#and if one half is absent then so am i

[somecunttookmyurl]

i have (multiple) enzyme abnormalities in my liver that means i metabolise certain things WAY too fast. when i say "it clips through my liver like a bethesda game" that's not a joke. it's just gone. poof. do not pass go do not collect $200

i have adhd yes but also i am in fact just built different

a fun and fucked up fact about me is that when i was in sixth form (16-18), approximately 10 years prior to being diagnosed ADHD, i drank SO MUCH store brand energy drink that 2 things happened

1) It became such an obvious and well known Thing about me that my tutors started putting "too much red bull can kill you" news articles on the walls. These were not present in rooms I didn't have classes in. It was not a college-wide initiative. That was for me, specifically. Nobody said it but we all knew.

2) Several friends suggested, in all seriousness, I contact the Guinness Book of Records to set a record for "most caffeine consumed with no physical effect" after I had 3x 1 litre bottles in about an hour and my heart rate was still exactly the same and nothing about my demeanour had changed at all. Meanwhile Ryan had 1 bottle and was physically vibrating. Because he's normal.

(I didn't do it because it would require having a medical professional present the whole time to verify and like absolutely nobody with a medical degree is going to do that in good conscience)

[yuquinzel]

atsumu who goes above and beyond to impress you, his crush and classmate of four years, in all definitions of “impress.”

honestly how the fuck isn't it obvious to you by now, he might as well be walking around with “i like y/n” tattooed on his forehead.

you mention you like guys that can cook once and holy fuck atsumu who still doesn't know how to use the microwave without quite literally burning the food, who's never chopped onions before without ending up with enough cuts to bandage his whole hand— that atsumu practices for weeks and stays up till 2 am to prepare for the lunch he'll make for himself, because osamu said said no and then because you bring homemade lunch to stay and eat in class with your friends— he'll casually just plop down on the seat next to you, his friends will then very obviously willingly talk loudly about his lunch and he'll just throw in a, “yeah, made it maself, 'm a solid chef, who do ya think taught 'samu?”

okay if that didn't get your attention, no worries, what are his friends there for?

if atsumu gets lucky in a day and catches you chatting away with your friends in the hallway, then he instructs his friends to walk past you, hover in the corner, just within your earshot— “'kay, so when we pass her by, ya gotta speak ma name real loud, loud enough so she can hear it, but don't annoy her”

and so for the time you stand there, trying to hold a conversation with your friends, all your mind can really focus on is the, “atsumu was so fucking good in practice today, if we're gonna win, then it'll be all him”

and then you hear the subject of the conversation speak, “nah, we're a team, every time we win, it's all thanks ta you guys,” because you also mentioned you like modest, humble guys.

god forbid the days you're absent in class.

atsumu who's sulking all day, doesn't know what the fuck is going on in classes, he's half in and half not in every conversation, even his passes are sloppy and weak. to the point osamu and suna are concerned, well, in their own ways, “are ya constipated or something, yer missin’ your spikes and yer passes as clumsy,” osamu says off-handedly.

“i heard y/n didn't come today, i think her friends said she's sick.” suna chips in, and atsumu shrinks in his spot like a grumpy cat.

“i already know that, wouldn't have come today if i knew she wasn't comin’.”

“you'd miss practice then.”

“don't care, don't talk to me, don't wanna do anything, what's the point.”

“down fucking bad,” suna muses, and atsumu glares at him.

atsumu's day is ruined and his disappointment is immeasurable. why did you get sick? how could you get sick? now he's worried and half of himself and his passes are shit and god, he wants to see you. he feels like he could die.

then when you finally show up the next day after what felt like eternity to atsumu, you find on your desk a pile of snacks with a little note— banana milk, everyone knows it's your favourite, the bar of chocolate they only sell down the convenience store near the school, the glazed donuts that you're always eating in class, and a lot of bubblegums that only one person in class knows you like— atsumu's handwriting is rushed and barely comprehensive but you know it by heart because he doesn't know you saw him slip the note you found in your locker this morning, and countless other mornings—

“i hope you smile because of this”

atsumu as a secret admirer is... not so secret because he's still unaware that you see him every morning, and let him giggle to himself as he slips the notes and the strips of bubblegums in your locker— you don't even like that flavor.

but he gave them, so you think they might just be your favourite.

then again, maybe atsumu doesn't want to be a secret admirer.

atsumu has a crush on you and you know that— he's very obvious. but he's also very dense and doesn't realise that everyone besides him can see you like him too. he doesn't know the only reason you bring homemade lunch is because he had started to eat lunch in class with his friends. you stand in the hallways with your friends pretending to talk so that when atsumu's walking past you, his friends will practically yell his name and you'll see him blushing shyly. he still doesn't know you come to his every match, cheering for him and scream with joy at every one of his scores.

atsumu makes it obvious he has a crush on you but is stupidly dense that you reciprocate all the same :'))))

© yuquinzel 2024 [ plagiarism is a violation of moral rights ! ]

POSTING BECAUSE WHY TF NOT HUH HUHHHHHHHHH

@kyoghurts hi bbg

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 22: June 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent. Apparently I am once again messing up my chapter numbering on Tumblr. 21 is correct according to AO3 and Wattpad though. No, you didn't miss anything, I promise.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Max Verstappen

GP: Heard about the post-race press. Are you and Belle okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s shaken. Tired. But she’s okay. (ish.)

GP: “Okay-ish” isn’t exactly reassuring, mate.

Max: She’s stronger than she thinks. But it hit her hard. Even after everything… she still hoped they’d see her.

GP: That’s the cruel part. Hope.

Max: Yeah.

GP: Is she at home? You with her?

Max: I am. 

Max: Doesn’t feel like enough.

GP: It’s enough. You’re there. You see her. That’s already more than most have ever done.

Max: She deserves better than this.

GP: She’s got it now. She’s got you.

GP: (and the cats.)

Max: True. Jimmy thinks he’s her bodyguard.

GP: Smart cat.

GP: Tell her we’re all thinking about her, yeah?

Max: I will. Thanks, GP. For checking in.

GP: Always. She’s part of the team now. Whether she likes it or not.

***

The breakfast table was too quiet.

A spread of croissants, jam, fresh fruit, and espresso cups sat untouched in the center of the table—untouched because no one could eat. Lorenzo’s revelation from the day before hung in the air like a thundercloud.

Isabelle had quit her job.

 Months ago.

 Without telling a single one of them.

Charles still hadn’t wrapped his head around it. Isabelle had always loved her work. She breathed design. She stayed up late sketching, doodling floor plans on napkins, whispering ideas into voice memos when she thought no one was listening.

And then one day… she just walked away from it. From them.

Arthur sat with his head in his hands, looking half-murdered by guilt. Pascale was pale and tight-lipped, stirring her tea without drinking it.

“I don’t understand,” Pascale whispered. “How could she just… leave her job? She worked so hard for it.”

“She didn’t just leave,” Lorenzo said, pacing. “She ghosted the entire office. Packed her things in one night. Sent a polite goodbye email. Nothing else.”

“And no one noticed?” Arthur asked, stunned.

“No one bothered to notice,” Charles muttered.

Pascale looked toward Alexandra. “Did you know anything?”

Alexandra hesitated, then straightened a little. “She’s safe.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Charles’s head snapped toward her. “What?”

“I texted Emilie,” Alexandra said, calm but firm. “Isabelle’s best friend. She replied this morning. Said Isabelle is okay.”

A collective breath was held—and slowly released.

“Why didn’t you say that sooner?” Pascale asked, eyes wide.

“Because you were all too busy spiraling,” Alexandra said. “And because Emilie was clear: Isabelle doesn’t want to talk to any of you right now.”

Charles swallowed hard.

“She’s mad,” he said. “Of course she’s mad.”

“She’s not mad,” Alexandra said. “She’s hurt. She’s done. There’s a difference.”

Lorenzo closed his eyes. Arthur muttered something under his breath.

Then Alexandra added, almost absently, “She’s not alone. Emilie said her boyfriend likes taking care of her.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“Oh my god,” Arthur muttered. “She has a sugar daddy.”

Charlotte choked on her orange juice.

Pascale actually dropped her spoon.

“Arthur!” Alexandra hissed, scandalized.

Arthur looked wildly between them. “Think about it! Moved out. Quit her job. No one knows where she is. Isabelle’s always been quiet, not mysterious. What if she—”

“No. No,” Charles said quickly, shaking his head like that would erase the words from the room. “She wouldn’t. Isabelle is not like that.”

“People change when they feel abandoned,” Arthur muttered, clearly spiraling now. “This is how Netflix documentaries start.”

“I will kill whoever that man is,” Charles muttered, eyes narrowing like he was already imagining chasing someone through the Monaco harbor with a champagne bottle.

“I’m just saying,” Arthur hissed, “stranger things have happened! And let’s not pretend we’re not a family of unresolved emotional issues. We all have daddy issues!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then Pascale, horror dawning on her face, said, “Excuse me?!”

Arthur looked up, mid-sip of juice. “What?”

Pascale blinked, stunned. “Since when?!”

Arthur just stared at her. “I mean, come on. Dad died when we were kids, Charles is out here trying to win his approval from the afterlife, I started karting again like I have something to prove, and Isabelle— Isabelle moved in with a mysterious man and quit her job because he "likes taking care of her!"

“Oh my God,” Pascale said faintly, sinking into her chair.

“Okay, this is going off the rails,” Alexandra groaned.

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “Arthur, this is not about your unresolved need for paternal validation.”

Arthur shrugged helplessly. “I was just trying to explain that maybe Isabelle was looking for emotional stability and someone gave it to her. And maybe he also had a good skincare routine and a yacht. I don’t know.”

“She moved in with her boyfriend,” Lorenzo said sharply. “Not a sugar daddy. Her boyfriend. That’s what her old neighbor said. She left the firm. Left her apartment. But she didn’t run away. She just stopped waiting to be seen.”

Arthur groaned, slumping in his seat. “We didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.”

“Because she didn’t tell us,” Charles said bitterly. “Because she stopped expecting us to care.”

“Or because she knew you were going to freak out.” Charlotte murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Charlotte looked up, startled. “What?”

“You said that like you know something.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I don’t know anything.”

“Charlotte,” Lorenzo warned.

She shifted. “It’s just—she’s always been around racing. She used to hang around the paddock all the time. If she was seeing someone, I wouldn’t be shocked if it was someone from the grid.”

Silence.

Then Arthur: “Wait. You’re saying she could be dating someone we know?”

Charlotte winced. “I said maybe. Don’t start spiraling.”

“I’M ALREADY SPIRALING,” Charles announced.

Alexandra sighed, sipping her coffee. “And now we’ve entered the panic phase.”

Arthur leaned back, muttering, “If it’s Fernando I swear to God—”

Pascale clapped her hands together. “Enough.”

But Charles barely heard her.

Because if Belle was dating someone from the paddock…

Then there were nineteen men it could be, currently on the grid.

And not one of them had said a word.

***

Group Chat: GRID 2024 

Members: Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz Jr., Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, George Russell, Alex Albon, Logan Sergeant, Daniel Ricciardo, Nico Hülkenberg, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso, Sergio Pérez, Esteban Ocon, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Pierre Gasly, Yuki Tsunoda, and Valtteri Bottas

Charles: SOMEONE TELL ME

 Who is dating my sister??

Charles: IS IT FERNANDO?? Are you her sugar daddy?? Just tell me. I need answers.

Fernando: Pardon?

Lewis: Oh we’re doing this.

George: Charles, breathe.

Oscar: You’re spiraling. Please stop.

Pierre: Wait WHAT??

Yuki: I feel like I’ve walked into the last five minutes of a telenovela

Fernando: Charles. I’m flattered. But no.

Charles: OK FINE. MAX. Charles:  IS SHE DATING JOS?!

Logan: …bro

George: I need to leave this chat forever

Lando: oh my god

Max: What. Did. You. Just. Say.

Charles: I don’t know, okay?? Everyone’s being weird. She’s gone, she moved, she quit her job, no one’s telling me anything and YOU’RE ALL BEING WEIRD.

Max: Don’t you ever say something like that again.

Max: Not as a joke. Not out of panic. Not ever.

Max: Belle is your sister, Charles. She deserved your attention, your support, your respect—and she didn’t get any of it. Max: And now you want to cover up your guilt by making a disgusting joke like that?

George: Whoa.

Charles: It’s not a joke! She smiled at him during Monaco!

Max: You forgot her birthday. You forgot her entire life outside of your world. And now you’re so desperate to catch up you’re throwing shit against the wall like it doesn’t have consequences?

Oscar: He’s right. That was low, man.

Lando: Way out of line.

Max:  You’re panicking and flinging names around like this is a soap opera, and you’re forgetting that this isn’t about you.

Carlos: He’s right.

Max: Belle isn’t your property. She doesn’t owe you updates of her life. And the fact that your first instinct is to accuse my father of something that insane? That tells me everything I need to know about where your priorities are.

Max: You’re not trying to protect her. You’re trying to control the fallout of your own guilt.

Alex: Oof.

Oscar: He’s not wrong.

Lando: I mean, he’s definitely not wrong.

Daniel: That was… surgical.

Max: You forgot her birthday. You didn’t realise she moved or that she quit her job. And now that it’s all blowing up in your face, you’re treating your sister like a scandal to manage instead of a woman who deserves better than you’ve given her for years.

Charles: Max…

Max Verstappen: Don’t. You had every chance to show up. And you didn’t.

Oscar: …Well. That was the cleanest emotional takedown I’ve ever witnessed.

Pierre: I’m afraid to even type right now.

Alex: Respectfully, that needed to be said.

Lewis: Sometimes silence is the most respectful response. And sometimes it’s watching Max drop a nuke and sipping your tea.

Charles: … I’m sorry.

Max: Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.

Daniel: And maybe do it without accusing her of having a sugar daddy next time.

Fernando: Sincerely never thought I’d be defending Jos Verstappen’s honor in a group chat. And yet. Here we are.

Pierre: Did we all just witness character development in real time?

Oscar:  No, we witnessed Max finally snap.

Carlos: Honestly? Fair.

Max: Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife wants to go see her horse. 

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Oscar: (sends screenshots) Are we gonna talk about that??

Lando: I don’t think I’ll ever emotionally recover.

George: That wasn’t an argument. That was Max opening a precision-cut emotional autopsy on Charles.

Daniel: Surgical strike. Zero survivors.

Carlos: I think I stopped breathing somewhere between “not your property” and “scandal to manage.”

Alex: And he still managed to slip in “my wife” at the end like it was casual.

Lewis: Subtle as a sledgehammer. Iconic.

Sebastian: Imagine standing that close to the truth and just completely going off the deep end. JOS VERSTAPPEN?!?!

David: Charles is lucky we’re not recording this for Drive to Survive. This would be season finale material.

Fernando: Still recovering from the fact that I had to defend Jos Verstappen’s honor today. Truly humbling times.

Mark: Also Max casually confirming "wife" like we didn’t hear that bomb drop.

Lando: The whole chat: staring at “my wife” like: [INSERT SHOCKED PIKACHU MEME]

Logan: Also Max: anyway gtg horseback riding with Belle bye

George: Meanwhile we’re left here emotionally blinking like stunned goldfish.

Zhou: Respectfully? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in a group chat.

Logan: He read Charles’ whole life like it was a menu.

Esteban: No crumbs left. Truly an artist.

Lewis: I hope Belle gives Max a damn medal.

Carlos: It’s what he deserves.

Lando Norris: At this point Max could straight up declare war on Monaco and all of us would follow him.

Nico H.: Only if Belle asks nicely though.

Fernando: Honestly, after that? She deserves her own Grand Prix.

Sebastian: Belle Verstappen GP. Street circuit. Emotional trauma bonus points.

David: Winner gets emotional literacy and a free hug.

Lando: Charles gets last place. Obv.

Oscar: Someone check on Charles, though. Like... at a distance. With caution.

George: Give him a juice box and a reflective corner.

Lewis: He needs to sit with this one. You’re up, Seb.

Sebastian: I hate you.

Carlos: And next time?  Maybe start by actually listening to Belle. and not accuse her of having a sugar daddy.

Oscar: Can we also talk about how Charles accused Fernando of being Belle’s sugar daddy?!?

Lando: No because I actually SCREAMED when I read it Out loud. In a public place.

George: Charles really said “if the unhinged shoe fits…”

Lewis: Fernando being asked if he’s the sugar daddy of a 25-year-old woman live in a chat is peak 2024.

Daniel: The best part is Fernando didn’t even deny it immediately. He said “pardon” like a man trying to calculate if this was a compliment or an insult.

Fernando: I was genuinely weighing my options.

Logan: He 100% thought about it for a second Did the math in his head Age difference analysis

Carlos: He pulled out a mental calculator before answering.

Alex: Plot twist: he was flattered.

Fernando: I am flattered.

Logan: ARE YOU NOT TOO OLD FOR THIS SIR

Fernando: Age is just a number. Experience is a blessing.

David: Shut up you're scaring the children

Daniel: I'm crying. This man is two bad decisions away from opening a luxury wine bar in Marbella.

Zhou: Would 100% attend Fernando’s shady rich sugar daddy wine parties tbh.

George: You know somewhere there's an alternate universe where Fernando is soft-launching Belle on Instagram with a blurry wine glass and a cryptic caption.

Sebastian: Don’t manifest that energy.

Lewis: The timeline barely survived Charles forgetting her birthday We are NOT surviving "Fernando Alonso soft launches Belle Verstappen."

Oscar: Good morning to everyone except Charles for inventing this nightmare.

Carlos: He should be banned from texting before noon.

Daniel: Imagine Belle reading that conversation The secondhand embarrassment would kill her instantly

Lando: Max would bury Charles under the Red Bull Energy Station if Belle found out

Fernando: That’s why I stayed calm. For everyone’s safety.

David: You’re a better man than I am.

George: Let’s be honest Max’s entire speech wasn’t just a takedown It was a warning.

Lewis: And Charles still doesn’t realize how close he was to emotional decapitation.

Daniel: Fernando being accidentally involved will forever be my Roman Empire

Lando: Same. Sugar Daddy Alonso 2024 Never Forget.

Kimi: I don’t care.

Fernando: Good. One sane man among us.

Mark: Honestly Kimi deserves a medal for surviving this chat with brain cells intact.

Lando: Meanwhile I’m Googling “how to recover from emotional whiplash" and "can you sue your friend for public embarrassment.”

Oscar: Suing Charles for pain and suffering. Class action.

Lewis: Count me in.

Daniel: Put me down for emotional damages and lost productivity.

Carlos: And mental anguish from hearing "Jos" and "sugar daddy" in the same sentence.

George Russell: I’m still trying to bleach my brain from that.

Sebastian Vettel: The worst part is… We know it’s only going to get worse.

Valtteri: Spain is going to be the emotional equivalent of a demolition derby and I'm here for it…

Oscar: Prayers up for Charles. He’s about to get hit with the reality sledgehammer.

***

The air smelled like sun-warmed hay and old wood and something softer — something Max couldn’t name but recognized instantly as peace.

The stables weren’t far from the city — a quiet, tucked-away stretch of land up in the hills — but it might as well have been another world compared to the chaos vibrating through the paddock, the media, the group chats.

Belle was already a few steps ahead of him, moving with easy, instinctive confidence down the center aisle. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore one of his oversized hoodies over her jeans, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Even in battered sneakers, even in dusty sunlight, she looked luminous.

This, Max thought, is who she really is.

Not the invisible sister standing silently in the Ferrari garage.

 Not the afterthought.

 Not the forgotten one.

Here, among the horses and the golden dust motes, Belle was someone else entirely. Someone free.

He watched as she reached Fleur’s stall — the mare with the soft eyes and white coat — and the change in her was immediate. Belle’s whole body softened. Her voice dropped into something low and sweet, barely a whisper, as she murmured to the horse in French, offering a gentle hand.

Fleur pressed her nose into Belle’s palm like she had been waiting for her all day.

Max stayed back, leaning against a beam, just… watching.

Belle ran her fingers through the mare’s mane, smiling quietly when Fleur nosed into her ribs for a treat. She laughed, soft and breathless, pulling a carrot from her pocket like she’d always known it would be needed.

Max felt something hot coil under his ribs.

Not anger. Not yet.

Something heavier.

Because standing there, watching her, Max didn’t understand — and probably never would — how the people who were supposed to love her first and fiercest could have ever made her feel like this side of her wasn’t worth seeing.

How did you miss this?

 How did you miss her?

How could you look at Belle — at her patience, her stubbornness, her gentleness — and think she was someone it was okay to forget?

Max didn't know how Charles or Pascale or Arthur or even Lorenzo could live with themselves.

She had been right there, waving from the garage, smiling through being overlooked, standing quietly beside them her whole life — and they’d blinked, and she was gone.

He didn’t know if they'd ever get her back, not in the way they thought they were entitled to.

 And maybe they didn’t deserve to.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the steady beat of his own pulse against his knuckles. He wasn’t angry on his own behalf — he was angry for her. For every memory she had where she learned she needed to be small to survive. For every year she thought invisibility was safer than asking for more.

But here — here, she didn’t shrink herself.

Here, she was all soft light and warm hands and quiet magic.

He watched as Belle rested her forehead against Fleur’s, closing her eyes. Whispering something Max couldn’t hear.

He didn’t move.

He would wait forever if it meant she never had to be small again.

When she finally turned toward him, cheeks flushed, hair tangled in the breeze, Max just smiled — slow and sure — and opened his arms without a word.

Belle crossed the space between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when she folded herself against his chest, Max pressed his mouth to the top of her head and thought, fiercely, I will never let you feel invisible again.

Not here. Not with him.

Never.

***

Belle sat curled into the armchair, hands knotted in the hem of her sweater. Her phone buzzed on the low table beside her — again — and she flinched without meaning to.

She didn’t pick it up. She hadn’t read any of them. Not a single message.

Across from her, Simone sat, notebook closed, pen resting untouched on the armrest. She didn’t need notes yet. She was just watching — waiting for Belle to breathe first.

"You don’t have to," Simone said finally, nodding toward the phone. "We can leave it buzzing all session if you want. This is your hour."

Belle looked down at her hands.

"I don’t know what they want," she said, voice thin. "I don’t know if I want to know."

"That's a choice," Simone said simply. "It’s your choice."

Belle twisted the hem tighter. "They keep calling. Texting. DMing. It’s like... once Charles realized, they all remembered I exist."

"That realization isn’t yours to carry," Simone said. "You didn’t make yourself invisible. They chose not to see you."

“You haven’t answered,” Simone asked, her voice even…non-judgemental.

Belle shook her head, pressing the rim of the mug tighter against her palms.

“I don’t know if I want to,” Belle whispered.

Simone leaned forward slightly. “You’re allowed to make that choice, Belle. Access to your life — your heart — isn’t something anyone is automatically entitled to. Not even family.”

Belle blinked hard.

“It feels… wrong,” she admitted. “Like I’m being cruel. But also like… maybe it’s finally protecting myself.”

Simone nodded. “Both can be true.”

They sat with that for a moment, letting the air between them settle.

"I feel like if I open one message, I’ll lose the ground I gained," she whispered. "Like they'll pull me back in before I even realize it."

Simone nodded slowly. "That fear is real. It’s valid. But remember — reading a message doesn’t obligate you to answer. They don’t get to set the terms anymore. You do."

Belle sat with that for a long moment, staring at the phone like it was a bomb she didn't know how to disarm.

"You can read what they have to say," Simone continued gently, "and then decide how much access you want to give them. How much of yourself you want to offer back. Or none at all.  But the decision has to come from a place of power — not guilt."

Belle swallowed hard, something inside her cracking open.

"I don’t want to live my life shrinking," she said, so quietly it barely made it into the room.

"You don’t have to," Simone said simply. "You’re allowed to grow bigger than the spaces they built for you."

Belle wiped under her eyes, feeling the tears spill anyway.

"I’m pregnant," she said, almost impulsively, almost defensively — like the words had been trying to claw their way out of her for days.

Simone didn’t react, didn’t widen her eyes or gasp or rush forward.

