#and somehow she's never happy the poor thing

[skrunksthatwunk]

how do i tell my roommate that her cat repeatedly pissing on and destroying my things is something that people usually offer to clean or replace or apologize for instead of shrugging off

[cheftsunoda]

Hi lovely!! If you open to the idea, would you be able to do something where leclerc sister (maybe like 16/18) is adopted, but they were waiting to tell her. Then somehow a gossip page leaks it, which makes everyone go crazy. Reader is basically paddock princess so she has multiple people backing her up and protecting her?

paddock princess — ob87

smau + blurbs

charles leclerc x !adopted sister reader

ollie bearman x !leclerc sister

yn leclerc is loved by all— especially her family. however, they have been keeping a secret from her. what happens when a gossip page gets their hands on this and yn learns that she is adopted? will she run? will she stay?

fc : julia knezevic

(a/n) : love love love this idea. i made the reader 19 for just story purposes and i’ve had quite a few requests to write about ollie so i just added him as a comfort to the reader and love interest. thank you. hope you loveeeee

extra long my bad

—

yn_leclerc

monaco 📍

liked by arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, carlossainz55 & 3,090,002 others.

yn_leclerc : nasty 19 ft alex (the loml) and the cake she made me 🥺

tagged : alexandrasaintmleux

—

view 175,394 other comments.

alexandrasaintmleux : always my baby. im so glad you loved the cake — i love you!! happy birthday mon ange 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : i love you to the moon and back.

arthur_leclerc : all the love for alex but no love for your brothers?? 🙄 (i love you sm)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : did you make me a jellycat cake???

↳ arthur_leclerc : no but i have given you unconditional love your whole life.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : letting it slide because you promised a shopping spree tomorrow.

liked by arthur_leclerc

↳ arthur_leclerc : i am going to be POOR.

lewishamilton : Happy Birthday, little one. Keep shining the way you do. Proud of you always. 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you lew🥺

↳ arthur_leclerc : what is it like having THE lewis hamilton in the comments on your bday post? i never got this kind of treatment.

↳ yn_leclerc : he does not love you as much as he loves me

liked by lewishamilton

lando : happy birthday little leclerc! love you 🧡

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm lan. thank you for my gift !!

liked by lando

carlossainz55 : Mi dulce pequeño— there are not enough words to tell you how proud I am of you. Happy Birthday. Love you always.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : mi carlitos!!!! love you forever n ever

liked by carlossainz55

lorenzotl : le plus joyeux des anniversaires à ma petite sœur! je t’aime!

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : je vous aime tellement!

lilymhe : alexandra deserves an award for the cake, you deserve one for being so cute! happy birthday lovely

liked by yn_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm 🥺 thank you for all the jelly’s sent to my door this morning. (tell alex i said thank you as well)

liked by lilymhe and alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : anything for the princess

maxverstappen1 : i blinked and you grew up. i absolutely hate that. but i love you. happy birthday, kleintje. (little one)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you always maxie 🤍

liked by maxverstappen1

scuderiaferrari : Happy Birthday YN!! We love you!💛❤️🎂

liked by yn_leclerc

username0 : oh to have the grid in my comment section

username10 : happy bday queen!

olliebearman : happy birthday, yn! ❤️

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : thank u bearrr🤍

liked by olliebearman

isackhadjar : joyeux anniversarie à toi!! 🎈

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : merci beaucoup, isack :)

liked by isackhadjar

—

If I ate one more bite of anything, I was going to spontaneously combust in front of my entire family. The small chocolate cake that was just placed in front of me was a lot, to say the least—complete with a sparkler that looked like it was about to set fire to the wine list. Maman clapped her hands together like it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen, Arthur was making explosion noises like a child, and Lorenzo was scolding him through laughter. I couldn’t even be mad. It was one of those rare nights where everything felt still and soft.

“I’m literally full,” I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “Like really full. I might explode.”

“You say that now,” Charles smirked, “but just wait until we bring out the gifts.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Charles, if you bought me another scooter like last year—”

“I said I was sorry about the scooter!” he interrupted. “You looked like you wanted to try one.”

“I wanted to try one, not watch you crash it into a bush,” I said giving him a playful glare.

That made everyone laugh—Alexandra almost choked on her wine and Charlotte covered her mouth mid-giggle. It was peaceful and perfect and mine. And then it wasn’t just us anymore. Because the double doors to the private dining room burst open without warning.

“IS THIS THE AFTERPARTY?!” Lando’s voice rang out first, carrying over the sound of chairs scraping and shocked gasps. I blinked in complete disbelief as Pierre, George, Carlos, Lewis, Alex, and Esteban followed behind him in various states of gift-carrying, tux-wearing madness.

“What—what the hell—” I started, but I was already being pulled into a hug by Pierre, who lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PRINCESSE,” he shouted in my ear before promptly spinning me in a circle.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, tears already threatening. “You guys didn’t.”

“We did,” Lewis said with a warm grin, walking up and handing me a white Chanel shopping bag. “And this is just the beginning.”

I opened it with shaking hands—and my jaw dropped. It was the bag. The vintage, pearl-handle, mini Chanel bag I had drooled over in Paris two months ago. The one that had been sold out within hours. The one I thought I’d never even touch.

“I mentioned it once,” I whispered. “Once.”

“Lando tracked it down,” Lewis said casually, gesturing toward the Brit, who was smugly leaning against a wall and pretending to scroll through his phone.

“You’re kidding.”

“He begged a stylist in New York for it,” George added, not hiding the grin on his face.

Lando just shrugged. “Had to beat Verstappen to it somehow.”

I ran into his arms, bag clutched to my chest like a treasure. “You’re insane. I love you. You’re insane.”

“Happy birthday, princess,” he whispered into my hair.

And then came Carlos, cool and collected as always, dressed in black with a velvet box in hand.

“Oh, no,” I said, already emotional.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, opening it to reveal a dainty but breathtaking diamond necklace. The kind of necklace you’d see in Vogue editorials.

“Carlos,” I whispered. “That’s too much.”

“You’re worth more,” he said softly, and I suddenly understood what it meant to be speechless.

He stepped behind me and gently fastened it around my neck while I stood frozen, tears brimming in my eyes, trying not to break down in front of everyone.

“This is insane,” I finally croaked. “You guys didn’t have to—”

“We wanted to,” Charles interrupted, suddenly next to me with Arthur and Lorenzo behind him. “You make all of our lives better just by being in them, petite sœur. Of course we showed up.”

I couldn’t even argue. And as I looked down at the necklace on my collarbone, the bag clutched to my chest, and the grins surrounding me, I knew this was one birthday I’d never, ever forget.

—

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my feet were screaming, my necklace was slightly askew, and I was fairly certain I was still full from four courses and three desserts. All I wanted was to throw on sweatpants, wash the remaining makeup off my face, and sleep for fifteen years. But instead, I walked into yet another surprise. There, smack in the middle of my living room coffee table, was a massive bouquet—no, a floral fortress—of white hydrangeas, soft yellow peonies, and pale pink roses. It looked like something out of a royal wedding Pinterest board. Elegant. Expensive. Intentional. There was a tiny cream envelope nestled in the middle. I dropped my bag on the floor and blinked at it like it might explode. Before I could even touch the card, Charles’ voice rang from the hallway behind me.

“What is that?”

Oh no. I turned slowly. There they were—Charles, Arthur, and Lando—squished in the hallway, clearly having followed me home like nosy little puppies.

“It’s… flowers,” I offered weakly.

“From who?” Arthur asked immediately, stepping forward like an over-invested bodyguard.

“Why are there roses?” Lando added, already reaching for the card. I swatted his hand away.

“Back off, Norris.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is it from someone we know? Someone we like?”

I sighed dramatically, plucked the card out of the arrangement, and read aloud.

“Happy Birthday, Princess. Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight—hope this makes up for it. x – Ollie”

Silence. Then— “Bearman?!” Arthur practically screeched, spinning around like he’d been personally betrayed.

“You let Ollie Bearman call you Princess?!” Charles demanded, face already morphing into Big Brother Mode.

“I didn’t let him—he just—it’s a nickname! Everyone calls me that!”

Lando was already flopped onto my couch, cackling. “Oh, you’re dead. You are so dead. Ollie’s never escaping this.”

“He sent roses,” Arthur said, pacing now. “He’s trying to flirt. That’s flirting. Is he trying to date you? Is this a date thing?!”

“He’s Twenty!” I protested.

“You’re nineteen!” Charles snapped.

“Exactly! It’s barely an age gap—”

“Oh my god,” Lando groaned from the couch. “You like him.”

“I never said that!”

“Which means you do,” Arthur concluded.

I buried my face in my hands. “I literally just wanted to go to sleep. That’s all I wanted.”

Charles grabbed his phone. “I’m calling Ollie.”

“You will do no such thing!”

Too late—Arthur was already speed-texting someone. Meanwhile, Lando was now examining the bouquet and the card up close.

“Okay, but… this is a really good arrangement. Like, props to him. He’s got taste.”

“Lando, you’re not helping.”

—

f1gossipgirls

1,283,009 likes.

f1gossipgirls : In a shocking turn of events, sources close to the Leclerc family have revealed that YN Leclerc—known as F1’s beloved “paddock princess” and younger sister to Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc—is not biologically related to the Monégasque driver. According to documents obtained, YN was adopted by the Leclerc family as a baby. While the Leclerc's have always presented a united and loving front, fans are now questioning why this detail was never made public—especially as YN’s popularity continues to skyrocket. Why was this kept a secret? Was YN ever told? Is there more to the story than meets the eye? Neither YN nor the Leclerc family has commented yet, but we expect the grid to go into protection mode fast. With half the paddock practically treating YN like royalty, this story is far from over. More updates soon.

—

view 350,384 other comments.

username0 : her and charles are literally identical— i never would’ve guessed this.

username15 : you’re telling me someone dug through adoption records to post this?? she’s literally 19. what is wrong with you people.

username30 : “not biologically related” and??? they are still her family. y’all are weird for this one.

username22 : the fact that this was leaked on her birthday week is so disgusting. someone really said “let me ruin a teenager’s day for clicks.” i’m sick.

username17 : i hope charles sues y’all into oblivion

username00 : so… she’s adopted. AND?? she’s still the paddock princess. still the sister of Charles, Arthur and Lorenzo. still our girl. NEXT.

username10 : y’all forgot she’s the grid’s little sister. max is about to say his first emotional thing ever.

username11 : it’s the way she literally brings joy to the paddock. she’s always hugging people, always cheering, always there. you really tried to knock her down? pathetic.

—

third person pov

Arthur was in the kitchen with Pascale and Alexandra, laughing as he scrolled through photos from YN’s birthday dinner the night before. The second Lorenzo’s voice broke—sharp, panicked—Arthur dropped his phone.

“They posted it.”

Pascale froze. “Posted what?”

Lorenzo’s voice was trembling. “The adoption. They leaked her adoption. It’s everywhere.”

Time stood still. Alexandra’s hand flew to her mouth. Arthur’s face drained of color. Pascale slowly took the phone from Lorenzo, her fingers shaking as she read the headline aloud in a whisper. The air left the room.

Pascale sank into a chair. “She doesn’t even know yet…”

Arthur was already pacing, muttering curses in French, furious in a way he hadn’t been in years. “How—how did they even find out? Who would do this to her?”

“She’s going to be devastated,” Alexandra whispered, blinking back tears.

Lorenzo was already dialing Charles. Charles didn’t even say hello when he answered—just, “I saw it.”

His voice was tight. Controlled. Scary calm.

“I’m going to her now.”

“Don’t let her see it yet,” Pascale said, standing up, voice firm despite the tears in her eyes. “Don’t let her read that article before she hears it from us.”

Charles’ voice cracked just slightly. “She trusted us.”

—

your pov

It’s crazy how much your life can change in twelve hours. Last night, I was blowing out candles. Laughing so hard I nearly choked on the cake Alexandra baked me. Lando handed me the bag I’d been dreaming about, Carlos gave me jewelry like I was royalty, and my brothers were annoyingly soft all evening. I felt so… loved. Safe. And now?

Now I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, phone in my lap, staring at an article that managed to make everything feel different. Like someone cracked open my world and spilled secrets I didn’t even know were mine. Adopted. The word is loud in my head. Foreign. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else. No one told me. Not Charles. Not Maman. Not Arthur. They all knew. And I didn’t. The silence in the house is deafening. I keep waiting to hear footsteps—his voice. Something. But it’s just me. Me, and a truth I never asked for.

—

I didn’t want to stay in my apartment anymore. The silence was suffocating, and every corner seemed to remind me of the secret I never wanted to know — that I was adopted, and somehow, that fact was now public. The leak felt like a knife twisting in my chest, and I just needed to get away. Without thinking much, I grabbed a bag — some clothes, my favorite hoodie, a journal I never leave behind — and headed straight to Max’s place. It was the one place that felt like home, no matter how chaotic the world got.

When I got there, Max opened the door before I even knocked. His face softened the moment he saw me, like he already knew something was wrong. Kelly was there, too, and she immediately wrapped me in a warm hug that felt like safety.

“Come in,” Max said quietly, guiding me inside. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

I just shook my head, sitting on the couch, my fingers trembling as I clutched my bag. Kelly sat nearby, giving me that quiet, calm support only she could. Max came over and wrapped me into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Just letting me cry, just letting me exist.

After some time, Max’s phone buzzed. He looked at me with a small smile. “Lando and Carlos are coming over. They insist on seeing you.”

When they arrived, Lando was first — his usual grin was softer, eyes full of concern. Carlos came in behind him, nodding at Max and Kelly.

Max left me in the guest bedroom to rest, but Lando and Carlos came in, settling next to me on the bed. Lando gently took my hand, fingers warm and steady, while Carlos wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then started to speak, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand why they did this. Why they thought it was okay to tear open my life like this.”

Lando squeezed my hand. “Because they don’t understand what family means.”

Carlos nodded. “We do. You’re ours. Nothing changes that.”

I let the tears come, finally allowing myself to be vulnerable. They didn’t say much — just held me, letting me pour out my pain and confusion. For hours, we stayed like that. I talked, cried, and they listened. Their presence was something I didn’t know I needed, a reminder that no matter what the world said, I wasn’t alone.

—

third person pov

Charles arrived at YN’s apartment, his heart pounding with worry. He needed to see her — to explain, to fix whatever had been broken. But when he pushed the door open, it was slightly ajar, creaking softly as it swung inward.

“YN?” he called, his voice tight with concern. The apartment was eerily quiet.

He glanced around the living room and kitchen, then made his way to her bedroom. His eyes immediately landed on the nightstand, her journal was missing. A knot tightened in his stomach. She had packed up. She had left.

His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone and called Arthur. “Arthur, YN’s gone. She left her apartment — her journal’s missing too. I don’t know where she is.”

“Stay calm, Charles,” Arthur replied evenly. “Where do you think she went?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I don’t know. But I have to find her. I have to.”

He looked around once more, the weight of guilt pressing down. How had it come to this? And how could he make it right before it was too late?

—

your pov

After a while, Lando spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper. “YN, can I ask you something?”

I nodded, eyes still closed. “Anything.”

“Did you ever want to know?” His words caught me off guard.

“Want to know what?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“About being adopted. About your past.”

I took a deep breath. “I always felt like something was missing, like there was this part of me I wasn’t supposed to see. But honestly? I was scared. Scared that if I found out, everything I knew — my family, my life — would change.”

Carlos squeezed my shoulder. “But nothing about who you are changes because of that. You’re still YN, still the person we care about. Family isn’t just blood.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But it feels like my whole identity was a lie. Like I wasn’t real enough.”

Lando shook his head gently. “You’re more real than anyone I know. Being adopted doesn’t make you less than. It means you were chosen. And that’s powerful.”

Carlos smiled softly. “You belong with us. With all of us. And no gossip or secret can ever take that away.”

I blinked back tears, feeling the weight in my chest ease just a little. For the first time in hours, I felt seen truly seen and accepted. The fear was still there, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in this.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching their hands tighter. “For staying. For reminding me who I am.”

—

The next morning came too fast. I hadn’t slept much — just drifted in and out of shallow dreams that always ended with the same knot in my stomach. The ache in my chest hadn’t eased either, even with Carlos’s steady breathing beside me and Lando still curled up at the foot of the bed like an overgrown golden retriever. I was staring at the ceiling when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

(your bff) 💌 calling…

I sat up, quietly untangling myself from the warmth of my boys, and slipped into the hallway before answering.

“(your bff)?” My voice cracked a little.

“Oh, thank God. I was about to fly to Monaco myself,” she said immediately, her voice filled with the kind of love only someone who’s seen you through every awkward phase of your life could manage. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Like I’m floating above myself? It doesn’t feel real. I haven’t really stopped moving since it happened.”

She sighed. “I hate this. I hate that it got taken from you like that. You deserved better than a headline.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, well. Headlines don’t wait for permission.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I mean it,” she said firmly. “Come with me to the lake house. Just us. No noise. No social media. No press. Just trees, a fireplace, and the world leaving you alone for a minute. I’ll cook. You’ll cry. I’ll feed you again. We’ll yell into the void. It’ll be healing.”

I laughed softly, the sound surprising even me. “I don’t know…”

“You need air, baby. And space. And maybe wine and marshmallows and bad horror movies from 2005. Come hide with me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t even know what to pack.”

“Nothing. Just bring your hoodie and that one fuzzy blanket you refuse to wash because it ‘smells like childhood,’” she teased. “I’ll handle the rest.”

I blinked away tears. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“I’ll be there by the afternoon. No backing out. I’m kidnapping you.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I know,” she replied gently. “Let’s get you out of the storm.”

—

By late afternoon, I’d finally worked up the courage to get out of bed. My head was pounding from the constant swirl of thoughts, and the emotional whiplash of the last 24 hours had left my body aching like I’d run a marathon. I padded into the kitchen, where Max was chopping fruit like a domestic god, and Kelly was sitting at the counter scrolling through her phone with her glasses low on her nose. Carlos was half-asleep on the couch, and Lando was rummaging through the pantry like he hadn’t eaten in days. I cleared my throat, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. Max turned first, eyes softening the second he saw me.

“Hey,” he said quietly, setting the knife down.

“Hey.” I paused, twisting my fingers together. “I, um… I just wanted to let you guys know (your bff) is on her way. She’s picking me up.”

Lando frowned, abandoning the bag of chips in his hand. “Picking you up?”

I nodded. “We’re going to her lake house. It’s out in the middle of nowhere — no press, no people, no internet unless we climb a tree. Just… quiet.”

Carlos sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a while,” I said quickly. “I need space. A second to figure out what I’m even feeling. I’ve been kind of… drowning.”

Max walked over and pulled me into a hug without a word, holding me tight against his chest.

“Are you sure this is what you need?” Kelly asked gently from the stool.

“Yeah. I think so,” I whispered. “I love you guys so much, but right now, even being around people who love me hurts. It makes it real.”

Lando crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. “Just say the word and we’ll be there. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I smiled weakly. “I feel safer because of you. I just need to remember how to feel like me again.”

Carlos came over, cupping my cheek briefly. “Call us. Even if you just need to hear someone breathe.”

I let out a watery laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Still true though,” Max muttered, and we all laughed, just for a second. It felt good.

A knock on the door broke the moment. I moved to open it, and there she was — oversized hoodie, sunglasses, and a messy bun. “Are you ready for your dramatic escape from reality?”

“You have no idea,” I said, hugging her tightly.

Behind me, the boys stood at the doorway like I was heading off to war.

“I’ll be back,” I promised. “I just need some time.”

“You better come back,” Lando muttered. “Or we’re burning the lake house down.”

“Good luck finding it,” She called over her shoulder as we walked to her car. “GPS gives up halfway in.”

I looked back one last time. Max gave me a thumbs up. Carlos blew a kiss. Lando mouthed call me with way too much drama.

—

f1gossipgirls

325,037 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Leclerc was seen leaving Max Verstappen’s apartment complex with her best friend, @/yourbff. The two were later seen boarding a private jet at a local airport. Seems as if she maybe did not know about the adoption news.

—

view 52,974 other comments.

username0 : she went to max’s apartment… that’s her safe place. oh she really didn’t know 😭

username5 : if charles wasn’t the one who told her and she found out from the internet i’m gonna SCREAM

username8 : this whole situation is SICK. media needs to back OFF. she’s not a storyline, she’s a human.

username15 : the second max got involved i knew it was serious. he’s not the “let me comfort you” type unless it’s life-shattering.

username20 : i hope whoever leaked this steps on legos for eternity. she deserved to hear it from her family 

—

third person pov

“Max, she’s with you?” Charles’s voice was sharp, disbelief mixed with panic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a brief pause before Max spoke calmly, carefully. “She was, yeah. But she left a little while ago. Said she needed to clear her head.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, his voice cracking. “Clear her head? Max, she’s my sister. She’s been hit hard by all this. I should be the one helping her.”

Max took a steady breath. “I get that. But right now, she needs space from everyone—even us. She’s processing all of this in her own way. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

Charles’s voice softened, desperation seeping in. “I just want to be there for her. She can’t go through this alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Max said firmly. “We’re all here, waiting. Trust me—when she’s ready, she’ll reach out.”

Charles exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm inside. “Okay. I just hope she knows that.”

“She knows.”

—

yn_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lando & 4,009,001 others.

yn_leclerc : mind over matter.

tagged : yourbff & olliebearman

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user has disabled comments on this post.

—

—

I was curled up on the oversized couch in a hoodie that swallowed me whole, sipping lukewarm tea, when I heard the front door open.

Her voice rang out, sing-song and suspiciously cheerful. “I brought someone who’s guaranteed to cheer you up!”

I groaned into my cup. “Unless it’s a French bulldog or a bottle of wine, I do not care.”

“Nope,” she grinned, walking into the living room. “Better.”

Footsteps. A second pair. A familiar pair.

“Hey, sunshine.”

I looked up—and nearly dropped my mug.

“Ollie?!”

He was standing in the doorway with that crooked grin and warm eyes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he belonged here more than I did.

Before I could say anything else, I was on my feet and running straight into his arms. He caught me easily, arms wrapping tightly around my waist as he lifted me off the ground and spun me once, laughing. “There she is,” he murmured into my hair.

I squeezed him tighter, trying to blink away the sudden sting in my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“She bribed me with baked goods,” he said teasingly, setting me down but not letting go. “Also, you didn’t answer any of my texts, which was very rude.”

I laughed into his chest. “Sorry. Been a little busy having an identity crisis.”

“Well,” he said, gently pulling back to look at me, “you still look like my favorite person.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully. “You’re so annoying.”

“Still made you smile.”

(your bff) appeared in the doorway with two mugs and a proud little smirk. “I know my girl.”

And she really did.

—

The sun warmed my skin and the fresh lake breeze tangled through my hair as the boat cut smoothly through the calm water. I sat close to Ollie, his hand resting gently over mine, fingers lacing naturally like they’d known each other forever. Somehow, everything felt easy here — no pressure, no noise, just quiet moments that spoke louder than words.

Ollie’s smile was soft and a little shy, the kind that made my heart flutter without me even realizing. Every so often, his eyes would catch mine, and that quiet look between us said everything I needed to hear.

At one point, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light but sent warmth straight to my chest. I leaned into it without hesitation, resting my head against his shoulder. The steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek was the most comforting thing I’d felt in a long time.

“Perfect day, huh?” he whispered, voice low and steady.

I smiled against his skin. “The best.”

We spent the afternoon drifting in and out of conversation — silly jokes, quiet dreams, shared secrets. I loved how he listened like every word mattered, and how he made me laugh even when my chest still felt heavy.

