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comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

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carpe noctem [ rising action ] | sylus

— summary: you’ve convinced yourself that this is normal. routine. that you’re used to this, sitting like a fly on the wall while their relationship blossoms like a flower turned towards the sun before you. so why does it still hurt? — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, unrequited feelings, mentions of blood & injuries, jealousy, profanity, sexual content, fade-to-black, self-destructive behavior, somewhat of a slow burn, mdni — notes: thank you so much for reading! [ part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 ] — now playing: bmf - sza

Breakfast is uncharacteristically quiet.

At least, for the three of you, it is. The silence makes way for the lazy swish of cars on the road, the clatter of cutlery against plates, and the idle chatter of the cafe’s other patrons.

It’s balmy outside. The type of weather that pastes your blouse to your skin and creates a fine film of sweat on the back of your neck. The kind that welcomes mosquitos and makes showering beforehand pointless. And it’s so obnoxiously bright out, nary a cloud in the sky. But you figure you're being unreasonably antsy because you’re hungover and still a little tired.

Despite the climate, your ragtag team is seated beneath a cafe’s awning, scarfing down food to battle the effects of your collective hangovers before jetting back to Linkon.

Typically, Ms. Hunter would be on about something, filling the space with her animated talk, with you and Sylus occasionally chiming in to tease her or exchange covert words concerning upcoming missions. But she’s still a little worse for wear, with dark lenses perched on her nose and a wrinkle between her brows as she pushes food around her plate.

You snort around a mouthful of eggs at her plight, tucking your amusement behind your hand. Decide to incite a little mischief to distract yourself from the weather and the creeping feeling of unease brewing in your gut.

“Someone had a rough night,” you tease, reaching for your orange juice.

She glowers at you. Sticks out her tongue, flipping you the bird. You snort into your drink, nearly sending pulp flying every which way.

“Not my fault you have the tolerance of a three-year-old.”

Your eyes crease at the corners whilst you watch her work up to a retort, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water. But before she can get a word out—

“Ladies,” Sylus interjects like a distant clap of thunder pushing across a dark horizon. He’s seated between you at the round, iron-wrought table, arms crossed over a broad chest. Sunglasses shroud scarlet intentions, but you don’t miss the twitch of a silver brow nor the humor meddling with his voice. “Play nice.”

There’s finality there. He speaks to you like a referee. Like a father who’s caught his children roughhousing, and you both shrink beneath his mock disappointment.

“Besides,” Sylus continues, casting his amused gaze on you. “You weren’t in the best of shape yourself last night. Are you really in any position to talk?”

A hot rush of mortification wades over you. You're unsure of its source, whether at your memories of last night or how quickly he came to her defense.

And so what if you stumbled a bit down the hall, searching for your room?

You didn’t think he noticed after your exchange. Figured he retreated into his room, or worse—slipped across the hall to keep his hunter friend company into the wee hours of the morning while you tossed and turned, driven to hell by thoughts of them doing everything besides sleeping.

The recollection makes you bristle, and you turn a scowl down to your food. Grumbling, you plop a slice of toast onto the hunter’s plate. She glances at you, confusion pulling her lips down.

“Eat,” you order. “Feed a hangover, starve a cold.”

“I don’t think that’s how that goes,” she counters, a pout evident in her voice. But she doesn’t protest, sitting up in her seat to nibble on your peace offering.

You resist an impulse to pat her head, your ire sloughing off, traded for something like fondness. You want to ruffle locks of silken ebony because she’s effortlessly adorable, pulling at those little heartstrings you’d worked so hard to conceal.

Sylus beats you to the punch, leaning forward to mold long fingers around the round of her head. The world slows, casting a special spotlight on the pair of them.

You ignore how your chest tightens at the scene. At the affectionate little tug of his lips as Ms. Hunter cants her face towards him, cheeks full and expression doe-like. You try to pretend like it doesn’t make you sick with resentment. Once upon a time, he used to look at you like that.

Fuck.

What are you thinking? He is your boss, and she is your charge—your friend. There’s no reason to feel like this, especially considering you practically shoved Sylus into her arms, reasoning you never stood a chance in hell with him.

You snap back to the present, and suddenly, breakfast isn’t so appetizing. You push around your cold eggs as Sylus and Ms. Hunter slide into easy conversation. You feel like a husk of yourself amid them. Like you’re impeding on something intimate, and your stomach lurches when they draw you into their chat every so often as if pitying you.

You’ve convinced yourself that this is normal. Routine. That you’re used to this, sitting like a fly on the wall while their relationship blossoms like a flower turned towards the sun. And yet, you’ve never been more eager to return to the N109 Zone. To leave these green-eyed thoughts on this island and get back to your distracting life, luring terrible people to their demise and wiping the scourge of man off the face of the planet.

You suddenly straighten, clearing the phlegm from your throat. Your silverware clatters against your plate as you shove it away, eyes regretfully shifting between them.

“So, what time do we leave?” There’s a whisper of exasperation in your tone, but you quickly conceal it with that playful arrogance you’re known for.

Sylus and the hunter trade looks of confusion and humor, blind to the turmoil of your mind slowly creeping through the folds and staining your pride like ink spilled into water.

“Eager to get back to work, aren’t you?”

You scoff, taking up your fork, clueless to scarlet eyes studying the crown of your head, narrowing at the apprehensive slope of your voice. “You have no idea.”

—

It’s a pleasure to dance. Of course, it always is. It’s one of the few times you feel desired. Wanted. Useful when your hands aren’t speckled with blood and your knuckles aren’t purpling from bashing someone’s face in for taunting The Devil.

Dancing is a versatile skill you’ve acquired with time and practice. It's one of the few pleasures you’ve drawn from this fickle life. One of the few things you kept from a past veiled in darkness, the rest tucked away in the hulls of your psyche.

All eyes are on you. Gazes burning with assorted degrees of desire, envy, and awe beneath the tawny glow of the stage lights. The attention makes you warm and tingly, and your lips salaciously curve as you move your body in time with the music, casting an inadvertent spell on all who dare to watch.

You’re the center of attention without trying to be and without the influence of your Evol. Of course, you usually are. He’s even told you so. Customers often flock to Sylus’ nightclubs to see you dance, hoping to one day have your affections.

Or to fuck you.

You rarely entertain these people. Not unless you have to. Not unless Sylus sicks you on them to further his goals or take down his competition. You’re ever the faithful lapdog, tuned to your boss’ every command, and it makes you sick with how loyal you are to him sometimes. A part of you feels you owe him for this life you lead. He’d snatched you from an impenetrable darkness. Renewed your sense of purpose and redirected your desire for revenge.

For now, you have this. The recognition of others despite how misplaced it is. They want you for your body, for the promise of what your facade offers. Deep down, you crave something more, something real. But you tamp down those feelings as you bite your lip, putting on a good show, hands smoothing over the surge of your hips. And you’re spurred by the whoops and whistles and shouts of your name as the lights dim, signaling the conclusion of your performance.

Your chest heaves with the effort of breathing, and your cheeks ache with a smile as you pose. The crowd's cheers dampen the violent thrum of your heartbeat—chase away the cacophony of your mind, adrenaline spuming through you like an erupting geyser.

You look over your shoulder towards the ceiling, catching scarlet-spun eyes from the upper floor’s rail, and your grin twitches the slightest bit. It’s a rush, having the attention of strangers. Having their desire, their yearning. But his attention is much more addicting like Nicotine furling between your teeth. For a moment, you feel seen. Like you’re the center of his universe, and not the pretty, bright-eyed damsel with enough room in her heart to house the galaxy.

Something flashes in his eyes, and the world fades. You mistake it for tenderness. Just wishful thinking. He would never choose you. He’s had four years to make you his.

Why would he suddenly choose to acknowledge you now?

—

Once the adrenaline ebbs and clubbers flood the dance floor, you’re nestled behind the crowd, leaning against the sticky countertop of the bar, clutching a glass of something acrid and glacial between your fingers—something to take the edge off. To mute the insistent pulse of your nerves.

The music thumps beneath your feet, accompanied by the sparkling chatter of the club’s other clients. Yet you still hear him amid the chaos—the familiar curl of a voice around the vowels of your name. You fix him with an amused, sultry look beneath Lux’s customary red hue.

“When are you gonna let me take you out on a date?” he asks, worn knuckles easing down the slope of your arm. You track his audacity with your eyes, jerking away from his unwarranted attention, ignoring the goosebumps igniting across your skin.

This, too, is routine—one of Lux’s regulars throwing himself at your feet, begging for an opportunity to court you. He’s been on like this for months, entertaining your game of cat and mouse. Maybe you’ve given him a false sense of hope because he’s yet to let up. In fact, he’s grown bolder with his advances lately, often popping up when you least expect him, vying for your heart.

It’s endearing, really, having someone who genuinely wants you. Or maybe he doesn’t, but you convince yourself otherwise. Play a sick little game with yourself, fooling yourself into thinking that maybe there’s more to you than your reputation builds you up to be.

You turn towards him, crossing your legs, the leather barstool sticky beneath your thighs. You lean into your knuckles, studying dark brows, whiskey-infused eyes, and full lips. You end your excursion at the thick of his throat, excitement prickling like static in your chest. He’s easy on the eyes, tone velvet smooth. Had you not been a femme fatale, you might’ve given him the time of day.

But for now—

“You couldn’t handle me,” you counter, reveling in how the smugness melts from his face.

He chuckles at your cheekiness, sweeping the tails of his blazer back and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Squares his shoulders, standing akimbo like he’s preparing for a fight, though he might as well be, stepping to you like this.

“Still holding out for that old man, I see.”

It is your turn to wear a wavering smile. Your turn to look silly, the proverbial knife driven into your stomach and twisted.

You scoff with a sneer, dumping the last vestiges of your drink down your throat. You tear yourself from your seat, reaching past the gentleman to snatch your coat from the counter, pinning him with a haughty look.

“I’m not holding out for anyone, fucker. And even if I were, it wouldn't be your slow ass.”

With a huff, you brush past him, wending through the crowd gathered on the dance floor to retreat into your dressing room.

You try vainly to contain a scowl, knowing you’ve been read like the deckled pages of a book deep down.

Maybe you refuse to move on because you feel like you’d betray Sylus if you did. How, exactly, you’re unsure. He’s had no problem betraying you, quietly shoving you out of the picture in favor of someone who’s hardly seen him bleed.

—

“Do you like anybody?” Ms. Hunter asks above the steady purr of the SUV’s engine.

Her question nearly floors you. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly, and you almost choke on your spittle.

You’re stuck in traffic together.

Knowing the holidays loomed around the bend, someone decided it would be an ideal day to go to the mall. Of course, you weren’t the only people out on the road.

So naturally, she’s bored, unused to the silence stretching between you. The low croon of the music spilling from the speakers does nothing to ease the tension.

You glance at her, and she’s wearing a Cheshire Cat-like grin, studying you from the passenger seat. You swallow thickly, adjusting your shades on your face, staring at the cars sluggishly easing up beyond the windshield. “I don’t like very many people.”

An exasperated sigh later.

“C’mon! There’s gotta be someone you like. Ya’ know.” She pitches herself closer, her mischievous grin curling in your periphery, and she pokes your side with a pointed finger to get a rise out of you.

“Someone that gets your heart racing. Someone who makes your face all hot. Makes butterflies swarm in your tummy.”

You know exactly where this is going. Had you not valued your friendship—or whatever you call this complicated mashup between you—you would reveal the inner workings of your mind. But how insane would you sound, telling the hunter the person who gets your blood racing is the very same man she has tucked in her back pocket?

So, you deflect. With a sardonic smirk, you jest, “You get my heart racing when you fuck up our meetings.”

You squint and flinch away with a laugh in your throat as she swats you, whining at your cruelty.

“You suck,” pouts Ms. Hunter, falling back into her seat with crossed arms. “Bet it’s that guy who always stalks you at Lux.”

You side-eye her in the rearview, placatingly patting her head. “I like you, stupid. Isn’t that good enough?”

Maybe one day.

One day, you’ll have the intestinal fortitude to tell her the truth—to tell them both the truth. How you’re falling apart at the stitching, the world you know falling away from beneath your feet.

—

You’re not as strong as you let on. You’re human beneath that flirtatious exterior—still a woman with wants and needs, not immune to the temptations of the flesh. Which is why you find yourself at his doorstep, a glacial, errant breeze ruffling the tails of your coat as the silvery moon haloes your silhouette.

He leans against the doorframe, brown eyes simmering with intrigue as he takes you in. Dark hair sweeps over raised brows. “What made you change your mind?”

You shrug, hands stuffed in your pockets, a quirk to your lips. “Maybe I just need a friend.”

He chuckles low, arms crossed. “A friend, huh?”

“Yeah.”

There’s no mistaking the pitch of your voice. The air charges with something amorous as he ushers you into his apartment. You brush past him, tamping down your dignity as you disappear into the warm sanctity of his home, his hand reassuring at the small of your back.

Had you taken the time to survey your surroundings, you would’ve noticed a set of beady, crimson eyes peering through the inky night, watching you from their perch atop a powerline.

And had you further investigated, you would’ve heard the familiar whirr of machinery as the iridescent outline of sleek feathers recorded your every move.

conflict | masterlist | climax

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus love and deepspace #sylus qin #sylus angst #carpe noctem series #limerence series #reader is not mc

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Disturbing the Peace

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Max Verstappen x Vettel!Reader

Summary: an environmental activist disturbs the carefully constructed peace of Max’s life and turns his whole world on its head (or in which environmentalism and being a menace both run in the Vettel family)

Max strides across the tarmac towards his sleek private jet, ready to head up to the Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes after a weekend of relaxation back home in Monaco. But he stops short as his eyes land on a cluster of protesters glued to the ground around his jet’s landing gear.

A gruff security guard approaches Max. “Sorry sir, we’ve got a bit of a situation here with these Greenpeace loons. They snuck past the perimeter and glued themselves down before we could stop them.”

Max scowls as he reads the words Fossil Fuels = Destruction scrawled across one of the protester’s shirts. He storms over, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” he fumes, glaring at the seated activists. “You realize you’re costing me tens of thousands just by delaying my flight?”

“That’s kind of the point, bro,” one long-haired guy shoots back with a snide grin. “You’re one of the worst celebrity polluters on the planet.”

But Max’s gaze is drawn irresistibly to you — a beautiful young woman with fierce eyes and hair whipping around your face in the coastal wind. There’s an intensity and passion burning behind your stare that Max finds himself unexpectedly captivated by.

You rise gracefully to your feet, the only one not glued down, and take a step towards the fuming Formula 1 star. “Max Verstappen. Out of all celebrities last year, you were the 20th highest personal polluter. Even higher than Taylor Swift.”

There’s an unmistakable blend of reproach and attraction in your tone that throws Max off balance. He scoffs, trying to regain his bravado.

“What, are you stalking me or something? And I’m supposed to care what some random activist chick thinks?”

You level him with a pointed look. “Not some random chick. Y/N Vettel. Sebastian’s sister. And yes, you should care, because this is your planet too.”

Max blinks in surprise at the familiar surname, now recognizing the resemblance to his former competitor.

Oh fuck, not this girl.

He can’t resist giving you another once-over, taking in your lithe frame, the jut of your chin as you stare him down defiantly.

An amused smirk tugs at his lips despite himself. “Vettel, huh? I should’ve known. You two do have a thing for causing drama wherever you go.”

The dig lands but you don’t rise to the bait, shaking your head minutely. “This has nothing to do with drama, Max. It’s about doing what’s right for the environment before it’s too late to save it.”

“Oh, spare me the self-righteous preaching,” Max scoffs, reflexively going on the defensive even as a small part of him admires the conviction in your voice. “Like your jet-setting around to protest events is really doing the planet any favors.”

You raise an incredulous eyebrow. “Jet-setting? I take public transit everywhere. Planes are the exception for international events, and I always buy carbon offsets.”

Max feels a flicker of grudging respect at that before quickly stamping it down. He folds his arms across his chest, fixing you with a challenging stare. “Yeah? Well what about your clothes? I’m guessing that shirt was made from petroleum-based synthetic fabrics.”

A look of surprise crosses your face before you recover with a small shake of your head. “It’s actually bamboo. Petroleum-free and sustainably sourced.”

“Your shoes then,” Max presses, gaze dropping to the canvas flats on your feet.

You lift one demonstratively. “Recycled rubber.”

His eyes narrow as he struggles to find another example to poke holes in your lifestyle. You watch him search with ill-disguised amusement, finally taking pity.

“Listen Max, I’m not saying I’m perfect. Nobody is. The point is to keep trying to do better where we can.” Your eyes hold sincerity and — though Max is loath to admit it — wisdom beyond your years. “But you’re in a position of power. With all your money and influence, just think what you could do for sustainability initiatives. How many trees you could plant or clean energy projects you could fund with just a fraction of what you spend on private flights and gas-guzzling supercars every year.”

Max shifts, discomfited by the practicality of your words. It’s harder to be glib and dismissive when you’re not ranting incoherently about the planet dying, but making reasoned arguments. Especially with that intense, scrutinizing gaze fixed so squarely on him.

He clears his throat, resorting to sarcasm as a defense mechanism. “Yeah, that’s cute and all. But then who would keep all those gas station attendants employed? I’m doing them a public service, really.”

The ghost of a smirk curves your lips in a way that makes Max’s chest tighten unexpectedly. “How very philanthropic of you.”

He has to look away from the spark of challenge and — yes, flirtation — in your expression. Max isn’t sure when this stopped being a confrontation and turned into some sort of tense back-and-forth bristling with inexplicable chemistry, but it’s rapidly becoming unnerving.

Seeming to sense you’ve flustered him, you lean in conspiratorially. “You know Max, for someone who acts like such an edgy bad boy, you’re not so tough. I think deep down you know I’m right.”

Max’s jaw ticks stubbornly even as his cheeks burn at your proximity, at the sweet floral scent of your shampoo drifting across the scant distance between you. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

In a daring move, you reach out and lay a hand on his arm. His breath hitches just slightly at the contact as you hold his gaze intently. “Then help me understand. Join me for dinner sometime and we can talk more about this over something other than just shouting at each other.”

The gentle touch, combined with the sincerity shining warmly through those big widened eyes, takes Max completely off guard. He opens his mouth, then closes it, abruptly unsure how to respond to such an olive branch extended from his vehement critic just moments ago.

Before he can formulate a reply, the wail of sirens pierces the air. A police cruiser pulls up as four officers jump out, advancing menacingly towards your compatriots still glued to the pavement.