She just smiled, slow and warm.

"Congratulations," Simone said.

Belle let out a shaky laugh, covering her face for a moment.

"I haven’t told most people yet," she admitted. "It’s... still just mine and Max’s, mostly. But I—"

She broke off, chest tight.

"I don’t want my baby to feel the way I felt," Belle whispered. "Invisible. Like they have to earn love. Like being quiet or not causing trouble makes them easier to keep around."

Simone nodded slowly. "You don’t want them to feel like they have to disappear to be safe."

Belle’s throat closed. That was it. That was everything.

"I want them to know," Belle said, tears slipping freely now. "Every second. That they matter. That they are wanted."

"You can give them that," Simone said gently. "Because you know what it feels like to need it."

Belle hugged her knees tighter to her chest, breathing in slow, ragged pulls.

"I don't know if I can be enough," she whispered.

"You already are," Simone said simply. "You're enough because you see them. The way you should have been seen."

Belle wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, heart pounding painfully against her ribs.

Simone leaned in just a little, voice steady.

"You get to break the cycle," she said. "Not by being perfect. Not by fixing everything. But by loving without conditions."

Belle stared down at her belly, still barely showing under the oversized sweater. A secret, soft and growing.

Not alone anymore.

Not invisible.

Not shrinking to fit someone else's version of worth.

She exhaled shakily.

"I think," Belle said slowly, "I’ll read the messages. Because it’s my choice now."

Simone smiled. "Exactly."

Belle sat back in the chair, letting the silence settle.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like freedom.

***

The cats were asleep — a warm, purring pile on the foot of the bed — and the only sound in the room was the hum of the city beyond the windows and the soft rustle of Max shifting beside her.

Belle sat curled up in the corner of the bed, Max’s hoodie swallowing her whole, the phone clutched in both hands.

She hadn’t wanted to look. Not at the missed calls. Not at the voicemails. Not at the dozens of unread messages blinking like warning lights across every app she had.

But now… Now she read them.

One by one.

Apologies. Explanations. Pleading.

Arthur. Lorenzo. Charles.

And Maman. Always Maman.

Maman:Ma chérie… I didn’t realise. I thought I messaged you, but I sent it to Charles by mistake. That’s not an excuse. You deserved more. Always. Please let me come see you. I miss you.

Belle stared at the words, blinking back the slow, stunned weight building behind her eyes.

Because if her mother had texted Charles that morning — if she had thought about Belle enough to even try — then Charles would have known.

He would have remembered.

There wouldn’t have been blank stares in the Ferrari garage.

 There wouldn’t have been celebrations swirling around her while she stood still, invisible.

There would have been a smile.

 A hug.

 A word.

Anything.

But there hadn’t been.

Because her mother hadn’t texted.

Not her.

And not Charles.

She hadn’t thought about her at all.

Belle felt the first tear slip free before she could stop it. Then another. And another.

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone to her lap.

She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, willing herself to breathe, to hold it together — but the ache was too deep. Too old. It cracked open the quiet places she thought she had stitched shut months ago.

The mattress dipped beside her, and Max’s arms were around her before she could say a word.

No questions. No demands. Just solid, unwavering Max, pulling her into his chest, pressing his chin to the crown of her head, wrapping her up like he could protect her from everything the world had failed to.

Belle buried her face in his hoodie and cried — deep, broken, shuddering sobs that shook her ribs and soaked the cotton between them.

Max held her through all of it. Rocked her gently like she was something precious. Whispered soft, fierce things into her hair — I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you.

When the tears finally slowed — when Belle could breathe without gasping — she shifted just enough to look up at him.

“She lied to me,” Belle whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Max tensed, not pulling away, but going still — like a storm gathering quietly over open water.

Belle twisted the fabric of his hoodie between her fingers, needing something to hold onto. “My mother. In her messages. She said… she said she thought she had texted me on my birthday. That she checked and realized she sent it to Charles instead.”

Max didn’t say anything.

 Not yet.

He just waited.

“But if she had really texted Charles,” Belle said, blinking hard, “then he would have remembered. Wouldn’t he?”

Max’s jaw tightened against her forehead.

“He would have realized when he saw me. He would have known it was my day.”

 Belle swallowed thickly. “He would have said something. Anything.”

She felt Max’s hand, slow and careful, run up her spine — like he was grounding himself as much as her.

“They didn’t forget by accident, Max,” she whispered, the crack in her voice slicing the room in half. “They just… didn’t think about me at all. And now she’s lying to make herself feel better. Or maybe to make me not be angry anymore.”

There was a long, vibrating pause.

When Max finally spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“She lied to you." Not angry for himself. Angry for her.

“She lied to your face to protect her own feelings,” he said, tightening his grip around her protectively. “And she didn’t even think about what it would do to you.”

Belle didn’t trust herself to speak.

“She didn’t check,” Max said, every word precise and sharp. “She didn’t text you. She forgot you. And now she wants you to comfort her guilt so she doesn’t have to sit with the truth.”

Belle closed her eyes, tucking herself deeper into his chest.

Max’s voice dropped even lower. Colder. Deadlier.

“They don’t deserve to be the ones to tell you how much you matter, Belle,” he said. “Not when they couldn’t even see you standing right in front of them.”

Belle felt herself break apart a little more — not because of the anger in his voice, but because of the fierce, unyielding love underneath it.

Max pulled back just enough to tip her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“They can lie to themselves all they want,” he said, voice rough. “But you’re not invisible anymore. You never were. You are the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

Belle tried to smile but it broke halfway through, another tear slipping free.

Max kissed her — not rushed, not desperate — but slow and sure and reverent.

“I see you,” he murmured against her mouth. “I will always see you.”

Belle clutched his hoodie tighter, feeling the words stitch into the broken places inside her chest.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was the kind of thank you that carried a lifetime of hope she hadn’t known how to say before now.

Max brushed her forehead with his lips, arms still wrapped firmly around her.

***

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the city outside the windows, and the faint golden light spilling from the kitchen where Max was making tea.

The cats were already asleep, draped dramatically across the couch like tiny emperors, and Belle sat curled up at the dining table, phone in hand.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram app for a long time.

She hadn’t posted anything in weeks. Maybe longer. Not since before everything cracked open — before her birthday…

It felt strange, almost dangerous, to think about letting the world see even a piece of her life again. To stop living like she needed to apologize for taking up space.

But she was tired. 

She was tired of pretending her life was something to be ashamed of.

She was tired of being invisible.

 Of hiding her joy like it was a crime.

She tapped into her camera roll.

The photo was simple. Max had taken it — taken earlier that afternoon, in the warm haze of the stables. Fleur was grazing and Belle’s arm was tucked around her neck, leaning against the warm white fur.

It wasn’t a professional shot.

 It wasn’t curated.

 It was real.

And for once, Belle didn’t care about anything else.

She clicked ‘post’ before she could talk herself out of it.

Caption:Some things were always meant to find their way back to you.

She stared at it for a moment, heart hammering — not with fear, but with something quieter. Something steadier.

Not everyone would understand.

Most wouldn’t even know what it meant.

But the people who mattered — the ones who knew her, who loved her — they would understand exactly what she was saying.

Max’s voice floated from the kitchen, casual and warm. “You want mint or chamomile?”

Belle smiled softly to herself.

“Mint,” she called back, slipping her phone onto the table, feeling lighter than she had in months.

No more hiding.

No more shrinking.

Her life was hers now.

 And she was finally — finally — ready to live it.

***

Instagram Post: @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/charles_leclerc: …From where did you get a horse??

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A HORSE AGAIN???

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Since when are you even riding again??

@/charles_leclerc: Isabelle. Please answer your phone.

@/arthur_leclerc: PLEASE RESPOND.

@/randomfan72: THE WAY SHE JUST DROPPED THIS WITHOUT CONTEXT???

@/f1updates: Isabelle disappearing for a week and then coming back with a horse is the most iconic thing I’ve seen in a while.

@/f1fanpage: Okay, but WHO GAVE HER A HORSE???

@/monacoroyalty: Isabelle casually revealing that she has a whole horse like it’s a new handbag is sending me.

@/gridgossip: He/she’s gorgeous! What’s their name? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Fleur ❤️ She’s a 7 year old Selle Francais mare. 

@/emilie_abadie: God, Belle, she looks just like Blanche…

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Like Mother, like Daughter ❤️

@/coralie.g: She looks like your childhood horse… 

↪ @/isabelleleclerc: Because she’s her last foal 😭 

@/horselover99: Omg did you always plan to start riding again? 🥹 ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I never stopped wanting to. Just couldn’t afford to for a long time.

@/victorialaps: This is so random but… how did you even find her? ↪ @/isabelleleclerc: I didn’t. She was a gift. Best surprise ever.

@/f1updates: WAIT WAIT WAIT.

@/f1theories: GIFT?? FROM WHO??

***

The tea had just finished steeping when Max’s phone buzzed once. Then again. And again.

He frowned, setting down the mugs. It wasn’t like his phone to light up at midnight unless something dramatic had happened — and judging by the flood of notifications, the world had just decided to catch fire.

But when he flipped it over, his chest tightened in a very different way.

It wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t panic.

It was Belle.

Her name. Her Instagram. A new post.

Max opened it instantly, barely breathing.

The photo was simple, quiet — Fleur leaning into Belle’s hand, golden light painting everything soft around them.

But it wasn’t the picture that hit him hardest.

It was the caption.

some things are always meant to come back to you.

Max stared at the screen, heart thudding slow and heavy in his chest.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t a declaration.

It was a quiet, stubborn reclaiming of everything Belle had once been taught to hide — her dreams, her peace, her self.

And she hadn’t asked permission.

She hadn't needed anyone’s blessing.

She had simply... posted it.

Without apology.

 Without explanation.

Max set the phone down, grabbed both mugs carefully, and crossed the living room to where Belle sat curled up at the table, her knees tucked under her, the soft edges of exhaustion lingering around her eyes.

She looked up when she heard him, tentative, like part of her was still braced for criticism she didn’t deserve.

Max didn’t say a word.

He placed the tea down. Then he crouched in front of her, sliding his hands over her knees, resting his forehead gently against hers.

No words. Just this.

Just I'm proud of you.

Belle let out a soft, shaky breath, her hand sliding into his hair, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered — because sometimes, he was.

“You saw it?” she whispered.

Max smiled against her skin.

“I saw everything,” he murmured. “And I see you, liefde. Always.”

Belle’s breath hitched.

She closed her eyes and let herself believe it — let herself soak in the truth of it without second-guessing.

She wasn’t invisible here.

She was home.

And Max — Max was exactly where he had always promised he would be:

Right here. Always. With her.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Shared Isabelle’s Instagram post

Arthur: …So. Uh.

Arthur: When were you guys planning on telling me that Isabelle suddenly has a HORSE?

Charles: SHE HAS A WHAT.

Lorenzo: Excuse me??

Arthur: A horse, Lorenzo. A living, breathing, four-legged animal. You know. Like the one that was sold when she was a teenager.

Charles: No. No way. That’s not possible.

Arthur: Look at the photo. LOOK AT IT.

Charles: It looks exactly like Blanche.

Lorenzo: That’s not possible.

Arthur: AND YET.

Lorenzo: Okay. Okay. Let’s just—think about this logically.

Arthur: Sure. Logically. Isabelle now has a horse that looks IDENTICAL to the one that was sold to pay for Charles' karting?!?!

Arthur: LOGICALLY, how does that make any sense?!

Charles: Who gave her a horse?

Arthur: WHO KNEW SHE STILL WANTED ONE???

Lorenzo: …Clearly, not us.

Pascale: …We should have known.

Arthur: …Maman?

Pascale: We took away something she loved.

Pascale: And then we never gave it back.

Charles: We didn’t have the money.

Pascale: No. But when we did have the money, we put it into restarting Arthur’s karting career.

Arthur: …

Charles: …

Lorenzo: Merde.

Pascale: And we never even considered doing the same for Isabelle.

Pascale: Not once.

Arthur: I—Maman, I didn’t even think—

Pascale: No. None of us did.

Pascale: She cried for weeks when we sold Blanche. And then, one day, she just stopped talking about it.

Pascale: I thought she had let it go.

Charles: She didn’t let it go. She just realized no one was listening.

Pascale: And I, her own mother, let her believe that if it wasn’t about racing, it wasn’t important.

Lorenzo: We all did.

Arthur: We failed her.

Pascale: And yet she still loved us enough to stay.

Pascale: Even when we didn’t see her.

Charles: We need to fix this.

Arthur: Step one: find out who gave her the horse.

Pascale: Step one: apologize.

Arthur: Step two: figure out how we didn’t even KNOW she was riding again.

Lorenzo: When would she have had the time?

Pascale: She found a way. Because we didn’t give her one.

Pascale: Do you know what hurts the most?

Charles: What?

Pascale: That I don’t even know what kind of life she’s been living.

Pascale: What she loves. Where she goes. Who she spends time with.

Pascale: She grew up right in front of me, and I don’t know her at all.

Arthur: …How do we fix this?

Pascale: I don’t know if we can. ****

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpillerIsabelle Leclerc just casually dropped a photo of a whole horse on Instagram, and her brothers had NO IDEA she was even riding again. The family drama is writing itself.

↳ @/LandoSimp44: How do you not notice your sister getting into an expensive, time-consuming hobby???

↳ @/FerrariF1Stan: Maybe because they’ve never paid attention to her interests in the first place…??

↳ @/LeclercFanGirl16: Charles and Arthur are spiraling in the comments, Lorenzo is confused, and Isabelle is just out here ignoring them all. QUEEN.

@/F1GossipGirlHold on. Isabelle didn’t just get any horse. If I’m reading this correctly, this foal is from her childhood horse. The one her family SOLD.

↳ @/MaxForPresident33: Oh, so she’s still THAT angry. And honestly? Good for her.

↳ @/RedBullRacingUpdates: The way she’s been quiet for two whole weeks and then dropped a horse like a bombshell?? I need to know who gave it to her.

↳ @/FerrariDramaAccount: Isabelle’s silence has been screaming for a week straight, and now this. The Leclerc brothers are doomed.

@/F1MemeLordLeclerc brothers: "We totally care about our sister." Also the Leclerc brothers: Completely unaware she’s been riding again and now owns a horse.

↳ @/CharlesFanClub: Yeah, Isabelle is 100% still mad. She really said, "You forgot my birthday? Watch this."

↳ ​​@/MonacoMess: Isabelle is SO passive-aggressive and I respect it.

↳ @/HorseGirlFC: I just KNOW she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this. Iconic behavior.

@/F1InsiderTalk: No, but real talk—if her brothers had no idea she was even riding again, that means they haven’t been paying attention to her at all. That’s rough.

↳ @/TifosiQueen: She had a birthday and they forgot. Now she has a whole damn horse and they didn’t even know she still liked horses.

↳ @/MonacoGossip: Isabelle could disappear to another continent, and I swear they wouldn’t notice until someone tagged them in an Instagram post.

↳ @/ArthurFan27: I love Arthur, but the way none of them know anything about her is actually kind of sad.

@/ChaosModeF1I just KNOW Isabelle had this horse for a bit before dropping it like a bomb on Instagram. The drama, the suspense, the Leclerc brothers losing their minds in real time.

↳ @/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad: The fact that she didn’t post anything about her birthday but came back with a horse tells me everything I need to know.

↳@/FerrariWoes: I feel like this was the final straw moment.

@/RedBullTroll33Okay, but WHO gave her the horse? Because that’s a serious gift.

↳@/ F1ConspiracyClub: If it was Charles or Arthur, they wouldn’t be so confused in the comments. If it was Lorenzo, he wouldn’t be freaking out too.

↳ @/FerrariPain42: Soooo… secret boyfriend? 👀

↳@/F1ShippersAnonymous: If this turns out to be a soft launch, I WILL lose my mind.

@/MonacoRoyaltyI don’t know who gave Isabelle Leclerc a horse, but I do know that person knows her better than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariNation: …Damn. That’s actually heartbreaking when you put it like that.

↳ @/IsabelleLeclercDefenseSquad: She really just had to go out and find people who see her, huh?

↳ @/WhoGaveHerAHorse33: Someone get me the details. NOW.

@/F1ChaosModeThe funniest part of this is that Isabelle still hasn’t responded to any of her brothers. Just posted her horse and dipped.

↳ @/LeclercFamilyUpdates: The sheer level of pettiness. I love her.

↳ @/TifosiHeartbreak: Isabelle really said you forgot me, so now I’m forgetting you.

↳ @/FerrariShambles: I want a documentary about the exact moment Charles realized they were bad brothers.

@/F1SpicyTeaI know we’re all laughing, but this actually makes me so sad for Isabelle. Imagine your whole family forgetting your birthday, ignoring you for years, and then being SHOCKED when you move on with your life.

↳ @/MonacoMess: They didn’t even know she still loved horses. 

↳ @/FerrariF1Pain: The worst part? She didn’t even make a dramatic callout post about her birthday. She just let their silence speak for itself.

↳ @/TifosiAngstClub: She is the human embodiment of "I no longer expect anything from you."

@/F1ConspiracyClubIsabelle didn’t just buy this horse. Somebody gave it to her, according to her. Whoever they are, they know her better than her entire family.

↳ @/SoftLaunchDetective: If this is a secret boyfriend reveal, it’s the most dramatic and poetic one I’ve ever seen.

@/MonacoRoyalty: Isabelle Leclerc is the queen of quiet revenge. No loud callouts. No arguments. Just a perfectly timed Instagram post that says everything.

↳ @/FerrariTears: And the best part? Her brothers are LOSING IT in the comments.

↳ @/ArthurLeclercDefenseSquad: Arthur is panicking like she’s about to disappear forever.

↳ @/CharlesHasNoClue: Charles sounds like he’s five seconds away from personally investigating who gave her the horse.

↳ @/TifosiDetectives: The thing is, they should know. But they don’t.

@/TifosiMess: So let me get this straight:

Isabelle’s family forgot her birthday.

She disappeared for two weeks.

Charles finally remembers that he has a sister. 

Isabelle comes back with a horse.

Drops it on Instagram like it’s a casual Tuesday.

Her brothers have no idea where it came from.

I am obsessed with this timeline.

↳ @/FerrariAngst: I’m still stuck on "they didn’t even know she was riding again."

↳ @/CharlesNeedsHelp: The way they suddenly care now that it’s public.

@/F1SoftLaunchDetective: I’ll say it. Whoever gave her the horse loves her more than her own family does.

↳ @/FerrariHeartbreak: And that’s why the Leclerc brothers are panicking.

↳ @/RedBullInsider: Just waiting for the next phase of this drama. I know something bigger is coming.

↳ @/TifosiConspiracies: I have a gut feeling that when we find out who got her the horse, the internet will EXPLODE.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Arthur: I don’t really know how to start this.

Arthur: But I guess the first thing I need to say is—I’m sorry.

Arthur: I keep thinking about when I had to stop karting. How devastated I was. How unfair it felt.

Arthur: You know, when I was younger, I used to think we were the same.

Arthur: We both lost something for Charles. We both had to step aside.

Arthur: But the difference is, I got my second chance.

Arthur: And you never did.

Arthur: They gave me my dream back. But nobody ever thought to give you yours.

Arthur: And the worst part is, I never even thought about it.

Arthur: I was so focused on getting my own dream back that I never stopped to ask if you wanted yours.

Arthur: Or if you were even okay.

Arthur: I remember when they sold Blanche. You locked yourself in your room for days. Maman kept saying you’d get over it.

Arthur: But you never did, did you?

Arthur: I should have noticed. I should have asked.

Arthur: I should have known that you never stopped loving it. That you never moved on just because we assumed you did.

Arthur: But we never gave you a choice, did we?

Arthur: You were always the one who had to sacrifice something. You were always the one who had to step aside.

Arthur: And I never even thought about how much that must have hurt.

Arthur: I let myself believe you were fine because it was easier than realizing we left you behind.

Arthur: When I saw that horse, I thought my heart stopped. She looks just like Blanche.

Arthur: I had to read your post three times before it sank in. That you never let go of that part of yourself. That you found your way back.

Arthur: And none of us even knew.

Arthur: I don’t know where to start making this right. I don’t know if I even can.

Arthur: I don’t expect you to answer me. I don’t even know if I deserve an answer.

Arthur: But Isabelle, if there is even the smallest chance that I can fix this, that I can fix us—

Arthur: Tell me how. And I’ll do it.

Arthur: No hesitation. No questions asked.

Arthur: Je suis désolé, petite sœur.

Arthur: And I miss you.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sergeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: (sends screenshots) Belle is choosing violence. 

Carlos: She posted Fleur 😭

Alex: Softest betrayal ever. I’m crying.

Sebastian: That's not just any horse. That’s the horse.

Zhou: WAIT??? THAT'S THE FOAL FROM HER CHILDHOOD HORSE??

Fernando: The symbolism is destroying me. Quiet vengeance at its finest.

David: Imagine getting obliterated by your sister posting a horse.

Lance: Charles is about to have another breakdown isn’t he

Oscar: He’s already melting down in her comments.

Logan: WHO GAVE HER THE HORSE THOUGH

George: who do you THINK

Nico Hülkenberg: lol max the softest secret husband in existence

Daniel: max is so whipped it's beautiful

Lewis: He literally said “my wife wants to visit her horse” the other day with the softest voice known to man

Kimi: Good. Someone should love her properly.

Lando: the LECLERC BROTHERS are LOSING IT

Oscar: literally fighting for their lives in the comments while Belle is posting like nothing happened 😂

Fernando: This is what true passive-aggressive excellence looks like. I’m so proud.

Valtteri: horse girl revenge >>> everything

Zhou: also can we talk about how she hasn’t answered a SINGLE one of them

George: Do you think Charles is gonna figure it out soon??

Carlos: absolutely not.

Oscar: he's gonna lose his mind when he finds out Max bought her the horse

Daniel: WAIT TILL HE FINDS OUT THEY'RE MARRIED LMAOOOO

Lando: oh my god he still doesn't know

Lewis: beautiful chaos.

Alex: 10/10 no notes

Oscar: Honestly Belle just won the soft war without even lifting a finger.

Daniel: She dropped a horse and bounced. ICON.

George: Meanwhile Charles is running around Monaco like a headless chicken.

Carlos: good. he deserves to sit with this.

Fernando: actions have consequences. and sometimes those consequences come with four legs and a braided mane.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people really get how much Isabelle Leclerc sacrificed. I knew her at university, and she was one of the smartest, hardest-working people I’ve ever met. But she never seemed happy. A thread.

↳ @/coraliegaudin: She wasn’t the type to talk about herself. She showed up, did the work, and left. No parties, no celebrations, nothing. Just school and her jobs.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And she always had jobs. She tutored, did internships, and worked at a stable. Yes, a stable.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember seeing her come to class still smelling like hay, her hands rough from work. And the thing is? That was the only time she ever looked truly alive.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She never told people why, but I found out later—her family sold her childhood horse when she was a teenager.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She didn’t ask them to fix it. She didn’t ask for help. She just worked. Worked herself into the ground to afford even a few hours of riding time.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I remember once, someone asked her why she never celebrated her grades. She just said, “It’s not that important.”

↳@/coraliegaudin: Not that important. Graduating with top honors. Getting a degree. None of it mattered to her. Because all she ever wanted was something she lost years ago.

↳@/coraliegaudin: And now, she has a horse again. Not just any horse—the foal of the one she lost.

↳@/coraliegaudin: I don’t think people understand how huge that is. This isn’t just a gift. It’s her entire dream given back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: She spent years giving up things for other people. But someone finally gave something back to her.

↳@/coraliegaudin: If anyone deserves that kind of love and thoughtfulness, it’s Isabelle Leclerc. I hope she’s finally as happy as she always deserved to be.

***

Text Messages: Lorenzo Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Lorenzo: Isabelle.

Lorenzo: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me.

Lorenzo: But I need to say this.

Lorenzo: I’m sorry.

Lorenzo: I don’t know how we forgot your birthday. I don’t know how we’ve made you feel so invisible.

Lorenzo: But we did. And I hate that it took this for me to realize how badly we’ve failed you.