As the sun started to dip lower, painting the sky with soft oranges and pinks, Ollie pulled me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I curled in, feeling safe, warm, and more hopeful than I had in weeks.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I smiled, heart swelling. “So are you.”

And in that golden light, with the water shimmering around us, it felt like maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to 

—

Ollie and I stood at the edge of the boat, the water shimmering invitingly below us. I couldn’t resist — a sly grin spread across my face.

With a quick push, I tried to catch him off guard and send him splashing into the water. But instead of falling alone, Ollie grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down with him. We both tumbled beneath the surface, laughing as we surfaced together, water dripping from our hair.

He looked at me with that familiar, warm smile, eyes twinkling in the fading light. “Guess we’re both swimming now,” he said, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face.

Before I could answer, he leaned in, and our lips met — soft, warm, and perfect. The world around us disappeared, the only thing I could feel was him.

From the shore, I saw her watching us from the porch, a smile tugging at her lips. Knowing she was there, sharing this moment quietly, made it feel even more special.

— 

After our swim and showers, I slipped into one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts. It was soft and warm, and still smelled faintly of him—like a little bubble of comfort I could hold onto. The sleeves swallowed my hands completely, making me feel small and safe, like a kid again.

I made my way back to the living room where Ollie was already waiting for me. His eyes softened when he saw me, and without saying a word, he reached out and pulled me gently into his arms. I leaned against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the kind of calm I hadn’t felt in a long time.

We settled onto the couch, me resting my head on his shoulder while his fingers traced lazy, soothing circles on my arm. The silence between us was warm, like a quiet sanctuary from all the noise and chaos I’d been swimming through.

After a while, Ollie’s voice broke the stillness, quiet and gentle. “Hey… if you want to talk, I’m here. About everything. Whenever you’re ready.”

I hesitated for a moment, scared of what might come out, but looking up at him—so patient, so steady—I felt a crack in my walls. Maybe it was okay to open up.

“It’s just… everything’s different now,” I started, voice barely above a whisper. “I always thought I knew who I was—where I belonged. But now… this news, it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. Like the family I thought I had was just a story. I’m scared, Ollie. Scared of losing them, scared of losing myself.”

He tightened his arms around me as if to keep me from drifting away. “You’re not losing yourself. You’re just figuring out who you really are. And that’s okay.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing. “I don’t even know how to be ‘me’ anymore. How do you keep going when everything you thought was true suddenly feels like a lie?”

Ollie brushed a damp strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my temple softly. “One step at a time. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and so are all the people who care about you. You’ll find your way, I promise.”

I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. For the first time in days, the panic in my chest eased, replaced by something like hope. Wrapped in his arms, with his steady warmth holding me together, I felt like maybe I could breathe again.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He smiled against my hair. “Always.”

—

It had been a week and a half since we escaped to the quiet calm of my best friend’s lakeside house. The kind of place where the wind whispered instead of screamed, and the days bled into one another with the softness of a watercolor painting. It had been healing—slowly, painfully, but healing all the same.

Ollie and I were lying on the porch swing that overlooked the still, glittering water. My head was on his chest, and his fingers absentmindedly combed through my hair, lulling me into that rare space between peace and thought. The sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, casting everything in this golden, aching kind of light.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I thought about ignoring it. But something in my chest tugged at me.

When I saw her name—Alexandra—my heart twisted.

I sat up a little straighter and looked at Ollie. “It’s Alex.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just brushed his thumb across my knee and gave a gentle nod. “Answer it, love.”

With a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, bébé.” Her voice was soft, tentative, but unmistakably her. “I didn’t want to push or intrude… but I just—God, I needed to hear your voice.”

The moment I heard her, really heard her, something in me cracked open. My eyes welled up before I even said a word.

“Hi,” I whispered back, my voice breaking slightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” She exhaled like she’d been waiting days just for this. “Are you okay? No pressure to answer that honestly.”

I laughed, watery and sad. “I don’t know. Some days I feel okay. Some days I feel like I’m just floating above myself.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“I was wondering,” she said softly, “if maybe… you’d think about coming back. Just to talk. Not to fix everything, not unless you want to. But… I think your brothers would sleep again if they could just hug you. And I—” her voice cracked, “I want to hug you too. I hate not having you near.”

Tears spilled freely now, and I didn’t bother wiping them. “Did you know?” I asked, almost in a whisper. “About the adoption?”

The pause that followed felt like a century.

“…Yes,” she said quietly. “But not until after I’d already fallen in love with you as my little sister. And I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t mine to tell. God, YN, I wanted to so many times. But your family wanted to wait until the moment was right. They never wanted it to be like this. Never.”

I closed my eyes. I believed her. Somehow, it didn’t make it hurt less, but it made the ache a little less lonely.

“I don’t know if I can look them in the eyes,” I admitted. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“You don’t have to decide that today,” she said. “But just know that you are still their sister. You are still loved beyond reason. And I love you. Always.”

I felt Ollie’s hand find mine, our fingers lacing together tightly. I glanced at him, and he gave me the softest look—patient, steady.

“I’ll come back,” I said finally. “Not today. But soon. I think I owe myself that much.”

“I’ll be there,” Alexandra said, her voice thick with emotion. “Whatever you need.”

After we hung up, I just sat there, the ache still swirling under my skin—but now there was warmth with it.

Ollie squeezed my hand. “When you go… if you want me there, I’ll be there. Right next to you.”

I turned to him, eyes glassy. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He smiled, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Just being your perfect self.”

—

yn_leclerc added two posts to her story!

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{caption 1 : last day on the lake 😰} {caption 2 : when he knows your smoothie order by heart, he’s a keeper}

alexandrasaintmleux : i am so excited to see you. i will be there for whatever you need.

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—

I don’t know how long I stood there in front of the door—my door, technically. My childhood home. The place where I took my first steps, where I spent holidays and birthdays and Sunday mornings in pajamas too big for me, dancing around to whatever song Maman had playing. And now it just… looked different. But Alexandra opened it before I had a chance to knock.

“Mon bébé,” she whispered, eyes already misting as she pulled me into the tightest hug. Her arms wrapped around me like a life jacket, like if she just held tight enough, everything would rewind and be okay again. I melted into her, head buried in her shoulder, her soft scent grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I missed.

“You came back,” she murmured, brushing a hand through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t come alone.”

Behind me, Ollie stood close, his hand finding mine without hesitation. “She’s not doing this by herself,” he said gently, his thumb tracing soft circles over my knuckles.

And then came the footsteps. Lando, Carlos, and Max flanked us with a kind of quiet strength, each of them unreadable but exuding this palpable energy like: If anyone says the wrong thing, they’ll deal with us first. The house felt heavier with every step I took inside.

Charles stood in the living room, pacing. Arthur by the window, looking tense. Lorenzo and Maman were already seated on the couch, stiff and silent. I felt like a stranger in a house full of people who used to know me better than I knew myself. No one said anything for a moment. And then I spoke.

“You all knew,” I said, my voice somehow steady despite the tornado inside me. “All of you. And none of you told me.”

Charles took a step forward, but I held up a hand. “Let me finish.”

I looked around, taking in their faces.

“I don’t care about the fact that I’m adopted. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is that I had to find out from strangers. From a tabloid. I had to read about it, with the whole world watching me fall apart. And not one of you thought I deserved to know before that.”

“YN—” Arthur tried, but his voice cracked.

“I deserved the truth,” I said quietly. “I deserved that much.”

My voice broke on the last word, and Ollie’s grip on my hand tightened as he pulled me closer to him.

“I wanted to be angry,” I whispered. “I am angry. But I also love you. And that makes everything worse.”

Lorenzo’s voice came next. “We didn’t want to hurt you. We were waiting for… the right time.”

“There’s never a right time for something like this,” I replied. “You were just scared. And maybe I would’ve been, too. But I needed you to trust me with this part of my story. And now I don’t even know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

Max shifted behind me, clearing his throat. “She came to us because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not on her. That’s on you.”

Silence. Alexandra crossed the room and placed a hand on Charles’ arm. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, eyes rimmed red. “I tried,” he said hoarsely. “So many times. But every time I looked at you, I saw the little girl who used to sneak cookies into my room and make up dances with Maman in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped smiling like that.”

“You weren’t,” I told him softly. “Lying was.”

He winced like I’d hit him.

Carlos spoke gently from the side, “You can be mad. You should be. But you’re still loved, and you’re still you. Nothing changes that.”

Lando stepped forward, hand briefly on my shoulder. “We’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Arthur finally moved from the window, coming to kneel in front of me. “I know I’ve joked with you, teased you, been the dumb older brother… but I’ve always, always loved you like my own blood. That part was real. It still is.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came like a storm—hot, aching, full of everything I’d bottled up. I sank into Ollie’s arms as he held me, steady and quiet. No judgment. Just warmth. Familiar. Safe. And slowly, one by one, the others joined. Alexandra wrapped her arms around both of us. Then Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But for the first time since everything fell apart, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we could start putting the pieces back together.

—

I didn’t say anything when Maman gently reached for my hand and led me toward the garden. The sun was low, casting golden light across the patio where I used to sit with a juice box and coloring books. Everything looked the same. Except me. We sat down in the chairs across from each other. She didn’t let go of my hand.

“I used to sit here with you,” she said softly, “when you were so small I could still carry you up to bed after you fell asleep.”

I smiled faintly. “I remember.”

She sighed, eyes misty. “You were so full of light, ma chérie. Still are. And when you came into our lives, I thought I was prepared to love you. But what I didn’t know is that you’d teach me how to love differently. Fiercely. Selflessly. You didn’t come from me, but I chose you. Every day.”

Tears blurred my vision. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked at me, eyes wide with sadness and guilt. “Because I was scared that if you knew, even a small part of you might believe that you didn’t belong. That you weren’t a Leclerc. That you weren’t mine.”

I let out a shaky breath. “But I felt it anyway. I felt the distance growing for years. After Papa died… I didn’t feel like I had a place anymore.”

She squeezed my hand tightly, her voice cracking. “That was never my intention. I lost your father and I clung to your brothers, because I knew I had to keep the family together. And in doing so… I failed you. I let you feel alone in a house full of people who loved you.”

I stared down at our linked hands. “I think a part of me always knew. But I wanted someone to say it out loud.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”

And when she leaned over and pulled me into her arms, I let myself collapse into her. For a moment, I wasn’t angry or confused or lost. I was just her daughter. That was enough.

—

Later, after Maman went inside, I found Charles and Arthur sitting quietly in the living room. They looked up like I was the only person in the world who could either break them or put them back together. And I felt it — that ache of being their little sister again. Of wanting to crawl onto the couch and be safe between them.

I sat down. Silence fell again.

“I always looked up to you two,” I said, my voice small. “I wanted to be like you. Brave like Arthur. Thoughtful like Charles. And when things got hard, I watched how the two of you carried each other through it. But I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be carried. Like I had to be strong on my own.”

Arthur looked like he wanted to cry. Charles already was.

“I thought if I worked hard enough, if I was quiet and impressive and good enough… I could belong, even if something about me always felt different.”

Charles reached for my hand first. “You never had to earn your place. You had it. Always.”

Arthur nodded, voice low. “And we should’ve told you. Fought harder. We were just—”

“Scared,” I whispered. “I know.”

A beat passed. Then Charles moved closer, pulling me gently into his side like he would when I’d fall asleep on the plane rides.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmured, holding me close. “You’re my sister. Blood or not. You’re mine.”

Arthur wrapped an arm around my legs and rested his chin on my knee. “And you’re stuck with me, forever. Even if I annoy you. Especially then.”

I laughed through my tears. “You both annoy me.”

Charles kissed the side of my head. “Good. That means you’re feeling something again.”

And for the first time in weeks, I did.

—

yn_leclerc

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yn_leclerc : happier than ever <3 (fuck everyone that had part in the leak) (you all will be hearing from my lawyers very soon)

tagged : arthur_leclerc, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, charlotte2304, olliebearman, lando and carlosssainz55

–

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maxverstappen1 : my girl. so proud of you. also— ollie, care to come over for a chat? 😁

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pierregasly : proud of you, ma belle. love you

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carlossainz55 : can’t believe charles stole my thunder and gave the big brother speech on his own 🙄

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↳ charles_leclerc : you do realize she is my actual sister, right?

↳ yn_leclerc : charles he was so excited to act all big and mean and you stole it right out from under him.

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—

[a-lonely-dunedain]

looking through my old posts and found this one again. Shoutout to Tossdir for being so aromantic that he changed the narrative! That was very cool and based of him.

y'know the funny thing I just realized the other day? Tossdir is a relatively new OC right, before he was around I figured I would just give Ethedis/Corunir's story a bittersweet ending, with her never getting into the human afterlife but them resolving to make the most of what little time they had together and be as happy as they could in spite of it. Then when Tossdir, her best friend, came along, I was like "no. this is too sad to let her be separated from both of them. she's GOING to the human afterlife so help me"

Anyway I just think it's funny and very cool that it was the power of friendship, not love, that changed Ethedis' fate

[hearts4mica]

Darling never grow up

Imagine l Jon looking up to Batsis like an older sister and her reciprocating and Damian not liking sharing his sister.

Platonic! Jon Kent and batsis

Masterlist Part 2 Here!

———————————————————————————

——————————————————————————— The first time Jon went to the Wayne Manor was after school. Alfred drove them home to “do a proyect” to hang out.

The first time Jon met you was in the kitchen where you were grabbing some ice cream.

———————————————————————————

You felt someone watching you, so you turned around expecting that someone to be Damian cause that person was silent but when you turned around-

It was a small child well not that small- a short child around Damian’s age.

He looked at you. He had big blue eyes, he was staring directly into your soul. Just like those people with blue eyes do, he had a baby face.

You had never seen him in your whole life.

“Hello there uhm what is your name hun?” You ask curiously.

Was he another child Bruce adopted?

“Im Jon! Damian’s bff- ‘BFF’ means Best Friend Forever if case you didn’t know!” He said excitedly.

Wow. He was a really extroverted kid quite the opposite of Damian he reminded you somehow to Dick. Big blue eyes, extroverted- maybe being extroverted was a rule to have blue eyes?

In Jon’s side well he had never met you before. He didn’t even know that Damian had an older sister! He only knew his brothers.

You blink you didn’t know Damian had friends. Not in a mean way obviously but he always seemed so closed about this subject.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you Jon. Are you perhaps looking for Damian?”

“Nope just looking for water!” He answered happily.

“Oh well let me help you then”.

———————————————————————————

In that moment Jon decided that he was adopting you as his older sister.

———————————————————————————

Some time after Jon flew home, you went into Damian’s room.

He was laying down on his bed reading some random book he probably stole from Jason.

“Soo?” you ask with a small smile on your face

“So what?” [name] be specific.” He says in a bored tone not taking his eyes off his book.

“You have a friend! Dami you listened to my advice! Im soo happy for you” you throw yourself onto his bed and hug him.

He sighs annoyedly and hugs you back. You knew he wasn’t annoyed tho. He loved you as much as you loved him

“It’s not a big deal-“ “Yes it is Dami! Now tell me everything!”

“You’re as annoying as Grayson when he found out”

“So everyone already knew but me?!- oh! my poor heart!”

———————————————————————————

The next time Jon came over was for a sleepover.

_________________________________________

There was a knock on the door. You were the closest to the door so you went to open it.

There was Jon wearing his superman pajamas holding a small plushie and a blanket, you let him into the Manor and welcome him.

You tell him that Damian is currently showering so he decides to hang out with you in the meantime.

“So how’s school Jon?”

“It’s really good! And everyone is nice and teachers teach well and- lunch is well eateable i guess” he starts rambling but you don’t mind he somehow reminds you of your brothers

“Im glad you like school” “Yeah me too!”

“Jon what are you doing here?” Damian walks into the room wearing his themed pajamas Dick bought for him.

“Oh im just hanging out with [name]! Telling her sbout school and teachers and food and work an-“

“yeah okay we get it Jon let’s go we have things to do” Damian grabs Jon’s hand and drags him to his room

“Bye [name]!” He frantically waves his hand goodbye.

———————————————————————————

“Your sister is really nice Damian! I really like her!”

“Mhm”

“Why didn’t you tell me like ever you had a sister! We could share sisters?!- i mean i don’t have one but yeah why don’t you share?”

“Share? What?- No.”

“No what?”

“I am not sharing my sister Jon.”

“Why not?!” Jon pouts

“She is my sister get one yourself!”

“Sharing is caring!”

“I don’t care for you”.

“So not true! We are BFF’s”

———————————————————————————

The next time he comes over to the Wayne Manor he brings you a small gift

———————————————————————————

“Hello [name]! I made this for you!” He gives you a small bracelet that said ‘Sis KW’.

“What does Sis KW mean Jon?”

“It mean Sister Kent Wayne!”

“Oh?- That’s really cute Jon! Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes i did” he says seeming really proud of his creation.

“Sister Kent Wayne?!” Damian grabs the bracelet “Jon! she is my sister! Not yours you idiot!

“Damian don’t be rude! I already have 4 brothers 1 more wouldn’t make a big difference!.” Grabs the bracelet back. “Its a nice gesture. Thank you Jon i’ll definitely wear it.”

Jon smiles “Thanks [name] you’re the best!.”

“Jon . A word.”

———————————————————————————

“You can’t give my sister a bracelet! And even less one that says Sister Kent Wayne! And you dare to put the W of Wayne on the second place! After Kent?!”

“Why not? It’s not like it says [name] Kent! I added Wayne there!”

“Because she is not your sister!”

“Three words! IDC!”

“Those are letters!”

“IDC!”

———————————————————————————

Reposts, comments and likes are appreciated!

Requests are open!

Masterlist

Part 2

———————————————————————————

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your hair flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her child, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[reidrum]

under the mistletoe

note: happy first day of reidrumas! a nice little munch!spencer to keep you warm <3

summary: in which penelope uses a plant to get her friends together, or the time you find yourself under the mistletoe with spencer

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy kissing, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fem!reader, reader wears a dress and heels

wc: 2.8k

12 days of reidrumas

The annual BAU Christmas Party became an accord Penelope headed all on her own, and was a job she took very seriously. The amount of times the team had been called away on a case near or on a major holiday is too sad a number to count, so whenever there was certainty that there would be no case or bureau event, Penelope went all in.

That is, on David Rossi’s credit card, of course.

Light up sleighs and reindeers adorned the front lawn of Rossi’s mansion, of which was decorated with red ribbons and twinkle lights galore. The silhouette of the biggest Christmas tree you think you’d ever seen was illuminated in the window as you approached the front, rubbing clammy hands down the sides of your dress.

You don’t even know why you’re so nervous, just that you are. While it had been some time since you had joined the team and you have definitely had some fun nights out with them, the nerves never get easier to deal with when you know a certain genius will be in your presence.

It seemed everyone knew of your crush on Spencer except the man himself. The way your face heats up when you’re near him, the words tripping over each other as you try to speak, somehow are not dead giveaways to him. If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t mention it, and you don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

A call of your name from the bottom of the stairs grabs your attention, and you see none other than Spencer coming up the stairs to meet you. He straightens out his sweater and looks at all of you, “You look nice.”

Suddenly you forget what words are, “Um…I.. thanks! I just got this, and I thought the antlers would be cute too.” you gesture to the light up headband. 

“They’re really cute.” he smiles and gestures you to walk in, and you’re both ambushed by Penelope immediately.

“You’re here! Oh, you look so cute with your little reindeer antlers,” she gushes, “And Spencer! Looking so dapper!” You both walk down the hallway with her, seemingly leading you to the kitchen when she abruptly stops halfway.

“You’re too cheery. What did you do?” you squint.

“Don’t hate me.”

Your eyebrows raise, “What did you do?”

“Why would we hate you?” Spencer says at the same time.

Penelope pauses, and with a hint of mischief in her voice, “Look up.”

Your eyes trail upwards to the arch of the door you’re both stood in, and there hanging with its leaves and red and white berries tied in ribbon, is of course, mistletoe.

“Penny.” you mumble under your breath. If she heard you she paid no mind, only beaming at you both with her Cheshire cat grin. You look over at poor Spencer, who’s sheepish smile and red cheeks are breaking through his stoic demeanor. 

“Did you know mistletoe in nature is actually poisonous? It’s a parasitic plant that has to grow on other trees in order to survive. But it’s holiday tradition comes from Norse mythology when the son of Odin is killed and his mother is so upset her tears turn into the berries on the plant, as a symbol of her love for him.” Spencer rambles out of nervousness.

“That sounds nice Spence,” Penelope grabs both of your hands and positions you in front of each other in the doorway, “Okay great, I’m sure you know the rules of mistletoe. Now kiss.”

“Penelope.” you lightly chide. Her persistence is a match for no one, there’s no way of getting out.

“You have to, that’s the rule! If you don’t, Christmas will be ruined!” she sighs dramatically.

You blink at her a few times hoping she understands that she’s out of her mind and that it’s a little cruel to put you and Spencer in this situation. This is probably his worst nightmare. He has that thing with germs you remember and you both are merely friends so there’s no way he’d see you like that, yet alone want to kiss you because a plant said you had to.

Spencer clears his throat in front of you, and says with a soft voice, “Well, if it’s going to ruin Christmas…”

Huh. Maybe not as cruel as you think.

You turn your head to meet his eyes, “You’re okay with this?”

He nods sheepishly, “I—I mean I love holidays, and even though I’d never done this part of Christmas, I’d hate to break tradition….”

You look at him with disbelief, but Penelope’s smile could not be wider and she squeals, “Amazing! Okay, I’m ready.”

You both look at her knowingly, and she immediately puts her hands up. “Alright, fine! I can take a hint. But, I want details later, both of you.” she busies herself off in the kitchen.

Spencer turns his body to face you, hands tentatively reaching out to ghost the curve of your hips. His eyes look to you for permission, and with a slight nod he takes purchase, bringing you closer while resting his hands on your sides. You gingerly place your flat palms on his shoulders, and it’s then you realize just how close you both are. His breath fans softly against your face, and even in heels you find yourself rising a bit further to meet his lips.

Just mere milliseconds before your lips meet he whispers with the softest pitch you’ve ever heard, “You sure this is okay?”

You think you give him a nod and a word of approval, but it’s lost as soon as you press your lips onto his with no hesitancy. His hands pull you closer to him, leaning deeper into the kiss. The endorphins run loose before  being corralled immediately as the kiss ends as quickly as it began.

He pulls back and he stares at your puffy lips, lips that are puffy because of him and it’s enough to drive him insane. He needs to find a way to have you like that again, to feel your lips against his again fearless of a watchful eye, to show you that he really doesn’t give a damn for tradition, but would do rituals and ceremonies on end if it meant getting to kiss you like that again.

You’re about to say something when your name is called from the living room, the other girls now noticing your arrival and waving you over to grab a drink. You look between them and Spencer, “I should go,” you say reluctantly, “Find me later?”.

He smiles softly, “I’ll find you later.”

You hesitate before moving, wondering if it’s even a good idea. But you realize you’re already this far deep, so what difference would it make? Your eyes dart between the girls and Spencer once more making sure they’re not looking, and rise to your toes again to kiss his cheek, “See you later, Spence.”

A blush rises to his cheek as he touches the spot with his fingers, watching you walk into the living room. You might be the death of him, he thinks.

—

The party’s gone on, games of white elephant are played and countless wine bottles are scattered around the place. He finds himself in an aimless conversation with Matt and Luke, he thinks they’re talking about some sport, but all Spencer can think about is you and your damn lips.

You’re addictive, he’s come to find. He’s had a taste of the forbidden fruit and now fully empathizes with Eve, thinking if something was as nectarious as you, he’d also have to go to great lengths to get it again.

