild-haired, and determined. His tiny arms were stretched high above his head, fingers pawing at the top shelf with the sheer willpower of someone who believed they could reach it if they just tried hard enough.

“What,” you asked slowly, “are you doing?”

“I want Oreos,” he said, like it was obvious.

“There are Goldfish crackers right there,” you offered, gesturing to the open box on the counter beside him.

He looked at you like you’d insulted his ancestors. “I’m not a toddler. I have standards.”

He took them with both hands, giving you a small, pointed sniff of derision—as if your earlier suggestion of Goldfish had been not just offensive, but a personally insult.

Then, without another word, he hopped off the counter and disappeared down the hallway like a sugar-fueled cryptid preparing for war.

TWO HOURS IN...

You finally managed to corral him in front of the television, queued up some harmless cartoon with talking animals, and tiptoed into the kitchen to make yourself a much-needed snack.

When you came back, the cartoon was gone and you found him watching John Wick 3 with unblinking intensity.

You stared in horror. “You are not allowed to watch this.”

He didn’t flinch. “Too late.”

You snatched the remote from the armrest. “You’re five.”

“Five an’ a half!” he shouted, voice pitching up in outrage. “An’ I know all ‘bout vengeance! I lived it! Lemme watch Keanu!”

“No.”

“I will bite you.”

“You already did!”

He smiled. “And I’d do it again.”

You lunged for the remote.

He let out a feral shriek. The sound pierced the air like a banshee’s war cry. There was a flurry of motion, limbs, and one elbow jabbed directly into your ribcage. The remote went flying.

Somehow… you lost.

And there he was, not ten minutes later, curled in a blanket like a smug little gremlin, happily finishing John Wick 3.

You sighed, already pulling out your phone to call in reinforcements.

Alfred picked up on the first ring.

“Please tell me patrol is over,” you whispered, glancing warily toward the living room. “I need backup. Immediate. Preferably armed with sedatives and maybe a priest.”

There was the soft clink of a teacup on saucer before Alfred replied, calm as ever. “Master Grayson and Master Drake should be available in a few hours.”

You groan, “Anyone sooner?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” He said.

You hung up and returned to the living room.

Jason was kicking his feet now, reclined like royalty, humming the John Wick fight music under his breath. Every few seconds he’d mutter something like “yeah, get him, Keanu,” or “double tap, baby,” as if he were part of the director’s commentary.

By the time 300 started, he had risen.

He stood on the couch with all the solemnity of a war general addressing his troops, fists clenched at his sides. Then, with zero warning, he let out a piercing battle cry—“SPARTAAAAAA!”—and began hurling Goldfish crackers across the room like they were flaming javelins.

You didn’t bother trying to stop him.

You just slid slowly down the wall, sat on the floor beside the fridge, and accepted your fate.

THREE HOURS IN...

You were gone for five minutes.

Five.

You’d left him watching Love Island.

He’d finally—finally—fallen asleep, sprawled across the couch. The soft drone of British contestants filled the apartment, and for a precious, fragile moment, there was peace.

Just enough to sneak off for five minutes. That was all the time it took to use the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face in the vain hope that you could survive another hour of this gremlin-sized Gotham menace.

When you returned, Love Island was still playing on the TV and Jason was nowhere in the living room. 

“Jason?” you called out.

You heard a noise come from the kitchen

Your stomach dropped.

You rushed in, skidding to a halt just inside the doorway.

The drawer was open.

That drawer.

The one that held the scissors.

The duct tape.

Your spare burner phone.

And, apparently, your last shred of peace.

You turned around slowly—already feeling the weight of regret in your bones.

Tiny Jason stood proudly in your hallway wearing a cardboard chest plate, duct-taped shoulder pads, and your colander on his head.

He raised a wooden spoon like a sword. “I’m Red Hood 2.0,” he declared in a voice that was both too high-pitched and far too serious. “Call me… Lil’ Death.”

You stared at him in exhausted horror.

“…Where’s the rest of the duct tape?”

He gave a wide, toothy grin.

“In mah hair.”

Of course it was.

FOUR HOURS IN...

Alfred had finally sent backup.

It was Damian.

By that point, you didn’t care—anything to give you ten minutes of silence and the chance to remember what breathing felt like.

And for the first ten minutes, it was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

You froze in the hallway, a familiar sense of foreboding slithering down your spine.

Then came the scream.

“YOU LITTLE DEVIL!”

Tiny battle cries echoed from the living room, followed by the unmistakable clang of steel meeting something very much not steel.

You ran in to find Damian standing on your coffee table, sword in hand, while Toddler Jason swung at his legs with a plastic baseball bat wrapped in duct tape and thumbtacks.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“He challenged me,” Damian snapped, breath steady as he parried a wild swing with the flat of his blade.

Jason bared his baby teeth, eyes gleaming with chaotic glee. “He tried to steal my Oreos and called me a baby!”

“Because you are,” Damian barked, deflecting another spoon-wrapped strike. “This is undignified!”

“I’m a toddler, you rich goblin!”

You slapped a hand to your forehead. “Jason, drop the bat.”

“NEVER!”

“Damian, he’s five!”

FIVE HOURS IN...

Damian was still on the windowsill, arms crossed, radiating hatred like a heat lamp.

He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. Not a single word since the incident—the one where he lost to a sugar-crazed toddler wielding a thumbtack-wrapped baseball bat and unyielding vengeance.

You knew that silence. Knew it too well.

He was plotting something. You just didn’t know what.

Not that you had time to dwell on it—because that was when backup number two finally arrived.

The door swung open and in walked Dick and Tim, both dressed down but wide-eyed, scanning the wreckage of your apartment like first responders to a war zone.

Jason—still pint-sized, still radiating the unholy combination of espresso and anarchy—lit up like a demonic Christmas tree at the sight of them.

“Well, well, look who finally showed up,” he chirped, spinning once in his little leather jacket and cardboard armour. “The Backstreet Boys of Disappointment!”

Dick froze mid-step. “I—what?”

Tim looked at you with the tiredness of a man who’d seen too much. “Is he still feral?”

“Worse,” you muttered. “He’s refueled. He ate three cookies and found my instant espresso jar.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “You gave him caffeine?!”

“I didn’t give him anything! He’s a damn toddler who still retained his lock picking skills!”

Across the room, Jason twirled dramatically and pointed at Tim. “Timmy,” he sing-songed, “wanna play hide and seek? I’ll hide… you seek therapy.”

Tim blinked slowly. “You’ve created a monster.”

You pointed at him with your coffee. “He was with you all when this happened.”

Jason pivoted toward Dick, eyes glinting. “Hey, Disco. How’s that permanent sidekick gig goin’? Still doin’ flips no one asked for?”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “You wanna go, tiny man?”

Jason smirked. “Bring it, Jazz Hands.”

And that’s all it took.

Two minutes later

Jason darted between them like a pinball on fire.

Tim lunged with a blanket like he was trying to trap a wild animal. Jason bit straight through it.

Not metaphorically—actually bit through it.

Dick went in next, trying to cut him off with a broad lunge, but Jason hurled a half-full sippy cup at his face with terrifying accuracy. It burst on contact. Sticky apple juice everywhere.

From the windowsill, Damian observed the descent into madness with narrowed eyes and smug silence. Like an evil cat waiting for the moment to pounce.

He chose his moment well.

With a cry of, “FOR HONOR AND BLOOD!” Damian vaulted from the sill into the fray.

He mostly landed on Tim. But the intent was there.

You stood in the doorway, clutching a first aid kit in one hand and your last shred of sanity in the other. It was unclear which would run out first.

Jason popped up from behind the couch like a goblin jack-in-the-box, eyes gleaming with the unholy thrill of chaos. In one hand, he wielded his modified bat like a sword. In the other, a full roll of duct tape, raised like a grenade.

“I DECLARE A BLOOD FEUD!” he roared.

Tim yelped and ducked just as the tape roll whizzed past his head and smacked into the wall with a dull thunk. “He almost took my eye out!”

“WHO GAVE HIM NEGAN’S BAT?!” Dick yelled, backpedaling fast as Jason swung in his direction with surprising force for someone who barely cleared three feet.

“He made it,” Damian grunted, trying to deflect the strike with a throw pillow.

The swing knocked the pillow clean out of his hands.

In the scramble to dodge the next blow, Dick and Damian collided—feet tangled, limbs flailing—and crashed to the floor in a graceless heap.

“WHO’S THE SIDEKICK NOW, SUCKERS?!” he cackled, arms thrown wide like a gladiator demanding cheers from the crowd.

On the floor below him, Damian and Dick groaned in tandem, still tangled in a heap of limbs and wounded pride.

You stood safely behind the armchair, one hand gripping your phone, filming the chaos. Might as well have some blackmail for later.

“You’re going to regret this when you’re big again,” you warned, deadpan. 

“I’LL REGRET NOTHING!” Jason howled, launching himself into Tim’s back like a rabid possum.

Tim shrieked, flailing. “GET HIM OFF! HE’S IN MY HAIR—HE’S IN MY HAIR!”

“He’s like a feral koala,” Dick muttered, as he untangled himself from Damian.