Lorenzo: You’ve been riding again. I didn’t know. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Lorenzo: I should have. I should have asked. I should have paid more attention.

Lorenzo: But I didn’t.

Lorenzo: I should have asked what you were up to. I should have…I should have known that you were riding again. And that you moved. And that you quit your job. But I didn’t. 

Lorenzo: I just assumed you were fine, even when you had every reason not to be.

Lorenzo: I don’t expect you to answer.

Lorenzo: I just need you to know—I see it now. I see you now.

Lorenzo: And I will spend however long it takes making sure you never feel forgotten again.

Lorenzo: I love you, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: Whenever you’re ready.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/Clara_Marelli: So I wasn’t going to say anything, but seeing all the speculation about Isabelle Leclerc and her new horse? I need people to understand why this is such a big deal. Because I knew her back when she lost her first horse, and let me tell you—it broke her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Isabelle wasn’t just a horse girl, she was the horse girl. You know how some kids live and breathe a sport? That was her with riding. It wasn’t just a hobby, it was everything.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: She used to come to school with hay in her hair because she’d wake up early to ride before class. She had riding gloves permanently stuffed in her pockets. She sketched horses in the margins of her notebooks. It was who she was.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And then one day, she stopped.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We were all confused. She never shut up about riding, and suddenly, she wouldn’t even mention it. If you asked about her horse, she’d just give this tight little smile and say, “She’s gone.” No explanation. No emotion. Just… gone.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: We only found out later that her family sold her horse to help fund Charles’ racing career. And look—I get it, racing is insanely expensive, and the Leclercs aren’t the first family to make sacrifices for motorsport. But this wasn’t just some hobby she could pick up again later.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: This was the thing that made her happiest, and it was ripped away from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And what made it worse? She never complained. Not once. She just swallowed it, like she had already learned that what she wanted didn’t matter.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: After that, she changed. She got quieter. She stopped sketching horses. She stopped talking about anything she loved, really. It was like she decided—consciously or not—that if she didn’t care about things, they couldn’t be taken from her.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And now, years later, she suddenly posts that she has a horse again. And her own brothers didn’t even know she was riding.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  That tells me everything. It tells me that she never stopped missing it. That, at some point, she must have started riding again, but she kept it completely to herself. She didn’t tell her family. She didn’t trust them with it.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: And honestly? That makes me so, so sad. Because they should’ve been the first to know. They should’ve noticed that she was still hurting.

↳@/Clara_Marelli:  Instead, she had to find her way back to something she loved on her own.

↳@/Clara_Marelli: Whoever got her that horse—because let’s be real, this wasn’t a random purchase—they didn’t just give her a gift. They gave her back a part of herself. And that means more than her family probably even realizes.

@/F1Girl99: This is actually so heartbreaking. The way she just shut down after losing her horse?? And her family didn’t even realize??

@/LeclercNation: Nah, this makes the whole thing so much worse. Like, it’s one thing to forget her birthday, but not even knowing she still rides??

@/redbullgirly: “She didn’t trust them with it” is actually such a devastating sentence. Imagine having to hide the thing that makes you happiest because you know your family won’t care.

↳@/arthurfairy: The fact that she got a horse again but didn’t tell a single soul in her family tells me everything I need to know about how much that hurt her.

@/gridgossip: Everyone’s talking about how sad this is, but can we also talk about who got her that horse? Because that’s not a small gift. That’s a “someone knows exactly what you lost and wanted to give it back” kind of gift.

@/tifositilidie: Imagine being Charles or Arthur and realizing you never even thought about getting her back into riding.

↳@/ohmyf1: The fact that they restarted Arthur’s karting career but didn’t do the same for Isabelle and just assumed she got over it… yeah, that’s rough.

@/chaoticquadrant: Isabelle’s silence about all of this is louder than anything she could’ve said.

@/pitlaneprincess: The fact that a random classmate knows more about Isabelle’s pain than her own family is WILD.

@/verstapwinning: I actually can’t get over the part where she just stopped talking about things she loved after they sold her horse. That’s not just sadness, that’s trauma.

@/softforcharles: I love Charles, but the way they all just assumed she was fine… like, did no one ever ask her if she wanted to ride again??

↳@/F1andChill: I’m just saying—if my sibling was secretly riding again and I found out from Instagram, I would simply pass away from shame.

@/IsabelleLeclercFan: The worst part? She didn’t even announce it like “Look what I got!” She just posted it, like it was a casual thing. That’s how you know it meant everything to her.

@/formula1tea: Okay, but do we think her family even realizes what this means yet?? Or are they still stuck on the “Wait, she rides?” stage?

@/offtrackchaos: Imagine Charles thinking she just outgrew the horse phase, only to find out she’s been hiding it from them for years.

@/arthurisstressed: Arthur’s probably having a full-blown crisis over this. You just know he’s the type to blame himself.

@/MaranelloMess: Isabelle’s whole family right now: “Wait… are we the villains?”

↳@/tifosiprincess: Yes. Yes, you are.

@/undercutf1: Like imagine realizing your sister got back into her childhood passion, something that was taken from her, and you had no idea. No one knew. That’s insane.

@/arthurwasfoundshaking: Arthur realizing he got his dream back but she never did… oh, he’s spiraling.

@/paddocksecrets: Her whole family just realized in real time that they don’t actually know her anymore.

@/charlesnation16: Charles must be freaking out because, in his head, Isabelle never even mentioned wanting to ride again. But the reality is she probably knew they wouldn’t care, so she never said anything.

@/leclercsdaughter: Imagine looking at your sister’s post and realizing someone else—not you, not your family—gave her back the thing you all took away.

@/mclarendreaming: The fact that there was ZERO lead-up. No hints. No casual mentions. Just BAM, full horse.

@/paddockwhispers: At this point, someone needs to check on the Leclerc group chat. I know they are LOSING IT.

@/padlockpundit: Someone said this isn’t just a gift, it’s an apology on behalf of the universe, and honestly?? Yeah.

@/blisteringbarnacles: I can’t tell what’s funnier—Twitter solving this mystery in real-time or the fact that Isabelle is probably watching all of this unfold while sipping tea.

@/hamiltonshalo: Someone find out how much horses cost because I need to understand just how deep this gift goes.

@/GridTea: Sorry, but how do you have a sibling making millions in F1, and you’re out here working three jobs and shoveling horse stalls just to afford riding lessons?? I need someone to make it make sense.

@/F1DramaFiles: So Charles was making Ferrari money and Isabelle was out here grinding like a broke college student?? He couldn’t spare a little “my sister should live like a human being” fund???

@/OverworkedLeclerc: She was out here studying, working multiple jobs, AND still showing up to races when she could. Meanwhile, her whole family forgot her birthday. I would simply cut everyone off.

@/HorseGirlAnon: Do you know how EXPENSIVE equestrian sports are? And she worked her own way back into it with no support? That’s insane. She deserved so much better.

@/TifosiMess: Charles in every interview: “Family is everything.”Meanwhile Isabelle: was forgotten at every major milestone in her life.

@/F1Receipts: It’s also the fact that Isabelle has never once publicly complained about it. No bitter comments, no shade—she just put her head down and worked. Meanwhile, Charles was out here with a whole family support system hyping him up.

@/F1Overthinker: Not to be dramatic, but if I were Charles, Arthur, or Lorenzo, I would simply never recover from the public dragging happening right now.

@/F1TeaSpiller: 

Charles: “I’m so grateful to my family for supporting me.”

Isabelle: literally working at a horse stable just to be around them again.

@/JusticeForIsabelle: Nah, the fact that she was grinding through multiple jobs while Charles was out here buying sports cars, yachts, and luxury vacations is actually making me sick.

@/MonacoMess: Me reading Isabelle’s old interviews where she barely mentions herself and only hypes up her brothers, knowing now they weren’t doing the same for her: [GIF: "This is so much worse than I thought."]

***

Text Messages: Pascale Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Pascale: Ma chérie, please talk to me.

Pascale: I saw your post. The horse… she looks just like Blanche.

Pascale: I didn’t know you were still riding.

Pascale: I should have known.

Pascale: I should have asked.

Pascale: I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am.

Pascale: When we sold Blanche, I told myself you would be okay. That you were strong. That you would move on.

Pascale: But that was just me making excuses. I should have fought harder for you.

Pascale: And then when we had the chance to give you back what you lost… we didn’t even think to.

Pascale: Isabelle, please. Say something.

Pascale: Ma fille, I know I don’t deserve an answer right now.

Pascale: I love you. So, so much. ***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Charles Leclerc

Sebastian: Charles. Saw Belle’s post. Wanted to check in.

Charles: I’m fine.

Sebastian: You’re not. And that’s okay. But pretending doesn’t help.

Charles: It’s just— She has a horse, Seb. A whole horse. And she never told any of us.

Sebastian: Maybe you weren’t listening.

Charles: I WOULD HAVE REMEMBERED A HORSE.

Sebastian: Would you? You didn’t remember her birthday. You didn’t notice she moved out. You didn’t notice she left her job. What makes you think you would have noticed a horse?

Charles: It’s a HORSE, Seb! Not a haircut!

Sebastian: It’s not about the horse. It’s about what the horse represents. Freedom. Love. A piece of herself you never asked about. Or thought to give back.

Charles: It feels like she lied to us.

Sebastian: She didn’t lie. She protected herself. There’s a difference.

Charles: She didn’t even give us a chance to fix it.

Sebastian: Charles. You don't get to demand trust from someone you ignored. Trust is built. It’s not owed.

Charles: I just— I thought she was okay.

Sebastian: Because it was easier to think that than to ask.

Charles: She posted a horse, Seb. A HORSE. HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN HIDING A HORSE??

Sebastian: (typing) (long pause) Charles. Focus. It’s not about the horse.

Charles: IT’S A LITTLE ABOUT THE HORSE.

Sebastian: Focus.

Charles: I’m trying.

Sebastian: Try harder. She deserves better.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller: Okay, so if you’re confused about why Isabelle Leclerc’s new horse is causing a meltdown, buckle up, because this is some Shakespearean family drama.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Basically, years ago, when Charles was climbing the motorsport ranks, the Leclerc family didn’t have the money to support all three kids in racing. Arthur had to stop karting, and Isabelle—who was really into horseback riding—had her horse sold to fund Charles’ career.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Yes. You read that correctly. They sold her childhood horse to support Charles.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Now, obviously, funding a motorsport career is insanely expensive, and a lot of families make sacrifices. But imagine being a teenager, loving your horse, and then one day—boom. Gone.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: What makes it worse? Unlike Arthur, who eventually got the chance to restart his racing career, Isabelle never got that opportunity with riding. The family focused on Charles and never revisited her dreams.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Fast forward to now, and Isabelle just casually drops on Instagram that she owns a horse again—and it looks eerily similar to the one they sold.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Her brothers (Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo) all freaked out in the comments because they clearly had no idea she was even riding again, let alone that she had bought a horse.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  And this is where it gets messy. Because it means:

They never asked about her interests.

They had no clue she had started riding again.

They didn’t even know where she was living.

She never told them about any of this—which, like… speaks volumes.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  Anyway, people are connecting the dots and realizing Isabelle has probably been pulling away from her family for a while, and they just… didn’t notice.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because let’s be real—how do you forget your sister’s birthday, AND not know she got back into the thing she loved most as a kid??

↳@/F1TeaSpiller:  TL;DR: The Leclerc brothers are in big trouble right now.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Oh, and the final kicker? Isabelle agreed in the comments that the horse was a gift. The way Isabelle phrased her post—“some things will always come back to you”—makes it sound like this horse is directly connected to the one she lost. Apparently it was her childhood’s horse last foal. 

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: If that’s true? Then someone—who is not her family—went out of their way to find a descendant of her old horse and give her back a piece of what she lost.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: And I have questions.

↳@/F1TeaSpiller: Because if her own family didn’t do this… who did?

***

The restaurant buzzed with quiet conversation and clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off polished glasses. It should have been relaxing — a rare, normal night in Monaco, tucked into a corner booth with Alexandra, sipping wine and trying to pretend that everything wasn’t on fire.

It wasn’t working.

Charles could barely focus on anything she was saying. His mind kept looping back to Belle’s Instagram post.

A horse. A goddamn horse.

Captioned cryptically, like some kind of soft dagger straight into his already-shredded guilt.

He hadn’t even known she still rode. He hadn’t known she had a horse.

What else didn’t he know? What else had he missed while he was busy pretending everything was fine?

He stabbed his fork into his salad with unnecessary violence.

Alexandra reached across the table, covering his hand. “Eat. You’re spiraling.”

Charles muttered something about not being hungry, but then — movement over Alexandra’s shoulder caught his eye.

He straightened immediately.

Across the room, near the outdoor terrace, sat two very familiar figures.

Emilie Abadie. And Lando Norris?!

Together. Laughing.

Leaning in too close over a shared plate of something fried.

It didn’t look like a casual meeting.

It looked like a date.

Charles’s blood pressure spiked instantly.

Because if Emilie was here — and laughing — that meant Belle wasn’t spiraling alone somewhere. Or worse — she wasn’t telling Emilie to tell him anything.

He shot up from his seat before Alexandra could stop him.

"Charles," she hissed, trying to grab his sleeve. "Sit down!"

But he was already marching across the restaurant, half-blinded by panic, guilt, and the deep, bone-deep need to do something.

Emilie spotted him halfway across the room. Her smile dropped like a rock into the ocean.

"Emilie," he said, voice tight. "We need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie set her wineglass down with infuriating calm.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He couldn’t. The panic was a living thing inside him.

“She posted a horse,” he said, almost accusingly. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

For a second, Emilie just stared at him.

Then — like a blade sliding out of a sheath — her smile disappeared.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Charles actually leaned back a fraction. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles’s throat worked, but no sound came out.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you?" Emilie went on, soft and lethal. "Because you only want her when it's convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn't mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

“Emilie—”

"No," she cut across him, fierce and furious. "You don’t get to interrupt. You didn’t text her. You didn’t notice she moved. You didn’t notice she quit her job. You didn’t notice when she smiled through being forgotten on the day that should have been about her."

Charles flinched like she’d slapped him.

"You forgot her birthday," Emilie said, each word a scalpel slicing down to bone. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low, devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

Charles stared at her, feeling hollowed out, feeling cracked open.

"You didn't see her when she needed you," Emilie said. "And now you don't deserve to see her at all — not until she says you can."

Beside her, Lando sat perfectly still, wide-eyed — half in awe, half in something dangerously close to admiration.

Charles shook his head, trying to hold onto something, anything.

“I just want to make it right—”

"Then start by not making it about you," Emilie snapped. "Start by realizing that sometimes you don’t get to be the hero of the story you broke."

Charles felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

For a long moment, the restaurant spun around him — laughter, silverware, clinking glasses — but all he could hear was Emilie’s voice, merciless and true.

And he knew, in some terrible, undeniable way, that she was right.

He wasn’t the center of Belle’s story anymore.

He wasn’t even a footnote.

He had made himself a ghost in her life, and now he was furious that he couldn’t haunt it.

Emilie leaned back in her chair, perfectly calm now, like she hadn’t just torn him apart at the seams.

"Now," she said, reaching for her wine again, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe — if you’re lucky — figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

He turned away on shaking legs, retreating across the restaurant under the weight of his own failure.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Charles: Isabelle.

Charles: I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. I get it. I’m still going to say this anyway.

Charles: I was fifteen when they sold Blanche. I knew how much she meant to you. I knew how much it would break your heart.

Charles: And I still let it happen. I told myself it wasn’t my decision. That it was out of my hands. That it was for the greater good.

Charles: But that’s not the truth. The truth is, I was selfish. I was scared. I was so focused on keeping my own dream alive that I let them take yours away.

Charles: I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t even try.

Charles: I keep thinking about that day. The way you looked at them. At me. Like you finally understood that nothing you said was ever going to change it. And still, I stayed quiet. I just let it happen.

Charles: You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You just… disappeared inside yourself. And we all pretended it would get better on its own.

Charles: It didn’t.

Charles: When Arthur got his second chance years later, we celebrated. But we never once thought about giving you yours. We just assumed you had "moved on."

Charles: I see now how wrong that was. You didn’t move on. You just learned how to survive being left behind.

Charles: And then we forgot your birthday. You were standing right there. Wearing Ferrari red. Smiling at me. And I still didn’t see you.

Charles: I keep asking myself how many times we made you feel invisible without even realizing it.

Charles: I don’t blame you for shutting us out. I don’t blame you for walking away. You deserved better than what we gave you.

Charles: And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.

Charles: I don’t know how to fix this. Maybe I can’t.

Charles: But I want to try. If you’ll let me.

Charles: If you need space, I’ll give you space. If you need time, I’ll wait. If you never want to speak to me again, I’ll understand.

Charles: But if there’s any chance at all—any way to rebuild even a fraction of what we broke— I’ll do whatever it takes.

Charles: No excuses. No conditions. No timeline.

Charles: I’ll wait as long as you need. I’ll listen as long as it takes.

Charles: You mattered then. You matter now. You always have. Even when we were too blind to see it.

Charles: I love you. I’m so sorry I ever made you doubt that.

[corkinavoid]

Thank you, @aceinacorner, for this gem:

You are the inspiration for

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage [pt. 3]

[<- part 2 | part 4 ->]

Duke narrows his eyes.

He swears Tim was not in the Cave just five seconds ago, and yet, in the brief moment when Duke wasn't looking, he just materialized out of motherfucking aether. Smelling like Chinese food and holding a chicken skewer that looks so good that Duke's mouth waters.

"Can I have a piece?" He asks, the divine smell of food overriding the urge to ask 'where did you get it' or 'how did you get here'.

Tim nods, smiles, and hands Duke the whole skewer before going for the elevator.

Is it Duke's hallucination, or is he really humming something as he goes?.. Actually, that doesn't matter. The chicken tastes even better than it smells, and Duke is perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut in exchange for food.

You don't talk with your mouth full, after all.

~☆~

Cass watches Tim over the table. She hasn't heard him coming into the dinner room - no steps in the hall, no rustle of clothing or breathing. It's like the boy has somehow appeared right in front of the door out of nowhere before entering.

What's more, he seems obviously not hungry, picking at his food with an absent, if a bit dreamy, expression. Granted, Tim always picks at his food, but Cass can see the difference between 'Tim's mind is busy with a new case and therefore too distracted to eat' and 'Tim already had dinner elsewhere and is too full to eat now'.

The bags under his eyes are also not as dark as they usually are. Come to think of it, Cass hasn't seen him in a bad mood for a few weeks now, which shouldn't really be that strange, but it's Tim. The smallest of inconveniences can put him in a bad mood.

Tim notices her looking and raises an eyebrow.

Cass blinks and goes back to her plate. Whatever is keeping her brother happy, it deserves her full approval.

~☆~

Jason is... not so sure as to what is happening.

He did notice that Tim was really chill lately, but this is going a bit overboard.

"Did you spike it with arsenic, Replacement?" He asks, suspiciously looking the offered cup of coffee over without taking it. Tim - surprisingly, actually - doesn't react to the nickname in the slightest, instead giving Jason a deadpan look. Then, he brings the cup up to his mouth, takes a sip, and hands it back again.

Okay, well, that proves no arsenic, at least. It's still very weird. Tim doesn't just buy coffee for people, and he especially doesn't buy coffee for Jason.

"Am I going to owe you something for it, or what?" He asks, slowly reaching for the cup. Tim sighs.

"No. It's just a drink - my boyfriend loves it, and I think you'd like it as well," he explains with a shrug, and Jason is honestly too befuddled to ask about anything. Including the boyfriend part.

No, but since when does Timbers have a boyfriend? He sure hadn't mentioned anything about it to any of the others.

The drink turns out to be not coffee but something else, tangy and thick, and when Jason takes the lid off, it's green like Mountain Dew.

It does taste great, though, and later Jason considers asking Tim for another one. He hadn't had anything better in ages.

~☆~

Damian strikes through the last one of the training holograms, breathing heavily. And yet, just as the 'simulation complete' message pops up in the air, he hears a step behind him.

He turns around faster than a lightning, and-

Finds Timothy's neck at the tip of his katana, with his hands up in surrender.

"What are you doing here?" Damian sneers, lowering his weapon, and Tim swallows. Not because of surprise or fear, though, he clearly had some half chewed up food in his mouth.

"Inaccurate drop off," he says, looking Damian straight in the eyes, "I was aiming for the main floor."

He smells of Indian food and spices, and Damian almost sneezes.

"What do you mean 'aiming'?" He demands, but Drake just waves him off, heading towards the elevator up.

"No worries, I'll do better next time," he shoots a smile over his shoulder, "See you on patrol!" And with that, the elevator doors close after him, leaving Damian alone.

Drake has always been strange, but this is too much even for him.

Not that it's Damian's business. He huffs and starts the simulation over again.

~☆~

If Dick didn't witness it with his own two eyes, he would have never believed it. Alas, he did, and even though the swirling green vortex has already disappeared like it was never there, Tim, whom the strange portal just spat out on the floor of the Cave, is still here.

"What the fuck was that?" He nearly yells, and Tim looks up, a face of perfect innocence.

"What was what?" He returns the question, and Dick can't find the words to explain, so he just wildly gestures to the place where the portal has been less than five seconds ago. Tim blinks, "Oh, that. That was my date."

Dick chokes on his breath.

"Your date?" He parrots, hoarse and breathless, and Tim nods, like there's not a single thing wrong with anything that has just happened. "Since when do you go on dates? Wait, I thought you were engaged, you said it was cheating to date anyone else, even if you didn't know the spouse, you said-" he cuts himself off, feeling his own face slowly falling and his stomach sinking down in horror. "No. No, don't tell me."

But the shit-eating grin on Tim's face is already proof enough.

Dick clears his throat. Takes a deep breath.

Seeing that Tim is still in one piece, and, well, that he did just casually come out of a magic portal in the middle of the Cave, it's probably safe to say that it's not the first time.

And, judging by the mirth in Tim's grin, it's also safe to say he's been rather enjoying it.

Dick releases one long, loud breath and forces a smile on his face as well.

"So, how is it?" He asks, trying in vain to sound light-hearted, not suspicious. Tim's smile gets wider, and there's a glint of excitement in his eyes now, which Dick considers a good thing, all in all.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

~☆~

Bonus Scene (that somehow turned out longer than I planned)

~☆~

"Where's Tim?" Bruce asks when all the rest of his kids are already seated around the table for breakfast.

"At Danny's, probably," Steph shrugs before digging into the waffles on her plate. Bruce frowns.

"Danny's?" He asks. He hasn't heard that name before. Is that a friend of Tim's?

"Drake's paramour," Damian clarifies, not bothering to look up from his own food, and Bruce's mind comes to a screeching halt. He blinks stupidly, looking around the table and sincerely hoping it is some sort of a prank, but Cass smiles and nods, and Dick has an expression of pure exhaustion on his face, and Duke is huffing a snort of laughter at him for it.

"Since when-" Bruce starts, but he is suddenly cut off by a glowing circle that appears just a few feet away from them all.

It grows quickly, morphing into a vortex, a green and ominous tear in reality big enough for a person to walk through, hanging in the air a few inches over the ground. The space around it feels staticky somehow, and the color is too bright to look at directly, and it definitely doesn't belong to their dining room. But before Bruce is able to say another word or do anything at all, Tim steps out of it, his hair and clothes ruffled.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters upon seeing them all, and turns around, sticking his head into the vortex just as it starts to close. The vortex pauses.

Bruce is almost too stunned to move.

His kids don't share the sentiment, though, most of them not paying the portal any attention at all. Bruce would have reprimanded them for the poor awareness of their surroundings if he didn't notice how Damian simply glanced up at it before going back to his food.

They saw the portal. They just didn't deem it dangerous. For some reason.

Tim's face comes back out, and he turns to Bruce. His expression looks different than before: a bit smug, a little mischievous, and just a tad bit nervous.

Then, another head pops up through the surface of the portal. A boy - or at least they look like a boy - with snow white hair that floats in the air and bright, almost neon blue eyes. His skin is far too pale for him to be human, and- he has freckles that look like constellations.

