#and... there... there just wasn't anything anyone could do

[cosmosluckycharms]

Bug like angel

I bet on losing dogs

It's been a while since you left the manor.

Around a year or so.

Since then you'd come back to Gotham to fight anomalies and stop by to secretly steal some of Alfred's food and come back home immediately.

You would see some of the Batfam watch you while you were in costume.

They'd be interested in the new vigilante.

You'd always go out of your way to avoid them.

You noticed how they seemed interested.

You hated that.

Where was that interest years ago?

You'd swing away and leave before they could ever get to you.

You hated how it seemed that now they were interested.

You hated how you could see Bruce's calculating stare, probably trying to see if he could adopt you.

You hated how you could see in Dicks eyes how he would see your flips and tricks and look amazed.

You hated how you could see Jason try up to you and talk to you.

You hated how you could see Tim trying to see your watch, which seemed like the technology was years ahead of theirs.

You hated how you would see in Damian's eyes that he was in awe.

You hated how much you yearned for this years agoAfter a while of hiding, you realized you should probably get your stuff.

So you would sneak into your room once in a while to grab your stuff and quickly come back.

You once almost got caught in the kitchen eating some of Alfred's food because you didn't realize he was there.

It was a hot summer noon and you and your friends were hanging out again

It was in celebration of no longer being around your "family", or "sticking up to the big bad wolf" as Hobie would say.

The day right after you had left the manor, your friends blew up the group chat, excited about how you had finally left that household.

They were so tired of having to see you sob and be angry over them and their unfair treatment of you.

They weren't tired of you, they could never be, they were tired of how they treated you.

They hated how they treated you like nothing when you were so sweet.

You would always care for everyone, you'd always cheer everyone up.

They didn't deserve you.

It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, you guys went to band practice and ended up going to get ice cream and walking around malls and buying things (you paying, ofc)

It was nice.

Usually, you hated shopping, it was boring and you didn't have anyone to go with so it was always lonely for you.

That was until you realized how fun it was with friends.

You guys went universe hopping at different malls, avoiding your universe mostly because you hated seeing all the merch of Gotham's vigilantes.

And you didn't want them to see you.

You tried to avoid the thought, you didn't want to think about them.

You guys spent a while together, before deciding to head home for a bit.

You went to your and Miguel's apartment and immediately ran to your room (which was the guest room turned into your room) and fell asleep immediately.

You woke up a couple of hours later.

You decide you should go visit him in his office like you usually do.

You were used to coming in there and just being in his presence and just being near him.

When you first met him years ago, you didn't want to like him.

You avoided him like the plague.

You didn't want to get attached to him for fear he'd turn out like Bruce.

When you finally got to know him, which was a few weeks later, you realized he was nothing like Bruce!

Yeah, like Bruce, he could be scary, mean, brooding, and quiet sometimes, but unlike Bruce Miguel treated you like his daughter.

He would take you out to eat.

He'd remember your birthday.

He'd celebrate your talents and interests.

He'd come to your performances and concerts.

Every. Single. One. Of. Them.

He treated you like the light of his life, like how you'd seen other dads look at their kids!

The same way Bruce would look at your brothers...

You pushed away that thought, you wanted to go to his little cave.

You went through a portal, not realizing how you had your watch broken.

As soon as you felt yourself glitching, which was not normal, you felt yourself hit a brick wall.

Shit.

You looked around for a moment.

Gotham.

You shouldn't be here.

You didn't wanna be here.

You decided to patrol for a bit, you might as well deal with some things for a bit before heading home.

You sort of missed it here.

You went around looking for anomalies, and thankfully there weren't any.

You stopped a couple of petty crimes.

You saved someone getting mugged and felt a slight pain at your side and decided to ignore it, for now you needed to get home.

You booted up your watch, only to realize it wasn't working.

It started to rain and you got worried, what would you do now?

You didn't know if anyone here had the tools to fix this.

And then you remembered you did know some people.

Your family.

You hate to do this, but you need to get home.

So you started making your way to the manor.

You tried to swing but you were too tired and felt sick whenever you swung due to your side hurting.

So you ran.

The rain was making it hard to see.

Your mask was making it hard to breathe, so you took it off.

Only for your hair to stick to your face and make everything worse.

Great, now you have to be around your family and be sick the next day. Thanks, spidey luck.

When you finally got to the manor and identified yourself, it seemed like the manor door swung open.

Inside was Alfred, who was looking at you like you were a ghost.

"Master Y/N?" He stood there in shock.

He could smell a slight metallic smell coming from you.

"Hey." you visibly cringed at how casual you sounded and how your voice cracked.

He quickly signaled for you to come in, seeing how drenched you were.

Alfred watched as you walked in and just stood there awkwardly.

You didn't know what to say or do.

For all they knew, you had been missing for a year.

You had grown an inch or two, and you were still in your suit.

Your skin was paling, but you didn't know why.

Then the realization hit Alfred.

You were the vigilante.

The one that would show up every once in a while to stop people who cause trouble.

The one that made the family lose many hours of sleep investigating the mysterious spider.

He wanted to cry.

He wanted to cry and hug you and make you stay at the manor.

He knew he had to call the others.

As soon as he was about to speak up, you swiftly cut him off

"I need help right now. Could you please call the others and ask if they could help me?" you asked him, practically pleading.

"At your service, Master Y/N" He turned away and started calling the others.

You smiled and mentally prepared yourself for the awkwardness that would happen between you all.

It felt like hours later when everyone got there. You were scared.

Everyone was patrolling when they got the call that you were home.

Jason thought it was a sick joke from Alfred, that was until he got to the manor.

There you were, on the fancy couch, looking sheepish.

Dick ran to hug you in a bear hug, catching you off-guard due to you never receiving a hug from him.

You didn't even hug him back, you just wanted to go home.

As soon as he sat you down, you started talking.

"I need everyone's help." you started, gesturing with your hands for everyone to listen.

"Why are you in a Araña costume?" Tim asked, pointing out you still being in your suit.

"I'm Araña. Anyways-" You tried to get back on track, only to keep getting interrupted.

"You're Araña?! Do you know how dangerous that is?! you could've gotten hurt!" Bruce spoke up.

"listen," you started "I just need slight help, and I'll be on my way home. I'll get out of your hair, I swear."

Everyone sat down to listen and you spoke up

"Okay, so I need to go back home, and my bracelet thing to make me go there is broken. I need to use your guy's computer to see if I can contact Miguel or Peni to fix it. I'll leave once I'm done."

"And why should we listen to you? You walked out over a year ago, why should we help?" Damian tried to put you down, only to be smacked in the back of the head by Jason.

You could hear all of your brothers bickering at once.

You put your head in your hands.

You just wanted to go home.

"Can you guys shut up?" You dragged your hand across your face and everyone became quiet.

You took a deep breath.

"I need to use your fancy computer. I need to contact someone. Just let me inside for a bit, someone will come to pick me up, and I'll leave. Can someone lead the way?"

You finally got to the giant bat computer.

The same one that you wanted to see so badly as a child.

It only took 10 astonishingly long minutes to get there.

What made it worse was you walking slower than usual, and everyone insisted on helping you and staring at your side.

You didn't know what was going on, and you didn't want to.

You just wanted to go home.

Once you were in front of the bat computer, you tinkered around with your watch for a bit, trying to get the USB drive out of it.

After a minute or two, you finally got it out.

It would've taken less time, but everyone was watching you and that made you anxious. You were also slightly drowsy for some reason, which didn't help at all.

You saw how beat up it looked and hoped it would still work when plugged into the computer.

After 10 agonizingly long seconds, Lyla popped up.

"LYLA!" you hopped up and down, you could finally go home!

"Y/N! What's going on?" You could hear and see her glitching.

"Uhm, I'm kinda stuck in my universe, and I don't know how to get back! Oh god, I should've listened when Miguel gave those classes on what to do in case the watches broke instead of napping-!" You started rambling and pulling your hair, a trait you got from seeing Pavitr doing so often.

"Y/N, breathe. It's alright, I'll contact Miguel and tell him what's going on, also why are you bleeding?"

You looked down to see what everyone was freaking out about.

Turns out you got stabbed, must've been the adrenaline hiding the pain.

"huh. so that's why it hurt." You passed out and the last thing you saw and heard was everyone freaking out about you.

When you passed out, Bruce immediately called an ambulance, this wasn't something he could fix by himself.

He needed Leslie's help.

He shoved you into the batmobile and made his way to her clinic.

You were dying.

He didn't want to lose you, not again.

You were lying out on the car seats.

Your brothers were in the seats behind you.

Usually, they'd be bickering about the lack of space or who gets which seat, but they were worried.

About you.

You woke up an hour later.

You were laid out on a hospital bed.

You were sweaty, cold, and tired.

You just wanted your dad to go home.

You had a couple of monitors around you, along with some wires connected to them.

As soon as you sat up, which took a lot of strength, you felt yourself get dizzy.

After the sensation of the room spinning wore off, you saw everyone surrounding you.

You could hear people talking, but everything was loud and muffled.

You covered your ears like a child.

You were so tired.

You wondered if Miguel was on his way.

You saw a woman with white hair and a doctor's outfit walk in and start talking.

You tried to focus, and you did, but it was kinda hard.

You felt a slight, familiar humming coming from the hallway of the surgery room.

It took a couple of minutes, but everything was heading back to normal.

That was until you looked down to where the cut was.

It was gross looking and probably infected.

That's when you heard it.

"We are going to have to take the blade out, alright?" The operator said, putting on her gloves.

You could see the vague outline of Miguel's costume out the door.

He was running.

He was running for you.

"Wait, not yet!" you exclaimed, still half asleep.

Miguel was almost at the door, and the operators started to take out the blade anyway.

You screamed in pain.

"I WANT MY DAD!" You tried reaching out for Miguel, only for Bruce to reach out and try and grab your hand.

"I'm here, it's alright." Bruce would never admit it, but he was glad you still called him your dad.

It surprised him though, you'd always call him father.

You pushed him out of the way. "Not you! DAD!" Miguel finally made it past security.

He immediately took hold of your hand despite your family's surprise.

Tears were streaming down your face.

You hugged Miguel tightly.

You cried more. You just wanted to go home.

You ended up passing out from the pain.

oof this was bad sorry

again im hafl asleep so lkke igmore eveey spellung mistake

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[danaan13]

Marcus was in his sophomore year of college, when his younger sister, Shelly, started her freshmen year of high school. The two of them had both grown up with kind parents and an encouraging community. Though, money was tight more days than not. And their city wasn't known for being a great place to live. But somehow, their family and neighborhood had carved out a little space that worked for them.

So, it surprised no one, when Shelly was scouted to be a magical girl by MajoCo. If anything, it was celebrated. Marcus took a weekend trip home to be at the block party their parents threw. Everyone was proud of Shelly.

Once back at school, he kept an eye on the news and his family group chat. He even began texting with Old Man Charlie, from down the street. The man barely knew how to text. But he happily figured out how to take pictures of the newspaper articles to send to Marcus.

Shelly started out strong. Became popular quickly. She revolutionized the city to an extent. Made things safer and fairer. And it happened really fast.

When Christmas came, Marcus came home for the holidays. He hugged his parents and sister, settling in to enjoy the time together. And that's when he noticed the details that he couldn't see from school.

The circles under his Dad's eyes. The way Mom made sure there was more food on Shelly's plate every breakfast. How often Shelly dozed off in the middle of the day. And how Shelly went out every. single. night.

After being home only a week, Marcus sat down at his father's desk and opened the filing cabinet next to it. His parents kept folders for the two of them. In those folders were their certificates of achievements, photos of milestones, scout badges, vaccine cards, speeches written and received, and report cards.

Marcus located Shelly's last report card for the fall semester. And scowled. He quietly put it back. Put the folder away. And then went to get his laptop.

Shelly had been a straight A student her entire life. She was brilliant. Doctor level brilliant. There hadn't been a single A on that paper. And multiple notes of concern from her teachers noted in the margins.

And at the bottom, one note from Shelly's MajoCo manager. "These grades are totally reasonable. No reason to change anything. She's doing great. And she'll be able to take care of all of you for life at this rate. You can relax. It's all fine."

It wasn't fine though. Marcus knew what he was seeing. He started doing some research and making notes. And planning. He spent the rest of the holiday doing everything he could to help his family out. More chores, running the errands, prepping heating pads and painkillers for Shelly's room at night.

But over the course of the holiday, there was also the neighborhood Christmas party. He went and smiled and celebrated, like it was all normal. But he also quietly when and talked to Old Man Charlie.

"Shelly's not doing so great is she?" "Ah... No, son. She ain't. Din't want ta worry ya." "I understand. That's kind of you. But... I'm worried now. Has anyone else noticed anything?" "Ayup. Miss Charlene from the corner store's been tucking extra granola bars in Shelly's bag, when she ain't lookin'. Darren from her classes started walkin' her to school, after she fell asleep at the bus stop. And Lillian's been parking her camper in front of your folks' place after big nights. Blockin' the news from gettin' too close when Shelly's sleepin'." "Thank you, Charlie. Text me if anything goes wrong?" "Sure thing, son. We got you. And we got her. We're family here." "We are." Marcus went and talked to Miss Charlene, Darren, and Lillian. They pointed him to other neighbors. He talked to them. He was relieved to see the network that had sprung up to keep Shelly in one piece. That gave him time to work on his plan.

After the new year, he went back to school. He changed majors to pre-law. He studied hard and got into a good law school. One that just so happened to be in the same city as MajoCo's headquarters. And that happened to provide interns every year, to MajoCo's crack legal team.

And Marcus got that internship. He kept his head down for the first month. He took his notes. He figured out the patterns and the routines. And he gathered his tools.

A month in, a manager who reported to the Chief Operations Officer, was found dead at his desk. It seemed he'd eaten something he was allergic to and hadn't known. People shook their heads and gave their condolences.

A week later, the manager who replaced him was found at the bottom of a seldom used stairwell. It was found that the stairs had been cleaned with the wrong product, making them slippery. The janitorial staff had already started correcting their oversight, by the time the body was found. It was written off as a tragic coincidence.

Another week passed, and the next replacing manager was found at the on the office gym's floor, neck broken and the treadmill running at a speed higher than it was supposed to. Concerned mutters started to travel through the office.

The next three replacing managers were each found dead in more unusual and random "accidents", over the next month. The COO started having issues finding new managers to take the job. An investigation was in full swing.

The last week of his internship, Marcus made an appointment with Chief Operations Officer Geoffrey. Geoffrey had once been an athletic man with a healthy, expensive glow to him. Now he'd lost weight and looked like he was haunted by ghosts. Marcus grinned at the sight.

He shook Geoffrey's hand, before sitting in the seat across from the desk. Geoffrey attempted to put on a warm smile, for the legal intern. "What can I do for you, Marcus? I understand you've been a star on our legal intern team this year. I'm not sure what my department has for you."

Marcus continued to smile. "Respectfully, sir, your department has only one thing left for me."

He reached into his suitcoat and pulled out a small pistol. He pointed it at Geoffrey and said, "Every one of your managers had the choice to stop lean staffing the magical girls, start hiring more girls, and do a healthier range of services. And every single one of them chose money over the health of the girls. Now, I'm openly offering you the same choice. Choose their health. Or choose money."

Geoffrey stared at the gun in shock, anger and fear prominent in the journey of emotions. Finally he stood up and shouted, "Who do you think you are!? You're just some scum kid from a back alley slum! You think you can make demands of me!?"

Marcus sighed. He then said, "Yes. I do think that. I'm sorry that you think you're above the welfare of your workers." He then pulled the trigger.

Once Geoffrey had slumped back in his chair, dead, Marcus set the gun on the desk and pulled a large permanent marker out of his coat pocket. He turned to the wall that faced the office's security camera and wrote, "Magical Girls deserve worker protections!"

He then set the marker by the gun and sat back down. Security arrived a minute later and arrested him. He stood trial, confessed to all counts of murder, and boldly proclaimed that magical girls were being overworked for profits. He told a news reporter where to find a cache of stolen documents, citing reports of known problems with the staffing choices, the health care of the girls, and secret arrangements with the evil corporation that engineered the monsters the girls fought.