“Alright, that’s enough here,” the barrel-chested sergeant barks gruffly. “You’re all under arrest for criminal trespassing and failure to obey airport security.”

You hurriedly step between the officers and your fellow protesters, palms raised placatingly. “Please officers, don’t arrest them! I was the one who orchestrated this, I’ll go quietly. Just let them go.”

Max’s heart does a strange little flutter at the selfless gesture, at the protective way you shield your group from the aggression of the snarling police officers.

Before he can think better of it, he’s striding forward and planting himself at your side, a steadying hand on your arm. “Actually officers, I’m afraid I can’t let you detain this woman.”

You blink up at him in surprise. The lead sergeant looks far from impressed, folding his beefy arms across his chest.

“And just who the hell are you to make that call?”

Max lifts his chin defiantly. “Max Verstappen. I’m sure your supervisors would love to hear how the biggest name in racing got falsely arrested on the tarmac because one of their officers couldn’t exercise some restraint.”

The sergeant’s eyes widen almost comically and he takes an unconscious step back, disarmed by Max’s threat to leverage his fame and money. “Oh. Er … Mr. Verstappen, sir. I’m sure, um, we can sort this out ...”

Max cuts him off with an imperious wave, turning his attention fully to you. Your expression is a mixture of shock, curiosity, and — though Max certainly doesn’t dare name it — just maybe a tiny flicker of attraction in return.

“You asked me to try and understand your perspective. Fine, I’ll take you up on that dinner.” He looks you squarely in the eye, expression unreadable. “But you have to promise to hear me out too. No judgements, no protests. Just two people trying to figure out how to make the world better in their own ways.”

You stare searchingly at him for a prolonged moment. Then a slow, wondering smile spreads across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes in the most disarmingly beautiful way. You give a small nod.

“Deal. I’ll keep an open mind if you do.”

Max finds himself returning the smile before he can stop himself. “Deal.”

He doesn’t know why this odd, passionate woman has gotten under his skin so quickly. Or why he suddenly cares what some environmental activist thinks of his choices. But as you take his proffered hand and he helps you step carefully away from the cluster of protestors, Max feels an unfamiliar stirring of hope. Maybe there’s more to this situation — and to you — than meets the eye.

The sergeant looks between you two skeptically, but seems to think better of pressing the issue further with Max’s steely gaze trained on him. With a resigned sigh, he waves his officers back.

“Alright, we’re going to let this one go. But I better not catch you trespassing and causing problems again, you hear?” He jabs a meaty finger at you in warning.

You just smile serenely, still not releasing Max’s hand. “No worries, officer. I have a dinner to get ready for.”

As the police pull away, you turn that brilliant grin on Max again. He finds himself returning it almost against his will, captivated by the fire that dances behind your eyes. For the first time, he wonders if going toe-to-toe with an idealistic environmental warrior might actually be worth momentarily putting his own deeply-held beliefs aside.

Stepping in close, you surprise him by leaning up on your tiptoes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Thanks for playing along back there. I owe you one, Max Verstappen.”

The warm breath tickling his neck sends an unexpected shiver down his spine. You pull back with a mischievous wink before turning and rejoining your fellow activists, hips swaying in a tantalizing way that has Max’s gaze lingering perhaps a moment too long.

As he watches you go, Max can’t shake the strangest sense that he’s suddenly entered uncharted territory. And that this is only the beginning of you continually barging into his life and turning everything deliciously upside down.

***

Max lets out a grunt as he heaves the heavy barbell up over his head, sweat beading on his brow from the intense weight training session. After securing the bar back on its rack, he straightens and grabs a towel to wipe his face.

His phone starts ringing from across the room, an unknown number flashing on the screen. Max debates letting it go to voicemail but finally relents with a resigned sigh, scooping up the device.

“Yeah, hello?”

There’s a brief silence before an automated voice responds. “This is a call from a corrections facility. To accept charges and connect this call, press 1.”

Max frowns, caught off guard. He presses 1 warily, curiosity getting the better of him. The line clicks and then a new, very familiar voice comes through.

“Max! Oh thank god you picked up.” It’s you, sounding mildly frazzled but still unmistakably your unique blend of passion and composure.

A surprised laugh escapes Max’s lips before he can stop it. “You? Calling me from jail? This I’ve got to hear.”

“Don’t sound so delighted,” you chide, though he can hear the smile in your voice. “Yes, I’m in a bit of a situation here. You remember the big event we had been planning to protest that oil baron’s ridiculous superyacht docking in Monaco?”

Max raises an eyebrow even though you can’t see it. “The one where you said, and I quote, ‘No Max, you can’t come. Your pouty little rich boy face is just going to distract everyone from the real injustice we’re protesting here.’“

“... Yes, that one.” You don’t miss a beat. “Well, we may have taken things a step too far. The police showed up and arrested all of us for trespassing and disturbing the peace.”

“You don’t say?” Max leans back against the weight bench, a teasing lilt to his voice. “So let me get this straight — you got yourself chucked in the slammer for causing your signature environmentalist dramatics, and now you’re calling me to help get you out?”

There’s a slight pause before you respond, tone turning softer. “I didn’t want to call Seb. You know how he gets — he’ll just give me that disappointed head shake and lecture about being more responsible. Acting like I’m still a reckless teenager instead of a grown woman fighting for a noble cause.”

Max feels a small pang at the uncharacteristic wistfulness in your voice. For all your sparring back and forth, he knows how much your activist work means to you. And how tirelessly you dedicate yourself to it, often at the expense of other aspects of life.

Chewing his lip, he considers his next words carefully. “I may give you endless shit about being a tree-hugging rebel without a cause, but you know I actually respect what you’re doing, right? Even if your methods are … shall we say, dramatic.”

You let out a small surprised huff of laughter at that. “Did Max Verstappen just pay me something resembling a genuine compliment? Aww, you really do care.”

Max rolls his eyes at the teasing, though his lips quirk in a reluctant smile. Something about your back-and-forth banter has a way of putting him at ease in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“Don’t let it go to your head. I’m still holding out hope this is just a pesky phase before you eventually come to your senses and realize the error of your ways.”

“Fat chance, hot shot.” The warm amusement in your tone is impossible to miss. “But anyway, since you’re in such a generous mood — think you can do me a favor and come bail me out?”

Max hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, bringing you home with me seems like a surefire way to get your activist cooties all over my ridiculously expensive non-vegan furniture.”

“Max ...” You let out an exaggerated whine that has him fighting back another grin. “Come on, I’m begging you here! I’ll be a model prisoner, I swear.”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Max pushes off from the bench and starts grabbing his shoes and keys. “Fine, fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you? I’ll be there in twenty minutes to ply your jailers with my generous pile of my money and spring you from the clink.”

You let out a squeal of delight that has his heart doing an odd little flip despite himself. “You’re the best, Max! Seriously, I owe you huge after this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to make a habit of it. This is a one-time kind of deal.”

The two of you say your brief goodbyes and Max hangs up, head shaking in bemusement. He’s not sure when his friendship with the passionate eco-warrior became so effortlessly comfortable, bantering back and forth like a long-married couple.

But he also can’t deny the way his pulse kicks up just slightly at the thought of seeing you again — windswept hair, fiery eyes, and that bright smile that still catches him off guard every time it’s directed his way.

As Max jogs out to the garage to grab his Ferrari for the short drive to the station, he vehemently tells himself it’s merely because he’s intrigued by the novelty of your clashing personalities. That your relentless conviction is a fascinating change of pace from the empty glamor that usually surrounds him.

But a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispers that he’s lying to himself. That there’s something magnetically addictive about you and your tireless ability to see the world through a different lens than his own. Something that challenges him, stimulates him, reels him in over and over again no matter how much he pretends to resist.

He quickly banishes the thought, jaw setting in stubborn determination. Max Verstappen isn’t the type to get pulled into a girl’s orbit, no matter how intriguing she might seem on the surface. He’ll bail your reckless ass out of jail, have another enjoyable round of opposition-attracts banter, and then carry on with his usual life of racing and living by his own well-established rules.

Right?

The sleek crimson SF90 Stradale tears through the winding Monaco streets, wind whipping through Max’s hair as he pushes the pedal towards the floor. The adrenaline pumping through his veins feels vaguely familiar to the thrill of a heated race — though he refuses to dwell too deeply on why bailing out an eco-terrorist gives him that same edge-of-the-seat excitement.

He pulls up to the modest local jail in record time, the guard at the entrance giving him a skeptical once-over before waving him through. No doubt recognizing the signature Ferrari and flashy persona of the championship-winning driver.

Max swaggers up to the front desk where a bored-looking officer sits shuffling through paperwork. The young man startles at his approach, shooting to attention with widened eyes.

“Oh! Mr. Verstappen, sir! How can I help you today?”

Puffing out his chest just slightly, Max gives the officer his most imposing stare. “Yeah, I’m here to post bail for one of your … residents. Y/N Vettel.”

The cop’s brow furrows as he scans the intake files. “Ah yes, here she is. Environmental activist, part of that big protest at the marina. Disturbing the peace, trespassing, and a few of them even got hit with property damage charges from graffiti.”

Max scowls, that damned protective streak rearing its ugly head again before he can stop it. “I’m only posting bail for Y/N Vettel. The hell did she get charged with?”

“Just peaceful trespassing and disturbing the peace.” The cop frowns contemplatively. “Well, and resisting arrest when she tried to stop us cuffing one of her friends. But that’s about it.”

Rubbing his temples with a pained sigh, Max can’t resist a rueful grin. “Yeah, that tracks. Listen, what’s it gonna cost me to grab her so I can get out of here?”

“For those charges? €1500 bond should cover it.”

Max scoffs at the paltry sum, already pulling out his monogrammed money clip and peeling off a stack of euros. “Whatever, here’s double. Keep the change for your trouble.”

The cop’s eyes widen almost comically, but he knows better than to question Max freaking Verstappen. Hurriedly taking the bills, he produces some paperwork for Max to sign and process the transaction.

“Alright Mr. Verstappen, just need your signature here and here. And if you’ll allow me to get your fingerprints as well for the release forms ...”

Max begrudgingly complies, wanting to get this circus over with as quickly as possible. He taps his foot impatiently as the officer takes his prints and finalizes everything in the computer system.

“Okay, all set. I’ll have one of the guards bring Miss Vettel around to the release lobby. Might be a few minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah, just hurry it up,” Max mutters distractedly.

He crosses his arms and leans back against the wall, letting his eyes drift shut for a brief moment as he tries to compose himself. Your voice rings in his ears, that unmistakable mixture of sheepishness and determination that seems to sum up your entire persona.

Goddamn it, why did you have to call him? Why couldn’t you have just phoned up your doting big brother like a normal person instead of dragging Max into this? Part of him wants to be annoyed at how easily you’re able to play him, batting those big eyes and pleading for his help like you knew he would give in.

But the thought of leaving you to stew in a dingy jail cell somehow makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. Almost like he’d be letting you down in some weird, convoluted way. Ridiculous as the notion is, Max can’t deny this increasing pull you seem to have over him.

His eyes fly open as the door to the cellblocks finally opens, heavy footsteps approaching. Max takes an automatic step forward, pulse kicking up in anticipation despite himself.

And then you’re there. Hair tousled, t-shirt and jeans covered in smears of dirt and grass stains from the protest scuffle. But those defiant eyes are still ablaze, jaw set stubbornly as the guard leads you out in handcuffs.

“Max! You’re actually here!” Your face splits into a bright, surprised grin at the sight of him.

He tries and fails to suppress his own answering smile, raking an admittedly appreciative gaze over you from head to toe. “What, you didn’t think I’d show up for my favorite little jailbird?”

Shrugging nonchalantly, you flash him a sly look from under your lashes. “I don’t know, I had my doubts Mr. Bigshot Racer would sully his palms rescuing little old me.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Max steps in close, dropping his voice to a faux-seductive murmur as he leans towards you. Your eyes widen infinitesimally but you hold his gaze, seemingly transfixed. “I just can’t seem to quit you.”

You bite your lip in a badly suppressed grin at his corny line. “Did you seriously just incorrectly quote Brokeback Mountain at me right now?”

“Maybe.” He rocks back on his heels with a shameless wink. “Doesn’t make it any less true, does it?”

A delicate blush blooms across your cheeks in a way that has Max’s heart stuttering unexpectedly. The guard clears his throat loudly, shattering the moment between you.

“Erm, right. If you’ll just sign here for Miss Vettel’s release ...” He offers a clipboard to Max.

Tearing his eyes away from you with concentrated effort, Max scrawls his signature across the form. You watch him intently, an unreadable look flickering across your features for just a moment before the guard undoes your cuffs with a loud click.

You immediately bring your newly freed hands together, rubbing at the chafed skin of your wrists gingerly. Max’s jaw tightens at the sight.

“You good?” His tone is gruff with concern despite himself.

Glancing up, you give him a reassuring smile and nod. “All good, just a little tender. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Something about your easy dismissal of the discomfort rankles Max in a way he can’t fully explain. Like he wants to grab your hands, bring them to his lips to inspect the damage more closely. The sudden urge catches him off guard and he quickly tamps it down, fists clenching at his sides.

The guard seems oblivious to the undercurrent between you, simply giving a curt nod and motioning towards the exit. “Right then, off you go. And try to stay out of trouble from now on, Miss Vettel.”

You shoot the cop your signature wry grin. “No promises, officer.”

Rolling his eyes skyward, Max grabs your elbow lightly and ushers you towards the doors before you can cause any more scenes. You fall into step beside him easily, shoulders brushing in a way that has his skin tingling with awareness.

As the two of you step out into the late afternoon sunlight, you turn to him with those warm eyes that never fail to set his heart racing just a little faster.

“I really do owe you one, Max. Thank you for coming to my rescue, even after everything“

He gives an exaggerated huff, fighting a smile. “Well, it’s a tough job but someone’s gotta bail out all the reckless idiots who can’t stay out of handcuffs for five minutes.”

You laugh brightly, punching his arm in playful admonishment. A spark of electricity seems to jolt between you at the contact and Max freezes almost imperceptibly, mesmerized by the radiant smile you’re beaming up at him.

In that moment, with the sunlight catching in your hair and reflecting those fierce, captivating eyes, Max is struck by how breathtakingly beautiful you are. Not just physically, though that’s certainly undeniable. But the whole intoxicating aura of your idealism, your passion, your relentless fighting spirit that leaves him in a constant state of incredulous attraction no matter how much he rails against it.

You cock your head slightly, drawing him out of his reverie. “Max? You still in there?”

“Huh?” He blinks dazedly before recovering with a shake of his head, shoving his hands into his pockets in what he desperately hopes is a casual gesture. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Just thinking.”

Your brow furrows in concern as you study his face intently. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Max clears his throat, avoiding your piercing gaze. He nods jerkily towards the car glinting fetchingly in the sun. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they decide to re-arrest your ass for loitering.”

As the two of you make your way across the parking lot, Max resolutely ignores the persistent voice whispering that he’s in deeper than he’s willing to admit this time. That you might just be addictive enough to become something he can’t simply shake off when he’s had his fill.

But rather than finding the notion disconcerting like it should be, he finds himself fighting the strangest flicker of excitement at the prospect instead.

***

The Monaco paddock is a dizzying whirlwind of activity as teams and personnel rush about in their usual pre-race frenzy. Max weaves through the chaos towards his driver room, helmet tucked under his arm.

He pauses as a familiar voice reaches his ears — that unmistakable passionate cadence that always has a way of stopping him in his tracks these days. Max turns to see you holding court in the middle of a cluster of wide-eyed engineers and PR reps, gesticulating emphatically.

“... and that’s just the start! We also need to look into renewable energy sources to power the entire paddock operations. Sustainable cooking practices in the hospitality suites. Comprehensive recycling and composting initiatives. Not to mention overhauling the travel logistics for a lower carbon footprint when we’re shipping this whole circus around the globe every other week.”

One of the hapless reps looks shellshocked, struggling to keep up as he scribbles notes furiously. “I … yes, of course, Miss Vettel. We’ll look into all of that right away. Anything else?”

You fix the poor man with one of your signature intense stares, full lower lip catching between your teeth as you consider. Max feels his heart skip at the seemingly insignificant gesture, cursing under his breath.

“Well, we haven’t even touched on sustainable sourcing for uniforms and merchandising yet. Or the complete overhaul needed for fuel compositions and racing technology to align with a realistic net-zero roadmap.” Your eyes spark with renewed fervor. “But we can circle back on those aspects later. For now I want you to-”

Sensing an opening, the bewildered rep seizes his chance to politely extricate himself. “You know what, Miss Vettel? Why don’t I go gather all my notes on your suggestions so far and we can regroup for a more structured meeting on next steps? I’ll, uh, be in touch!”

He scampers off before you can protest, leaving the rest of the staffers gaping at you with a combination of terror and admiration. You just shake your head bemusedly, rolling your eyes skyward as you catch sight of Max watching from across the way.

“What?” You shrug innocently at his raised eyebrow, the very picture of angelic nonchalance. “Someone’s got to light a fire under these people if we want to actually get some sustainability practices in place.”

Max bites back a grin, sauntering over with exaggerated slowness. “Is that what you call demolishing that poor rep’s entire understanding of the world? Just lighting a fire?”

“Hey, we’re not being paid to settle for complacency and half-measures,” you shoot back without a shred of remorse. “I got hired to shake this whole damn organization to its core until it goes fully carbon neutral. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Your unapologetic defiance never fails to send a peculiar thrill zinging through Max’s veins. He rakes an admittedly assessing gaze over your crisp pantsuit and loosely swept updo — quite a change from the scruffy activist’s getup he’s so used to seeing you in.

“You clean up nice, I’ll give you that,” he muses teasingly. “Who knew you could look so respectable in professional garb?”

Rather than rise to the bait, you simply flash him a wink and smoothing your hands over the fitted blazer, drawing his gaze helplessly to the enticing curves beneath the tailored lines. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”

Heat prickles at the base of Max’s neck at the unexpected flirtiness, his tongue suddenly thick and useless in his mouth. He quickly masks the moment of flustered silence with a dismissive scoff.

“Great, so in addition to harassing race staff you’re assaulting my senses too? Good to know where your priorities lie, Vettel.”

You laugh easily, canting a hip as you fix him with those dancing eyes that never fail to set his heart racing. “If you can’t handle a little playful banter, Verstappen, you’d better get used to keeping your distance now that we’re colleagues for the foreseeable future.”