For some reason, that's the part that makes Bruce finally resign to the fact that this is just how his life is. With breakfasts interrupted by green portals and otherworldly boyfriends - because who else might it be, really - before he even had his morning coffee.

"Hi!" Said otherworldly boyfriend grins and waves his hand. "I'm Danny, Tim's fiance," he introduces himself, and Bruce conjures the last scraps of his scattered mind to smile and nod back.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm Bruce." He has no idea what else to say; it seems like a bit late for shovel talk, but a bit early for welcoming speech.

"Would Young Master Danny care to join us for breakfast?" Alfred's calm, but still slightly amused voice comes from the door. Bruce turns to look at the butler with a sense of exasperation - is he really the last one to learn anything in this house? - but the man seems... well, not surprised, at least not on the surface. But his grip on the pitcher of orange juice is just a little too tense for him to have been in the know all along.

Danny turns to him and smiles nicely - his teeth are also way too sharp for a human - before shaking his head, "No, sorry, I was just dropping Tim off."

"For God's sake," Tim rolls his eyes, "Just put on some pants and come out, I refuse to suffer through this alone."

Dick chokes on his toast. Steph gasps, her eyes snapping between Tim and Danny in delight. Cass snorts and kicks her under the table. Damian groans.

"Spare me from the details of your personal life, Drake. Need I remind you that I am thirteen," he narrows his eyes.

The constellations on Danny's cheeks shine just a bit brighter, and Bruce has no idea what that is supposed to mean, but his guess is along the lines of embarrassment. Especially when the boy completes it with rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"You mean to tell me that, at thirteen years old, you don't know what sex is?" Tim deadpans, running a hand through his hair in a useless effort to smooth it and taking his seat at the table. Dick's coughing fit comes back with renewed force.

"We didn't-" Danny starts, still kind of hovering midway through the portal, but Damian pays him little attention.

"I do. Yet, I prefer my mind free of the knowledge when it applies to you."

"I want all the details, though," Steph pipes up, looking at Danny from her seat, "Can you, like, sprout tentacles or something, because I know for a fact Tim likes that kind of-"

"Steph!" Tim yells at her, face red, and then turns to Danny, who suddenly has a very interested, if a bit mischievous, look on his face, "Don't you dare."

"Yeah, okay," Danny snorts and disappears back in the portal. Bruce half-expects it to close after him, but the vortex stays.

Which probably means the boy - the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, Eyes of the Universe - is going to be right back.

After he puts on some pants, supposedly.

Bruce watches Tim rub his face in frustration while Steph giggles and elbows him in the side, and sighs. This is so not how he expected this morning to be.

[fromdove]

SMELLS LIKE YOU'VE BEEN COPING ! jason todd x reader

“I am so high right now,”

— jason coming home to you high, mention of being high & weed, gn reader (but written with fem reader in mind) jason smokes weed (this is so real to me)!! stoner todd

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

You smelled him before you saw him.

Smoke — bitter, herbal, laced with something earthy and sharp. Weed. The expensive kind he only used when he was actually physically hurting. It clung to him like it had crawled into every thread of his hoodie and kissed his skin on the way out.

The door clicked shut softly behind him, and he stepped inside like he wasn’t two hours later than he said he’d be. like he owned the place. Eyes heavy-lidded. Movements slow, deliberate, like he’d edited the speed of real life down to 75%.

Hood up. Hands in his pockets. Lazy in that way only he could be — like the world didn’t get to tell him how to carry his pain.

“Hey, baby,” he drawled, voice rough and low. “Miss me?”

Your arms crossed automatically. “You're high.”

Jason looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and half-lidded, the corner of his mouth tugged up like he was already amused.

“I’m walking, talking, and not bleeding out. I call that a win.”

You didn’t smile. “You said you weren’t going to.”

“I said I’d try not to. Then my ribs started screaming halfway through patrol, and weed doesn’t come with a side of addiction or a lecture from Alfred.”

You just stare.

He held up both hands. “My ribs hurt like hell. What do you want me to do, take a bubble bath and wish on a star?”

“I want you to stop setting your lungs on fire. I don't want your lungs looking like Gotham’s sewer system”

He raised an eyebrow and walked over, slow and unbothered. Everything about him moved on a delay when he was like this. That smug tilt to his mouth, that slouch in his shoulders — he was feeling himself tonight, high and warm and a little bullet sore.

He dropped down beside you, stretching his long legs out and throwing one arm lazily over the back of the couch.

“You worried about me, angel?”

“You reek like a dispensary. A cheap one.”

“Hey,” he said, mock-offended. “This was premium pain relief. Organic. Grown with love. Hand-rolled by yours truly. I’m basically a sommelier at this point.”

You leaned away slightly, nose wrinkled. "you reek."

He grinned, leaned down until his nose brushed your cheek. “Missed you too, angel.”

You pushed his chest. “Don’t act cute. You didn’t text. I thought something happened.”

Jason’s smile faltered. Not all the way — just enough to show the crack behind the grin. He leaned back and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he said, softer now. “I know. I’m sorry. Should’ve called.”

You looked at him — really looked. His jaw was tight. His hoodie was clean but wrinkled, like he’d put it on after changing out of something soaked in sweat or blood. His eyes had that gloss to them, but not in the way that made you worry. Just… dulled.

“I don’t get high to disappear,” he muttered. “I just… I hurt. It helps. Doesn’t mean I don’t hear your voice in my head about it.”

“Oh yeah?” You moved closer beside him, tucking your legs under you. “What’s my voice say?”

Jason smiled again — slower, this time. Almost real. “Says, ‘Jason Peter Todd, if you ruin your lungs I’m not pushing your wheelchair when you’re forty.’”

You snorted despite yourself. “Damn right.”

He reached over lazily, arm slung across your shoulders.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. His fingers played absently with the hem of your sleeve. His breathing slowed, deepened. He always got a little clingy when he smoked — mellow, touchy, like the armor cracked just enough for the softness underneath to breathe.

“C’mere,” he said, tugging you closer anyway. “Lemme love you while I still can feel my legs.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t resist. You moved even closer. He was warm. Always warm, even when he was being a pain in the ass. You pressed a kiss just beneath his eye.

“Come to bed,” you whispered. “You can hold me till it wears off.”

He sighed against your hair.

“I’d hold you even if it didn’t.”

[notanactressyayy]

·˚ ₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 | natasha romanoff

. ݁₊ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 . it was a new era of her life. she no longer had missions or a team to rely on — only endless free time, and a bunch of thoughts that weren't really helpful. Natasha for once, had time to pick up her phone — something trivial. through the dating app Tony had dared her to install months ago, she meets somebody. finally, her heart was at peace.

. ݁₊ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 . smut! i am not responsible for your content consumption! — a TW for the photo editing thing. this may be a sensitive topic for some. lonely Nat, insecure Nat — she edits a picture of her body, swearing, oral (N receiving). lots of fluffy stuff, too. set after Civil War.

. ݁₊ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 . english is not my first language (🇧🇷) so i apologize for any spelling errors. this ended up SO MUCH longer than i initially planned. i put a lot of dedication into this so, yeah 🥹

thanks to my lovely @sunswish who helped me with the plot and the proofreading! ♡

The trailer was quiet, except for the faint rustle of the wind through the trees outside. Natasha sat at the small wooden table by the window, her knees pulled up to her chest, a steaming mug of tea resting untouched beside her. The Norwegian countryside was beautiful, vast and unassuming, but the stillness pressed down on her.

Her phone laid on the table, the screen dark. She stared at it for a moment, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing her face. She’d never been good at this — being still, alone with her thoughts. For years, her life had been one constant motion: missions, battles, briefings, always moving forward because stopping meant thinking, having time to ponder about her life.

Her jaw tightened, and she looked out the window instead. What was she even doing?

She’d fought tooth and nail to become an Avenger, to carve out some sliver of redemption for herself, some sense of belonging in a world she’d spent so long working against. She’d believed in their cause, in their family, even when it meant trusting people with pieces of herself she hadn’t known she was capable of sharing.

And now? The Avengers were gone. Torn apart, like everything else she’d tried to build. She was a fugitive, hunted by the very government she’d once fought to protect. Her friends — her family — were scattered, some in hiding, some in prison. She was left with nothing but her name and a handful of private contractors who worked in the shadows. People she barely trusted, people who barely trusted her. Yet she still needed them for supplies, false documents, and a roof above her head. Funny, she thought.

She reached for her mug, her fingers curling around the warmth of the ceramic, though she didn’t take a sip. She had no mission now, no team to fall back on. No one to call when the silence became too much. She wasn’t sure if she missed the fights or the people more.

A faint vibration against the table snapped her from her thoughts. Her phone. She glanced down, the screen lighting up with a notification — some random email, one of these ‘no reply’ ones, nothing important. She hesitated, then picked it up anyway, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Scrolling through her phone felt… strange. Almost trivial. She opened Instagram, an app she barely used but kept around for the rare moments she wanted to feel tethered to something normal. The feed was full of snapshots of a life she didn’t recognize—vacations, dinners, smiling faces, people celebrating milestones she wouldn't ever have.

And right then, the name ‘Avengers’ didn’t make sense for her anymore. She was supposed to have this. This life where she would have a fun moment and think ‘oh, yes! i should absolutely shoot a pic and add to my stories’. After all, Natasha was just an unavenged girl, woman, human. A picture of a mother celebrating her daughter's birthday wasn't just one more picture showing on her feed. It was her dream.

She scrolled absently, her mind only half-engaged as her thumb flicked upward. Part of her wanted to throw the phone across the room and forget she’d ever picked it up. But another part—the quieter, lonelier part—held onto it like a lifeline.

She then receives another automatic notification. How has your love life been going? It took her a moment to remember what it was, and when she did, she let out a dry, humorless laugh.

The dating app.

She’d installed it months ago as a joke, because Tony had bet her she wouldn’t. She could still hear his voice in her head, teasing her. “Come on, Nat. You might actually meet someone who doesn’t want to kill you for once.” At the time, it was funny. She’d downloaded it, filled out the bare minimum of the profile, like: cat lover, captivating green eyes & martial arts enjoyer and promptly forgotten about it.

Her finger hovered over the icon now, her heart giving a strange, uncomfortable twirl in her chest. The idea of opening it felt absurd. What would she even say to someone? What would they see in her, beyond the scars and the lies and the mess she’d made of her life? That was made of her life? Could she even try and have a relationship? When throughout her life, she didn’t ever have a conversation about feelings? Clint was the closest attempt to that — he knew her past, more than the others, at least. So she spoke to him about things like that before. But he had a wife, kids, a home.

Natasha damned her heart every single day — for wanting a connection with somebody — for wanting to be somebody's, and for not being content with what she already has.

What does she even have?

She sighs deeply as she gathers a little bit of courage (that usually wasn't necessary when one was to open a simple app in their phone) and presses her thumb against the icon. Her eyebrows show a little frown as she realizes the app wasn’t open — she had held the icon for too long, making the options add to home and uninstall pop up on her screen.

“Goddammit,” she mutters to herself. Maybe she had done it on purpose. She considers choosing the second option. But her thumb, once again, hovers over the uninstall word for too long.

She was just confused. In conflict, with something so small. Although, she was braver than that.

“Let's just get over with this.” She mutters to herself as she finally opens the app — SparkMatch, she reads the name, for the first time. She lets out a scoff. Though the feeling of unease didn't take long before coming back to her. The about me section was completely empty, in exception for-

“Captivating green eyes. Cat lover.” she reads the words she had typed, aloud, cursing herself. It was what she had written in order to simply make the Iron Man laugh and leave her alone. “Great job, Romanoff. Truly irresistible.”

Scrolling down her profile, which was named only @Natasha1203— having in mind that her surname wasn't one to be openly shared — she finds the photos she had chosen, months ago, without really thinking much. Her gallery didn't have much cheering stuff. They were as nondescript as possible: a picture of a skyline she had taken while on the run. Her in sunglasses, her most common accessory. And.. a single closeup of her face, that felt too honest for comfort. She doesn’t know why she left that one there, for the world to stare at. Maybe it was the one moment where she caught herself looking like.. well, herself. If somebody squinted their eyes, they could see a small scar on her shoulder. She hoped people wouldn’t do that.

Summing up: the profile was a mess. And that was a perfect reflection of the person behind it. She doesn't make a move to edit any information — before remembering an important detail. It would be nice to change her profile's name, in case anybody (especially Tony, that was aware of this) tried to look for her.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203 was the new username.

Perfect. She does a little ‘tsk’ with her tongue, a little habit she developed when finishing a task.

Flirting was easy. She had been trained for it — trained in the art of seduction, molded into a woman that could slip into any persona, say the right words, touch in the right way, just to get what she needed. But this wasn't one of the spy programs she had access to in SHIELD. This wasn't about manipulation or information extracting. This was trivial. Normal.

Natasha browses through the app for a while. She stops in profiles of strangers that smiled back at her through their pictures — men, women, who were teachers, doctors, engineers. People with families and hobbies. Who had the chance to live a life without looking over their shoulders every second. Yet something about this.. gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was faint, but it was there. Knowing all these little details about random folks, she could find small pieces of herself in each one: some did ballet when they were little. Some had a scar due a kitchen accident. Some did karate simply for liking the sport. Some liked peanut butter sandwiches. She quietly giggles, her previous nervousness replaced by a silly feeling.

Maybe it wasn't that bad. It is not like a random person was gonna crawl out of her phone screen and have a date right then, anyway. And there was another ‘problem’. This app was still american, while she was in a whole new timezone.

What a relief.

She shifts on the small couch of her trailer, now laying down on it, allowing herself to get entertained with SparkMatch. She even found some profiles that were probably deactivated by now, seeing that they were created, like, a decade ago. She purposefully clicked on the small heart on them, meaning Match. She softly laughs.

But the sound is interrupted by herself as she finds a specific user.

It was a minimalist profile — elegant, even. It didn't say much about the person's personality: it said enough. It wasn't extravagant or absurd like some she had found. And it certainly wasn't a mess, like hers.

Y/n. 34. Not good at small talk, but I'm a good listener. A photographer, currently traveling around. Just someone who thinks the world is too big of a place to stay idle for too long. Currently: Norway

It was truly something else, compared to the live, laugh, love bios or the gym rats flashing their abs.

Her curiosity picks up, and soon enough, she sees a picture of them in Oslo.

And it was posted just three days ago.

So they were active in this app. But this wasn't what her mind grasped. Traveling in Norway. International trips usually didn’t last just three days, right? So that meant they were still there. There with her.

Out of all countries in the world, they were there?

She reads the bio again. Currently: Norway.

A strange shiver runs down her spine the more she thinks about the situation she found herself into. She bites on her lip, her stomach twirling almost painfully, like a school girl texting her crush. She was the Black Widow, for God's sake. She didn't get to go on silly dates and receive flowers.

No. This was too much. Without closing the app, she locks the screen of her phone again and drops it to the couch, quickly standing up and running her fingers through her hair. There were many reasons why this wouldn't work, especially when she was a fugitive and could get recognized, even in a small cafe.

Heading to the tiny kitchen, she opens a drawer on the countertop and grabs a bottle opener, opening the fridge and taking a beer out. She removes the cap and downs the bottle with no second thought, the bitter liquid ripping down her throat. Deeply breathing, shakily. Amidst the vast emptiness, not only of the place she was currently settled, but of her heart too, she fought back tears. The glass of the bottle clicks against the marble countertop as she places it down, her hands tightly gripping onto the edge of the furniture, holding herself up. It was a hard decision to make, whether to take this opportunity and keep it safe in her heart, or to let it go and pretend it never happened in the first place.

But she wouldn't be able to rest tonight knowing she simply did nothing about that special person the app charitably put into her hands. So, on this night, the unshatterable Natasha Romanoff did something she never thought she would. Before heading to bed, she picked up her phone again. Gladly, she didn't have to look for the profile once more. She simply had to press onto the small heart next to their picture. And she did.

The screen flashed: It's a match!

Natasha blinked in surprise, almost dumbfounded by this message. But this was meant to happen, right? Now, she could only hope that she would receive something in return by the morning.

It felt.. good. She had something to expect, a little flicker of hope that followed her even in her dreams, that made her feel better than she could ever imagine.

And this was just the start.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When the next day came, all of Natasha’s thoughts regarding the whirlwind of recent events were replaced by a single thing: that person. That New Yorker who was currently in Norway to take photos for a personal album. She initially wondered if she could really lower her guard like this and not think too much about Secretary Ross — who was still after her — but it was not like she would leave this trailer anytime soon. Thus, she needed a distraction, something to keep her brain entertained until this whole mess was over.

Talking to them was a relief — a solace she had been needing and didn't even know until now.

Talking to you.

Right away you had seen the match notification of SparkMatch, even if it was already one in the morning when it arrived. You sent this woman- Fanny? a message, and waited, but no response came until the next day. You wondered if she had impulsively pressed the match button and ran away from her phone out of nervousness. You actually imagined it, seeing the one picture of herself she published on her feed. Her profile was.. vague, to say at least, but she was incredibly beautiful, and indeed had captivating green eyes, like she boldly described herself. It made you smirk to your phone’s screen. No, genuinely smile.

It was pretty much clear that she wasn't a dating app person. And neither were you! You just had a better sense of organization than her, that's for sure. What if you two could really be a match?

As the day went on, you two engaged into a conversation that was surprisingly enjoyable for both sides. Opening the inbox chat, that could be found:

@Y/n: Good night. Is your real name Fanny Longbottom?

— eight hours later —

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Good morning! The first thing you ask a woman is if her name is real?

@Y/n: It just doesn't suit a beautiful redhead with captivating green eyes.

Natasha groaned to herself at this, laughing. The humor in the text was evident, and she loved that.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Right. It was a joke. You can call me.. Nat.

It was a glimpse of her name. It could be Natasha, Natalia, Natalie.. or all of these.

@Y/n: Nat.. that is better. Yet still very vague. Like your whole profile.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Perhaps my whole account here is a joke.

@Y/n: And we still matched. And sincerely, I'm intrigued. Intrigued and curious.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a dangerous thing to tell someone you just met.

@Y/n: Personally, I wouldn’t call a cat lover dangerous.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Will you stop mocking me for my irresistible biography or what?

It was an easy playful banter. It felt light. Not like these conversations where you had to directly ask the other person to be nice to you.

@Y/n: You just don’t strike me as someone who spends much time on dating apps. What brings you here?

With that, she debated whether to mention Tony’s dare or not. She could talk about it, but not for now. If she’s sincere, about how much she needed not to be alone anymore, this could lead to something good, more profound.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: I’m just trying something new. What about you? Norway seems kinda away from the rest of the world.

@Y/n: It is. But sometimes you have to go far to find what you’re looking for.

Natasha leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t know who you were, or why your words seemed to settle something in her chest, but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, she felt.. excited.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Have you found it?

@Y/n: Not yet. But I have a feeling I might be in the right place.

She stared at the message, her mind turning over the possibilities. She was already glad that this hadn’t started with “hey, you’re cute” or “what’s up?”, and now? It felt like she was in a dream — to find someone that shared her ideals, or that at least, thankfully, sounded like a mature adult.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Maybe Norway isn’t so bad after all.

@Y/n: So you’re also here!

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That seems like an excited message to me.

Gladly, her phone’s camera wasn’t capturing anything. Because she swore her eyes were sparkling right now.

@Y/n: Of course I’m excited, Nat. Now I have something else to think about other than shooting pictures.

Natasha stared at the reply, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of her phone. There was something disarming about your words — direct, yet not forceful. And the way you used her name so casually made her blush.

She hesitated, before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: What do you shoot? Other than clever replies, apparently.

@Y/n: Street photography. Portraits, mostly. But I’ve been known to dabble in the occasional cat picture. You know, for balance.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Balance is important. What would the world do with no cat pictures?

@Y/n: I shudder to imagine it. Speaking of balance.. would you let me buy you coffee sometime? Or would that be too much?

Her breath caught. You really didn’t waste time, did you? she thought. For a moment, her walls threatened to go up again — she could almost hear that little voice in the back of her mind telling her that this was not a good idea, that it wasn’t smart, safe.

But she silenced it. It was too soon, for sure — but she couldn’t knock it till she tried it.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That depends. Are you going back to New York in the next few days?

@Y/n: I don’t have a specific date to go back. So I guess it depends on how things go.

Yeah. Now she felt a little pressured. It was a dilemma, she could be the reason you stayed or left. Adrenaline coursed through her veins — that was determination.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: It’s not like I am going anywhere anytime soon, either. But.. I like to play hard to get sometimes. How about we wait and see how things go?

@Y/n: Hard to get, huh? Well, patience is a virtue. Let me know when you feel like stopping the chase.

And you two went on like that — talking about your favorite portraits, sending her some — receiving her compliments, which sounded way too genuine for your liking. It was casual, like talking to a friend. Natasha didn't take long to start feeling comfortable with texting you. If she weren't a spy without a private number, she would've asked for your WhatsApp. Or maybe she was just exaggerating. The thing was: she didn't have to wonder about how to answer you. Your way of having conversations was so nice that she didn't feel forced to text back.

And with these new discoveries, Natasha felt like she could be in this new country without feeling too out of place. She feared that in the end this would be just one momentary experience, one of the many personas she played.

But shockingly, for once, she didn’t feel like paying attention to her overthinking.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

Weeks had passed, and the nightly silence Natasha once dreaded was now filled with something else. Her phone screen, once cold and impersonal, had become an opening to something warmer. A new phase of her life. She never thought she would be so close to a mobile device before. Supersecret agents couldn’t have personal ones other than burner phones, it was risky — they could get hacked, tracked, recognized. She didn’t have a number, or an email with her name, bank accounts, or any sort of thing that could link her to the authorities. She only had TikTok, Instagram, some games like Candy Crush Saga and her newest best friend, SparkMatch.

Everyday, without fail, your conversations flowed effortlessly. You spoke about everything: Norway’s quiet beauty, silly anecdotes, and even the mundane things that somehow became meaningful when shared. She made herself get used to the habit of not thinking much. This wasn’t part of the plan — or rather, there was no plan. This constant connection grounded her in a way she didn’t fully understand.

Having someone willingly care about her, without having to ask, beg for it — she couldn’t understand.

This evening, after eating her exquisite caviar and drinking champagne, she settled onto her couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her phone buzzed, and her mind involuntarily anticipated your witty reply, or question about her day.

Instead, a picture greeted her.

It wasn’t posed or staged — just you. mid-laugh, with a goofy expression that instantly betrayed your attempt to be serious. Your hair was a bit disheveled, and the lighting was off, but the image carried a kind of authenticity Natasha couldn’t let pass. The caption reads:

@Y/n: I don’t usually do selfies, but I figured you deserved to see what you’ve been stuck talking to all this time.

It was caring. You thought about her often enough to send a picture of yourself, doing absolutely nothing important.

Natasha softly blinked at the picture, completely still as her brain worked to process what she was looking at. It wasn’t just a picture. There was trust behind it, a hidden message. She couldn’t tell where you were getting at with this action — actually, she could. She just tried to convince herself of the contrary, afraid of putting her hopes up and screwing up afterwards.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Hi. I wasn’t expecting that.

@Y/n: Hi! How are you right now?

She bites her lip, incredulously chuckling. She was almost certain that this question was supposed to come before the picture.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Better.

She was feeling better, but not just that — she was feeling.. something. Something like.. seen. Like she was remembered by someone, like she existed, for once.

And those feelings stirred something even deeper within her.

The connection was becoming deeper — it was just now that she realized that the flirting which occurred every now and then wasn’t meaningless. It had a deep impact on her, in her soul — as a friend, as a person, and mostly.. as a woman. She needed it. She needed someone to like her, to pay attention to her, to see her — intimately, closely. Even better when this someone wasn’t a superficial person, and actually one who she related to and felt like she could share this dormant part of herself.

So she decides to share a picture, too.