He was sentenced to life in prison. But his revelation of MajoCo's misdeeds caused an outcry among the people. The magical girls went on strike, loudly demanding the changes that Marcus had quietly asked every manager to make. They created their own schedule set up, to keep people safe. One that allowed them to work without turning in the monster carcasses that MajoCo sold "for research". They called for a boycott of magical girl merchandise from MajoCo, encouraging small business purchases instead.

But most importantly, they sent word to the federal government that the known location of the monster threat was classifiable as a national threat. And that meant the military could move on it.

Five years later, the magical girl industry had wound down to a series of smaller, more regulated companies. Thanks to a series of antitrust lawsuits, breaking up MajoCo's monopoly. Monsters had not gone away. Instead being made by the various villains and scientists that had escaped the military strike on their corporation. They now operated in private cells, to avoid such a vulnerability again. Though, this did mean they could not produce monsters on the scale they did before. Thankfully making it easier for magical girls to schedule more fairly.

And on the fifth year anniversary of his sentencing, Marcus was pardoned for his crimes. Shelly, now graduated from college and working as a magical girl trainer, met her brother outside the prison with a tight hug and whispered thank you.

He went home and joined Shelly's business as an operations manager. He had no intention of seeking to pass the bar again. He kept up his legal study to stay abreast of matters. But he happily left the legal work to Darren, Shelly's old schoolmate, who'd gone to law school after Marcus had gone to prison.

They still got the occasional news reporter wanting an in depth interview about the whole scandal. But Lillian was always happy to park her camper in front of their office when needed.

Marcus liked the new job a lot better. And he always smiled when Miss Charlene came by to drop granola bars in all the girls' bags, during training days.

Even Old Man Charlie had taken a job there, acting as the receptionist despite his quickly aging state. Marcus had to admit. The man was good. They gave him a typewriter instead of a computer. And a rolodex and massive paper calendar. And he had everything sorted out like lightning. And he happily played deaf for anyone who tried to cause trouble in his lobby.

Their parents had opened a dormitory just down the block. Taking in any girls who lived too far away to travel daily. It got popular enough, that even local girls moved in, just to learn from the parents of a retired magical girl.

They also hosted support group meetings for other parents. After all, watching your high school aged child go off into the dark, with magic and innocence, to come home with bruises and muck in their hair, was hard for anyone.

It wasn't perfect. But Marcus was glad to see the changes.

Magical girls kill monsters all the time, but they're not allowed to kill humans. But you're not a magical girl; you're her older brother.

[helen-with-an-a]

Sound

Hi, this is Part 2 of the Senses story that came out a few weeks ago, I hope you enjoy.

Sight : Sound : Smell : Taste : Touch : Cryptaesthesia

Jessie Fleming x Putellas!Reader

Description: R just loves the sound of Jessie's voice

You were never much of a talker. Anyone who knew you well was painfully aware of this. Maybe it was because you grew up with Alexia and Alba as your older sisters, maybe it was because you never felt like what you had to say would be listened too. But either way, you weren't much of a talker.

Alexia seemed to understand this though, much better than Alba did anyway. She'd spent years deciphering what each nod, each eyebrow twitch, each small smile meant. Whereas Alba had tried to force you out of your shell through demanding conversation, Alexia let you be.

It wasn't until you moved to Chelsea that she realised how hard you not talking truly was. There were times when she’d joke that getting you to talk on the phone was like pulling teeth, but it was only half a joke. She wanted to connect to check in on you, especially after you’d moved to London. At first, she insisted on calling you every single day, determined to make sure you were okay, that you were adjusting to your new life. You knew her intentions were wrapped in love, but each call felt like a marathon, leaving you emotionally drained as you struggled to fill the silences with words that just wouldn’t come.

It wasn’t until your Mamí stepped in that Alexia reluctantly agreed to cut back on her calls to just twice a week. You loved your sister fiercely, and the last thing you wanted was for her to think you didn’t want to hear from her. But the truth was, each conversation could feel overwhelming. Growing up, you watched Alexia light up any room she entered, effortlessly holding conversations and making connections, no matter how awkward she seemed. While you always preferred the quiet comfort of being a listener. You were the shy girl, the introvert at heart, finding refuge in the background.

For you, being able to fully know someone without the need for words, was all that you were truly after. Your sisters always said that it was a foolish thing to wish for. That the only way you could completely know someone was through talking. But you had always thought differently. To be so in synch with someone that you knew exactly what they wanted, what they were thinking just by the way they held their coffee cup, or looked out the window. That was what love truly was to you.

Jessie understood that in a way that felt almost magical. She had an innate ability to sense when you needed silence instead of chatter. On days when talking was the last thing you wanted to do, she would never push you to be anyone but yourself. She was perfectly content to create a cosy little bubble of comfort, filled with unspoken understanding. You’d often find yourself nestled against her, your head resting on her chest, lulled by the gentle rhythm of her breathing as she lost herself in her book.

“Can you read to me, mi vida?” you murmured one evening, your voice thick with sleepiness, your accent a bit more pronounced than usual. The sound of your soft, sleepy voice made Jessie’s heart flutter, and she felt herself swooning at how natural it felt for you to call her that. It was moments like these that she had sort so desperately as a teenager. And now that she had them, had you, she was never going to give that up.

Jessie laughed lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as she asked, “You want to know about the crater that’s been discovered that might have killed the dinosaurs?”

“No,” you replied, a lazy smile spreading across your face. “But I like hearing your voice.” As you looked up at her, your eyes sparkled with the quiet affection she cherished beyond anything else.

Smiling, she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You’re too sweet, baby,” she whispered, her voice warm and playful. Clearing her throat, she traced lazy circles on your shoulder with her fingers, settling back into her book.

With each word she spoke, her voice wove a calm, soothing rhythm that wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You felt yourself drifting, the stresses of the day, of life itself, melting away as you surrendered to the peaceful atmosphere she created. Jessie read on, her fingers brushing gently through your hair, another reminder that sometimes this simple closeness was all you needed.

As Jessie continued to read, you let your eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the warmth. The gentle cadence of her voice, blended with the soft rustling of the pages, pulled you deeper into a peaceful state. You could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath your head, the comfort of her heartbeat syncing with your own, pulling you deeper into sleep's embrace.

You drifted in and out of sleep, caught in that dreamy state where reality softened at the edges. In those moments, you felt safe, safer than you ever had before. It was a feeling you hadn’t fully appreciated until Jessie had entered your life. Here, in this little bubble, there were no expectations or pressures; just a simple, shared understanding. Even when you were with your sisters, they always wanted something, asking you to move over, or change the TV channel, or tell them about what was happening in your life. Jessie never asked for more than you were willing to give.

Jessie paused mid-sentence, and you stirred slightly, the sudden quiet bringing back to consciousness. “Que esta mal?” you murmured, blinking up at her, your eyebrows creasing in concern, your mind still hazy from sleep.

“Nothing, just… I was thinking,” she said, her fingers pausing on the page. Her eyes softened as she looked down at you. “I love these quiet moments with you. It’s like we’re in our own little world.” Her sincerity washed over you like a warm wave, your heart swelling at her words.

You nodded, a sleepy smile forming on your lips. “Yo también,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “It feels nice to just be together like this.” You shifted slightly, snuggling closer against her, drawing comfort from her warmth. "I've never had this before."

Jessie chuckled softly, her laughter gentle. “Es perfecto,” she said, her tone playful. “Especially when I get to read you random facts about dinosaurs and craters.”

“I love your random facts,” you laughed, your smile growing wider.

With a grin, she set the book aside, allowing the silence to settle around you again. “We have to leave soon, you're Mamí and Alba are landing at 6” she reminded you, her fingers still gently stroking your hair.

“Just stay here for a bit longer?” you suggested, your voice soft. Yes, you had missed Alba so much, and your Mamí even more, but they would have to wait a little longer. You sighed happily, feeling your body melt against Jessie.

“Of course,” Jessie promised, her voice low and soothing. She leaned back against the headboard again, adjusting slightly to accommodate you better, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for her – a deep gratitude for how effortlessly she understood you.

Time seemed to slow, and you found yourself lost in the rhythm of her heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Eventually, the outside world faded even further away, and you felt your eyelids grow heavy once more.

Just before you drifted off again, Jessie’s voice broke the silence, this time filled with playful curiosity. “You know, if we keep spending all our time like this, I might get a little spoiled,” she teased, her tone light.

You smirked, peeking up at her. “Spoiled?”

“Like, I’ll want to keep you all to myself,” she said, her smile turning mischievous. “Just me, you, in the quiet, for the rest of our lives.”

Your heart raced at the thought, warmth blooming in your chest. “Well, if you’re going to spoil me, I suppose I can handle that,” you replied, your voice laced with teasing agreement.

“Good,” she said with a grin. "Go to sleep, sweetheart. I'll wake you with enough time to get ready."

"Bueno, mi vida. Te amo," you mumbled, already half asleep.

"I love you too, baby." She smiled down at you, her fingers tracing soothing patterns across your shoulders. "Sweet dreams."

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 17 - just like the rest

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

"you aren't going to be able to ignore him forever y/n" sarah said to you softly.

"i can't face it. him"

sarah sighed, sitting down beside you on the bed. “i get it. i do. but you can’t hide from this forever.”

you swallowed hard, “i can’t face him, sarah.” your voice was barely above a whisper, "my last boyfriend cheated on me. that's why i came here. he hurt me so badly. he made me feel like it was my fault. that i wasn't good enough so he had to cheat on me. that's why this is so hard. i can't let this happen to me again."

sarah’s face fell, her heart breaking a little at your confession. she had known you were hurt before rafe, that you had things you didn’t like to talk about. but she hadn’t known this.

she reached for your hand, squeezing it tightly. “y/n… i’m so sorry.”

you blinked back tears, your chest tightening. “i thought rafe was different.” your voice cracked, “i let myself believe he wouldn’t hurt me. i didn't allow myself to be with anyone again after my ex. rafe is the first person since."

kie, who had been standing quietly by the door, finally spoke, her voice laced with anger. “this isn’t your fault, y/n. it wasn’t your fault then, and it’s not your fault now.”

“then why does it keep happening to me?” you looked between them, desperate for an answer, for something that would make this all hurt less. “what is so wrong with me that the people i love always leave?”

sarah and kie shared a look of sadness as kie sat down on the other side of you. "nothing is wrong with you y/n." kie started, wiping your tears. "it's them."

“i just don’t know how to move on from this.”

sarah pulled you into a hug, holding you like she could physically keep you together. “one step at a time, okay? and no matter what, we’re not letting you go through this alone."

"thank you guys."

"we love you." kie spoke, "and when you are ready to talk to rafe, we'll be here."

you didn't know what to believe. what to do. your mind was in shambles trying too figure out if you could trust rafe or not. part of you really believed he would never do this to you. he loved you. but the photo? and cara's messages?

rafe kept trying to call you, message you, anything to just reach out and get you to talk to him. you knew the only way to find an answer was to see him, but you couldn't even try facing him right now.

the photo was burned in your brain, seeing it every time you closed your eyes.

you weren’t sure what was more painful, rafe betraying you, or the fact that you still wanted to hear his voice, touch him, feel him near you.

but no matter how much you wanted him to be the exception, be the person that wouldn't hurt you,

he had already proven he was just like the rest.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: of course i had to make jj sassy🙄🙄

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[helvegen-s]

do I wanna know?

Hozier's version

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.

Word count: 12k (stoppp, so long but so worth it)

TW: emotional manipulation, gaslighting, sexually suggestive content, alcohol, strong language...

A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3

My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!

have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find

Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.

Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.

The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.

That was when he saw her.

She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.

When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.

And then she walked over.

"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"And what kind of person do I look like?"

"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."

Oscar let out a laugh.

"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"

She shrugged, her expression shameless.

"Could be."

Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.

"Are you always this quick with words?"

"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.

He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.

They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.

Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.

The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.

Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.

His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.

"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.

Oscar smiled, still holding her.

"No. Do you?"

"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."

Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.

"Do you dance, driver?"

Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.

"How do you know I’m a driver?"

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."

"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."

"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"

No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.

Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.

Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,

"You haven’t told me your name."

She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Do you really need it?"

Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.

Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.

Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.

"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.

Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.

"Nice name."

"I know."

Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.

They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.

Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.

"Let’s get out of here."

Oscar didn’t think twice.

The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.

"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.

Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.

"Yours."

"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.

Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.

"Nice place."

"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"

Oscar didn’t let her finish.

The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.

Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.

"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Oscar let out a low chuckle.

"Are you always this bossy?"

"When necessary."

"I like it."

This time, he took control.

They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.

The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.

"If at any point you want to stop—"

Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.

There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.

When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.

"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.

Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

"Always."

Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.

That night was one to remember.

Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.

Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.

He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.

And then, the body beside him.

Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.

Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.

Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.

But now came the tricky part—the mornings.

It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?

As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.

"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"

"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.

Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.

"Do you always have a comeback ready?"

"I warned you last night."

Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.

She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.

"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"

Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.

"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."

Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.

"You're trouble."

"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."

With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.

He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.

There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.

He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.

Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.

The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.

Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.

"Nice shirt."

Amélie didn’t even turn around.

"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."

He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.

"And what if I need caffeine to function?"

She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.

"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."

"We all have our weaknesses."

Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.

The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.

"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.

"And yet, here I am."

"This isn’t your house."

"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."

Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.

"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"

Oscar shot her an amused look.

"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."

"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."

"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.

Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.

As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.

Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Monza?"

Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Mhm."

Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.

"It’s incredible."

"It is."

"Did you buy it?"

"No."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.

"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"

"Mmm… not actively."

"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."

She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.

"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."

Oscar tilted his head.

"Is your father a fan?"

"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."

A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.

"And yes, I know who you are."

He tensed slightly.

"Oh."

"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.

"I didn’t think you did."

"Good. Because I didn’t."

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.

But for now, he let it go.

"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.

Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.

"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."

Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.

Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.

They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.

Oscar could only laugh.

And then, it was time to leave.

"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."

Amélie chuckled.

"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."

"That’s exactly why I need to check."

She set her cup in the sink and nodded.

"Alright."

But neither of them moved.

Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

"Want to exchange numbers?"

Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.

"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."

"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.

And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?

A simple “bye”? Too cold.

A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.

A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.

But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.

Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.

When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."

Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.

"See you around, Amélie."

"See you."

And with that, he left.

Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.

Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.

But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.

It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.

🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."

The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?

But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.

🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."

This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.

🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."

🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."

🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."

🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."

🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."

Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever this was, he liked it.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.

Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.

“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.

Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.

“That sounds concerning.”

“Come on, trust me.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.

“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.

Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.

“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”

Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.

“Not much effort, huh?”

She shot him a sharp look.

“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”

Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.

“Alright, point for you.”

They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.

“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”

Oscar shrugged.

“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”

Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.

“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”

Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.

This game between them was far from over.

Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.

“A bit of both.”

She let out a low chuckle.

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.

But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.

And that’s what kept him hooked.

When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.

Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.

“Oh yeah?”

“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what you think of me?”

Amélie tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”

Oscar licked his lips, amused.

“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”

She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.

“A solid seven out of ten.”

Oscar let out a laugh.

“Just a seven?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What would get me a ten?”

Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.

“You’ll have to figure that out.”

The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.

He studied her in silence for a moment.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.

Amélie smiled.

“Only if you have decent wine.”

Oscar stood up, shaking his head.

“Picky.”

“Always.”

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.

“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.

“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”

She laughed softly before taking a sip.

Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.

“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.

“Great. So am I at an eight now?”

Amélie tilted her head.

“That depends on how the night ends.”

Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.

“Interesting.”

And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.

Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.

He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.

Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.

Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.

“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.

Amélie arched an eyebrow.

“Then I should feed you more often.”

“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”

“Oh, no?”

Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.

“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”

Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”

She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.

Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.

Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.

The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.

For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.

Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.

"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.

Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.

"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.

Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

"I might need some intensive training."

"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Pretty well?"

Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.

"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."

Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.

"That can be arranged."

And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.

They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.

It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.

And she always answered.

Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.

Either way, the outcome was always the same.

An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.

It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.

But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.

Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.

"Go out? For what?"

Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.

Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.

And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

At least, not yet.

Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.

"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"

It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.

"Where’s that coming from?"

Oscar held her gaze.

"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."

She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.

"Because I don’t like going out."

"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."

Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.

"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."

"Like this?"

"Private."

Oscar frowned.

"Private or secret?"

She didn’t answer immediately.

And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.

"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."

Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.

"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"

"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."

She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.

"Oscar—"

"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."

The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.

Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.

Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"

"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."

Oscar blinked, taken aback.

"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."

Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.

"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."

"Because it’s easier that way."

The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.

"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.

Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.

And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.

Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.

He stood up from the couch.

"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.

Amélie frowned.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."

She got to her feet too, watching him closely.

"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."

"No, but it sure feels like it."

Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.

Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.

"I’m gonna go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.

"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."

Oscar turned to the door.

"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.

The days turned into weeks.

Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.

He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.

He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.

But, fuck, it was getting harder.

Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.

Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.

Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.

And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.

She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

She let him go to protect him.

So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?

And then, the invitation came.

Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.

Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."

She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.

And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.

He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.

But what did it matter anymore?

They weren’t together. They never had been.

She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.

For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.

The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.

She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.

This time, Oscar was here.

And at some point, he would see her.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.

And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.

Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But then, she saw him.

Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.

Their eyes met.

For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.

Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

And continued walking.

Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

So that was it.

Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.

It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.

That had to be all.

And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.

He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.

So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.

But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.

Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.

The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.

And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.

The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.

Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.

But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.

Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

And then, he saw her.

She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.

That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.

But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.

The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.

The same one she had once given him.

And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.

He didn’t know what hit him first.

How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.

Or maybe it was something more.

Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.

Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?

Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.

Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.

Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.

Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.

Back to her.

He didn’t know what infuriated him more.

The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?

"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."

Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.

"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.

"It’s complicated."

Lando snorted.

"When is it not with you?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.

"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."

Lando blinked, processing the information.

"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"

"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.

Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.

"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"

Oscar shook his head.

"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."

Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.

"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"

The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.

Vasseur.

Ferrari’s team principal.

A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.

Everything clicked into place.

That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.

She had played him.

She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.

His blood boiled.

If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.

Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.

"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"

Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.

"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"

"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.

"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."

Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.

He was furious.

Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.

But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.

Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.

And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.

Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.

Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.

About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.

The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.

He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.

Why?

Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?

Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.

He had had enough.

If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.

Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.

He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.

And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.

He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

There was movement on the other side.

Then, the door opened, and there she was.

Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.

“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.

He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.

Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,

“Tell me the truth.”

Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.

She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.

“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.

“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.

Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.

“I never laughed at you.”

“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”

Amélie clenched her jaw.

“Oscar—”

“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.

Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”

Amélie felt her own anger rise.

“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”

Oscar clenched his jaw.

“And who decided that was your problem?”

“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”

“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”

Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.

For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.

Something that hurt even more than his words.

Disappointment.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”

Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.

“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”

Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”

Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.

“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”

Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.

“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”

Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.

Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”

Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”

Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”

Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”

The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.

For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.

Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:

“I think I love you.”

Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.

Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”

The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.

It was broken. Uncertain.

One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.

“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.

She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.

Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”

Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.

“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.

“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”

Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

“Oscar…”

“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”

Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.

“It wasn’t just a distraction.”

Oscar let out a dry laugh.

“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”

He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.

Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.

“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.

She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”

Oscar felt his heart pound harder.

“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”

Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.

Because he understood.

God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.

Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.

Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.

Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.

“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.

Amélie swallowed. “Now…”

She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.

“Now I don’t want to keep running.”

Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.

She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.

Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.

And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.

Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.

Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.

There was no fear anymore.

Only them.

And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.

Because in the end, love always won.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.

Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.

It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Well… that was intense.”

Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”

Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”

She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”

Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”

Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”

Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”

“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”

Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”

Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”

“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”

She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”

Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”

Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”

Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”

Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.

“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”

Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”

Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.

“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”

Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”

Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”

Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”

Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”

Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”

Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.

Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.

Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”

The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.

Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.

Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.

“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”

Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.

“We can stay like this a little longer.”

Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Both of them froze.

“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.

Amélie frowned. “No…”

Another knock, this time more insistent.

And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.

“Amélie, open the door.”

Oscar felt his soul leave his body.

Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.

They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.

Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.

Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:

“Oh, shit.”

Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.

From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.

“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”

“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”

Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.

But then, her father stilled.

His gaze drifted toward the window.

More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.

Amélie followed his gaze.

Shit.

Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.

She tried to think fast. “It’s—”

“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”

He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”

Silence.

Amélie looked at the bathroom door.

Then at her father.

She tried to smile.

“…No one.”

Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.

Oscar’s eyes widened in horror.

Amélie sighed dramatically. “Dad, please. Don’t assume things.”

“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”

Oscar felt the doorknob move.

He held his breath.

Then, three firm knocks.

“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”

Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.

He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”

Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.

Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.

“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.

Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”

“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”

Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.

"I…"

"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"

Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.

"Sorry."

"What was your plan if I caught you?"

Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"

Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."

Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"

Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."

Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."

Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."

Oscar looked at him skeptically.

"Oh yeah? How?"

Vasseur’s grin widened.

"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."

Amélie burst into loud laughter.

Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.

The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.

But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.

From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.

Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.

And yet, here she was.

Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.

She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.

Words weren’t necessary.

They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.

And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.

They wouldn’t run anymore.

Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.

Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.

Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.

"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."

Amélie turned sharply, frowning.

“Dad, please…”

“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”

She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.

“Whatever.”

Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.

"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."

She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.

"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."

Amélie narrowed her eyes.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Vasseur smirked.

"It means I come with the package."

She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Her gaze returned to the podium.

Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.

The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.

They had found each other.

And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.

@smoooothoperator

if you want to be part of my permanent taglist, just let me know! <3

[jadeharleyinc]

right i think we're mostly in agreement! if some of my points made you reconsider some aspects of the question then i'm very honored. i was a little abrasive in my first response but it's always nice to have a chill conversation about art on the internet. (and i appreciate your patience with my extremely long replies lol)

if it helps, in my opinion, "trying to evade the efforts needed to get your idea into reality and using it as a short cut" is a very exciting activity! i've brought up my relationship to programming before, for me using shortcuts and "being lazy" and doing less work for the same final product is satisfying. personally i don't usually find meaning in the labor/process/effort/fine decisionmaking, instead i mostly make art to put Things out into the world and Make Them Exist.

sometimes that even means letting go of control and handing some or all of it to a friend, to a robot, to dice rolls, etc so that i can be surprised by the result. sort of like the joy of generating a world in Minecraft according to your parameters, if that makes sense. it's a very specific way to approach creation, so i don't want to convince you that it's the coolest thing ever, but maybe that will help you understand the emotional appeal?

honestly if we can shut up the dumb CEOs who are too programmer-brained to understand that not everyone wants to offload tasks to a program, and if the folks who find AI art (or other kinds of art really, like conceptual art) dumb and meaningless can tolerate it then i will be very happy! there's really not much else i want out of these conversations, just peace and love on planet earth \o/

as for Marcel Duchamp, essentially what he did was buy a urinal at a shop. like today's urinals, this one was mass-produced in a factory by workers operating machines, and sold as a mere object to be pissed into and never thought about - "slop", one could say. Duchamp then signed it, named it Fountain, and submitted it to an art expo.

his goal was to say, pretty much, "you can't define art". he criticized limiting art to "retinal art", art that mainly stimulates the senses and appeals to people's tastes. to him, Fountain was "an everyday object raised to the dignity of a work of art by the artist's act of choice". he didn't do any work, he didn't make the urinal, etc., but there wasn't really anything for him to "steal" right?

in the end most people agree that he "made" the final piece and that it was art. which is why i think Fountain is very relevant today. when we're asking "but how can anyone get ugly slop made by a machine with none of their input, and call it art? their art??", well Duchamp and the dadaists answered that question back in 1917! and it is still being answered by current-day conceptual artists who experiment with AI (i can list a few but this post is already really long OOPS), and i think that's really, really cool.

As gen-AI becomes more normalized (Chappell Roan encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use gen-AI because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by tech companies. I draw not because I want a drawing but because I love the process of drawing. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

[mangionebabymama]

We need to talk about being Luigis hallway crush. He's whipped BEYOND BELIEF.

Stalks your spotify, pinterest, goodreads and insta.

His friends tease him about his feelings ALL THE TIME!!!!

At frat parties he'll be lurking near you to see your beauty up close.

He's a blushing mess whenever you talk to him!!!!!!!!!

Always attentive when a guy is near you. He gets jealous.

Ugh to be his campus crush 😫

Let's discuss:

He'd pick up his phone and be on social media more often, only to see what you're up to, if you'd have any new updates about your everyday adventures, and to know what you posted. He'd use that to better understand who you are, your digital footprint, and how you embody yourself through other mediums. If he had Apple Music instead of Spotify? He's gonna cop that $2.99/month Premium for Student subscription just to see what you have on your playlist and check out your tastes. And if he already had a Pinterest and a Goodreads account but never used them much until he learned that you use them frequently? Yeah, he's gonna build up his accounts more on there now. Now Instagram? If it wasn't for his sister's blog, where he decided to make an account just to give her one more follower and then to post a photo with her, he would make an account since you have one on there.

He'd deny to his friends that it's not necessarily a crush since he's never truly had one to begin with. However, something about how he feels and thinks about you differs, unlike anything else he's felt for someone before. He knows it's something else, though it remains undefined for now, but his friends can tell it's much more than just a tiny liking. They constantly tell me how he ogles at you, how his ears perk up at even the slightest mention of your name, and how he effortlessly melts into your presence whenever you're around. Regardless, he's going to tell them otherwise.

If he didn't intend to go to a party, he would learn later that you would be there that night. Yeah, now he's got plans. And what if one night he didn't go but then found out you did? He'd kick himself in the shin for that one. It's also embarrassing when he’s at a party, and his friends mess with him, pointing you out in the crowd. When Luigi asks, "Where?" and tries to hurriedly scan the room, they laugh at him, only pretending you’re there—just to see his immediate reaction when calling attention to your name as he gets excited, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. 

But when he catches a glimpse of you, you spot him at the party and go over to say hello? His soul might as well leave his body and never return in that moment; at that point, he's just a vessel. Generally, he's easygoing, smooth-talking, and well-spoken when conversing with anyone, regardless of how attractive he finds their beauty since that doesn't matter to him. But you? Even though he's intelligent, he looks like an idiot whenever he tries to talk to you; it's either stuttering over a syllable or racing through his words, struggling to form the correct sentence.

And don't even argue about what he feels when he notices another guy standing next to you, talking to you, having the audacity to even make you laugh. In his mind, he knows that he's foolish to ever harbor such envious feelings about you with another person, let alone another guy who could be just like himself. But the thing is, though, he's not like everyone, and he knows that well enough and hopes that you see that beyond any other person you come across. He's on high alert whenever he comes across you with someone other than him, sticking to intrusive thoughts and stipulations of what could be happening, and if they do—he'll know when and how to react.

are these headcanons essentially? idk, i kind of don't understand the whole gist behind them sksjsdlka

[mtcloudsworld]

ᙃ𝙄𝙎𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙀

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 | oh he BIG mad, he mad mad...but do you really care? Nope, not at all.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 | +18, mdni, fem!reader, AK!Jason Todd, rough sex, backshots, knife play, deranged situationship, toxic, both got some issues but like each other's crazy, got a sick twisted mind, lowercase intended edited but in case you see any errors ignore it, ty. Enjoy lovebugs! 🦠🩷

I could play the doctor, I can cure your disease If you were a sinner, I could make you believe Lay you down like one, two, three Eyes roll back in ecstasy I can smell your sickness, I can cure ya (cure) Cure your disease

"aww you mad?"

your body was slammed down on the desk, face first.

"don't." he warns. you smirk, speaking in a mocking tone.

"oh I've made you mad huh?"

your voice was silky, sultry and dangerous, your laughter taunting and teasing, it pressed all the wrong buttons at the right time.

your attitude had the upper hand in this argument, and he didn't like that one bit. It drove him insane actually.

his hand pressed against the side of your head, you smell the mint from his breath as it hit your ear.

"shut. your. gotdamn. mouth." he spoke roughly, clearly not in the mood to be played with.

hands tied behind your back, your eyes were glued to the glowing mask right by the side of your head.

it stared at you with a certain hum of a phone call ringing through the coms but he doesnt bother to answer.

he was too sexually frustrated and vexed with your ass to deal with other important, stressful matters.

your face grows annoyed but was still amused, feeling him pull away. you could still sense him standing right behind you, his heavy cologne and gunpowder lingers as he starts to shuffle, fabric ruffling and then a zipper...

the next thing you knew, you were getting your treatment handed to you.

"always got some shit to say," he murmurs, fucking you recklessly from behind.

sounds of the desk creeking and skin slapping skin echoed between the office space as clear as day.

you were loud, shamelessly, loud.

to the extent that if anyone were to come down that hall, they would hear how good he was making you feel. but neither of you would care, you'd be too busy getting your shit rocked.

you'd think, being disciplined for that disrespectful ass mouth would get you to learn... something, right?

naw, it actually enhanced the problem.

you hummed pleasingly to his hips snapping against your ass, watching the fat jiggle-- fingertips digging into your sides, had him cursing underneath his breath.

his gloved hand pulling at your hair, you sit up with a whimper, jaw unclenching as you gasp at the quick tug.

the lukewarm air hitting your exposed nipples sends a shiver down your spine.

a smug smirk rises to your lips when he starts talking crazy in your ear, feeling something cold and sharp at the base of your throat.

"seems like I've shut that ass up, don't have nothing else to say huh?"

nothing he was saying came off as a threat, intimidating or scary. if anything it turned you on even more. even the feeling of his knife pressed at your neck made your pussy throb around his lengthy dick.

"you're such an asshole." You sneered, laughing hysterically, "but damn, do you fuck me so good. Though this knife feels nice around my neck, I'd rather your hand be there instead." your grin grew wide. something so evil, so sinister and sickening about it, made jason believe he wasn't the only deranged person in this room. With a messed up past and twisted mind, you had it too.

and fuck, you had him.

the way he was so quick to just give you anything was mind blowing.

you had him wrapped around your pretty little finger, and it fucked with his mental, badly.

and as you whimpered and moaned his name like a pathetic. little. bitch, not caring that this knife was so close to slitting your throat while he fucked you with little regard to the brink of tears spilling from your eyes-- made him come to the realization that... you were crazy, psychotic.

you fed off of his crazy because you yourself was crazy. the way he roughly manhandled you, spoke raunchy words of vulgarity at you, drove you insane.

even when you talked crazy, he knew how to handle you.

you were so close to cumming.

gripping the edge of the desk, mouth gasping for air. your eyes darkened when you made eye contact with him. his hips rutting into yours. there was no warning that you were cumming but he felt it.

he felt the way your body tensed and quivered, knees buckling as you clenched around and cum all on his dick. his own hips stuttered against you. grunts deeply within the confines of his chest, he huffs, cumming right after you.

looming over you with his hands placed flatly on either side of you on the desk, his chest heaved heavily.

trapping your vulnerable body between his strong bulky arms, his face buries into the crook of your neck. beads of sweat cascading down the sides of his temples. you reach up to brush through his dark locs, feeling his lips trail up around your neck to the underside of your jaw.

his mouth leans in to give you a sloppy wet kiss, vigorously feverish, his hand wraps around your throat dangerously. the pulse of your heart beating quickly beneath the pads of his fingers causes his grip to tighten, secretly enjoying the way he can feel it so visibly.

moaning into his mouth, you begin to perch up against him. your ass grinding onto his hardening dick, he groans.

"more, baby. I want more." you beg, whining, feeling his hand go back onto the desk for the other to be fondled with your left tit, groping at the flesh and pinching at its sensitive nipple.

he curses underneath his breath tiredly, shaking his head at your resilience.

"fuck, you'll be the death of me woman."

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐋 ©𝐦𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

[luckyladylily]

The existence of talent is a fact, and I've always under stood this because I was an outlier in talent both directions from a young age. Certain subjects, particularly things that require certain types of logical thinking such as the sciences and computer programming, I excelled at with hardly any effort at all. Straight As and I barely had to try, hobbyist at the level of a professional, that sort of thing.