The words slam into Max with surprising force, hitting a little too close to the bone. Unconsciously, his gaze darts over you in a way that feels far too intimate for mere colleagues. Lingering on the delicate curve of your neck as you tip your head back, the lush pout of your lips, the swaying tendrils of hair escaping your updo which he inexplicably longs to brush back into place.

All at once the reality of your new role truly sinks in — that he’ll be seeing you at every single race from now until god knows when. The thought fills Max with a dizzying blend of elation and trepidation.

On one hand, the prospect of having you perpetually woven through his life in this shiny new professional capacity is enough to make his pulse kick up in giddy anticipation.

But on the other, it terrifies him to his core. You have an uncanny ability to constantly keep him off-balance, as endlessly fascinating as you are maddening. This casual flirtation between you has taken on undercurrents he’s no longer certain he wants to shy away from acknowledging. At least, not when the thought of shutting it down fills Max with a hollow ache he can’t put words to.

He’s pulled from his spiraling reflections as an impeccably dressed older man in a crisp suit materializes at your side, placing a wizened hand on your shoulder.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Vettel! I was just coming to fetch you for our preliminary sustainability council meeting with the rest of the advisory board.” The man’s eyes twinkle with unmistakable approval as he regards you. “Although from the looks of it you’ve already started getting the lay of the land around here and, ah, asserting your new directives shall we say?”

You shoot him a conspiratorial grin, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Let’s just say I’ve had a productive first day on the job so far, Mr. Haywood. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Max recognizes the man as Stephen Haywood, one of the senior F1 board members and the person primarily responsible for bringing you on in this ground-breaking new eco initiative. He chuckles indulgently at your quip.

“That’s exactly what we’re counting on from you, my dear. Ruffling some feathers and dragging this whole operation into the future, come hell or high water. I have the utmost confidence you’re going to revolutionize Formula 1 in ways we can’t even conceive yet.”

You beam at the praise, visibly swelling with determination. Haywood gives your shoulder another squeeze before gesturing down the paddock. “Shall we? We’ve got a long agenda ahead to tackle your big plans.”

“Absolutely,” you say eagerly, turning to follow him. But not before pausing to shoot Max one last heated look from over your shoulder, dropping your voice to a sultry murmur. “Don’t go too far, Verstappen. I’ve still got plenty more to say to you later.”

And with a tantalizing wink, you sashay away after Haywood in that maddeningly hypnotic way that you know reduces Max to an incoherent mess every time. All he can do is gape after your retreating figure, the sway of those hips in that perfectly tailored skirt rendering him utterly useless.

As you disappear around the corner, Max feels the dam inside him finally burst in a torrential flood of overwhelming emotion. Everything suddenly clicks into startling clarity in one shuddering epiphany that leaves him unmoored:

He’s in love with you.

Desperately, all-consumingly, recklessly in love in a way he never saw coming and is wholly unprepared to process. All those months pretending you were just an amusing diversion, a source of intrigue and refreshing friction in his otherwise orderly life. All the times he battled against the obvious chemistry simmering between you, tried to downplay it as mere physical attraction between opposing forces.

But now it washes over Max in one shattering wave of truth — the way his world tilts off-axis whenever you’re around, the gravity of your presence drawing him in against his will. How thoroughly and irrevocably you’ve embedded yourself under his skin without him ever truly realizing it was happening until now.

He grips the wall for support, legs feeling abruptly unsteady as his head spins. How is he supposed to reconcile this revelation? That his heart now lies so completely in the hands of this fierce, untamable woman utterly hellbent on dismantling and revolutionizing his entire life’s work in the name of environmentalism.

The delicious contradictions of having fallen for someone whose core values and purpose seem to exist in such direct opposition to his own are enough to make Max’s head throb dizzily. You are his antithesis in so many ways — that headstrong passion a perpetual thorn in his side, continually pushing and prodding him out of his self-imposed boundaries.

And yet … he couldn’t be more completely enthralled.

It’s that relentless challenging of his beliefs, that refusal to settle for complacency, that has drawn Max in and held him captivated against his will from the very beginning. In you he’s found a riveting counterpoint to the blinkered single-mindedness of his existence, a refreshing perspective that somehow makes him want to be a bigger, better version of himself.

Even now, just the phantom echo of your parting words has him straightening unconsciously, feeling almost chastened and bereft in the wake of your absence. Max has never been one to dwell on his emotions, preferring to analyze and compartmentalize until they’re boxed away into neat, manageable parcels.

But this all-encompassing feeling storming through him in your wake is anything but neat or manageable. It’s wild and catastrophic, crackling with the dangerous intensity of a lightning strike clawing its way across the horizon in slow motion.

Just the thought of looking into those blazing eyes and owning the truth of his feelings for you sends Max into a panic, chest squeezing with anxious breath. You have always seen through his feigned nonchalance, cut straight through to the bone with that penetrating stare. He has no idea how to even begin existing openly in the same space as you without his heart shining through brazenly for the entire world to witness.

His fist clenches against the cold metal of the garage wall as an irrational surge of bitterness lances through him. How dare you just sweep into his rigidly controlled life with all that blistering confidence and conviction, making him feel things he never wanted to feel? Upending his carefully maintained reality without a second thought, all in the name of your damned causes?

You weren’t supposed to get this far under his skin. He was just supposed to have a bit of fun, indulge in your company as a momentary diversion at most. And now Max is in so disastrously deep that he has no idea how to drag himself back out.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there warring with himself, torn between exhilarated possibility and vehement denial. What he does know is that his entire world has been turned upside down. And despite the terror rattling his bones, despite the desperate urge to somehow ignore the sheer enormity of this jolt to his system … he can’t muster the will to try and wrestle back control.

Not when the thrill of finally surrendering to you sends such intoxicating electricity crackling through every fiber of his being.

Max peels himself from the wall with renewed resolve, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He needs to steel himself, because avoiding you is clearly no longer an option. Not when your irresistible pull is only amplified now that you’ll be a near-permanent fixture in his life.

He has to face this head-on, confront the exhilarating chaos you’ve wrought in his carefully cultivated existence. Which means pushing down the churning jumble of emotions rattling around in his ribcage before they become too overwhelming.

“Get a grip, man,” Max mutters sternly to himself, knocking the heel of his palm against his temple as if to physically dislodge his internal storm. “It’s just Vettel. You’ve dealt with her shit-stirring antics a million times before. You can handle this new ... development.”

His words carry neither confidence nor conviction, but Max forges on anyway, straightening his shoulders as he plunges back into the fray of the paddock. If he can just maintain some semblance of outward equilibrium, he can get through this.

One foot in front of the other, he winds past the crowd towards his driver’s room as if in a trance. Any minute now, you’ll saunter back through in that mouthwateringly crisp ensemble, eyes bright with hard-won strategy and single minded intent.

And Max will just … what? Calmly confront you as if his entire understanding of your dynamic hasn’t undergone a seismic fucking shift in the last five minutes?

He barks out a mirthless laugh at the impossibility of such a scenario. Any pretense of indifference has surely been shattered between you now. All his meager attempts at deflecting through banter and heated bickering ring hollow to his own ears after this shattering realization.

No, for better or worse, Max has finally tumbled over that precipice he’d been teetering on for so long when it comes to you. Now more than ever before, he dreads and craves the prospect of your next meeting in equal, searing measure.

Because whether he’s ready or not … whether he thinks he can handle the fallout or not … you’ll be able to read every devastating truth written across his face this time.

When your paths inevitably cross again, Max knows there will be no more hiding from you the shift of feelings you’ve unleashed within him.

This time, he’ll be entirely and terrifyingly laid bare.

***

Three Years Later

The crisp mountain air fills Max’s lungs as he straightens up, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow with a satisfied smile. The freshly tilled soil stretches before him in neat rows, ready and waiting to nurture the seeds you meticulously selected.

“Nice work, Mein Löwe,” you call approvingly from across the yard, one hand resting on the swell of your pregnant belly. “That plot is going to be perfect for all our veggies.”

Max’s chest warms at the undisguised pride in your voice as you survey his handiwork. Just a few years ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of voluntarily getting his hands dirty like this. But ever since that fateful day at the airport … everything has changed.

“Yeah, well, be sure to put me to work weeding and watering too,” he shoots back with an easy grin. “Gotta earn my keep as the cabana boy around here.”

You roll your eyes in playful exasperation even as an affectionate smile tugs at your lips. “I’ll be sure to get you a tiny little outfit.”

The teasing remark might have once pricked Max’s fragile ego. But now he simply shakes his head with a low chuckle, marveling at how natural, how right it feels to be the subject of your gentle ribbing. In the years since that first charged encounter, your barbs have sanded down his prickly edges until only his core of wry tenderness remains.

You cross the yard toward him, sunlight glinting off the tousled tendrils of hair that frame your face. Up close, Max can make out the dark crescent smudges under your eyes from many sleepless nights spent mapping out plans for this property — from the aerogel insulation in the walls to the extensive geothermal heating system to the solar panels spanning the roof.

Most people would have long ago surrendered in exhaustion when presented with building the world’s most environmentally sustainable home from the ground up. But not you. You had steadfastly urged him onward, determined to make this place a paragon of renewable living for your growing family.

His growing family, Max mentally corrects himself with a jolt of surprise that still hasn’t faded, even after all this time.

As if reading his mind, you pause before him, gently taking his calloused hands in yours. “Think you can handle planting all those seedlings tomorrow without me? The back pains are really kicking my ass lately.”

Max’s lips quirk upwards at the feisty lilt to your voice. “Getting a little too old to be bending over in the dirt for hours, liefje?”

“Hey, watch it!” You protest with a laugh, playfully batting at his chest. “I’m literally growing an entire human here. Maybe have some sympathy for your poor wife?”

“Alright, alright,” Max chuckles, sliding his hands reverently over the swollen curve of your belly. A sense of awe washes over him, just as it does each time he’s reminded of the incredible miracle blooming inside you — a tiny life that is half him, half this fierce, passionate woman he once couldn’t stand.

He leans in to press his forehead tenderly to yours. “I’ve got it all covered tomorrow. Why don’t you take it easy for once?”

You let out a derisive snort at the suggestion. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. Maybe if you massage my back tonight, though ...”

“Deal,” Max murmurs without hesitation, tilting his head to steal a lingering kiss.

Your lips are soft and pliant against his, still electrifying even after all this time. Max marvels yet again at this strange, thrilling new world you’ve ushered him into — one of quiet moments and domesticity and fulfillment. A world that his former self, obsessed with roaring engines and adrenaline, could have never envisioned.

But even as your mouths move in that timeless, familiar dance, Max’s mind drifts back to that fateful first encounter outside his jet all those years ago. The sheer force of your convictions had rocked him to his core then, cracking open the crusty shell around his heart. And before he could blink, you had blossomed into so much more than an impassioned activist — a friend, a confidante, a lover … and now the mother of his unborn child.

At last, you pull away with a contented sigh, cradling Max’s face in your tender palms. “Have I told you lately how grateful I am for you?”

“Once or twice,” he teases gruffly, though his chest clenches with an all too familiar ardor. “But you know I never get tired of hearing it, schatje.”

You beam up at him with utter adoration shining in your eyes. A look that never fails to disarm Max straight to his core. How had it taken so many years of chasing empty accolades for him to finally find this all-encompassing serenity?

“I just ...” You pause, worrying your full lower lip between your teeth. A sure sign you’re struggling to untangle an emotion webbed with complexity. “I never imagined I could be this … content.”

Your gaze drifts wistfully across the sweeping valley before your mountainside property, the majestic peaks dusted with snow on the horizon. For a beat, Max envisions it all through your eyes — the staggering beauty of this utopia you’ve carved out for your budding family, its self-sustaining existence treading as lightly on the earth as possible.

“After so many years fighting and railing against the system, to find this pocket of peace ...” You shake your head slowly, almost deliriously. “It’s more than I could have dreamed.”

Inexplicably, Max feels his eyes prickling with a sudden thickness at your reverent murmur. A lump forms in his throat, welling with all the indescribable gratitude and tenderness that still threatens to overwhelm him at times like this.

“You know,” he rasps out at last, tracing his thumb reverently over the sharp line of your jaw. “After that day at the airport in Nice … I tried so hard to shake the way you made me feel.”

A wistful smile plays across your lips at the memory as your eyes meet his in silent invitation. You’re hanging on his every word now — a state Max still struggles to wrap his mind around at times.

“No matter what I did, or where I traveled, part of me couldn’t escape your voice in my head,” Max continues, pushing through the lump in his throat. “Demanding that I question my way of life, open my eyes to how careless I had been.”

You nod slowly in recognition, lacing your fingers through his. The remembered combativeness from that long ago confrontation has faded now, giving way only to understanding between the two people who recognize each other most profoundly.

“At first, I just tried blocking you out,” Max admits with a rueful chuckle. He dips his head until your foreheads are brushing again as his voice lowers to an intimate rasp. “But the more I pushed you away, the deeper you burrowed inside me. Until I finally stopped fighting it and just … listened.”

He feels your sharp inhale as his words skate warmth down your skin. Slowly, almost unconsciously, your fingers tighten around his in solidarity.

“And look at us now,” you murmur at last, awestruck and achingly tender all at once.

In your eyes, Max glimpses the past, present and future stretching out in dizzying symmetry — those first fierce sparks of passion blossoming into the steadfast love that shelters your growing family. He sees the painstaking nurturing required to transform a confrontation into a partnership over years of effort and understanding.

Most of all, he sees the promise of new dawns yet to come, with each one awakening to your cherished, reverent teachings about the earth’s splendor and fragility.

His heart clenches fit to burst as Max drinks in your beauty — flushed and glowing with new life, still beaming with that incandescent fire that had first seared into his soul. Only now, it burns only for him, a flame stoking devotion and passion and sanctuary.

Just as Max leans in to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, the shrill chime of the doorbell shatters the moment. You spring apart with a breathless laugh.

“Fuck, I forgot Seb was supposed to be coming over today!” You give Max’s chest one last pat before turning toward the house, waddling slightly with the added weight of your pregnant belly.

Max grins fondly, trailing after you at a more leisurely pace. He can’t resist one last admiring glance over his shoulder at the pristine vegetable garden stretching behind the cottage — an oasis of sustainable beauty, just like the life you’ve created here.

As you reach the front door, pulling it open eagerly, Sebastian’s familiar lopsided grin greets you both from the other side. Your brother’s eyes immediately zero in on your rounded midsection, his expression melting into one of pure adoration.

“Oh, Bärchen, you’re positively glowing!” He exclaims, sweeping you into a gentle hug. “How’s my little niece or nephew treating their mom?”

You let out a dramatic groan, leaning back to shoot Max an exaggerated look of suffering. “This kid’s already high maintenance, just like their father. I’ve got swollen ankles, back pains, you name it.”

“Hey now,” Max interjects with a chuckle, sidling up to join the familiar banter. He claps Sebastian’s shoulder affectionately. “If they end up being anything like you in the baby stage, we’re in for a whole new world of sleep deprivation.”

Sebastian returns the grin, unfazed. “Like you aren’t an even bigger handful than me.”

You snort indelicately, looping your arm through Max’s as you shuffle back to allow Sebastian inside. “Are you kidding? With my influence, this baby will be an expert environmentalist before they’re out of diapers.”

“You wish,” Max shoots back with a smirk, his eyes twinkling. He knows better than anyone the depth of your convictions — and appreciates them more than he can put words to.

As the three of you bicker playfully, Max’s chest fills with an overwhelming sense of contentment. Just a few years ago, he could have scarcely imagined this scenario — the love of his life heavy with his child, her doting brother at their side, their sprawling eco-paradise as the idyllic backdrop.

But now, as he guides you both into the spacious, sunlit living room, Max knows without a doubt that this is exactly where he belongs.

Here, sheltered in the passionate wake of your ceaseless quest to better the world. Here, in the eye of the storm you had first raged into his life, upending everything until his soul had no choice but to still and listen.

You shoot him a private smile, reading his thoughts as easily as breathing. In your bright eyes, Max sees the future stretching out blissfully — a path paved by your determined heart that he will gladly tread in partnership forever.

All because on one fateful day, you had dared to make him question everything. And in doing so, unveiled the peace and purpose he never knew he craved.

1K notes · View notes

lockeswoodss · 20 days ago

Text

Throuple It

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!MDNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(This is a prequel to "Double It." I don't think the order read is important, but Double It was written first. You can read Double It: Here )

Summary: You and Robby have been a couple for over two years. You're in love and content, but can't help but feel something's missing. Despite Jack being in arm's reach, none of you are bold enough to chance breaking your friendship; that is, until Robby's had enough of going in endless circles. Will his risk pay off?

A/N: This kinda got away from me. I don't normally write one-shots over 3,500 words, so this being over 4,000 is weird for me. I hope you enjoy it because I'm most likely I'm not gonna be able write again until mid-May 😭

WARNINGS: Smut, MMF Threesome, Oral (Both M & F Receiving), Fingering, Squirting, Jerking Off, MxM, Intimate Aftercare, Daddy Kink, Sir Kink

Jack and Robby are intimate with each other. If you don't like that, this probably isn't the fic for you.

*Written before season 1 finale, so Jack's anatomy isn't up to date. It will be in future fics*

Tag List: @nocturnalrorobin (LMK if you don't want to be tagged in the Pitt stuff)

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You let out a content hum as the just-below-scalding water hit your skin. It, objectively, had been a long day. Not that every day in the Pitt wasn’t long, today had been especially grueling. You’d had a heartbreaking case of child abuse to kick off your shift, and it only went downhill from there. You took a deep inhale of the steam-filled air and tried to let this shift roll off you like the water coursing down your body. You’d only clocked out less than an hour ago from a twelve-hour shift, but you were trying to get better at leaving work at work. You knew it was a Herculean task and you’d most likely never fully be able to let things go, but you had to try. Not only for you, but for Robby. When you got together over two years ago, you’d made a promise to hold each other accountable for any self-destructive behavior. Hell, you even got him to go to therapy. Was it only twice a month? Yes. Did he bitch about it the entire week leading up to it? Also, yes, but you were still proud of him.

He had even begun to take small steps to solidify preexisting relationships. You both had issues with isolation/blocking everyone out when you should really be reaching out. He’d been getting coffee with Dana before work and becoming more vocal with those he was mentoring. He and Jack had even started watching football together when they both had off. They’d been alternating where they watched. Tonight, it was at your townhouse. You had triple-checked with Robby that it’d be okay for you to be there. You had offered to stay with a friend for the night, but he insisted that it was just Jack; there was no reason to worry.