She sits upright on the couch, the blanket falling and pooling around her hips as she opens the camera. She switches from the back camera to the frontal one, and takes a selfie. She was wearing a simple grey tank top, so her shoulders, collarbone and neck were on display. She wasn’t smiling smiling, just briefly, just enough to make a friendly expression. It was soft, tender. Unlike the deadly Black Widow.

Thankfully, for you, she didn’t have to be that.

So she presses send, laying back again and staring at the screen in anticipation — her eyes closely watching as the send mark changed into seen, that then turned into open. It stayed like that for a long while — like you were examining the picture and weren’t ashamed of it.

It gave her goosebumps.

The typing bubble appeared again after what felt like an eternity.

@Y/n: You’re beautiful, Nat.

It was a compliment you had already used on her. But this situation? Oh, it felt so, so different. You were talking about the simplicity, the domesticity of her in this closeup, the softness.

Fueling the fire that started to burn within her on this specific day.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Just a selfie.. don't get carried away. I'm hardly camera ready.

@Y/n: It's more than a selfie for me. It made my day. If that's not camera ready, I wonder how it'll be like when you try.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Would you like to see?

Oops. She didn't think before sending this one.

@Y/n: Hell, yes.

Her mind was immersed, totally consumed by the attention you were giving her — no jokes, no hints, just shameless flirting. Standing from the couch, she walks to her small bedroom, which was already dark, gladly — she closes her door, and slumps on her bed. Seduction was her nature, she couldn't control it. Though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing right now. Reaching her hand out, she turned on her yellow dim lamp, a gentle, warm glow casting her skin, making a better environment for the incoming picture.

She reopened the camera and adjusted herself in a comfortable position — knees pulled up, her left hand resting above her stomach as she held her phone with her right one above herself — taking the photo. There was auburn red hair all over the pillows, some strands framing her face perfectly. There was skin showing — a bit of her thighs, her arms, waist.. the curves of her body leaving room for imagination.

And something that she forgot about for the longest time.

The bullet scar above her left hip.

She stared at the photo on her screen, finger hovering over the "Send" button instinctively. The lighting was perfect, the pose effortless yet captivating. Her expression was soft, relaxed — but her pupils were darkened, a hint of the sinful emotions coursing through her body. But her eyes fell to the scar.

It was unavoidable, cutting through the smooth expanse of her pale skin like a brutal reminder. The bullet scar left by the Winter Soldier, a relic of her past life, stood out glaringly in the image. Her jaw clenched as a familiar wave of self-consciousness surged through her, a feeling she thought she had buried already.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the headboard as her thumb swiped to open the editing tools. It took her less than a minute to brush the scar away, leaving her skin unmarked, untouched. Natasha tilted her head, scrutinizing the result. The photo looked… perfect. Too perfect, perhaps, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that.

With a deep breath, she pressed send.

Unlike your other conversations, she felt.. heavy. Like the instinct of having to show her perfect body in order to be liked was speaking louder than her rational side.

The message was delivered almost immediately, but the seconds felt drawn out, agonizingly long. When the "seen" indicator appeared, her heart raced. She bit the inside of her cheek, anticipating your response.

The reply came swiftly:

@Y/n: Wow. I’m speechless.

She smirked (bittersweetly), her thumb hesitating for only a moment before typing back.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: That’s a first. Usually, you always have something to say.

The typing bubble reappeared, and she waited, her heart thudding in her chest.

@Y/n: You make it hard to think, Nat.

Natasha felt warmth flood her cheeks, her fingers trembling slightly as she typed.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Don’t let it go to your head.

@Y/n: I think it's too late for that.

For a moment, she wondered what you would have said if you’d seen the unedited version. Would you have found it ugly? Would you have pitied her? Or would you have admired her for wearing it like the badge of survival it was?

In her dreams, you would have worshiped it.

Before she could send anything else, you decided to take a shot on meeting her in person once again.

@Y/n: I'm sorry, I'll have to suggest. How about this: I'll find the best café within a 10-mile radius, and you can tell me if my photography is as good as my coffee recommendations.

Time passed, and the accusations against Natasha had toned down a bit. Maybe, just maybe, if she's careful enough, she can do this. The first date she'd have in what, a decade?

It was refreshing. And scary. But overall refreshing.

@Fanny_Longbottom1203: Deal. But I will be the judge in both.

The day and place was decided — it would be in Oslo, downtown — a café, where tons of people would be present. Natasha, growing up, became a master in blending in.

If fate decided to be on her side, this would be one of the best days of her life.

She tossed her phone onto the pillow beside her and laid back, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers brushed the scar again, tracing its jagged edges as if trying to understand its place in this new chapter of her life.

“Not everyone gets to see this side of me,” she murmured to herself.

And for the first time, she wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a promise.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

The café buzzed with the warmth of chatter, the soft clinking of ceramic mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter. It was tucked into a quiet corner of downtown Oslo, a place where the world felt comfortably distant yet close enough for her to disappear if necessary. Hours before, Natasha had dressed herself up — a burgundy dress, black tights, her usual black boots — and her jacket, of course. Her hair was naturally wavy, falling down her shoulders and back — and the makeup was simple. She wasn't a woman for makeup. But this time, she wore red lipstick and the faintest glitter eyeshadow.

She felt like a doll. It was stupid, a thing she liked to imagine how it would feel like back then — in the Red Room, where the girls wore black uniforms — grey sometimes, but always robotic, always calculated. It was a comforting feeling, which made her want to go back in time and tell little Natalia: yes! we are older now, and we are all dolled up for the date of our dreams.

Natasha arrived early — of course she did. She always did. She chose a seat by the window, her back to the wall, a vantage point where she could see everyone coming and going. Her heart wasn’t racing, but there was a slight tension in her chest. She sipped her coffee slowly, the warm bitterness grounding her as she kept an eye on the door. Then, you walked in.

Her doubting thoughts flew away the moment the green eyes landed on you.

She recognized you instantly. Your smile was smaller in person but somewhat warmer, more genuine. You scanned the room briefly before your eyes landed on her, and for a moment, Natasha thought she saw your breath catch. She softly smirks, gaze involuntarily daring.

Come and get me. This? Is all for you.

She shaked that thought away as she watched you approach her table — your clothes, your style, your body language — she scanned it all. The Black Widow wasn't an easy woman to conquer, which made her dump most of the people that tried to hit on her in the past. You were a rare exception, someone who didn't even have to try to make her heart race. It happened in it’s own.

“You made it,” Natasha said, standing to greet you, to give you a quick hug — the subtle press of your body against hers making her skin tingle. Damn it. She adjusted her dress before sitting back down. You did the same, sitting in front of her.

“Of course I did. This date was all I could think about,” you reply, eyes drinking her in, like she was the prettiest woman to exist. She truly was. “No. Let me rephrase. Seeing you was all I could think about.”

Natasha lets out a soft laugh, shifting her gaze towards the floor. She was so pale that the fact that she was blushing was, unfortunately, evident.

“Feels good to finally hear your voice,” she says, resting her chin on her hand as she stares at you. “In person. Not in audio messages or calls.”

After ordering pastries and more coffee for the both of you, the conversation flowed easily, from the usual mundane topics to little jokes that made Natasha chuckle softly. She found herself studying you more and more, the way you gestured when you spoke, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed.

Eventually, the question came.

“So, what’s it like?” you asked, your voice gentle but curious. “Being an Avenger?”

Natasha paused, her fingers brushing the edge of her coffee cup. She had expected this, of course. She knew it would come up. She couldn't simply hide, not when her face had shown up on TV so many times. But if necessary, she would say that this wasn't what she wanted to be anymore. Not with you. She simply wanted to be herself around you, and not the superhero.

She wasn't Natasha who assaulted T'challa. Wasn’t the Sokovia Accords breaker. She hoped you knew by now.

“It’s… complicated,” she said after a moment, her tone measured. “Not as glamorous as it looks on TV, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

You smiled. “I’m sure. But it’s still something, isn’t it? Saving the world, fighting alongside legends.”

A faint, nostalgic smile tugged at her lips. “It was something, yeah. But it wasn’t always about saving the world.” Her gaze softened as she thought back. “There was this time when Tony installed this AI in the kitchen — Friday’s cousin or something — to help us cook. It ended up burning everything it touched. Clint started calling it ‘Flamebot,’ and Steve…” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Steve tried to fix it, of course. Said it was ‘worth saving.’”

You laughed, and Natasha found herself smiling more openly. She was rambling.

“And Thor,” she continued, “he once mistook a microwave for some kind of… magical contraption. He tried to ‘summon its power’ with Mjolnir.”

“Did it work?” you teased.

Natasha smirked. “No, but we had to get a new microwave.”

The nostalgia warmed her, but it also left her feeling melancholic. She missed them. Not the missions or the battles, but the team — the messy, dysfunctional family they had become. You seemed to notice the shift in her mood and didn’t push further. Instead, you leaned in slightly, your voice soft.

“I can tell you miss them,” you said.

Natasha nodded, her walls lowering just a fraction. “Yeah. I do.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, realizing she needed some cheering up. This was supposed to be a happy day, not one to bring up sad memories. So you opened your bag, pulling out of it your camera — which made Natasha's eyes brighten up.

“You brought it!” she exclaims. “I almost forgot that you're a photographer,”

“I thought of the possibility of having to register this moment. And I was absolutely right. You look.. beautiful isn't enough to describe it,” you deeply sigh, as if surrendering to her, to this feeling of being completely in love. “Can I please take a picture of you?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “A picture of me?” she asked, her tone teasing. “You know that’s dangerous, right? What if you decide to sell it to the tabloids?”

You laughed softly, looking at her like a lovesick puppy, shaking your head. “I’m not interested in fame, Nat. Just in you.”

That made her pause, her smirk faltering for just a second. It wasn’t often she heard something so direct, so sincere. She tilted her head, studying you with those piercing green eyes, as if trying to gauge if you meant it.

“Alright,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair. “But only if it’s a good angle. No pressure.”

You grinned, lifting the camera and adjusting the settings with practiced ease. “No such thing as a bad angle with you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, but the blush dusting her cheeks just got worse. She straightened up, her posture relaxed yet commanding, exuding that natural grace and power.

“Like this?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her voice.

You brought your chair closer, lowering the camera for a moment. “No. Don’t pose,” you said quietly. “Just be yourself.”

That caught her off guard. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do with herself for once.

“Be myself, huh?” she murmured.

You nodded, lifting the camera again. “Exactly. I don’t need the Black Widow. I want Nat.”

Her lips parted slightly at your words, and for a fleeting moment, the mask she wore every day seemed to slip. Her shoulders relaxed, her head tilted to the side, and a genuine, very shy smile spread across her face. “I-”

Before she could protest, the shutter clicked, capturing her in that rare, unguarded moment. “Perfect,” you murmured, lowering the camera and meeting her gaze.

Natasha shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the good kind,” you replied with a grin, setting the camera down.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand again as she studied you. “So, do I get to see it? Or are you keeping me in suspense?”

You turned the camera around, showing her the photo on the screen. Her expression softened as she took it in — the warmth in her eyes, the slight tilt of her head, the way the light framed her face, her rosy cheeks. It wasn’t just a picture. It was a glimpse of who she really was, beyond the layers of secrecy and survival. It was simply her, away from espionage, having coffee with her date.

Her unforgettable trip to Norway.

“It’s… good,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant.

“Good?” you ask. “It’s stunning. Just like my model.”

Oh, that…

The way you emphasized the word ‘my’.. the way you were making her feel.. actually precious. She was trapped.

“Alright,” she said, sitting back. “You’ve had your fun. Now tell me, do I at least get a copy?”

You laughed, nodding. “Of course. But only if you promise to go easy on me when I take more later.”

She smirks, her confidence returning. “We’ll see about that.”

As the evening wore, the sky showed a beautiful indigo, stars twinkling just like the sparkles in both of your sets of eyes. Natasha allowed herself to relax. To bask in this kind of normalcy that she never had the chance to experience. She had seen a lot, lived a lot. She knew what people could do in response to fear. She saw war and hatred, she saw coldness and cruelty. But from now on, she could live in a lighter way — like her heart was finally at peace.

“Should we get going?” you asked as the people also started to leave, standing and offering her a hand.

Natasha hesitated for half a second before taking it. Your touch was warm, steady, grounding, and promising. As you stepped outside, the cool air of Oslo wrapped around you. The city lights flickered like stars. Natasha felt a strange sense of calm. When she felt your arm enveloping her shoulders, her breath hitched, but she didn’t let it show — leaning into you gently.

“Where to now?” she asked, glancing at you.

“Well, the hotel, if you’re up for it,” you replied, your tone playful but not pushing.

That playfulness was a disguise for more surprises that awaited her back into the hotel room you were hosted in.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

When you unlocked the door to the hotel you're staying in, Natasha followed you inside, her steps hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The space was warm and inviting, even if it wasn't a fixed place — especially after knowing you for a good while now — tons of polaroids laying across the bed, portraits, some funko pops that you bought recently. But what caught her attention almost immediately was the bouquet of flowers resting on the counter, tied together with a simple ribbon.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she turned to you, her lips parting in surprise. She didn't even have time to look around the place. “What’s this?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and vulnerability.

You stepped past her, picking up the bouquet and holding it out to her with a smile. “These are for you,” you said.

Natasha blinked, momentarily stunned. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took the bouquet, her touch delicate, as though the flowers were something precious. She examined them quietly — deep purple irises mingled with soft yellow sunflowers and a few sprigs of white heather.

“So you’re a hopeless romantic.. you didn’t take them to the café. What made you so sure I would come back to your place?”

You shrugged, leaning casually against the counter. “I wasn’t sure,” you admitted, meeting her gaze with an honesty that made her pause. “But I hoped you would. And, well, I wanted them to be a surprise. It felt more personal this way.”

Natasha glanced down at the flowers again, her fingers gently brushing over the petals. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“I thought you were worth the effort,” you said simply, the sincerity in your voice making her blink rapidly, as though she was trying to process it.

Natasha smiled as she shook her head lightly, trying to dismiss the overwhelming feeling creeping up on her. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You chuckled, stepping closer. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tilted her head, her green eyes studying you with a mixture of curiosity and warmth. “It is,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” you interrupted softly, stepping closer. “You deserve something beautiful. Something that shows how incredible you are, even if you can’t always see it yourself.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The Avenger, the unshakable spy, was speechless.

Natasha turned to face you fully, the bouquet forgotten for a moment as she searched your face. It was almost desperate, how she tried to find reassurance, anything that told her that her past wasn't a problem. “You… you don’t even know the half of it,” she murmured.

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But I want to. Every part of it, Nat. I want to know you.”

For a long moment, she just stared at you, as if trying to decide whether she could let her walls down one more time. Talking through an app was easier. In person felt way too serious. And then, with a deep, trembling breath, she set the bouquet back on the table and closed the distance between you.

She walked with determination, her chest lightly touching yours as her hands found their way to the back of your neck. Her fingernails softly scratched in between the hair strands. She didn't know what to say — she didn't want to say anything. In this very second, she simply wanted to feel. Feel what she never had the privilege to feel as the years passed, because yes, this felt like a privilege. She stood on her tiptoes to press herself closer, doe green eyes pleading.

They told you everything, and you didn't need to be passed the message twice. Your right hand cupped her cheek as the left one wrapped around her waist, bringing her even closer.

She was an angel. Not a deadly spy. A sweet angel to be taken care of. To have her needs satisfied and tears wiped away.

As Natasha felt you responding, she allowed her eyes to close.. basking in the darkness, wanting to be enveloped by this only one sensation. This soft, intense sensation of your lips against hers, moving in a way that wasn't rushed, but wasn't too deliberate either — your hands gripping her waist and bunching the fabric of her jacket, maneuvering her back against the counter. Holding onto your shoulders, she sat on the countertop, welcoming your body between her legs. The kiss lasted. She softly whimpered as she felt your tongue brushing against her bottom lip, asking for entrance, for more of her. And she allowed it. Her head tilted to the side, moving in sync with you — as your tongues danced, a dance she hadn’t discovered before.

Needing air, you pull away, foreheads resting against one another as you deeply inhale, messily. It was torture to stop kissing her, she was good. But air was necessary. Calming down, your arms circle her waist. A smile makes its way to your lips as you see the state she was in. Flushed. And…

“I think your lipstick is a little smudged,”

Natasha felt that — every nerve of her skin was burning, including the parts with the messy makeup. She lets out a huff of air and clears her throat, trying to find her voice so she could respond.

“That was…” she whispers, her hands cradling your jaw. “Wow,”

“You are ‘wow’,” you whisper, using your thumb to wipe away the red lipstick from the corners of her lips, fixing it. “You are perfect,”

“I'm not that- I'm not,” she nervously giggled, humming as you finished fixing her up. She shifted on the countertop, her legs pressing around your hips, as if afraid of you leaving.

“I wish I could give you my set of eyes,” your hands travel down to her thighs, feeling the slightly rough fabric of her tights, but that didn't make her skin any less smoother to the touch.

Her dress was basically all the way up her hips at this point, something she hadn't paid the necessary attention to, due being too busy making out with you — and in the pit of her stomach, a small flicker of panic started rising. This was reckless, so reckless. It is not like she didn’t think of the possibility of things escalating while coming back to the hotel with you, but in her head, she would have more control over the situation — and with that, manage to keep her secrets uncovered.

But she didn’t. Her body was reacting in its own and her mind was cloudy. She had zero control.

Before you could even touch the zipper of her dress, Natasha froze. Her breathing hitched — barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but you were. Her hands, which had been so confident just moments ago, trembled as they pressed gently against your chest.

“Wait,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if it might shatter if spoken any louder. “Just.. give me a second,” she muttered, avoiding your gaze as she detangled from your grasp, getting off the counter and hurrying to the bathroom.

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed through the quiet room. Natasha leaned against the sink, gripping its edges so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her reflection stared back at her — flushed cheeks, wide eyes, red marks staining the corners of her lips.

Why did she have to choose a matte lipstick?

Her fingers brushed against her side, over the spot where the bullet scar lay. She had hidden it from you before, in that photo. It had seemed harmless at the time — a small deception to preserve the image of herself she wanted you to see. But now, in the raw intimacy of this moment, it felt like a betrayal.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face in an attempt to calm the storm raging inside her. She couldn’t lose this moment — not to her own fears, not to a scar that was just one more piece of her long and painful past. But how could she explain it? How could she show you this part of her without ruining everything?

Natasha pressed her hands to her face, inhaling deeply. It’s just a scar, she told herself. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t change who I am.

Except that it does. And a small tear rolls down her cheek.

You’re not in the Red Room anymore, she reminded herself, gripping the sink harder. And this person… they’re different. They don’t expect you to be perfect. They just want you.

The doubt, the fears that you managed to keep away from her in the past month, came back to her — only a thousand times more painful.

Regardless, Natasha didn't have any more time to think, before she heard the doorknob turning, the damn door she didn't lock opening. She kept her head low, her body stiff as she continued to hold onto the sink. You could see her reflection in the mirror clearly. The fact that she was silently shedding tears.

“You're crying,” you state quietly, taking baby steps towards her.

“And you're bold,” she chuckles, the sound a mixture of tears and sarcasm. She sniffles, using her arm to wipe her nose. “Entering like that.”

“You're crying.” you shake your head, once again standing face to face with her. You reach out your hands and cup her tear stained cheeks. “What's wrong?”

“I…” she debated what to tell you. That she was afraid of physical intimacy since she was young? Or that she hid a crucial thing about her body all this time? “I don't know-”

“You’re hiding something from me and are afraid I’m gonna hate you?” you inquire, voice serious — not mocking, not pressuring.

What?

Her eyes go wide instantly, the tears stopping. You wipe them away from her cheeks, expression softening again as you prepared to explain yourself. “You’re part of a New Yorker superheroes team. There was absolutely nothing that spoke about your personality in SparkMatch, which is expected, Nat. I’m aware that there’s a lot that I don’t know about you. I know where I’m getting myself into.”

“For the longest time, all I wanted was company. Someone to talk to, to listen to me, and that I could listen to them. Someone to see me,” she quietly confesses, leaning her cheeks into your palms. “You did just that. You’re that person.. you filled a huge void in me. You saved me in more ways that you could ever know.”

“I’m so grateful for that.” you lean closer, pressing a lingering kiss against her forehead. She shyly wrapped her arms around your waist, her eyes searching yours once more.

“It’s not just that…” she adds, her breath hitching. She was now determined to continue from where you left off on the entrance counter. “I longed- I long for.. touches, and..”

“And closeness,” you complete, head dipping down and tucking itself into the crook of her neck. “Geez, you smell delicious,”

“It’s… Twilly D’Hermès,” breathless, Natasha speaks, a small hint of pride in her tone as she spoke about her moisturizing cream. “My body lotion,”

It wasn’t cheap, but she liked to spoil herself sometimes. It was also great to deal with the constant bruises and cuts on her skin. Your brows raise in surprise, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. Natasha could feel the warmth of your breath on her neck, a surge of happiness and ecstasy washing over her.

“That’s.. pretty luxurious, one can say.”

“Can’t a woman spoil herself sometimes?” she retorts — interrupted by a gasp that left her as your lips pressed against her neck. Her eyes flutter shut, her hands holding onto your arms as she did her best to keep talking. “B-Besides, years of bruises and burns require good skincare.”

“I see,” you hum, nuzzling into her, into the spot behind her ear. She felt soft today. Now you knew the reason. After staying like that for a while, you pull back, looking into her eyes with a gaze that showed admiration, respect and concern towards her comfort. “Can I?”

She deeply inhales, feeling you reach for her dress again — only more mindfully now. Shrugging her jacket off her shoulders, she places it next to her on the sink and nods.

She was prepared for the question.

“Okay, hold on.” you kneel down, beginning to untie her boots, catching her by surprise. You remove them and place them aside, before slowly pulling down her tights. “Damn. Why did you have to wear something so complicated?”

“I wanted to feel beautiful,” she quietly chuckles, allowing you to get rid of the excessive fabric on her body.

So, it's time for the dress. You got up to your feet and slid your palm up her spine, holding onto the zipper and then pulling it down. Natasha was expectant, self aware, but mainly, consumed by her desire — finally awake again.

“I'll make you feel beautiful,” you nod, pushing the dress straps off her shoulders and sliding them down her arms.

“You already do.” She breathes.

She doesn't stop you from getting her off the dress. But when it stops below her hips, she tenses up. That's because she sees you freezing. To look at her. It's strange, to have someone look at her body with no apparent emotion. You didn't look at her as if she were a prize to win — an object, or a weapon. Helping her step off the dress, you toss it aside on the floor. Now nothing was disturbing you from taking her in. Her black underwear. Her toned muscles — which you assumed were from years of workout. And her scars. Cuts, a few small keloids, and the bullet scar.

“You didn’t have to hide this from me.” you breathe, dropping to your knees once more as you held her by the hips. She found herself leaning against the sink’s counter, breathing ragged, every nerve of her body buzzing in anticipation. “Makes you even more gorgeous.”

“I—”

“You're fucking gorgeous.” you hiss, kissing above the place that once had a bullet in.

Yup. Her dreams came true.

“Please,” she murmurs, not knowing how to vocalize what she wanted. But the heat pooling between her thighs told you everything.

Your lips make a path from her hip down to her pelvic bone, right hand grabbing her thigh and putting it on your shoulder — coaxing a gasp out of her. Your palm covers her scar, as though it were something precious about herself — making her feel safe, above everything. Natasha, for a moment, almost lost her balance — having to hold her weight with one foot — as your pointer finger hooked around the soaked fabric of her panties, pulling it to the side. You gave her one look. One look before diving in.

You are no longer alone.

She took the message. And her world exploded.

Your tongue working on her — licking past her folds, tasting her — as if committing to memory, and not just using her — her slender fingers tangling into your hair, pulling your head closer to her core, soft moans leaving her mouth as if there was no tomorrow.

“Yes,” She gasps, her hips bucking, seeking more of the kitten licks you showered her clitoris with. “Don't stop.”

None of her sexual experiences had been good in the past — not in the slightest. So having something so good, so pleasuring — it was truly her first.