He excuses himself from the conversation, not caring if they said anything, and goes off to find you. You’re sat on the loveseat with JJ that’s entirely too small for the two of you, but you certainly look comfy wedged into the seat. He circles around the back, resting a hand on your shoulder to let you know of his presence and bending down to whisper in your ear, “Is this a good time to find you?”

You startle a little at the voice, calming once you recognize it to be Spencer. You’re surprised he actually came and found you like he said he would, and by the look of his face it seemed like a determined mission.

“I’d say it is,” you smile up at him, his body looming over you behind the couch. He holds a hand out for you, “I’ll be back, J.” you tell her as you stand up. She looks between you and Spencer and a smug look rises to her face.

“Okay…be safe.” she winks. You groan.

Spencer leads you away from the bustle of the living room and further into the depths of Rossi’s mansion. You both walk side by side, talking aimlessly about anything and everything, grateful to have moments just walking with each other. You push open on a fancy door, revealing a vastly large room but with the same crown modeling as the rest of the place. A three piece couch set rests in the middle, and bookshelves filled with antiques line the walls.

You’re intrigued by the telescope pointed out the window, bending down to look through it. Spencer looks up from the book he’s holding on the other side of the room and watches you. You’re ethereal, the moonlight casting a soft glow on your figure making you look like an angel from above. You gaze through the lens to look at the stars, and he can’t help but wonder how lucky he is to have you in front of him and not in the sky with the rest of them.

“Can I confess something?”

You straighten your back and turn around, eyes widening, “Um, sure.”

“Nothing scary, I promise,” he reassures.

“That’s not concerning.”

He takes a deep breath, “I had an ulterior motive, when I came to find you.”

Your brows furrow nervously, “What do you mean?”

“No no, I meant it, it’s nothing bad,” he confesses, “I just… really wanted to kiss you again.”

Oh. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else?” he chuckles.

You stammer, “W—Well, I just wasn’t sure…”

He nods and slowly walks to you, “Would that be okay?”

You look up at him and see that he’s so close again. The waft of his cologne invades your senses. His hair is long again, you told him once he looked good with long hair and he hasn’t so much as looked at some scissors since then. The ends of his curls tickle your forehead when his head dips, lips mere nanometers away.

“Yeah.” you barely muster an audible whisper.

The corners of his lips twitch, “Yeah?” he says in the same pitch, leaning even closer.

“Please.”

His lips press to yours again for the second time this night, and he kisses you with a fervor you couldn’t comprehend. He brings one hand up to cradle the back of your head, padding the impact as he uses the other to back you against the wall. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging on the roots that makes him fold even more into you.

Kisses travel down the side of your neck to the nape, and he spends time littering the area with lovebites. The soft gasps that leave your mouth only spur him on, but it’s not nearly enough for him.

“Sweetheart,” he pants between kisses, “Need to—fuck—need to taste you, please. Can I?

Your blown out eyes meet his, and it wasn’t even an option to say no when he was begging you so desperately, “Yeah, yes, please.”

His hand snakes through the slit on your dress, tracing the edges of your panties and grinning when he hears your breath hitch. He toys with the edge some more before dipping a finger below the band, never touching you where you really need him but getting awfully close.

“Spence..” you whine.

He groans, “Fuck, you sound so pretty saying my name and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He puts you out of your misery when he finally drags the pad of his index to the bundle of nerves at your center, tracing light circles that draw the prettiest moans he’s ever heard.

You grip his forearms for more stability, feeling your legs turn to jelly. Spencer sees your struggle and wraps an arm around your waist, “I got you, pretty girl it’s okay.” A few more minutes of teasing you and marking you relentlessly and he decides you’re okay enough for him to stand on your own, so he can sink to his knees in front of you.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he crouches down, making sure you’re okay every step of the way. His finger is still tracing a line from your clit to your entrance, the wet line seeping through your panties. He bunches up your dress and silently gestures to you to hold it, and steadies his hands on either side of your hips. He presses chaste kisses up your thighs, your breath getting heavier with each one closer to your center. The delirium hits an all time high when he presses a firm kiss to your core.

Skilled fingers hook your panties to the side, revealing you in all your glistening glory, “Look at you,” he marvels hoarsely, “that all for me?”

You nod fast, “Yes, yes Spence please.” you whine out, you’d sound like you were in pain if it were anyone else.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, don’t do that. I’m gonna take care of you, promise.” he coos, calming your pleas, “Come on, leg on my shoulder.”

The new angle opens you up beautifully for him and he can’t help himself when he leans in and swipes a tentative tongue through your folds, satisfied when he hears the sound of a guttural moan leave you.

You immediately slam your hand over mouth as he taunts, “Careful sweetheart, can’t be too loud or someone’s gonna walk in.”

You try to keep your moans and whimpers to a minimum as he continues eating you out like a man depraved, like all he was meant for on this earth was to be between your legs. He prods a finger around your entrance and slowly slips it in, you whimper and clamp your fingers into his hair tugging tightly.

Spencer groans into you at the feeling, and adds another finger swiftly moving them in and out. You’re getting close, he can feel it from the way you clench around his fingers, unable to stop himself from thinking about how you’d feel clenching around him.

“Ah—I’m….I’m close.” you whimper.

He speeds up ever so slightly, “Yeah? Okay angel, you can let go, it’s okay.”

Soon your climax washes over you, with you gripping his hair tightly and his fingers never faltering as he rides you through it. He slows down his pace as you come down before gently taking them out and giving you one last lick through your folds before standing up.

You yelp but it’s quickly muffled by him kissing you again. He feels you smile into the kiss and matches you before you both start giggling and pull away.

He can hear the smile in your voice when you rest your forehead on his shoulder, “That was…”

An arm wraps around you again to hold stable, “Good, I hope?”

You press a soft kiss at the base of his neck, “Really good. I guess we have to thank Penny now.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

“I may have been the one to tell her to put some mistletoe up.” He confesses sheepishly.

“You told her? S—So you could…like…” you ramble.

“So I would have a chance to kiss you, yes.”

You get real shy in front of him as if he wasn’t on his knees for you five minutes ago, “That’s really sweet…you could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to! But I thought you might not feel the same way because I notice how you are around me and I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but then Penelope told me you felt the same and I just figured one of us had to pull the bandaid off.”

You smile shyly, “I get nervous around you, because I really really like you.” you quietly admit.

He pulls you close into his chest, kissing your forehead softly, “Well that’s good then, because I really really like you too.”

Penelope is obviously over the moon when she finds out, giddy as can be knowing her two best friends are now together. What she doesn’t tell you, is how she sends the mistletoe to a preservation company to be pressed and framed. She’s just preparing to have the best gift ever to bring to your wedding.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Shave ‘Em Dry

Annalise ‘Annie’ Moreau Moore x Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

Warnings: Smut, Knife play, sensory deprivation kink, crime, dirty talk, spanking, cruel!Smoke, rough sex, sassy!Annie, NSFW 18+ CONTENT, mentions of Hoodoo. AU Sinners.

Summary: the Smoke–Stack Twins are rising to the heights of the southern gangway after murdering an OG they worked for in Clarksdale. The Twins decided to rob a known bank in Arkansas, and things turn bloody. Meanwhile, Smoke’s new wife, Annie, is left wondering when her husband will return home. She knows he’s safe, but his criminal behavior already put him in jail for seven years! She’s sick and tired of it! Ain’t no pearls and bags of money enough to make her happy.

Part One

Annie was born into a line of powerful women. Her grandmother, Miss Letha, was known in Baton Rouge as a midwife and seer. Her mother, Celestine Moreau, was a traveling healer and conjure woman, moving through the river towns and Deep South communities offering her skills. Celestine didn’t just pass down tools—she passed down the memory of power, oral traditions, and spirit-led work.

Annie learned rootwork in childhood, helping grind herbs, fold petitions, tend crossroads altars, and gather graveyard dirt respectfully. After her mother died when Annie was in her late teens, Annie traveled for several years, learning from different practitioners in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. She returned seasoned, powerful, and revered—a woman people now call ‘priestess,’ though Annie doesn’t claim the title herself.

Smoke is Annie’s first.

Not just sexually—but spiritually tied. She grew up watching him from a distance, knowing he was dangerous and fine and not meant for her, until one day he became hers anyway.

Their love is carved in survival and fire. She held him when he came back from war, shaking and hollow. When the world felt like ash in his mouth, she was the one who reminded him how to breathe again.

Smoke had his twin brother, Stack—blood, bone, ride-or-die.

But Annie?

She was the home he came back to.

The place no man, no battlefield, no ghost could take from him.

Their bond runs deep but not smooth. They fight. A lot. But every word flung is a tether. Every wound bleeds red, but it binds them tighter.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“Then love me harder.”

Annie knew Elijah Moore before he became Smoke. Before the war, before the blood, before the prison. She knew him when they were both just poor Black Southern kids, raised hard and fast, picking cotton under the sun, running wild in the same dirt fields.

He had that quiet fire even then—the kind of stare that made grown men nervous, and women lean closer without knowing why.

She loved him before he had anything.

Before the guns.

Before the name.

Before the ghosts.

They married before he went away, ensuring to remain bound. He’d kissed her hand in the sugarcane rows and whispered:

“You wait for me, Annie. I’ll come back different.”

Elijah and Elias got locked up in 1925 for robbing a bootlegger, pistol-whipping him, and stealing crates of liquor meant for white hands only. They were twenty-five. Poor. Desperate. Tired of being broke and owned.

Annie had lost hope.

They went down for seven years—hard labor, chain gang, Red River stone quarries. The prison work that killed men slowly.

But Annie never stopped waiting.

And she didn’t just wait, she worked. To get that hope back. Even when she felt their love slipping through the floorboards beneath her feet.

She lit candles every Thursday. The day they were sentenced.

She made him a mojo bag and kept them in her drawer, feeding them with oil, tears, and blood on the new moon.

She buried a lock of Elijah’s hair in her backyard, tied to a coffin nail and a red thread, chanting:

“He ain’t gon’ break. He ain’t gon’ bow.

My man’s comin’ back whole somehow.”

She paid conjure women from Memphis for bone dust, war water, and secret psalms. She left food at crossroads. She carried the burden of belief every time no letter came, no word arrived.

And when she dreamed of blood, she’d burn sulfur and scream his name at the river.

“Don’t you die in that place, Elijah Moore. You don’t leave me here in this world alone.”

When the twins stepped off that prison bus, Annie could sense a change. Especially in Elijah. He was still her man, but he wasn’t the same.

He smiled when he saw her. He kissed her like nothing else mattered. But his eyes were sharper. His hands twitched more. He slept with a revolver under the mattress and didn’t talk about the nights he didn’t sleep at all.

He was happy to be free, yes.

But he was hungry—not just for her body, but for power.

“I ain’t goin’ back to the fields,” he said, “Ain’t breakin’ my back for pennies while somebody else eats.”

She understood. She did.

But she felt it, too—something new growing in him. Something wild. Something cold.

Smoke refused to return to sharecropping. He didn’t give a damn about quotas.

“I did time already. I ain’t gon’ do no more for a white man with a whip made of math.”

He’d rather run numbers. Hustle dice. Take money instead of beg for it.

And Stack?

Stack was the dreamer. The smooth talker. The one who’d sit on the porch at sundown and say:

“We could be kings, Eli. I’m talkin’ juke joints, backroom whiskey, heat in our pockets. We don’t gotta stay broke. We just gotta be bold.”

Smoke believed him.

And Annie?

She saw the road rising ahead of them like a snake stretched out in sunlight.

As their lives turned sharper, Annie’s magic deepened.

She started pulling cards more often.

Worked candle divinations.

Slept with a bowl of water at her bedside to catch visions.

She saw Smoke’s shadow stretching too far. She saw Stack’s eyes turning toward her in moments he didn’t mean to. Her own face, caught between love and sacrifice.

She asked the spirits, “Can I keep him safe and still love him right?”

They answered only with smoke and silence.

Smoke began to believe that money was the only real magic.

“Ain’t no root in the world stronger than a fistful of green,” he argued, “Money make men live longer. Make cops look away. Make white folks call you ‘sir.’”

Annie disagreed.

“Money don’t stop bullets. Don’t stop curses. Don’t stop grief.”

She never backed down. Not once.

“But I do,” she whispered, “Me and the spirits.”

And so began the quiet rift—not a betrayal, but a difference in faith.

Smoke chased control.

Annie conjured protection.

They loved each other with their whole bodies. But they were walking parallel paths, barely keeping touch at the fingertips.

The OG: Clifton “Cleve” Ray.

Born in 1882 in the swamps near Yazoo, Mississippi. His mother was a seamstress. His father, a violent gambler who vanished after a card game gone bad. Cleve grew up in juke joints and gambling houses, running whiskey before he could shave. He watched white bootleggers get rich and vowed to carve his own piece of the underworld, no matter the blood price.

Came to Clarksdale in his twenties. Cleve started small. Dice games in alleys, cheap moonshine in tin cups, a stolen pistol under his coat. By 1915, he had three businesses laundering his income, two women fronting brothels for him, and lawmen on his payroll.

“Rule one,” he told his men, “Don’t get caught without money for bail. Rule two: Don’t get caught twice.”

He earned the name ‘Cleve’ from how he ‘cleaved’ his enemies: split men open with his switchblade before he could afford a gun.

Cleve wasn’t flashy. He was strategic and calculating.

When Prohibition hit, he expanded his territory. Speakeasies, bootlegging routes, moonshine stills out in Lyon and Rosedale. Had a silver-handled cane he took off a white banker he pistol-whipped after the man tried to short him on a real estate deal. Kept it ever since. He survived gang wars with rival crews in Memphis and Greenville by outsmarting, not outgunning. Paid conjure women for luck. Hired thugs for everything else.

“I ain’t spiritual, but I don’t play with spirits.”

Cleve first heard of the Moore boys while they were still in prison.

Word came through his contacts. Two brothers, sharp as blades, fresh from a seven-year stretch for robbing a bootlegger. When they were released, he kept tabs on them. Watched how Smoke moved in silence, and Stack smiled like sin and gold.

Their first interaction came at one of Cleve’s backroom dice games. Stack cleaned the table with loaded charm. Smoke stayed near the door, back to the wall, watching everything. When one of Cleve’s men accused Stack of cheating, Smoke broke the man’s wrist in a single move.

Cleve just laughed.

“That kind of loyalty’s hard to come by. You young bloods lookin’ for work?”

He offered them muscle and money. Said he’d teach them the game if they kept their heads down. Gave Stack a job running books and ledgers, laundering Cleve’s bootlegging profits through a dry goods store. Gave Smoke control over collections and enforcement —his “left hand” as he called it.

“I made this town,” Cleve spat egotistical, “I’m lookin’ for the ones who’ll inherit it after I’m dead. Not before.”

But it was a lie.

Cleve never intended to share his throne. He believed the twins were tools—young, hungry, and eager. Replaceable.

He underestimated them both.

Stack started getting too slick with the numbers. Made side deals. Took meetings Cleve didn’t authorize. Smoke started earning a reputation of his own— feared, admired. Even the police spoke his name in whispers. Worst of all: a woman. A young, light-skinned Black girl Cleve kept as both his mistress and his prisoner. Annie never knew her—but Smoke saw her.

One night, Smoke helped her escape. Gave her train fare and told her to run fast and far.

Cleve found out days later. Didn’t say a word.

But his smile soured.

Cleve sent the boys to ‘handle a job’—collect from a man who owed him for crates of shine. But it was a trap. The man was already dead. Blood on the walls. A planted pistol with Smoke’s fingerprints. If the law got there first, Smoke would hang.

They left fast.

“You feel that?” Stack asked, “That was a funeral Cleve just wrote for us.”

Smoke said nothing. Just clenched his fists and lit a cigarette.

That night, they cleaned their guns, and they don’t wait.

The next night, they show up at Cleve’s juke joint like nothing’s wrong—dressed sharp, clean, cool.

Stack buys drinks. Laughs with the musicians. Smiles at the bartender.

Smoke disappears into the back with Cleve, supposedly to talk business.

Five minutes later, a single gunshot cracks through the music.

He died the way he lived: with a smirk on his lips and a hole in his chest.

“You boys think you runnin’ this town?” he gasped before he bled out.

Smoke leaned close, voice cold.

“We don’t think. We know.”

When Stack pushes through the door, he finds Smoke standing over Cleve’s body — the silver cane in one hand, the bloody pistol in the other.

“He was gonna kill us,” Smoke says simply, “So I killed him first.”

“You sure?” Stack asks.

“Ain’t gotta be sure. Just gotta live.”

They dump Cleve’s body in the river—cut his face, so no one can ID it too fast.

They take his books, his contacts, his stash. Some of Cleve’s men stay loyal out of fear. Others vanish. The Moore twins move fast—clean up the mess, take over the rackets, and quiet the town with violence.

But Stack knows something’s shifting in Smoke.

He’s not just hungry now. He’s blood-fed.

Cleve’s death didn’t just make space, it created monsters. The Moore twins took the empire, but the violence it took to get it never left them.

And Cleve? His name still hangs over Clarksdale like a ghostly whisper.

Some say his ghost haunts the juke joint they killed him in.

Some say he left a buried stash no one’s found.

Some say he watches from Hell, proud as hellfire of the boys who took his crown.

Meanwhile, Annie feels all of it.

The moment Cleve dies, her altar goes cold. She dreams of smoke, blood, and fire on the riverbank. When Smoke comes home afterward—silent, lips tight, jaw twitching—she knows something’s ended…and something worse has begun.

She works a ritual that night, alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t let my man get drunk on blood. Don’t let him turn into the thing he’s fightin’.”

But the spirits whisper.

You ain’t just holdin’ him. You feedin’ him. You love the fire too…

Even with Cleve’s operation in their hands, they need real capital to grow, to pay bribes, arm up, expand beyond Clarksdale.

Stack says it first.

“We get in, get out. Arkansas bank. Payroll day. No one’s expectin’ us.”

Smoke doesn’t blink.

“Long as I get to pull the trigger if someone flinches.”

Stack studies his brother a long time.

“You gonna like this too much.” Stack said.

“Already do.” Smoke replied.

August 1932. First National Bank. Little Rock, Arkansas.

The country’s neck-deep in the Depression. Banks are failing. Working folks are desperate.

Stack got the location and routine from a woman he seduced—a teller who worked the early shift. He charmed her, watched her movements, and learned the layout. The Plan: Hit the bank just after closing on a Friday. Fewer people, limited staff. They’d come in from out of town dressed as a traveling jazz duo: Stack with his guitar, Smoke carrying a horn case loaded with weapons.

The black Ford Coupe rumbled into Little Rock just past noon, heat shimmering off the pavement. Inside, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore lit a cigarette off the car lighter, dark shades over his eyes, jaw tight. Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice smooth as a psalm.

“Always,” Smoke replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his nose.

They pulled around the side of First National Bank, nestled between a tailor and a tobacco shop downtown. Stack climbed out first, dressed like a traveling bluesman—double-breasted linen suit, guitar case slung over his back. He didn’t give his twin a backwards glance, wanting to get this shit going to avoid getting caught. Stack entered the bank and he tipped his hat at the pretty clerk inside, flashing gold-capped teeth.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. Y’all still takin’ deposits from the Lord’s musicians?”

The teller giggled. He always had a way of making women forget their job. As she chatted him up, Stack’s eyes danced around the lobby. He clocked two guards, an old white banker in the glass office, a sleepy-looking manager, and just three civilians.

Exactly what the girl had described.

Outside, Smoke exited the car with a horn case slung at his side. Not a note of music inside—just a sawed-off shotgun, two pistols, and a soft velvet bag for the cash.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Ain’t no music today,” he growled. “Just business.”

The guards reached, but Smoke moved faster, shotgun raised.

BOOM!

One caught a blast to the shoulder, sent spinning into the marble wall. The other froze, dropped his weapon.

Stack pulled his pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the manager’s head.

“Don’t be stupid. We don’t want your blood. Just your goddamn money.”

Smoke hurled a satchel over the teller counter.

“Fill it. Big bills. No tricks.”

The room fell silent except for the shaky rustle of money being packed into bags.

The vault opened—a stroke of luck, or fear. Inside:

$42,000 in cash. A lockbox of private jewelry, heirloom wedding sets, pearls, uncut stones. Two gold watches, war bonds, silver dollars. Stack lifted a silver cigarette case with engraved initials and smirked.

“Somebody’s daddy gon’ miss this.”

Smoke tossed in a handful of rings and chains, then moved to the front door—watching.

“Two minutes,” he barked, “Clock’s runnin’.”

A new face emerged—a rookie guard, young and dumb, probably just stepped out of the back.

“Freeze!”

He raised a revolver and fired. The bullet clipped Stack’s shoulder—not deep, but enough to piss him off.

Smoke turned and fired once—clean and fast. The guard dropped like a bag of rocks, head against the teller’s counter, blood already spreading across the floor.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, clutching his shoulder.

Blood seeped between his thick fingers. He hissed with pain and a furrow of his sweaty brows.

“He moved first,” Smoke muttered, “He chose.”

The mood shifted. The civilians whimpered. The banker pissed himself.

“We done here,” Smoke snapped, “Load it up.”

Smoke snatched the bag full of the stolen goods, finding it heavier than he expected. Stack glanced over at the Bank Teller, winking at her before rushing out the door behind his twin.

They burst out the back, climbed into the Coupe, and peeled off down 7th Street, tires shrieking.

They didn’t speed at first. Stack insisted on blending in until they hit the outskirts. Once clear of town, Smoke floored it, roaring through the backroads of Arkansas, headed toward Mississippi.

Little Rock to Helena then they crossed the Mississippi River, straight Into Clarksdale by backroads.

They burned their clothes behind an old shack near Tunica, tossed the horn case into the river. Stack’s shoulder was bandaged in silence. Smoke didn’t say much—just kept stroking the mojo bag Annie gave him, the weight of blood settling in his chest.

“We did it,” Stack said finally, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, “Ain’t nobody gon’ stop us now.”

The shack outside Tunica reeked of mildew, soot, and sin. The inside was lit only by the golden hush of late afternoon. Dust floated thick in the still air. Stack sat shirtless on an overturned crate, teeth gritted, a clean bullet hole in his upper shoulder. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burned like hell.

He poured moonshine over it and hissed through his teeth.

“Son of a bitch got lucky. Shoulda aimed lower. Might’ve earned himself another breath.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He was pacing the length of the room, gun still clutched in his hand, knuckles bared. His shirt was streaked with blood—not his own—and his eyes were somewhere else.

“You hear me?” Stack called, “I said I’m fine.”

Smoke didn’t stop pacing. Just grunted.

Stack pulled the bandage tighter, hissing again. He watched his twin from beneath furrowed brows.

“You still mad about the kid?”

Smoke stopped. Looked up. His jaw was clenched, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked.

“He raised his gun,” Smoke said flatly.

“I ain’t sayin’ you was wrong,” Stack replied, “I’m sayin’ you liked it.”

A beat passed. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“You ain’t never killed someone and felt a piece of yourself go quiet? Like you don’t hear the guilt, just the silence after?”

Smoke looked at him then—really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes. Not regret. Not remorse.

“No,” he said, voice low, “When I kill, I feel alive.”

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what scares me.”

Smoke flicked his cigarette out. Turned away. Began peeling off his blood-soaked shirt.

“Don’t get soft on me now.”

“Ain’t soft,” Stack spoke, “I just ain’t ready to burn up with you.”

They didn’t speak again. The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was weight. Blood. The slow slide toward a line they wouldn’t be able to uncross.