Jason clung tighter, teeth bared, voice giddy with power. “Say sorry for the replacing me and I’ll only ruin your eyebrows!”

“Are we seriously doing this now?” Tim, flailing, shouted, “I didn’t replace you! You died!”

Everything stopped.

For half a second, the air went dead silent.

“TIM!” you and Dick shouted in unison, horrified.

Jason’s response was to let out a piercing shriek of righteous indignation.

“YOU VOTED ME OFF THE ISLAND!”

“WHAT DAMN ISLAND?!”

From the floor, Dick wheezed, “We need to start a support group.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You’re all weak.”

“I don’t see you winning against him, demon spawn!” Tim barked, still trying to dislodge Jason from his spine. “You surrendered three minutes in!”

“I did not surrender,” Damian snapped.

Tim finally managed to pry him off with a desperate twist and a shove, sending Jason rolling back onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Everyone froze.

Jason huffed, catching his breath where he lay sprawled on the couch. His curls were tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with unspent mischief. For one brief, shining moment, it almost looked like the storm had passed.

Dick rose to his feet slowly, warily, hands lifted in surrender.

“Okay,” he said, breathless but hopeful. “Can we finally all just… relax—?”

You took a cautious step forward, narrowing your eyes as you noted the look on his face. “Jason. What are you doing now?”

He turned to you slowly, far too slowly, a smile already creeping onto his face.

Dick glanced over, confused, just in time for Jason to pivot on his heel.

“THIS! IS! SPARTAAAAA!!!”

And then his tiny foot shot up and kicked Dick square in the jewels.

Dick dropped like a sack of bricks, letting out a high-pitched strangled wheeze as he crumpled back onto the floor.

“…Who let him watch 300?” Tim groaned, not even pretending to be surprised anymore.

You winced, trying not to look at Dick who was curled into a fetal position.

Jason raised his arms, victorious. “TONIGHT, WE DINE IN—WHAT’S THAT PLACE WITH CHICKY NUGGIES?!”

“…McDonald’s,” Dick croaked weakly from the floor.

Jason nodded solemnly, his reign unquestioned.

“McDonald’s.”

SIX HOURS IN...

You were exhausted.

The apartment looked like a toy store had exploded. There were still thumbtacks embedded in the coffee table, juice stains on the ceiling, and possibly a spoon lodged in the bookshelf. You didn’t want to know.

The others had practically fled—limping, muttering, and swearing.

And Jason? Jason had finally agreed to get ready for bed after a long, drawn-out battle of wills that involved one timeout, two bribes, and exactly ten minutes of him growling about how “Peter Parker wouldn’t last five minutes in Crime Alley.”

Now, he sat on the couch, arms crossed and sulking in a pair of oversized Spider-Man pajamas—the only ones you’d been able to find. His curls were still slightly matted from duct tape, and there was a Band-Aid on his cheek from another brawl he’d got in with Damian.

He glared at you over the rim of his sippy cup.

“This not over,” he mumbled darkly. “I know where you sleep. I’mma get payback.”

“Sure you will, Jason,” you said, trying not to laugh.

“I’ll put ketchup in your shoes.”

You tucked him in on the couch, pulling the blanket around him as he curled up like a tiny, angry cinnamon roll.

He muttered something else under his breath, unintelligible, mostly grumble. “…Night-night,” he muttered, already half-asleep. 

THE NEXT MORNING...

Jason woke up full-sized, shirtless, confused, and sprawled across your couch.

 He blinked up at the ceiling, brow furrowed, throat dry.

“…What the hell?”

You strolled in, far too cheerful for someone who had survived a toddler warlord just a few hours prior. You tossed your phone into his lap.

You strolled in, tossing a phone into his lap.

“Morning, Lil’ Death. I made a slideshow.”

He looked down at the photos. There he was—pouty, covered in crumbs, mid-battle with his brothers, wearing  cardboard chest plate held together with masking tape and colander strapped to his head like a war crown. One had him dead asleep with his face smashed into a pillow, cuddling a stuffed penguin.

Jason groaned into his hands. “Kill me now.”

“I’d rather show Bruce.”

His head snapped up. “You wouldn’t.”

You grinned. “Wanna bet?”

[xiaberryy]

“Pip-squeak..” Caleb cooed softly, warm large hand sneaking quietly to rest atop of her thigh. his calloused palm sent shivers down her spine, rushing blood to her soft cheeks.

steady, observant gaze relentlessly conveyed fondness and understanding. meanwhile, the object of his attention was stubbornly looking away with jutted out lips.

Caleb let out a soft chuckle before he gently wrapped his arm around her waist. in a swift movement, she found herself sat on his lap.

“Caleb, you—!” her protests died down in front of Caleb’s teasing and satisfied grin.

with easy familiarity, he ruffled the crown of her head, “finally feeling like talking to me, princess?”

her eyebrows twitched. creases formed on her forehead owing to how hard she was frowning, “don’t think you can princess me and get away with everything, Caleb.”

the rapid thumping inside her ribs betrayed her words. she absolutely knew how embarrassingly easy she crumbles at mere crumbs of his affection.

Caleb smiled apologetically. his hand which still has receptors sensitive enough to feel her skin, rubbed her arm.

“i’m all yours now, princess. i promise no more impromptu fleet businesses that takes me away from my sweet girl,”

she stayed silent, lips jutted out further as she fidgeted with the hands she rested on her lap. a few seconds passed by and she hasn’t made an effort to move the muscles of her mouth to speak.

Caleb began to worry. he worried that this time he might’ve done an irreparable damage to the fragile little heart of this girl he’s coddled since childhood.

“Pip—“ his words got caught in his throat when fat blobs of tears trickled down her reddened cheeks.

“hic..stupid Caleb..” choked sobs escaped her. those sounds formed into arrows that shot him right in the heart. guilt consumed him. however, the pain of guilt wasn’t the only cause of his erratic heartbeat.

he swallowed his saliva. his hands trembled slightly before pulling her into his arms.

“you’re right, i’m stupid. i’m a big dummy that left my princess all alone. you were lonely, weren’t you, pretty girl?“ he cooed softly as he tightened the embrace he had her in.

his head was spinning. the girl sobbing in his arms was too adorable with those watery eyes, tear stricken face, and wet eyelashes. he knows it’s fucked up to make his beloved cry and enjoy it so much, but who could blame him when she’s such a pretty crier?

“Caleb is so sorry, hm? you can hit him if you want, princess,” he guided her hand to his chest.

however, instead of hitting him, she cried harder. “don’t wanna! why would i hurt you? you’re so annoying!!” screamed her while she snatched her hand away from his momentarily loose grip.

he forcefully tucked his lips in to stop himself from grinning like a maniac. she loves him enough to refuse hurting him even after the pain and loneliness he put her through? what a sweetheart.

abruptly, he stood up and carried her in his arms. a loud yelp left her as she immediately latched onto his neck for support.

“what the hell are you doing?!” she tried her best to glare at him despite the tears clouding her vision.

Caleb grinned, “you used to love being carried around. you’d always calm down when i rock you in my arms like this,” said him as he began rocking her like a baby and spinning her around.

a loud, high-pitched squeal left her when he began spinning around faster, “Caleb, put me down!”

her yells and his laughter blended together that evening. the windows of his current house is larger than the ones in their old house. the orange sun rays which casted its warm glow across the house interior was brighter, being on a floating island nearer to the sky and all. the person in his arms has now matured, only the familiar warmth in his chest remained unchanged. so, he’ll bask in the feeling of being 12, holding 10 year old her in his embrace again.

[alchemistc]

"Hey, so, if you could tell your roommate to stop sending me incomprehensible Millennial memes every time I ask him a question, I'd appreciate it," Ravi says, and Buck stares at the prongs of his fork to prevent himself from jamming them into Ravi's hand just long enough for Ravi to notice the way the table has gone silent. There's no way they didn't notice the emphasis, right?

"I'll, uh... make a note," Buck says, and dives back in to his spaghetti. It's been a long day. He's reheated his lunch-dinner three times already. And now he sort of desperately wants the klaxons to go because...

Because it's weird that he never told them where he was living now.

Weird that they never asked.

"You have a roommate?"

Buck is 34 years old. Buck broke his own lease to help a friend only to be ceremoniously kicked out just months later, no notice, more interaction with Chris than Eddie as he furiously repacked boxes and stuffed them in his Jeep like a madman. Buck has terrible credit and a desire to set down roots that no one seems to give a shit about, except -

Roommates lasted for a month and a half at best. If he doesn't count the lingering glances, or the lingering touches, or the lingering feelings that blew up in their faces the harder they tried to tamp them down.

Ravi just thinks it's funny to keep calling them roommates.

("Like the Vine, you know?"

"Doesn't know a single 3OH3 song but he knows Vine," Tommy had said, three and a half beers deep and kicking at Ravi's leg from his lounger on the patio of their backyard.

"Oh, my cousin sends me TikTok compilations of them."

"I don't understand half the words you two are saying," Buck had chimed in, and gotten Tommy's lazy half-smile, a hand curled around his ear, and Ravi's "If you guys are gonna do more of that I'm calling an Uber.")