On the other hand I can't effectively work with my hands on anything of significant complexity. I tried to learn to draw for six months, practicing every day. When I was young I had to spend a significant amount of time practicing my handwriting just so I could write legibly for tests.

When I tried to take an into level wood shop class, the kind that is basically a free A for everyone who takes it, I could not do it. Most of us started at zero experience and I worked much harder than anyone in the class. I had to redo every step at least once. I would go after school trying to build this shitty nightstand that everyone else built with hardly even trying because I didn't want to fail a class, and in the end I couldn't do it. No amount of effort could overcome my lack of talent and I couldn't complete the project. The teacher decided to give me an A anyway, good guy, but that was the reality of the thing.

But nothing ever drove home the objective fact of talent as much as when suddenly I didn't have it anymore.

I mentioned above I had a talent in computer programming. I had the right combination of traits that made me very good at it and enjoy it a great deal, meaning I poured thousands of hours into learning it and practicing on hobby programs it simply because I liked to. Between my talent an experience I was very, very good for my lack of any formal training. I got a job as a software developer, I started working towards a degree. I actually got accused of cheating on an assignment once because my solution was too good. The professor thought it was impossible that a first year student came up with it on their own. That guy was a complete jackass.

And then, over the course of about 2-3 years, my mental illnesses advanced and I couldn't anymore. It's nebulous enough that I can't pin down any one factor, but a combination of worsening memory, struggle focusing, and a dozen other factors mean I can't really program at much better than a moderately skilled hobbyist level. No where near good enough to work professionally or really dig in to the kind of hobby projects I was getting up to when I wasn't even yet an adult. I was talented enough that I built my life around this skill and then over a few short years it was gone.

In many cases talent is the result of several factors vague enough that it is easy for the talented to pretend that everyone started at the same place. That maybe there is some difference, but that is pretty minor and the real determining factor is how hard a person works to develop a skill. No one likes to think that their achievements would not be possible if they hadn't won the talent lottery.

But that's kind of how it works, and not just talent wise. We might make the most of opportunities our lottery winnings give us, but without those opportunities our achievements would not have been possible. And most importantly of all, we have to remember that not everyone got as lucky as we did.

I take issue with the whole “talent doesn’t exist you just need to put in the effort” philosophy. Partially because I used to have that philosophy but then I kinda had somebody slap it out of me with a reality check.

[zaldritzosrose]

The Strength of the Wolf (Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader)

Another milestone request from my darling @thenameswinter99, and I also gifting this to her as a birthday treat! See the request ask here!

Summary: No one could argue that Cregan Stark was not an attentive husband. Anything you could ask for while you carried his child, you would get it. Though even the Lord of Winterfell couldn't make a maester listen at times. But a mother knew best, and you knew something wasn't quite right. And Cregan planned to support you in every step.

TW: MINORS DNI/18+ only, She/Her pronouns, afab reader, noble reader, no specific descriptions of reader, mentions of childbirth, descriptions of childbirth, mentions of complications, angst, fluff, Cregan being the realm's best husband.

Words: 2820

So many had told you that a second pregnancy would be easier than your first. But as you now waddled down the path to birthing said second child, you would argue such assertions were far from the truth.

Thankfully, your husband was more attentive than anyone should imagine a husband to be. Cregan both worshipped you for carrying his children and treated you as though you were the most precious and fragile of treasures.

There was little he wouldn’t do to make you more comfortable and happier, and there were few who would deny the Lord of Winterfell. Even something you thought trivial, like a treat you craved or something you had said in passing, it would appear before you with barely a word.

And if you asked, Cregan would simply smile and say he was only doing as ‘the pup’ asked.

But the last moon of your pregnancy was truly taking its toll, both on your body and your mind. You were sure there was not a bit of you that didn’t swell or ache. You were exhausted, yet sleep would never come when you needed it most.

Your comforts were Cregan and the occasional tumbles and kicks of the babe in your belly.

Your firstborn, a daughter, was as attentive as her father. As much as she could be at only three years of age. She would sing to the baby, who she had happily deemed her little brother. Tell him stories, about all the things she would teach him when he was born.

At the start, you had been able to keep up with her. But now, you spent more and more time in your bed. The maester would visit every few days, assuring you that a little fatigue and achiness was absolutely normal.

But you knew, you just knew that something wasn’t as it should be. It was like an instinct, and you just wanted someone to listen.

Cregan was out with some of his lords, preparing for a visit to the Wall. Not that he had any intention to go before the babe was born. Your husband had listened patiently to every concern you’d had about the pregnancy. Even trying to force the maester’s hand when he could see it all getting too much for you.

But when the maester could find nothing amiss, there was little more even Cregan could do. Though it frustrated him to no end that he could do little more than comfort you. Despite your reassurances that you expected nothing else of him.

The meeting was beginning to draw to a close, when to his surprise he saw you walking with your daughter.

“My love, you should be in bed?” Cregan called out, hastily dismissing his lords and beckoning you over.

Your daughter made it to him first, running at her father and all but throwing herself into his arms.

“Maester said it would be good to move around a little,”

Your voice didn’t sound entirely convinced, however. Cregan knew you well enough to know how you felt with a single look.

“Yet only a few days passed he was telling you remain abed…” The Stark lord sighed.

How were you supposed to manage your struggles during this pregnancy if the advice made less sense at every turn. Your daughter however, wasn’t afraid to let her feelings known.

“Mama sore,” she huffed, doing her best to articulate what she wanted.

Cregan turned to you, his eyes boring into yours. Waiting for you to agree or disagree. But when you averted his gaze, moving to sit in a nearby chair. And he could see in the small frown on your face and the wince you tried to hide as you attempted to get comfortable.

“Wife?” he grumbled out, moving closer to you before turning to his daughter.

If he wasn’t going to get an answer from you, he knew he would get them from your little she-wolf. He knelt down beside her, leaning in close.

“How sore is mama, little one?” he asked, ignoring your look to your daughter, hoping she would side with you.

But there was no doubt, she was her father’s girl.

“She had to sit lots,” your daughter explained, and you resigned yourself to having your secret revealed.

“Lots? How much, sweetling?” Cregan asked gently.

He needed to know the truth, not just for the sake of the babe in your belly, but for you. He reached out for your hand, remaining knelt by your daughter.

Your daughter paused, and you knew it would be easier if you just told him yourself.

“We only walked from our bedchamber to the hallway before I had to sit. And then again before we reached the library and…”

Cregan listened as you explained. Between his study and your shared bedchamber, the walk wasn’t all that long. But it seemed it had taken its toll on your body.

“My love,” Cregan soothed, stroking the back of your hand.

It was then that the truth of just how badly you were feeling came to light. You had known that morning that something wasn’t quite right. You weren’t from birth according to the maester, but there was something about how he had said it that put you on edge.

“I just…I know something isn’t right. But the maester said nothing, so maybe I am wrong?”

You let go of his hand, burying your face into your own hands. What if you were wrong? What if is all in your head? No, no you knew something was not right.

And Cregan could see how much you were struggling. He had seen the women of his family pregnant enough times to know a mother knew her body better than anyone else.

“Now listen, it is your body. You will know before anyone else if something is amiss,” he soothed, his tone gentle but firm.

He stood, taking your hand again and signalling for a servant to summon the maester.

“And we will sit together with the maester and ensure he understands that.”

Cregan stood at your bedside, and you had to keep reminding him not to glare at the maester. It wasn’t entirely the maester’s fault. He was reporting what he could see, as was his job.

“Tell the maester what you feel, my love,” Cregan urged, softening his gaze as he looked down at you.

You sighed, closing your eyes and organising your feelings.

“I just feel like something is wrong. I have no words for it, but the babe doesn’t feel as he usually does.”

The maester nodded and you saw the same flash of concern as you had seen that morning. His hands came to your stomach, moving around gently as he searched for an answer.

And his expression turned more and more concerned by the second.

“A midwife is needed, immediately, my lady,”

That was all he said before he rushed to call out into the hall. Cregan knelt at your side, his hand tightening around yours. Panic began to set in, your hand instinctively moving to rest on your rounded stomach.

“I knew it,” you mumbled and Cregan rested his forehead against your shoulder.

He should have been more insistent with the maester, demanded you be listened to. But the past was no longer changeable. All he could do now was remain at your side.

His lips planted a soft kiss to the sliver of exposed skin at your shoulder.

“We should have all listened, my love,” he whispered, kissing you once more as the midwife entered.

The maester opened his mouth to speak, his attention directed at Cregan.

“My lord, you have no need to stay if y-“

But the stern look Cregan offered him halted any more words.

“I go nowhere,” he snapped and the maester quickly turned his attentions back to you as the midwife took her chance to feel around your stomach.

The midwife was an older, sweet woman. Her mere presence brought a sudden wash of comfort over you.

“Well, my lady, it appears your pup has decided he’s coming early.”

Your eyes went wide. She seemed calm, so maybe that was a good thing? But the maester had looked concerned…

“Early? Is that good or…?”

The midwife signalled for her assistants to begin preparing the room for the birth.

“We will make it good, my lady,” she assured, placing her hand over your own that rested on your belly.

She began to explain everything, in the gentlest way possible. While your baby was not in the best of positions, birth was not going to be impossible. More strenuous, maybe. More painful, absolutely. But nothing that, in her words, you couldn’t handle.

The pains you had felt, that was your body telling you that the baby was ready. But you had been so intent on listening to the maester’s advice and your body had been sore for so much of this pregnancy, you hadn’t considered your labours might have started.

The others in the room seemed to flurry around you. Linens, dishes of steaming water and what you could smell as poppy milk. It was happening, whether you liked it or not.

“How did I not see it…feel it even?” you asked, every fibre of your body descending into a mixture of fear and stress.

The midwife placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Concern yourself not with what could have been, my lady, but what is happening now.”

It was as if the focus being placed said pain had begun to bring it all forth into your attention. Your face scrunched as the first waves of pain began to thrum in your body. You reminded yourself quickly, that you had done this once before. The midwife was confident, and you had every faith in her advice.

Cregan lifted your hand and placed it in his. It wasn’t customary for a husband to remain as his wife gave birth, but he had no intentions of leaving you now.

His lips pressed against the back of your hand, feather light kisses. He needed to be strong, despite the maelstrom of emotions inside him. He’d never known the midwife to be wrong, and he had to believe she wouldn’t be wrong now.

You squeezed his hand tight as a harsher wave of pain washed over you, sweat beginning to bead on your forehead. You were trying to be strong, Cregan could see it. But this was one of few times where being proper no longer mattered.

“For the strength of the pack is the wolf,” Cregan whispered against your hand, holding it against his lips for a moment.

With a soft, strained voice you answered. “And the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

The midwife and her assistants rallied around you as your words dissolved into a prolonged groan of pain. Urging you to begin pushing once the layers of obstructing clothing were stripped from you.

Everything was a blur, but you could hear Cregan’s voice, the midwife’s voice. All telling you how brilliantly you were doing.

But it hurt, it hurt so much.

Just like before, you knew something was wrong.

“I cannot…it hurts. Not like it should…” you groaned out, squeezing Cregan’s hand tight enough that he was impressed that you made him wince.

Unlike the maester, the midwife listened.

“Wrong how, my lady? A mother knows, so tell us!” she urged, positioning herself back in front of your body.

Through pained groans and cries, you tried to explain.

“He’s not moving…not when I push…”

How were you supposed to explain it? But it wasn’t like when you birthed your daughter. You had been able to feel every movement she made as you’d pushed her from you. Not this time. You were pushing but he didn’t feel like he was moving.

Thankfully, the midwife understood. Years of experience gave her all the inference she needed.

“I understand, my lady, and we will fix it.”

The assistant at your side told you to stop pushing, to wait until the midwife to tell you to continue. The pains lingered, but you took deep breaths as you held your eyes closed.

The pain was hard to ignore, but you tried. Cregan whispering assurances in your ear to distract you, telling you how amazing you were, how he loved you more than anything.

You stiffened a little as you felt the intrusion. But the assistant hurried to explain what was happening.

“If the babe isn’t moving forward, my lady, the midwife will need to take hold of him and help him along.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you felt the midwife’s hands on your body. For a while there was discomfort, pain.

Then you were urged to push. And push you did.

You put every ounce of strength you had behind it. Digging your nails into Cregan’s palm as you screeched out in agony. But you were met with calls of encouragement once more.

“That’s it, my lady! A few more good, strong pushes!” the midwife urged, and you did as she instructed.

It was such a strange feeling. Where there was once pressure and pain, there was sudden relief. But your relief was short lived when you didn’t hear a cry from the baby.

You wanted to say something, but exhaustion took you. Eyes fluttering closed as no more than a meek sigh left your lips.

You didn’t see it, but Cregan dived into action as did the midwife and her assistants. Two took the babe, cleaning him down and working to get him happy and breathing as he should be.

Cregan listened to the midwife, who asked him to hold you up as she stripped the bloodied sheets from beneath you. He lifted you with ease, waiting for whatever the midwife needed of him next. In this moment he wasn’t a Lord, he wasn’t Warden of the North. He was simply a worried husband and father.

“She’s alive, my lord, good and breathing,” the midwife assured him, ordering another of her assistants to bring some barely warm water.

“She’s exhausted, as she’s right to be. But I promise you, she will be fine.”

Your skin was flushed, sweating. You were on the brink of feverish. But you were lucky to have the midwife you did. In her words – after the birth of your daughter three years passed – she had seen enough to not let anything surprise her.

She held the tepid cloth to your skin. Over your forehead, over your cheeks and the skin of your chest and neck. Your breathing was shallow, but you were breathing. And she could feel the steady thrum of your pulse beneath your neck.

You were going to be fine, as was your son.

It felt like an eternity for Cregan. Your newly born son had soon let out a cry that signalled he was more than well enough. The new Stark heir was swaddled in a warm blanket and placed in a crib that stood at Cregan’s feet as he sat at your bedside.

Your almost fever had subsided, but your skin remained flushed, and your eyes closed. The midwife assured Cregan that all you now needed was sleep.

It was simply a waiting game now. He kept a hand on the side of the crib, his other entwined with yours.

Soon, as he silently prayed to the gods, your eyes fluttered open.

“Cregan?”

Your voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear it, but then you squeezed his hand with whatever strength you had.

The servants had cleaned the room up, the midwife even staying to help change you into a clean nightgown. Cregan reminded himself quickly that he needed to do something to show his appreciation of her.

“Yes, love, I’m here. We’re here.” He assured, leaning down to lift your son for you to see.

A soft smile graced your lips. Your boy. A new little pup to add to your pack.

“Where is Lyanna? We’re going to have tell her she was right about the baby being a boy,” you laughed, though your eyes never left your son.

Cregan smiled, holding the little boy out for you to take.

“She’ll come by later, my love. Though she’s already tried to sneak in once while you slept,” he answered, gesturing to the wildflowers at your bedside.

“The flowers are from her.”

You sunk back into your pillows as your baby boy rested in your arms. Cregan shifted closer, his eyes warm as he watched you both. You cooed at the baby gently, stroking the soft, brown hair on his head.

The room drifted into a gentle quiet, outside of the little boy’s gurgles and coos back at you.

Everything was right again, Cregan thought to himself. You were well, his son was strong. His pack was growing, and he couldn’t be happier.

And he reminded himself of one more thing.

Never to underestimate you.

Cregan Taglist: (if you want to be added/deleted let me know)

@thenameswinter99 @legitalicat @sylasthegrim

@alexagirlie @anjelicawrites @targaryen-dynasty

@multyfangirl @asa-do-your-thing

[cheriecelestial]

IM CURRENTLY READING ANGEL AND OMGGG IM SO OBSSESSED WITH UR WRITING IT IS AMAZING!!! <333

I saw your requests are open and was wondering if you could do a oneshot of AK!Jason Todd (Arkham Knight) x reader, maybe like if reader tried escaping or running to Batman for protection and you knowww he'd be so pissed off maybe Jason saying smth like "BATMAN?! He can't protect you! He never protected me and left me for dead! Only I can protect you! Don't you understand?!" Also with some Yandere themes I just feel like there is sooo much potential with that version of JT because he's so crazy and unhinged and hot!!