Annie sits in the living room of their Delta cottage as dusk settles in, the blues of the evening sky filtering through lace curtains. The quiet is thick and quiet enough that she can hear a cicada’s buzz deep in the swamp. She settles into a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of bittersweet tea flavored with moonflower and honeysuckle. The room hums with roots such as ginger, cedar, and willow, bursting from jars plus the scent of amber and tobacco smoke she’s kept simmering in a small iron bowl.

Years of rootwork have tuned her senses to her husband Elijah and his brother Elias. As she takes a slow sip, she closes her eyes, sinking into a trance. Her breath lengthens, her nostrils flare, and she inhales deeply into the aroma of cedar and smoke. The essence of their presence lives here, in the air she breathed when they were home, the dim corners where they exchanged silent glances, the old oak floorboards that still carry the echo of their boots.

She reaches for a small oyster shell on the table, tracing its edge, and sprinkles a mix of honey, fine ash, and valerian root from a small glass phial. It smolders and curls into smoke. With each rising wisp, she whispers their names.

“Elijah…Elias…” Her voice is soft, barely more than a wind through reeds, “Where are you now? Are you safe?”

In her mind’s eye, she sees two silhouettes creeping low through a moonlit field. Elijah’s broad shoulders leading the way while Elias glided not too far behind. The smoke in the room thickens, shifting like fog on the water. Creepily. Annie watched the swirling vapor, feeling every beat of their hearts, every calculated step, the sound of gunmetal in their fists echoing in her chest. Heavy. Exhausting.

She breathes in their heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm, not frantic. That alone tells her they made it back, that they’re together and safe…for now. A wave of relief floods her, followed by gratitude and a sharp sting of pride. They’d planned this bank job for weeks, she’d helped them in her own way, crossing their paths with root-barns and honey-jars to dull suspicion, layering spells to keep luck on their side.

The room empties of tension, and for a moment, memory and flame flicker across the walls. The risk, the adrenaline, all of it melted away, and yet the ache for Elijah is fresh and raw. She stands, sets the cup down, and moves to the front window. In the distance, the old bayou whispers secrets against the hush of her house.

She whispers again, a blessing this time, brushing a single, feather-soft dandelion seed across the sill. She knows they’ll find it when they cross the threshold, her silent signal that she felt them home. That she carried them in her bones.

And just like that, she waits. She’s attentive, full of love and lingering fear, but anchored by one unshakeable truth.

they’re alive, they’re together, and in her place of roots and spells, she held them safe.

But then something else stirred within her.

Suddenly, her breath stills. Annie’s hands hover midair, eyes half-lidded. She feels it. That tug. That ache of longing. It’s not on her dress. Not on her skin. It burns deeply, right between her ribs. Like someone’s trying to call her by name but can’t speak.

Her lips part, slowly, “He thinkin’ on me…”

She walks to the front porch, standing in the doorway, moonlight draping her like a second skin. Her hips shift, her hand rests just above her belly, and she closes her eyes. The connection flares again. It’s searing hot and steady. Annie knows in her mind’s eye that Elijah’s holding something of hers. Probably that folded black and white photograph with a permanent crease in the center that she gave him the night before his last run, her laughing in her garden, a headscarf tied up high, lips painted beet red. Or maybe it’s more than that.

Something more salacious.

A pair of her bloomers. All silk, soft, still faintly holding her scent or a little strip of textured paper with her name written in his hand, three times over, blood pricked on the corner. Sometimes, when he’s alone, holed up after a job, Smoke’ll light a cigarette and pull out that keepsake bundle. He’ll press her panties to his face, eyes closed, breathing her in deep like she’s gospel and ghost. His hands would shake, not from fear, but want. Ached-up longing. Deep desire. He can’t be away from Annie for too long. It makes him primal. Animalistic.

Each time he touches those things, especially the mojo bag or her panties, Annie feels it. It’s in the curl of her spine. The warmth that spreads low in her belly. The way her heart skips a beat just before the wind kicks up out of nowhere. Sometimes she’ll hum a tune she doesn’t remember choosing. Sometimes her nipples harden without cause.

Sometimes she stands in the garden, barefoot in the dirt, and whispers soft and strong, “Come home to me, Smoke.”

And somewhere out there many miles away, he shifts in his seat or where he stands, rubbing the pouch and swears he can smell jasmine on the air. Because love like theirs? It don’t fade. Not when it’s rooted in hoodoo, blood, and breath.

Tunica was a rural area—mostly cotton fields, juke joints, dirt roads, and poverty, but also rich with blues culture and river trade. It sat in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, soaked in the same heat, ghosts, and gospel Annie knows. Folks might pass through there on the run, looking for work, laying low, or meeting with dangerous people under cover of night.

Fifty miles north of Clarksdale, the house ain’t much. It’s just one long room, patched with old boards, walls damp with river air and regret. A crooked screen door hangs open to the wind. Smoke sits on the edge of a thin mattress, elbows on his knees, his whole body humming with restlessness. Stack is in a different room, sleeping off the exhaustion of hiding out.

A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting shadows across his face like ghosts still lingerin’. His suit jacket hangs from a nail by the door, dripping wet from river water. He’s peeled off everything else but his slacks, sweat slicking his chest, the scent of blackpowder and steel still clinging to his skin.

Laid out in front of him are a bundle of keepsakes, careful as scripture. A pair of Annie’s bloomers, soft, silken, folded like a prayer. A photo of her, creased at the corners and the center, worn thin from being touched too often. Her smile in the picture got sunlight in it. She’s barefoot, garden behind her, one hand on her hip like she owns the whole damn world. Smoke picks up the bloomers first. Brings ’em to his face. Inhales.

Lavender. Honey. All Annie.

His fingers tremble. He ain’t afraid of no lawman, no devil in the swamp. But that feeling in his chest? That’s different. That’s missing her so bad it makes his ribs ache. He leans back, lays flat. One arm drapes across his forehead. The other clutches the mojo bag around his neck, stitched by Annie herself.

Inside that bag is dirt from under their bed, her hair twined with his, dried violet, his name written in red ink three times. Bound magic. Bound love. And he can feel it now. He can feel her. His woman. His wife. Not just memory. Not just longing. Her spirit presses against him like warm breath on his skin.

“You callin’ me, baby?” Smoke whispered low and hoarse.

He swears he hears her hum, all soft like she do when she’s makin’ salve or sweepin’ the front porch at sundown. He closes his eyes, and there she is in his mind, standing under their magnolia tree, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, lips pursed and sheened with lemon balm.

Then her voice, whispered and bold, drifts into the stillness all distant and aching.

Come home to me, Smoke…

He jolts upright, heart slammin’ like a drum. That wasn’t just his imagination. That was her spirit hand reachin’ through miles of swamp and field, tugging on his chest. He grabs the bloomers, kisses them rough, almost angry.

His voice cracked, “You got me out here losin’ my damn mind, woman.”

He presses her photo to his lips next. Then tucks both deep into the inner pocket of his suit jacket like something sacred. Heavy rain pellets hit harder outside. The wind whistles low through the cracks in the boards. He reaches for his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit, not fear. Ain’t no ghost or man could touch him while he carries her.

“I’m comin’, Annie. I ain’t stayin’ out here no more.” He spoke in a hushed voice soft and steady with a deep rasp.

Smoke lights a blunt with shaking hands, watching the smoke curl up like her scent might ride it all the way back to Clarksdale. Every breath he draws tastes like memory. He stays up the rest of the night, eyes wide, waiting for dawn and the road to carry him home to their porch, her blade, her hips, her arms.

All of it.

The screen door creaks as Annie steps out, her hands dusted with flour, apron tied snug around her waist. Morning light breaks across the field, gold and pink streaking the sky like bruises healing.

She sees them coming up the dirt road in Stack’s car—two dark silhouettes against the mist. The car rolls to a stop beneath the dirt of The Delta, and then they both open their doors in unison. Elijah walks steady, but his eyes are tired. Elias—Stack—has a hand clutched tight to his upper arm, a dark smear running through his shirt sleeve.

Annie’s heart kicks in her chest.

They make it to the porch before either speaks. Elijah’s taller in this light, jaw clenched. Stack is limping slightly, face unreadable behind those sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

Annie spoke stern but soft, “Y’all look like hell froze over and spit you back out.”

Stack grunted, “Ain’t far off.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat, then he parted his lips to speak with a low rasp.

“We made it home.”

She steps forward, holding the screen open with one arm. They cross the threshold like weary soldiers, boots tracking in Delta mud.

Smoke kisses her first—slow, deliberate. His lips land on her cheek but linger far too long, the corner of his mouth sliding near hers like he forgot where it was supposed to stop.

Annie stood half-smiling, pushing at his chest.

“Boy, don’t be actin’ needy soon as you cross my porch.”

Then Stack leans in, brushes her opposite cheek with rough lips—shorter, less weight to it.

“Thank you, Annie.”

She studies the blood on his sleeve, her smile fading. She places her hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“Elijah Moore, you gon’ let your brother bleed out so you can get handsy?”

Smoke grinned low, “Ain’t like he dyin’. It’s a graze. Man caught a whisper of a bullet, and now I can’t even kiss on my wife?”

“Your what?” Annie sassed.

“You mine, Annie. You know that.” He whispered.

Annie narrows her eyes. The air between them tightens. She pulls Stack gently by the elbow and guides him to the kitchen table.

“Sit down ‘fore I tie you to the chair myself.”

Stack smirked through the pain. Annie removed her apron, nothing but a fitted haint blue dress underneath that left little to the imagination. She could feel Smoke’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Hush. Ain’t got time for neither.” Annie said.

She moves fast—pulling out a jar of pine gum salve, a tin of cayenne soaked in vinegar, and clean cloth. Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move. He’s itching, twitching. His fingers run along the edge of the table, eyes glued to her hips as she leans over Stack.

She rips the sleeve with a practiced motion. Stack winces.

“Mmhm. Just a graze, but y’all always act like you done fought the war again.”

He spoke low and rough, “Ain’t fought no war, but I fought the devil himself to get back here.”

Annie doesn’t answer. Just wipes blood, applies salve, wraps Stack tight. But her movements slow when Smoke steps behind her, hands grazing her waist. His fingers slide around her hips, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. His mouth dips close to her ear.

Smoke spoke, voice husky, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout your skin every night. Smellin’ you in my dreams. Had your bloomers in my damn pocket like a fool.”

Stack snorts behind them, shaking his head.

“Lord. I’ll leave y’all two alone ‘fore this kitchen catch fire.”

Annie turns just as Smoke’s lips brush her neck. She slaps his hand—firm but not unkind.

Smoke wouldn’t move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deep. Annie chewed on her bottom lip to fight the tremble that fought to break through.

Annie elbowed him, “He still bleedin’, fool.”

Smoke growled, not backing off, “Then let him bleed outside. I’m tryna taste what’s mine.”

Annie looks over her shoulder, chin lifted, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“You taste me after you sweep this mess and clean your brother’s blood off my floor.”

Stack stands, nodding once.

“Thank you, Annie. You a good woman. Smoke, I’ma bow out. I’ll catch you later. I need a bath and my bed.”

He leaves without another word, the screen door clattering shut behind him.

Now it’s just them. Smoke steps in closer, arms sliding around her waist from behind. She leans into him, just for a second, then pulls away, smirking.

“Don’t think just ‘cause I missed you I’m gonna make it easy.”

Smoke spoke low, “I don’t want it easy.”

She turns to face him, and the heat between them ignites like the kindling of old sin and older love. Her hands rest on his chest, his heartbeat pounding like it’s tryna tell her something true.

“Then close the door, Elijah.”

And he does—slow, like he’s sealing in something sacred.

Annie stands with her back to the table, arms folded tight under her breasts, lips pursed. Her eyes lock on Smoke, who stands there like he owns the air she’s breathing.

He starts to speak, but she cuts him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t even open that mouth, Elijah Moore.” Annie spoke low and sharp.

Smoke grinned, “Ain’t even said nothin’ yet.”

“And you don’t need to. ‘Cause I already know how it go. You vanish for two nights. You come back slick with sin and smellin’ like gunpowder. Got your brother damn near shot, and you lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall in your arms just ‘cause you brought your fine ass home in one piece.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets her talk. Let’s her feel it.

Annie spoke, voice rising, “I waited, Smoke. I sat up every night, watchin’ that road, fingers itchin’ for that blade, heart poundin’ like it was gonna give out. You out here makin’ moves and leavin’ me in the dark.”

Smoke spoke slow and low, “You done?”

“No, I ain’t done. You don’t get to disappear and then think you can just roll up, kiss on me, and—”

He crosses the space in two strides, grabbing her face in his palms—rough and warm—and tilts her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

He spoke, voice like thunder, “Hush all that gahdamn complainin’, woman.”

Annie’s breath hitches. He’s so close she can smell herself on him—how long he’s carried her scent. The pulse between her thighs throbs against her will.

“I know you mad. You got every right. But I ain’t out there chasin’ nothin’ that don’t belong to us. Every risk I take, every mile I run—it’s for you. For this house. For that fire in your eyes that’s burnin’ me up right now.”

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

He continued, voice dipped in honey and iron, “I need you, Annie. Not just your mouth. Not just your hips. I need that peace you carry in your chest and that hell you stir in my bed. So go ‘head and fuss. Let it out. But when you done? You gon’ come over here…” His hands slide down to her waist, pulling her into him, hard, “…and take what you want too.”

Her hands push at his chest, weakly now.

Annie’s breath is still ragged, her palms pressed to Smoke’s broad chest. His voice is in her ear, his hands claiming her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he don’t hold tight.

But she narrows her eyes, not letting him have all the power—not yet.

Annie’s voice was low, dangerous sweet, “You keep runnin’ off and comin’ back bold…you gon’ find I’ve replaced you with my own peace and a clean blade.”

That makes Smoke pause. His mouth twitches—not in fear, but in pleasure.

He steps back slightly, reaching into the inner lining of his suit jacket, slick and damp from the rain. He pulls something long and narrow, wrapped in an oilcloth stained with soot.

“That right? Then maybe I oughta give you what I found…somethin’ to remember me by if I don’t make it home next time.”

He unwraps it slow—like a man offering something sacred.

It’s a knife. Not just any knife.

The handle is carved bone, smoothed by time and use, shaped to fit perfectly in a woman’s hand. There’s a faint rose motif etched along the base, and the blade gleams like silver lightning.

But it’s the engraving that stops Annie cold.

Right near the base, small and clean and wicked as sin, it reads

For a good boy.

Annie inhales sharply, lips parting. Her whole body tenses, thighs pressing together without thinking.

“Lord have mercy…” Her fingers twitch, needing to touch it. She reaches out slow, runs her thumb across the hilt, then the blade, “Where’d you find this?”

“In a drawer ‘longside some man’s wedding band and two stacks of dirty money. He ain’t need it no more. Figured…you would.”

He watches her eyes darken as she lifts the blade up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship, the weight, the message.

“You know what this say?”

“I know exactly what it say, baby,” Smoke leans in, voice low, “And I ain’t never been nobody’s good boy…but I’d be yours, if you ask right.”

Her lip curls, smile wicked now

“That so?”

Smoke spoke stern and hungry, “I brought you blood, money, and steel. All I want is you.”

She turns the blade in her hand once more, then looks him over slow—up and down, eyes heavy with want and mischief.

“Then you best act like it.”

That’s when he moves—fast, strong, scooping her clean off the floor. She lets out a soft, breathless yelp but doesn’t fight it this time. The knife remains in her hand as he carries her through the narrow hall to the bedroom.

Smoke spoke gruff and possessive, “Keep that knife close. You might need it…case you wanna mark me as yours while I’m underneath you.”

She laughs—low, dangerous, aroused.

“You already marked, Elijah Moore. I ain’t gotta carve nothin’. You carry me in your bones,” Annie spoke low and breathless, “You think you just gon’ sweet-talk me and I’ll melt like sugar in ya’ hands, Elijah?”

Smoke smiled slow, “Ain’t gotta think. I know.”

Annie spoke firm, but softening, “You ain’t gon’ disappear again, Smoke. Not without tellin’ me.”

“No, ma’am. I done learned my lesson.” Smoke said, voice thick.

“And you still owe me for them sleepless nights, nigga.”

“Oh, I’ma pay. In full. With interest.”

Smoke drops her on the bed like an offering. She lands with a soft gasp, dress bunched at her hips. He stands over her, dark eyes sweeping her from curls to toes.

“Now quit all that fussin’ and come get what you been missin’.” Smoke barked out.

Smoke just looked at her. Slow. From head to heel. Then back up. His chest rose with a deep breath, the kind that came before trouble. He reached up and undid the top buttons of his shirt with rough fingers, not rushing—not one bit.

“Take it off,” he rasped.

Annie didn’t move.

He let his shirt hang open, exposing a chest broad and scarred, with thick muscle carved from war and work. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbone, his skin the color of polished bronze kissed by dust and sun. A trail of hair led down past his navel, to where his slacks hung low, heavy at the crotch.

“I said, take off that goddamn dress.” Smoke barked out.

Annie sucked her teeth but obeyed, slow and deliberate. Letting the straps fall one at a time, baring thick, heavy breasts with dark nipples that jutted out like a challenge. Her belly curved soft and round, hips wide enough to birth a kingdom. That dress hit the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled conjure soap.

“Mmm…mmm…”

Smoke dropped his shirt. Undid his belt with one pull. His dick sprang free when he shoved his slacks down—thick, veined, already hard and twitching. Bobbing up and down in her face. Annie’s tongue poked out at the sight.

“Damn, Smoke…”

Smoke cocked his head as he stared her down, “You miss this big dick but wanna yell my fuckin’ ear off ‘bout me bringin’ bread home for us. I’m ’bout to tear your ass up, Annie.”

Her breath hitched but her eyes remained cold.

He stepped out of his boots, bare now, looming, his chest rising with short, deep breaths.

“I ain’t come home for no talk,” he growled, “Ain’t come back for no damn backtalk or bedtime stories. I came home for my wife. And I came home to bury myself between them thick thighs and take what’s mine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, lips parting to speak—but he cut her off.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, voice low and mean, “Don’t say a word. Not a sound ‘less it’s a moan. Or a cry. Or my name. ‘Less you want me to shove this dick down your throat to quiet you.”

He stepped closer, fingers curling around her jaw, rough and hot.

“You know what I been doin’, girl?” he whispered against her mouth, “I been sniffin’ them bloomers you left me. Lickin’ the crotch like a goddamn dog. I could taste you. Damn near lost my mind in that room, strokin’ my pole with your scent all over me.”

Annie whimpered—soft, defiant.

“I need the real thing. Need it wet. Need it wide. Need it now.”

He pushed her back—rough—onto the bed. She bounced against the mattress, thick thighs parting without him having to ask. But he still did.

“Wider,” he growled.

Annie spread for him, mouth parted, hands clutching the sheets.

“That’s it,” he muttered, climbing over her, “Just like that. Look at you—look at what you give me. Goddamn, you always open up so sweet.”

Smoke got down on his knees and used his tongue to slither between Annie’s pussy lips. Annie’s hips bucked. Smoke wasted no time using his long, thick tongue to suck and lick his wife’s neglected pussy. Annie kept her legs wide and her knees to her ears but Smoke applied a firm hand to keep her open. He wanted to see that pink. He wanted to see her open so wide with nowhere to go.

He slurped up her clit between his plush lips, making sure to keep it sloppy with his spit mixed with her arousal. He would close his eyes whenever the tip of his tongue slipped inside of her, tasting what spilled, then he would open his eyes to watch her face. He had her clit stiff and folds flushed and throbbing with a type of horny she’d been trying her best to satisfy in his absence.

Annie watched her husband suck her pussy up with a gaping mouth and shimmering eyes. Her breath would hitch and a choked up moan would escape each time his tongue flicked her clit.

“Fuck, Elijah.”

“Found ya’ voice? Eating this phat puss so good got you quiet now, huh?”

Annie gripped the back of his head.

“Elijahhhhhh—”

“Nuh uh…shut up.”

She was dripping so much it sounded like a stream between her thighs. Annie felt the beginning flutters of release. Smoke slowed down his feasting to give her open mouth slurps. His bottom lip would glide while his top lip remained flush against her clit. His tongue flicked up and down at a torturous pace.

Annie rolled her head from side to side, bringing her hands up to hold both fat tits. From Smoke’s position, all he could see was two big ‘ol titties with jutted out nipples swaying back and forth. He groaned so deep Annie shuttered. Smoke reached up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

“Smoke…I’m a cum…”

He didn’t speak. He continued with his slow eating. Lips smacking. Tongue flicking.

“Unhhhhhhhhhh—”

With a final flick of his thumb on her nipples and a graze of his tongue Annie fell apart. Smoke continued to eat her through her release.

Annie felt another creeping up. She couldn’t move. Smoke had her pinned and open.

“Fuck you, Smokeeeeee—”

Annie’s entire body writhed beneath his tongue.

Smoke gave her a final kiss to her clit that made her hips jerk. He stood and hooked his hand on the underside of his shaft, raising it up a little before releasing it, watching it collapse between her pussy lips with an obscene noise.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her wet folds, teasing the slick heat but not sliding in yet. He wanted her squirming. Wanted her needy. Wanted her ruined.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, grinding slow against her slit, “You miss me stretchin’ you out? Poundin’ you till your eyes roll?”

Annie didn’t answer. Just moaned—head thrown back, hands gripping the bedframe now.

Usually he would make her speak but the way her wet pussy felt on his dick he couldn’t take it.

So Smoke slammed in with one hard stroke.

“Goddamn—” he cursed, choking on the feel of her.

The bed groaned. Then rocked.

Annie groaned so deep. She gripped him tight.

Smoke pulled out to the tip and then drove into her again. Harder. Deeper. The slap of skin echoed through the room, rhythmic and filthy. He grabbed her thigh, bent it high over his shoulder, splitting her open and fucking her rough, unforgiving.

“You feel that?” he growled, “Ain’t no man ever gone fuck you like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch this pussy. You hear me?”

Annie tried to nod. Tried to breathe. Titties swaying and slapping into each other.

Smoke leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. He sucked on her nipples, unable to control himself because they were sitting erect and begging to be played with. He drilled with a roll of his hips. Never breaking aim at her spot.

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk. Till you limp for days. So everybody know you mine.”

She clawed at his back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her body shook, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. Not till he felt her break apart beneath him, her back arching like a bow, her climax rippling around his dick like a vice.

Smoke braces himself on her thighs, got up on his toes, and slammed down into her. Annie took it all like she always did, pussy so used to his big dick.

“Fuck your pussy, Papa!”

“Where am I?” Smoke growled.

“On Papa’s spot! On Papa’s spot!” She cried.

“Fuckin’ that attitude out real quick.”

Smoke slowed down. He buried himself deep, then his let his hips withdraw slow and steady, all the way to the tip. Then he would sink back in slow and with a roll of his hips. Over and over on his spot. Annie was at a lost for words.

She looked down and saw cream and whimpered.

“You gushing, baby…tell Papa how good he make this fat pussy cream.”

“Oooh–Papa…shiiit…you–fuuuuck…you makin’ it creamy…so damn good…”

Annie reached between and cuffed his balls. Heavy and tight. She rolled them in her palm while he stroked.

“I can feel it…”

Her voice was faint but Smoke knew. He knew his wife’s pussy. She was ready to let go.

“Keep that hand on my nuts…and keep this puss open.”

Annie used her free hand to spread her left cheek. Smoke increased momentum. The iron headboard banged louder and louder and louder the faster he went.

Sweat droplets flew from his body.

His balls sat warm in her hand.

His dick twitched against her walls.