"Not exactly," Buck says, and tries to send Ravi a death glare. Ravi's too busy staring at the ceiling with his chair tipped back like he's daring Buck to kick his foot out enough to catch on a leg.

They're all surprised by the news, like they've done a damn thing to find out anything about his life in the months since they shut down any attempt he'd made to reach out.

He's glad he's found a way to let himself be mad at them for that.

He's glad his entire life no longer hinges on making sure they know every intimate detail of that life.

Still. The longer they stare at him, waiting for more, the more he realizes this was...maybe an oversight.

Probably should have told them before he and Tommy stuck a For Sale sign on his bedframe at the curb and been rewarded for their manipulation when someone stole the thing within like, three hours. They'd been too lazy to take it to the dump. Too lazy to sell it on Marketplace. Too caught up in the bubble of 'stay as long as you need' turning into 'do you want to be on the mortgage I need to know by Friday'.

Ravi's slept in the guest room more than Buck ever stayed at Tommy's, before.

He's made friends with Goose, too, which Buck thinks is a little unfair because Tommy's half blind cat still sticks her tail in the air to walk away any time Buck enters a room.

"Whoops," Ravi says like this was anything but intentional.

("Are you hiding the fact that you're in a happy relationship with a dude who loves you like, a weird amount for any particular reason?"

"It's not weird. It's a normal amount!"

"If I called him right now with a Buck related emergency how long until he had a bird in the air for you?"

"...he's at work right now so like, seven minutes tops.")

When the silence just keeps stretching, he barely manages to dodge the garlic bread Buck tosses at his face before the table erupts into chaos.

[bluemoontarot]

Jean is a PIECE OF SHIT

2021, my dad has just died suddenly, and Jean's husband had just committed suicide on their front lawn a few weeks prior

We are in a Seattle airport. It is 11pm. The flight has been delayed multiple times.

This bitch is complaining that she can't get special treatment. She should board first! She's the mayor! She should have special seats and service!

I am 24, traumatized as hell from my dad dying suddenly, and frankly not in a good headspace thanks to grief

I approach the stand where the worker is trying to reason with Jean, the following is the best I can remember bc my memory is still fuzzy the week of June 8th 2021

Me: Jean.

Jean: What?

Me: Shut the fuck up. You're annoying.

Jean: I- D...Do you know who I am!?

Me: You're the mayor who told me in high school I deserve to die if I become a theater major and can't afford Healthcare. I know exactly who you are bitch.

Jean: I- Wh- You-

Me: This plane is going to Omaha. There is no first class. There is no special seating. There is no assigned seating. This is Southwest! I want. To go. Home. Sit down and shut up.

Jean: You should have some respect-

Me: I have no respect for people who are as shitty as you. Don't you have a husband to mourn??? Man thought divorce wouldnt be enough I guess. You're a loser. You can't do your job. You're a fucking Mayor not the president. You aren't special! The plane will board, and you will board with us poor folk and you will sit with your constituents. Shut the fuck up and sit down!

The anger in her eyes and silence was *chef's kiss* BEAUTIFUL

Now....I know I said some mean things and perhaps I should have been smarter...but then I remember my late father.

And he would have been so fucking proud of me telling Jean off AGAIN. Bc I did in high school as well, and I said she's not pro life if she thinks it's okay for people to die bc they aren't working in places she deems are worthy and she should stop giving talks to ppl if shes gonna make a fool of herself. She got pissed then too ♡ my class booed her on the way out.

GOODBYE JEAN. FUCK YOU ♡

Nebraksa....Pete Ricketts is next. GET. HIM. OUT.

Last night in Nebraska's largest city, Omaha, 3 term Republican mayor Jean Stothert was up for re-election, in the final days of her re-election campaign she went all in on transphobia, with a TV add accusing her Democratic opponent, John Ewing, "Ewing stands with radicals who want to allow boys in girls’ sports,”

Ewing and the Democrats fought back

and last night?

Congratulations to Omaha on its first black mayor, and remember calling Republicans bathroom creepers remains undefeated.

[cutielando]

revolving door | lando norris

synopsis: in which he will do anything to win you back and prove to you he has changed

a/n: based on this request!

pairing: lando norris x ex-girlfriend!reader

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The first time you walked away from Lando Norris, it had been raining.

Fitting, really, because everything about that night had felt like a storm—rushed words, emotions colliding like thunder against lightning, and the eventual crack that split you apart.

“I can’t keep doing this, Lando,” you had said, voice barely above a whisper, but somehow it still cut through the downpour. “I can’t keep being the girl you come back to when it’s convenient.”

Lando hadn’t said much then. Just stared at you with those sea-glass eyes, his lips parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

Maybe he knew you were right. Maybe he was tired of this cycle, too. Maybe he thought you’d come back—just like you always did.

And for a while, you really thought you wouldn’t.

But the thing about revolving doors is that no matter how many times you step out, you always end up back inside.

♡♡♡♡♡

It started again three months later, like it always did.

You had told yourself you were over him, that you were stronger this time, that you wouldn’t let yourself be pulled back into the orbit of Lando Norris.

But then he showed up at your doorstep, soaked from the rain, a bottle of your favorite wine in one hand and a ridiculous, sheepish grin on his face.

“Hey”

Just one word. One stupid, simple word, and suddenly, you were caught in the same cycle all over again.

You let him in. Of course, you let him in.

And it was good—for a little while. It always was. Lando had a way of making you forget why you left in the first place.

He was warm touches and late-night laughter, tangled limbs under white sheets, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that made sense.

But then came the other side of the cycle.

The part where he got distant, where racing took priority, where texts went unanswered for days, where you sat in the grandstands watching him but wondering if he ever truly saw you.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t do it again, that you wouldn’t be his revolving door, but God, it was so hard when every time he came back, he made you feel like you were everything.

♡♡♡♡♡

“You’re mad”

You didn’t even bother looking up from your drink.

“What gave it away?”

Lando sighed, sliding into the bar stool next to you. His hand brushed against yours on the counter, a silent attempt at connection, but you pulled away.

“I had a race” he said, like that excused everything. “I had obligations”

You finally turned to face him, your jaw tight.

“And what about me? Do I not count as an obligation? Or am I just something you pick up when it’s convenient?”

His face twisted in frustration. “That’s not fair”

You scoffed.

“No, Lando, what’s not fair is me sitting here, wondering if I’m even a priority to you, while you’re off living your life like I don’t exist”

He ran a hand through his curls, his knee bouncing under the table.

“You know how much this means to me”

“And you know how much it hurts to be treated like an afterthought” you shot back.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you like he was trying to figure out the right words to keep you from slipping away again.

But you were tired—so damn tired—of always being the one waiting, always being the one to put in the effort.

So, you pushed back your chair and stood up.

“I can’t do this anymore, Lando.”

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face. “Wait—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I’m done being your revolving door.”

And this time, you meant it.

Right?

♡♡♡♡♡

A month passed. Then two.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t look back.

You threw yourself into work, into friends, into anything that kept your mind busy.

You ignored the texts he sent—the I miss you, the I’m sorry, the Can we just talk? Because you knew if you answered, you’d be right back where you started.

But then, one night, you found yourself at a race. Not for him—at least, that’s what you told yourself. You were there with friends, just another face in the crowd.

And yet, somehow, his eyes found yours the second he stepped onto the podium.

You should’ve left. You should’ve walked away before he could find you.

But you didn’t.

You were standing by the paddock entrance when he appeared, still in his race suit, his hair damp with sweat. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

“You came” he breathed.

You folded your arms over your chest.

“I didn.t come here for you. Don’t read into it” you said, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

He took a hesitant step closer, watching your every move and gesture for any sign that you didn't want him closer. But he found none.

“But I want to read into it”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay strong.

“Lando—”

“No, listen,” he interrupted, his voice almost desperate. “I know I’ve screwed up. I know I’ve been selfish. But I swear to God, I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter.”

You looked away, because if you met his eyes for too long, you’d break.

“Then why did you?”

He exhaled shakily, looking down at the ground.

“Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought you’d always be there no matter what. And I was wrong”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding.

“And what happens when this cycle starts again?”

His hand found yours—gentle, hesitant. “It won’t. I swear to you, it won't ever happen again”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But could you?

Lando squeezed your fingers, as if sensing your doubt.

“I don’t want you to be my revolving door, love. I just want you to be my home”

And maybe, just maybe, this time… he really meant it.

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[screamlet]

fic: road to nowhere (8x18 spec)

buck and tommy trapped under some concrete and dreaming of other places. 1.2k.

---

Tommy came to rescue them, Buck and Ravi, about an hour ago. That's about as long as Tommy and Buck have been trapped under a concrete slab that collapsed on Ravi's way out.

"Help is on the way," Ravi called through the gaps letting them breathe.

"Are they actually gonna be any help, though," Buck wonders, and realizes he said it out loud.

"I can't believe you'd doubt them over a little building collapse," Tommy says, wheezing more than Buck likes to hear. "That's your team, they've got your back."

Buck's smiling to himself and, for some reason, that catches Tommy's attention.

"Don't they?"

"Everyone deals with grief differently," Buck says.