Only me

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Yandere!AK x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. dubcon. noncon kissing. implied noncon. captivity. SA. mindbreak. canon typical violence. yandere themes. darker themes. minor character death. jason is a meanie.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I wasn’t sure if I wanted to make this a smut or not and ultimately decided not to. But anon thank you for the request. I had so much fun writing it and I hope you like it. And like always Comment, Reblog and Like (☆≧▽^)

Day after day, night after night, Y/N sat in the dimly lit bedroom, the cold, unyielding chain around her ankle a constant reminder of her captivity. The metal links clinked softly as she tugged at them, over and over, her hands raw and her spirit weary but unbroken. She had been patient, calculating, biding her time as she worked the chain against the bedpost, each pull weakening the metal until, finally, one link gave way. It was a small victory, but it was enough. Freedom was no longer an abstract dream—it was a plan, and she was ready to see it through.

Every afternoon, like clockwork, the maid arrived at exactly 2 p.m. and left at 5 p.m. sharp. Y/N had observed her routine for weeks, memorizing every detail. The woman was quiet, efficient, and—most importantly—unsuspecting. She was Y/N's only lifeline to the outside world, her only chance at escape. A pang of guilt flickered in Y/N's chest at the thought of what she was about to do, but it was quickly smothered by the memory of everything she had endured.

The Arkham Knight—Jason Todd—had taken everything from her. After slaughtering every man who had worked for her father, Black Mask, Jason had decided that she, Black Mask's daughter, would be his ultimate prize. His spoils of war. His perfect accessory. His toy. His pet. To Y/N, it was a fate worse than death. She had become his refuge, the place he returned to every night, forcing her to bear the weight of his emotions in whatever way he chose to express them. She hated it—hated his touch, hated the way his eyes shifted from longing to unbridled rage in an instant, hated him. All of him.

But now, she had a plan. And she wasn't going to let anything—or anyone—stop her.

As the clock struck 2 p.m., the door creaked open, and the maid stepped inside, her presence as quiet and unassuming as always. Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. 

“Can you get me a glass of water?” she asked softly, her eyes downcast. She made sure to appear as broken and helpless as possible, knowing it would tug at the maid’s sympathy. The woman looked at her with pity but said nothing. Jason had made it clear that no one was allowed to speak to her, to even look at her. Like a possessive, jealous child, he would kill anyone who dared to lay eyes on what he considered “his.”

But Y/N wasn't his. Not anymore.

The maid nodded silently and turned to fetch the water. Y/N's heart raced as she watched her go. This was it. Her chance to escape. To reclaim her life.

And she wasn't going to waste it.

The maid reached for the plastic jug and glass—plastic, because after Y/N had nicked Jason with a shard of glass during one of their first nights together, he'd made sure to remove anything she could weaponize. The moment the maid handed her the glass, Y/N lunged. Her hands wrapped around the woman's throat, cutting off any chance of a scream. The maid thrashed, her eyes wide with panic, but Y/N held firm, her grip unrelenting until the woman's struggles weakened, and she slumped to the floor, dead.

Y/N's chest heaved as she released the maid, her hands trembling but her resolve steady. She turned to the chain around her ankle, tugging at it with all her strength. The weakened link finally gave way, the metal snapping with a sharp clink. After two hundred and forty-two days of captivity of enduring Jason's nightly torment, she was free.

She moved quickly, stripping the maid of her clothes and replacing them with her own. Guilt flickered in her chest as she pulled on the maid's uniform, but it was nothing compared to the relief of shedding the outfits Jason had chosen for her—garish, revealing things she would never have worn by choice. Once the maid was dressed in her place, Y/N dragged the deceased woman onto the bed, tucking her under the covers to buy herself more time.

At exactly five o'clock, Y/N slipped out of the room, her footsteps light and deliberate as she tip-toed through the penthouse. She rarely saw much of it; Jason only unchained her when he felt like it, and even then, he never let her out of his sight. But she remembered the layout well enough. The living room, the hallway, the door—it was all etched into her mind from the few times she'd been allowed to wander.

One thing worked in her favor: the maid was always brought in and out with a black bag over her head, a precaution to keep the penthouse's location a secret. Y/N used that very loophole to her advantage. She waited by the door, her heart pounding, until she heard the familiar footsteps of the guard approaching.

The man didn’t recognize her. Why would he? Low-level goons were only tasked with ensuring the “woman in the penthouse” didn’t escape. They had no idea what she looked like. Without a word, the guard placed the bag over her head and led her out. Y/N’s nerves were alight with fear and anticipation as she was guided into a car, the bag blocking her vision but not her determination.

As the car started moving, her mind raced. What if Jason had already figured it out? He was no fool, and it was only a matter of time before he realized she was gone. But for now, she was free. And she wasn't going to waste this chance.

The car rumbled along the uneven streets of Gotham, each bump and turn making Y/N's heart race faster. The black bag over her head was suffocating, but she forced herself to stay calm, to focus on the sounds around her. The hum of the engine, the occasional honk of a horn, the distant wail of a siren—it all told her one thing: she was getting farther away from the penthouse. Farther away from him.

But freedom wasn't guaranteed yet. Jason was relentless, and if he discovered her escape before she could disappear into the chaos of Gotham, he would stop at nothing to find her. She had to move quickly, to vanish before he even realized she was gone.

The car came to a stop, and Y/N's breath hitched. She heard the driver's door open and close, followed by footsteps approaching her side. The door swung open, and a gruff voice said, “Out.”

She obeyed, stepping out of the car with her hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. The guard gripped her arm, leading her forward. She could hear the faint sound of voices, the clatter of dishes, the hum of a busy street. They were in the city, somewhere public. This was her chance.

The guard stopped walking, and Y/N felt him fumbling with something—likely the bag over her head. She didn't wait for him to remove it. In one swift motion, she drove her elbow into his stomach, catching him off guard. He grunted, his grip on her arm loosening, and she twisted free, tearing the bag off her head.

The sudden burst of light blinded her for a moment, but she didn't stop. She ran, weaving through the crowded sidewalk, her heart pounding in her ears. Behind her, she heard the guard shouting, but she didn't look back. She couldn't.

Gotham's streets were a maze of chaos, and Y/N used that to her advantage. She ducked into an alley, then another, her feet carrying her as far and as fast as they could. She didn't know where she was going, only that she needed to get away.

Finally, she stumbled into a dimly lit subway station, her chest heaving as she leaned against a wall to catch her breath. She glanced around, her eyes darting from face to face, searching for any sign of Jason or his men. But there was nothing. Just the usual crowd of Gothamites, oblivious to her plight.

She bought a ticket with the few dollars she'd taken from the maid's pocket and boarded the next train, sinking into a seat as the doors closed behind her. The train lurched forward, and for the first time in months, Y/N allowed herself to breathe.

But the relief was short-lived. Jason would come for her. She knew he would. He had made it clear that she belonged to him, and he wasn't the type to let go of what he considered his.

As the train hurtled through the dark tunnels, Y/N's thoughts spiraled. She needed a plan, and fast. She had to disappear, to become someone Jason could never find. But how? Gotham was his city, his kingdom, and his eyes were everywhere. There was no corner of this place he didn't control, no shadow deep enough to hide her forever.

She got off at the next station, closer to the heart of the city. She knew exactly where she had to go. There was only one person who could protect her now, only one man who stood a chance against Jason Todd.

The Batman.

Jason's father. His mentor. His greatest enemy.

Y/N had been around Jason long enough to know the depth of his hatred for the Dark Knight. It was personal, all-consuming, and violent. As the daughter of a villain, she didn't expect much sympathy from Batman. But as a victim of Jason's obsession? Maybe, just maybe, he'd listen. She knew Batman was already hunting the Arkham Knight. If she could reach him, if she could buy herself enough time, she might finally escape this nightmare for good.

She stepped off the subway platform and hurried toward the exit, her heart pounding with every step. The rain outside was relentless, pouring down in sheets, turning the Gotham skyline into a blur of neon and shadows. She barely noticed. Her focus was singular: get to the GCPD. Get to Gordon. Get to Batman.

But then she heard it—a gruff voice cutting through the noise of the rain.

“There! Stop her!”

Jason's men. They'd found her.

Panic surged through her veins as she broke into a run, her feet slamming against the slick pavement. The rain soaked through her clothes, the cold biting into her skin, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop. Not now. Not when she was so close.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart hammering in her chest. She could feel him—Jason. His presence was like a shadow, always looming, always watching. Even when he wasn't there, she could feel the weight of his gaze, the burning intensity of his obsession.

But she couldn't let him win. Not this time.

Through the downpour, she saw it: the Bat-Signal, its iconic symbol glowing faintly against the stormy sky. It was her beacon, her North Star. She knew what it meant. Batman was here. He was close.

The GCPD headquarters loomed in the distance, its lights cutting through the rain-soaked darkness. If she could just reach Commissioner Gordon, if she could just get to Batman, maybe—maybe—she'd have a chance. She pushed herself harder, her legs burning, her lungs screaming for air. Every step felt like a battle, but she couldn't stop. She was so close.

But then, a shadow stepped into her path.

“Hey there, missy,” a voice drawled, low and sleazy. From the silhouette, she knew it wasn't him—not Jason. Just some low-life thug, the kind who wouldn't have dared to even glance in her direction when her father was alive. Her face twisted in disgust, but she didn't have time for this. She turned to run the other way, only to find another man blocking her escape.

“Ain’t she gorgeous?” the second one sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

“Stay back!” Y/N warned, raising her fists. Her father had kept her sheltered, pristine, and untouched by the filth of Gotham's streets—not out of love, but because she was his most prized possession, a bargaining chip to be sold to the highest bidder. But she was done being someone's property. Despite her sheltered upbringing, she had taught herself basic self-defense. She wasn't going down without a fight.

“Don’t even try, sugar,” the first man said, pulling a pocketknife from his jacket. Y/N's heart sank. Her only option was to run. She turned to bolt, but the second man grabbed her wrist, his grip like iron. She squirmed and kicked, but it was no use.

The one with the knife stepped closer, the blade glinting in the dim light. “Would be a waste to kill her right away,” he said, his voice sickeningly casual. “Not every day you see a face this pretty on the streets.”

“Damn straight,” the other agreed, his breath hot and foul against her ear. “I can think of a thing or two to do with her.”

“No! Help! Please, somebody help!” Y/N screamed, her voice raw with desperation.

“Shut up!” the man barked, clamping a hand over her mouth. Without thinking, Y/N bit down hard, her teeth sinking into his palm. He yelped and jerked his hand away, his face contorted with rage. “You stupid cunt!” he snarled, slapping her across the face.

The blow sent her reeling, her ears ringing and her vision swimming. She felt their hands on her, rough and invasive, and heard the sickening sound of fabric tearing as the knife sliced through her dress. Her stomach churned. Is this how I die?

Her eyes drifted upward, toward the sky. The Bat-Signal burned bright, closer than ever. The GCPD was just around the block. The realization sparked something in her—a surge of adrenaline, a flicker of hope.

With a sudden burst of strength, she twisted free from the man's grip and drove her fist into his face. It wasn't a perfect hit, but it was enough to make him stagger. She spun around and kicked the other man between the legs, her blow weaker than she wanted but still effective. He doubled over with a grunt, giving her the precious seconds she needed.

She didn't look back. She ran, her legs carrying her as fast as they could, her heart pounding in her chest. The GCPD was so close. Batman was so close.

But they were quick to catch her, and relentless in their pursuit. She felt the fabric of her dress tear further, the cold air biting at her exposed skin. "No, please!" she sobbed, her voice breaking as she begged, their hands groping and violating every inch of her they could reach. Desperation clawed at her chest, and before she could stop herself, words spilled from her lips—words she never thought she'd say.

“Jason! Help me, please!”

It was a plea born of sheer terror, a cry for the one person who, despite his flaws, his violence, his obsession, had always ensured she was safe. When she was locked away in his penthouse, she knew no harm could touch her. It was a twisted kind of security, one that now felt like a curse.

And then, as if summoned by her cry, a gunshot rang out.

The bullet tore through the air, striking the first man in the head. Blood and brain matter sprayed across Y/N's face, and she froze, a mix of horror and relief washing over her. In the chaos of fighting for her life, she hadn't noticed that Jason's men, who had been chasing her since the subway station, had suddenly vanished. Now, she knew why.

The Arkham Knight dropped from a nearby rooftop, landing with practiced ease. The gravel crunched under his boots as he strode toward her, his expression unreadable behind the cold, menacing mask. Y/N stood paralyzed, her breath caught in her throat, as the second man scrambled backward, his voice trembling with fear.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know she was—”

Another gunshot cut him off mid-sentence, the bullet finding its mark with deadly precision. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Jason didn't even flinch. He holstered his gun, his focus entirely on Y/N. The rain poured down around them, the sound of it mingling with the distant hum of the city. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his silence more terrifying than any words.

Y/N stood there, drenched and shaking, her face streaked with blood and tears. She didn't know whether to feel relief or dread. Jason had saved her, but at what cost? She was back in his grasp, and she knew there would be no escaping him again.

The Arkham Knight stopped just inches from her, his masked face tilting slightly as he studied her. Then, without a word, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing a strand of wet hair from her face. The gesture was almost tender, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

“You called for me,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, almost disbelieving. “You called for me.”

Y/N couldn't speak. She didn't know what to say. She had called for him, and he had come. But now, as he stood there, his presence suffocating and his grip on her life tightening once more, she realized the truth: there was no escaping him.

Jason Todd.

The Arkham Knight.

He had warned her. He had told her not to run, not to try to leave him. But she had. She had foolishly thought she could escape, that she could find safety with Batman. She had thought the Dark Knight could protect her.

Tears began to fall, streaming down her face, and soon they turned into uncontrollable sobs. Jason pulled her into an embrace, his arms wrapping around her like a vice and pulled his helmet off with a click. It was the kind of embrace a hero might give his damsel in distress after saving her. But Jason was no hero. He was a villain, through and through.

“Please,” she choked out, her voice trembling. “Please, Jason. Let me go.”

She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, her body shivering from the cold and the shock. She was barely clothed, vulnerable, and broken. For a moment, Jason almost felt a flicker of pity for her. Almost.

“You broke the rules, sweetheart,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Killing the maid so ruthlessly. You almost pulled it off.”

Y/N froze at the venom in his tone, the raw anger that seemed to radiate from him. His grip on her arm tightened painfully, and she winced, but she refused to cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“You think running to Batman will save you? Batman can't protect you,” Jason snarled, his face inches from hers. His eyes burned with a fury that made her stomach churn. “He can't protect anyone! He left me for dead, remember? He doesn't care about you. He doesn't love you. Not like I do.”

His words cut through her like a knife, each one a reminder of the twisted reality she was trapped in. She wanted to argue, to scream, to fight back, but she was too exhausted, too broken.

“You don't love me,” her voice was barely audible over the sound of the rain. “This isn't love. This is obsession.”

For a moment, Jason just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he slammed her against the alley wall, his body pressing into hers, trapping her. His hands framed her face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the anger burning in his eyes.

“Then what is love, Y/N?” he demanded. “Tell me.”

Y/N hesitated. Love? She had never truly known it. Her life had been a series of transactions—lust, respect, fear. She had never fallen in love, never been loved in return. “I don't know,” she admitted, her fists involuntarily tightening around the fabric of his suit.

“You don't get it, do you?” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I'm the only one who can protect you. The only one who will. Batman? He's a myth. A symbol. But me? I'm real. I'm here. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if it means locking you away where no one can ever hurt you again.”

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Jason, please..”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “No more running. No more trying to leave me. You're mine. And I'm not letting you go. Not ever.”

Before she could respond, his lips crashed down on hers, the kiss fierce and possessive. She tried to push him away, but he only deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the desperation in his touch, the raw, unrelenting fear of losing her that drove him to this madness.

When he finally pulled away, they were both breathless, the air between them heavy with tension. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his presence overwhelming.

“Now let me show you my love,” his voice a low, dangerous promise that sent a shiver down her spine.