“I’m ready to fuckin’ cum….gahdamn, Annie…”

Annie let go of his balls and felt them slap against her ass. The sensation mixed with the way he was claiming that pussy had her eyes crossing. Smoke leaned in and sucked on her jaw. Hard muscle surrounded plush flesh. Annie’s finger nails dragged down his arms, but his skin was so sweaty it didn’t mark him. Smoke peppered his kisses down her neck, over her nipples, and back to up until his lips founds hers. He buried his tongue in her mouth to quiet her.

When he broke the kiss, only then did he grunt, spill deep, and grind slow, letting every drop mark her as his.

When it was done, he hovered over her, chest heaving, voice thick with worship.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby,” he whispered, “This home. You my home.”

And the bed rocked one last time beneath the weight of his love.

The week after the heist rolls in hot and heavy, thick with summer heat and the kind of need that don’t fade with morning light.

Smoke’s been on Annie like a man starved.

He fucks her in the hallway before she can reach the kitchen, backs her against the pantry door with one hand up her dress and the other wrapped tight around her hair. He bends her over the table in the front room, knocks over her candle jars, and don’t even flinch.

He takes her in the rootroom, too—up against the shelves where she keeps her oils and dried herbs, her dress hiked high and her moans swallowed in the crook of his neck. The scent of sage, pine, and sex lingers in the walls now like incense that won’t lift.

They don’t talk about it much.

But it’s clear—ever since he came back, ever since he brought that blade and dropped his guard—he’s been claiming her over and over, body and breath, like a man afraid she might slip away.

And Annie lets him.

She lets him because every time he touches her, it’s with the heat of guilt and something deeper—like he’s trying to make up for every hour he left her wondering. When he kisses the inside of her thigh, it feels like an apology, slow and aching. And when he whispers “you mine” against her skin, he don’t mean it as a threat.

He means it as a prayer.

Outside, the house hums with life.

Smoke’s out back, hammer in hand, rebuilding the porch steps that have been threatening to give way all summer. He’s shirtless, sweat slick across his chest and shoulders, broad back flexing with every movement. The Mississippi sun glows off his bronze skin, the slope of his collarbone catching light like a blade.

He’s wearing coveralls, but the top half’s tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips, dirt smudged across the knees. A red rag’s tucked in the waistband. His boots are unlaced. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thin streak of sawdust across his stomach.

Annie watches him from the kitchen window, one hip cocked, apron tied tight, her arms folded under her chest.

He don’t even know how good he look.

She turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of smothered pork chops. Collards simmer on the back burner, seasoned with smoked turkey neck and a little sassafras. Cornbread’s cooling on the counter. Sweet tea’s sweating in a glass jar near the sink.

She don’t say it out loud, but it feels good to take care of him like this. To feed a man who’s put so much fire in her and left so much ash in his own mouth.

And yet…

He ain’t hers all day. Not with what’s rising in Clarksdale.

Word travels fast in the Delta. Since Clifton “Cleve” Ray’s blood soaked the dirt behind the juke joint, Smoke and Stack been pulling in power like a high tide.

Bootleggers, gamblers, brothel owners—they all checking in with the twins now. Asking permission. Paying tribute. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.

Smoke’s been gone more and more—meetings in backrooms, shady deals behind barns, handshakes soaked in blood and whiskey. He leaves in the morning with a pistol tucked under his arm and comes back smelling like other men’s sweat and dirt and long silence. But every time he steps through that door and finds Annie barefoot in the kitchen, curls wild and her eyes watching like she sees straight through him?

He softens.

At least, for a while.

The screen door creaks. Smoke steps inside, shirt still off, rag now wiping his brow. He smells the food before he sees her.

Smoke spoke low and smiling, “You tryna feed me or fuck me?”

Annie didn’t look back as she spoke, “Both.”

She spoons gravy over his plate, still in her house dress, nothing under it but skin. Her thigh glints where the slit parts. The same garter he loves still wrapped high.

Smoke steps behind her, crowding her space. He pressed his body against hers, her backside against his crotch. He smelled like sweat and whatever his natural musk was.

“Goddamn, woman. You tryna kill me in my own home.”

“Just remindin’ you where you supposed to rest.”

He kisses her neck, lips hot and slow.

And Annie—despite her worries, despite the ache in her chest every time he’s gone too long—leans back into him and lets herself be held.

Because for now?

He’s home.

He’s hers.

And the rest of the world can wait.

The kitchen is thick with warmth—sweet tea sweating on the table, the smell of smothered pork chops hanging in the air like memory. The screen door still swings gently from where Smoke came in, carrying the heat of the Delta and something heavier on his shoulders.

He’s halfway through his plate when the silence between them grows too thick to ignore. Annie’s at the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but she’s watching him with that look—the one that sees through bone.

“Me and Stack…we settlin’ in. But this thing? It’s bigger than we thought.”

Annie turns, leans back against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“You mean takin’ over after you two buried Cleve in the dirt like a dog?”

“He earned that dirt,” Smoke spoke with a gruff tone.

“Didn’t say he didn’t.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Just wonderin’ what y’all thought was gonna happen after you cut the head off the beast.”

Smoke sets his fork down, eyes low, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t expect it to go smooth. But now everybody sniffin’ ‘round. Out-of-towners. Folks that used to bow to Cleve tryna decide whether to bow to us—or test us.

“So now you gotta bark louder. Carry bigger guns. Sleep lighter.” Annie said.

“Stack’s tryin’ to build structure. Numbers. Runners. I’m handlin’ the ones that need handlin’.”

Another pause.

Smoke continued, “We ain’t just fillin’ Cleve’s shoes. We burnin’ ‘em and makin’ our own.”

Annie watches him a long moment.

“You makin’ money. Keepin’ your name in men’s mouths. That what you want?”

“I want control. So nobody ever gets to pull strings on us again. Not like Cleve did. Not like anybody did.”

Annie walks over slow, holding her hand out.

“Then give me that mojo bag.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He slips the worn leather mojo bag from around his neck and drops it in her palm like a weight he’s ready to surrender.

“It still holdin’?” Smoke questioned.

“It’s tired. Like you.”

She closes her fingers around it, and without another word, walks out of the room.

In the front room, the altar is quiet, glowing with low candlelight and the hush of old spirits. Annie kneels, legs folded beneath her, white cotton robe brushing the floor. She unwraps the mojo bag, empties it into her palm. Dirt from under their bed. His hair. A sliver of bone. A small square of red flannel tied with black thread.

She breathes in deep, lips barely moving.

“Keep him grounded. Keep him safe. Keep his mind sharp, his hands clean, his body whole. And keep him mine.”

Annie adds crushed bay leaf, fresh snips of his hair, a pinch of red pepper. She smears it with a dab of her oil—one she made herself, heavy with patchouli and iron filings.

She ties it back up, wraps it tight.

Smoke’s still at the table, shirtless, chewing slow. His eyes drift toward the front room. One hand rests on the table; the other rubs at the space where the charm used to hang.

He don’t like how it feels—being without it, even just for a while. He finishes his plate but doesn’t move, like his body knows she’ll be back before long.

Annie steps back into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the floorboards. She places the recharged mojo bag in his palm.

“Wear it. Keep it close.”

“I will.” Smoke spoke softly.

He slips it back over his head, lets it fall against his chest, skin to skin.

“You built yourself a kingdom outta Cleve’s ashes. But don’t forget—power can feed you or eat you whole.”

Smoke replied sincere, “I ain’t forgettin’. That’s why I come home to you.”

She brushes past him, and he watches her move—hips swaying under her cotton robe, soft strength in every step.

And in that moment, Smoke knows the truth:

He might rule outside these walls…

But inside this house?

Annie is the crown.

It’s deep in the night. The kind of stillness that feels pressed down by the weight of the Delta heat, everything hushed but the distant sound of cicadas and a soft drip of water from the bath.

Smoke steps into their bedroom, steam still clinging to his skin. The towel around his hips hangs low—too low—riding the line of temptation. His chest glistens, water beading along the hard lines of his torso. Wide shoulders, arms thick and veined, torso carved by work and war. There’s strength in him—but also softness in the belly, just above the dip of his navel, where Annie loves to press her lips. His skin is the color of dark bronze left out in the sun—rich, warm, and glimmering where droplets trail down from his collarbone to the dark hair on his chest. He’s toweling his head, slow and lazy, and he hasn’t even noticed her watching.

Annie sits at her vanity in a silk slip the color of cream. Her full thighs spill over the seat, legs crossed, coils wild and haloed around her face. Her eyes are locked on him through the mirror—hungry. She picks up a small bottle of oil she blended herself—infused with cinnamon bark, orange blossom, and a drop of sweet almond to keep it soft on the skin. It smells like fire and sugar.

She spoke softly, “Come here.”

Smoke lifts his head, towel slung over his shoulder now. A smirk plays across his mouth.

“What you plannin’, woman?”

“I’m plannin’ to oil what belongs to me,” Annie paused, eyes dragging up and down his body, “Before the streets take another piece of you.”

He doesn’t argue. He steps closer and stands before her like an offering—barefoot, tall, solid, heat rolling off his skin. Her eyes travel over him, slow. She uncaps the bottle, pours a little into her palm, rubs her hands together until they glisten.

Then she begins.

First, she oils his neck, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his skull, rubbing slow circles down the cords of muscle. His head tilts back with a low groan. Then his shoulders—broad and thick beneath her hands. She kneads deep, slow strokes gliding over scars and strength.

“Mmm…Lord…you tryna make me beg, baby?”

“Not yet.” She teased.

Annie moves to his chest, spreading oil across muscle and bone, letting her fingers linger at the rise of his pecs, the thick muscle beneath the soft that only she’s ever touched tender. Then his abdomen, slow strokes across the ripple and dip—her nails scrape lightly just above his hip, and he shudders. She turns him and does his back next—broad, strong, the kind of back that’s carried burdens and bodies. She takes her time, sliding her palms from his shoulders to the small of his spine, then down again, oiling every inch like he’s hers to preserve.

When she’s satisfied, she turns him around to face her.

“Sit down, baby.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. Legs wide. Breathing heavier now.

Annie kneels.

Her hands glide over his feet, ankles, shins, up to his thighs—slow and measured. She doesn’t rush. The towel’s barely hanging on now, the shape of him pressing full and heavy beneath it.

She rests her palms on his knees, then slips the towel aside.

He’s already hard—thick, long, dark, and pulsing.

Annie pours a little more oil into her palm. Then she wraps her hand around him—slow, smooth, twisting at the top with practiced ease.

She spoke low and filthy, “Look at you. So full. So hard. You been carryin’ all that weight out there in them streets, and still come home heavy for me.”

Smoke grits his teeth, jaw clenching, his thighs tensing under her.

“You know this dick don’t belong to nobody but me, right?”

Smoke growled, “Yes ma’am.”

She strokes him slow, base to tip, letting the oil glide as her other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently. Smoke groans, tilting back. His dick reminded Annie of a steel rod covered with flesh. The sensation of his veins, the girth stretching her fingers, the crown of his dick wide and purplish from arousal. Smoke teased her with his full lips.

“You kill men. You run Clarksdale. You sit on a throne made of fear and blood. But right now?” She squeezes tighter, speeds her stroke just a little, eyes locked on his face, “You just my good boy.”

Smoke moans—deep and hoarse, one hand bracing on the bedframe, the other sliding into her curls.

“Goddamn…Annie…”

“That’s right. Give it to me. Let me take it.”

Ain’t nobody gon’ hold you down like I do. Stroke this dick like I do,” Annie held him at the base and slapped his dick against the palm of her other hand.

“So heavy and thick…”

Annie lowered the straps to her slip and her heavy breasts spilled out. She slapped her cleavage with his tip. Smoke furrowed his brows and groaned.

She let go of him and watched how his dick pointed up on its own like a stick in the mud. Annie grabbed each heavy breast and circled his dick with both, gliding up and down. Smoke rocked his head back, revealing his neck that glistened from the oil. Each time her breasts would come down they would smack against his thighs.

“Fuck, just like that, baby, fuck…”

Annie continued titty-fucking him, licking her lips as he starts loft his hips to chase that feeling.

His tip would disappear and reappear and each time Annie would flick her tongue in his slit. Smoke fisted the quilt beneath him and flexed his thighs. He was about to fall apart under her big titties, hips jerking, breath ragged.

“Annie,” Smoke reaches down to grab both tits, releasing his dick, watching it bounce free, “Time to give me my pussy, girl. You done fucked ‘round and woke Papa up.”

Smoke didn’t give Annie a chance to stand up. He lifted her himself and yanked that slip the rest of the way down.

“Got me goin’ crazy since I been back in this damn house, shit,” Smoke circled behind her and double cuffed both her ass cheeks. That motion brought Annie on her tip toes as she tilted forward against the bed.

“This body don’t make no sense, woman…be having my Johnson achin’ for you.”

Annie loved when he spoke like that—filthy, desperate, greedy—it made her pussy wetter and her body more pliable.

“On ya’ knees. Open up.”

Annie stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Smoke caught her eye. She arched her back and when her ass pointed up Smoke drew back a wide open palm and whacked her so hard on both cheeks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a sensual dance.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack

“Spankin’ this big ass good, huh?”

Annie leaned into the strikes. That sting had her pussy dripping.

Smoke was pointed straight out like a flag pole. He was ready. Annie scooted further to the edge. She knew to bring both arms up, hook them around Smoke’s neck with her hands cradled. Smoke dipped his hips. He lined himself up and then pushed up into her wet pussy with one stroke.

Annie moaned beautifully.

Smoke rest his hands on her love handles and stares straight ahead in that mirror.

Breasts hanging.

Belly sitting low.

Big thighs spread open.

Then his eyes fell to her back.

Spine arched.

Ass sitting wide.

He wasted no time banging her back in. Each stroke was like a tidal wave, slamming into her and creating ripples across her brown flesh. Smoke dug his fingers into her flesh and drove his dick in deep and shallow. Annie had this defeated, ‘fucked out’ look in her eyes.

Dick drunk.

Annie couldn’t hold on anymore. She let go of his neck and reached back for his hands. Smoke interlocked his fingers with hers and Annie fell forward, cheek hitting the quit.

“FUCK ME, PAPA!” Annie shouted with ecstasy.

Smoke did just that. Handling her good. Rough. Tender.

Had that bed rocking.

The quilt was warm beneath her hands, her breath ragged from the momentous heat. Her body is arched, hips tilted back, the soft weight of her breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her, Smoke moves slow and deep, hands gripping her wide hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her eyes flick up—and there it is.

The reflection.

Her full figure bathed in low lamp light, skin glowing and slick with sweat. Her ass bounces with every push of his hips, jiggling beneath the force, the garter belt still clinging to her thighs like a vice. Her back is arched into a perfect curve, spine dipping down to where they meet—where he’s buried deep, stretching her full, making her cry out in time with every roll of his hips.

His body gleams. Chest and stomach sheened with the oil she rubbed into him earlier. Muscles flexing under bronze skin, veins thick in his forearms. And his eyes—Lord, those eyes—locked on the mirror, locked on her, face smoldering, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temple to her back.

“You feel that? How deep I am?” He spoke low with a gravel.

She moans, mouth parted, watching herself gasp. She looks beautiful like this—undone but powerful. Her hair wild, her lips trembling, her body being worshipped through motion and rhythm.

She spoke, breathless, “God, yes…You in my stomach, Elijah.”

He grunts, hips slapping harder now, the sound filthy, wet, possessed.

And all she can do is stare at the mirror, watching the way her body blooms around him, how good she looks being taken—owned—and how gone he looks inside her.

The mirror ain’t never lied.

It told her the truth—

She was made for this. And he was made to take her.

“Elijah, you thick in me, Papa!”

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“No!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Where you want me to stay?”

“Deep in your pussy!”

“Why you like for me to fuck you like this? Say it.”

“‘Cause you deep and in my stomach, Papa!”

“You ready to cum?”

“Yessssssss—”

“Paint this dick!”

Annie stilled, body frozen with her release. Smoke kept stroking. Annie’s toes curled, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisted the quilt.

Smoke wasn’t far behind. Hisses spilled from his thick lips and repeated grunts bubbled in his throat.

Annie rolled her hips as she threw it back on his tip and his tip only. Smoke poked out his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His fingers twitched on her hips.

“You on my tip…Annie…fuuuck…I love this pussy…fuckin’ my tip good…Annie…fuck, woman…pussy wet…ughhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

And when he came, it was with her name in his mouth and his eyes locked on hers—like she’s the only altar he’s ever knelt before.

The room is quiet now—just the soft tick of the wall clock and their breathing, slowing in rhythm.

Smoke is still inside her, hips pressed flush to the curve of her ass, his chest blanketing her back. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hands splayed wide—one over her belly, the other slipping higher to rest just beneath her breast. Their bodies are slick, skin sticking slightly with sweat and oil. The scent of sex clings to the air, warm and heady.

Annie’s cheek rests against the quilt, her eyes half-lidded. Her lashes flutter. She’s boneless, breathless, lips parted in a soft moan that never fully left her throat.

Smoke spoke lowly behind her, “You still with me, baby?”

Annie hums. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her hips back into him the smallest bit, as if to say Don’t move. Stay.

And he does.

He nuzzles into her shoulder, lips brushing the skin right where neck meets collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything as pretty as the way you look when I’m inside you.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Smoke continued, “Like your body know me better than I know myself.”

His voice is thick, worn at the edges. Tender.

She shifts slightly, the motion pulling another soft gasp from both of them. Her voice comes out quiet but sure.

“You feel so good…still fillin’ me up.” Annie whispers.

“I ain’t ready to let go,” He tightens his grip, arms firm around her belly, anchoring her there, “We don’t get peace like this out there. World full of enemies, snakes, men grinnin’ while they plottin’. But right here? This the only place I trust to breathe.”

Annie closes her eyes. Her hand reaches back, fingertips brushing his thigh. A silent I hear you. I got you.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another, softer. Slower.

Smoke whispers, “I wanna grow old with you, Annie.”

She lets that settle. Lets the ache in her legs remind her she’s alive. Lets his weight sink into her. And finally, she speaks—barely above a whisper.

“Then stop disappearin’.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try.”

A pause between words settled.

“…God help me, I’ll try. I’ll try, baby.”

They stay like that for a while—joined, pressed together, her wrapped in his arms, him wrapped in her body, in her scent, in her strength.

And outside, the Delta wind shifts—but inside?

They are still.

Held.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[thetrasha]

One Piece: The Princes of Pining

How down bad are they?

SANJI

∞/10

Sanji… oh, poor Sanji! He’s a hopeless romantic through and through. He wants to be at your beck and call, he wants to make you happy… because he’s never been happy. He has his dreams, yes, but they pale in comparison to his bleeding heart he tries to protect by uselessly flirting with every woman he comes across. Can’t reject him that way, can they? They know he doesn’t really mean it. Sure… he genuinely cares and wants to make people smile and show him that he’s worth something, but deep down he doesn’t believe a word they say. Yes, he’s a great chef, an even better prince charming and a phenomenal judge of character – but he’s also depressingly sad. At first, you were just like all the others. A woman to be taken care of! Another way to get a drop of validation and a whisper of true love without the real work that goes into a relationship, without showing who he really is, without revealing just how pathetic he thinks he is…

Unfortunately for him, you’re so glad he’s here, and you tell him that quite confidently. Often.

And it breaks him.

Why are you trying to do something nice for him? It’s fine! You don’t have to talk to him at all, he’s fine with cooking in silence and humming on occasion. Absolutely not! You’re not cleaning up after him, you’re a delicate flow-

The thing is, though, it scares him. Sticking around without expecting anything from him shocks him to his very core. Sanji knows that you’re amazing. You pull your own weight, you’re a vital part of the crew and you care for everyone… but his heart cannot help but beat uncontrollably whenever you’re near, even if you just see him as a good friend. He fantasises about what could have been if he were more of a man and woo you properly, if only he had the courage to sweep you off your feet – but… life has dealt its cards.

So he’s pining. Bad.

The others think it’s super obvious, but then again… they also think you’re quite obviously affectionate with him and he doesn’t notice a damn thing.

Sanji subtly tries way harder, even if he thinks that he doesn’t have a chance anyway. He stands up straighter, argues with Zoro even more frequently, makes you two an extra meal, just to feel closer to you... He talks to you all the time and remembers every detail.

Sometimes he’s smoking, leaning on the railing and dreaming about you. Those moments have become an everyday occurrence these days, because he just cannot stand being on the same ship as you without being able to hug and kiss you, without touching your skin, without loving you.

And Sanji desperately tries to hide his smile when you come find him and talk to him about the latest gossip in the girls’ quarters while you hand absentmindedly reaches for him.

Somehow, you always come around to find him when he's down.

You’re always there.

And you appreciate him even when he doesn’t go out of his way to show you what a catch he is.

…He loves you, doesn’t he?

ACE

10/10

Ace is another one who ranks high on the self-hatred scale, but for entirely different reasons. His self-worth issues poison every single aspect of his life and he cannot recognise his own worth even though he rationally knows that he’s an okay-guy, maybe more… he doesn’t know. All that he knows is the visceral pain in the pits of his soul whenever he thinks of his unique circumstances – he wishes he’d never been born in the first place. He’d hate to disrespect his mother like that, she wouldn’t know about his plight, but he doesn’t know how to come to terms with the fact that his biological father abandoned him, abandoned his purpose, and made him into a Devil. Ace doesn’t know why that guy is so famed and feared when his chosen father isn’t just a great leader but a phenomenal role model, too. Many may disagree – particularly those belonging to the Navy kind, but he doesn’t care. Whenever he’s with his friends, he doesn’t feel any sudden fatigue plaguing him. The restless nights and endless nightmares filled with taunts and hate suddenly don’t seem so problematic anymore. He’s found his calling and he is so happy to call Whitebeard his dad. Said title seemed so humble compared to the saviour he really is in his eyes.

Perhaps that’s why you unsettled him. His dad liked you a lot. The old man spent time with you and enjoyed your gentle nature. Ace didn’t know your role back then, he didn’t care to know if he was honest with himself… he hated you. He was jealous of you and the way you instantaneously clicked with the man who’d saved his life, a man so careless he’d crouch down to make himself appear less intimidating in front of you despite his old age and terrible state of health.

You noticed that Ace began competing with you… and you didn’t know why. He was technically your boss, why would he see you as an equal in the first place? In your confusion, you turned to Whitebeard who just laughed in amusement. And your Commander watched from the sidelines, pouting.

Ace hated you. He hated you so much.

...Until you started spending time with him because your captain, his dad, suggested it. And Ace would rather die than disappoint the man who’d given him what he always wanted – a father figure. So he kept you around, passively at first but getting more enthusiastic with time.

His dislike towards you was so natural in the beginning but he found himself enjoying your presence at some point. You were more than comrades in arms – you became true friends. And sleeping by your side eased his nightly troubles. You didn’t cure the flesh wound on his heart, but you consistently mended it, one day at a time.

He couldn’t bear looking at you when you turned around in your own hammock, shivering from the wind.

You’d hate it if he helped you out.

He’s broken. Totally shattered. Nobody wants that baggage, especially not when he lifts the veil and shows his true personality.

Less extravagant, less confident, less fun – worthless.

His flame would die.

He’d just keep being your friend.

It’s all a monster like him can ask for…

BUGGY

9/10

Buggy believes that nobody would ever love him… or even like him for all that matters. He’s so cynical that he scoffs at women before they’ve taken a proper glance at him – before they could laugh in his face and whisper amongst themselves about his… rather strange looks. He completely ruled out the chance of ever being with someone who means it and it made him bitter. Buggy is so dejected by this that every bit of self-loathing turns outwards in fits of blind rage and petty anger. His crew knows that he’s easy to tip off; one word about that godforsaken nose and there would be Hell on Earth waiting for them for days to come.