There's a beat, then Tommy says, "Fuck them. Whatever they did. Or haven't done."

Buck shakes his head. "It's fine, I'm just." And he doesn't have a way to end that sentence. "Ignore me, okay? I'm—I'm being a snitch."

"A snitch? What are you, 12?" Buck smiles to himself again, and Tommy grumbles. "Never thought I'd see the day when I hated to see you smile."

Buck glances at him. "You hate it?"

Tommy's being too honest for how not-hurt he claims to be. "Those smiles don't reach your eyes." He didn't think Tommy would notice. "What are you thinking about? What are you gonna do when you get out of here?"

"We." Buck sends him the most threatening look he can manage.

Tommy acquiesces. "When we get out of here," he repeats.

"I'm thinking of going on a road trip, actually," Buck says. "Getting out of LA for a while. I've got the PTO for it and even if I don't—"

"You'd leave? The 118?"

"I need some space," Buck says slowly. "And Eddie got a job offer in El Paso, but he's thinking of not taking it and moving back, so I'd have to give up the house."

"Uh, no you wouldn't."

Buck makes a face. "Tommy, I'm not gonna let Chris be homeless."

"Do you think firefighter and former Army medic Eddie Diaz, a tax-paying adult with a child, is incapable of fucking apartment hunting?"

"Look, it just makes sense," Buck says.

"It doesn't, but keep talking." Tommy stifles a wince. "The rage will keep me from going into the light."

"It's all lining up, Tommy, honestly," Buck says. "They can take the place off my hands and I can do what I did when I dropped out of college: get in my Jeep and go see the country again."

"What do you mean again?"

Buck smiles at him; it looks like Tommy still hates it. "I got kicked out of college, then out of community college, then Maddie gave me some cash and her Jeep and I ran away from home. Well, I was like, 21, I don't think you can run away from home at that age."

"I don't think there's a statute of limitations on running away from home," Tommy says dryly. "As long as you have a home. Which you do."

Buck looks away, bites the inside of his lower lip. "I did. I don't know if it made it out of the lab, though. I think Bobby took it with him."

Buck whips his head around when Tommy doesn't respond. He's awake, though, but staring at Buck with his lips in a fine, frustrated line. "If losing Bobby means losing your home—losing them—then I don't think you really had it after all."

"Don't say that," Buck says softly. Tommy looks away. Agree to disagree.

"I haven't seen the Milky Way in like, 10 years," Buck says. "I should fix that."

"You think it's changed much?"

"I'm sure it has, even if we can't see the changes. Earth is moving, our solar system is moving, space is moving—"

"Is it?"

"Well, it's expanding, as far as we know," Buck says. "Maybe it doesn't look any different but—but I'm different. So."

Tommy's quiet, then says, "It's been 20 for me. Years. Since I've seen the Milky Way. I'm outdoorsy, but I don't get out to those really remote areas. Haven't for a while."

"It sounds like a good idea, right?"

"It does." Tommy clears his throat, shifts as much as he can under the rubble. "You're going alone, huh?"

"Yeah," Buck says, then pauses so he can look at Tommy. "I—I was planning on it."

Now Tommy smiles, a small thing that lights up the darkness in Buck. "No room for a co-pilot? Someone with awesome taste in music who can help out with the driving sometimes? If—" Tommy motions to the slab. "Provided I've still got a body and everything."

Buck feels sharp pinpricks behind his eyes, at the edges, emotion swelling in his throat. "I keep thinking: this isn't it. This—is this what I wanted? I'd have a home, but I could never leave again?"

"From a homeowner's perspective," Tommy says, always making him laugh. "It's not much of a home if it crumbles the moment you step outside. You can't be the only thing holding it together." He hesitates. "Bobby couldn't be the only thing holding it together."

"Yeah," Buck agrees. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"What are you running from?" Buck knows his smile is too mean, too slick. "If not me, I mean."

Tommy makes a little ha fucking ha face at him, nose crinkling because he can't help being amused. "I wouldn't be running. I'd be coming with you."

"Oh."

"If you wanted the company," Tommy repeats. "Gas money, too. Gas gets expensive."

"Why now?" Buck looks down at his hands. "What's changed? Besides I said something really shitty to you and—and I didn't get to apologize."

"I know you didn't mean it," Tommy says. "And I didn't mean to leave."

"So you want to test out your staying power by trapping yourself in a Jeep with me?"

"Yes, Evan, that's exactly it. You saw right through me."

"Around you," Buck says. "I've gotta shift a little to see past the slab that's gonna suffocate us."

"So it's all hypothetical anyway," Tommy replies.

Buck wonders if Ravi's eavesdropping or if maybe they've been left to die, buried alive. Maybe they're not worth the effort. That sucks; Buck would think Tommy was worth the effort, at least. He has a pilot's license and the people at Harbor probably like him a lot more than the 118 likes Buck right now. In any case: it's quiet and the glimmer of a road trip, taking a breath outside the city limits, feels like it's slipping away.

"Think we're running out of oxygen," Buck comments. "I'm kinda losing the will to live? Is that science? Less oxygen, more hopelessness?"

"Evan," Tommy sighs. "We're gonna get out of here, and then we're gonna get out of here."

Buck takes the hand Tommy reaches out. He's not sure either of them believe that, or each other, or that they'll go anywhere together or apart, or that things will get better but—but for now they can keep each other awake, thinking of other ways and places to be.

[tojisteddy]

getting simon a little plush snoopy that reminds him of you so he has something of yours to take on deployments with him

I Miss You | cw: fluff, fluff and even more fluff.

“You don’t like it?”

“No birdie, ‘s a cute lit’le thing just—” Simon pauses, rubbing his face while he chuckles, eyeing the object that sat in the nailed box.

“What’s the snoopy for?”

You’d read on some blog, while aimlessly adding things to your cart, about this girl posting pictures everywhere she went with this little snoopy. You loved snoopy. Adored the little dog, had plushies around the house, blankets in the closet, mugs that Simon made your tea in, stickers— the whole nine. Simon wouldn’t be surprised if he came home after a mission and you had Snoopy tattooed on your forehead (he wouldn’t love you any less).

You thought, it’d be good to have a little something for each other while he was deployed. Your snoopy, that you sent over to Simon, had your name on its dog black tag, a pair of overalls and a cute little orange bow horribly sewed into it. It was fucking adorable, a mini you in Simons eyes.

“It’s so- want you to think of me Simon. Thought it’d be cute.”

Simon could hear that heart melting pout on your lips. His heart swooned, almost flew out his chest and right back home to you. “I have one too! Made a little mask for it with your name ‘nd everythin. I’m gonna take pictures with it while I’m around, can you maybe- if you want to-“

“ ‘F course I want to baby.” It slipped off his tongue before he could realize what he said. Not that he actually wanted to take pictures, he was horrid at taking pictures. That was something he left in your hands. But if that’s what you wanted, Simon would never say no to you. He’d do the best he could.

“Good. I already made up my mind about it Si, so you have to do it properly. Okay? I wanna see what you see!”

Little minx, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted out of the large man. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He laugh leaves his pink lips, deciding to end the call so you could get your sleep, he glanced at his watch. 0300 hours, he’d need to be up in two, you were five hours behind.

“Hug little S.S for me yeah, hold ‘em while you sleep” he yawned.

“S.S?”

“Snoopy Simon, how are ya gonna tell us apart luvie?” You rolled you eyes, ends of your lips curving up.

“Love you Si.”

“Love you more doll.”

Simon couldnt lie, it was comforting having a little thing to remind him that you were at home. Patiently waiting for him. He couldn’t exactly send you pictures from his phone, but he found a disposable camera. The first picture with your mini Snoopy blurry as ever, he got the hang of it though, making sure to sure you the scenery of his locations. Gaz and Soap, the little devils, stole the precious plush and Simon went on barking at them about not roughing it up. They ended up in the photos too, along with Price while he was asleep.

You thought Simon forgot all about the idea, till you got a stack of printed photos in the mail. And there your mini Snoopy was— at the beach, in the grass, on Simons bed next to some pictures of you, at some bar— there were even some with Simon (mask on of course) his thumb up and having Snoopy put their little paw up. You squealed, rolling around in your shared bed and then your eyes found the ghost faced Snoopy that laid on your bed from the previous night. You smirked. 

“We have to step our game up S.S.”

You sent your pictures with a disposable camera too, following the rising trend, some at the fair, the park, your pet bunny hopping into it and getting hair all over it, you at the beach, some with your friends and your mom. It was too cute for Simons heart, there was one he put in his wallet that he was too proud of.

You in nothing but his shirt that went to your thighs, little S.S laying in your hair— he grew to love you a little more, his heart beating a little fast just at the thought of you, your handwriting on the back of the photos.

Simon came back 3 months later, more excited than usual, your mini snoopy chained to his waist with pride. You were a giggling mess, running and jumping into his muscular arms. He squeezed you tight, kissing your cheeks then your lips.

“Welcome back S.S.”

He playfully squishes your nose, “Good to be home little snoop.”

a/n: Bun and I literally love snoopy and then I started listening to I Love You by Faith Evan’s— perfection. I had fun writing this🥺.