Fuck, Jack, now he’d always be a special case. You were as close to him as you were to Robby, until you and Robby started officially seeing each other. You didn’t have any definitive proof, but you had felt him pull back and retreat. He’d never done anything bad by you or been outwardly dismissive; your relationship just felt off. In a way that makes you overly cautious when interacting with him. You didn’t want to spook him and lose him altogether. What you wouldn’t give to have your old dynamic back. Or maybe something else.

You quickly shook your head, dismissing the thought as you turned the water off. That was a yearning you’d only shared with Robby, cocooned in his arms, bathing in the early morning light. You trusted him enough to let him in on your internalized feelings. To your surprise, he’d shared a spark of that feeling with Jack. You knew Robby had been with men in the past, but unlike you didn’t identify as somewhere on the queer spectrum. He prefers not to have a label, instead, he views his attraction as a case-by-case basis rather than a blanket identity. But that confession didn’t catch you fully off guard.

No, what really surprised you was when Robby asked if you’d like to make a pass at Jack, as a couple. You knew it was a possibility, but you’d never let yourself believe that Robby would feel the same way, let alone want to attempt to pursue Jack. It was a hard call to make. He had always been better at reading people than you were, but you were more practical than emotional. You’d made a pros and cons list, and the cons ended up winning. You’d both agreed to be there for him as a friend; Robby more begrudgingly than you.

You tried to push all that to the back of your mind as you crossed into your bedroom. Shit. It was way later than you thought. They’d be here any second. You quickly got ready, dressed in a pair of leggings, a tank top, and an oversized hoodie (that was definitely not Robby’s). You had just managed to slip your slippers on when you heard the door opening downstairs. You crossed the hall over to your stairs and began to descend, the smell of Indian food getting stronger the closer you got to the kitchen. You paused at the doorframe, taking in the sight of Jack and Robby’s shared smile as your partner passed Jack a bottle of beer. You were hesitant, debating if you should retreat back to the living room to let them have a quiet moment that was so rare in your line of work. Before you could decide, Robby turned to you and looked down at you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Love,” he greeted, pecking you on the lips, blocking your view of the rest of the kitchen. You immediately knew something was up. You quirked a brow at Jack over Robby’s shoulder, and he just shook his head with a small smile, before taking a swig from his bottle. You gently, but firmly pressed by Robby, before your eyes widened at the sight of the takeout. Three. There were three bags of takeout, each the size of a standard brown grocery store bag.

“Michael,” you said, in an even tone, turning to face him. You could see the cringe on his face as he geared up for your lecture. He knew he was in trouble, not because you only ever called him by his first name when he fucked up (or was receiving punishment), but because of your tone. You’d never been a shouter; when you were arguing or annoyed, you got quiet and deliberate with your tone.

“Why is there enough take-out to feed the entire city.” You asked with a quirked brow.

“You like leftovers?” he responded, you faintly heard Jack huff a laugh behind you. You just gave him a disappointed look before letting out a sigh and turning away from him, shifting your focus to the three massive bags of food.

“I just lost my takeout privileges again, didn’t I?” he asked jokingly, leaning back against the counter next to you.

“What do you think?” you asked, giving him side eye.

“Plates are in there,” you said to Jack, nodding at the cabinet next to him. He wordlessly grabbed three ceramic plates and opened the drawer below the cabinet for three forks and spoons as you finished laying all the food out.

“Feel free to dig in,” you said, smiling up at him. You switched places with him to grab a soda from the fridge. Ever decisive Jack had already filled his plate and headed to your adjacent living room, while Robby spoon hovered over multiple dishes. Your vision strayed from your partner; eyes locked on Jack’s ass as he bent down to take a seat on your armchair. Why did he have to have such a pinchable ass? You debated whether you should be sad that he was always in baggy scrub bottoms that did nothing to show off his figure, or happy that you were in the group of people able to see him out of scrubs.

“See something you like?” Robby whispered in your ear, arms wrapped around your middle.

“Shut up,” you groaned, face warm, as you turned to make your own plate. You couldn’t decide if you were more embarrassed by being caught or checking out Jack to begin with. It’s not like you made checking him out a habit, but when you were able to do so discreetly, you jumped at the opportunity. You were still foaming at the mouth from walking in on him changing tops two weeks ago. You saw the briefest glimpse of his toned stomach and happy trail. God, what you’d give to see where that trail led. Okay, maybe you were a little obsessed. You once again had to center yourself before your imagination could fully run away with it. You broke out of Robby’s grip and quickly made your plate, grabbed the bag of roti, and turned on your heels, heading for the couch. You sat down cross-legged before picking up the remote and attempting to find the right channel. You tried to find it for a few minutes before Jack put you out of your misery.

“It’s on channel 67,” he supplied, before taking another bite of food.

“Thanks,” you smiled, typing in the number. The game clicked on as the coin toss had just been called.

“Not a football fan?” he asked, before you had the chance to answer. Robby interrupted you as he plopped down on the couch next to you.

“Do you even know the rules of football?” Robby asked, teasingly.

“Ish?” you replied, taking a bite, “I know the general aspects of the game, but I couldn't tell you anything strategy-wise.”

Jack nodded, still chewing. A quiet fell over you as you all enjoyed your dinner (and minimum the next three meals) of Indian food. You’d ask questions here and there as the game progressed, which Robby and Jack answered. You all shifted into comfier positions after you’d finished your meal. Jack slid his plate onto the coffee table before kicking his feet up on the ottoman. You’d curled up into Robby’s side, his arm reclined against the back of the couch. He pulled down the blanket resting on the back of the couch and draped it over you after the draft had finally gotten to you, causing you to shiver. You shared a smile, his arm migrating down to rest on your hip under the blanket. You frowned when you looked back up and saw Jack’s jaw clench and unclench. You immediately recognized it as one of his grounding techniques. What you didn’t know was what had caused him to get frustrated. Your vision shifted back to the game as you thought back to everything that had happened since he’d gotten here. Maybe he was still dealing with something from his shift earlier. You were so in your head; you didn’t notice Robby’s hand moving closer to your core until he was actively cupping your clothed pussy. Your eyes widened; you kept your gaze locked on the TV screen.

You tried your best to school your face as Robby stroked up and down your core above your leggings. You bit your lip as his hand dragged up one last time before he slipped under the elastic of the top of your leggings. Your face warmed as he now cupped your bare pussy.

“No, panties?” he whispered in your ear, “Naughty girl, were you expecting this? Am I not giving you enough attention? Is that it? Fuck you’re dripping, that’s it isn’t it? Daddy’s not giving you enough attention, so you have to act like a slut to get my attention; while we have company. What would Jack think? Bet he wouldn’t have any patience for your brat behavior.” Robby’s voice dropped, before he continued, “Squeeze my arm twice if you want to keep going.”

You hesitated, your face felt like it was on fire as your hand locked around Robby’s wrist. You gave it two quick squeezes, eyes locked on the commercials playing in front of you. Robby places a loving kiss on the crown of your head, before slipping a finger into your pussy. When he was met with no resistance, he quickly added another finger. You held back a whimper as he slowly thrusted in an out, taking time to hit all the little spots that drove you crazy, his thumb hovering above your clit. He was taking his time with you. If he really wanted to, he could make you cum within a few minutes, no he wanted to play with you tonight. Your eyes widened as he suddenly switched it up and began to circle your clit in quick succession and thrusted in and out of your pussy at a breakneck pace. You struggled not to moan, the wet smacks of Robby’s palm against your pussy were just contained under your throw blanket. Fuck you were close. Fuck, what were you going to do? You tried to think of something when Robby’s thick fingers suddenly stilled. You let out an involuntary whimper in shock.

Fuck

There’s no way Jack didn’t hear that. He was too damn perceptive to begin with, coupled with the loud volume of your whimper sealed your fate. You swallowed thickly, slowly shifting your focus from the TV to Jack, Robby’s fingers still lodged in your pussy. Your eyes widen as you eyed Jack, his eyes already focused in on you. His gaze didn’t waver, like a predator sizing up his next meal. At least his jaw wasn’t clenched anymore. Could you even count that as a win?

“Robby,” Jack said, breaking the silence,

“Yeah,” Robby answered nonchalantly, like he wasn’t knuckle deep in your pussy.

“Make her cum,” He ordered.

“Yes, Sir,” Robby playfully, a lazy smirk scrawled across his face. Before you could even process the situation, Robby was adding a finger and thrusting back into your pussy fast. His other hand slipping down between your legs to toy with your clit as he curled his fingers against that spot.

“Fuck,” you moan, rocketing towards your release, eye still locked on Jack’s. Your hips involuntarily chased after Robby’s fingers as the coil in you tightened impossibly fast. You whined desperately, hips humping at his hands.

“Dadd-Jack, Fuck, I’m gonna-” you managed to spew out before your orgasm cut through you. You held Jack’s gaze as you convulsed around Robby’s fingers. You moaned as Robby worked you through your orgasm. He slowed his pace when your breathing evened out; his fingers stilled, still filling you. The game fell into the background, all your focus aimed at Jack.

“Fuck,” Jack groaned shamelessly palming himself through his jeans, “Does she always look so pretty, when she cums?”

“Always,” Robby answered without hesitation, “Though she looks even prettier when she squirts.”

“Is that right?” Jack asked, teasingly raising a brow at you. The heat rushing to your face paired with the warmth of your orgasm made you feel uncomfortably hot. You hid your face in Robby’s shoulder, embarrassed, as they continued to tease you.

“Yeah,” Robby started to answer his question, “Quickest way is oral, especially when she’s already warmed up with an orgasm.”

“You go down on her or does she sit on your face?” Jack prodded ,

“Either,” Robby answered, honestly, “You know how shy she can be, though, easier to convince her to open her legs than actively sit on me.”

“I can see that,” Jack responded in a teasing tone, sounding closer than before, “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”

“Better,” Robby brags, “Wanna taste?”

Your eyes snap open at his offer, his fingers flexing in your slick pussy. You let out a whine as he slowly worked his fingers out of your pussy. It was quiet for a moment before you heard Jack let out a moan. Your curiosity outweighed your embarrassment, eyes widening as you pulled back from Robby’s shoulder.

Fuck, the sight alone made your clench around nothing. Jack didn’t just lick your release off of Robby’s fingers, no, he was cleaning them. Sucking them clean, while holding Robby’s gaze. Your core was once again aflame, only heating up more when the realization that he was tasting your wetness before you’d even had the chance to kiss. He let out a groan before he released Robby’s fingers with a “pop”.

“You're right, she does taste better than she looks.” Jack caught your gaze, smirking down at you, “Bet she tastes better from the source though,”

Your heart was hammering in your chest at Jack’s boldness. You let out a whimper, core pulsing in need.

“Please,” you panted in need, you didn’t know where this was going or how it would affect the foundation of your relationship. You were too far gone, your pragmatism and caution put in the rearview mirror. All the time spent longing and lusting after Jack took the wheel.

“Ask properly,” Robby scolded into your ear.

“Please go down on me,” you begged, tears pricking your eyes from frustration.

“Please go down on me?” Jack prompted you,

“Sir, fuck, please go down on me Sir.” You whined. You saw something shift in the way Jack was looking at you. You worried, you’d gone too far for a moment. You never discussed it before, but calling him Sir just felt right. All your worries disappeared as he gently cupped your face, his calloused thumb stroking up and down your cheek.

“Good girl,” he praised, drawing you in for a kiss, your eyes fluttered shut as you let Jack take the lead. You couldn’t help but moan as Jack dominated the kiss. It was rushed, desperate, and raw. Raw, like he wanted you as badly as you wanted him. You could analyze that later; for now, you needed him. You gasped into the kiss as he tugged the blanket loose from your lap. Revealing your bare pussy to him. He groaned, helping you kick off your leggings, leaving you in Robby’s hoodie for now. You pulled him back in for another kiss while Robby dragged you onto his lap. He eased your legs apart for easier access for Jack. Your hoodie and tank top don’t last long between the two of them.

You were panting, lips puffy, when Jack finally pulled back and started to kiss down your neck. He worked slowly and deliberately as he nipped and sucked down your chest; like he was committing this moment to memory. You moaned desperately as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, his cold hand twisted and tugged at your other nipple. Robby held your arms to the side as he wrapped his arms around your middle. The scruff of his beard tickled your right shoulder where his chin was perched. His other hand still on your hips the moment you tried to grind forward, against Jack’s growing bulge. You were beginning to get desperate.

“Baby,” he said in a warning tone, immediately identifying the shift from lust to need. You both loved and hated how well he knew you. All you could do was whine desperately for Jack. You didn’t care how he took you; you wanted him now.

“Daddy,” you groaned, “can’t”, you panted, “fuck please Sir, need it, need you so bad.”

“You can and will wait,” Robby said in a strict tone, “Or do you want to be punished? I was gonna teach Sir how to make you squirt, but I bet he’d love to see how desperate you get from a few rounds of spanking.”

Jack smirked up at you, hovering right above your mound. You were on the edge of full-on crying from frustration when he finally parted your slit with his thumb. A moan tumbled from your lips as he broadly licked from your opening to your clit. He toyed with your clit as he waited for further direction from Robby.

“You’re gonna have to make her cum again, she only squirts when she’s overstimulated or edged. After she cums don’t let up. Her safe word is ‘code’. We use the stoplight system.” In lieu of answering Robby, Jack started off by thrusting two fingers into your already stretched core.

“Fuck,” you moaned as his lips sealed around your clit. You knew you wouldn’t last; you were too geared up by his teasing.

“Good girl,” Robby praised in your ear, “Does he feel good love?”

“Daddy,” you panted in response.

“You gonna make a mess for us?” He teased.

Before you could respond, Jack’s fingers curled at the perfect angle to hit that spot. The one spot that Robby would avoid delaying your release when you were being punished. The spot that never failed to make you crumble.

“Daddy, please, can I? Can I please?” you begged, bordering on a shout.

“Go ahead love,” Robby encouraged,

You felt flushed as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure. Thighs quaking around Jack’s head, clit pulsing, and voice raw as you came with a shout. As directed, Jack didn’t let up. He continued tracing patterns onto your clit, his finger’s never breaking pace.

Fuck

You could feel your next release festering in your core; it was all too much, too soon. You were already wound so tight that you’d only last a few more seconds. You didn’t have any time to ask permission, before it was shooting through you. At some point, Robby released you, allowing your hand to find its way laced with Jack’s hair as you came flush with his face. Jack’s name like a prayer on your lips as you seize, completely overstimulated. You fell boneless against Robby’s frame, as you attempted to recover, breath coming out in stuttered gasps. Jack’s lower face was a mess, slick, pupils blown. He gently eased his fingers from your heat, pulling the collar of his t-shirt up to wipe his mouth. As you came back down to earth, you felt Jack’s even breath against the back of your neck. At some point, he had migrated up to the couch, cradling you between him and Robby.

“You alright, baby?” Jack asked, after you finally came back into your body. You hummed for a moment before answering.

“Yeah,” you said, in a small voice, taking a deep breath, “It was just a lot.”

“Do you think you’re done for the night?” he asked, rubbing soothing circles into you hip, cock throbbing against your back.

“But you and Daddy didn’t-” you started before Jack cut you off.

“You’ve already been such a good girl.” He said soothingly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “How about we get you comfortable and I’ll take care of Daddy. Does that sound good, love?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, involuntarily clenching at the thought of the two of them together.

“We’re going to need words, love.” Robby reminded you patiently.

“’ Kay,” you nodded, the edges of reality starting to get a bit foggy. Robby’s desperation showed through as he helped you settle on the other end of the couch, curled up in your throw blanket, pillow supporting your lower back. He gave you an emotion-filled kiss, pecked your forehead before he turned to meet Jack’s gaze. You let an involuntary gasp as Jack shoved Robby back onto the couch, partially kneeling on the couch. His right knee was placed strategically between Robby’s spread legs, while his left leg remained standing. Robby immediately started grinding up against Jack’s thigh as Jack fists the hair at the nape of Robby’s neck, forcefully pulling him in for a kiss. You bit your bottom lip to suppress a moan, getting wet all over again. They immediately started out rough to a level you normally had to beg Robby to be with you.

They looked perfect together to the extent that you didn’t know if you should be jealous or turned on. You couldn’t tear your eyes from them as they began to strip. Your focus locked on Jack’s bare chest as he began to work down his jeans, his happy trail leading down to his already hard member. Once they were both bare, Jack gave you a quick glance; a smirk pulled at his lips as he took in your wide eyes and repressed whines. Robby monopolized the opening to grip Jack’s hips and flip him, before sliding down between Jack’s legs. Jack let out a stuttered, “Fuck”, at the sight of Robby between his thighs.

“This alright?” Robby asked with a smirk, hands pushing Jack’s legs apart to make room for his broad shoulders.

“Fuck,” Jack groaned once again, “Yes,” he let out hesitantly.

Jack hissed at the contact of Robby’s tongue. He licked up the underside of his cock, before teasing his tip and swallowing around Jack. A moan cut through Jack as Robby bobbed up and down. He started out slow, before building up speed. It only took a few passes before Jack bottomed out. Jack threaded his fingers through Robby’s hair in a tight grip. He controlled Robby’s movements as his hips began to thrust up to meet his mouth halfway. From your spot, you can see Robby beginning to tease himself, before he began to thrust up into his hand at the same rate Jack was down his throat. Jack groaned, throwing his head back against the couch, his hips stuttering.

“I’m gonna cum,” he moaned, instead of pulling away Robby right hand settled under Jack’s thighs pulling him closer. His left hand squeezed himself harder, pumping himself faster to sync up with Jack. They locked eyes as Jack came down Robby’s throat, his cock still hard in his stilled fist. Jack let out another groan as he eased out of Robby’s mouth, followed by a surprised whimper when Robby leaned forward and stated to lick Jack’s cock clean.

“Fuck, good boy,” Jack groaned, leaning forward and cupping Robby’s face. He pulled Robby up for a kiss, this time much more gently, as he was still high off his orgasm. Robby straddled his lap, reciprocating Jack’s emotional kiss. A kiss that would always say more than what either man was willing to divulge about their emotions. Robby gasped against Jack’s lips as his hand wrapped his still throbbing cock. Robby moaned shamelessly, falling face-first into Jack’s shoulder as he took care of him. It didn’t take long before Robby’s cum painted their stomachs. You rubbed your thighs together needily as Robby panted softly against Jack’s shoulder. You could see their lips move as they spoke in a low tone to each other. Before you knew it, Jack was picking you up and carrying you up to the bathroom off of your master bedroom. He pulled you in for a playful kiss as he set you down on the counter. You were vaguely aware of Robby filling the tub in the background. You shared a soft, intimate bath, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. Afterwards, you were tucked into bed, Robby settling in behind you. You quickly caught Jack’s wrist as he pulled away to leave.