He plays the tough guy to discourage anyone from mocking him any further. His need for self-aggrandising displays of strength and cunning stem from a place of deep insecurity about his appearance. Whatever he can do to make it less painful, to cushion the impact – He does it. He’s become a fanatic perfectionist when it comes to matters of make-up because it may distract some people from the you-know-what in the middle of his face. He’s taken on the image of a fool and oversees a pillaging circus because he’d rather force people to laugh with him instead of at him.

He’d never admit that he’s miserable though.

Maybe that’s why he started treating you so poorly recently…

All had been normal for the first few months. You briefly got to know him when your social circle overlapped, meaning you find yourself serving Buggy the Star Clown far more often than you’d anticipated. It’d been professional, you did your job diligently and without any complaints. He was the boss. Whatever he says, goes.

With enough time he became sour, criticised things that meant absolutely nothing, but you acknowledged it because it was still reasonable and solely about your craft. As soon as he riled you up just to get a rise out of you, you were electrified with anger as well. So you talked back – all the time now.

Meanwhile, Buggy was painfully aware of his gigantic crush on you. It shouldn’t even have happened. You certainly didn’t make it known that you were interested, but your honesty and morale is what completely drew him in. Sure, you were easy on the eyes, too, but that doesn’t keep his interest for long because he hates himself too much to entertain the mere thought of that. This attitude had protected him throughout the years, yet as soon as he faces an actually nice person his coping mechanism breaks down?! Ridiculous!!

You never lashed out at him, no matter how hard he tried to squeeze the truth out of you, how much he wanted to see you blow up at him and ridicule his looks just to prove it to himself that he was utterly hopeless… but you just wouldn’t budge. You started arguing with him but wouldn’t take a swing and land a right hook right on his fucking nose. No…

You had turned to banter. You’d lost all respect because you were suddenly very aware of the fact that he was constantly bluffing, and you just smirked at him.

You damn tease, prancing around without a care in the world after you dug your claws into him and stole his heart.

But at least you were polite enough to ignore his whimper whenever you’d playfully tease him with your hands around his shoulders.

Oh fuck…

BROOK

8/10

Despite his advanced age he has shockingly little life experience. Sometimes he thinks that he’s hallucinating and haunts the ship in the dead of the night when all the other members of the Straw Hat crew are asleep. He believes that, at any moment now, he will wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the Florian Triangle while holding onto the skeletal corpses of his former comrades – during those moments, he cannot properly rationalise that he gave them a proper burial at sea decades ago so that they may rest in peace. Music is the only thing that saves him when he’s like this. The wind carries his anguished melodies miles away, causing many villagers and pirates alike to mention an eerie song they heard in their sleep, like an omen of death.

Brook wants to be so much more than that, he wants to bring joy and mess around with people, just like he was used to when the unthinkable happened. He is grateful for his second chance at life, he just cannot help but mourn the life that he’s lost.

He’s an acclaimed musician, people love his music, they recognise him, and he’s found some reliable friends who have his back no matter what – not that he has one!

Anyways… he wishes he could sing more accurately about love. He knows family, he knows friendship but romance completely evaded him. Brook doesn’t know whether the memories that creep up in his head are him actually indulging in real flings with real people or whether they’ve been made up by half a century of loneliness and solitude. He wishes he’d know for certain because he knows that it’s all that he has left now.

Nobody would want a literal bag of bones – his longing was long dead before it emerged again, before he felt sane enough to let his mind wander again… but never stray too far.

His fellow crew mates were all beautiful in their own way, so bright and youthful. The women in particular were tough – so otherworldly beautiful, far exceeding the fragments of his lost life, so lethally intelligent and so different from one another. He appreciated Nami for her excellence, diligence and her silver tongue. She always knew how to live it up, yohoho! Robin was known for her survival skills, sharp mind and spooky comments. They were great friends and he cherished them.

You, though… you were his friend, too. Brook treasured your friendship greatly. It’s just that… you were so much more than that. He drew inspiration from your beauty, grace and tenderness, like you were his muse. All those songs he dedicated to your greatness was nothing compared to the graciousness you provided. Some of the others were hesitant to touch him, assuming that he was frail, but you sought him out for protection even know he knew that you could take care of some classless scoundrels. Still, you trusted him, wrapped your arms around his thin torso and pressed your warm skin against his cold bones. He could hardly feel the sensation because it suddenly felt like he’s had his heart back… just for a moment. Brook sensed the flutter in his chest and shivered, not knowing how to express himself.

He was falling in love with you. This is what this was.

But he wouldn’t ever confess his love to you, thinking that he’d be robbing you of your life.

He’s a dead man walking… and you’re so vibrantly alive.

He couldn't do that to you.

[leftpoetrymoon]

The one you lost.

"Please let me forget them this time… I want to live freely and choose myself this time…"

The gods heard her wish and gave a chance to that poor soul. After all, they were too devastated watching one of their children suffering so hard after loving the same man in every lifetime who didn't spare a glance at her direction...

So why did he have to notice her only now? Maybe it's because of the guilt for not giving you the attention you deserved? Or is it because of watching you living happily with the one they loved?

Oh, what a cruel fate it is…. but little did they know they deserve this so much because you're the one who sacrificed your life for him in every time hoping that somehow, he'll choose you instead of her...

But now you're happy with her. the one who he loved every time. Loved? since when did the word love changed into loved? Why did you have you two appear in his life again? With her? It's not fair… you love him, right?

If only he knows how much you hate him right now even though you don't remember the moments, you shared with him.

Maybe you met him when you and MC went to-

The art exhibition after a long day, holding hands and laughing together…

The library to enjoy a casual date without any interruptions…

The hotpot restaurant to have a big lunch and goof around…

The cafe that you two go daily after her missions…

The cat cafe to pet the cats and enjoy the scenery…

And that's when he saw you... You looked so serene with her. He never expected MC to be in a relationship with you out of all people.

He thought if only MC could regain her memories, they could live their happy life again, right?

But here you are, looking like a forgotten a piece of his life that he supposed to bury a long time ago...

His breath hitched when you two approached him, with MC holding your hand tightly like she finally found the one after all of her tragic lives.

And you? You look like the same person just like you did before. A soft-spoken person, always looked out for him, never questioned his choices, and most of all you never begged him to love you.

You loved him only in silence.

And finally, he's doing the same thing again.

"Rafayel! Look it's my beautiful darling that I've been dating for a year!"

Rafayel forced one of his famous smiles and looked at MC and laughed

"Oh my, Miss bodyguard have a shy cutie? Why didn't you tell me MC?'' Rafayel looked at you who was hiding behind MC averting your gaze away from him.

"I'm sorry y/n.. I can't return your feelings... Please don't look for me anymore."

"My name is y/n, nice to meet you Mr. Qi yu…" MC threw her arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to her leaving you all red around your face.

Oh, it's been so long since he heard that name coming out from your mouth…

Unable to look at the scene Rafayel excused himself and walked away.

"See you later miss bodyguard!''

"Just so you know this heart always looked out for you… but now I'm not going to give my heart to you anymore...

"Oh Zayne, you're here too!"

Zayne looked at MC and gave her a curt nod. He closed the book he was reading and looked at MC and you.

"It's not surprising considering our cold doctor to spot in the library, typical Zayne right love?" MC gave you her grin that made you blush every time no matter where you two are.

"I deserve it. After hurting you this much.."

"Zayne, this my girlfriend y/n!'' You gave him a shy smile and held her hand tightly to ease your nervousness. "Nice to meet you Mr. Li Shen.."

"Even when tomorrow came, and I'll be no more to see you. Remember. Remember my love that you never acknowledged it.."

MC side hugged you and looked at her childhood best friend who's looking at the both of you with a awkward gaze.

She laughed at his shy demeanor and looked at him, "Alright Zayne, it was nice meeting you! we're going to continue our date..."

"Take care of yourself you two. and it was nice meeting you Ms. y/n…"

His words trialed off as he watched you two walked away with a blooming smile on both of your faces. You looked so peaceful and calm with her.

Maybe it's for the best...

"Ice melts and Jasmine withers, every time I get remind of you I'll think about the silent kisses you gave me under the snowfall..."

"It's not surprising to see you here Xavier, having a big appetite again, aren't we?''

Xavier looked up from his food and saw MC and you. His eyes didn't get widen but his heart clenched in a painful way which went unnoticed by both of you.

"Well, I was going to introduce to her to you anyway, Xavier! this is my fiancé y/n!" You blushed by her words and looked away slightly missing the shocked expression on Xavier's face.

"I won't' marry you y/n. Out of all people you should know this right? Then why did you agree to this marriage?"

"You didn't expect this right Xavier?" MC laughed at his expression and kissed the palm of your hand which made you smile.

Marriage? With MC? Xavier wanted to laugh at this instant. This must be the punishment he's receiving after seeing you sacrificing yourself for him at Philos.

"Huh? Xavier, you didn't eat yet-" Xavier stood up from the chair and looked at both of you and with a small smile that didn't reached his eyes.

"I just received a mission MC, congratulations on both of your marriage…"

Without sparing a glance Xavier walked away from the scene ignoring MC's attempts to ask him the reason.

"I hope this will be the lost time giving my heart to the wrong person.."

"Oh Mr. Skye! what a surprise to spot you at Linkon!" You and MC looked up from the cats and saw Sylus walking toward the both of you.

"I was passing by and saw you with this little dove miss hunter.. Mind introducing her to me?"

Sylus sits in front of you and MC with a smirk on his face despite inner turmoil he's going right now. MC smiled at him and pecked your cheek which made his eyes widen.

"So, what if you're my fated mate? You know very well I don't have any feelings for you."

"This lovely little dove is my partner. Y/n, this is my friend I told you before!"

You looked up at him and smiled politely and shook your hand at him. "Nice to meet you…." MC looked at your shy antics and smiled lovingly.''

"I'll get going kitten, see you later y/n…''

''My love was purer for you Sylus, so I hope this will be the last time you feel my love..''

''Here Caleb! Here! Here!"

He got froze the moment he looked at you. You were holding MC's hand tightly and looked at him. Bracing his heart he walked towards the both of you and flashed his famous grin.

"So, why did you want to meet suddenly pipsqueak?''

"Caleb, this is my love y/n! She and I had been dating 6 months..."

"Stop giving your source of energy to me! I don't need you and I'll never!''

"Oh… It' nice to meet you y/n…." You looked at him and nodded your head and leaned on to MC with that stupid smile that had been haunting him all this time.

MC's words felt deaf on his words as Caleb looked at you again, why can't the damn chip make him forget about you too?

"I'll pray to the gods to make me forget you in my next life. I don't want to get hurt by your words just because I loved you a more than you realized.."

Fate is really a surprise thing, isn't it?

But you're happy now y/n.

And you don't need to prove your love to anyone so they can notice you.

When they were the one ended the story of you two before it even began..

Taglist:- @nommingonfood

Thanks for giving me this wonderful idea! I hope it satisfies your interest >...<

[gayergaywarden]

Arcane romantic Hc's

Caitlyn, Jinx, Maddie, Vi and Sevika. 4k words. Requests are open.

Caitlyn- 

Just gonna say it;

👏Sugar👏Mommy👏

Girl is LOADED. And loves spending money on her favorite person.

Date night? Fanciest restaurant in Piltover. Late on bills? What bills? They've already been paid. For the year. 

LOVESS buying you little things.

Her love language is ABSOLUTELY acts of service.

But Cait’s a paradox. Will do ANYTHING for you. But will immediately turn around and forget to take care of her own basic needs.

Remind her to eat! To take a break from work! Piltover can survive one day without her. 

On her off days, loves to spend time with you. 

Shopping, exploring where she grew up, long walks through the local gardens- just doing anything together is nice.

Secretly somewhat self conscious about her eye. Cait's never been overly insecure about how she looks, but she feels like she's missing a part of herself. Like she's not whole, but can't admit it. 

At night, when you cuddle, you take off her eyepatch. There's a pretty nasty scar where her eye used to be. But you kiss the mark anyway. She blushes every time. 

Side note, no matter your size, Cait's small spoon. No questions asked. 

A foot taller than her? Great. Half her height? Oh well. Hope you have long arms. She likes being held. It's comforting for her.

Side note, but sometimes her job means she's gone for a few days at a time. 

She is SOO clingy when she comes home. This woman cannot be PRIED off you (not that you'd try). Pulls out all the stops. Brings you back food. Souvenirs. Says all the right things; you were all she thought about, she wanted to come home to you, etc. By the end, you're both crying. 

Lowkey a hopeless romantic. 

Love notes on the fridge. Flowers delivered to the door. Maybe even poetry- maybe.

This bitch cannot cook. 

At all.

Burns water. Somehow. 

You'd expect a noble to be prim and proper- and she is- but a refined lady? Certainly not.

Expect to be doing most of the cooking and cleaning. If you're sick, or just not in the mood? Then the maid will do it. Sorry, but this poor girl is horrible in the kitchen. 

Don't get it wrong, though- Cait doesn't take you for granted! She appreciates every meal. Plus, she's always down to cook together. Who knows- maybe she can even learn a few things. 

Also enjoys it when you come on missions with her. Never anything dangerous, but quality time nonetheless. 

The sweet, loving Caitlyn you know at home is nothing like the scary enforcer Captain Kiramann. 

This woman is terrifying when she wants to be. 

Remember- Caitlyn is well over six foot tall.

Sometimes you ask her to wear the Count Fagula cape in bed. 

No, I will not elaborate. 

This corny bitch LOVESSS to cuddle and whisper sweet nothings late into the night. 

Will occasionally be big spoon if you're shorter than her. Rarely. If you beg.

Working constantly, but will take off if you feel neglected. 

Does, however, always come home early/take off for big days. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays? She's home with you. 

Goes all out for your birthday. 

Cake, card, extravagant gifts. 

Impeccable at writing sweet cards and notes. Knows exactly what you're insecure about and does everything in her power to compliment you about those traits. 

Consolidates you before big political decisions/runs tactics by you before acting on them. 

Genuinely values your opinion. Involves you in everything she possibly can. 

But would not want you to become an enforcer post Hexgate. 

It's too dangerous. You mean too much to her. 

Will personally have your application denied or thrown in the trash (And feel horrible about it). 

Does not want you in any type of danger. 

But the upside is she will personally pull some strings and make sure you get to do your dream job. 

Open a bakery? Look at that! A cheap venue just so happened to be on the market. Writer? Artist? She'll make sure you get the best publicity. Anything at all to keep you happy. 

Wants nothing more than to grow old and bicker with you. Wants to retire in the high end of Piltover. Maybe get a dog. Adopt a small orphan child from Zaun. 

She's had enough fighting in her life. Seen enough bloodshed. Wants something sweet and simple with you. 

You keep her happy. She keeps you safe. 

At the end of the day, you're what she's fighting so hard to protect. 

And Caitlyn Kiraman is nothing if not a fighter. 

Jinx- 

You met her at one of the lowest points of her life.

Before Isha. After Silco. All alone. 

She was on the run after destroying the council. All of Piltover wanted her dead. 

And you almost turned her in. 

Almost. 

But she looked so… pitiful. She was so tiny. This girl clearly wasn't taking care of herself. 

You met when she saved you from some corrupt enforcers trying to get handsy in a dark alley.

You took her in. Fed her. Let her take a bath. 

Anyways, TLDR, she kept coming back. You were her safe space. The voices weren't so loud when you were around. Plus, someone had to make sure you weren't in any danger. What if something happened to you? She liked knowing where you were.

Jinx definitely isn't the most consistent partner. Likes to pop in and out. Sometimes, she stays for a week. Others, she'll disappear for a few days with no warning.

But she always comes back. 

Eventually, just starts taking you with her wherever she goes. Will literally drag you from your place of work. 

You met Isha. You cared for her like she was your own. 

You loved that child more than anything. Maybe more than Jinx. 

The three of you (Plus a begrudging Sevika) went on all sorts of adventures. It was genuinely the highest point in your life.

This is when you and Jinx got… together? 

There was no official ‘Relationship change’ between the two of you.

You also didn't use titles. She wasn't your ‘girlfriend’, or ‘Partner’ or whatever- she was just your person, and you were hers. There was no big declaration or confession. It just... changed over time.

But she has started grabbing you out of the blue, jumping into your arms and absolutely kissing every inch of skin her short-ass can reach. 

Kisses you before she leaves. Holds your hand when she'd tinkering. Crawls into your bed at night to feel less alone.

Sevika is disgusted. 

Isha was perturbed. 

The two of you are never apart anymore. Jinx just kind of… drags you along with her. And if you need to go somewhere? She's just assuming she's invited. 

God help you if she ever feels unwanted. 

(Which is, sadly, very often). 

You have to give her lots of reassurance.

Kind words and soft touches are generally the best way to drag her out of her hallucinations. 

Ends up crying into your lap whenever she has an episode. 

Firmly believes she's too much and you'll leave her one day. 

But if you don't? If you put up with her breakdowns, and ask her not to leave? 

Absolutely swoons. 

Calls you everything but your name. Toots, Hot stuff, and whatever else she can think of. 

Her idea of romance is crawling on top of you and waiting for affection. 

Like, literally, just staring at you until you play with her hair and call her pretty. 

Builds you little things! Very good at metal working! Jewelry with little doodles etched into it, mechanical flowers and- her personal favorite- gas bombs that shoot out little pink hearts.

This poor girl is absolutely starved for any kind of physical touch. Remember how touchy she was with silco? Yeah, that times a thousand. 

She is always touching you. 

Arm slung around your shoulder. Grabbing your hand. Sitting in your lap. 

Absolutely insists on being the big spoon- even though she's a whopping 5’3.

After Isha dies, both of you ended up in prison together. 

You begged Caitlyn to let her go free. 

Eventually, you tried to take the blame for all of Jinx's crimes. You were literally down to go to prison for life, or downright be executed, to get her acquitted. 

That plan definitely did not work. 

But Jinx eventually breaks you out of jail.

You leave together. She tries to ditch you- to abandon you, saying something about ‘Breaking the cycle’ but you don't let her.

She's your best friend. Your person. You love her. Where she goes, you follow. She can't just… leave you behind.

Except she does. 

Jinx just… disappears. 

Until the Hex Gate. You had evacuated the city when the fighting began. 

It wasn't until after the battle was over that you heard she was dead. Her and that boy- Ekko- were the heroes of the Hexgate. Ekko was missing. Jinx was killed in the final attack. 

You were heartbroken. 

First Isha. 

Then Jinx. 

Everyone you cared about was dying. 

You hadn't left bed for days after hearing the news.

Until one day, you looked up, and there she was.

Hair cut off, covered in dirt, absolutely filthy. 

“Hey, Toots. Long time no see.”

You've never cried so hard in your life. 

You've also never yelled so hard in your life.

Said she was leaving- that she couldn't stay in Zaun. She didn't want to be a Jinx anymore. She wanted a fresh start. 

You didn't even hesitate. 

“When are we leaving?”

Maddie-

I'm just going to say it. 

I genuinely believe Maddie's a good person, she's just been indoctrinated by authoritarian Noxus. 

She wants to serve her country. That's what she's been raised to believe is honorable. 

So, when her commander tells her to go and seduce Caitlyn Kiraman, because it will help the cause?

She doesn't even question it. 

Well, she doesn't until she meets you. 

You're sweet to her. You see her as more than a guard dog. As more than her country's whore.

And Maddy? 

Maddy doesn't know how to deal with that. 

Because suddenly, Noxus isn't at the top of her priority list. 

You are. 

Everytime she gets back, guilty and having just betrayed someone else, you help her wash up. You tell her kind things. Things you believe. That she's kind. That she's smart. That she deserves to be more than a pawn in a war she didn't start. 

She wants to be good. She wants to help her people. 

But she's only human. 

When you start comforting her through the guilt? Through the manipulation? When you hold her for the first time? 

Maddy can't force herself to keep going after Caitlyn. Tells Ambessa she simply isn't Cait's type, and she needs to send someone else. 

This is genuinely the hardest decision of Maddy's life. 

But she does it anyway. I mean, bloody Hell, what good is she to her country if she can't do her job? If Cait were to figure things out, because Maddy's skills are starting to slip… No, it's much too risky. 

She comes back to your apartment that night- bloodied and beaten. Ambessa didn't take kindly to her failing the mission, and neither did her fellow Noxian spies. 

But she was too valuable to kill. 

So she was alive. 

And with you. 

And that's what matters. 

Maddy was demoted to a low level enforcer. Someone new took her spot as Junior Officer, and started getting acquainted with the higher ups. She's still close to Caitlyn, but her main job now is gathering intel about Piltover as a whole. 

Still firmly patriotic to Noxus. 

But, slowly, you can help her realize how fucked her home country is. 

Anyways, Maddy is probably the most normal out of every partner on this list. 

I mean, she absolutely struggles with honesty, and may be somewhat manipulative in the early days of your relationship. But show her you don't want to use her? Tell her she is truly a good person, she's just being used by a bad cause? 

Yeah… Maddy really does try for you. 

Since she's been demoted to a relatively low rank, she comes home at a reasonable hour every day. Plus, she's out of the action now- so other than Ambessa breathing down her neck, she's not in any direct danger. 

Maddy is good, personable, and cute all around. If she can't get into Cait's pants? Then she can get friendly with Piltover citizens. Get some intel about the enforcers. Eyes on the inside, if you will. 

She's a pretty well liked guard by the common folk. They tell her things. Useful things that she reports back to Ambessa. 

You two spend most nights together. Generally, she likes cooking together- sometimes, she'll even make you dishes from Noxus to try. 

You share stories. Maddy kept secrets, at first. She had too much to hide. 

But now? 

Now you're the only one she's truthful with. 

Absolutely terrified of Ambessa using you against her. Tries her best to keep the two of you a secret. 

Maddy can read you like a damn book. Upset? She can tell without you saying a word. In a mood? She notices the crease in your brow immediately. 

Will absolutely use her years as a spy to make the most of her relationship with you. 

Remembers everything about you. Learned your tics. Knows what riles you up. What makes you get quiet.

Absolutely the best gift giver on this list. Not because they're overly expensive or intricate- but because she knows you, and gets personalized presents that prove it.

Absolutely swoons over words of affirmation. Noxus has incredibly high standards, and gives almost no praise. Tell her you're proud. Watch her sob. 

Spends so much time ‘learning’ you, she forgets to keep her own wants and interests in mind. Gets genuinely flustered if you plan things based on what she wants. 

Maddy is incredibly protective of you. For as sweet and gentle as she can be, that Noxus military soldier comes out from time to time, and boy, does it show. 

Would and absolutely has killed for you.

She is small but she is mighty. 

When the Hexgate rolls around, Maddy actually doesn't join Ambessa in the fighting. 

She plans on it, of course, but you get injured in the crossfire and she has to choose- save you, or join the battle. 

She acted on instinct. You were hurt! You needed safety, and you needed it now. 

By the time you were safe, Ambessa was dead. 

And Maddy hadn't been there to stop it. 

She had failed her mission. Let her country down. 

But you were alive. 

So things were okay. 

They had to be. 

Vi- 

Did someone say Golden retriever???

If this bitch had a tail, it'd be WAGGING. 

Let's get the obvious out of the way: you like Vi for the muscles. The biceps. The beef-factor.

And she knows it. 

LOVESSS showing off around you. Flexing, taking her shirt off, and- God help your soul- picking you up. 

Much like everyone else on this list, very touch starved.

But she hides it the least (Other than maybe Jinx).

Hope you don't have an early-riser job. This girl will literally drag you back into bed. Vi turns into an octopus when clingy.