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[reidsapplelady]

ᥫ᭡. SNIPER , SNIPER , SNIPER , SNIPER⊹ — /S.REID/

SUMMARY: The BAU tracks a deadly and arrogant sharpshooter. You, an expert in precision, struggle how familiar the unsub's MO is, and has a genius is always by your side, that looks at you with hearts in his eyes.

PAIRING: s.reid x bau!sharpshooter!reader .. established relationship

WARNINGS: mentions of death & blood.

NOTES: tbh i lowk dont like this?? also i'm experimenting on the layout style on my fics dont mind me raauhfhfjf,, anyways someone needs to give me money lowk i need buldaaakk 💔💔 it was like 2am when i wrote this so i think u should expect somr bad grammar!! i also wrote this i na hurry cause i want to sleep,, angways enjoy!! (word count: 1.7k)

The rooftop was cold. You were standing on a rooftop, and you were carrying your rifle, which was unloaded and disarmed. You weren't here to shoot. You were here to see.

To see how the unsub shot their victim. To observe.

"Around three hundred yards," You mumble to to yourself. You were alone. "Most likely no wind resistance." You say as you observe the area where the victim was shot. A single clean shot. No exit wound. Upper left chest was the usual target for the shooter.

"Impressive." Spencer's voice broke the silence behind you, you flinched when you heard his voice.

"You're late." you murmur.

"Walking up a flight of stairs in a hurry isn't really my thing." He chuckled with a sheepish smile, you turned around to face him, you see that he had a drop of sweat that traveled down his forehead. "Oh, and, I bought you coffee." He held up the cup of coffee as he walks towards you.

You take the cup from him, your fingers slightly brushed against his.

"Thank you." You gave him a small smile before setting the rifle on your shoulder with a hand supporting it, then taking to cup from him to takea sip of the coffee, he gives you a smile back.

You glance back at the slight imprint on the ground, "The tripod was here, I'm guessing the unsub was waiting for the target. they knew the victim's routine." you spoke.

Reid leaned in, "The shot traveled 280 meters, thats almost like 3 football fields. Whoever's doing this is precise and patient. Like a sharpshooter." He hummed.

"I know," you exhale, lips pressed tight. "It's too clean."

"You're worried." Spencer spoke as he observes your face, he sees that your eyebrows are slightly furrowed.

"No, I'm pissed." you corrected him before you put your rifle near it's case, "He knew what he was doing and he wanted us to know." You crossed your arms as you stood up, your gaze went back to the scene.

Everything was now silent, all you could hear was the breeze of the air flowing against your skin and hair, and Spencer was there. Reading your facial gestures, he was there reading you.

"You've gone quiet." He muttered to you.

You didn't look at him, "I'm thinking."

"You do that a lot." He said, his head tilted as he spoke.

You turned your head around to meet his eyes, "You love that about me." You tease as you tilted your head back at him.

"I do." He smiled faintly, "I love everything about you."

The tension between you two thickened, you two were staring at eachother before Spencer spoke.

"We should.. Go back." Spencer suggests as he pointed to the door that led to the staircase. You nodded, you handed your cup of coffee to him before kneeling down to put your rifle in your casing and carrying it with you. You take your coffe back andwalk beside Spencer, having small talk while walking down the stairs to go back to the SUV and head back to the precinct.

Back at the precinct the team gathered around the board littered with crime scene photos and evidence. Three victims, killed from a long distance.

"Two men, one woman," Hotch sighed, "No connection between them that we can currently find. But shot placement is identical, all where the upper left chest is targetted. Fatal, but not instant. Why?"

"It's most likely a showmanship." You hypothesized, "He's basically taunting us by making the fatal shot, he could've killed them in an instant, but he didn't." You shrug as some of the team nodded.

"We charted the elevation points, this unsub likes to do it where he can see everyone and no one can see him." Reid informed as he tapped on the map.

JJ frowned, "So.. We're looking at a pattern based on the environment? Not victimology?"

You hummed, "Every setup so far has minimal wind interference, downward line of sight."

Morgan looked over to you, "You profiling the unsub or yourself?"

You shrug at his words, "Sharpshooters are alike, the difference is the motive. LDSK's are no different."

Hotch looked at you with a measured look, "So the unsub probably has military training. He's confident and arrogant."

You nodded at Hotch's words before turning to Spencer who gives you a small smile. "I think we're ready for a profile." Hotch glances up to the team before heading out of the temporary conference room that the precinct made.

After giving the profile, you sat down in the conference room, you prop your legs on the table as you play with the pen in between your fingers.

Spencer knocked on the open door, "You look.. Stressed." He pursed his lips as he slowly walks beside you, taking a seat to sit with you.

You hummed as you looked at the board in front of you. He watched you for a moment longer. Then, he softly spoke, "You look tired." He repeats his words, but not in an exact way.

"I'm fine, Spence." You turn your head to look at him.

"You say that everytime." He frowned slightly as his hand reached for your stray hair and tucked it behind your ear.

You finally exhaled, "I feel like I've seen this before, but I can't recall who did it."

Soencer didn't offer empty empathy, instead he listened, he listened and read your face. He gently reached out for the pen that you were playing with in between your fingers and set it on the table, then his fingers wrapped around yours. Warm and Comforting.

"We'll see it." He assured you as his grip tightened slightly before letting go, letting his hand relax against yours. "For now, you need rest."

You found the fourth site out of luck, or maybe it wasn't. Either way the UnSub left the shell of his ammunition, with a paper beside it.

The site was a playground.

"He flinched." You murmured as Spencer cane up behind you with a confused look.

"He usually targets left upper chest area. This one was just on the shoulder." You look at him.

He then hummed, "His first mistake."

"He's getting sloppy" You sighed, and something in your head clicked.

"What are you thinking?" Spencer tilts his head slightly as he asks you.

"I don't think this was about the targets."

JJ jogged over the two of you, "We just got something from the precinct." She says as she hands her phone to you.

Hotch sent the image. It was a photo—You. Taken across the street, you were out taking a breather fron things inside the precinct, wearing your leather jacket.

You notice a paper next to the photo. "You look good in black." In red. A color that looked like blood.

You stared at it for a few moments. You hear Spencer's voice next to you. "That looks like blood." He points out. "I think that might be the unsub's, he was no where near the crime scene."

Your breathe hitched, you raise your head to look at JJ. "It's still being processed."

You hand her phone back to her before you walk over to the nearest bench to sit down. Spencer follows you, but doesn't say a thing, until he sits down beside you.

"You're the target. The woman who he shot looked like you." He muttered.

"You think I don't know that?" You snapped, you look at Spencer, wide-eyed, you clear your throat before mumbling an apology to him. He nods in understanding.

After a while, you planned a setup for the unsub. Spencer and JJ disapproved of it, because you would be putting your life at risk. But you assured the team that you wouldn't get killed. Atleast that's what you think.

After you picked the location and time, you had to wait a day before commencing with the plan and it didn't take long for him to find you. You were out in the open, an easy shot, but a bullet flies past you. It makes you suspicious.

Spencer yelled your name from afar, though, you couldn't hear it because you heard another shot, thankfully you ducked to tie your shoe.

"Shots fired! Two shooters!" Morgan's voice blasted through the earpiece.

You fall on your bottom, you see Spencer running towards you, but you paid no mind to him because you were observing the buildings. Then you saw it.

One on the rooftop while the other was in the third floor.

The original was the one who shot you, you don't recognize the other shot made, you figured it was an accomplice or a prodigy of the unsub.

Spencer dropped beside you, "You okay?" he frowned

"Yeah." You pointed to the building where the shots were fired. "I want both of them alive."

And you had to wait for a few moments, before Emily's voice came through the earpiece, "We got the unsub and his assistant."

You sighed out of relief before you slung your arms towards Spencer, giving him a hug.

He pats your back two times before you let go.

Turns out, the unsub was your colleague who was your shooting partner in the practice range back then in the military, when you weren't at the BAU yet. He liked to shoot from heights, and he was dishonorably discharged from the military.

You leaned against the ambulance as the EMT clears you for any injuries. You notice Spencer walking towards you with a bottle of water. He offers it to you and you chuckle before grabbing it.

You took a sip from the water bottle and set it beside you on the ambulance.

"You were.. Brave." He smiled at you.

"I was about to chicken out before the shots were fired." You joke as you held his hand.

"I think.. We should take a break." You purse your lips.

He blinked at you, "From us?" He asks.

"No silly, just from.. Everything. It's been overwhelming for me and I don't know for you."

He nodded, "Did you know that theres a tree in the Amazon Rainforest that stores rainwater in its bark? It's enough to drink from in weeks."

You cock an eyebrow at him, "What are you implying?"

"I'm saying is that I wanna be that bark for you." He smiles sheepishly, "I wanna support you and be there for you."

You stare at him in confusion for a few moments before laughing, "That's such a weird way to put it."

He looks at you lovingly before he presses a kiss on your lips, his hand cups your cheek.

As you two kissed, everything then felt quiet, like the universe suddenly stopped.

Everything was perfect.