His grip tightened on her waist, the rough material of his gloves digging into her exposed skin. Y/N's breath hitched as Jason's hands moved with purpose, his touch both possessive and deliberate. The rain continued to pour around them, soaking through what little clothing she had left, but she barely noticed. All she could focus on was the heat of his body, the way his presence seemed to swallow her whole.

Jason used his knee to part her legs, his movements deliberate and possessive.

“Jason, please...” she whispered, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Shhh, it's okay, darling,” he murmured against her lips, his voice deceptively soft, almost soothing. But there was no mistaking the intensity in his touch, the unyielding determination in his actions.

He wasn't asking. He wasn't giving her a choice.

“Let me go...” she spoke again, her voice more broken than ever, but he silenced her with another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. His hands roamed her body, mapping every curve as if he were memorizing her, claiming her.

She wanted to resist, to push him away, but her body betrayed her. The heat of his touch, the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to know exactly how to unravel her—it was too much. She felt herself weakening, her resolve crumbling under the weight of his obsession.

“Don't you understand?” he growled against her lips, leaving no room for argument, “I can't lose you. Not you too.”

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know if there was anything she could say. Because deep down, a part of she understood. A part of her saw the broken man beneath the armor, the boy who had been abandoned and left to die. The boy who had to claw his way back to life.

And as much as she wanted to hate him, as much as she wanted to run, she couldn't. Because now she knew, no matter how far she went, he would always find her.

“Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to love.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, but before she could resist any further, he lifted her effortlessly, pressing her back against the cold, wet wall of the alley. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he leaned in, his breath hot against her neck.

“You called for me,” he repeated, his lips brushing against her skin. “You called for me. That means something, Y/N. It means you know deep down that I'm the only one who can keep you safe. The only one who truly understands you.”

Her breath hitched, her mind racing. She wanted to argue, to deny it, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, another thought surfaced, sharp and accusing.

“You heard me,” she said, feeling the stab of betrayal in her stomach. “That means you were watching. You let them touch me. Why?”

Jason stilled, his grip on her tightening almost imperceptibly. For a moment, he said nothing, his masked face unreadable. Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

“I wanted you to see,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word deliberate, cutting through the rain and the chaos like a blade. “What happens when you try to leave me. What happens when you think you don't need me. Those men?” He gestured vaguely toward the bodies lying motionless in the alley, his tone dripping with disdain. “They're nothing. They're ants. But out there, in the world you're so desperate to run back to, there are far worse things waiting for you. Monsters who won't hesitate to tear you apart. And I needed you to understand that. To see it for yourself.”

He had let it happen. He had watched from the shadows, waited, and only stepped in when she called for him. It was a cruel, calculated lesson, one designed to break her, to shatter any illusion she had of freedom. He wanted her to see, to feel, that he was her only refuge—no matter how twisted that refuge might be.

“You're a monster,” she whispered, her voice breaking, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain.

Jason's lips curled into a faint, almost sad smile, as if her accusation amused him in some dark, twisted way. “Maybe,” he admitted, his voice softer now, almost tender. “But I'm your monster. And I'll burn this whole city to the ground before I let anyone else touch you.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, leaving no room for doubt. He meant every word. He would destroy everything—and everyone—who stood between them.

Y/N's resistance crumbled completely. She stared past him, her eyes locking onto the faint glow of the Bat-Signal in the distance. The symbol of hope, of justice, of everything she had once believed in. But now, it felt like a cruel joke, a taunt. The hope it represented drained out of her, replaced by a hollow ache that settled deep in her chest.

Jason's lips trailed down her neck, his touch alternating between gentle and rough, as if he couldn't decide whether to cherish her or punish her for trying to leave. His hands gripped her tighter, pulling her closer, as if he could erase the distance between them—both physical and emotional.

“You're not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm, final. “Not ever again. I'm the one for you sweetheart. Only me.”

She wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, to scream that she would never stop fighting him. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, she clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his suit as if he were the only thing keeping her grounded.

And maybe he was.

Y/N closed her eyes, the tears mixing with the rain on her face like a silent requiem for the freedom she would never know again. Her heart was torn between the instinct to fight and the crushing weight of resignation. Jason Todd was no longer just a man—he was a tempest, a force of nature that would devour everything in its path until she was all that remained, bound to him in a way that defied reason.

And as much as she wanted to hate him, as much as she wanted to scream and claw her way out of his grasp, a part of her recognized the truth she could no longer ignore—in his own fractured, jagged way, he loved her.

It was a love that defied sanity, a love that would raze cities and shatter worlds to keep her close. It was a love that terrified her, not because it was cruel, but because it was real.

And in the end, that was the most devastating truth of all.

tag: @swamiiyasssss

[nakylvr]

— BREATH AWAY

sophia laforteza x loser!g!p reader

summary: sophia takes care of her members all day, only being vulnerable enough at night for you to take care of her. you don't think it's anything other than hooking up despite being absolutely in love with her. until the night she brings up something.

warnings/tags: nsfw content, language, 7th member!reader, they're not in a relationship, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cumming inside, not proofread

yeah so i made something based off this thought so what?

over the past few months, you didn't know what you were doing. to be fair, you didn't know since the beginning. you don't even remember how it started, it just...did. one night she came into your solo room and the rest was history.

you knew you shouldn't have feelings. feelings for your leader, you knew it wasn't going to work. but you couldn't help it. you were completely in love with sophia laforteza.

the first time it happened you thought it wouldn't go any further. only for the same thing to happen for months.

you tried not to show it at first, how down bad you were for the filipina. but it was obvious to the members, specifically megan and daniela who had been there the longest with you two since dream academy. you had fallen for her since the moment you saw her. who couldn't? you knew it was dumb, but you couldn't help it. to be fair, you didn't think you would end up debuting, but that's the least surprising thing that's happened in the year.

then, you started not being able to contain it. you showed signs, whether they were obvious or not to sophia was a whole other question. you got her favorite coffee every morning before anyone else was awake, you helped her with managing things that she couldn't do, you would linger around her more. you were basically a puppy doing everything for her attention. attention she only gave you at night.

she didn't have feelings for you in that way. you assumed that once it was months in. it was strictly hooking up. nothing else. she needed a stress reliever from everything, and that was you. you didn't mind it at first. but the more you thought about it, the more you realized there was no point.

so you stopped.

she would come into your room still, and you would pretend to be asleep. for multiple nights in a row. you stopped getting her coffee, you stopped hovering around her. that's when she knew something was wrong with you. but, she didn't know what to do about it.

it was awkward for some time between you two. but you figured this was better. you were breaking your heart slowly but surely every time it happened knowing she won't see you that way. you'd rather have the awkwardness than losing your sanity and heart.

you don't know why you were watching her live, she was in the next room, you could hear the music faintly as you sat on your bed. but you were. mindlessly listening to her talk, not really paying attention until she said something that caught your ear.

"yeah, i'd want kids– IN THE FUTURE." she emphasizes, eyes wide while shaking her hand to keep it from blowing up in her face.

you knew she was talking about someone else. you were in the present, but you wouldn't be in her future like you wanted to be. you were okay with that. you could come to terms with that. you turned off your phone and rolled over onto your side, curling up in on yourself and closing your eyes, still hearing the music in the background.

you wouldn't be hers really, and you could come to terms with that.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

it was barely six in the morning when your door slowly creaked open, and you groggily opened your eyes to see sophia standing in the doorway.

"yn?"

you tensed up. she knew you were awake, you were staring right at her trying to calm your irregular heartbeat down from exploding out of your chest.

"yeah?" you respond quietly.

"can i come in?" she asks hesitantly.

"sure," you reply, sliding up to rest your back against the headboard.

sophia walks inside, closing and not-so-subtly locking the door behind her, making your breath hitch in your throat. she makes her way over to you slowly, every step making it harder for you to breathe when you see she's only wearing one of your hoodies and judging by her bare legs, only in her panties underneath it. she stops in front of you and climbs onto the bed next to you. she looks at you silently, waiting for you to say something, but you can't get anything out. you're staring back at her with your pupils already dilated just at the sight of her in silence.

her hands move to cup your face, her thumb drawing small circles on your cheek as she slowly leans in and kisses you softly. you can't help the little noise of surprise that escapes your throat when her lips touch yours, your face turning red embarrassingly. to her surprise, you kiss back. your lips move against hers perfectly, and you forget for just a moment that this is the most you'll get from her.

"wait," you quickly pull away, panting a little bit.

"what's wrong?" sophia asks.

"what about the girls? i don't–"

"they're crashing at emily's for her birthday, remember?" sophia cuts you off. "it's just us here." a moment of silence passes between you two. "do you want this?" she asks you.

it takes you a minute to answer. you don't know what you want anymore. the only thing you want is her, and her completely.

"yes."

a small smile curls on her lips and she nods before kissing you again.

you're not sure how it happened. your shirt and sweatpants off tossed somewhere in the room, your boxers at your ankles, sophia naked under you. but you don't care. not right now.

you pull your lips away from hers to breathe, trying to keep yourself from busting immediately. you sit up and reach into your bedside drawer, finding a condom and taking it when sophia suddenly grabs your wrist, making you freeze.

"you don't need that," she says.

your eyes widen slightly. sophia, the one who always insisted on you wearing a condom letting you go in raw? you thought she was joking, but the look in her eyes told you otherwise. with a nod, you toss it back in the drawer and position yourself on your forearms near her head.

looking down at her, you search her eyes for approval, and when she gives you a nod you slowly push inside her. a moan comes from both of you at the feeling, her arms wrapping around your neck and pulling you closer. once you're all the way in, you stop for a moment, giving her time to adjust and you to calm yourself down from the feeling of her warm, wet walls snug around you.

"please," she breathes out.

you slowly start moving your hips, building a steady rhythm making you both moan. "fuck..." you groan. "s-so tight." your eyes squeeze shut, breathy moans falling from your lips. "fuck, you feel so g-good, soph," you whimper.

soft moans escaped sophia's mouth without realizing, the noises right next to your ear only spurring you on further. her hand gripped your hair in a tight grip, tugging on it lightly. "faster– fuck, please, baby."

picking up your pace, sophia lets out a loud moan, tugging on your hair again as the sounds of the bed squeaking beneath you gets louder at every thrust you make. the dull pain in your head from pulling your hair has you opening your eyes, finally looking down and seeing her — eyes hooded, mouth agape with whines and moans falling from her lips that were swollen from kissing, chest heaving up and down. all because of you. "you're s' pretty like this," you murmur.

"oh, fuck!" sophia gasps when your thrusts start turning more rough, feeling the tip of your cock hit her g-spot. "right there, mahal, right– shit! mnnh you feel s-so good. making me feel so g-good, don't stop!" her moans proceed to get even louder, and you're grateful that the members are out of the house to not hear the sinful act you two were participating in. anyone would be able to tell with the way the bed was squeaking and the headboard hitting the wall repeatedly.

you slam your cock in and out of her, grunting every now and then with moans freely leaving your mouth. your eyes lock with hers, and she pulls you down into a kiss. one different feeling than the rest. one filled with all the love she had for you.

parting from the kiss, sophia rests her forehead on yours, her eyes staring up at you. she feels you throbbing inside her, twitching and desperate for release, and she decides now is the time.

"cum in me," she whispers.

"what?" your eyes go wide, your hips stuttering for a second.

sophia wraps her legs around your hips, pulling you impossibly closer so you were flush against her. "please, mahal. please, i want you– i want your cum in me, please. please, i need you so bad. wan-wanna have your babies– fuck, please!" she begs, tears building in her eyes.

your eyes darken at her words, feeling a newfound desire in you as you nod, your hips snapping against hers at a fast pace that had both of you moaning loudly. "gonna fill you up so good...gonna give you every last drop– fuck, you're so tight–"

sophia cuts you off by pulling you down into another kiss, mainly just you two panting against each other's lips. "i love you," she murmurs. "i love y-you so much, yn."

"i love you too," you reply without even thinking of what she said. "f-fuck, i'm gonna cum!" you whine.

"cum for me, baby," she tells you. "make me yours, please."

with a few more thrusts, you let out a long groan, spurts of your cum filling her up making her cum right after you, feeling her walls milk you for all your worth. you slouch against her, your arms sore from holding yourself up as you breath heavily to recompose yourself.

one of sophia's hands gently runs through your hair, her eyes closed while she also tries to catch her breath. when you pull your head from her neck, she opens her eyes and looks up at you. her hand pushes your hair out of your face and cups your cheek as she leans in, pressing a deep kiss on your lips. when she pulls away, she just smiles at you.

"i meant what i said, y'know," she says softly. "i love you, yn. and i want to have a family together."

your eyes widen, not being able to contain the surprise you felt as you tried to find any sign of her lying or just saying it to make you feel better. "really?" you can't help but ask.

"yeah." she nods. "i want to be with you, not whatever this is."

the smile that grows on your face has one growing on sophia's as you lean down and kiss her passionately. when you pull away, you both have matching smiles on your faces as you look at each other.

"i love you so much, sophia," you tell her.

"i love you too, yn," she immediately responds.

[spiderben2011]

The deed was done. The game had ended and the others looked on as the bombs themselves prepared to explode, but instead released confetti, while balloons appeared. Along with the two omnipotent beings behind this whole madness.

"I have to admit, I was really rooting for my side to win it all. But it seems your side surprised me with that ending there," said Beyonder who was a tad disappointed his side lost, but was impressed with how far the humans in Q's world were willing to go.

"You sons of bitches. You think this was fun?!" Jason shouted who didn't like that they were used like this. "You have any idea of the hell you both put us all through?"

Laura stopped Jason from moving forward or doing anything stupid. Rachel could feel her powers are back, but knew it wouldn't do a damn thing to these two.

"This wasn't a game. You put real people's lives in danger like it was nothing," said Rachel who didn't like being used like this.

"Oh relax. Anyone who died in Battleworld will be returned without any memory of what happened," said Beyonder before looking over to the fallen Lunella. "Well, except for those who became the flags of course. Would have made this whole thing pointless if you all knew they'd come back."

Carol stood forward and shook her head. "What was the point of all of this? Just for the whole good versus evil shit to be decided?"

"Q has a more practical reason for it all. But for me? It was more to see if heroes like you all would be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to save the lives of both universes, in exchange for one life," said Beyonder who despite his madness did have a legit reason for all of this. "One where you cannot use your technology or powers to bring the dead back so easily."

@mazamba

Closed RP w/mazamba

This planet Jason was on was once thriving world. A planet full of trees, water, animals, and people. All who lived peacefully on the planet, until a war broke out in this sector. This left the planet in ruins, all of its resources plundered, and its people nearly wiped out. Centuries have passed and the planet has been nearly forgotten.

Jason was told the planet was under the control of a group called the Klingons. He didn’t think too much about it and knew he would be out of here before they found out or one of their allies.

He walks over towards his prize. A box containing a valuable item that he knew would come in for a pretty penny…or whatever currency the people of this universe use. He walks over and begins to disable any security systems around, before getting his prize. He wipes away the dirt from it, opens it, and smiles when he saw what’s inside.

“Just like the buyer said,” Jason whispered before putting the box in his bag. 

@mazamba

[thatgirlsworld36]

You are mine- Jobe Bellingham

---One shot; Jobe Bellimgham x fem!reader

word count--> 4.8K

WARNING:mention of alcohol; angst, jelousy unprotocted sex(wrap it before you tap it!) , kinda rough sex, dirty talk, spanking, fingering, hair pulling(like once)... my writing!!

a/n- That's the first time i write one shot and the first time i'm writing smut in my life, sooo. Hope it's not too long. Lmk if i missed something in the warning.Also english is not my first language. Stay safe <3

Enjoy!

The moment the door slammed behind me, the lively chatter and laughter from the other room faded to a distant hum, leaving us in an uncomfortable silence that seemed to envelop us like a heavy blanket. I turned around and met Jobe’s gaze. His jaw was set,  and his eyes narrowed. 

-What the hell do you think you’re doing?- he hissed in a low, husky voice. There was something fierce in his gaze. Poisonous. My stomach churned just from the intensity with which he was staring at me, but I managed to find my voice and speak.

-I'm having a good time with my friends? I don't see where the problem is.