Speaking of clingy- hope that's something you're into. 

If you're someone who struggles with physical touch, that's fine. Compromises can be made. 

But if you enjoy it? 

Yeahhh, she's going to be wrapped around you at all times.

The dirt under your nails? Nah. More like the glue that's stuck to your skin. 

Showering? Sleeping? Hell, just walking around? 

She's there. Hand on your lower back and leaning against your shoulder.

Okay but no seriously, Vi is way smarter than people give her credit for. 

She really enjoys reading, so let her read to you! Better yet, read to her! It's something sweet for her to look forward to at the end of the day. 

On top of being a Physical touch kind of gal, she's also somewhat into Quality time and acts of service. 

Always willing to help with whatever you need. Especially if it's something you two can do together. 

Please patch her up after a fight! She won't ask you for help, but she definitely needs it. 

Also has the the worst pickup lines imaginable.

Thinks she's smooth. 

She is not. 

Lowkey kind of a loser. 

What she considers hot romance is really more sad and desperate. 

Absolutely has abandonment issues. On top of that, probably the most self destructive bitch you know.

Whenever she spirals, automatically assumes you're going to leave her because of it. 

If you stay, though, she really does try to get better.

After Jinx and Vander, though? 

It became soo much worse. 

She still struggles with her mental health. Sometimes, you get seriously worried she's slipping back into old habits.

You never leave though. 

Never calls you ‘cupcake’. Maybe ‘babe’ or ‘sugar’, but not ‘cupcake’.

Does love herself some pet names though. 

Always walks closest to the road.

Cards and poetry aren't really her thing, but does buy you flowers occasionally! (Usually as an apology, but she's trying.).

Shockingly gentle with you! For a ex-cage fighter, she has really good control of when she's rough or not. 

Scared of messing up what the two of you have.

Just reassure her. And dote on her lots. 

The way to her heart is words of affirmation and assurance.

Loves nothing more than to come home after work and faceplant into your chest.

There is one person allowed to play with her hair. 

That is you. 

Lets you mess with it. Even gave you hair gel to play with once. (Stopped when you gave her a Mohawk. It was soo worth it). 

Hope you like scarves and sweaters, because her hickey game is absolutely impeccable. 

Shockingly possessive. 

Again, terrified of losing you. Not necessarily because she doesn't trust you, but she doesn't trust the world. 

Marks are a nice little way to remind people you're taken. 

Lovess when you're gentle with her. 

Too many people have been rough with Vi in her life. Be the one person who's not, and she's head over heels. 

Surprisingly very good in the kitchen. 

Nothing extravagant, but she enjoys cooking and baking. 

Vi really values good food. After being in prison as long as she was? She eats every meal like it'll be her last.

Whiny as fuck when you don't give her attention.

Seriously. Forget to kiss her goodbye. Watch what happens. 

(She follows you out the door and stands there, arms crossed, and won't let you leave until you kiss her.) 

Really good with kids. Wants to start a family one day. 

After the Hexgate, she helps families reunite.

Takes the time to comfort all the kids who lost a parent.

You caught her chasing them around, letting them swing off her arms, and- once- even playing princess with a little girl.

You did, in fact, catch Vi in a tutu. They were having a tea party. 

You are not allowed to mention it ever again. 

Lovess play fighting and wrestling with you.

Might even let you win, if she's in a good mood. 

Oh, and if you're ticklish? 

She knows. 

And she will exploit it. 

This poor woman cannot, for the life of her, put her feelings into words though. 

Takes her a very long time to say ‘I Love you’. Knew it from the beginning, but couldn't force herself to say it. 

Still struggles to say it, sometimes. When she does, she's normally scared or upset. Says it very quietly, like she doesn't want you to hear it.

But you do. Every time. 

And you always say it back. 

Doesn't know what she'd do without you. 

And won't ever have to find out. 

Sevika- 

Was Vi not beefy enough for you? Was Caitlyn too short? 

Nah but seriously, Sevika is literally the best of both worlds. 

And she knows it.

This is one cocky bitch right here. 

Doesn't really flirt. Or make any effort, at first. Just assumes you're into her. Because everyone is into her.

And she's correct.

Starts very casual. Sevika has a wide, wide roster of fine pieces of ass. You are simply one of them. 

She doesn't really care about you. I mean, she'd be bummed out if anything happened to you, but it wouldn't be the end of the world. 

You aren't friends.

You're her bitch.

Well, until you aren't. 

Light pillowtalk becomes deep conversations. Hard fucking becomes… Softer fucking? Definitely not love making, but it's gentler. 

Like she cares about not hurting you. 

Eventually, you start seeing her in public. 

Sevika has no reservations about having you sit in her lap while she plays poker. 

You're her victory celebration when she wins, or her consolation prize if she loses. Either way, she likes having you around when she plays. 

Played strip poker once. 

Once. 

Sevika won. She never took off anything but a sock. 

I don't care who you are. I don't care how you look. No matter what, sevika is massive compared to you. 

She is canonically between 6’1 and 6’4. She is made of muscle. She has a bigass metal arm. No normal person is ever going to compare to that. 

You're her favorite form of stress relief. 

Kind of like how people have a certain pillow they're specially attached to? That's you to Sevika. You're her emotional support pillow. 

She tries to act all nonchalant about it. She really, really does. 

But that little possessive spike that flares up when you flirt with other girls? How she always wakes up tangled around you? 

Yeah… she's not nonchalant at all. 

Basically scares off every other suitor you have. Proudly.

No one comes close to you- not when you belong to Sevika. 

Literally everyone knows who you are. Maybe not your name. But they recognize your face.

When you sit in her lap, you're literally the safest person in all of Zaun. 

Eventually, she stops sleeping around. It just doesn't feel the same anymore. The only person she really wants to sleep with is you. 

Probably the most loyal girl on this list.

Literally will not even look at a brothel when you're together. 

Babette? Never met her!

Takes the prosthetic arm off at night, so she doesn't accidently hurt you with it.

Also bitches and moans whenever you try and cuddle, but also, refuses to let go of you.

Especially in the mornings. She'll pretend to be asleep, knowing you can't pry her off, and just lay on top of you so you can't leave. 

Absolutely abhorrent at voicing her feelings. Girl hasn't said ‘I love you’ once in her life. 

But gets better… eventually. 

What Sevika is, however, is an acts of service type gal. 

Will literally do everything without you having to ask. 

Owns a pair of glasses. Puts them on when doing your taxes. 

Keeps her place tidy. Appreciates a partner who keeps things moderately clean, but Sevika does her fair share of the chores, too.

Her favorite feeling is coming home from a hard mission to a fresh cooked meal from you. You could be the worst chef in the world and she won't care. She's eaten worse, I promise. If you're still cooking when she walks through the door, will come up behind you and rest her chin on top of your head, just to hug you from behind. 

Only really mushy and sweet right before she leaves for a few days, or right after she comes back. 

Not one for grand displays of affection. Its smaller things- like having coffee/tea ready for you in the mornings, or asking if you've eaten that day. You won't get flowers or love-notes, but she will always keep you safe and taken care of.

On top of being loyal to a fault, also brutally honest.

Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it's not. You trust her to be truthful about everything she does, but Sevika also calls you out on your own shit, too. 

With that being said, though, she's one of the most mature women on this list. Arguments are rare, and she hardly- if ever- raises her voice at you. She's a great communicator and doesn't have time for dumb bickering. Miscommunication basically does not exist in your relationship. She's just too blunt.

You're next to Zaun as her top priority. You're what she fights for. You're what makes it all worth it. 

Would die for you in a heartbeat. She is expendable. You are not. 

When all is said and done, loves coming home to you and talking shit about her fellow councilors. 

But she's making a difference, slowly. 

Sevika wants to make Zaun a place that deserves you. 

And, eventually, she'll make it happen.

[noteriii]

Hello there ^-^ I hope you're doing well. I saw your requests are open, so I wanted to request headcanons for Loid Forger x soft female s/o, please, if that inspires you :)♡

(I know Yor is technically "soft" too, but, here the reader doesn't have that kind of strength nor has a personality where she could handle the type of work Yor does or anything like that. Just a very soft gentle reader, please) and thank you 🌸

oh.. loid with a soft! reader would be so cute.. i picture this to be where you're his stand-in wife. he thinks this is all for a mission but he can't help but feel..

he gets so flustered around you. he knows this partnership is just for convenience, but having you around the apartment going about your day? god, does it do something to poor mr. forger.

once you move in, he feels like the house is warmer- more friendly. loid would never admit it to anyone, but he liked it better having you moved in. your room was so cutely decorated and the scented candles you put on every free table somehow reminded him of a home he had tried to block out.

he can't help but have a smile on his face when he comes home after a long day, hanging his coat up as he smells whatever you cooked for dinner that night (with anya's help, of course). he finds it endearing that even if this was all just some awkward circumstance, you do still really play the housewife role well.

you try to plan "family" activities. whether it's just a small trip to the park for anya and bond to run around, or a treat at the bakery (your personal fav), the forger family will almost always be out and about on the weekends.

anya absolutely adores you. she loves how you cook and how you do everything in your ability to make her and her papa happy. she loves when you include her in conversations and play along when loid wont.

loid finds you incredibly endearing. he is not used to being on the receiving side of someone so gentle and affectionate. at first, he thought he might've embarrassed himself with how warm his face got when you had first made him a cup of tea after his shower so that he could settle down after a long day. he's so used to being the protector, the one in control, so when you're so naturally soft and considerate with him- it catches him off guard. he might try to hide it, but the small lift of his lips and pink tint on his face will always give him away.

he sort of short circuits when you compliment him? like i said before, he's too cool and collected. too nonchalant. so, when you call his bed head cute one morning, he kind of just stands there confused. its not like he was trying to woo you or anything there. he wasn't doing anything particularly specific- and you called him cute? he was not, and still not, used to the random compliments. he has gotten better at recovering from, though.

he's a lot more attentive with you. while loid is already a caring person, being around someone so soft and loving would make him even more attentive. he would start paying attention to the smallest details about you — the way you laugh, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love, or the way you curl up with your favorite blanket. he’d take note of these things and try to replicate them in sweet ways when he’s around.

he secretly loves attention. you can't prove me wrong. loid is very good at hiding his emotions, but when you do something cute — like cuddling up with him for movie night or showing him how excited you are over a new book — he can’t help but feel a warmth in his heart. he might not always show it, but it makes him feel content in a way he’s not used to. when you ask for his opinion on something small, he secretly enjoys that feeling of being needed, but in a gentle way.

he is such a sucker for you. you bring out the softer side of loid that very few people get to see. despite his stern spy demeanor, he’s incredibly protective of you. if you're feeling sick or down, loid will drop everything to take care of you, even if it means he has to adjust his mission schedule. he might not show it outright, but his actions will speak volumes, whether it's making you tea or tucking you into bed when you're not feeling well.

loid would take his time with you, iykyk. despite his best judgements, he finds himself taking you out on dates and thinking of you as his wife rather than just a roommate- a friend. he finds everything about you so..cute.. sometimes he thinks he wants to squish your face in his palms.. yk, like you would a baby? the cute aggression gets to him and sometimes it catches anya off guard.

[cobaltperun]

Jerks With Hearts of Gold - Property Damage

SMUT! Bottom Tara Carpenter x Top Female Read

Summary: Tara's reckless habit bites you in the ass before you can finish.

Warning: Smut, so minors do not interact, top Reader, bottom Tara, oral sex, vaginal sex, multiple orgasm, fingering, strap-on.

Masterlist / Side story of this request

Word count: 3k

It started as a cute, albeit a bit reckless habit, one you somehow managed to silently encourage. It was cute and you had too much faith in your rented apartment's furniture. In your defense, Tara looked adorable and rather happy every time she got the chance to throw herself at your bed, with or without you on it. And you had a sneaking suspicion that your silent, but nonetheless positive reactions to her actions only fueled her happiness.

You came back one night from a date, surprised that you actually managed to get an entire night just for you and Tara without having to do elaborate plans to keep your relationship a secret from Sam and Tara's friends. Well, you figured they were also your friends now. Either way, Sam allowed you and Tara to hang out, fooled by the essay Tara and you had to write for your class.

Okay, fooled wasn't the right word here. The essay did exist, and the deadline was approaching, but you didn't even touch it tonight. And Tara made some excuse that the essay was long, and it would be more practical for her to spend the night. And Sam, being completely oblivious to all the things you and Tara have been doing over the past months, agreed to that.

She actually got fooled by this pretend-we-hate-each-other bullshit, so you felt no regrets. Granted, Tara was convincing, groaning and complaining about it even as you pretended to drag her outside her apartment, all for Sam to see and hear it, just so Sam would believe it. She even kept the act up as you went down the stairs and went across the street, just in case Sam was watching from the window. All of that vanished the moment you were out of sight and your date began, taking you to the cinema, then to your favorite bakery, and finally, to your apartment.

Tara went straight into your bedroom and threw herself at your bed, doing the infamous Tara Bomb she's been doing even before you got together. She would just drop down on the poor bed again and again, and it stood strong for months.

You both should have known everything had its limits, especially if enough force was consistently applied to it.

When you came into the bedroom, seeing as you weren't a lunatic with a ridiculous habit of assaulting your own bed and thus felt no need to rush in, you saw Tara looking a bit concerned.

"Everything okay?" you asked, sitting down behind her and wrapping your arm around her waist.

Tara seemed relieved all of a sudden. "Oh, no, nothing. Just feel a bit guilty over constantly jumping on your bed," bullshit, Tara would never. "It would be a lot more worth it if I landed on you," okay, maybe not bullshit.

"You really want to ride me, don't you?" you teased as she turned around and straddled your lap, kissing you slowly. The taste of her lips was addictive and in an instant you forgot about your bed and Tara’s desire to one day drop a Tara Bomb on top of you.

"Mhm," she agreed and nipped your ear. Her hands immediately digging into your hair, messing it up as she pushed her body against you. "It's been too long," she complained, seriously this time, as you caressed her thighs and then slipped your hands higher, toying with the hem of her shirt.

"It's been a week," you teased her, though you were already pulling her shirt up to take it off.

"Too long," she breathed out, leaning back just enough to let you take her shirt and bra off, while she did the same to you. Her nipples were already hard, tempting and making your mouth water. "Baby, I'm so, oh-" you couldn't resist, not that you even tried, you leaned down and sucked her nipple into your warm mouth while kneading the other breast. "I'm so wet and ready for you," she began grinding slowly, just enough to tease herself. You pulled her up, making her straddle your thigh instead of your lap. Immediately Tara rolled her hips, grinding on your thigh as you nibbled on her nipple and then sucked on it. She was moaning softly, hugging you, her wetness soaking her panties and seeping through to her jeans. “Need more,” she gasped, sensitive, needy, almost desperate.

"Yeah, go on then," you patted her ass and she got up, guiding your hands from her breast and ass to the belt of her jeans. She looked down into your eyes as you took her belt off and pulled her against you. You eyes filled with intense desire as you kissed her right above the waist band of her jeans.

Tara took a deep breath, pushing her jeans and panties down, urging you to strip her naked as you went lower with every inch of skin she revealed until you kissed her right above her pussy. She could see the satisfied grin on your face as you slipped a finger through her folds, making her lean on you as your touch still caught her by surprise and she felt desperate. You kept teasing her for a bit, rubbing her clit as she grasped onto your shoulders, and then you pushed your fingers inside her soaking wet pussy, groaning at how warm it was, and yet smirking as Tara’s knees buckled a bit and she leaned almost all of her weight on you. You glanced up, meeting her eyes as she moaned, rolling her hips and riding your fingers.

You pulled them out, smirking as she glared at you, but the glare vanished as you brought the wet fingers to your lips. "Definitely wet," you licked your finger clean and pulled away, leaning back on the bed and taking what remained of your own clothes off. Tara could tease you as well, she climbed onto the bed, her back turned to you as she knelt there, on her hands and knees.

"You want me like this?" she asked, spreading her legs and enticing you to just take her already. You were going to drive her crazy with all the teasing, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She craved that teasing, craved this back and forth or pleasure and slight pauses, prolonging each night that ended like this.

You moved until you were behind her, taking in the view, and Tara blushed. The way you were looking at her, like she was the most beautiful sight you will ever see, just turned her on more. "You're going to drive me insane," you whispered, her pussy clenching at the tone of your voice, eagerly expecting your fingers, tongue, or strap.

"That's my line. Fuck, just touch me already!" she pleaded, desperately wanting to feel your touch.

Finally, you placed your hand on her lower back and began sliding it down, slowly moving from her back, over her ass, leaving her trembling and hungry for more. "Maybe you should tell me how wet you are," your slowly rubbed her pussy, spreading her wet pussy lips and asking her to tell you something you could already feel yourself.

"Mhm, bet you could put it in me right away, that's how wet I am for you," she gave you what you wanted, turned on by this. By showing you how much you turned her on, how much she wanted you. And the fact that you wanted her just as badly only increased the pleasure and happiness she felt.

"I'd rather get a taste first," you leaned down and licked her from behind and she barely kept her arms from buckling underneath her as she gasped, fireworks going off in her head as your warm, wet tongue licked through her folds. Your thumb found her clit and Tara felt heat coursing through her entire body. Each touch of your tongue and fingers, the steady hand on her inner thigh, it made her even wetter, made it even easier for your finger to occasionally penetrate her.

"Y/N," she gasped, all she could feel was you, your touch, and it felt so good.

"You taste so good," you hummed, your voce sending vibrations through her clit and making her drop her head down onto your pillow, and Tara could only mumble 'please' as you continued eating her out. "So needy and wet for me."

"I've told you al-" just as she spoke up you pushed your tongue inside her pussy, making her cry out in pleasure. "fuck I'm gonna cum already!" you've gotten way too good at fucking her, way too good at knowing exactly what to do to have her shake from the pleasure.  Way too good at making her body addicted to your touch. Fuck, she was dripping wet and she was sure your chin was soaked as well. You sucked on her clit while fingering her with two of your fingers and she came with a loud, broken cry of your name.

You watched her, her body shaking as she buried her face in the pillow, her knees barely keeping her ass up as you went and put the harness and a strap on on, and you slowly caressed her thighs and ass. Tara moaned, she's always loved these light touches between orgasms, just light displays of love as your hands stopped at her hips, an unspoken promise shared between you of what was to come.

"Fuck, give me more!" she demanded, in usual Tara fashion, wanting more immediately after cumming the first time. "Fuck that damn strap into my pussy," she groaned into the pillow, needy and bossy at the same time.

"So bossy," you teased her as your hands moved from her hips, up her sides as the tip of your strap rubbed against the opening of her pussy.

"Fuck yeah I'm bossy," she turned around, her eyes filled with lust. "You've spoiled me," she confessed as you pulled the strap away made her whine again. "Just take me already! I need you," she whined.

"Turn around," you ordered, lust and desire consuming her, and Tara immediately did as she was told, and even spread her legs wide. And something in you might have cracked when she reached down and spread her pussy for you. And if you even had the slightest intention to tease her it all went out the window as she reached down with her other hand and tugged at the belts of the strap harness. She was often like this during sex, somehow being bossy and quick to listen at the same time.

"Yeah? You want me like this? Soaking wet just for you?" she knew she was getting exactly what she wanted as you leaned over her and pushed the strap inside her wet pussy, and it slid right into her. "Finally!" Tara cried out, legs instantly wrapping around you, her fingers digging into your shoulder and back as you began thrusting into her.

You set just the pace Tara loved, not too gentle, but not rough either, steadily thrusting into her as she met each of your thrusts with the same intensity, lost in the pleasure and the heat of your naked bodies pressed together.

"Just like that, fuck my pussy, Y/N, fuck me, pound your strap into me," she was surprisingly tame tonight, as you found the perfect angle and she arched her back, her nails digging deeper into your skin as you her wetness coated the strap and dripped onto the sheets. She reached up, tilting your head up so she could kiss you, and you opened your mouth, letting her slip her tongue inside it, letting her control the kiss as you fucked her.

You couldn't think of anything that could quite compare to this, to making love to the love of your life, to seeing her drop all her defense mechanisms and just let go. She trusted you completely, with her pleasure, and her safety as she gave you all of her. “Harder, faster, don’t hold back,” she gasped and you sped up, thrusting harder into her.

"Y/N," she whined, clutching you tighter, wanting you deeper, closer. "Y/N," she kept moaning your name, increasingly more desperate as you slipped your hand between the two of you and found her clit.

"I know, Baby," you kissed her neck softly, gently sucking on the side of it.

"I need you so much, need to be yours, need to be taken by you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly and giving you yet another sign she was close. "I'm close," she whispered, tossing her head back and baring her neck to you as you dragged your upper lip down from her chin and then lightly bit the spot where her neck and shoulder met, leaving a barely noticeable mark that the clothes and light make-up would cover.

"Cum for me, Tara," you rubbed her clit a bit harder, feeling her legs lock around your hips. "Good girl," you knew that would push her over the edge even faster. "Taking me so well."

"Oh, fuck!" nothing short of completely stopping would have stopped Tara's orgasm now. And you were so damn close as well, just a bit more. A few more thrusts and you'd cum together with Tara and you buried your face in her neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent as she moaned in your ear.

"Y/N!" she cried out, cumming hard around your strap, squirting slightly, and you immediately pulled out, halting your own orgasm for a moment, and the look on Tara's face promised you that she would get you over the edge, as soon as she recovered just a bit.

"I've got you," you hugged her and kissed her neck as she continued breathing heavily, shaking slightly in your arms from the intensity of the orgasm as she slowly got her breathing under control like every time you pushed her to two orgasms.

And then it happened. You put your arm on the wrong spot on the bed, and it just collapsed, tilting forward underneath you as the wooden frame cracked and broke, leaving both you and Tara surprised.

"Are you okay?" you immediately asked Tara and she nodded, her eyes wide and the look on her face actually a hilarious mixture of shock, shame and holding back her laugh. "What the fuck?" you asked, looking around you and at the broken bed underneath you and Tara.

"Might be my fault," Tara admitted sheepishly and you blinked a few times, suddenly realizing exactly what she was talking about. The Tara Bombs.

"Good thing it didn't break while I was still inside you," you laughed and that settled it for Tara as well, as she hugged you, pulling you back down on the broken bed, her laughter mixing with your own. And just as you stopped laughing the bottom of the bed fell as well and you were sent into another burst of uncontrollable laughter.

When you finally calmed down you pulled her closer, intending to lift her up and go to the living room. And while doing so her still rather sensitive pussy rubbed against the strap you were still wearing and she whined.

"Sorry," you kissed and held her close, knowing she got really sensitive when she came twice. That was why you immediately pulled out instead of chasing the orgasm that only a few thrusts away.

"It's more than okay," not that Tara minded, as long as you didn't touch her pussy for a few minutes after the second orgasm. "Doubt you'll be able to carry me, though," she laughed lightly, and that would have been true even if you didn't just spend so much energy making love to the girl in your arms.

"Just means you'll have to walk," you joined in and helped her off the broken bed. "Guess we're sleeping on the couch," you said and took the strap off to clean it after you recover.

Tara took your hand and pulled you with her to the living room, still naked and with nothing but a bedsheet, blanket and a pillow in your arms. The two of you made the temporary bed since there was no way you'd be going to Tara's apartment at this hour and Tara snuggled up to you.

"You didn't finish," she pointed out and you shrugged, you were close, but the bed breaking underneath you kind of ruined that plan.

"I can live with that," you assured her, but she had another idea on her mind as she kissed you and then went down, blazing the path from your lips to your pussy with her lips and soft kisses. "Tara," you moaned softly. She didn't need to do this, but damn, you were close, and you'd definitely appreciate it.