Spencer was yours and you were his.

all rights reserved — © reidsapplelady

[cheftsunoda]

heal your heart—cl16

part three (very wordy AGAIN)

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 depression, abuse, kidnapping. ⚠️

part one here

part two here

—

catluvsyou

liked by charles_leclerc, lando, iamrebeccad & 4,485,493 others.

catluvsyou : healing is hard- especially when part of you still feels torn open. i will not answer any questions at this time but i really appreciate all the support and love i have been shown. i also need to say the biggest thank you to my friends and family who have loved me through some of the worst parts.

username00 : no bc the image of her crying BROKE ME but then i saw charles on the piano and my heart said okay maybe there’s hope

usernameee : this is grief. this is survival. this is poetry. this is also charles leclerc and i am not okay about it

username20 : the mirror selfies are all taken in charles' house

lilymhe : the prettiest and strongest angel. we got you.

liked by author

username7 : slide one made me cry, slide four made me scream, slide six made me sob. give this woman a hug and a publishing deal.

username10 : her crying photo??? that wasn’t a post. that was a plea. and i hear her. i see her. i’m crying at work.

iamrebeccad : love you to the moon and back- strongest person i know.

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username0 : this is less “photo dump” and more “emotionally raw scrapbook entry with a dash of piano boy” and i’m HERE for it

username5 : she gave us heartbreak, healing, piano romance, AND mountain girl rebirth??? a saga. a life story. a manifesto.

charles_leclerc : tu possèdes une force incroyable. je prendrai toujours soin de toi.

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username000 : quick some french person tell me what he said PLS

username20 : you possess an incredible strength. i will always care for you

username000: ardfkjalmffsfajskhd

username15 : OMG

lewishamilton : Sending love and strength. Healing isn’t linear—be kind to yourself.

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lando : Love you always, bug. You are so so strong.

liked by author

pierregasly : Kika and I will be over sometime today with gifts:)

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kikagomes : and CAKE!!

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carmenmmundt : True strength looks like this. You’re incredible. Please take care of yourself.

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oscarpiastri : Quiet strength is the loudest kind. Rooting for you always.

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alexalbon : The strongest ever. I have your back. Always.

liked by author

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Catalina Sainz has broken her silence...sort of. The popstar and sister to Williams driver Carlos Sainz posted a deeply personal “healing dump” to Instagram this morning, featuring tearful selfies, peaceful scenery, and what fans are 99% sure is CHARLES LECLERC at a piano in slide four.

Catalina wrote, "healing is hard- especially when part of you still feels torn open. i will not answer any questions at this time but i really appreciate all the support and love i have been shown. i also need to say the biggest thank you to my friends and family who have loved me through some of the worst parts."

Many WAGS and members of the F1 grid were in the comments including none other than Charles Leclerc himself, writing, "you possess an incredible strength. i will always care for you" in French.

Let us know your thoughts!

username00 : honestly catalina is out here surviving a trauma and all some of y’all can do is zoom in on wrists and watches… (but also it’s definitely charles)

username10 : why does it feel like she just posted the first chapter of a novel i’m already deeply invested in

username5 : healing is hard, yes, but healing with leclerc at your piano and sainz threatening international violence on your behalf??? couldn’t be me but i deeply admire

username7 : this entire season is just trauma, pianos, and deeply repressed European emotions. 10/10 would watch again.

usernameee : just say the word, catalina. we will ruin him on the timeline in 12 minutes flat.

username000 : no interaction from carlos at ALL that man is busy destroying someone

—

It had been a few days since the race. Charles and I were back at his in Monaco. He had been an absolute saint. He held me when I needed it, gave me space when needed, wrote and produced songs with me to get everything out, sat there and ate every meal with me so he knew I ate. I don't know if I could have made it these last few days without him. I have been so anxious to hear from Carlos and hopeful to see my son soon. I knew Carlos would not leave without him. He was - to say the least- determined. Charles insisted on getting me out of the house and into some nature today. Kika and Pierre were coming over tonight and while I am excited to see them- I do not know if I am in the best spot for guests right now. My PR team had forced me to post — at least making it known that I was alive…even though I didn’t feel like it. I sighed heavily staring at the spot in bed where Charles had just been. He left to get us some breakfast and said he 'got something special for me.' I throw myself out of the bed and head towards the bathroom. I turn on the shower and strip off Charles' T-Shirt and throw my hair up in a ponytail. Once I am out I do my bare minimum skin care and throw on one of his hoodies and some leggings. I go out and sit in the living room glancing out at the Marina. I hear a jingle of keys in the door and it opens and closes. Charles stood with a smile with two coffees in his hands.

"There's that beautiful face." He said with a mischievous grin on his face.

I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Charles.”

He walks toward me, setting the coffee down on the table. “Okay, but in my defense—he was very persuasive.”

Before I can ask who, he unzips the front pocket of his jacket… and out pops the tiniest dachshund I have ever seen.

A literal puppy. A wriggling, sleepy-eyed, cinnamon roll of a dachshund. His ears are floppy. His paws are too big. His tail does a lazy little wag, like he’s still deciding how he feels about this whole waking up thing.

I stare at them both.

“You brought home… a dog. In your coat.”

Charles shrugs. “Technically he brought me home. Found him outside the café. No collar. No chip. The barista said he’d been sleeping under a chair for hours. And I—” he pauses, eyes flicking to mine—“I didn’t want you to wake up to silence again.”

My chest caves a little.

The puppy whines, wiggling his way down from Charles’ arms onto the couch beside me like he’s always belonged here. He sniffs my leg, yawns dramatically, then curls up right against my thigh. I run a shaking hand over his tiny head.

“I don’t even know how to take care of myself right now,” I whisper.

“I know,” Charles says quietly. “But I am here to take care of both of you."

I swallow the lump in my throat. The puppy lets out a tiny snore. Charles hands me my coffee like it’s the most normal morning in the world. And somehow—despite everything—I smile.

—

Kika is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, stealing olives straight from the dish while Pierre argues with Charles (in french) about the “correct” way to make garlic prawns. There’s music playing — something soft and jazzy — and for the first time in what feels like centuries, I’m laughing without guilt. It’s warm here. The air smells like garlic and lemon and something sweet baking in the oven. Kika’s telling me a ridiculous story about an afterparty in Monaco and miming Lando’s drunk dance moves when Charles comes up behind me and rests his hand at the small of my back. Just a small gesture. But it grounds me. Leo — now inseparable from me — is snuggled in a pile of blankets at my feet, snoring softly. I don’t realize my phone is ringing until Kika gently nudges my arm.

“It’s buzzing, babe.”

I glance at the screen, expecting another message from Rebecca or maybe Arthur sending a meme he shouldn’t. But it’s not.

It’s Carlos. My heart stumbles. I freeze. Everything else — the wine, the laughter, the lightness — evaporates in a second.

Charles notices immediately. He steps closer. “Do you want me to—?”

I shake my head and answer, walking quietly toward the balcony and sliding the door closed behind me.

“Carlos?” My voice cracks just on his name.

His breath is shaky through the line.

“Cat,” he says, and his voice is trembling, a little breathless. “You need to get on a flight. Now. Come to Madrid. Come to the house.”

“What—?”

He cuts me off.

“It’s him,” Carlos says, and I can hear the tears in his voice. “They found Mateo. He’s safe. He’s safe, Catalina. He’s coming home.”

The world tilts. My knees go out from under me and I grab the balcony railing to keep from falling.

“He’s—?”

“Alive. Okay. Scared. But okay.”

I’m already moving. Back through the door. Charles is on his feet before I even say a word, his eyes locked on mine.

“I have to go,” I breathe, my chest barely able to contain the sound. “Carlos—Mateo—he’s been found. I need to get to Madrid. Now.”

Charles doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll get a jet. Come on.”

Kika gasps behind me, tears already spilling. Pierre quietly steps in to grab my coat and my purse. I gently pick up Leo and put him in my purse, his little face sticking out the top. Kika and Pierre both hug me and press kisses to my cheeks.

"Go get your boy." She said with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes.

Everything is a blur. But underneath the shaking, the panic, the fear, there’s something I haven’t felt in so long I barely recognize it. Hope.

—

The plane is humming softly beneath us. Everything outside the window is dark ink black, velvet sky. The stars feel too far away tonight. Charles is sitting beside me, his hand covering mine. He hasn’t let go since the car ride to the airport. His thumb moves in small, slow circles over my knuckles. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. I’ve barely spoken since the call. My body is still moving, but my heart is somewhere else—somewhere back in Madrid, reaching for my son with every breath. He’s alive. I keep repeating it in my head like a prayer. He’s alive. He’s alive. Mateo is alive. I don’t realize I’m crying again until Charles reaches up and wipes my cheek gently with the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes are soft when they meet mine, and there’s no pity there—just presence. Just him.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers.

“I feel like I’m going to fall apart.”

“If you do,” he says, “I’ll be here to help put the pieces back together.”

I look at him then, really look. His hair is messy from the wind. He didn’t pack anything — just came with me, like it was never even a question. Like his place was beside me, without asking for anything in return. My chest tightens.

“Charles?”

He turns toward me, brow furrowing gently. “Yes?”