-Y/N, are you serious right now? The problem is that you were openly flirting with him!- his hands balled into fists. He took a step towards me, not taking his eyes off mine. He took another, almost completely closing the distance between us.

-With whom?- his words caught me off guard. I felt as if he had just slapped me hard, but his hands hadn't moved. They sat tight against his body, still clenched into fists. He was trying to suppress his rage. - Jobe, I really don't know who or what you're talking about. I haven't flirted with anyone!

- Don't tell me you didn't notice the way he was looking at you!- he growled with a force in his voice that bordered on shouting.- Everyone in the room saw you smiling and laughing at his jokes.  How you lean closer and closer to him. How you let him pull you aside to whisper something in your ear because “you didn’t hear him.” Don’t make me look like a fool!

My heart pounded in my chest. I tried to calm myself down to quell the rising argument, but the insult from his words was too strong. Had I ever given him a reason not to trust me before?

-Do you know how much you mean to me?-  he continued without even giving me time to defend myself. -I can't sit back and watch you try to get someone else's attention! You're mine. Do you understand that? Mine!

-Jobe, I didn't do anything! I don't want to hurt you.- I tried to sound calm, but my trembling voice gave me away. I didn't want this, I didn't want to argue with him. I was fighting back the tears that were trying to escape me. -I wasn't flirting with Victor, I was just trying to have fun.

-I didn't mention a name. Did i?- His voice became low, almost a whisper, as he leaned closer to my face.  His dark brown eyes were indistinguishable from the darkness. I could feel his anger all over my body.-If you weren't guilty, you wouldn't know who I'm talking about. And does having fun have to come at the expense of other people's feelings? How can you not understand that you're hurting me?

I stared at him for a minute. My thoughts wandered and I could feel my vision blurring. I hadn’t done anything. At least not consciously, I didn’t want it to seem that way. Nor do I want to hurt him.

- You didn’t say his name but I’m not stupid Jobe! I know you’re talking about him. Tell me, what do you want from me? To apologize for something I didn’t even do?- the calm left my body. I wasn’t going to let him accuse me of something for no reason.

-I’m not convinced about that anymore Y/N! If you’re not stupid, then you’re just too blind. Do you even care about our relationship? Do you care about ME?

Hot tears slid down my cheeks. I couldn’t hold them in any longer. The tension seemed to take over the air and suck even the air out of my lungs. I opened my lips to answer him, but when nothing came out, I closed them.  My mind had become a dark, scary place. It was like I was a prisoner to myself. 

-Come on, what happened? Don't you have anything smart to say anymore? Or do you think that if you cry everything will go away?- his voice was colder than before.- I'm asking you for the last time Y/N, do you even care about me?

-Jobe, I-

The closet door opened and Jude's head poked out. It was obvious that he was a little tipsy, and the surroundings and our faces made no impression on him.

- Not that I want to interrupt you, but two of the guests are leaving and- he was stopped by a quick burp, took a sip from his glass to quell another and continued- and I decided to take you back to the party. Or was it a reunion? Whatever.

He turned his back on us and with a slight sway headed back to the living room as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't interrupted a pressing argument. 

Jobe took a step forward to pass me, but suddenly caught my jaw between his fingers.

-This isn't over. We'll talk again when everyone leaves. By then you'll have plenty of time to think about what you did and about my question.- his thumb slid down my cheek, wiping away a few of the escaped tears. The feel of his hand on my skin was warm, almost comforting. A stark contrast to the chaos in my head.  With his little finger and ring finger, which were under my chin, he lifted my head slightly, making me meet his gaze again. - Do you need me to repeat the question again? You know, in case you've already forgotten it. 

I shook my head. There was no need, it was already imprinted in my mind. It sounded like an endless echo that wouldn't leave anytime soon. That wouldn't leave ever. But this answer wasn't enough. He squeezed my chin very lightly, barely perceptibly, but indicating that this wasn't enough for him. He expected something more. 

-No. No need. - I whispered under my breath. 

-Our future depends on you. Think carefully.

______________________________________________________________

The noise in the room was deafening—laughter, music, broken words that I couldn’t put together into a complete sentence. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. As if someone had put a thin layer of glass between me and reality. I don’t remember how I got to the living room after my conversation with Jobe, or when I picked up my glass, but now, as I sat on the couch, staring at the melting ice, none of that mattered. Drops of water ran down the side of my glass, onto my fingers, but even that couldn’t break me out of the trance I was in. It couldn’t save me from my mind. 

Jobe’s voice still rang in my head—low, thick, filled with anger and jealousy. It echoed like a bell. Louder than the music.  Louder than laughter, louder than conversation, but not loud enough to be found and removed from my mind. 

"You're mine. Do you understand? Mine!" 

I looked into his eyes as he said it. Dark, deep, unyielding. The tremor in his voice, the way his fingers gripped my jaw roughly. The gentleness with which he ran them down my cheek. This moment felt more alive now than the world around me.

One of the guests spilled his drink, someone leaned over to wipe it, and another toasted something I didn’t hear. The world kept moving, but I wasn’t part of it. My gaze kept falling on Jobe. He was surrounded by his brother and other friends. Jude was waving his arms cheerfully and telling some ridiculous story that he would probably regret in the morning. And Jobe was just sitting there. He was trying to act like nothing had happened, but he couldn’t fool me. Not me. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was gripping his glass, and his other hand was in his pocket. As if it was the only way he could stop himself from clenching them into fists. His shoulders were hunched forward slightly, and his jaw was still set. He hadn’t looked at me once, but I knew his full attention was focused on me. 

 I bit my lip, trying to swallow the weight in my chest, but just then I felt movement next to me. A hand rested on the back of the couch next to me, making me jump slightly.

-Are you okay? You look… not here.

Not here. Yes. That's right. I'm not here.

But then I recognized the voice. Victor. I looked up from the whiskey in my hand and met his blue eyes. So different from the ones I love, the ones I desire.

-Everything is fine.- my answer was short. Evasive. I didn't want to talk to anyone. Especially him. 

A cold shiver ran down my spine. The feeling that someone was watching me made my blood boil. I quickly moved my gaze from the blue orbs in front of me and met Jobe's eyes. Brown. I didn't think it was possible, but his gaze was even more dangerous than it was in the room earlier. He was watching me. Closely following my every move, every word, every gesture I would make to the man in front of me. 

-Y/N, are you even listening to me?- Victor's voice was loud, shouting over the music trying to catch my attention.  

- Excuse me, I don't feel well. I think... I'm going to go out onto the balcony. I want to get some fresh air.- I answered him quickly. Mechanically. I got up from my place on the sofa and left my glass on the coffee table next to me. 

 -Are you sure everything is okay?- his hand landed on my shoulder. My whole body tensed. I felt like all eyes were on me. Everyone was waiting to see how far he would go. Where Jobe's patience would end.- I can…

-No no no, im okay.- I interrupted him quickly before he could finish and pushed his hand away. Someone behind me called out Jobe's name, which caught my attention. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw him. He had turned completely towards me and Viktor. The glass he was holding before was nowhere to be seen around him, and his hands were clenched into fists. He was no longer suppressing the impulse.- It was nice to meet you, Vic. Good evening!

-Are you sure Jobe didn't do something? If so, you can always tell me.- with these words he put his hand back on my shoulder and looked at my boyfriend. It was as if he was challenging him. He wanted to see what he would do. Will he hit him in front of everyone?

- I said everything is fine!

I didn't give him time to answer and hurried to the balcony. I needed to be alone. The guests had decreased drastically, but the situation was pressing me more and more. When everyone left, one persone would remain. I needed to have a conversation with the man I love. A conversation that would turn into an argument. An argument that most likely wouldn't end well.

The moment the cold air hit my face, all my emotions rushed over me. Hot tears started to fall down my cheeks, making my hair stick to my face. My vision was blurry, but I managed to reach the railing and grab it. I held it tightly, as if it was the only thing holding me here. An icy wind blew around me, lifting the ends of my dress and making my hair fly away a little from my face, but I didn't feel the cold. 

 I stared straight ahead, unable to feel anything other than fear and rage. I was afraid of how it would all end, whether he would find out that I hadn’t done anything. Then the rage came… Jobe REFUSED to understand the truth. He was accusing me for no real reason. Without ME giving him that reason. I just wanted to disappear. The wind to pick me up and blew me away. Somewhere far away. Anywhere but here. Not at this moment. Not in my home. 

The balcony door opened, but I didn’t turn around. I kept looking ahead, my eyes half-blurred and my head repeating a sentence. Over and over. Like a knife that cut into me harder and deeper with each repetition. 

“Do you care about ME?” 

Something heavy fell on my shoulders. A jacket.  It smelled like  alcohol and cigarette smoke, but one scent was stronger than any other. Or it wasn’t. Maybe I was just so used to it that I could smell it on everything. Pure poison for my mind. Or an addictive cure. I didn’t know. I knew the jacket was Jobe’s. I knew he was standing behind me from the moment the balcony door opened. But I wouldn’t turn around. I didn’t want to. I wasn’t able to…

-Was he here? With you. Alone, just the two of you.- His voice was low. It sounded cracked, trembling as if he hadn’t spoken in a long time. But this time I could feel not only the rage in him, but also a hint of pain. Was I really hurting him?

The cold finally took hold of me. I pulled his jacket a little more over my shoulders and let his warmth and smell take over me. I squeezed my eyes so hard that small white dots appeared on the otherwise black background. Tears continued to fall down my cheeks, and my lips felt like they were glued together. I didn't want to speak. 

  I felt movement behind me. Before I knew what was happening, two hands came down to me, and his chest was pressed against my back. I opened my eyes slightly and blinked in an attempt to chase away the tears. He had me as if I was in trapp. His hands were millimeters away from mine. He was gripping the railing tightly, his knuckles turning white the same way they had earlier when he was gripping his glass. His body pressed against mine as if to keep me warm. He was protecting me. But I wasn't sure if it was from himself or from others.  

  I felt myself shivering. I didn’t know if it was from the cold or from all the emotions raging inside me. I didn’t know how I hadn’t felt it before. 

-Please.- He was shivering too. Not just his hands and voice, but himself.- Just tell me. Was he here with you? When Victor left the room shortly after you, did he come here? Please.- There was pain in his voice. It was so strong, it made my heart break into small pieces. And I was to blame for this pain. But at the same time, I wasn’t.

-No. He didn’t come here.- It came out as a whisper. I didn’t know if he heard me. 

A quick sigh escaped his mouth and he rested his head on mine. My arms parted. My fingers were no longer holding the railing, and my eyes burned, but I wasn’t crying anymore. We sat like that. Glued to each other for what felt like an eternity.  Gentle actions and moments that were in complete contrast to the harsh and chaotic words and thoughts in my head.

-Jobe, I can't…

-I don't want to argue anymore. I don't want to fight.- His voice was soft. I didn't feel the rage in him. Not anymore. 

  He put his hands on my waist and turned me around to face him. Our eyes met again. Brown. My favorite color. A color I never thought I would like. He put his hand on my cheek again like he had done before, but now it felt different. Better. More intimate. 

-Let's go inside. We can warp up there.

  It wasn't a question. He was telling me what we were going to do, he took my hand and took a step forward, then stopped. He was waiting to see if I would let him lead me. If I would let him end the argument. 

I followed his lead and stepped forward as well. A faint smile appeared on his face and he led us to the bedroom. Jobe slid his hand down my back, slowly and possessively, as he led me to our room. A moment later, he put it back on my hand. I could feel the warmth of his body next to me, the firm grip on my wrist. Not too strong, not painful, but enough to know he wasn’t going to let me go. Not before he got what he wanted. Me. 

We were close to the door when a familiar voice pierced the space. 

-Y/N! 

Victor. 

I looked back and saw him—he was standing at the end of the hallway with a blonde girl next to him. He was smiling and had his hand raised in the air. 

-Tonight was great. I’ll see you soon. 

Before I could react, I felt Jobe’s grip on me tighten.  His body froze next to mine. I looked back at him, but he wasn't looking at me anymore. His eyes were fixed on Victor. The calmness that had emanated from him a few seconds ago was replaced by a much darker feeling. Jealousy.  

I exhaled when I realized that Victor was simply leaving and raised my hand to wave him back. Just a gesture, purely friendly. With no intention of annoying Jobe with it or ignoring Victor.

But I couldn't.

A strong hand pulled me into the room. The door slammed behind me and my back was violently pressed against it. A dull echo echoed through the walls. Jobe's eyes looked at me again. Pure black. Full of newly charged anger, jealousy, but also passion. 

-What…

His lips were locked on mine before I could even finish. He wasn't just kissing me.  He was taking what was his. His tongue thrust roughly into my mouth without any mercy. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in a new trap. I didn't want to escape anymore. I was enjoying the end of the evening more and more.

 The kiss was getting more and more intense. Intoxicating. My lungs were running out of air, but I didn't want to pull away. His right hand was already gripping my jaw, while the left hand loosely held close to my waist.

Suddenly Jobe pulled his lips away from mine and touched our foreheads. We both struggled to take a quick breath. The moment of calm didn't last long. His lips found mine again and he started kissing me more roughly. This time his hands were roaming all over my body. I could feel him everywhere. It was as if he was under my skin and merging with me. His kisses started to go lower and lower. His mouth was roughly biting and sucking my neck. He was marking me.

-Only mine.- his voice was low and deep. Desire was pouring out of his tone.

Only mine…. Only mine... Only his.

His hands slid under my dress, pulling me out of my little trance of ecstasy. The face that was buried in my neck quickly slipped out and looked me in the eyes, grabbing my jaw again with one hand.

-You're not wearing underwear, love?- he sounded surprised. Excited. His eyes looked at me hungrily. Like a predator looking at the half-naked body of its victim. I was in front of him, pressed against the door, my dress lifted to my waist. Without underwear or bra.- Tell me, honey…- he buried his head in my neck again, biting and sucking harder.- did you do all this for me? Is it because of me that you walk around all evening without panties ?

 I just nodded, unable to answer. The lips on my neck, his teeth digging lightly into my flesh. The hands that roamed my almost naked body. Everything was almost wonderful. Intense. Intoxicating.

 A hard slap hit my thigh, making me moan slightly.

-I asked you a question, princess. Are you going to make me repeat it? Are you seriously going to play with me like this? Right now?

-Yes Jobe, for you. Only for you.

-And risk all the guests seeing what a little slut you are? Risk Victor finding out.- his hand slid under my dress finding my bare breast squeezing it at the mention of the other man- And you didn't do it for Victor. Are you sure? You dressed like this, in that short red dress, without underwear, not for him. But for me.

I nodded my head to confirm. It was all just for Jobe. A second hard slap cut through the air. This time it hit my ass.

-Yes Jobe, it's all just for you. I don't want anyone else. No one can make me feel like you. I only want you.- I almost cried with pleasure. His fingers had begun to make slow circles on my clitoris, his mouth sucking, tugging, and biting the skin on my collarbone, and his other hand was playing with my breasts. It was almost perfect. Almost. I could feel his cock throbbing against my leg. It was begging for release. My hand slid slowly down his chest, reaching the bulge in his pants.

-That was it.- he hissed softly against my skin, his hands finding the hem of my dress just above my hips and lifting it above my head, throwing it somewhere in the room. Then he picked me up by the waist and threw me onto the bed on my stomach.

I bit my lips hungrily as I listened to him unbuckle his jeans, letting them fall to the ground. I tried to turn on my back to look at him, but I was stopped.

Smack.

A hard slap hit my ass, making me stop and moan slightly. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to ignore the slight stinging pain on my flesh.

-That was because of your attempt to make a fool of me, to make me believe that you weren't flirting with anyone.

Another slap, a fourth one crashed down onto my already slightly reddened skin. A moan escaped my lips, making me bite them, trying to suppress it. There were still  more people down there. Our friends.

A strong hand grabbed my hair, making me arch my back and look behind me.

-That was because of the fact that you were flirting with him. Whether it was conscious or not.- with those words he struck another spank- The fifth, was because of the fact that you had been walking around almost naked all evening, almost revealing to people what is mine.