"Just relax for me," Tara said, her lips wrapping around your clit as she gently sucked and fuck, you really were close.

"Relaxing," you shut your eyes closed and just gave into the feeling as she put just as much passion into getting you to cum as you did when you were making her feel good. And between her efforts and your body just responding to her you quickly reached your orgasm, moaning her name as Tara once more kissed the same path, only in reverse.

"I love you," she said, snuggling into you once more, and you just took a moment to process everything, to take in the rare moment of vulnerability from Tara shown by those three words.

"I love you too," you kissed her and hugged her tightly, drawing small circles on her bare back, just the way she liked it. "I really don't want to get up though," you groaned after a couple of minutes.

"You'll let me shower alone?" Tara teased as she got up and went to your bathroom, and well, when she puts it like that.

"Hell no, you'll use up all the warm water!" you exclaimed, jumping in right after her and pulling her back against you.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that's your reason," she rolled her eyes, and you just kissed her shoulder before turning the water on.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Soft Dami is my favorite, especially when he has a partner or friemd and hides it from his family.

This became a ‘Batfamily trying who Damian is hiding from them.’ Type fic.

Damian hates sharing. Absolutely loathes it.

He already bore a shared moniker with his older siblings who -for the most part- have moved on to bigger and better things, creating their own versions of justice as vigilantes, leading teams of their own.

He shared a lot with his siblings and has come to hate the phrase sharing is caring, to Damian it was nothing more then a phrase that was so overused and abused by the likes of Dick and Jason, so much so to the point that the word had lost it’s dictionary meaning.

So when he entered in a relationship with you, Damian vowed to keep your name out of his mouth within the presence of his family. Which at first was extremely hard as all poor Damian could think about was you and how blessed he was that you’ve given him a chance; He had to bite down on his tongue a most of the time whenever he was asked if there was anyone at school that he had taken a liking towards.

Of course he has someone he’s taken a likening to, you. However he couldn’t let himself falter so easily and only scoffed at the question as though it was beneath him, before then reminding everyone at the table that he was only at school for academics and honing his artist skills, nobody in that rathole of a school could ever hold his attention for longer then five minutes.

Luckily his family believed this excuse and let the dropped the topic not long after, much to his relief in knowing that he was spared another day from ever having to share the one person in his life -outside of his family- that he cared deeply for.

However luck tends to run out and the glaring fact that his family was sharp as knives- especially Tim- at detective stuff, so much so that in retrospect Damian knew he shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was the day his siblings eventually figured out everything…

‘He’s…smiling.’ Dick looked back at Jason, Tim, Duke and Steph before looking back at Damian who was subtly smiling down at his phone. ‘Oh my god he’s actually smiling.’ Dick repeats as Jason shoves him out of the way to get a better look.

‘He’s smiling alright, but what about.’ Jason said.

‘Or who.’ Steph piped up and the others looked at her.

‘Wanna elaborate on that Steph?’ Jason asked, raising his brow and she shrugged. ‘I’ve been noticing recently how Damian’s been more on his phone than he’s ever been since getting one.’ She begins. ‘He never engages in the group chat, not once but here he is, using his phone and smiling at whoever’s on the other side. Damian is actually talking to someone.’ She finishes, feeling happy at the fact that Damian had opened his heart to at least someone

‘Or he could be planning a murder.’ Tim said sarcastically and Steph playfully punches him in the arm. ‘But let’s go with the idea that he’s talking to someone for convenience sake.’ He adds on, rubbing his arm.

‘How do we prove it though?’ Duke pipes up, catching the other’s attention. ‘We’d have to somehow get Damian away from his phone long enough for us to check but the question is,’ Duke then looked at Jason, Steph, Tim and Dick, ‘who’s going to be the one to lure him out while the rest of us have a look?’

‘I think we should take a-‘ Dick was greeted with a face full everyone’s pointed fingers aimed in his direction like guns. ‘Vote.’ His face fell as his siblings gave him false sympathies before shoving him into the library with Damian and slamming the door behind him. Hard.

‘What do you want Grayson.’ Damian said, the smile upon his face now gone the moment he realised that he was no longer alone to freely text you, at least not without someone looking over his shoulder.

‘Oh hi Damian.’ Dick greets as he moves towards him, taking note of how he kept his phone close to his chest, almost as if he was hiding something he didn’t want anyone else to see. ‘I overheard Bruce this morning saying that he had something to talk to you about, something about implementing harder training modules for you?’ Damian practically perked up at this and Dick found his opening and honed in on it by shrugging his shoulders. ‘I’m not entirely certain that’s the case, so I’d double check with Bruce if I were you.’

Damian looked at his sibling for a long period of time and sighed. ‘Fine, I shall check in with father but Grayson I swear to god if this is a lie…’

Dick crossed his heart. ‘Scouts honour.’

‘Tt.’ Was all Damian uttered before leaving the room, not realising that he had left his phone on the plush couch in the library.

Bingo dick thought as Jason popped his head in through the doorway. ‘Is little Robin gone?’

‘Little Robin is gone.’ Dick confirmed and watched as Jason’s head disappeared as he, Steph, Tim and Duke came into the room, closing the door for extra measure in the instance Damian realised his fault and comes running back with his sword to skewer them all.

‘Now,’ Stephanie rubs her hands together maniacally, ‘let’s see who our Damian has been talking to.’ She then picks up the phone, expecting it to be locked but to her surprise, it wasn’t, she gasps.

‘What? What is it?’ Tim asked, trying to get a look at the phone screen.

‘He’s left his phone unlocked. Rookie mistake.’ She replied and Dick, Tim, Jason and Duke only stared at her, unamused.

‘Just���tell us who he’s been texting so we can put this to rest.’ Duke said as the others agreed, the anticipation was killing them at this point, but so would Damian if he comes back just when they were so close to discovering the truth.

‘Okay, okay sheesh, I’ll look.’ Steph said and looked away from her brothers and back down at the screen, looking intently before her face became one of confusion as he read the contact name aloud. ‘My treasure.’

Dick blinked. ‘What?’

‘Give it here.’ Jason snatched the phone from Stephanie and it wasn’t long for his face to be one of confusion as he looked towards his other siblings, holding up the phone. ‘The contact name is literally just my treasure. No photos of them, nothing.’ He tells them as Tim snatched the phone from him.

‘I could find us a name in under five minutes maximum but-‘

‘What’re you doing with my phone, Drake?’

Tim, Duke, Steph, Jason and Dick froze upon hearing Damian’s voice, followed by the unsheathing of a sword.

‘Should we run now or?’ Dick asked.

‘Running sounds good.’ Duke agreed.

‘Running sounds great.’ Steph joined in.

‘And it has beneficial effects on the body.’ Tim chimed.

‘Running it is by unanimous vote.’ Jason then said as all of them sprinted for their lives as Damian chased them out of the library, sword in hand, and eyes full of fury and other conflicting emotions.

He knew he made the right choice in changing your contact name on everything, but knew if they had been given just a bit more time and looked deep into his photo album, they would’ve saw a beautiful portrait of you that he drew a while back that would’ve gave everything away.

[mona-risms]

hi, i'm really sorry if i've been spamming the request part alot ㅠㅠ ur writing is soo scrumptious and the way u characterized the characters really well is just AAAAAA

i remember reading ur huntrix x rookie reader. and i had a thought, what would their reaction be to a concept change from the reader's group. like maybe they first debuted with a cute concept but for their next album they did a 180(like katseye going from touch to gabriella). i can also imagine the tiktoks of huntrix dancing with the reader's group

(also, if the 🌒 isn't taken, would it be alright if i could be that??(idk how to word this, i just woke up 😭))

FIRST OF ALL DON'T EVEN WORRY 😭😭😭 I like having asks come in :3c. Second of all I'M SO FUCKING GLAD????? I write these things but I'm never sure if I got their characterisations down 💀 I just go by vibes and pray I didn't screw them up. I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKE MY WRITING 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 and yes you can take 🌒 WELCOME

ANYWAY!!! This is funny as fuck bc I did actually picture KATSEYE for the type of unit you'd be in. But a 180 on the concept switch? Oh. Oh. Oh that is dangerous for their poor hearts. They ADORED your group's cute and fluffy theme, and now your concept's switched up into something so much more lethal and they do NOT know how to handle that

I can just imagine the three of them crammed together while they watch your newly released MV with their expressions all in a state of shock because "ohgodohgodohgod she looks so good" "she sounds good too Wow Okay" "the two of you need to shut up I'm trying to watch" "yeah but what are you watching Like Really" before the lift doors open and you step out of it. They jump your ass LMFAO GOOD LUCK they'll cover up any marks that Somehow get left on your skin with masterful makeup it's fine 🥰

THEY WOULD DEFINITELY COLLAB W EACH OTHER SO MUCH IN SOCMED 😭😭😭😭 oh my god. Literally whenever they get the chance they BEG Bobby to help organise collabs with your two units and everything to the point that even he's like "don't you wanna collab with the others" "NO" "okay!". Whether it's them making a tiktok of doing your unit's dance challenges or its your groups together dancing and alternating with each other's choreos in each other's accounts and stuff. It's not even just bc of you, it's bc they'd find your group fun to be with too :( so it's like fuck it we ball HAHAHA

[solbaby7]

Drifting Away

pairing: azriel x reader

warnings: angst (sorry but it just hurts so good) swearing, mentions of poor mental health, romantic undertones

summary: You've been drowning for a long time and finally someone notices

[ part 2 ]

--

Azriel could hear you crying at night.

He wasn't sure when it started; how long it had been going on before the slinking shadows darted about the house, enjoying their free reign when he hears a noise. One so soft he nearly brushed it off as a breeze but he hears it again. A little louder, more throaty and then it clicks; the undeniable sound of despair being swiftly hidden away by the dark hours of the early morning when others were asleep and none the wiser.

There's an urge to check on you, one so overwhelming he taps his fingers against the smooth mahogany desk filled to the brim with mission reports and carefully notated maps with neat notes tucked in the corner. His ears strain for the sound again, mentally agreeing that if he heard it once more, he'd have no other choice but to check it out.

But nothing sounds.

Not for one minute, or two or twenty but he doesn't forget about it.

Especially not when he sees you the following morning, wearing a bright smile and laughing louder than anyone else in the room. He's subtle in the way he observed you, notating your mannerisms and the effortless charm that dripped from your tongue.

The picture of a well adjusted woman. One who seemed happy and fulfilled until the final line was spoken and the one-woman cast bowed for her performance, basking in the applause from a crowd well entertained.

You were attentive; borderline motherly in the way you took care of everyone around you--easily handing off the food from your plate without even batting an eye and Azriel's brow quirks in attention when he hears you decline more when offered; insisting that you're full, showing off a clean plate as you casually wipe your mouth against dark linen cloth.

However, he's certain you didn't take even a single bite.

It piques his interest; the warning signs of a silent struggle and he finds himself unable to stop from noting other things about you.

Like, the way you seemed to be a reliable sounding board. Mor or Feyre or Cassian would come to you for advice, spilling their burdens on your shoulders and you always welcomed them with open arms. You would nod quietly, never once interrupting and always providing such carefully curated advice. The kind you learned through life experience; pain and sorrow and true mind numbing emptiness that came from growing up with bright embers of hope; only to be pushed into the world and realize how far people will go to snuff those embers out.

And never once did they ask if you needed comfort in return.

“For a spymaster, I would have assumed you’d be better at being subtle when you stare.” It’s startling how silent you’d been, shifting from one end of the room to the next without being detected by his hearing or his shadows—shadows he now notices are circling around your feet, tickling at your bare toes against the wine red rug. “What were you looking at anyway?”

Hazel eyes are calculating when they take you in, brows furrowing when you smile down at him, humming to yourself as you twiddle your toes through the ebbing darkness that grows around your legs, teasing at the hem of your dress with a little tug. “You.”

Rhysand sits proudly in a chair big enough to be a throne, large decorative pillows perched under his arms and a grinning Feyre eased into his lap, head curling into his neck with content. Even Nesta and Cass were sitting closer than usual on the couch, feet bumping at the others as she pretended to be absorbed in some book but there was no way she was actually focusing with Cassian’s arm curled around the back of her shoulders. Mor chats idly with Armen, glittering jewelry shoved on two slim fingers and you can’t help but linger on all the incredibly powerful beings around you.

Such purpose all around and somehow you still couldn’t find your own.

“Well, it’s not everyday I get the privilege of your attention.” You twirl once, the material of your dress skimming the tips of his fingers. “Do tell—how do I look?”

Azriel doesn’t correct how that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s a pause, his voice more soft when he speaks so it gets drowned out in the chatter behind you. “You look lonely.”

The reply makes you stop your toying with the shadows, gentle smile faltering when you squint down at him, throughly caught off guard. “What?” Azriel watches the second you seem to recompose yourself, smile sliding back in place but he can see the way you look at him, regarding him cautiously; wondering where he was getting at. “That’s ridiculous. I live in a home filled with my closest friends and family.”

You anticipate the nod, the smile and then the conversation will continue like nothing had ever happened; the answer appeasing the questioner and you’d continue about your day as you did all the others. But Azriel doesn’t change the subject, doesn’t accept the answer provided. Instead, a golden hand raises, tea still steaming over the rim. “Then, why do you seem so sad?”

“Where are you getting this from?”

“Because I heard something last night,” He watches the way you freeze, lids squinting a fraction and your hands actually tremble at your side.

“Hm," It’s alarming how good you are at taking control of the conversation; how your body adapts to the emotion that your brain predicts Azriel wants you to convey—happiness. His head slowly tilts to the side when you tip your head back and laugh, one that was so convincing even he nearly fell for it; but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Always the spy, when do you ever take a day off?"

Az can't seem to tear his eyes off of you, not when Cassian chimes in with an inebriated laugh, a heavy hand clapping down on his brothers shoulder and you're grateful for the distraction. The ability to slink into easier conversation, to craft a carefully woven picture of serenity but the golden gaze boring into the back of your head is distracting; makes your hands shake ever so slightly over the width of your glass, the condensation dripping cool trails down the length of your arm.

He doesn't get the chance to speak to you for the rest of the night; either being whisked away by his brothers or somehow getting lead away by Elain and Fey when asking for help bringing out a few more things from the kitchen. Shadows trudge by, being his eyes and ears when one returns with the same conclusion; gone, gone, gone.

For the rest of the night, Azriel remained on edge, unable to relax into the drink in his hand and his foot is practically bouncing a hole in the hardwood when the others finally start filtering out for the night; stumbling into one another on their way to their rooms. Ears strain to hear each door close and he's light on his feet when he bristles down the hall, sharply turning to the right and once he's at the end of the hall he comes to an abrupt stop.

Light still pours out from the crack beneath your door and nerves build in his stomach when he sees the shadow of your feet walking past; there was no reasonable explanation to be here—on this floor—and that becomes abhorrantly apparent when the door opens and your raising a brow at him. "Listening in on ladies in their bedchambers is not very gentlemanly of you."

"I wasn't. Well, I was but it wasn't like that." Azriel's walking past you, entering your room without even asking and he seems genuinely startled by the way it looks. Not that it was dirty or unkempt but it was painstakingly bare. Years of living there and still there were no pictures on the wall, no trinkets or feminine flare; just a bed with thick blankets and a shelf filled to the brim with books. A desk with a single sketchbook and a little bag of pencils and charcoals.

"What?"

He's still taking it in; it had to have been nearly eighty years and still it looked almost identical as it had when Rhys had first offered it to you as your own. "It's just not what I expected, that's all."

Your arms are crossed over your chest, hair braided tightly and it swayed as you walked, still dripping wet from a shower. It was alarmingly warm but you still wore a long sleeved shirt and fluffy socks that went up to your knees. "What did you expect?"

Az shrugs, turning to face you when he hears the way you slowly close the door. "You've been here a while. I suppose I had just expected to see more of you in here."

"Another one of your assessments?" There's no hiding the bite in your tone, the defensive stance you take when he begins wandering around; eyes eating up what little things you did have. Fingers graze over the spines of books, picking up one with tons of little dog-eared pages. "Please do tell what my lack of interest in interior decor says about me."

Book pages flutter, stopping when he catches one page more crinkled than most and his brows furrow when realizing the wrinkly circular dots were tears—your tears. "I wasn't evaluating you but since you asked," Azriel tucks the book under his arm and your lips part with a huff but he doesn't acknowledge the grumbles you give about taking things without asking. He's too busy scanning the contents of your desk; a cup of pens, little bottles of paints and a few brushes to accompany them. The thin drawer attached is half-filled with sketchbooks that were tightly bound an sealed with wax; a clear sign to stay the fuck out. "It shows that even after claiming to be perfectly content in a house filled with your so called "closest friends and family", you still refuse to get settled. That could stem from a plethora of things; variables I've accounted for but a definite conclusion is still pending at this time."

"Asshole," You all but hiss, smacking his hands away from sifting through the pages of the sketches and scribbles scrawled beside them— angsty little depictions of your thoughts when things got too overwhelming; when all you craved was a hot bath, one of Rhys' expensive bottles and an empty house so you could dance the line on how long you could hold your breath underwater.

"You asked." Ever the observer, noting the key you pull from under the neckline of your shirt, bending at the knee to unlock the side cabinet and open it just enough to shove the sketchbook inside. It's locked up tight and the intrigue only grows. "You also didn't say I was wrong."

"Fine," You concede, arms behind your back and braced against the desk, a body barrier between him and the secrets you weren't ready to confess. "You were wrong."

Azriel only smiles and your breath actually catches by how genuinely handsome he is. For once, he's not in his fighting leathers but somehow, the laid-back fashion of his dark sweatpants and t-shirt had your knees even more shaky. "Okay, then tell me something about you—something real."

The request startles you, brows screwing up and nose crinkling. "Why?"

A hand waves around him, shadows sliding over barren walls as if to aid in making Az's point. "Because, I should be able to get everything I need to know from being in what should be the most intimate place in the world for you but all I can get is that you like expensive sheets and quality curtains."

"I enjoy good sleep." It was the only two things that mattered when the sadness really set in. When minutes blurred into hours and in a blink of an eye you'd somehow skipped all three meals and everyone was shuffling away to their rooms for the night. "And I'll have you know the pens and colored pencils alone are more expensive than the duvet and curtains combined."

Azriel hums, fingers ghosting over the tin specifically made to hold them in place, perfectly color coded and all sharped to a point. "You draw? How don't I know that?"

"Because it doesn't save lives." It's meant as a joke, it even sounds like one but for some reason the shadowsinger can't seem to share the laugh. You refuse to meet his eye, creating some distance and tucking the key swiftly back under the fabric of your shirt, hands moving to fiddle with the ends of your sleeves. "I'm not all that good anyway."

"Good enough to spend so much money on supplies."

You let out an annoyed sigh and it doesn't affect him one bit; in fact, he finds himself enjoying any other emotion besides the faux smile he'd seen permanently plastered across your features. Your room smells like something Azriel can't place and he finds himself moving again, taking in more and more, trying to find the source of the sweet scent. "Is there a reason that you're here? You know, in my room instead of your own on the floor above us." You begin to trail behind him, following his line of sight and you too begin looking for whatever he was, rummaging through your closet and sniffing at your perfumes. "What are you doing?"

"I can smell something," It comes out distracted, body working without rationality when he ducks into your bathroom, sifting around shampoos and conditioners, soaps shaped like flowers and ivy but none of it is right. Not until he moves to the little cart by your clawfoot tub, fingers ruffling about vials and jars until he finds something that has your spine straightening. “What is this?”

There’s a pause while your will your voice to relax. “Infused rum.”

“Infused with?”

A scoff, bare toes on glossy floors when you snatch the bottle from him. “I don’t know, I don’t pay extra to get a history lesson. I just like how it makes me feel.”

Azriel raises a brow, eyes scanning the rest of the cart before sparing a glance at the empty tub. “In the bath?”

“Everyone has their own version of relaxation.” The bottle clinks back into place on the cart, tucked inconspicuously next to the other brightly colored vials and jars; perfectly hidden to anyone not equipped to pay attention to such things. “Do you usually question Mor or Elain of their drinking habits?”

It’s meant to push him away. To cut deep and throw him off your trail because Azriel was getting too close—too personal. “I would if they came to dinners faking smiles.” One step ahead forces you to take one step back, eyes squinting like a wounded animal bracing for one hell of a fight if it meant getting away. “I would if I saw them fading into nothing after spending their nights sobbing themselves to sleep.”

“Now you’re just speculating.”

“Am I?” Azriel pushes, evading your space and ignoring your attempts to create distance. It has to be some sort of manipulation tactic; distracting you with his intense presence in order to scramble your brain so that by time you realize he’s backed you into a corner—it’s too late. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His left hand raises, his wrist enclosed in shadows as his fingers curl around your neck. Your pulse hums against his skin, heartrate spiking at the intimate touch and all words are robbed from your vocabulary.

“Azriel—“

The low rasp of his voice cuts you off, gentle grip never faltering from your neck. A shiver runs down your spine, the callouses on his thumb a welcomed roughness when sweeping at the curve of your chin. “It’s okay to be sad,” His scent is overwhelming, affecting your body similarly to a few glasses of fae wine and it takes effort for your knees not to tremble. “Just don’t let it consume you.”

For a second you think he’ll kiss you with how intensely he stares at your mouth, pulse still jumping against his fingertips.

The distance never fully closes and the phantom reminder of his touch remains branded on your skin as he slowly exits your room. And for the first time in years, instead of sniffling wrinkles into novels overflowing with friendship and love or drowning your sorrows in curated liquors —you sit at your desk and draw the sharp lines of Azriel’s jaw and that intense darkness shadowing golden irises and somewhere along the lines, you find a sliver of hope.

[asilentsongbird]

Original post

"You have been charged with evading arrest. Do you accept the charges against you?"

You really don't know what to say. Especially since it's Neuvillette asking you.

You had been quietly, secretly dating for a few months. Neither of you were ready to talk with others about your relationship, and Neuvillette was always worried someone might use your relationship to their own advantage.

You shrug at your boyfriend, unsure of what to do. He lets out a sigh, as though this whole thing is an inconvenience. It sort of is.

He knows as well as you do that the charges won't stick. Because out of all the places you were last night, you were in the perfect place for an airtight alibi.

You were in Neuvillette's arms.

"I suppose?" you manage, feeling quite put on the spot.

It can't be helped, really. Though you had been to the Opera House before, you had never been there as a defendant. Most of the time you came here to pick Neuvillette up when he worked too late.

"Then we shall proceed."

Your shoulders slump slightly. Well, at least you'll get to see the Fortress of Meropide.

"Though typically at this time we would go over the charges and discuss evidence, I will have to intervene on this trial. The defendant could not have evaded arrest," Neuvillette said calmly, arms crossed over his chest.

To anyone else, he looks like the picture of ease. It's kind of nice being so close to Neuvillette right now, it allows only you to see the tips of his ears turn pink.

"Oh? And how can you say that?" Furina demands, looking quite upset that she isn't going to get a show.

Somehow, Neuvillette manages to stay composed as he answers, "Because she was with me last night."

Oh, poor Neuvillette looks ready to die from embarrassment. He was never going to live this down.

"I KNEW IT!"

You cover your face with your hands out of embarrassment, though it was a bit funny to see Furina leaning over the balcony of her chair, looking beyond happy that Neuvillette finally said something.

"Yes, well, if that is all, then I will dismiss this case," Neuvillette said, clearly embarrassed.

"IT MOST CERTAINLY IS NOT ALL!"

From the excited look on Furina's face, and the exasperated one on Neuvillette's, you had a feeling that this really was far from over.

Oh well, at least you don't have to keep anything a secret anymore.