I hesitate. The words scrape on the way out.

“Will you stay?” I whisper. “Not just for the flight. I mean… once we’re there. After I see Mateo. After the storm. Will you still be there?”

His hand moves to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing just under my eye.

“There’s nowhere else I want to be,” he says softly. “As long as you’ll have me, I’ll stay.”

And something in me — something hard and scared and bracing for impact — unclenches. I lean into his hand. And for the first time since everything shattered, I believe I might be able to feel whole again. Not today. Not tomorrow. But maybe someday. And maybe with him.

—

The sky is bleeding pale pink and gold as the car rolls to a stop in front of my parents’ house. I haven’t slept. I don’t think I’ve even blinked since the call. My hands won’t stop shaking. Charles hasn’t let go of me once. Not in the car. Not at the airport. Not even now, as Carlos steps out from the front porch and rushes toward us. His face is worn, sleepless. But there’s something else in his eyes. Something like awe. He pulls open the car door and helps me to my feet before pulling me into a hug.

“They’re inside,” he says, and I barely register the they until he adds: “Mamá, Papá… and Mateo. He’s awake. He’s been looking around for you.”

The world tilts beneath my feet.

Charles tightens his grip on my hand. “Do you want me to come with you?”

I nod. I can’t say the word. My chest is too full. My throat too raw. The front door opens, and we step into the hallway I haven’t walked through in over a year. Everything smells like coffee and lemon soap. Like comfort. Like a memory I didn’t trust myself to hope for again. Then I hear it. A soft babble. A whimper. The shuffle of tiny feet on hardwood. And I run. Through the hallway, around the corner — and there, standing on unsure little legs, clinging to the coffee table, is my son. Mateo. His curls are longer, wilder. His cheeks round and flushed. He’s holding the stuffed fox he never used to sleep without. There’s a little bruise on his knee. A scratch above his eyebrow. But he’s standing. Breathing. Alive. He looks up, blinking at me with those deep, dark eyes that are unmistakably mine. And then—

“Mama?”

The tiniest, hoarsest whisper.

I collapse to my knees as the sob shreds out of me. “Hi, baby,” I gasp. “Hi, my sweet boy. Mama’s here. I’m here.”

He stumbles toward me and throws his little arms around my neck. I cradle him to my chest, my hand splayed over his back, my lips pressed to every inch of his skin I can reach — his hair, his forehead, his cheek, his tiny shoulder. His weight in my arms feels like resurrection. Charles kneels quietly beside us. I feel his hand at my back — not trying to share the moment, not intruding. Just grounding me. Holding me in case I fall apart. Mateo lifts his head and looks at Charles, blinking curiously. Then, without hesitation, he reaches one pudgy hand out and gently touches Charles’ cheek. My breath hitches.

Charles smiles, soft. “Bonjour, petit,” he whispers.

Mateo giggles. Just once. A perfect, bright little sound. And in that moment — with my son safe in my arms and Charles beside me — I finally let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we’re going to be okay.

—

The house is still now. The kind of still that only comes after a storm has passed. That breathless hush where no one dares move too quickly in case it all disappears again. Mateo is tucked into my chest, warm and heavy with sleep, his breath soft against my neck. I’m sitting in the old rocking chair in my childhood bedroom, the same one Mamá used to rock Carlos and me in when we were sick or scared. Charles is stretched out on the floor nearby, one arm tucked under his head, watching us. The lamp beside me casts a golden halo over him. His curls are slightly tousled, his eyes soft and endlessly patient.

“He used to fall asleep like this every night,” I whisper. “After a bottle, I’d hold him just like this until his little fingers relaxed.”

Charles doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches me with that quiet reverence I’ve come to rely on more than I care to admit.

“You’re amazing, you know,” he finally says.

I scoff under my breath, brushing Mateo’s hair back. “I don’t feel amazing. I feel broken. Guilty. Like I should’ve known something was wrong. Like I should’ve stopped it before—”

“Catalina.” His voice is firm but gentle. “You did the best you could with what you knew. And now you’re doing even more. You’re here. He’s safe. Because of you.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know how to fix all the damage.”

“Start small,” he says. “Start with tonight. With holding him. With letting yourself be held too, when you need it.”

I meet his eyes. “Is that an offer?”

He smiles, slow and sure. “Always.”

—

The hallway creaks under my bare feet as I make my way to the kitchen. The house is dark except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft clink of a spoon against a mug. Mamá is sitting at the table. Papá stands behind her, one hand on her shoulder. They both look up when I step in. My mother’s eyes shine, and before I can say anything, she’s on her feet, wrapping me in the kind of hug only a mother can give. One that forgives and aches and tries to make up for lost time all at once.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For keeping so much from you.”

She pulls back and holds my face between her hands. “No, mi amor. I’m sorry. That you felt like you had to.”

Papá steps forward and places a hand on my back. “Why didn’t you tell us, Cat?"

“I didn’t know how,” I admit. “I didn’t want you to see how bad it had gotten. I didn’t want Carlos to explode. I didn’t want you to worry… or to feel like I’d failed.”

My mother’s lip trembles. “You could never be a failure to us.”

We sit down together. They don’t press. They don’t ask for details. They just listen as I start to speak — slowly, haltingly — about the fear, the control, the way it all snuck up on me until I barely recognized myself.

“I lost myself in that house,” I say, voice hoarse. “I didn’t even realize how much until he was gone. Until Mateo was gone.”

“You didn’t lose yourself,” Papá says. “You were surviving. And now you’re reclaiming your life.”

“And you’re not alone anymore,” Mamá adds softly.

—

The kitchen is bathed in gold light. My mother is at the stove, humming. Carlos is seated at the table, hair a mess, cradling a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. And there, in the middle of it all, is Charles — barefoot, wearing one of Carlos’ old sweatshirts, balancing Mateo’s sippy cup in one hand and slicing a banana with the other.

“What,” I murmur, completely frozen in the doorway, “is happening?”

Charles grins. “He woke up. I offered to make him breakfast. He accepted. On the condition I provide ‘nana’ and 'toons'.”

Carlos snorts. “They’re best friends now. Sorry, Cat. You’ve been replaced.”

Charles leans down and wipes a bit of mashed banana from Mateo’s cheek. “He takes after you, I think. Big eyes. Stubborn. Curious about literally everything. Tried to eat my shoelace earlier.”

I walk over slowly, cautiously, like I don’t want to scare the moment away. But Mateo turns the second he senses me, arms up, babbling something in his own tiny language.

“Hey, baby,” I whisper, scooping him into my arms. “Did you make a new friend?”

He twists in my arms and reaches for Charles again — one chubby hand landing on Charles’ cheek. Charles leans into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My chest cracks open in the best possible way.

Mamá places a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. “Eat, mija. You look like a ghost.”

“I feel like one,” I admit. “But… less haunted than yesterday.”

Mateo babbles something and points to Charles. “Sha!”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Was that his name?”

Charles beams. “I’ll take it.”

I watch them — my brother, my mother, my son, and this man who somehow walked into the rubble of my life and just... started building with me. Mateo wiggles down from my lap and toddles unsteadily back toward Charles, arms up again. And Charles — without hesitation — lifts him with a soft “bonjour, mon petit,” and settles him on his hip. Mateo giggles. Charles grins. I press my hand to my chest and try to hold in everything I feel. Love. Gratitude. Maybe even the tiniest thread of peace.

“I think he likes you,” I say, voice uneven.

Charles looks up, eyes warm. “Yeah? I like him too.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, breakfast tastes like more than just survival. It tastes like coming home.

—

catluvsyou

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55 & 8,475,202 others.

catluvsyou : after weeks of pain and uncertainty, my heart is finally whole again. mateo is back where he belongs — safe, loved, and surrounded by family. thank you to everyone who stood by us through this fight. healing is still a journey, but today, we begin a new chapter together. my new single called 'ilysmih' is out now- for my whole heart- mateo. mommy loves you always.

—

username00 : charles and MATEO omg omg

usernameee : so happy for you, catalina. you deserve all the happiness and more.

liked by author

username10 : the song is literally so raw and emotional- i am sobbing on the subway rn

liked by author

username20 : 'my baby's really here' has me sobbing like a bitch.

username15 : charles wins stepdad of the century

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username00 : omg she liked

arthur_leclerc : So happy for you, Cat. I'd say I'm in the running for best uncle.

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lando : you bribed him

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georgerussell63 : Your strength, Catalina, is a reminder to us all that no matter the obstacles, love and resilience always prevail. Mateo’s safe with you, and that’s what truly matters. Proud of you and the beautiful song...it’s from the heart.

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kikagomes : so happy for you beautiful mama. give mateo a kiss from aunt keeks

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lando : So happy for you, Bug. Your strength is absolutely incredible. Mateo was blessed with the best mum on the planet.

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charles_leclerc : Watching you be a mother and regain all your light has been one of the best experiences of my life. I have all the love in the world for you and Mateo. The song is beyond beautiful and I am so honored to have been involved in the process.