“Please,” you asked, looking up at him through your lashes. Not yet immune to your puppy dog’s eyes, he turned around and kissed the back of your lovingly as Robby pulled you back to make room for him. You fell asleep on his chest, and Robby curled up around you. While you didn’t know what to make of this new dynamic you could worry about that in the morning. Right now, all that mattered was you were safe and so were your partner(s).

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A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read! I hope you enjoyed it. I am working on two other Pitt Fanfictions (One where Robby is solo, and the other is a soulmate AU), but I have a million papers due, so I'm probably gonna be on a forced hiatus til mid-May. I just want these old men to kiss and be taken care of 💛

Anyway, hope you're having a good day wherever you are ^-^

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader x michael robinavitch #warnings in description #smut #cross posted on ao3 #pre canon

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homesick4la · 6 months ago

Text

complicated — hamzahthefantastic

1. pushing it down and praying

contains: a little cheating..smoking, some nsfw content but nothing crazy

summary: after half a year of no contact, you run into your ex at a party.

a/n: kinda got this idea from the lizzy mcalpine song bc i am obsessed with it. so listen if you haven’t lol. also i decided to split the fic but it’s only gonna be two parts!

it’d officially been six months since you and your ex boyfriend went no contact.

the first few months were hell for you.

of course, you went through the stereotypical phase of eating ice cream and crying to rom-coms directly after your break up. but that short-lived phase gradually shifted into one that was much more melancholic once the two of you decided to go no contact.

everyday that you woke up, you were engulfed by an emotional numbness. a dull pain that served as a constant reminder of your grief.

you were grieving what the relationship was and what it could’ve been.

you had always envisioned your future with hamzah in it which is why the lack of communication between the two of you left you absolutely soulless.

you had never experienced such an intense love before him. everything was picture perfect in the beginning. it was even better than the movies.

but after two years, the miscommunication between you to became destructive.

things that should have been minor disagreements escalated into full blown arguments. you’d yell over each other, ignoring each other’s feelings and growing overwhelmingly defensive.

eventually, it became exhausting. you were both so angry all the time and too stressed with work or school to address it properly.

ultimately, you two mutually decided to call it quits. additionally, you later agreed that going no contact would be the best option for both of you.

now, half a year later, you were finally trying to move on.

after reading an endless amount of self-help books, you learned that after experiencing every stage of relationship grief (which you had), you theoretically should be ready to search for love again.

despite your reluctance, your best friends had forced you to join all the dating apps- urging you to hook up with someone new to get your mind off your ex.

it took days of swiping left on men that were literally the epitome of a walking red flag for you to finally find a man suitable enough to go on a date with.

his name was matthew. he recently graduated from college and instantly started a 9-5 working in finance. he spent his free time hiking. he had a golden retriever.

he was kind. he was stable. but he wasn’t hamzah.

you two had gone on a few dates. you had even hooked up after a couple of them.

as guilty as it made you, each hook up was spent closing your eyes- imagining hamzah on top of you. that it wasn’t matthew deep inside of you but it was hamzah; the one that knew your body like the back of his hand and knew just how to please you every time.

you were giving your all to this “moving on” stage but you simply weren’t satisfied.

that being said, when matthew had asked you to attend an old friend’s party with him on your last date, you politely agreed.

now here you were, shuffling through a crowd of sweaty bodies with a man that barely knew you guiding you by your waist.

“how do you know the host again?” you ask, nearly yelling over the music that was blasting through numerous speakers.

“he’s a friend from my hometown, remember? from ottawa?”

“right, right. i remember now.” you look up at him. you did not remember.

you two make your way into the kitchen. he pours shots of vodka into red solo cups and hands one to you.

you feel the familiar burn of alcohol stinging your throat as you down the shot.

“you look gorgeous tonight by the way. forgot to tell you earlier.” he tells you, running his hand up and down your waist.

hamzah would’ve told you earlier. he would’ve been kissing up and down your neck before you even finished your makeup while getting ready. reiterating how beautiful you are each time his lips left your skin.

fuck. there you go again. comparing everything matthew said or did to hamzah.

he’s not in your life anymore, you think to yourself. it’s time to get over him.

“thank you.” you answer matthew, mustering up a smile.

“you ready to go meet my friends?”

“yeah, let’s go! i’m excited to meet them.” you were lying straight through your teeth. but you continued to put on this enthusiastic act simply because he was nice.

he leads you to the main room where you meet a couple of his hometown friends. one named kyle. another named josh.

they were essentially carbon copies of matthew. frat bros that grew up and became finance guys.

you quietly listen as the boys catch up on one another’s lives.

until something, someone, catches your eye.

hamzah. he was across the large room with his back faced toward you. but it had to be him.

you could recognize the shape of his shoulders and you knew that those dark curls stuffed under a camo hat could only belong to him.

you stomach drops. somehow, you had never ran into him since the breakup.

the sight of him mixed with the alcohol made you sick to your stomach.

“hey”, you tap on matthew’s shoulder. “i’m gonna go find a bathroom real quick.” you explain.

“okay, just come find me when you’re done.” he replies before resuming his conversation with his friends.

you turn around, walking in the direction of a long hallway that you knew must have a bathroom.

you turn the doorknob of the first door you find and miraculously, it is a bathroom.

you clutch onto the counter, letting out a sharp exhale.

one of your hands grips to your stomach while you continue taking deep breaths.

in for 4. hold for 7. out for 8. you repeat.

a breathing technique that hamzah had taught you.

you hear the doorknob rattle. before you can say anything, the door is being launched open.

“oh shit! sorry!”, you hear a familiar voice as the door is being pulled closed again. “wait- y/n?”

the voice belonged to mandy. hamzah’s bestfriend’s girlfriend. you forgot that her and martin were from ottawa. they must’ve known the host of the party.

she steps inside, shutting the door behind her.

“are you okay? what’re you doing here? i haven’t seen you in so long.” she pulls you into a hug.

“yeah i’m here with some guy i’ve been seeing. but i saw hamzah and just needed to take a sec.” you explain during your embrace.

she pulls away, looking in your eyes.

“did he see you?”

“no, he was facing the other direction.”

“oh okay”, she nods and looks down.

“yeah. i haven’t seen him since we ended things so, it gave me a bit of panic attack.” you chuckle awkwardly.

“i’m sorry, y/n. break ups suck.” she pauses, “when i went through my first break up, i saw my ex at an amusement park about a month after. and i got so upset, i threw up in front of one of those stupid basketball games where you can win a big teddy bear.”

you laugh at her story, “seriously?”

“yes! it was so bad, the worker ended up giving me one of those huge bears out of pity!” she exclaims.

once your laughter dies down, mandy breaks the silence once again.

“he still talks about you, you know. every once in a while.”

every once in a while. you had thought of him every single day.

“every once in a while?”

“yeah. seems like most of the time it’s too hard for him to talk about. but sometimes, he can’t help himself.”

maybe he did think of you as often as you did.

“anyway”, she continues, “whose this new guy?”

she smirks teasingly.

“ugh. mandy, he’s so boring! but he’s so nice! he’s just- he’s nothing like hamzah. i don’t know- he’s really sweet, it’s just not, exciting? i guess?”

she nods. “well, if you want my advice..i say you shouldn’t stay with someone just because they’re nice to you. a lot of people are nice. only a few people will make you feel ‘sparks’ or whatever.”

you nod understandingly.

god you missed talking to her.

“i gotta get back to martin but if you want to talk to hamzah, he went out on the balcony. and let’s not have to run into each other at a random party to catch up again, ‘kay? text me.”

“okay.” you hug her tightly, “we’ll go for coffee soon.”

she smiles before exiting the bathroom.

you look into the mirror, trying to decide if going out on the balcony is a good idea.

“fuck it.” you whisper to yourself.

you didn’t know when you’d ever get the opportunity to speak to hamzah again. you had to go out on that balcony.

you walk out of the bathroom, sneaking past matthew who was still deep in conversation.

turning the corner past the main room, you find the sliding glass door to the balcony.

there he is. alone. sat on the small balcony, lighting a joint that hangs between his lips.

with his camo hat he wore a pair of dark wash jeans and white t-shirt.

you take a deep breath before reaching to slide open the door.

his head instantly whips towards you, his eyes widening a bit.

“hi.” you break the silence. you feel awkward. what are you supposed to say to someone you’ve been completely heartbroken over for the last six months?

“hey.” his eyes soften as he speaks.

“i, um- ran into mandy. she told me you were out here.” you explain to him.

he nods slowly. “come sit.” he pats the space on the floor next to him.

you do as he says. plopping onto the ground and pulling your knees to your chest.

he takes a drag from the joint between his fingers before pulling it out and handing it over to you. you two had shared a joint countless times during your relationship, making the action feel natural.

you bring the joint to your lips, sucking on it for a few seconds before blowing out the smoke and handing it back to him.

“how’ve you been?” he asks.

his voice was calm. you wondered how he could act so nonchalant in this situation.

“i’ve been okay. school’s been stressful.” you say, trying to avoid ranting about the emotional turmoil you’ve experienced since you two separated. “how about you?”

“good. just working a lot. martin and i upload multiple times a week now and run the merch ourselves so it’s been busy, but it’s fun.” his face lights up as he talks about it. he’d always been passionate about his career.

“that’s great, hamzah. i still remember when you had him up on that cracked screen just to have him on the pod.” you laugh.

“oh god, it was a shit show trying to get that thing to run properly.” he chuckles at the memory.

it falls silent for a moment.

“you still gonna become a journalist?” he asks, cocking his head to the side while looking at you.

“that’s the plan, yeah.” you answer.

“good. you were always good with words.”

“yeah?” you smile.

“of course, it’s why i was always calling you smarty pants.”

you chuckle at the nickname you’d forgotten about.

“i thought you were calling me that because of my attitude.” since childhood, you were teased for being bit of a know it all.

“i mean- yeah that was part of it.” he laughs, “but it was mostly because of that big brain of yours.”he taps his pointer finger to your temple.

“well, i don’t feel very smart these days.” you admit. “my grades have been slipping.”

“seriously? how come?”

“just had a rough last couple months.” you try to remain vague.

“your new guy not keeping you happy?”

your eyes widen. how did he know about matthew?

“did you see me with him inside?”

“yeah. i was about to walk into the kitchen when i saw you two together.”

you exhale deeply. “oh, uh. sorry about that.”

“answer my question, y/n.” his voice was low, serious.

“what?” your voice tinged with confusion.

“are you happy?”

you think for moment. you could lie, tell him you’re happy, let him believe that you’ve moved on. but everything in you wants to be honest with him.

“i’m trying to be.” you respond quietly before taking the joint from his hands and up to your mouth once again.

his eyes were glued to you as pushed the smoke from your mouth, like he was studying your face.

“that guy’s not right for you.” he shook his head as he spoke.

“hamzah, you don’t know him.” you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend matthew but you do.

“i can see what kind of guy he is—the kind that can’t even begin to grasp the complexity to you.” he explains.

“you’re high, hamzah. and you’re jumping to conclusions.”, you shift your position on the ground, “based on looks, might i add. didn’t they teach you not to do that in elementary school? the whole don’t judge a book by its cover thing? did you tune that part out?” you say as you stand from your spot. it pained you how well hamzah could read people- how accurate his description of matthew was.

“baby all this rambling makes it seem like you’re avoiding the truth—that he’s not good enough for you. and you’re not happy. i mean has he even noticed how long you’ve been gone?”

you forgot how stubborn this man could be.

you let out a defeated sigh. “it’s none of your business, really. and you’re right, i’ve been gone too long. i should get back to him.”

you steal the joint from his hand and take one last drag before you start to walk back towards the sliding glass door. you hear hamzah rise to his feet behind you.

“y/n, wait.”

you turn around, facing towards him again. “yeah?”

“i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.” he apologizes.

“s’okay.”, you shrug your shoulders. “it was nice running into you.”

he nods agreeably.

you turn back around, beginning to accept that this was it. your last few seconds with him before you were back to no contact.

your hand reaches the sliding glass door, about to pull the door open when you hear hamzah’s voice once again.

“y/n, don’t go.”

don’t go.

“what?” you question, furrow your eyebrows.

he takes slow steps toward you, ditching his joint by throwing the remains of it to the floor.

he keeps walking towards you until you’re just a foot apart. he grabs your hand, pulling you to him and shifting your bodies so your lower back rested the black metal railing of the balcony as he stood directly in front of you.

his face was inches from yours. you could so easily lift your head and kiss him.

“come back to my apartment with me.” he whispered.

“why would i do that?” you replied, feeling the pace of your breath quicken due to the close proximity.

“because you miss me.” the corner of his mouth upturned into a cocky smirk. “and i miss you.”

you were speechless. all you could do was stare into his eyes, trying to decipher whether or not those words had actually just left his mouth.

you swallow harshly before speaking, “i’m here with someone else, hamzah. i’m going home with him.”

you try to stand your ground, but god you wanted to give in.

he scrunches his nose and shakes his head as he places his hands on the metal railing behind you, trapping you between his arms.

“but he doesn’t know you like i do.”

before you can respond, you feel his fingers brush your hair away from the side of your neck.

he places his hands on waist as his head falls to your neck, his plump lips hovering above your skin. your head instinctively leans to the side, giving him full access.

“does he know how much you like being kissed right here?” he whispers softly, feeling his lips move on your skin as he speaks.

he presses his lips to place where your neck and shoulder meet, remembering how much this spot had an effect on you.

you shut your eyes in utter satisfaction. you hated how much of an effect he had on you.

you bring your hands to his neck, then weaving your fingers through his curls as he continues kissing, sucking, and nipping at the sweet spots on your neck.

his hands float down, gripping onto your hips- another minuscule touch that he knew drove you crazy.

with his hands on your hips, he pulls your bodies closer. suddenly, the thought of matthew has completely vanished. you’re completely caught up in hamzah, and it felt so good- indulging in his recognizable scent and familiar touch.

you let out a soft moan as his hand falls to your ass, grabbing it shamelessly.

“hamzah, hamzah— i can’t, we can’t do this.” you say breathlessly, using your hand to tap on his chest.

hamzah steps back, his breath unsteady as watches you carefully, his gaze lingering on your lips. for a moment, you think he isn’t going to say anything— that he was just going to turn around and walk away.

but then he leans, his voice low “meet me outside in five.” his tone carrying both a question and a promise.

you feel a rush of nerves as he walks away, opening the sliding glass door and slipping back into the crowd.

you stay out there for a moment, catching your breath.

you shouldn’t go. you know you shouldn’t.

but you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you.

next part: with you all night

a/n: yuppppp part two coming very very soon and it’s gonna pick up right where this leaves off. sorry if this is long and boring, tbh i just needed something to distract myself from everything going on lol…k bye muah

#hamzahthefantastic #slushy noobz #hamzah x y/n #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #hamzah fic #hamzah #Spotify

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mellosdrawings · 1 month ago

Note

what's Leverage (this is an invite to infodump)

Hohoho ok ok ok. Wiki-level infodump incoming!

So, Leverage is a 5 seasons TV show from the early 2010s that has come back in 2021 with a follow-up show called Leverage: Redemption. It is a Robin Hood kind of series in which a group of thieves help poor/honest citizens get back at the rich/powerful who wronged them/stole from them/abused them.

Despite most episodes following the same format, it manages to stay interesting and attention grabbing thanks to its peak attention to details. Everything you see in the episode is a hint for how they get the bad guy, which should be a staple of the police genre but which is particularly well done here.

It's a character focused series, with very interesting development and overarching themes and plots. It also does an amazing work at blurring the line between "good" people and "bad" people. Some good guys are absolute pieces of shit, some bad guys are just down on their luck. Several episodes have the main gang changing plans totally because the "bad" guy they were trying to scam ended up being just another victim, so instead they started offering their help to fight the actual bad guys. Many times the bad guy is a piece of shit but when there needs to be nuance, the job is done incredibly well.

There's also a very purposeful Found Family Trope that's just... great. It's awesome.

Now, I just said it's a very character focused show so I'll have to dive in more into the actual characters. I'll be trying to keep it to the very first episode and remain vague on the rest but there will be some spoilers ahead! Especially so since every single in-show introduction is a masterpiece that I must talk about.

The Mastermind: Nathan "Nate" Ford is the brain of the group. He's an ex-Insurance employee who got fucked over by said insurance company when they refused to pay for his son's medical fees (something I'm sure many US citizens can relate to). He ends up having to work with criminals he has previously hunted down before, which gives him a good overall knowledge of how they all work while his time in the insurance company explains why he knows so many scams.

Despite being the "token good guy" in the first season, I'd say he's the most interesting at first. He's a self destructive genius with a terrible alcohol problem, and that alcohol storyline is just so beautifully handled in the first 2 seasons, I was completely hooked. Starting season 3 the line between honest man and criminal blurs though, as it should considering his activities for the past couple years, so he lost my interest just a bit. Still a very strong character with amazing storylines and a terrible personality.

Among the Found Family Trope, he is the depressed alcoholic father who pushes his kids too far but would still do everything to make sure they come home safe. His arc is literally going from deadbeat dad to the dad that steps up.

The Hacker: Alec Hardison is an early 20 years old sassy chatty black kid who, not content of being one hell of a hacker, is also an amazing grifter who picks up skills on the fly. While the sassy chatty hacker who is the comic relief of the show is a common trope, he's one hell of a charming character who will weaponise everything he has underhand to get away with stuff. Absolute kudos to his actor who was also in his early 20s at the time who regularly offer some of the best performances ever seen on TV. I swear that guy is too good.

His introduction depicts all that in seconds. He's the first thief to appear, already talking his head off and giving his opinion on the technology he's been given for the job. His introductory flashback is interesting as it doesn't show him in the middle of hacking, but instead getting caught by police having fun in a hotel room he stole and giving a Star Wars reference. Just from both of those you flag him as a young easy-going guy who still messes up a bunch.

In the Found Family Trope, he is the youngest child who messes up a lot. He has the most obvious father/child undertone with Nate, and an equally obvious bigger/younger sibling undertone with Eliot.

The Hitter: Eliot Spencer is a thirty something years old man whose job is keeping the rest of the gang safe. When it comes to the hardened ex-military trope, you expect scary brooding man who always avoids being hit while getting rid of his opponents in seconds. That's not quite the case with Eliot. Yes, he gives off scary and brooding vibes, but he actually has the biggest heart of the gang. He's regularly shown being the one who worries the most for others, and there's an ongoing thing about him being the defacto person to go to get help help when you're 18 and under. Eliot has an incredible amount of screentime being soft and helping/protecting children.