In the Norwegian hotel, Natasha was more Avenged than she ever was with the Avengers. In the end of the night, she ended up with you on the bed — your clothes making each other company on the floor, as she lost herself — in your body, your scent, your hands on her,

and your love for her.

♡₊˚ 📱・₊✧

You were tucked under the covers when the bathroom's door opened — the hot steam of her recent shower now dispersing and mingling with the air. You sat up, leaning against the headboard as you watched her with a smile.

Natasha walked towards you, the white hotel's towel in her hands, drying her damp hair. She was wearing a t-shirt you lent her, which was probably three times her size. She was smiling. Happily.

Before climbing back onto the bed, she absentmindedly placed the wet towel on an armchair. She gently settled onto your lap, straddling your hips, her head instantly nesting on your shoulder.

“Hi, baby.” you embrace her.

“If I have to leave the country, for any reasons,” she says, her hands tracing random patterns on your back. “Will you come with me?”

“I'll go anywhere with you.” you reply, voice unwavering.

She released the air she didn't know she was holding, and allows herself to relax her sore body. She nuzzled closer as you played with her still damp hair.

Maybe dating apps weren't so bad, after all. If she ever saw her team or Tony again, she would thank him for making her install it.

“Oh, and by the way,”

Natasha whispers, finally. Probably, you were aware. But it was one more thing about her true self she wanted you to know.

“My name is Natalia.”

[juletheghoul]

The General

a/n: So, the Roman got me. It was to be expected, honestly lol. I am well aware we know practically nothing about this character but I couldn't help myself. I wrote reader as a slave here, if you aren't into that - no worries. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for letting me flood her with my thoughts and ideas and for helping me flesh it out🩷 Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, some dirty talk, creampie, alcohol, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) one creepy dude making a pass, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

reblogs are appreciated

Series masterlist Masterlist next chapter; the baths

He comes through the tent flap late into the night, covered in blood, grime, and rage, and yet - you are there to greet him. The gods have seen it fit to bestow him with another day of victory, another day of life and with that life, comes his expectations of you.

You rush to pour the water you’ve kept hot at his fire into the basin he uses to wash, eyes scanning quickly for the clean linens he uses to cleanse himself of the gore of battle, and making yourself scarce once the basin is full.

He says nothing, but he has no need to. 

You watch from your place at the edge of his vision, every nerve and receptor in your body honed to anticipate his needs. 

His armor needs to be cleaned before first light, thank the Gods I didn’t fall asleep. I will need to mend the tear in his tunic as well–

His hand shot out, face up towards you, interrupting your mental tally of his state but your body responds quicker than your mind and you’re there in an instant, placing the clean linen into his dampened hand. Still, he says nothing. 

You move towards his table while he finishes, shuffling his maps and well laid battle plans with great care in order to set out the olives and cheese he likes, the crusty bread and the dark wine he prefers. 

“General.” The gruff voice at the tent flap scares you half to death, but you don’t cry out. You’re too well-trained for that. A few of his soldiers stand at the threshold. “We wish to share a cup, a toast to your victory.” They are eager, the red glint of blood still fresh in their eyes. 

He grunts in response, but gestures to his table before giving you a pointed look. You rush to fetch more cups, setting them down at the extra places at his table. They are all seated by the time you finish pouring for them, and with another glance from Marcus–your general–you move to fetch more food from his stores. 

They’re raucous, the heat of the battle still coursing through their veins. Where Marcus is focused on calming the blood, they are eager to stoke the fire. They are either oblivious to his dark mood, or unbothered by it. 

“More wine!” One of them cries out, despite the way the General’s jaw clenches. You hurry to comply, pouring into the younger man's cup without spilling. “You are lucky General Acacius, a pretty, young, thing like this waiting to warm your bed of a night,” he leers up at you, his gaze slipping across your body like eels in a bowl, “would you share your wealth, I wonder.” His other hand slides up the back of your thigh causing you to gasp, his touch wholly unwelcome. 

“If you would like to keep your hands, I suggest you keep them to yourself.” His voice cuts through the air, “Come girl, take my cup away. I have no taste for wine just now.” You move away from the unwanted touch and towards Marcus, avoiding his eyes to complete the task at hand. “Go now, all of you. I will see you in the morning.” He moves from his place at the table, and if the others are unwilling to comply, they make no mention of it. The table is clear by the time he comes back, absent unwanted company. 

He says nothing while removing his armor, but you rush to his side to assist anyway, carefully putting the pieces aside to clean. 

The mood shifts, and his gaze now bores into you, and your heart races to feel it. Where the other man's eyes made your skin crawl, Marcus’ eyes feel like a caress. You feel them on the slit in your tunic, where your thigh is exposed. You feel them on your chest when you turn towards him to help take his chest plate off. 

Goose flesh spreads like a stain across your skin, and your cunt weeps for him, betraying any thoughts that you might not want what he quite obviously wants to give you. The proof of it tenting his tunic when the leather Pteruges are removed.

Those brutal hands, the ones that’d been covered in blood and grime not an hour past, now grab onto your hips, the grip hard enough to bruise. The thin linen shift does nothing to insulate you from his heat, does nothing to dull the press of his want against your belly. Any doubts swimming in your mind about crossing this line with him–again–are silenced when the linen is all but ripped off, leaving you almost shivering in his arms. 

The arousal is something fierce, an entity all in its own and it responds to his brusque movements with a perverse glee. It sets your nerves alight, drips down onto your thighs as he herds you towards his bed mat. His intensity infects you, it strengthens your grip, you’d swear it sharpened your nails by the way you rip at the very tunic you’re going to have to mend.

You land on your back amongst his linens and he’s quick to follow you there. It takes less than a breath for him to shrug everything off, both of you as nude as the day you were born. 

“Open your legs.” His voice is gruff, and thick with want, the same want that smears fat pearly drops against the skin of your thigh. 

Your nipples harden, drawing both his eye, and his mouth as you hurry to comply. He bites, pulling a gasp from your lips. His tongue quickly soothes it though, this is his pattern, an addictive balance of pain and pleasure. First one breast, then the other gets his attention, but only briefly, his desire burns too brightly. 

You only manage to pull his face up to yours before his cock finally slips into your wet heat, feeding a gasp directly into his mouth when you take his kiss with a force to rival his own. 

The size of him always shocks you into silence. He isn’t the first man to have you this way, your chastity had been gone long before you came into his service; you were glad of it to feel the way he molded you to accept him though. Now, and every time he’s been inside you. 

His stroke is brutal, it’s hard, and rough and all but moves you higher onto his mat. It’s perfect.

Your knees hitch high onto his hips, just as he raises one knee to press against the back of your thigh for purchase and it pays off because he finds the spot that makes you keen. 

He lets out a breathy laugh, relishing the state of you and the euphoria of your climax is far too close to feel any shame. Instead your cunt floods him, the slip of him moving so noisy and vulgar and welcome and blissful it pushes you closer still.

“More, please—“ you moan out the words, the first words you’ve spoken to him since he’d returned from a day of violence and he corrects you even now. 

“More what,” he grunts, anger and ecstasy shining on his visage, “speak correctly, girl.” His voice is clipped, his movements faltering and you know he’s close.

“More please, Dominus.” They’re a whimper, and he responds to them just how you hoped he might. He moves quickly and for a moment you can see how he’s earned his reputation, agile and smooth and within a moment he sits back on his haunches, pulling your hips up to meet his thrusts. 

You don’t know whether to scream, or weep, either way you thank the Gods for putting you in this man’s way. The pleasure is peppered with pain where his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, and you know you will feel the ache of holding them open tomorrow, but it’s so hard to care when it feels so good.

The precipice looms, the shadow of the climax clouding anything and everything and when you reach down towards where you’re spread wide, it only takes a couple of quick, wet circles at your clit to float away.

He groans, hips stuttering and you know you’ve taken him over the edge with you, you can feel the evidence of it painting your insides. His eyes glaze over as he watches himself fill you to the brim, slack-jaw and drunk on his orgasm and your flesh on display for him. 

“I expect you to remain full of my gift-“ his tone is filthy, lust and victory of a different kind on his features as he grinds himself deeper, “until I take you again.” He hisses the last few words out, pulling his softening cock out to inspect his mess. “Am I understood?”

“Yes Dominus.” The words are sweet as summer fruit on your tongue, eager to please him.

He smiles, but it’s predatory and it makes you clench around nothing, your body betraying your words when you feel his spend dripping out in front of his eyes.

He tsks, pushing it back in with thick fingers.

“You are well aware I don’t tolerate such insolence.” His eyes narrow, but his mood is still playful, removing his fingers from your cunt, only to stick them in your mouth. “Now, get some rest. I expect you up at first light.” He speaks with absolute authority as you suck his fingers clean, and nod.

------

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[goldfades]

MORE CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG GF X SID

ive been having the worst insomnia ever so here's a blurb<3

It started with you staring at the ceiling.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red in the dark—2:13 AM. Your body was tired, your mind wasn’t. It wasn’t loud thoughts keeping you up, either. Nothing stressful, nothing particularly nagging. Just one of those nights where sleep felt like an impossible task.

Sidney was next to you, fast asleep, breathing slow and steady, one arm draped lazily across your waist. He was always warm, always solid beside you, a grounding weight even in unconsciousness. You swore he could sleep through anything. Planes, loud hotel hallways, your tossing and turning.

The only thing he ever seemed to wake up for was you.

You sighed softly, shifting under the covers, and just as you expected—he stirred. Not much, just a slight shift in his breathing, the faintest tension in his arm before he relaxed again. His grip around you tightened instinctively.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, sleep-heavy.

You bit your lip, feeling a little guilty. "Mmhmm."

Sid’s face was still buried against the pillow, but he made a quiet, unconvinced noise. Then, without opening his eyes, he tugged you closer. You let him, letting your body curve naturally against his, fitting like two puzzle pieces.

His warmth seeped into your skin.

"You’re awake," you murmured.

He hummed, his lips brushing against your hair. "You’re awake," he corrected.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. You pressed your cheek against his chest, closing your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Can’t sleep?" he asked, still half-asleep himself.

"Mmm." You inhaled the faint, clean scent of his skin, letting yourself settle. "Just one of those nights."

Sid let out a slow exhale, his hand running absently up and down your back. It was so easy, the way he touched you—not in any deliberate way, not trying to do anything. Just holding you, his palm warm against the curve of your spine, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your shirt.

For a while, that was enough.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of quiet things. His fingers against your skin. His breathing, slow and deep. The occasional shift of his legs under the sheets, brushing against yours.

You weren’t sure how long you laid there like that. But eventually, Sid shifted, pressing his lips lightly against your forehead.

"You want me to tell you a story?" he murmured.

You let out a soft, sleepy laugh. "A story?"

"Yeah," he said, voice still hoarse from sleep. "Something boring. Put you to sleep."

You smiled against his chest. "So you admit you’re boring."

Sid’s hand stilled for half a second before pinching your side lightly, making you squeak. "That’s not what I said."

You giggled, shifting closer, tangling your legs with his. "Okay, okay. Tell me a story."

Sid was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then:

"Did I ever tell you about the worst pre-game meal I ever had?"

You snorted. "That’s the bedtime story you’re going with?"

"You said you wanted boring," he reminded you.

You sighed dramatically. "Fine. Continue."

Sid smirked, but you could hear it in his voice more than you could see it in the dark. "Okay. So, this was early in my career. Rookie season. We had a back-to-back, and the second game was in some small-town rink. Not a lot of food options, so the guys and I found this one restaurant that looked halfway decent."

You hummed, eyes slipping closed as he kept talking.

"It was some mom-and-pop Italian place. Looked nice enough. I order a simple plate of pasta—"

"Simple?" you teased, voice muffled against his chest. "You?"

Sid poked your side again. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

You giggled, nestling closer. "Go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "I take one bite—one bite—and I immediately know something’s off. It’s sweet."

You made a face. "Sweet?"

"Yeah. Like, sugary. Like someone dumped an entire cup of sugar into the marinara sauce. I thought maybe I was imagining it, but then I look around and every guy at the table is making the same face."

You laughed softly. "Did you say something?"

Sid let out a low chuckle. "Nah. We were too polite. Ate the whole thing."

"Ew."

"Yeah."

The silence that followed was heavy with warmth, with the ease of being with someone who just fit into your life.

Sid brushed a hand over your hair. "Feeling sleepy yet?"

You hummed, eyes still closed, fingers toying absently with the fabric of his shirt. "Mmm. Maybe."

Sid made a soft sound of acknowledgment, pressing another absentminded kiss to the top of your head. His arm curled tighter around you, his hand resting at the small of your back.

You exhaled, letting go of whatever it was keeping you awake.

Sidney made everything easier.

The way he just was—warm, steady, solid. The way he didn’t try to fix everything, didn’t ask a million questions, didn’t make a big deal of it. Just held you close and let you exist exactly as you were.

You sighed, tucking yourself further into his chest.

"You’re good at this," you murmured sleepily.

Sid’s voice was soft, full of something you couldn’t quite place. "At what?"

You yawned. "This." You curled your fingers around the fabric of his shirt, as if to emphasize. "Us."

Sid was quiet for a moment. Then, voice barely above a whisper:

"Yeah. I like us."

You barely had the energy to respond, sleep finally pulling you under. But just before you drifted off, you felt Sid press one last kiss to your forehead, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

And just like that, you were asleep.

[demonic0angel]

For whatever reasons, Jazz becomes Damian's foster parent for about a year.

(May I introduce you to the ‘Damian grows up as a Fenton’ AU? XD However, this ask won’t be related to that AU)

Damian felt cold.

“… I’m going back?”

Bruce frowned. “Yes. Of course, you’re going back to Gotham.”

Damian could not help the glance that he took by his side, where the presence of Jazz was absent. Bruce had caught him while he was out with friends, and he had been forced into a conversation with his father for the first time in a year.

Yes, a year. A year since he had been tossed out of the manor for “protection” and put into foster care. It had been hell at first, but Jazz was the most patient, rewarding, and kindest person he had ever met, possibly even above Alfred or Richard.

And now he would be separated from her again.

Damian was silent before he then said slowly, “I see.” Shadow brushed against his legs, ever watching with its wide eyes and Damian could see Bruce recoil at the sight of the strange dog. He resisted a smile and then reached downwards to pick them up. “When am I expected to be leaving?”

“In a week,” Bruce said, grimacing. “We’ll talk to your… guardian and thank her for her assistance.”

Yes. Because taking care of him and showing him proper familial love was merely assistance.

Damian’s eyes were half lidded. “I see.”

Bruce stared at him and opened his mouth. But after a moment, he didn’t say anything and then just turned around to leave. Damian watched him go and when he was assured that no one was looking, looked down at Shadow and said, “Take me back to Jazz.”

Shadow did so with a whoosh of its powers and Damian dropped into the kitchen, where Jazz stood in front of the stove, blinking at the sight of him.

“Damian!” She said, beaming at him, cheerful as ever. “Welcome home! Are you hungry? Go wash your hands, I tried making potato soup today.”

Damian gently lowered Shadow to the ground and then strode over to throw himself into Jazz’s embrace, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face into her stomach. She startled but then quickly dropped to the ground in a squat, holding him carefully.

“What’s wrong, Damian? Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?” She continued holding him in a hug and her vanilla-ocean fragrance was a comfort as always.

“…. My father approached me. He wants me to go back and he said that he’ll talk to you.”

Jazz froze. Then carefully, she asked, “Do you want to go back?”

Did he?

He loved being Robin and in a way, he had loved his siblings. They had pushed for him to stay but Bruce’s orders had been absolute and whatever he had said to them seemed to have reluctantly convinced them to let Damian go. They still secretly visited and sent him photos on the occasion, but Damian did not miss Gotham City.

He liked being here. He liked the schools here. He liked the curricular courses and the many ghosts. He liked his new friends and being a civilian and walking around town to find blob ghosts and get ice cream on the weekend with his foster uncles and aunts. He liked Shadow and Danny and Dante and Ellie and Samantha and Tucker and everyone else.

And most of all, he liked being with Jazz.

“……… no,” he said reluctantly and then the flood broke through the dam. Jazz never judged him for his acts of weaknesses, and even now, all she did was wrap her arms around him and pull him into a cradled hug, stroking his hair and back as he sobbed into her shoulder.

He couldn’t help but admit quietly, “I want to be here with you.”

The admission burned but it was true. He had never been happier than when he was with Jazz.

Jazz didn’t pull back, only squeezing him tighter. “Then I’ll fight for you. Whatever it takes, alright? You can stay here with me, as long as you want, Dami.”

Damian nodded, tears still flowing from his eyes as he felt the comforting press of Shadow against his side and Jazz’s hold completely encompassing him. He ducked his head into her neck and went slack. She took all of his weight and just held him like he was a babe, tightly, securely, protectively.

The words, ‘I’ll fight for you,’ were a comfort and a promise that he had never gotten before.

But oddly enough, he completely believed in it.

[hellsslibrary]

Could you write about Hiori, Chigiri, and Bachira giving their male!reader boyfriend a blowjob? Maybe Chigiri thigh fucking... Hiori sadistically making you wait to cum, and Bachira with his feet?

Blow it, move it, bite it, ride it. Just come on, make a move on it.

#a.n. : I absolutely loved writing this, so it's okay!! And it's kind of implied that you're all in Blue Lock... I have no idea where the camera-less bedroom came from, so :).

!!Warnings: male!reader, dom!Hiori and implied dom!bachira, top!reader in Chigiri's part (kind of), blowjob (Hiori), footjob (Bachira), thigh-fuck (Chigiri), Hiori is a sadist, overstimulation (Hiori), Chigiri is a sass (like always), Bachira... A little strange (but in a good way as always, yea). And reader is a football player too. Purely theoretically, one can imagine that this is a strap (except for the Hiori part, of course), so anyone can read it, I don't care anyway.

Hiori Yo.

Your hand slides through the blue hair for the umpteenth time that night. You have an incredible, overwhelming urge to grab them and plant that face deeper on your dick, but no... You just can't. How many times have you been denied an orgasm? Three or so, or maybe you've lost count.

Only that smug face with those bright blue eyes glowing with joy knows the exact number.

"Yo... Am I seriously unable to cum, even after all this?" you ask, knowing the answer perfectly well, but just like in the past, smoldering with hope that he will break up and give in.

"No," of course he won't, Hiori has been mumbling around your cock, sucking on your thick shaft for the last half hour.

You practically growl in frustration, trying not to move your hips or anything else, because it will only prolong this torture. And all because of what? In training, you didn't score a goal from his pass, which made him angry at you. He gave you such a perfect pass, and you missed it.

"Absent-minded boys like you need self-control, don't you think?" Hiori asks, batting his long eyelashes at you, looking straight into your eyes with that innocent look, which makes you almost melt.

His hand moves rhythmically on your cock while his tongue licks your glans from time to time, sometimes gliding over the base and over the bulging veins. He was clearly enjoying tormenting you like that, watching the precum trickle down your head, which he rather licked off, slurping on purpose.

The bed creaks slightly under your weight, clearly not designed for two people, especially if they are muscular in one way or another. It would probably fall apart if you were doing something more active here, but you don't even want to think about it, considering that you have to explain it to the Ego.

"Please, Yo... I'll do anything, please, it hurts," your voice is quiet, a whimper escapes from your throat; Hiyori's eyes rise to you again and a smile blooms on his lips when he notices tears in the corners of your eyes.

"Whatever you say..." The football player mutters, leaning closer and wiping the tears from your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks. "Okay, I'll let you."

Your hips jerk as you are suddenly pierced by the feeling of his mouth around your cock. Not teasing. Not slow. Uninterrupted. And the persistent, rhythmic sucking of your length, which makes you feel like you're already in Heaven.

Of course, it doesn't take long for you to cum. In just a matter of seconds, the knot in your stomach unties and you cum in Hiori's mouth with a guttural moan, clutching his hair in your hands, pushing into his mouth for a couple of seconds, and then exhaling tiredly.

Yo straightens up, licking the droplets of your cum from the corners of his lips, looking at your peaceful face, and then suddenly squeezes your softened cock.

"You said you'd do anything, darling," the blue-eyed man whispers, ecstatically watching your surprised face... If you don't like the deprivation of orgasm, then you will have to accept your fate of overexcitation.

Chigiri Hyoma.

"Mmm, you're enjoying this too much, big guy" Hyoma says, as he stares at your barely present face as you fuck between his thighs.

You wanted to fuck him so damn badly for real, just slide inside those damn tight muscles, but you didn't have too much time until the end of the break, so you had to manage somehow.

"I'm sorry... You have juicy thighs, has anyone ever told you that?" you ask, squeezing his knees a little tighter, trying not to put too much pressure on his right leg, rubbing your cocks together with your movements.

"Yes, thank you. You've said that about eleven times, if I remember correctly. For the last ten minutes," he replies, shrugging his shoulders, looking at how your cock slides between his thighs, over his smaller penis, smearing the precum on your stomach.

His hands instinctively grab onto the sheets, and he moans softly, arching his back. Your cock perfectly covered his own length from below, perfectly rubbed against the head, touching the sensitive bridle. Your "waters" were mixed together.

"We have a training session soon, come on... Otherwise, they'll be looking for us. And they will definitely find us, considering that you don't even hide your moans," Chigiri cheers you on, squeezing his own hips harder, which even started to make a sound from how your cock bumped lightly against his muscular thighs.

"I'm sorry..." you mumble it again, just staring at Hyoma's stomach, where you could see your cock sliding in and out of his thighs.

He snorts, placing his own hands on your palms, which are holding him under his knees, pulling you out of your semi-trance. His red eyes seem to be staring into your very soul, still filled with their usual cocky sparkle, but now clouded with lust.

"What?" your voice is softly heard in the empty bedroom, followed by Chigiri's moan as your cock grazes the bridle of his own again, and he exhales, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Nothing, nothing... You're just drooling," the red-haired man whispers, and you see a drop of water from your chin land on the back of Hyoma's thigh.

... Well, maybe you enjoyed it a little too much. So what? You're a simple man.

You quickly wipe your mouth on your shoulder, pushing Chigiri a little harder into the bed, making his back arch even more and a moan escapes your lips when you feel a familiar feeling in your stomach.

"Huh... Come on, come on, come on. Let's get together, okay? I want you to come, please..." Chigiri whispers, completely unaware of how much more beautiful he is now with red cheeks and a face bathed in pleasure... But what's the difference, huh? Your pace started to become less rhythmic and increasingly rough.

The sound of tremors echoed more and more through the almost empty room, and there it was... White light behind the eyes, two male moaning voices.

Ka-sploosh!

Bachira Meguru.

"This is a fun position, you know?" Bachira chuckles in your ear as he literally hangs on your back, his arms wrapped around your neck and his legs resting on your cock, rubbing it lazily.

"Are you sure you're comfortable? You can always sit forward..." You ask as his chest presses closer to your back and he kisses your cheek long and hard with a smile.

"Thanks for caring! But it's okay, really... Let's give [Your name] the younger a little more attention?"

You moan, throwing your head back on Bachira's shoulder as he starts to move his feet a little more actively. One of his feet runs along the length of your cock, while the other lifts your shaft. How does he even bend his legs like that? Who knows these football players.

His lips slide down your neck, covering it with kisses, occasionally sucking on your skin, making you sigh softly in pleasure. The forward's feet wrap around your entire length, starting to rub it in perfect synchronization.

"Megu... So good, it's weird, but good," you whisper into his neck, inhaling his scent mixed with the light scent of sweat, considering you're both post-workout.

"I'm glad! And he seems to like it too... Or is it her?" Meguru is seriously discussing the gender of your dick... Oh, the things you put up with for this man, honestly.

Your hand slides behind you, supporting his hip, so that it would be at least a little easier for him. Although he doesn't seem to care, because his feet move and hold your cock just perfectly.

His toes deliberately touch your veins along the base or run along the head of your cock, his heels sometimes stroking in circles on your balls, which are getting tighter with each passing second.

Why the hell did you even think to ask him about this? You looked at some new dribble he came up with, and your brain switched off and you asked him. Of course, it's not surprising that he agreed, but fuck...