I bit my lip harder and harder, trying to stop my sounds of pleasure and ecstasy that were struggling to escape. I looked at Jobe's hungry eyes almost innocently. As if I didn't want this. As if I wasn't enjoying it.

-That- a stronger, sixth slap followed, making me close my eyes and let out the moan of pleasure I had been keeping between my lips.- is because you're trying to hide the sweet little sounds you make. Good girls don't do that. They let their boyfriends hear them. And you're a good girl, right?

-Yes.- my voice was quiet. A barely audible sound, mixed in an atmosphere full of desire, passion and jealousy.

A final seventh slap landed on my ass, causing the burning and slight pain to increase. This time I let my moan escape freely, earning me a slight smile from Jobe.

- The seventh was just because I can…and to remind you who was fucking you.

Jobe Bellingham. Number 7.

He turned me around sharply and slammed his lips into mine again, pulling my hips closer to him.

-Only. Mine. Damn it. Mine.

His lips left mine, but before I could protest I felt his tongue give my naked and throbbing clit a quick lick. My head fell back onto the pillow, and my hands tangled in his black curls. His fingers found my entrance, thrusting just one in. Slowly. He teased me

-Damn, you're so wet. Just for me.- his lips sucked hungrily on my clit. It was like he hadn't eaten in days. His finger started moving faster, making me tighten around him. Almost perfect. Almost again, but not quite.

-Jobe, please. I…I…Oh my god…

Jobe inserted a second finger the moment I started talking. He moved them faster and faster, making me roll my eyes and lift my hips closer and closer to his mouth. His tongue was circling my clitoris. I could have sworn I saw stars. And I wasn't even with my eyes open.

His fingers began to move like scissors, making me come closer and closer. His other hand held me in place, his iron grip not allowing me to move anymore, and his thumb was drawing light vague figures on my thigh. It was making my body relax even more.

-You want to come, don't you? I feel you love. I feel you curling around me. How your little cunt is trying to strangle my fingers. How it's begging to come. Do you think you deserve to come, hmm?

- Jobe yes…I…please, I Jobe…- his name came out like a mantra. As if that was the only thing my mind knew. The only thing that mattered.

- I don't think so.- with these words he slowed down his movements. His tongue was giving light licks on my clitoris, and his fingers were moving much, much slower. He hadn't stopped, but he was bordering on complete rest.- I think you're going to come on MY cock. Only there.

He bit my clitoris lightly and moved his fingers again quickly, making me tangle mine in his hair again and lower my head moaning his name.

I didn't know how long his sweet torture lasted, but I felt like I wouldn't last much longer. I had to finish. I couldn't keep being brought to the edge and then he would stop, give me time to calm down and start all over again. Just because he could.

-Jobe I…I can’t…any more I- it almost came out as a sob. The stolen pleasure was getting harder to bear.

- Too bad, I told you, you’ll come all the way on my dick. And I’m not done playing with my beloved princess yet.- his fingers started to stretch me again and he bit my clitoris lightly. That was my last straw. Despite my attempts to stop myself, my orgasm overtook me, turning me into a moaning mess. My thighs writhed under Jobe’s grip and I could feel his gaze staring hungrily at my face. His fingers were moving much faster than before, making me come out faster from the ecstasy I had fallen into.

When my body calmed down, my eyes cleared again and I was able to see something other than black and white spots, I met Jobe’s gaze. His eyes were fixed on me. Furious. A short slap fell on my sensitive clitoris, making me moan loudly.

-I told you not to come. Good girls listen to what they are told.

He took off his boxers in less than a second and inserted his cock into my still sensitive pussy.  He started moving immediately. Without giving me time to adjust. Rough, hard and deep. He pressed his chest to mine and grabbed my face, making me look at him.

- You are so tight as hell. And so mine, damn it.- he smashed his lips into mine. His thrusts became faster and faster, his lips - rougher and rougher. Everything was almost perfect… no. Everything was already perfect.

Our sweaty bodies stuck together, making us feel each other's hearts. Jobe broke our kiss, touching his forehead to mine, closing his eyes.- So mine. Say it. Tell me you're mine.

-Only yours.- with these words he buried his head in my neck inhaling my scent. His lips kissed lightly with his mouth open the point of my pulse. His thighs didn't stop their brutal pace- Jobe, I...I'm close I can't...I can't take it anymore.

-Come on, I'm with you. Let it go darling, come on, show me you're mine. Show me who makes you cum.

With these words I released the knot in my stomach again. I felt Jobe's sperm descend into me shortly after. Making our juices merge. After a few more thrusts he allowed himself to get out of me, hugging me tighter. His head still buried in my neck.

I liked the ending I was worried about. Me and him entangled, hearts beating side by side.

-Only mine.- he whispered and kissed my neck, pulling the sheets over our naked bodies.

[cloversnstrawberries]

this may sound very weird and everything but could you do a platonic yandere ada wong and leon kennedy parent duo sorta thing. like ada and leon are readers parents

platonic!yandere!parents!ada w. + leon k & gn!teen!reader [headcanons] ! !

masterlist !

additional notes; hello!! this isn't weird at all :]] thank you so much for requesting this,, i've been wanting to do parent duo sort of requests for a while, but got nervous because. i have... experienced things, being in fandom for a while... oh god the shipping wars. but i feel much better knowing that someone would actually read/want something like this :D i hope i did it justice ^^ i'm also sick, so my brain is cooking in my skull. i apologize if this is worse quality that usual </3

warnings; overprotectiveness, (slight) possessive behavior, soft yandere, mentions of Leon & Ada's jobs/what comes along with it, temporary imprisonment, manipulation, gaslighting, love-bombing, distrust, and if there's anything else i missed, please let me know!! I forget stuff the second i write it down :(((

w/c; 1.7k

Whether not you're biologically their kid, adopted as a baby, or adopted later; they'd treat you all the same. The difference comes with the way you react/how quickly you accept and adapt to their behaviors.

With their jobs, they're usually away for long periods of time. When you were younger (like, younger than 13), they would try their best to alternate their gigs-- sometimes it wasn't possible for one of them to stay with you, and when that happened, you'd stay with either Claire or Jill for a while.

It was just how it was, and you were fine with it-- you thought they'd give that up when you got older, that they'd trust you to take care of yourself.

That was never the concern with it, though-- it wasn't that you couldn't take care of yourself,

They were afraid that being their kid would put a target on your back. The older you got, the more missions they went on-- the more scum-of-the-earth they met, the more careful they got with you.

Leon is extremely protective, and while Ada seems to be more lenient; I'd actually argue she's the worse one to have worried. She absolutely pulls in favors to 'keep an eye on you', and does her best to keep tabs on where and what you're doing whenever possible.

Ada is extremely charismatic, and definitely uses that to her advantage. Meanwhile, Leon is so painfully and genuinely kind, that people can't help but trust him more often than not.

Because of that, it'd be hard for you to convince anyone, maybe even yourself, that they're absolutely insane when it comes to you. At some point, it goes beyond just wanting to keep their kid safe for their own good.

Neither are particularly selfish in general, especially not Leon. Ada has her own goals, but she has a moral code and has been known to go out of her way to help others from time to time.

However, when you get involved, that changes entirely. For Leon, he wants to keep you safe because he doesn't want to lose you; he's already lost too many people he cared for, and he'd be devastated if you were added to that list.

On the other hand, Ada's motivations are a bit harder to place. She cares for you a lot, something she isn't used to letting herself do because of her line of work; she's far more used to isolating herself rather than throwing herself full force into any type of relationship.

You were that one exception-- even with Leon, she tried that routine of keeping herself detached to try and minimize the chance of 'gaining a new weakness'.

Eventually she gave in and stopped doing that, and while that doesn't happen with everyone, it's happened before as well. Ever since she became a spy/mercenary, she hasn't allowed herself to attach to someone as quickly as she did with you.

It's on principle that she doesn't want you hurt because of it. You're the once exception, the one person to have ever gotten her to let her guard down immediately. There's no way she's letting you go because of it, and she'd rather let herself get into tight situations if it meant keeping you safe.

Both Ada and Leon share one thing in common with their attitude towards you, though. And to you, it's probably the most annoying thing about your parents, and nothing could top it.

If they feel the need to, they'll literally just go against your wishes. They won't listen if they get even an inkling that something could go wrong-- and when you were younger, they could easily convince you that it was all for your own good.

Neither Leon or Ada actually enjoy manipulating you, far from it-- Ada is more accepting of it, but Leon had a lot of hang-ups about it at first. Ada was eventually able to convince him that it was okay,

In that way, Leon is worse than Ada in this regard. Ada will only manipulate you as a last resort (though, her definition of 'last resort' can be pretty loose in of itself),

But Leon? You better bet he's pulling it out every opportunity-- because he feels like there's nothing wrong with it. Ada is at least able to recognize that it's not the best thing to do, gaslighting your kid into missing out on friends birthday parties just because of a 'feeling'--

Leon however, is extremely deluded. Partly Ada's fault, and partly not. Yes, Ada nudged him towards believing that it was okay, but it was ultimately Leon who took the leap. It was his reasoning with himself that actually convinced him that it was a good idea.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like they isolate you completely! Ada actually encourages you to go out to events, and make new friends.

Though, maybe that has something to do with the fact that when she encourages you, there's always a feeling someone is watching you that accompanies you throughout the entire event.

When you get older, you start considering sneaking out. Your parents actually didn't expect this-- you'd been doing well with how they've been treating you, and they assume you won't rebel.

You've always seemed accepting of it, but maybe it's on them-- that they don't realize the slight distrust that starts showing up in your eyes. They don't feel a need to look into it any further, if they do notice it.

Maybe you were able to sneak out a couple times before you were caught, or maybe you were never able to successfully pull it off. You don't know about your mom's actual job-- they'd worked hard together to keep that a well-hidden secret from you--, so you don't have any advantage over them.

If anything, you have a massive disadvantage. Considering your parents are a government agent and a spy/mercenary, you probably never even stood a chance.

After you get caught, either dragged back home from wherever you snuck off to-- or hauled out of the open window you'd been halfway through hopping over-- you don't get a scolding like you think you will.

Instead, you get dragged down to the 'guest bedroom' in the basement and locked in there for a little bit. You knew of it's existence, but it never made any sense to you. The house you live in is large, and while your parents don't get a lot of guests, it's happened before.

But with a whopping 4 above-ground guest bedrooms, there was no reason to build a 5th one down in the basement. The fourth above-ground one never got used anyways, it just never made sense to you.

But now, it really, really does. It was never a guest bedroom as much as it was a holding cell. You should've known, considering they put it together when you were around 12/13. A preemptive measure, you realize now.

They didn't think they'd actually use it, but they were glad they'd done it regardless. You've never been in it, but you remember when they were getting the furniture and items to put in it, and when you were barred from entering the basement for a little while the contractors were down there--

You'd seen it from the outside, too. It looked normal enough-- if you ignored the deadlock on the outside, which you absolutely did not notice. It was weird, the addition to the house-- but it wasn't weird enough to look any further than a glance every once in a while, when you were down in the basement doing your laundry and whatnot.

Surprisingly, they don't keep you down there for very long. It's not a permanent thing right now, is what they told you.

That, however, left the very terrifying idea that it could become a permanent thing if you weren't careful. Ada called it 'just punishment', and Leon, ever the dork, called it 'time out on steroids'.

He'd been trying to cheer you up when he said that, and you just barely kept yourself from cracking a smile at it-- you were supposed to be mad, after all.

For the punishment to have worked, you'd have to have been on some kind of break. So, let's say it was spring break they decided to put you in the 'guest bedroom' (holding cell, is what you were internally regarding it as)--

They let you out the night before school started up again, and your first dinner back in the actual house was tense-- to you, it was. But to your parents, they were treating it like every other day.

It pissed you off, to say the least. And for a few days after, you avoided your parents the best you could; but it was a hard thing to do on multiple fronts, even if you were genuinely angry at them.

A part of you wanted to tell people about it, about how they'd trapped you in the basement-- but that was a surefire way of getting the cops involved,

And you weren't really afraid of being taken away or anything,

Instead, you were deathly afraid of how your parents would react to the possibility of you being taken away from them-- Best case scenario, they'd succeed in weaseling their way out of it via Ada's silver tongue or Leon's influence--

...Worst case scenario, your parents would be on the CIAs most wanted list and flea to some remote part of Europe; and you'd probably never see the light of day again, without both of their full attention and supervision. Or not at all, maybe.

Safe to say, you're keeping quiet about your time in the '5th guestroom' down in the basement. That doesn't mean you forget about it, or ever fully forgive your parents for it. You aren't sure if they realize it or not, that you're still mad at them for it.

It's not like you forget about it-- you don't necessarily move on either. You just... focus on other things, is what you tell yourself. You try your hardest to hold onto the anger, but eventually it fizzles away; sometimes it flares up, but only for a few seconds before being cast aside. And only when you're already mad about something else.

It's hard to stay mad at your parents, especially when they try to hard to make up for it. That was their plan-- spoil you with attention and gifts so you stop zoning in on the 'time out on steroids'.

[evilkitten3]

this is an interesting concept but i'm going to disagree.

madara doesn't really talk about izuna ever, he keeps that to himself. madara kinda just…. doesn't tell people stuff. he didn't even tell obito he had more than one sibling.

moreover, i don't think madara really thought extremely highly of izuna's abilities - not bc he thought izuna was a weakling or something but bc his view of strength/genius is pretty much based around hashirama, and anyone who can't measure up to that had to do serious damage to him to even really register as an opponent at all. and izuna could have only ever really been his ideological opponent, and since madara took the side of izuna and his clan when it came to peace, that never played out.

almost all information we have about izuna at all comes from people who aren't madara, all of whom gave that information to the audience for the sole purpose of manipulating another character (almost exclusively sasuke) - that is, itachi, obito, and hashirama. we have no idea where itachi got all of his info from, presumably a mix of obito and whatever was accessible to him in the clan, but we know a good chunk of it was bs from the beginning, and itachi is both a known liar and also frequently just wrong about shit. obito actually got his knowledge straight from the source, but we don't know how much of what he was told was the truth, we don't know how much of what he told sasuke was what madara told him, and the only thing we really do know is that a good chunk of it was straight-up not true at all.

our final source is hashirama, who's probably the most reliable source regardless of his own agenda in his storytelling bc most of what he tells us about izuna is from having actually met the guy, but even then he's more focused on how izuna's existence affects madara, and all we really get from him is that izuna was actually killed by tobirama, it was izuna and the uchiha clan rather than madara himself who opposed peace (possibly also the senju clan; hashirama didn't really seem all that interested in what his clan thought about it lol), and presumably gave his eyes to madara willingly (which isn't nothing, especially since it kind of renders both itachi and obito's accounts of izuna devoid of much actual info on izuna himself).

what we know from madara is that he views izuna's eyes as the last remnant of izuna that still exists, and that he's willing to use those eyes to achieve his own ends in ways izuna likely wouldn't have been ok with (tell me he would've been down with his own uchiha eyeballs in an uzumaki's skull. look at me and tell me that. it's bs). what he told hashirama about izuna when they were kids was pretty much just "i have one brother left and i will protect him no matter what", which.... doesn't really speak to madara viewing izuna as a brilliant genius who could take care of himself (tho again this is in large part due to madara being so stupidly strong that most people are basically just not really going to register to him as threats).

in my eyes, madara's hurt over the clan's rejection of him was more due to how said rejection reinforced the deep-seated trust issues he's had since childhood (madara's relationship with trust is weird as hell, but i'm pretty comfortable saying he honestly didn't trust izuna all that much. not in a way where he thought izuna was going to betray him or the clan, but in the sense of not really thinking he could rely on him to support him, which. he couldn't).

madara is a character whose struggles with communication are readily apparent, but while i think he does resent his clan to some degree over their turning away from him, he's also aware that it's in part his own fault (tho i think his reasoning as to why is incorrect, or at best deeply flawed).

none of this is to say that madara didn't love izuna, bc of course he did, or that he wasn't proud of him (i assume he was, tho it's hard to be sure), but.... i really don't think there's anything in the manga that supports this theory; most of what i recall (can't get up to check rn bc most of my volumes are at home and also my cat is sitting on me) actively contradicts it.