Not only that, Eliot isn't some kind of super soldier. He gets hit. A lot. But the point is that he always gets back on his feet to continue the fight. His hitter prowesses come more from the fact that he has a lot of knowledge in the matter, rather than from being a perfect fighter. He also has an underlying theme with self-control and anger issues. Eliot is a character that is constantly annoyed/angry, and who uses fighting as a self-regulating tool.

On top of all that, he's also a good grifter who, when not there to hit people, is there to hit on girls. He's regularly used as eye candy to keep the attention away from the others. He's also (not so) surprisingly low key. Eliot is often described as "hiding his game well", his opponents often underestimating him.

Eliot is the second thief to appear on screen, being asked by Hardison what exactly was his job here and not answering, nailing in the "low key" aspect of him that confuses his opponents. It's reinforced by his introductory flashback which has him sipping coffee while having guns pointed at him, then cutting to the outside of the room so we don't see his skill in action, then back to the room where he's still sipping his coffee, unfazed, while everybody else is K.O. The last part of his introduction comes when he finally shows what he is capable of, appearing out of nowhere to put out of commission several guards who hold Hardison at gunpoint, to which he finally answer to Hardison earlier question of what exactly he was here for, with a smile. That's where you start getting a glimpse of his softer side that is entirely focused on keeping his team safe.

In the Found Family Trope, he is the eldest son. He bullies Hardison at least once per episode (and Hardison fucks him over about as many times too), and is the one who, with Sophie, keeps Nate in check so that he doesn't go overboard. Nate and Eliot have a lot in common and while they are rarely clashing, there is definitely a tension between them.

The Thief: Parker is a (most likely autistic (edit: she is indeed autistic, it's canon)) young woman who loves money and throwing herself off of buildings. She starts off as quirky/weird/off putting until we (and the main gang) start to understand her. She is both the most obvious and the most complex character of the bunch, who unabashedly loves what she does and has a lot of fun with her new partners, all the while having absolutely no idea how to handle interpersonal relationships.

She is the one that grows the most during the show, picking up skills left and right (fighting from Eliot, grifting from Sophie, etc), developing her interpersonal skills and empathy, learning to rely on others and falling in love. Her evolution is just the best and she never gives up her whimsy while developing.

She's the third thief to appear on screen, but she's actually the first one being mentioned! Nate tells his client that "Parker is crazy" before agreeing to take the job. She appears hanging upside down from a rafter, interrupting the boys to ask playfully if she can have an earpiece too, and finally jumping off the building with a joyful yell before Nate can give the go. Then in her introductory flashback, we see her as a young kid, with a terrible family situation, literally blowing up her house after her "father" dared her to become a better thief to get the bunny plushie she wanted. And so you know Parker is the wild card of the team who is actually pretty forthright once you've pinpointed her interests.

In the Found Family Trope, she's the middle child who has... whatever is going on with Hardison and Eliot. While the boys have more obvious family interactions with Nate (the father), Parker mainly has them with Sophie (the mom) who teaches her the most out of everybody. Nate still regularly is there to explain things to her when she's confused, and Eliot teaches her how to bully Hardison (lovingly of course).

The Grifter: Sophie Devereaux is an actress that the gang fetches when their client fucks them over. It's a bit hard to depict her personality like the others because her whole theme is that she has identity issues. As a grifter she has many identities, and she plays them so often that she comes to forget who she even is in the first place. She's a quick witted, caring person who helps tempering Nate and coming up with plans, she's a femme fatale who either seduces or instills fear in her preys, she's the one who puts at ease the clients who come ask the group for help, she's the one who comes up with on the spot solutions when something goes awry and needs an immediate fix, she's the one always at the forefront of the plans keeping the attention on her so the others can do their jobs, etc etc. Sophie is everything and nothing all at once, which makes her a fascinating character that is difficult to explain properly.

She's the last thief to appear on screen, being brought by Nate. She's introduced as a terrible actress, all three thieves being appalled by her prestation on stage while Nate is smiling wildly. Then we get a glimpse of the romantic tension between her and Nate when he asks her for help, and another glimpse at their closeness when the three thieves turn to her when Nate confuses them, only for Sophie to tell them he really hasn't changed. Her introductory flashback focuses on her stealing a painting, being intercepted by Nate, and them both firing at each other. Finally the last part of her introduction comes when she shows off her actual acting talents while grifting the bad guy, startling Hardison who was still worried about her acting skills.

Sophie is introduced with her acting skills and her relationship with Nate instead of her personality or quirks like the other (the only quirk here being that she's a terrible actress on stage but an excellent one when she's grifting), which keeps nailing down her identity crisis.

Since we're on Sophie, I'd like to point out how well the writing team handled the actress being pregnant and needing to stay away from the show for a while. Her reason for being away tapped into her identity crisis, but she still was there to give advices to the others, mainly the "kids". While it was obvious in one episode that they placed the characters and angled the camera to avoid showing she was pregnant, the rest was handled beautifully well.

The show seems very respectful of its actors, to the point it lets them showcase their skills in season 3 like Hardison and Eliot's actors' music prowesses. It also allows them to shine in the filler episodes by having them play other roles, to which they deliver amazing performances (especially Hardison's actor. I'll never shut up about him, he's just perfect).

And yes, that was the time when we still had filler episodes! And they are GREAT! Some of my favorite episodes are filler episodes, like one where the whole gang go over a theft they all accidentally did together years ago, constantly fucking each other over without realising, all from their own perspectives. There are jabs at each other, like Sophie's accent or Eliot being a ladykiller and a terrifying psychopath, but there's also an insane amount of details scattered. One of my favorite being that everybody else saw the head of security carrying a rifle while Eliot was the only one (save Nate) to see it as only a box. It's a minor background detail that the show doesn't even point out, but when I caught it I got super invested in the episode. At first I believed it was because Eliot hates guns and sees them as sticks to beat people up with, but with the last perspective being shown with the "truth", it turned out Eliot was the only one seeing it as a box because it was a box. Eliot would be attuned to the amount of danger the objects around him would pose, and so wouldn't mix up a box for a gun. Once more, it's a background detail but it just ended convincing me that the showrunners care a lot about this show.

Ok I'm officially out of fumes. I think I could go into more if I dove into the actual episodes but I don't want to spoil more than I already did. All in all, great show, handles heavy stuff like addiction and grief and neurodivergency incredibly well without being condescending, scratches a hitch by fucking over powerful people in the most horrendous ways, makes you aware of the kind of scams there are around, etc etc.

It's just one hell of a good show. 10/10 would recommend. I only wish the 5 seasons box set wasn't so expensive, I can't throw that much money in it ToT

ONE LAST THING! If you wanna watch, the seasons are all available on Youtube (US only, get your VPN ready if you're not from there) in the RIGHT ORDER! The first season was aired out of order by the network so you will probably find it in the wrong order online too. It's not much since each episode is mostly contained, but it did make me pause at one point because of consistency issues.

Season 1 link

Season 2 link

Season 3 link

Season 4 link (careful, the Playlist starts with the last episode and finishes with the first. You gotta reverse the order of the Playlist!)

Season 5 link (careful, the Playlist starts with the last episode and finishes with the first. You gotta reverse the order of the Playlist!)

Redemption S1 link (careful, the Playlist starts with the last episode and finishes with the first. You gotta reverse the order of the Playlist!)

You're welcome 😘

#Leverage #Leverage (2008)#Leverage TV #nathan ford #nate ford #alec hardison #eliot spencer #parker leverage #sophie devereaux #analysis

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bunji-enthusiast · 17 days ago

Text

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

Chat Noir!Reader

Summary || teenage supers weren’t uncommon to see, but you were a particularly interesting one.

A/N: ideas, ideas, ideas…. AUGH. You get ur ass invertedly adopted by the GDA, in a way. Next part is coming soon! (Reader is a teenager here.)

“Cataclysm!”

Lately there's been more and more sightings of akumas, the blackened butterflies with purple idents. On one's own, they're easy to resist. But not when the victim completely overcome with emotions, which causes a lot of problems.

mainly for one reason only: Akumatizations.

Meaning you've had to spread out your already wide area that was Paris, but as of late—you've been spotted around in Chicago as well, which rose some suspicions amongst the G.D.A, and even the civilians themselves. You were as strange one, capable of mass and pure destruction. Yet upon sighting you, you were as brave, calm and gentle as one could be for a superhero. A teenaged one at that.

Civilians had made assumptions about you, the director of the G.D.A was curious about you at most, but all in all—You didn't seem to pose a major threat, you only took care of the problem, then left as quick as you came.

You sighed as you rubbed the temple of your forehead, arching a brow as you took in the silent win. a silent smile gracing your lips. Another akuma bit the dust, and you saved the victim.

Without your partner, you weren't sure how you could've purified the akuma. Initially you had asked Plagg for help, but as usual, he was his mysterious, riddle-ridden self. That made you groan, so you had to figure out a way, study the scrolls; ask Master Fu for help and so on. It was strange to say the least, but this new extension of your hero life was nice—to an extent.

Despite it, you were a smart cat. you figured out how to purify the akuma on your own, without the ladybug yo-yo that your partner always carried around. though it took some extraneous effort, the result was worth it.

"oh my gosh." the vicim gaps, wincing as he held his head. he was confused, which was normal. stuff like this always happens after the experience, it was as if one's mind goes blank, just letting your innermost thoughts translates to your actions. fortunately you were there to help them snap out of it.

"ça va?" you ask, and the victim snaps his head back up at you in confusion. and you arch a brow, stewing in the confusion. suddenly you facepalmed your head, now immediately understanding why he was confused.

You weren't in Paris anymore, not right now. "Sorry! what I meant to say was," You began, holding out your hand to help the victim up. "Are you alright?"

"uh yeah," he mutters, shaking his head to ward off the adrenaline he was still feeling. "thanks."

You affirm the sentiment with a small nod, winking at him. "of course, it's the job of the great, charming cat noir after all." You still kept a gentle hold on him, making sure he was stable enough otherwise to stand on his own without support. the victim casts a long glance at you, and you understand why. you just wished that you didn't get so many questioning looks about your being here.

Teenage superheroes weren't abnormal, so why the hell did you keep getting weird looks towards you? all it just did is make you wish you were back in Paris, where you did your usual thing with Ladybug; then go home.

"hey uh..."

'oh here we go', you think to yourself. here comes the questions, you didn't want to stick around, seriously. but you always helped the victims, and left your partner to be answering the questions. you were used to that, but she wasn't around. so it was just you, and the victims. luckily there was no stupendous scrawling of reporters and cameras to cover this incident, not here in Chicago. it was just another day--but, were the citizens okay? they must be severely desensitized to the point that it became their normal to be watching such crimes happen.

you were concerned for the people of America.

he grimaces, and you watch as he readjusted himself on his own. your cross your arms, eyes watching him like a genuine black cat. "are you okay? you look kinda young to be doing this." he asks, and that surprises you.

you stand on the balls of your feet, tapping around the stone pavement. "I'm fine," you mutter, holding back the temptation of rolling your eyes. "you should be going back home, akumatizations can take a toll and make you feel sore." you inform, jabbing a thumb vaguely.

he eyes you wearily, but he caves. better to listen to the hero, and you were all the more glad for it.

your cat-like eyes watch him as he walks off, making sure that he was completely out of the danger zone before you finally relaxed. "good grief." you mutter, rubbing the back of your neck before you turned around, holding out your staff and extending it.

out of habit, you wait for a moment.

nobody? good.

you jump away, feeling the breeze crawl through your hair. you sighed contentedly, you held up your ring for a brief moment, watching for how many paw pads you had left.

'putain!' you curse inwardly, hopping on one foot, hand or the other. almost zoning out from your surroundings.

two pads. which meant you needed to get back to your house, and quickly. there is also the less safer possibility of having to find somewhere to hide and recharge Plagg to continue going on forward with the day, of course with the usual kicking the bad guy's ass.

you groan inwardly to yourself as you hop onto a rooftop, your ears perking each and every way as you contemplate your circumstances. on one hand, you've been fending off the akumas sent by your sworn enemy, and on the other: you had to juggle your life as a student, and a model.

frankly you were more surprised that your own forsaken and sworn enemy even manifested the energy to come after you as well, even if you were in a completely different country. you honestly gave up a mental applause for the guy, he certainly had a lot more tenacity then you thought.

and also completely deranged.

You sighed to yourself, hopping off the building rooftop with a meow. Flippantly hopping off one surface and the other as you went straight to your desired destination.

An Açaí food front, their shit was good as hell. There were very few places back in Paris that had such a thing and you wouldn’t miss out on it right now. It was too good to pass up.

This is not how you wanted the rest of your day to go. You just wanted your Açaí food bowl, but no—

"Fear me!"

you could barely make out what the perperator is saying as you take down each of them one by one.

you immediately lament every single choice in your life so far that had gotten you to this point, and quite literally, you make the thought that being six feet under the ground would be way better then what you were doing right now. your body was sore to the living heavens, and you could definitely hear Plagg screaming at you from within the ring right now.

currently, you got yourself wrapped up in a fight with a villain. well, more like a couple of them. they were dressed in scaly costumes and bore an odd white crescent shaped insignia on their chests. one was at the forefront, leading the rest of them into the fight.

you were trying your best to find them off, as you had relatively steady combat experience; and all in due part to your flexibility and agility. but they sure were relentless.

you dug your feet into the asphalt as you ground yourself, then propelled forward with a thrust. taking each and every step with a calculated precision as you knocked out the minions with a quick strike of your extended staff, controlling the length of it with ease. as you do so, you try to recall who these people are.

"you guys are the lizard league right?" you chuckle, crawling forward as you jump around the last few standing minions. and avoiding those who were running away. the leader chokes at your ignidation, his forehead bulging with an evident pulse. "thought the guardians kicked your asses a couple months ago." you grin, flashing a shiny canine as you swipe at the leader.

of course you know about the guardians of the globe, who wouldn't? most famous team of heroes in America, in all of earth actually. you heard about their lacking in effort as of late, but it seemed they truly made a comeback.

"of course we're the lizard league, but we're better then we were back then!" he spat out, throwing a punch at you, but you narrowly dodge it—sidestepping as you crouched, balling your clawed black hand into a fist, and immediately retaliate.

“That so?” You laugh, throat-punching him. He gasps as he steps back, the loss of oxygen making him panic. You throw another one directly to the gut, right in the diaphragm. He keels over to his knees.

“You really gotta pay attention man,” you grin, flashing your signature smile. “Give up yet?”

You stood over the last conscious member of the ragged Lizard League, panting, claws slick with grime and blood, the ringing of your bell drowned out by the chaos that had just died down.

Your staff trembled slightly in your grip as the leader groaned beneath your boot. His tail twitched. His tongue lolled. He wasn’t getting back up.

You crouched, ready to tie him up—or knock him out again if he tried anything stupid—when the sky split open with a sonic boom.

A blue blur shot down and slammed into the ground like a meteor.

You barely had time to react. Your ears twitched. You leapt back just in time to avoid being crushed under the sudden arrival of him.

The Immortal.

He landed like judgment itself—shoulders broad, fists clenched, piercing blue eyes scanning the scene. His presence was enough to make the air itself feel heavier.

“What the hell is going on here?” His voice boomed like thunder as his gaze swept across the destruction. His eyes locked onto you.

You straightened up, claws retracting halfway, though your tail flicked uneasily. “I had it handled,” you said flatly, nodding toward the half-conscious pile of scaly losers around you. “Was just cleaning up the trash.”

His gaze narrowed. His jaw clenched as he took a step closer. You tensed without meaning to.

“Who are you?” he asked, his tone shifting. Still rough, but there was something else behind it now. Not anger. Not suspicion.

Concern.

He stepped closer, looming over you with that towering frame. You were tall for fifteen, but next to him, you barely came up to his chest.

“Wait…” His eyes widened a little. “You’re a kid.”

Your tail curled tighter around your leg as your claws instinctively extended again. “I’m not just a kid,” you snapped. “I’m Cat Noir.”

You didn’t mean to sound defensive. But damn it, how many times were you gonna have to prove yourself?

The Immortal’s face twisted slightly—half confusion, half disbelief. He looked at the damage you’d done to the Lizard League, then back at you. Your mask didn’t hide the sharpness in your cat eyes, the way they gleamed with something more dangerous than teenage rebellion.

He stepped back, hands rising slightly. Not in surrender—but caution. Like he was handling something… fragile.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “Not like this. You’re fifteen, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You’d seen that look before—from police, from teachers, sometimes even from Ladybug when things got too real.

But then his expression shifted again. The steel in his eyes came back. “You’re strong. I’ll give you that.” He looked around. “I’ve seen grown men with ten years of experience lose to these freaks.”

You gave a dry smile, flicking your staff back onto your back. “Yeah, well… maybe they didn’t have claws.”

He almost chuckled. Almost.

Then his gaze sharpened again, and for the briefest moment, he looked haunted—like something behind his eyes was bleeding through the cracks.

“I’ve lost too many kids,” he said quietly.

You didn’t flinch, but your stomach twisted. Something in his voice… heavy. Raw.

“I won’t lose another.”

You opened your mouth to argue—of course you were going to argue—but before you could get a word out, the sky behind him rippled.

A memory flared in your mind.

A red blur.

A splatter of blood.

“Why… why!”

The Immortal’s voice—shattered and betrayed—echoed in your ears before you even realized what it was.

You blinked. The scene shifted for a second in your head. Omni-Man. The Guardians.

You shook it off.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not them. And I’m not backing down.”

He stared at you long and hard. For a second, you thought he might fly off. Or yell. Or try to stop you.

Instead, he just nodded once.

But his voice was still low, still tired. “Just… don’t make me bury another one.”

And with that, he turned, boots lifting off the ground.

You stayed where you were, the wind from his flight kicking up dust around your boots.

You didn’t say anything until he was gone.

Then, to no one in particular, you muttered:

“Guess I made an impression.”

The Lizard League didn’t give you much more trouble after The Immortal flew off.

What was left of them—half-conscious, tangled in their own weapons, bleeding into the cracked concrete—you wrapped up quickly. Your claws slid back into your gloves with a metallic click, and with a flick of your wrist, your baton extended.

A few well-placed taps to their necks, just enough pressure, and they were out cold. You zipped them up with reinforced GDA-standard flex-cuffs, pulled from the belt you’d scavenged off some of their black-market gear last week. Wouldn’t hold forever, but long enough for the clean-up crew you texted on a secure burner line. You didn’t stick around to be thanked.