Who knew that his feet were talented with more than just a soccer ball, right? Your balls were also satisfied, it seems.

"Want to cum? You always can, you know," a sweet voice breaks you out of your thoughts as Meguru presses his heel lightly on your balls, causing you to twitch a little, causing him to smile even wider.

"Of course... You'll make me cum embarrassingly fast..."

"There's nothing embarrassing about it! You make me cum just as fast when...! Mhmhm!"

He lightly punches your chest as you push your head into his neck to shut him up and not embarrass yourself any further.

The feel and sight of his toes on your cock is enough without him saying anything. Your cock twitches in his feet, but he holds it expertly, continuing to rub your cock, as if his orgasm depends on it, not yours. Although it's the same thing to him.

"B-Bachi..." You whine, really embarrassingly fast cumming as your sperm drips down his feet and he kisses your cheek encouragingly.

And then he cries out as you fall backwards, pinning him down and he immediately pushes you aside, looking at you.

"Fallen asleep? He must have enjoyed it too much," Meguru chuckles quietly, looking at your sleeping face, and then covers you with the blanket, kissing your forehead. "Now, shower! Just don't leave marks... Or [Your Name] will scold you, Meguru."

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green, Part 26

masterpost this is a first draft, please no editing or concrit <3

“Hey, chum, you’re up early,” Bruce said, his own voice still rough with more exhaustion than sleep. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the mess of black hair as he passed the kitchen table. “Didn’t sleep great?”

Danny blinked up at Bruce. His startled eyes glowed faintly green eyes in the dim, more night than morning light of the kitchen. He clutched his coffee mug like a lifeline.

Bruce pulled his hand away from Danny’s hair and took a small step back. He kept his arms carefully relaxed at his side, palms forward. “I’m sorry Danny, was that too much touch? It’s fine if you feel it was. I was acting on habit, like I would with my other kids.”

“No, um, it was nice. I just didn’t think that you would… we were…,” Danny wiped at his eyes with his sweater sleeve in a jerky, frustrated motion. “Sorry. Just was a rough night, and I guess I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“That’s more than understandable.”

It was only the second day after Danny had told them everything. The kids had spent that first night building an impressive pillow fort and watching movies all night. The day after was basically a game of distracting Danny. It wasn’t a surprise that it was all hitting Danny now.

“Do you need any more coffee?” Bruce offered.

Danny offered up his cup silently and Bruce too it over to the kraft. Coffee with creamer for Danny while Bruce added a splash of creamer and sugar to his own. He took the seat next to Danny when he got back to the table, careful not to step on Ursa, who was sleeping under the chairs, snuggled against Danny’s blue bear.

“Danny, you’re my kid, chum.”

Danny looked down at his coffee. “I’m your clone.”

“You’re a child,” Bruce said gently. “Specifically you’re a child with my genetic make-up. You just have more of it than normal. That doesn’t make you any less my kid. I… can be bad at words. I am, often, especially when it matters most. I say a lot more through actions and touch. I am trying to be better. Danny, you are my kid. This is your home whenever you need it to be, and I love you as much as any of my children. You don’t have to earn or wait for it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Danny said with a sniffle as he scrubbed at his eyes again. “Can I—is it okay to ask for a hug?”

Bruce held open is arms and Danny flung himself into them. Bruce pressed another kiss to Danny’s hair. “More than.”

-

After breakfast, showering, and more coffee and tea than was probably healthy for one family to consume, those that were still in the house settled outside on the patio. They watched Dick and Danny frolic about with the dogs in the yard; Damian was watching from the sidelines.

“Damian is going to be tackled by a dog soon,” Tim commented, almost absently, as he glanced up from his tablet.

“Yeah, he totally is,” Duke agreed. He was stretched out in his chair, feet up on an ottoman, and half looking like he was ready to fall back asleep.

Bruce smiled slightly. “I’m sure that he’ll manage to survive the attack.”

“After screaming about it,” Jason added.

Bruce nodded in agreement. There probably would be screaming; it would wake Duke up. At least it would be a lively mid-morning. It’s a shame that Danny was still healing, or they could go swimming later. Well, the pool would still be there another day. They had time.

“So,” Tim said. He glanced up from his tablet again to catch Bruce’s attention. “What are your plans about Danny?”

Jason snorted. “So clinical, Timbit.”

Tim flicked Jason off.

Bruce sighed, “Boys.”

“Bruce,” the two of them chirped together, utterly unrepentant.

Bruce valiantly resisted the urge to sigh again. “I’ll arrange a press conference once we are sure that his back story and papers are iron clad. I’m sure that Barbara has already been work on it, along with you, Tim.”

Tim just shrugged, unrepentant. “It seemed prudent to. We haven’t decided anything concrete, though Babs may have started to hack into things in Michigan to have access down the right bread crumbs. We figured sticking midwest was best, even if he doesn’t have much of an accent.”

Bruce hummed in reply.

“What’s going to be your excuse for his scars?” Jason asked.

It was true there would be no hiding them.

“His mother was a casual affair,” Bruce said. He pulled together the threads of a plan as he spoke. “She never let me know that she was pregnant, though after being abroad for a time she did reach out to me hoping to meet up in a few months. I thought nothing of it until Danny showed up. We were old acquaintances but never socially that close. It turns out that she died in child birth before we could ever meet again. Danny went to live with a someone estranged aunt. While the inheritance money from his mother’s estate lasted, things were neglectful but manageable. When it started to not live up to the Aunt’s desired lifestyle, she became cruel and methodical in her abuse.

“Desperate and trapped, Danny started to look for new hiding places in the house. It lead him to finding his mother’s journals. Her thoughts, some old letters, and the occasional picture. He started to put things together. He risked taking his Aunt’s cellphone one evening when she was drunk and looked me up. He made a plan to come this way however he could manage. Enraged at losing her meal ticket, and social standing with him, the aunt went into a rage. She died in a drunk car accident when she drove into a light post the same night Danny ran.”

“Right. You’re scarily good at that,” Jason said after a beat. “I guess then we just go more with the truth. He arrived in Gotham, got stabbed, and ended up on the Bat’s radar. They took care of him of him until he was ready to tell his story and meet you.”

“That’s two more people that we need to make a paper trail for,” Tim grumbled.

“Annalise Linwood. I met her in boarding school,” Bruce said softly as he watched his children play. “I would be seen in her company on and off throughout the years. She had reached out to me for help on how to approach the birth of her child from an affair she was having. The father was a sometimes violent sort who she had used to think she could save. She died in childbirth, as did her child. Her estranged sister was her only living relative after a tragic accident with small aircraft the year before. The sister was reclusive unless she was drunk, or so Annalise had said once. It would be easy to assume she home schooled Danny and kept him out of the social eye. So, no, we just need to fake the paperwork for Danny.”

Bruce could feel Jason’s eyes on him.

“Oh.”

Bruce smiled softly, sadly. “It is changing the story of the dead, but Annalise was looking forward to being a mother. I think she would be alright with it, if it helped a child out.”

“Right, one set of paper trails,” Tim said quietly. “I’ll make sure Babs gets the information.”

There was a sudden shout from the lawn as Damian went down under the weight of Titus. Duke jolted awake and scrambled to not fall of his chair. Jason barked out a laugh as he tried to help catch Duke. Tim took photos. Danny ran over to help Damian, Ursa on his heels.

Yes, Bruce thought, Annalise would be alright with this.

---

an: great, now I'm emotional over a filler oc I made! ;-;

[wosospacegirl]

And they were roommates - part 3

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: kissing, lots of kissing and sexual tension hehe

Word count: 4k

MASTERLIST

You can read part 1 here and part 4 here

..

Kyra’s legs felt like concrete and her brain was foggy as she watched Katie steal the ball from her—again. Kyra was tired and confused, and her exhaustion was reflected in her poor training today. She had lost possession of the ball to Katie at least 3 three times, and after the third time, Katie even stopped teasing her about it. The fact that Katie even felt sorry for her spoke volumes about how awful she was today.

When she failed to do well in the last drill, Renée had—gently—asked her to step that one out. Kyra hadn’t wanted to at first, but Renée hadn’t asked her to either, so she went to the bench and sat on the stiff surface, watching her teammates actually show why they were on the field, and she wasn’t.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Alessia said handing her a protein bar. Kyra did not even see her approaching, highlighting how absent-minded she was.

“No,” Kyra mumbled, taking the snack, and fiddling with it at first before taking a small bite. Strawberry and white chocolate flavour, Kyra’s favourite. Maybe she wouldn’t be so depressed today after all. “Did you get kicked out of the pitch too? Is this the ‘prodigy-child-who-can’t-seem-to-kick-a-ball’ corner?”

“Well—no.” Alessia laughed. “Renée asked me to come here and see, in her own words, ‘what the fuck happened to Cooney’, so here I am.”

“Oh, so you don’t really want to talk to me, I’m just another chore in your busy day,” Kyra joked, biting back her laugh as Alessia nudged her slightly with her shoulder.

“You’re being dramatic,” Alessia stated, accepting the half-eaten protein bar Kyra handed back to her.

Alessia finished the protein bar while she waited for Kyra to formulate whatever she was thinking. After a few moments, she finally spoke.

“I’m so confused. And when I’m confused, I get completely worn out from the among of neurons I’m using,” Kyra confessed suddenly. “I don’t like when things are… I don’t know. Blurry, maybe?”

Alessia listened carefully with narrowed eyes, chin resting on her hand. “But what are you confused about, what’s blurry?” Alessia questioned, not really understanding what the girl was talking about.

Kyra’s cheek flushed. “Y/n has been acting weird lately, I’m not sure why.”

“What do you mean weird? Last time I spoke to her she sounded fine, happier even,” Alessia tilted her head.

“Maybe weird isn’t the right word—” Kyra continued with her mumbling. “She’s acting different, not in a bad way, though.”

“In what way then?” Alessia asked, pressing further.

“She’s being very nice to me,” Kyra blurted out. “Not that she wasn’t before, of course she was always very kind, but now it’s…”

“Different?” Alessia completed easily, given Kyra’s difficult relationship with, well, words today. “She’s being nicer to you, and that’s making you feel confused?”

“Exactly!” Kyra said, throwing her hands up in the air.

Alessia laughed quietly. “All right, tell me about it, let’s dissect it,” Alessia said, fake-serious tone that made Kyra roll her eyes.

“I’m serious, Less!” Kyra groaned,

“I’m too! Go on, I’m all ears,” Alessia encouraged.

So, Kyra told her what had happened last night.

Y/n had begged Kyra to put a mattress in her living room. “It’ll be like when we used to have girl’s night!” Y/n had said cheerfully as she sat on the couch. Kyra didn’t match Y/n’s energy. It was late, and Y/n's mattress was surprisingly heavy.

“We could keep having girl’s night in your room,” Kyra complained, finally letting the mattress hit the floor. The Australian let out a sigh of relief as her hand went to her shoulder and pressed against the skin.

“Just so you know I am not carrying this upstairs again,” Kyra pointed at the mattress as if it were a sentient being responsible for its weight.

“Too heavy?” Y/n smiled, spreading her legs and motioning for Kyra to sit in between them on the floor.

Kyra obeyed, though not without some complaining. “Yeah, I don’t know what it’s made of. Aren’t mattresses supposed to be made of goose feathers or some shit?”

Y/n squeezed the spot on Kyra’s shoulder she was complaining about, her hands touching the rough texture of Kyra’s Matilda's hoodie.

“Wow, there, right there,” Kyra whispered as Y/n touched the spot more firmly.

“I think mattresses are supposed to have a fair amount of foam, spring, polyurethane—” Y/n explained.

“You’re just making up words,” Kyra muttered, leaning into Y/n’s touches.

“Unfortunately, they’re real words that make up real mattress materials,”

“How do you even know that?” Kyra turned, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked up at Y/n.

“I read it in an article in the newspaper,” Y/n mumbled, tapping Kyra’s head. “And turn around, I’m trying to give you a massage.”

“Newspaper? How old are you? 99?” Kyra whined as Y/n pressed her acromion. “Ouch, don’t be so rough!”

“Sorry! It would be easier if you weren’t wearing this bulky hoodie, I can’t even feel where I’m touching.” Y/n bickered. “Plus, the colours on it aren’t even that good.”

“Those are literally the national colours of my country!” Kyra argued, rolling her eyes as she watched the smug smile on Y/n’s face. “Ok, you’re messing with me,” Kyra concluded.

“Just a little, you’ve been too tense lately, and normally you’re very relaxed,” Y/n said. “I’m just trying to do something nice for you.”

“Yeah, maybe if the derby wasn’t so close I could feel happiness and, you know, live life, but we can’t have everything we wish for,” Kyra said in a fake sad voice.

Y/n’s hand fell from Kyra’s shoulder as Kyra pulled out the hoodie in a sweeping motion and threw it casually on the loveseat by the window. The other girl was wearing a black sports bra underneath the hoodie.

Y/n froze, hands in the mid-air. She wasn’t expecting to see Kyra’s very strong back today. Kyra’s trapezius and deltoid muscles were very defined, Kyra looked tough, but also soft. The dichotomy of it making was making y/n breathe out loud.

Kyra turned back to Y/n again, confusion on her face. “Don’t you want to do it anymore?” She asked the girl.

“Do what?” Y/n swallowed, trying not to look at the skin on Kyra’s back, focusing instead on Kyra’s eyes. Eyes were safe. Eyes didn’t make Y/n feel hot in places she shouldn’t feel hot at the moment.

“—The massage? You said if I didn’t wear the..”

“Oh yeah, yeah, of course!” Y/n rumbled. “Sorry,” she whispered as she placed her thumb, forefinger and middle finger on Kyra’s skin, gently pressing the sore spots.

“You’re tense,” Y/n told Kyra, “Especially here…” Y/n placed her fingers on the back of Kyra’s neck.” Y/n applied more pressure until she felt Kyra’s muscles relax. “Feels good, now?” Y/n asked, continuing to work with her fingers.

“Yeah, it feels great really,” Kyra replied, enjoying Y/n’s hand on her. Maybe Kyra was in a dry spell for months, or maybe Y/n’s fingers were really out of this world.

Kyra shivered slightly as Y/n nails scratched gently through her neck. Kyra had to hold back a moan to keep her dignity.

The realisation hit Kyra like a cold winter breeze, she was wearing a sports bra and being massaged—in the most delicious way—by a very pretty girl, who also happened to be her friend.

And now she was supposed to suck it up and share a mattress with said friend because said friend didn’t want to sleep in her room alone anymore. ‘It’s too lonely, it makes me sad’ Y/n had said.

Kyra was hyperventilating slightly. She wasn’t sure if Y/n could notice it.

Y/n moved her leg—the good one—more to the left and touched Kyra’s arm. It was such an innocent touch, but it made Kyra feel like a teenager all over again. Kyra began squirming in her spot, her palms clammy. It was seriously humiliating to feel this hot and bothered by a fucking touch on the arm.

Y/n’s fingers were quicker now, going from the middle of her back to her neck.

Kyra had been with girls before. She knew how to flirt, how to tease, where to touch. She wasn’t inexperienced or innocent on that matter. But the way Y/n was making Kyra’s body shiver just barely felt almost overwhelming—in a good, but scary way.

“Why do you seem more tense than when we started?” Y/n asked, interrupting Kyra’s inner monologue.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m …you just overwhelmed me with your flawless technique!” Kyra said, trying to sound teasing, but failing.

“Oh well, thank you,” Y/n said smiling, but still tilting her head slightly as if she did not believe Kyra’s word. “I’m trying to find new hobbies, like you said.”

“You should stick with it. Your fingers feel amazing,” Kyra breathed and then stopped. Her eyes went wide as what she had just said sank in.

“My fingers are that good, huh” Y/n said smugly, enjoying seeing Kyra squirm a little.

“You’re making it dirty,” Kyra said sheepishly.

Y/n laughed and watched as Kyra stood up. “You made it dirty first! Come on, telling a fellow lesbian her fingers feel good?”

“I just really like massages,” Kyra tried to recover from the awkwardness, her hoodie now on. “And it seems like you really liked making me squirm, so I think we’re both even.”

“Oh, okay, you turned that around quickly, I’ll give you that” Yn said, a little taken back, cheeks warm.”

“Flirting,” Alessia stated. “She was flirting with you! And you flirted back.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You just told me how you flirted with each other!” Alessia said enthusiastically, looking like a happy puppy.

“We weren’t flirting! We were teasing each other, we always do that,” Kyra argued, pointing at Alessia and then at herself. “We always do that.”

“We? Ky when was the last time I made a dirty joke on you?” Alessia questioned, crossing her arms.

“Never!” Alessia said without letting Kyra answer it. “And Y/n never teased me like that either.”

“I’m so sorry Ky but I can’t see where your confusion is coming from, it” Alessia got up, standing in front of Kyra, looking down at her. “It looks to me like you two have a little crush on each other?”

“A crush?” Kyra whined. “We aren’t seven!”

“Well, right now you’re acting like a seven-year-old who can’t see what’s happening right in front of her,” Alessias lectured softly. “What did you guys do after the massage? Please spare me any intimate details, though.”

Kyra rolled her eyes. “Nothing happened, we just got ready for bed and slept.”

“In the same mattress, right?” Alessia asked.

“…Yeah”

“I’m sorry baby, but you can’t be this naïve,” Alessia said softly, looking at Kyra as if she were an innocent child learning how the world works for the first time.

“What happened after the two of you woke up?” Alessia asked.

Kyra blushed as she remembered the position she was in when she opened her eyes in the morning. Y/n couldn’t move much because of her cast, but Kyra was a very fussy sleeper and had changed positions during her sleep.

When Kyra’s alarm clock went off, she wasn’t only greeted by the usual and annoying noise, but also by Y/n’s breathing. Kyra had snuggled up to Y/n’s body for some reason. Her head was on Y/n’s shoulder as the girl breathed softly into her ear.

“Don’t go,” Y/n said half asleep when Kyra tried to get up.

Kyra blushed, enjoying the way Y/n pulled at her shirt lazily.

“I have to get up and make us breakfast,” Kyra explained, taking Y/n’s hands from off her shirt. “And you have your first physical therapy session today, so we can’t be late.”

“5 more minutes? Please?” Y/n murmured

Kyra sighed, allowing Y/n to lie back on her chest. “Okay, but just 5 minutes.”

“Uhum okay,” Y/n mumbled, falling back asleep.

“Nothing much,” Kyra said, back to Alessia. “We just, I don’t know, cuddled?”

“You cuddled?” Alessias asked slowly.

“Yeah.”

“You are Y/n seemed to be in a pretty domestic bliss right now,” the blonde bent down to tie her boots. “Maybe the whole moving in together had made you realise that you have this chemistry going on?”

Kyra thought for a moment.

“I guess so? I’m not sure about chemistry, though,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure Y/n feels the same way I do.”

Kyra felt pathetic, really. Sure, perhaps she had feelings for her friends—and her roommate—but that didn’t mean that Y/n liked her back. There was always the possibility that Y/n was just lonely, and Kyra just happened to be there.

“I don’t think she’d give you a massage or cuddle up with you if she’s still saw you as just her friend,” Alessia pointed out. “Y/n isn’t the type to play hard to get—she’s very straightforward about how she feels.”

Alessia was right. Whenever the three girls went out to a bar or club, Y/n never played games with the women she wanted to take home. She was direct and confident.

“I guess I just don’t see her liking…me?” Kyra confessed, looking down. “I’m not going into a spiral of self-loathing or anything—I know I’m pretty and funny,” She half-joked.

“But Y/n’s also dealing with a lot right now. She’s focused on her recovery, getting better, starting physio… I don’t think she’s even aware of whatever this is,” Kyra added.

“Y/n’s recovering from a really bad injury, but she’s still Y/n,” Alessia countered, eyebrows furrowed. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders—I don’t think she’d be so oblivious about this whole situation.”

Before Kyra could respond, their conversation was cut short. Renée had called both players back to the pitch.

“I hope you got your mind off whatever was bothering you,” the coach said as she patted Kyra on the back.

Kyra thought of Y/n’s face.

“Yeah, I’m back now. Sorry,” Kyra said, slipping her practice vast on and jogging onto the field.

Hours later, the training was over, and Kyra was on her way to pick up Y/n from the physiotherapy clinic. Kyra parked in front of the white building, spotting Y/n already waiting with a smile on her face

“Hi, how was it?” Kyra asked as she stepped out of the car, opening the passenger door and helping Y/n inside.

“It was very good, actually,” Y/n said happily, handing Kyra her crutches so she could put them in the back seat. “Dr. Marta says my leg’s looking great and that haven’t lost too much muscle mass, so I won’t have too much trouble when we start doing the heavier exercises.”

“That’s great!” Kyra said, looking in between Y/n and the road as she drove away. “Has Dr Marta said when you’ll be cleared to do the physio back at Arsenal?”

Y/n turned on the radio and Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan filled the car. “Yeah, she said I could go in two weeks. She just wants to make sure my ligaments are strong enough first.”

Kyra put a hand on Y/n’s leg—the good one—and gave it a light squeeze. “Well, I bet your ligaments are already better than mine.”

Y/n stared at Kyra’s hand, enjoying the subtle touch.

Kyra noticed the silence and realised where her hand was. “Sorry,” she mumbled, quickly pulling it back and placing both hands on the wheel.

“it’s okay,” Y/n said, taking Kyra’s hand and putting it back on her leg. “Your hand is warm; my leg is cold. You can keep it there,” Y/n said casually.

Kyra swallowed. She wasn’t sure what to do, so she just left her hand where it was.

“But now tell me about the training—how was it?” Y/n asked, shifting the conversation. “And I saw you guys had media day! I was so bummed I missed it…I love media days”

Kyra raised an eyebrow, her thumb now gently caressing her skin. Not a big deal.

“No, you don’t.” Kyra huffed. “Last season, you pretended to have cramps, so you wouldn’t have to film a TikTok.”

“I said I love media day, I didn’t say I like making a fool of myself dancing,” Y/n shot back, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, come on, you’re a good dancer,”

“Yeah, at parties! I don’t do well when I’m the only one dancing and everyone around me is watching,”

“Well, when you come back all healed up, I’ll do a TikTok dance with you, so you don’t have to dance alone.”

“Given your dancing skills I think we’d both be better off hiding in the changing room,” Y/n teased.

Kyra stuck her tongue out at Y/n before they both burst laughing.

..

Y/n felt like a caged animal whenever she was around Kyra, which was often, considering they lived together. She tried, really tried to control herself and her impulses around Kyra, not wanting her to feel uncomfortable in any way.

But every time Kyra got a little too close, Y/n had to remind herself to breathe, to think straight and not to let her gaze linger for too long.

Y/n wanted to kiss Kyra, really kiss her.

That was all she could think about when Kyra slipped a pillow under her leg without her being asked, or when she cut apples and handed them to Y/n before she even realised, she wanted a snack.

Maybe Y/n’s love language was acts of service—after all, why was she horny just because Kyra put socks on her feet?

It had been months since Y/n had kissed anyone, maybe a month or two months before her injury. She couldn’t quite remember it. So it was unnecessary to say that she was desperate.

Y/n thought she had more grace, more control in her, but it all went out the drain the moment Kyra plopped herself on her side on the mattress, fresh from the shower. Her hair was still damp, and the shampoo she used filled the room with a vanilla fragrance.

Pretty, pretty girl.

Y/n felt as if her entire brain had been short-circuited, as if her neuronal network had been designed to think about Kyra and only Kyra.

Both girls had gone out to a restaurant an hour earlier, it was the first time Y/n had seen all her teammates together since her injury. It was lovely to see all of them together after such long time.

The arsenal players stayed until late, but when Kyra and Y/n had gone home, Y/n suggested a movie night, which Kyra had agreed to—under one condition—she was the on picking the film.

‘But I’m a cheerleader’ was in the final ark already when Megan crashed the graduation party to be with Graham.

Y/n wouldn’t say it was the film itself that influenced her to take that step. It was more the subtle brush of Kyra’s arm against her own that did the trick.

“Hey, Kyra?” Y/n said, her confidence rising.

“Hmm?” Kyra mumbled, not taking her eyes off the TV.