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username15 : omg charles helped make ilysmih

sebastianvettel : True courage is being vulnerable in the face of hardship. Catalina, your story reminds us all to keep fighting for what matters most. Mateo has a warrior mom, and I’m proud to see your strength.

liked by author

carlossainz55 : You were born to be a mother and I am so glad to see you so happy again. Love you always.

liked by author

—

Today was the day. I had to face him again. To fight for our son. I was nervous but I had Charles and Carlos...and the whole grid there to support me. The hallway outside the courtroom smells sterile, like polished tile and nerves. My heels echo on the floor as I walk, heart pounding. Every step forward feels like it's being taken in someone else’s shoes — someone stronger, someone unshakeable. But they’re mine. So is the suit I’m wearing. So is the fire in my chest. So is the little boy at the center of it all — asleep in my mother’s arms two rooms away, blissfully unaware of the war being waged in his name. Charles walks beside me, hand warm at my lower back, his quiet presence grounding me in ways I still don’t know how to put into words. He hasn’t left my side in months. Not when the lawyers called. Not during the mediation sessions. Not after the nightmares that woke me up sobbing at 3AM. And not today.

The press is outside — of course they are. The whispers of “star studded custody battle” had turned this into a media frenzy. But they can’t get in. The judge issued a strict order. No cameras. No recording. Just us. Just the truth. As we approach the courtroom doors, I hear voices ahead — and then I see them. Carlos. Standing tall, jaw tight, eyes locked ahead like he’s walking onto the grid. Rebecca beside him, holding his hand. Lando leans against the wall across from them, wearing a suit and looking completely out of place but determined nonetheless. And behind them — I almost laugh — George, Alex, Pierre, Kika, Lewis and even Arthur. Half the grid is here. For me. The moment I appear, they all straighten up like a switch was flipped.

Carlos walks over and pulls me into a hug — quick, fierce, protective. “You’ve got this, Cat.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Don’t let that asshole rattle you,” Lando mutters. “We’ll all be right there. He’s not gonna touch you.”

I glance at Charles, who meets my gaze with steady, unwavering loyalty. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers.

The bailiff calls us in.

—

It’s colder in here. The wood-panelled walls are imposing. The judge — a stern woman with grey hair and glasses that seem to see through souls — gives no greeting. Only a nod. I sit at the petitioner’s table. My lawyer, a calm but steely woman named Lucia, opens her folder. Across from us, he sits in a dark suit, flanked by his attorney. He doesn’t look at me. Good. I don’t want him to. The first hour is procedural. Papers submitted. Timelines reviewed. The judge flips through documents as if they don’t hold the pieces of my life. And then it begins.

Lucia rises. “Your honor, we will demonstrate that the respondent’s actions — namely, removing the child without the petitioner’s consent and crossing international borders — constitute not only a violation of custody but a potential endangerment. We will also present evidence of emotional and physical abuse and coercive control throughout the relationship.”

I grip the edge of the table. Charles’s hand drops to my knee beneath the table. A silent promise—I’m here. The other side protests. Paints me as unstable. Mentions “emotional distress” and “a demanding career.” They try to twist my own trauma into a weapon against me. But then Lucia brings up the messages. The controlling texts. The surveillance. The bank accounts I was locked out of. The judge’s brow furrows. And then I take the stand. I took a deep breath, feeling the cold weight of the courtroom walls around me. As I stood before the judge, my heart pounded in my chest like a race engine — fast, erratic, out of control. But I had to steady myself. For Mateo. For truth.

“I want to speak honestly,” I said, voice trembling but clear. “Because for too long, the truth has been buried.”

"The first time he raised his voice — just a sharp word over something small. I remember the shock, the way my breath caught in my throat, the sudden coldness creeping up my spine. I wanted to believe it was a one-time thing. But it wasn’t."

The judge nodded silently, and I pushed on.

“At first, he was loving. Protective. The kind of partner I thought would always keep me safe.” My throat tightened. “But then the control began. Phone calls monitored. Friends disappearing from my life. Little freedoms taken away, bit by bit. He had started to get more physical with me. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I recall sitting alone in a dim hotel room after a long day in LA, my phone buzzing silently with messages I couldn’t answer. The loneliness was suffocating. I felt like I could not even do the one thing I loved anymore, I was losing myself. A part of me was dying."

In the courtroom, I caught Carlos’s eye — his jaw clenched, fists tightened around the bench. Charles sat beside him, quietly supportive but with a fierce protectiveness radiating from his posture.

“I was afraid to sing,” I said, voice cracking. “Music was my breath, but it became my cage. Every lyric I wrote was scrutinized. I felt trapped in my own story.”

"A night in our home, Mateo asleep in his crib, and me crying in the dark. The weight of silence was unbearable. I wanted to scream but had no voice."

The room murmured softly, some eyes glistening with tears. Lando shifted in his seat, visibly tense. I felt their silent strength.

“The worst day was when I came home from a trip and found him gone. Mateo was gone.” I swallowed hard, tears threatening to spill. “A note on the kitchen counter: ‘I don't want this anymore. I don't want you' No explanation. No warning.”

I looked at the judge, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air.

“That moment shattered me. I was lost in fear for Mateo’s safety — for my own.”

The judge leaned forward, eyes intent.

“I am here to fight. Not just for custody, but for healing. For our future. Mateo deserves that.”

My voice cracks on the last sentence. I looked over at Charles — his eyes glimmered with unshed tears and fierce determination. There’s a silence so heavy I can barely breathe.

Lucia finishes with, “Catalina Sainz is not only a devoted mother, she is a survivor. And she is asking this court to protect the only person that matters now: her son.”

—

The judge calls a short recess before ruling. I step outside the courtroom and lean against the wall, heart racing. Charles follows, wraps his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss to the side of my head.

“You were unbelievable,” he whispers. “So brave.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to keep going. You’re almost there.”

Carlos joins us, standing in front of me, arms crossed. “No matter what happens, we fight. We keep fighting until Mateo is safe with you permanently.”

I nod. The tears finally come, slow and quiet. Inside, the judge returns. We go back in. She rules in my favor. Full custody. I hear it. I feel it. But it doesn’t truly sink in until I walk back out and see Charles standing there, and I say — “We won.” And he doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me into his arms and holds me like the world has finally stopped spinning.

—

The three of my main protectors stood outside waiting for (ex name) to show. Carlos’s jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might snap. Charles stood a step behind him, his usually calm demeanor taut, eyes sharp as daggers. Lando hovered nearby, fists clenched, ready to step in if things escalated.

He approached them with a smug grin. He didn’t look intimidated, which only stoked the fire burning in Carlos’s chest.

Carlos’s voice was low but cutting. “You think you can just take him? Take Mateo without a word and expect no consequences?”

He shrugged, a cold smile twitching at his lips. “I did what I had to do. She was not around enough. Maybe I’m the better parent.”

Charles stepped forward, voice calm but laced with warning. “You’re wrong. This isn’t about competition — it’s about what’s best for Mateo. And that means respecting Catalina.”

"Oh suddenly you know her? Just because you fuck her?" He said with a smirk taunting Charles. Charles balled his fists. Carlos rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Hit me, pretty boy. See what happens." He irked on.

Lando’s tone was sharper, unmistakably protective. “You're fucking with the wrong family, asshole. Don't push me."

His smile faded, replaced by something colder — calculating. “Families fall apart. Especially when secrets come out.”

Carlos’s eyes darkened. “Watch your mouth.”

He sneered. “I’m just telling the truth.”

Charles’s fist clenched at his side, but he held his ground. “Well, we saw what the court said. She is clearly the more fit parent, considering she didn't kidnap him. Hell, maybe if you didn't you'd still be allowed to see him."

For a moment, no one moved. The tension hung thick, like a storm ready to break.

Then he turned on his heel, voice cold. “This isn’t over.”

Charles placed a steadying hand on Carlos’s shoulder. Lando stayed close, eyes never leaving my ex’s retreating back.

—

The house was filled with laughter, the kind of warmth that felt like a fragile promise of better days. Charles was pouring champagne, Carlos was cracking jokes, and Lando was making Mateo giggle with silly faces. I sat there, surrounded by people who felt like family — a rare moment of peace after everything. My new single played softly in the background, a bittersweet soundtrack to the night. For a moment, I let myself breathe. Then my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced down — incoming call.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly, standing up and stepping outside onto the cool night air. The sounds inside faded behind me.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

The voice was low, urgent. “Catalina… we need to talk.”

I hesitated. “I’m with people. Can it wait?”

“No. It can’t,” the voice insisted. My chest tightened.

Before I could pull away, a rough hand grabbed my arm, yanking me back into the shadows.

“Let me go!” I gasped, struggling.

“Quiet,” he hissed in my ear. “We’re not done.”

Panic surged through me, freezing me for a split second before fear turned into fight. But I was caught — trapped by the man whose presence I never wanted again. I gripped my phone and tried to dial Charles. He threw my phone to the ground and I heard it crunch. Inside the house, I could only imagine the sudden silence, the questions, the worry growing like wildfire. I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. Instead, I was dragged back into a nightmare I thought I’d escaped. And suddenly, everything was at risk again.

—

p3 complete:)))))

yall thought id just give you an easy happy ending???

my bad

p4 is done so it will be published soon:)

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