The skies above the city were darkening, clouds tinged orange with the setting sun as you bounded across rooftops. Your bell jingled softly with each leap, but you barely noticed it anymore. The wind kissed your face, brushing through your tousled hair and cooling the sweat beneath your suit.

You landed with a catlike thud outside your favorite little food bar downtown—Bowl Haus. Neon sign flickering. The girl at the counter knew you by now.

"Same as always?" she called, smirking behind a plexiglass shield.

"Add extra strawberries. I fought a lizard gang today," you said, tapping the counter with a clawed finger.

Five minutes later you were perched on a nearby fire escape, savoring the açaí like it was the first thing you’d tasted in days. Sweet. Cold. Your tongue darted across the spoon with practiced finesse.

Your tail swayed contentedly.

But the feeling never lasted long.

Back at your place—a temporary residence stacked high in the quiet side of the city—you pulled the blackout curtains closed and finally let the transformation drop.

Claws in.

With a shimmer of green light and a soft hum, the magic unraveled. The suit peeled away into smoke, retreating back into the ring on your finger. You let out a breath, half-relief, half-weariness.

And then came the groan.

"Ughhh… finally," drawled a tiny, smug voice. "I thought you'd never stop leaping around like a sugar-addicted squirrel on caffeine."

You rolled your eyes and plucked a piece of Camembert from the small fridge under the kitchen island. "You’re welcome, by the way," you muttered, tossing it toward the floating black cat-thing that had emerged from your ring.

Plagg caught it midair and chomped. “Mmm. Now that’s what heroism tastes like.”

"You know, normal people nap after nearly getting vaporized by a super-lizard’s acid breath," you said, stretching your arms. "But nooo, I fight monsters, eat frozen fruit bowls, and live in a penthouse with a ghost-cat who eats $70 cheese."

Plagg smirked. “Correction: a god of destruction who eats $70 cheese.”

You sank onto the couch, glancing around the empty, too-silent apartment. The place was sleek, modern, and about as cozy as a bank vault. Left to you after your father’s death—a man rich enough to own most of the city, powerful enough to keep it all hidden.

You didn’t like talking about him.

Didn’t like thinking about him.

And so you didn’t. You just exhaled, flicked on the TV with a wave of your hand, and slouched. You hadn’t planned on stopping for the night. Probably wouldn’t. You never really did.

Plagg, full and now curled into the crook of your shoulder, snored softly.

Then came the knock.

Three sharp raps. Confident. Deliberate.

You paused.

No one ever knocked here.

You stood, the air tensing around you as you approached the door. The peephole revealed a gaunt man in a black coat, hair white and shoulder-length, the left side of his face a twisted scar of flesh and synthetic mesh.

You opened the door just enough to speak. “If this is about property taxes, I pay my rent.”

“Cute,” Cecil Stedman said. His voice was gravel and tobacco. “But I’m not here for jokes.”

You leaned against the frame, eyeing him warily. “Then what are you here for? If you’re looking to lecture me about being a kid in tights, you’re the third person today.”

Cecil didn’t blink.

“I don’t care how old you are,” he said. “I care what you can do.”

That gave you pause.

“I saw the Lizard League mess. Your prints were all over it. Not bad work. Brutal, but clean. Efficient. If The Immortal hadn't gotten in the way, I might’ve been able to watch the full show.”

You crossed your arms, ring glinting under the hallway light. “You spying on me?”

“Everyone worth watching gets watched,” Cecil said. “And right now? You’re moving higher up the list.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Get to the point.”

He stepped closer, unbothered by your sharp tone. “I want to talk about the future. Your future. Earth’s, too.”

You hesitated. Not because of the offer. Because of the way he said it.

He wasn’t offering you a spotlight.

He was offering you a war.

And something in your gut told you… the real fight hadn’t even started yet.

You stared at Cecil for a beat longer, his face unreadable under the hallway light. His scar seemed to glow faintly, like a reminder that he’d been through hell and walked out with the devil’s phone number.

You stepped aside. “Come in. But wipe your shoes. This place is rented.”

He smirked slightly—just a twitch of the corner of his mouth—and entered. His boots thudded heavily against the floor. Plagg, who had been snoozing peacefully on the back of the couch, cracked open one glowing green eye.

“Company? Ugh, tell me he didn’t bring government cheese.”

You ignored Plagg and gestured toward the chair across from the couch. “Talk.”

Cecil sat down slowly, fingers laced together as he leaned forward. His gaze was heavy. Like it carried a thousand lives behind it.

“You’re sharp. Fast. A little reckless, but I’ve seen worse from people three times your age,” he began. “You’ve been cleaning up parts of the city even my own agents don’t step foot in anymore.”

You shrugged, arms crossed. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

Cecil nodded. “You’re not wrong. That’s the problem.”

He reached into his coat and tossed a sleek black tablet onto the table. It lit up instantly. The screen showed grainy footage: you—Cat Noir—taking down three Lizard League goons with surgical precision. No hesitation. No backup.

Another swipe, and it was Omni-Man’s first strike on the Guardians. Blood. Ruin.

Then another clip—Invincible struggling to hold back a tentacled alien in Kansas. It almost killed him. It had killed civilians.

Cecil’s voice was low, sharp.

“I’ve seen the world fall apart more than once. And I’ve seen what happens when we rely on people who aren’t ready. You? You’re something different.”

You looked at the footage. Then at him.

“You want me on your roster.”

“I want you ready,” he corrected. “Because it’s not just Lizard freaks and superpowered gangsters anymore. There are bigger things coming. Viltrumites. Interdimensional invasions. AI uprisings. And those are just this month’s problems.”

You exhaled slowly. “So you want to weaponize a fifteen-year-old.”

He didn’t flinch. “I want to give a fifteen-year-old the chance to choose.”

Plagg floated over, hovering behind your shoulder. “He doesn’t like giving chances. He likes giving missions. And body bags.”

You didn’t wave him off this time.

Cecil’s eyes flicked to Plagg, then back to you. “I’m not here to sugarcoat. You’re dangerous. That suit, that power—it’s not built for parades. It’s for war.”

You turned away for a second, eyes flicking to the dark window. The reflection staring back at you wasn’t just a tired teen anymore. It hadn’t been in a long time.

“…What do you want me to do?” you asked.

Cecil stood slowly, his voice low but firm. “Train with us. Not full-time. Not yet. But we bring you in, teach you how to work with a team. How to survive. When the next world-ending threat comes, you won’t be flying solo.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “What if I say no?”

Cecil didn’t blink.

“Then I hope I never have to send someone to collect what’s left of you.”

He started for the door, then paused. “Think it over. We’re not in a rush. But the end of the world?”

He looked over his shoulder.

“It is.”

The door shut behind him like a judge’s gavel.

Plagg floated beside you silently. For once, he didn’t joke.

You looked down at the tablet he left behind—glowing in the dark like a warning.

So. The question wasn’t whether you’d fight.

It was who you’d be fighting with.

The next morning came too fast.

You hadn't slept.

Too many questions. Too many possible futures pulling at the edges of your thoughts like claws against glass. But in the end, you tapped the tablet, typed ‘I’m in’.

two minutes later, your apartment was pinged with coordinates and a time.

Now, standing in the middle of a steel-reinforced training facility buried beneath a mountain, you were wondering if you should’ve at least eaten something beforehand.

Cecil stood on a raised control platform above the main training floor, arms folded, flanked by two silent GDA operatives in black armor.

His voice came through a hidden speaker, sharp and impersonal.

“Welcome to Day One. This is where we find out if you’re just fast and lucky, or if you’re the real deal.”

You adjusted your gloves, claws flexing out once—click-click—before retracting.

Across from you on the training mat stood three other figures. You recognized them immediately:

Brit – The old-school tank of a man with super strength and invulnerability. Moved like a freight train.

Bulletproof – Speedster with density shifting. A living missile when he wanted to be.

And Monster Girl – in her teen form, she looked like your age, but you knew better. Sweet voice. Demon fists.

Great. They’re throwing me in with the ‘no mercy’ crew.

A buzzer blared.

“Show us what you’ve got, kid,” Cecil said. “And don’t hold back. They won’t.”

The floor vibrated as Brit charged first.

He came in swinging—a full-arm punch that could crack a van in half. You ducked under the punch with catlike reflexes, your tail flipping up behind you as you vaulted backward and over his head.

"Too slow, grandpa!" you called mid-flip.

He snorted. “Fast mouth. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Bulletproof came in next—

A blur of black and gold slamming into your side like a sledgehammer. You flew across the mat, hit the wall, and bounced off it—but twisted in the air just enough to land on all fours.

“Okay. Ow,” you muttered, half a grin forming.

You cracked your staff out—

The baton extended with a satisfying SNAP, and you jabbed it into the ground to launch yourself at Monster Girl just as she transformed mid-air into a snarling demon-beast. Her claw met yours—black on green—and the shockwave of the impact knocked the air out of the room.

You twisted mid-swipe, your staff wrapping behind her leg. A yank. A sweep. She hit the mat hard.

For about two seconds.

Then she growled and punched you halfway across the mat into a stack of reinforced sandbags.

“Okay,” you coughed. “Note to self. Don’t piss off the demon toddler.”

The rest of the fight blurred.

Your suit was scuffed, the bell at your throat dented, your claws cracked. But you’d left marks of your own. Bulletproof’s visor was scratched. Brit’s jaw was bruised. Monster Girl was panting.

The buzzer blared again.

“Enough,” Cecil said.

You stood, panting, adrenaline still thrumming through your limbs.

He came down from the platform, boots echoing.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, giving you a look. “I thought you’d fold in under a minute. You lasted ten.”

You wiped a trickle of blood from your lip and grinned through the ache. “Is that a record?”

“No,” Brit muttered. “But it ain’t nothing.”

Monster Girl, back in human form, offered you a half-nod. “You hit harder than you look, Cat Boy.”

“Cat Noir,” you corrected, groaning as you stretched your back.

Cecil stopped in front of you. “You’re raw. Undisciplined. But you’ve got instincts. And you don’t let fear slow you down.”

He handed you a sealed black file folder.

“Consider this your unofficial acceptance. Keep showing up like this, and maybe we’ll make it official.”

You took the folder, heartbeat steady now. Still sore. Still tired. But standing.

“Good,” you said. “Because I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

Cecil gave you one last long look. “Let’s just hope you live long enough for us to be glad you didn’t.”

Then he turned and walked off into the shadows of the facility.

You looked down at the file in your hands.

Your name wasn’t printed on the cover.

Just one word: “Asset.”

You waited until the others had cleared the training floor.

Plagg had already slipped into your hood, grumbling something about bruised ribs and lactose-based compensation. The lights dimmed around you, the mechanical hum of the facility fading into the background.

You sat on a nearby bench, muscles still thrumming, and peeled the seal off the black folder with a slow, deliberate motion. The moment it opened, a faint hiss escaped—some kind of auto-unlock mechanism built into the paper itself. Fancy.

Inside?

Several sheets. No names. No titles. Just cold, clinical language.

—————————

[Subject Codename: CHAT NOIR]

Clearance Level: Tier-2 GDA Operative Candidate

Status: Provisionally active

Assigned Handler: Stedman, C.

Psychological Profile (Redacted)

Subject demonstrates high cognitive adaptability, advanced moral reasoning in contrast with destructive capacity. Recent trauma has amplified vigilante tendencies. Caution advised. Possible destabilization under stress.

Recommendation: Monitor closely. Potential asset. Potential liability.

—————————

[Suit Analysis – “Miraculous Armor”]

Composition: Unknown (non-terrestrial in origin). Appears to bond at a molecular level with the user via ring artifact.

Properties: Reactive defensive layering. Enhanced mobility. Energy dissipation field. Retractable claws possess nano-filament threading—can cut through reinforced titanium at close range.

Weaknesses: Recharge-dependent. Power source linked to non-human symbiotic entity (Code Name: PLAKK).

Notes: Attempts to isolate power source from the user have been... unsuccessful. (See: Incident Report #613.)

—————————

[Entity Profile – “PLAKK”]

Status: Unknown. Symbiotic. Possibly interdimensional. Sentient.

Risk Assessment: Extreme.

Recommendation: Do not engage directly. Containment protocols classified Level Omega.

Observation: Entity displays feline traits. High intelligence. Voracious cheese dependency. Attitude: Insufferable.

You glanced over your shoulder. “They nailed you.”

Plagg peeked out, unbothered. “Can’t argue with science.”

The final page was heavier. Thicker. It wasn’t typed—it was handwritten. Cecil’s penmanship was sharp, decisive.

‘I’ve read the reports. I’ve seen the footage.

You’re dangerous, kid. And if I’m being honest, I like that.

But make no mistake—this isn’t a team, it’s a war machine.

The GDA doesn’t build heroes. We build survivors.

And if you want to make it through what’s coming next? You better be both.’

– Cecil

You closed the folder.

The weight of it stayed in your hands, like it didn’t want to be put down.

You weren’t just playing superhero anymore.

You were on the board.

And every move from here on out? Had consequences.

Plagg floated up beside you, unusually quiet.

“…So,” he said. “Still wanna play with the big dogs?”

You stared ahead, eyes narrowing.

“No,” you said.

“I want to run the damn pack.”

Downtime hit like a silence you weren’t ready for.

After that first training session, Cecil didn’t call. No pings. No late-night encrypted texts. The file stayed locked in your desk drawer, sealed under biometric access, but it felt heavier than any mission briefing. It wasn’t rejection. It was worse.

They were watching to see what you’d do next.

The sun had dipped low, slicing gold across the city’s skyline. You sat on the edge of the rooftop outside your temporary apartment—barefoot, still in your civilian clothes, the wind tugging lightly at your hair.

Plagg was curled beside you, a cheese wheel bigger than his body slowly vanishing one smug bite at a time.

“You know,” he mumbled mid-chew, “you could’ve been a pastry chef. A magician. Even a fashion designer. You’ve got flair. But no. You pick world-saving. With these people.”

You leaned back on your hands, the ring on your finger catching the light. “Not like there’s much left for me to bake for.”

Plagg didn’t say anything to that. He never did when it came to your dad. Or what happened. Or the way you couldn’t stand the echo in your own apartment sometimes.

You looked out at the city below.

People moved like blood through veins. Fast. Purposeful. Living. You weren’t even sure what that meant for you anymore. You weren’t famous. You weren’t part of the Guardians. You were a black cat in a world full of wolves, Viltrumites, and gods.

But you were still here.

That had to count for something.

Your phone buzzed beside you. Just a text from the açaí place. A new flavor drop.

You smiled faintly.

“You ever think maybe the world doesn’t need another superweapon?” you asked.

Plagg yawned. “The world never needs one. It just keeps making them.”

“…What if I don’t want to be one?”

Plagg turned his glowing green eyes toward you. “Then don’t be.”

You looked down.

“Pretty sure it’s already too late.”

You didn’t transform. Not tonight. No patrol. No missions.

Just you, the skyline, and a black cat god chewing through Manchego like it was popcorn.

You stretched out on the roof, one arm behind your head, eyes trailing stars.

“I don’t think Cecil trusts me.”

Plagg chuckled. “Cecil doesn’t even trust himself. But he’s right about one thing.”

“What?”

“You’re dangerous.”

You turned your head to him, raising an eyebrow.

Plagg smiled, fangs barely showing.

“And you haven’t even started yet.”

148 notes · View notes

starburstminibot · 4 months ago

Note

Ok, seeing the post about the playlist, you mentioned how Breakdown only gets his act together after finding out that Bee was carrying

So it got me thinking (and this has actually been in my mind since i first came across the au tbh), but how was it while Bee was like, carrying?? There's the fact that, at first, many of the bots probably don't like Breakdown too since, well, he was not the best bf let's be honest.

Idk, I'm just curious to how things were before Breakcheck came to see the world

(Im going out of town for a week and cant draw so im just answering this with a straight up fanfiction-esk paragraph I’m so sorry wish I could be artistic for you anon)

Long story short: the Autobots are very forgiving but they can also be petty motherfuckers.

I mean they welcomed Megatron among their ranks and treat him (for the most part) as an equal and sometimes even a friend. Of course, Megatron earned that trust after years and years of repentance.

I imagine Breakdown is going through a similar arc. He’s never really been THAT loyal to the Decepticon cause. He just… kinda ended up there and didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He views Autobots as these goody, righteous people that he doesn’t feel like he belongs with. So really… what’s left besides Decepticons (considering yourself a neutral at one point was pretty much a death wish. A faction was the only way to acquire any sort of Energon or medical attention. Something Optimus tried hard to avoid, but the reality was safety in numbers.) the only kinship Breakdown ever felt was with the Stunticons… and they’ve been scattered to who knows where… if they’re even still alive.

Except he did have one friend. A friend he’s somehow managed to keep despite being on opposite sides of the war. He tried to convince Bee to join the Decepticons a few times but it was never with genuine intent. Bee was too good for the Cons; Breakdown knew that. He asked to get a rile out of him more than anything. Of course Bee would retort with his own argument of why BD should defect. He was serious about it… but Breakdown knew his place. He’d already done too much…

Now the war is over. And the leader of his faction doesn’t even believe in the cause anymore. Now, Breakdown’s never been a fan of Megatron anyways, but he sure as hell is pissed off when he abandons them to go be buddies with the Autobots. Maybe Breakdown is a little jealous (Of course, he’d never admit it) That Megatron, possibly the cruelest and most unforgiving of them all, is allowed to be redeemed.

He feels betrayed. All the Decepticons do really… He feels like he was led down a path that would only end in self destruction and at the last moment, the one who was paving the way jumped ship, leaving them all to suffer the consequences alone.

He never even wanted this.

But it’s way too late now. He dug this grave and he’s going to see to it that he’s buried in it. But despite the betrayal, and most of the Decepticons now stabbing each other in the back, trying to claim whatever power they can while holding on to this flimsy cause they can barely call a functioning faction, he still has Bee… who is maybe more than just a friend at this point but that’s a lot of feelings Breakdown isn’t ready to unpack.

And he still runs every time it feels a little too good to be true. Still proclaims his loyalty to the Decepticons because he’s too stubborn to admit he’s on a sinking ship. And he still keeps his distance because he refuses to take Bumblebee down with him when it finally goes under.

And maybe they’ve got a fling going… and maybe the autobots start to catch on. It doesn’t matter though, Breakdown doesn’t stick around long enough to see their sneers.