“I really wanna kiss you right now,” Y/n confessed bluntly. She didn’t stutter or stumble in her words—she knew what she wanted, and she’d be very happy if Kyra wanted It too.

Kyra gasped slightly and finally looked into Y/n’s eyes. “What?”

It felt as if there was no air in her lungs as if her stomach was turning against itself. Was she dreaming?

No, she wasn’t. She was sure this was real.

“Kiss you. I really want to,” Y/n explained calmly. “But it’s alright If you don’t want to,” she added, looking intensely at Kyr

“I-I want to kiss you,” Kyra said, a hint of question in her voice.

“Yeah? You sure?” Y/n asked, slightly teasing.

“Uhum,” Kyra nodded eagerly.

“Ok,” Y/n whispered before leaning in and carefully kissing Kyra.

Y/n cupped Kyra's jaw gently, controlling the depth of their kiss with gentle confidence. Kyra's tongue slipped shyly into Y/n's mouth. Their bodies fit together in the best possible way.

The kiss was better than they had ever imagined. Y/n had kissed many women before, but Kyra was definitely her best kiss yet. Kyra’s softness and her slight hesitation to just let go of the kiss made Y/n feel hot.

It was like their bodies wanted each other for a long time.

Kyra sighed into the kiss; Y/n welcomed her breath. The kiss was slow, and deliberate, not rushed in any way—like they were savouring something they’d been waiting for a long time.

Kyra broke the kiss but didn't pull away, instead touching her forehead and looking into Y/n’s eyes. “I liked it,” Kyra said shyly.

Y/n smiled. “Me too, a lot.” She bit Kyra’s lip gently. “Can I kiss you again?”

“You can kiss me whenever you want”, Kyra said, taking Y/n's mouth back into her own.

The position their bodies were currently in was a little odd. Kyra was sitting up on the mattress, but leaning slightly on Y/n, while Y/n was lying with a pile of pillows on her back so she could sit up straighter and still be comfortable with her cast.

They kissed once, then stopped to catch their breath. And then they kissed some more. Kyra's elbow rested next to Y/n’s face while Kyra held her body over Y/n with her forearm.

“That was a very good kiss,” Kyra said, kissing Y/n's mouth, then her cheeks, then her nose. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she confessed.

"Yeah? Me too,” Y/n said, enjoying the feeling of Kyra’s lips on her face. “It was very hard not to kiss you before.”

“And I can see why, you're all flushed,” Kyra teased, now kissing the base of Y/n’s neck, sucking the skin gently, not enough to leave any mark.

“I’m not,” Y/n mumbled, very much appreciating what Kyra was doing.

“All for me” Kyra whispered, Y/n barely hearing it.

Unfortunately for Y/n, Kyra pulled away.

“No, come back,” Y/n whimpered, tugging at Kyra's oversized shirt, trying to bring her closer, but Kyra didn't give in.

Kyra smiled softly, taking Y/n's cheeks in between her hands and puckering her lips. “It's almost two in the morning,” Kyra explained, getting out of bed. “You have to take your meds, and we need to go to sleep.”

Kyra handed Y/n's prescription bottle, along a glass of water. Y/n took them, but not without making sure she was very disappointed at Kyra for ruining their snog session.

“Do you think I’m not mad at myself too?’ Kyra asked as she watched a pout form on Y/n’s face.

Kyra got back in bed and urged the girl to lay her head on her chest. “I’m having to be the responsible one! The ‘let's not move too fast’ one the ‘hey it's late and we should be sleeping.’”

Kyra continued with her rant while Y/n just enjoyed her voice and how soft her body was against her own. They weren’t kissing anymore, but they were cuddling. It was enough for Y/n.

Kyra’s fingers found themselves on Yn’s scalp massaging it.

“We really should be sleeping,” Y/n said. “I can’t barely keep my eyes closed.”

“I swear I could stay up late without a problem a few years ago,” Kyra added.

Y/n patted Kyra's cheek patronisingly. “And that's because you're getting older, babe,” Y/n murmured.

“I don't like it.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“You say it like you’re much older than me,” Kyra said.

Y/n noticed her voice sounded more tired now.

“I am.”

“Only 2 years.”

“Enough to have a fully developed brain.”

Y/n waited for Kyra's familiar teasing remarks, but they didn't come. She was already fast asleep. And so was Y/n a few moments later.

..

| PART 4 |

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Masterlist

[tales-from-the-aether-ttrpg]

Something thats always bugged me about dnd and pathfinder’s gods is that… they are basically monotheism in polytheism wrapping AND there is no actual religion present. The lore is so obsessed with these beings as people with their extensive histories and active presence in the setting that they completely forgot to actually create religions surrounding them.

What does casual worship look like for any of these gods? Could you tell me? What does prayer actually look like? Is there specific times of the day in which you must pray for certain gods? Is there certain attire you must wear to show your faith? Are there certain foods you cannot eat? Are there certain foods that are elevated above the rest for your faith? What kind of offerings are expected everyday? Do they expect offerings everyday or on a certain day of the week? Do they expect physical offerings at all? Do they ask for sacrifices of material goods, animals, people? Why? Why do you worship this deity? How does that actually affect ur daily life? How is worship different for a cleric, paladin, priest, or casual believer? What kinds of swears, curses, exclamations, etc are associated with this religion? Are there certain activities that are banned within your religion? How strictly does the religion police its worshiper’s actions? What kind of philosophies do they preach or disavow?

These and many more are the elements that form real world religions and are absent in most fantasy “religions” including popular ttrpgs. I cant even call these faiths religions because they really arent. One god in these settings should have 20 different religions built around them that all disagree on how the god’s domain, history, and personality should be interpreted. Maybe 2 or 4 of them would be main stream but there should be more than just one monolithic faith surrounding a god. And stop calling it polytheism. Please for the love of everything. Polytheism is a type of religion that worships multiple gods at once. Faith in dnd and pathfinder is largely monotheistic because the players choose one god they like and ignore all the rest.

I am not trying to put the responsibility of creating all these religions on gms - im pointing out that the creators of these ttrpgs did all of us a huge disservice. Religion is such an expansive and fascinating and diverse concept in the real world that it infuriates me to see it reduced to choosing a god you like and thats it. And im agnostic irl!

I was talking to my cowriter about this for the lore in my ttrpg and it got me really rilled up XD Religion can be beautiful or terrible or a mixture of both. It can save people from the world’s darkness or bring out their own inner darkness. It deserves more than a cliff-notes table of deities to choose from and half baked lore about the gods without examining the actual faith they inspire in others :/

[twi-liight]

Petty Jealousy ❣

Tav's companions cannot fathom them potentially having other friends. ❥ Astarion/reader, Astarion/Tav, but also Companions/reader. I'm a Tavrem supremacist. ❥ Contains my own personal headcanon for why the companions call them "Tav" instead of their first name, which is justification for me loopholing the eternal problem of xreader writers having to wince when they use "F/N" or "Y/N". ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav/reader!

“Look,” Astarion hisses, “look at that!” 

5 pairs of eyes land on the offender of the night (which, to their surprise, isn’t Astarion) who conversed pleasantly with the leader of their party. A half-elf with a sharp jaw, proud brow, and mirthful eyes looks extraordinarily ordinary compared to their merry band of freaks. 

“Who is that, again?” Shadowheart asks absently. “Tav suggested I rest for today instead of mapping out the Underdark with the party, and the next thing I know, they’ve brought back another little companion.” 

Astarion’s jaw twitches. He snaps out, “Companion or complication?”

Gale crosses his arms, shrugging, used to Astarion’s temper running hot then cold. “His name is Nilmorn - a luthier. Tav took an interest in his wares. He makes a living selling stringed instruments in the Underdark. Strange place to sell such things.” 

Ugh. Astarion sighs, shaking his head. Leave it to Gale to traipse over the obvious. A sharpened mind like his would surely know that this Nilmorn has no place here, if not to be a bloodbag for him to slurp on. Beyond that, what use does this pretty boy have? Nilmorn sells wares that are utterly useless to them. He’s quite boring and one-dimensional, too, a character that strays too much into the side of “moral good” for Astarion to tolerate. 

 “Yes, yes, Gale, but have you considered how strange it is that he has invited himself to our camp?” Astarion flares out his hand towards the wizard, as if handing him common sense on his palm. 

“I,” Gale begins, blinking his wet, beautiful brown eyes at Astarion, “invited myself to this journey, Astarion. I am quite hurt you forgot. I thought what we had was special!” 

“Yes, but you’re weird!” Astarion exclaims. “You’re a freak with a bomb in your body because of your situationship with Mystra! That,” Astarion points an accusatory finger in the direction of Nilmorn, in which 5 pairs of eyes look at him again, “is someone so unbelievably normal he doesn’t even have any, any…” He gestures, articulates with his hands to placate his words. 

“No dubious motives?” Shadowheart offers, a smirk coyly playing on her lips. 

“No complicated backstory?” Wyll pipes in. Astarion’s eyes flicker to him, and irritation seeps into his skin when he finds Wyll smiling wryly, as if the warlock is in on some joke he is not picking up on. “No, I don’t know, god that has let him down in some way, shape, or form?” 

“Certainly no skills for fighting.” Lae’zel, thank the gods for Lae’zel. Her smooth voice hides none of her displeasure, and those sharp, slitted eyes stare across the fire to dig daggers into Nilmorn’s back. “Useless. We have no need for string-ed instruments. Let Tav pick one, and send this half-elf on his way.” 

Yes. Yes. Astarion nods eagerly.

“Hmmm. I almost envy his mundaneity,” Karlach adds,  “but I mean, he’s not that bad, Astari. Man’s just trying to make the world a better place, one string at a time.” 

Astarion almost throws up. He looks to the other companions helplessly. “Darlings. Please tell me you are not going to let Karlach get away with saying something so putridly motivational.” 

Karlach tosses her head back and cackles, much to Astarion's chagrin.

“Something is obviously bothering you,” Shadowheart states bluntly. Her green eyes watch his expression carefully in the firelight; she finds something there, but does not say it outright. With an exhale through her nose, as if it is painful for her to attempt a conversation with him, Shadowheart decides to throw him a bone: “Are you jealous?” 

He does not catch the bone. The bone slams right into his head as he stares at Shadowheart, slack-jawed and scandalized. Him? Jealous? “You must be joking.”

“Aw,” Shadowheart croons, another one of her insufferable smirks toying on her lips, “you are.” 

If he had mindflayer powers beyond reading her reprehensible surface-level thoughts, he would make Shadowheart’s head explode. Or something. 

He must establish his dignity in the group once more. He cannot handle more of this, especially not with Wyll grinning so wide, not self-aware enough that if he did not have a sexy demon controlling his life because he didn’t read the terms of conditions of a motherfucking contract, Astarion would bully him more.

“That is not the point here. Look,” he says. “I am just saying that our Tav is desirable in every way. Physically, we can all agree that Tav is attractive. Yes?” 

Yes. They all nod their heads. 

“Tav is a little strange, but they are our leader, and they got us this far somehow. Who knew caring about other people could go a long way.” 

Yes. They all nod their heads, except Wyll and Karlach, who look amongst the group with sheer disappointment on their faces. “Gods,” Karlach groans into her hand, “we– we need to unpack that later, gang. That’s just really sad.” 

“Lastly, Tav is strong. Strong enough to split apart the mountains and the sky, I imagine.” Strong enough to bury Cazador into the ground, hopefully. “Strong enough to face a god unwaveringly. Strong enough to persevere. Strong enough to be kind, despite everything. Despite what they think, they are charismatic, and they are the entire package. The only person who does not know of their value is Tav themselves.” 

They watch Tav’s lips quirk into a smile as Nilmorn holds a lyre out for them upon his smooth hands. Smooth, no sign of scars, no sign of complications. Just so unbearably mundane. Unbearably good. Unbearably kind. 

Unbearably unaware of their true nature.

Nilmorn does not know why they nicknamed them Tav, despite their name being [F/N]. Their unstoppable quench to loot everything and anything set back their timeline by weeks, no doubt. Reaching into barrels, reaching into the pockets of bandits, reaching into damn silk cocoons, reaching into whatever their curious little hands can salvage. It annoyed Astarion at first, but then Tav would find all of these weapons and armors and foods and coins and books. Normalcies and luxuries that made camp life feel less of a drab and more exciting. 

The gleaming, golden dagger at his side? They found it. The boots, the armor, the enchanted rings and necklaces they either found, bartered, or killed for their companions. Thus - Tav, short for tavara, the word meaning wares and merchandise; a clever little nickname Gale came up for their leader who is too good for all of them combined. 

“Any other party could whisk them away, you know,” Astarion says. “Tav could find a party of good, decent people, unlike any of us, without the mess and complication and hurt we cause them, and leave. Remember, my dears. It is not us who is irreplaceable. It is Tav.” 

How long would Tav tolerate him? Not long, he thinks. Long enough until he has expended his use for them, surely, but not forever. That's why anyone who wants Tav beyond sex or strength is a threat. If he hadn’t seduced his way into their heart, he wouldn’t be here where he stands, with a group of people who make him feel a little less alone. 

No doubt he would be in a cage on the back of a covered wagon that belongs to that disgusting gyr, Gandrel, his chain to Cazador growing shorter and shorter.

Silence. Tense and still. They watch as Tav laughs lightly, eyes alighting with amusement as Nilmorn cracks another joke. 

"You should meet my other companions," they hear Nilmorn offer, "I just know they would love to have you."

Revelation slams into each and every one of them like a magic missile.

“He’s not that funny,” Shadowheart mutters. She bends down, hands gripping tightly around the handle of her mace. “I don’t know why they are laughing that hard.”

“He can try to leave with his head on his shoulders,” snarls Lae’zel, “just say the word, Astarion.” 

Excellent. 

“What-” Wyll turns to Gale and Karlach. “We should stop them, shouldn’t we? There are no implications of this man trying to steal Tav away, he's just being nice, you worthless cunts! This is not fair to him!” 

“We’re in the Underdark, aren’t we? Super deep. Doubt anyone who cares for him will come looking for him.” 

“Karlach!” 

“Astute observation! To make this all a little easier on us, I can most certainly put this man to sleep.” 

“Gale?!” 

“Go on, Lae’zel,” Astarion grins wickedly, “attack!”

“Oh, hells,” Wyll stumbles back, then turns quickly to the other direction towards Halsin. “Halsin! Halsin - they’re trying to murder someone again!” 

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3

[bbokarimenu]

Heartstrings ❤️‍🩹

pairing: idoldadbangchan! x fem reader!

genre: Angst

warnings: none

an: Love is a journey, not a destination. Thank you for reading! ❤️

Masterlist

The soft hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand was the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. I sat on the edge of our bed, staring at the digital clock glowing 2:37 AM. My chest tightened as I fought the urge to cry.

Bang Chan wasn’t here again.

It had been weeks since he’d had a proper day off, weeks since we’d spent more than a fleeting moment together as a family. He was always working—writing, producing, rehearsing. And while I knew his role as the leader of Stray Kids demanded so much of him, it felt like his role as a father and partner had taken a backseat.

A soft cry crackled through the baby monitor, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Shh, I’m coming,” I whispered to no one, pulling myself together and heading into the nursery.

Our daughter, Luna, lay in her crib, her tiny face scrunched up as she whimpered. I reached in, scooping her up gently, and began rocking her in my arms.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I cooed. “Mommy’s here.”

Her cries subsided into soft sniffles, and I kissed her forehead, inhaling the faint scent of baby powder.

I felt a pang of sadness as I looked down at her. She deserved more than this. More than just me. She deserved her dad too.

The front door creaked open just after 4 AM. I was sitting on the couch, Luna finally asleep in her bassinet beside me.

Chan stepped inside, his shoulders slumped and his hoodie pulled low over his face. He looked exhausted, but when he saw me sitting there, his eyes widened in surprise.

“(Y/N), you’re still awake?”

I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest. “How could I sleep when I don’t even know if you’re coming home anymore?”

He winced, shutting the door quietly behind him. “I’m sorry. Practice ran late, and then I had some things to finish in the studio—”

“It’s always practice or the studio or something else,” I interrupted, my voice trembling with frustration. “Do you even realize how long it’s been since you spent time with us? With her?” I motioned toward the bassinet.

His gaze flickered to Luna, and guilt flashed across his face. “I know. I know I’ve been… absent. But you know how important this is. I’m doing this for us. For her future.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Her future? Chan, she doesn’t need all the money or fame in the world. She needs her dad. I need you.”

“I’m trying,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Are you?” I asked, standing up. “Because it feels like your best is reserved for everyone else but us.”

His shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to do, (Y/N)? Quit? Walk away from everything I’ve worked for?”

“I’m not asking you to quit,” I said, my voice softening. “I’m asking you to find a balance. To make time for the family you chose to have.”

He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he nodded, his expression weary. “You’re right. I’ve been… I’ve been failing you. Both of you. I’ll try harder, I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

Days turned into weeks, and while Chan did make more of an effort to be present, it still felt like his heart was elsewhere. He’d hold Luna and play with her, but his phone was always nearby, his mind half in another world.

One evening, after putting Luna to bed, I found him in the living room with his laptop open. He was reviewing tracks, his headphones on, completely absorbed.

“Chan,” I said, standing in the doorway.

He didn’t respond.

“Chan,” I said again, louder this time.

He finally looked up, pulling his headphones off. “What’s up?”

I stared at him, my chest tightening. “Is this what it’s always going to be like? You here, but not really here?”

He frowned, closing his laptop. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about us,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m talking about how I feel like I’m raising Luna on my own while you chase this dream that seems more important than we are.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You knew what you were signing up for when we started this. You knew my career would demand a lot of me.”

“I didn’t know it would mean losing you,” I shot back, tears spilling over.

His face softened, and he stood, reaching for me. “(Y/N), don’t say that. You haven’t lost me.”

“Haven’t I?” I whispered, pulling away. “Because it feels like I’m standing here begging for scraps of your time, your attention. And I shouldn’t have to beg, Chan. We shouldn’t have to beg.”

He looked at me, pain etched across his face, but he didn’t say anything. And in that silence, I felt my heart break a little more.

That night, I packed a bag for Luna and me.

I didn’t want to leave. I loved Chan more than anything, but I couldn’t keep living like this. I couldn’t keep feeling like we were an afterthought in his life.

When he found me in the nursery, his eyes widened in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I need some space,” I said, my voice trembling. “I need to figure out what’s best for Luna and me.”

“(Y/N), please,” he said, his voice desperate. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave.”

“I don’t want to,” I admitted, tears streaming down my face. “But I can’t keep waiting for you to choose us.”

He reached for me, his hands trembling. “You don’t have to wait. I’ll do better, I swear. Just don’t go.”

I looked at him, my heart breaking at the sight of his tears. “I love you, Chan. But love isn’t enough if we’re the only ones fighting for this.”

With that, I picked up Luna and walked out the door, leaving behind the man I loved and the life we had built together.

The days that followed were some of the hardest of my life. I stayed with my sister, trying to find clarity amidst the chaos of my emotions.

Chan called and texted every day, apologizing, begging for another chance. I wanted to forgive him, to run back into his arms and pretend everything was okay. But I knew we needed more than just promises.

One evening, about two weeks after I left, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Chan standing there, holding a small bouquet of flowers and a stuffed bunny for Luna. He looked exhausted, but there was a determination in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

I nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

He sat down on the couch, his hands trembling as he set the flowers and toy on the table. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he began. “About us. About everything.”

I sat across from him, waiting.

“You were right,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve been so focused on my career that I’ve been neglecting the most important people in my life. And I hate myself for it.”

Tears filled my eyes, but I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continued. “I don’t want to lose our family. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fix this. To be the husband and father you both deserve.”

“Chan,” I said softly, my voice trembling. “I don’t need perfection. I just need you to try. To really try.”

He reached across the table, taking my hands in his. “I will. I swear, (Y/N). You and Luna are my everything. And I’m going to prove it to you every day.”

Looking into his eyes, I saw the sincerity there. The love. The man I had fallen in love with.

Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe we had a long road ahead of us. But for the first time in weeks, I felt hope.

And that was enough to take the first step toward healing together.

[fourth-wing-stories]

Playing with fire

Pairing: Ridoc x reader

Summary: Ridoc is always a tease, but what happens if you go along with it?

Masterlist

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers absently running through the pages of a book you’re not really reading. Ridoc is sprawled out at the foot of your bed, half hanging off the edge like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s been making snarky comments and joking with you for the past hour, and you’ve been giving it right back.

He glances up from where he’s lying, his usual smirk playing at his lips. "You know, I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me."

You raise an eyebrow without looking up from your book. "Avoiding you? I see you literally every day, Ridoc."

"Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you're giving me the attention I deserve." His voice dips, that mock-serious tone he always uses when he’s messing with you, and it pulls a reluctant smile to your lips.

"You’re so needy," you mutter, flipping a page.

Ridoc laughs, deep and low, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Needy? Oh no, love. I think you are. I see the way you look at me.”

You finally glance at him over the top of your book, pretending to be unimpressed. “You’re delusional.”

He crawls toward you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and the air between you shifts just slightly. You can tell he’s up to something, but you can’t help leaning into it, drawn in by that infuriating charm of his.

Ridoc’s voice softens as he gets closer, hovering just inches away. “You sure about that? ‘Cause I can see right through you. You’re practically begging for me to make a move.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flicker of heat in your chest at how close he is, the way his breath fans lightly against your skin. “Begging, huh? Someone’s got an ego.”

He grins, and before you can react, he leans in just a little more, his lips brushing against your ear. “Come on. Admit it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been thinking about this… about me… just like I’ve been thinking about you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and for a split second, you’re caught in the moment. But then you snap out of it, biting back a smile as you push him back lightly. “Dream on, Ridoc.”

His eyes widen, clearly surprised that you didn’t just brush him off like usual. “Wait—hold up. Did you just—did you actually consider that?”

You give him a small smirk, leaning back on your hands. “I don’t know, did I?”

Ridoc blinks at you, completely thrown off his game now. “Oh, this is dangerous territory, love.”

“Is it?” you ask, your voice dripping with challenge.

He looks at you, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious or just messing with him. “You’re playing with fire,” he warns, though the teasing edge is still there in his voice.

You lean in, just enough to make it clear you’re not backing down. “And what if I am? Think you can handle it?”

Ridoc swallows, his smirk faltering just a little, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head. This is new, this shift between the two of you, and he doesn’t quite know how to navigate it.

Then, after a beat of silence, Ridoc’s expression softens into something more genuine, his usual cockiness fading for just a moment. “You don’t get it, do you?” he says quietly, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “If you keep teasing me like this… one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

The way he says it makes your breath catch, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re still in control of the game you started. But you don’t let that show. Instead, you tilt your head, offering him a slow, knowing smile.

“Well then,” you whisper, leaning in close enough that your lips almost touch his, “maybe I’m counting on that.”

Ridoc’s breath hitches, and for a split second, it feels like the world’s about to tip over. You can feel the tension crackling between you, the charged silence, the weight of everything unsaid but understood in the way he looks at you like he’s seconds away from crossing that line.

But just as you’re about to close the distance, you pull back, sitting up straight and grabbing your book again as if nothing happened.

Ridoc stares at you, dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. “Wait. What the hell just happened?”

You don’t even bother looking at him, your lips curling into a smirk. “What? Were you expecting something else?”

He throws his head back with a groan, running a hand through his hair. “You’re evil. Pure evil.”

“Am I?” You shrug innocently. “Maybe you’re just easy to mess with.”

Ridoc narrows his eyes, scooting closer again, but this time the playfulness is edged with something darker, more intent. “Oh, love, I’m gonna get you back for that. Just wait.”

“Promises, promises,” you tease, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

Ridoc chuckles, shaking his head. “You won’t be laughing for long. I’ll make sure of that.”

You bite your lip to hide the smile threatening to break through. He’s still Ridoc, still playful and lighthearted, but you can tell that you’ve pushed him just far enough. Now, it’s only a matter of time before he follows through on that unspoken challenge you’ve set up between you.

And you’re already looking forward to it.