Until… he finds out Bee’s carrying that is… because damn he may not be the best bot in the galaxy but he’s not a complete deadbeat.

And when it hits him… that he’s going to be a sire… well maybe… he start’s sticking around to see the sneers. He hears the mumbles of disapproval. And boyyy does it make him so angry at first. How dare these holier-than-thou bots. They don’t know him or what he’s had to do to survive. How many comrades he’s lost thanks to them. They don’t know what Bee means to him. They don’t know just how much he loves Bumblebee. How he would lay down his spark for him in a klick.

Then Breakdown questions… Does Bee even know that?

From then on… Breakdown realizes, preserving his ego isn’t worth this. He has a chance now. A real honest chance. To do better… to have the life he actually wants… with the one bot who hasn’t ever given up on him.

He wants it so bad.

So he puts up with the comments and the obvious distrust. Because he’s willing to put in the work it takes to earn it. He’s going to prove how much he wants this. He’s going to prove how much he cares. He’s going to prove he is capable of doing better… and maybe along the way he’ll learn… he’s deserving of better too…

Breakdown is lucky Bumblebee has always been a little spoiled because it didn’t take too much convincing for the autobots to give him a shot. To attempt to accept him into their ranks.

He thought Optimus would be the worst of it. The one who practically raised the bot Breakdown knocked up. And for a while it is. Optimus lectures him every chance he gets. Any small hiccup, any little mistake. He doesn’t go easy on breakdown. Optimus at least pretends to be polite about it, or at least professional.He doesn’t yell, or make unnecessary insults. His words are always very honest (which makes them that much harder to hear) but Breakdown will take it… he’ll sit through it, no matter how hard he has to bite his tongue against saying something he’ll regret. He knows how thin the ice is. But he’ll do it for Bee.

The others are a little more brutal… Elita especially so… they are more sharp with their words (and sometimes their blasters) letting him know just what they think of him.

But no… the worst of all… is Megatron. Because Megatron is probably the only bot in the whole faction who looks at him and empathizes. Breakdown doesn’t want empathy. Especially not from the damn bot who betrayed him. Megatron doesn’t give lectures, he doesn’t verbally or physically abuse him when he steps out of line. He barely even raises his voice. And it pisses Breakdown off more than anything. Sometimes he slips up in front of Megatron just to push his boundaries, just to see if he can break this peaceful facade the ex-brutal-dictator seems to be taking. He’s witnessed the warlord beat bots into scrap for far less… and yet… Megatron won’t. Megatron seems to be attempting to guide Breakdown, to offer a new start to their relationship, and Primus Breakdown wants nothing to do with it. He’d rather be lectured and assigned extra training.

And it takes a long while… longer than Bee’s carrying term, and a little while into Breakcheck’s sparklinghood for the Autobots to really start to come around to him. Optimus’ lectures seem to have a bit of fondness to them. And perhaps Breakdown listens a bit more earnestly and takes to heart some of the genuine advice the Prime gives him. And maybe the sparring with Elita has turned less from a one-sided fight and into an enjoyable workout. And MAYBE… he doesn’t intentionally push Megatron as much, and has come to a realization of his own that his Megatron… is nothing like the one who betrayed him… and perhaps there is more in common between them than he’d like to admit.

And when people look at him now, he’s not just the Con Bumblebee has been sneaking around with. He’s a Sire… and a devoted Conjux…

And maybe this is what he’s always wanted. And he can be deserving of it too.

233 notes · View notes

sweetlyvibe · 4 months ago

Text

PAIRING : Obito Uchiha x Reader

WORD COUNT : 4.6k

GENRE : Angst / Comfort

SUMMARY : After surviving the Fourth War and being pardoned, Obito meets someone who accepts him despite his scars and past. Jealous of another suitor, Obito believes he has no chance, leading to a heartfelt confession.

CONTENT/WARNING : emotional trauma , self-esteem issues , jealousy and insecurity , fear of rejection

REQUEST : yes!!

The whispers of his survival spread like wildfire through the village. Obito Uchiha had returned—scarred, humbled, and deeply regretful. Pardoned by the Hokage after his role in ending the war, he now roamed the village quietly, helping rebuild the destruction he once caused. Despite the acceptance of some, others couldn’t look past his crimes. He didn’t blame them.

And yet, among the faces that stared or turned away, there was you.

You were a fellow Leaf ninja, a few years younger than him but seasoned in your own right, carrying your share of battle scars both seen and unseen. War had left its mark on everyone, but there was a quiet resilience about you, a determination to rebuild in ways that didn’t just apply to structures but to people as well. That was what led you to cross paths with Obito.

The day had been hot, the kind of sweltering summer afternoon that made sweat bead along your brow within minutes. You had been assigned to help at a construction site near the village outskirts, assisting with repairs to buildings damaged during the war. It was grueling work, but you didn’t mind; there was something cathartic about seeing broken things pieced back together.

You hadn’t known Obito would be there. To be honest, his presence had surprised you, even unsettled you at first. There were still hushed conversations about him—people wary of his return, unsure if someone with such a dark past could ever truly change. But when you saw him that day, hammer in hand, hauling heavy beams like it was nothing, he didn’t look like the man the rumors painted.

He looked tired.

It wasn’t the kind of tired that came from physical exhaustion, though the sweat dripping from his brow suggested he was working harder than anyone else. No, it was deeper than that—a bone-deep weariness that settled in his shoulders, weighed down his every movement. His face, marred by scars that told stories you could only imagine, held an expression so neutral it felt unnatural, as though he was trying not to be noticed. But it was his eyes that tugged at your heart: one dark and brooding, the other hidden beneath the curve of his forehead protector. They carried a profound sadness, an aching guilt he seemed to wear as a second skin.

Despite his quiet demeanor, there was something about him that intrigued you. It wasn’t pity that drove you to approach him—far from it. You saw a man who had been to hell and back but was still here, trying. That resilience, that flicker of humanity buried beneath the weight of his past, pulled at something deep inside you.

At first, your interactions were brief. You’d pass him tools or work alongside him in silence, not wanting to intrude. But you noticed how he always went above and beyond, taking on the hardest tasks without complaint, as though punishing himself through sheer effort. So, you started small.

“Hey,” you said one afternoon, holding out a rice ball wrapped in cloth. He had been working for hours without a break, his shoulders taut with tension. “You’ve been at this all day. Take a break.”

Obito hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the rice ball. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

“Maybe,” you replied, refusing to back down, “but even heroes need to eat.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion, perhaps even amusement—but he took the rice ball. That small gesture broke the ice.

From then on, you made it a point to share lunch with him when you could. Sometimes you’d talk about nothing in particular—mundane things like the weather or the progress on the repairs. Other times, you’d catch glimpses of his dry humor, quick-witted remarks that left you blinking in surprise before laughing. You learned to recognize the subtle quirks of his personality: the way his lips twitched when he was holding back a smile, the rare moments when his eye softened, the low chuckle he gave when something genuinely amused him.

Slowly but surely, he began to open up.

Your lunches turned into longer conversations, and those conversations eventually extended beyond the construction site. You found yourselves meeting up after work, whether it was for a walk through the village or quiet moments shared at the training grounds. There was something easy about being around him, even though you could tell he was still guarded. He didn’t speak much about himself, but the way he listened—truly listened—when you talked made you feel seen in a way that few others could.

What stood out the most was how he never treated you as fragile, even when you mentioned your own scars, both physical and emotional. He didn’t offer hollow reassurances or tell you to move on. Instead, he met your words with quiet understanding, as though he knew all too well what it meant to carry that weight.

And yet, you never pressed him about his past or his scars. It wasn’t because you didn’t care—you cared more than you’d ever admit aloud. But you understood that those were wounds he wasn’t ready to revisit, and you didn’t want to risk pushing him away. Instead, you treated him as he was: a man who had faced his demons and was trying, every day, to move forward.

That was what you admired most about him—his determination to rebuild, not just the village but himself. To you, Obito wasn’t a man defined by his mistakes or his scars. He was someone who had been to the brink and chosen to return, and that choice, that strength, was what mattered.

Unbeknownst to you, your unwavering kindness and acceptance were slowly chipping away at the walls Obito had built around his heart. He began to look forward to your time together, though he didn’t fully understand why. All he knew was that when you were near, the crushing weight of his guilt felt a little lighter, and for the first time in a long time, he began to wonder if he might deserve a second chance—not just at life, but at happiness.

But those thoughts terrified him, too.

And then there was Genma.

The kind of man everyone seemed to like, Genma Shiranui was charming, confident, and effortlessly sociable. His laid-back demeanor and sly grin made him a favorite among your peers, and his quick wit ensured he was the center of attention in any conversation. He carried himself with a relaxed ease, a senbon always dangling casually between his teeth, as if nothing in the world could phase him.

It started innocently enough. Genma would join you during breaks or during missions, offering easy banter and teasing remarks that made the others chuckle. He had a way of turning the most mundane topics into something worth laughing about, and it wasn’t long before people began to notice the way he lingered near you.

“I think he likes you,” one of your friends teased after Genma had walked away, flashing you a crooked smile over his shoulder.

You laughed it off at first, brushing the comment aside. But as days turned into weeks, it became clear that your friend had been right. Genma wasn’t just hanging around—he was seeking you out. His teasing turned playful, his compliments grew more personal, and his invitations to spend time together became more frequent.

It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Genma’s attention was flattering, and his company was enjoyable in its own way. But your heart was already leaning toward someone else, someone quieter, someone whose laughter was rarer but infinitely more precious.

Obito.

He was the one you looked for at the end of a long day, the one whose presence steadied you even when words weren’t exchanged. Genma might have been the easier choice, but your feelings for Obito had grown roots, deep and steady, and no amount of charm could sway them.

Obito Noticed

How could he not?

Every time Genma leaned toward you with his easy smile, cracking a joke that made you laugh, Obito felt a pang in his chest—a sharp, familiar ache he couldn’t ignore. The way Genma’s hand would linger on your shoulder during conversations or how your laughter came so freely around him made Obito feel small, like a shadow at the edge of a warm, glowing light. He clenched his fists tightly at his sides whenever he witnessed those moments, the tension in his body coiling until his muscles ached.

He noticed everything, no matter how much he told himself not to look. The way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the way Genma’s casual charm seemed to draw you in. And though he never saw anything in your gaze that suggested you were interested in Genma, the doubt gnawed at him. After all, why wouldn’t you choose someone like that?

Obito clutched at the edges of his cloak, his knuckles turning white. He hated the way his mind twisted simple interactions into something more. Every laugh you shared with Genma felt like a dagger, and he cursed himself for caring so much.

What could he possibly offer you?

The thought was like poison, spreading through his veins until it consumed him. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing comparisons. Genma was confident, charismatic, and easygoing, while he—Obito—was a man haunted by his past, his sins carved into his very skin. He wasn’t whole—not physically, not emotionally. When he looked at himself in the mirror, all he could see was the broken, scarred reflection of someone who didn’t deserve happiness. How could someone as radiant as you want to be with him?

Genma, simply was everything Obito wasn’t. Unburdened by guilt or regret. People gravitated toward him naturally, drawn to his humor and ease. It didn’t matter that you didn’t seem to reciprocate Genma’s flirtation. In Obito’s mind, it was only a matter of time before you did. Doubt whispered cruelly in his mind, twisting every interaction you had with Genma into evidence that Obito could never measure up.

And then there were the whispers.

“They’d look good together, don’t you think?”

“Genma’s always had good taste.”

“Finally, someone caught their attention!”

The words echoed in his head long after he overheard them, like stones added to the heavy wall he was building around his heart. Each comment reminded him of what he believed was inevitable: that you and Genma would end up together, and Obito would be left standing on the outside, as he always was

It wasn’t just Genma, though. It was also Rin—or rather, the memory of her.

For years, Rin had been a symbol of everything Obito had wanted but could never have. She had been his light in a world that often felt unbearably dark, and her loss had shaped him in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

For so long, he’d clung to her memory, convinced that his feelings for her were eternal, unchanging. But now, looking back, he realized that what he’d felt for Rin had been rooted in who he was as a boy, not the man he had become. She had been kind, gentle, and nurturing, but those were memories of her, not the reality of who she might have grown to be.

It wasn’t that he loved Rin any less—he always would. But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped feeling the sharp, gut-wrenching ache when he thought of her. Her smile no longer haunted him; it comforted him. She had been a part of his journey, but she wasn’t his destination.

That realization had been both freeing and terrifying. It left him vulnerable, his heart open to new emotions he hadn’t dared to explore in years. And it was you who made him feel that way again.

You weren’t like Rin. You were bold and unyielding, a grounding presence in a world that still felt uncertain to him. Where Rin had been a dream of his past, you were real. You saw him—not as a hero, a villain, or a victim, but simply as Obito. And that terrified him even more than the idea of losing Rin had.

Because this time, it felt real.

It started with small excuses. When you invited him to lunch after working together, he’d mutter, “Sorry, I’ve got something to take care of,” brushing past you without meeting your eyes.

Then, his absences became more noticeable. Where once he’d linger near the training grounds or meet you for tea in the evenings, he was nowhere to be found. And when you did manage to catch him, his responses were clipped, his usual dry humor replaced with a cold, distant politeness that felt like a slap in the face.

At night, lying awake in his small, sparsely furnished apartment, Obito stared at the ceiling, the storm of emotions inside him threatening to tear him apart. His fists clenched and unclenched as he replayed every moment he’d spent with you, every laugh and every glance that felt too precious to hold onto now.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he told himself one night, his voice harsh in the quiet. “She doesn’t see you that way. She shouldn’t.”

But no matter how much he tried to bury his feelings, they refused to die. He’d never realized just how deeply he cared for you until he saw Genma step into the picture. The jealousy that burned in his chest was unlike anything he’d felt before, raw and unrelenting. It wasn’t fair to you—or to Rin, for that matter.

Rin.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he thought about her. If she were here, she’d probably scold him for wallowing. She’d tell him to stop running from his feelings, to stop hiding behind his scars. But was he ready for that? Could he truly allow himself to admit how he felt about you when he couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling ashamed?

His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face, his scars rough against his fingertips. He wanted to believe that he deserved a chance at happiness, but the doubt was suffocating.

He knew he liked you. That much was undeniable now. But confessing? Letting himself hope? That felt like stepping off a cliff with no guarantee of a safety net. It was easier to pull away, to retreat into himself, than to risk rejection—or worse, acceptance.

Because what if you did feel the same way? What if you chose him, only to realize later that he wasn’t enough?

And so, he stayed silent, letting the wall between you grow higher, even as it tore him apart inside.

It had been weeks since you’d last spent more than a few fleeting minutes with Obito, and the growing distance between you was driving you mad. You had replayed every interaction in your head, searching for some mistake, some moment where you might have done something wrong. But nothing stood out. If he needed space, you could respect that—but not without understanding why he suddenly felt the need to shut you out.

At first, it was little things. You’d ask him to join you for lunch, only to be met with muttered excuses.

“Sorry,” he’d say, not quite meeting your eyes. “I’ve got something to take care of.”

He’d leave without elaborating, and you were left staring after him, unsure of what had just happened.

Then his absences became more pronounced. The moments that used to be yours—quiet talks near the training grounds, evening tea, or even casual conversations after missions—were gone. Instead, you were met with clipped responses and fleeting glances. His usual dry humor, something you’d come to treasure, was nowhere to be found.

“Obito,” you’d call out, hoping to catch his attention, only for him to give you a distracted nod and walk away.

And yet, despite his efforts to pull back, there were moments he couldn’t quite hide. You’d catch him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking, his eye clouded with an emotion you couldn’t place. But the second you turned to meet his gaze, his expression would harden, and he’d look away, his jaw tightening as if the sight of you physically hurt him.

It was maddening.

You couldn’t understand what had changed, but you knew you couldn’t let this go on. Whatever was troubling him, you needed to know. You needed to help.

One evening, after yet another day of avoidance, you finally reached your breaking point.

You found him near the edge of the village, sitting on a stone wall overlooking the forest. The setting sun painted the scene in soft, golden hues, but the tension in the air was anything but serene. His shoulders were hunched, and his head was bowed, his hair casting shadows over his face.

“Obito,” you called, your voice firmer than usual.

He flinched at the sound of your voice but didn’t turn to face you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“Why not?” you countered, taking a step closer. “Because you don’t want to explain why you’ve been avoiding me?”

He sighed, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Obito,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’ve barely looked at me for weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” he said quickly, his voice sharp enough to cut.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “What changed? Did I do something wrong?”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the tension in his jaw. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he muttered, his voice so low you almost missed it.

“Then tell me what’s going on,” you pressed. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Obito. I can’t keep wondering what I did to make you push me away.”

For a moment, he was silent, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white. Then, finally, he looked up at you, and the pain in his single visible eye took your breath away.

“It’s not about you,” he said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and something softer, something more vulnerable. “It’s about me.”

“Then explain it to me,” you said, your tone softening. “Because right now, all I know is that you’re shutting me out, and I don’t understand why.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, his voice laced with self-loathing. “How could you?”

“Try me,” you challenged, stepping closer.

He looked away again, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. “Do you know what it’s like to want something you can’t have?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“You,” he said, the word escaping him like a confession. He looked up at you, his eye filled with equal parts longing and despair. “I’m talking about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak.

“Obito…” you began, but he cut you off, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t say anything. Just let me finish.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m not…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I’m not the kind of person you deserve. I’m broken, scarred—both inside and out. My past is a mess, and it’s always going to be a part of me. Someone like Genma… he’s better for you. He can give you everything I can’t.”

“Genma?” you repeated, your voice filled with disbelief. “You think this is about Genma?”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his voice rising with frustration. “I see the way he looks at you, the way he makes you laugh. Everyone else sees it too. They think you two are perfect for each other. And why wouldn’t they? He’s everything I’m not.”

“That’s not true,” you said, stepping closer. “Obito, that’s not true.”

He laughed bitterly, his hands clenching into fists again. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’m not blind. I see the way people look at me. Like I’m a reminder of everything they want to forget. Like I don’t belong.”

“That’s not how I see you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’ve never seen you that way.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, his eye searching yours for any hint of deceit. What he found instead was something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for: sincerity.

“I don’t care about your past,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotion in your chest. “I care about you. The person you are now. The person who’s trying to move forward, even when it’s hard. That’s the person I want to be with.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said finally, his voice shaking.

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you replied, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. “And I mean every word.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his own trembling slightly. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of losing you. Of ruining this.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure it out together. But you have to let me in.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his hands unclenched, and he let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice raw with emotion.

“That’s all I ask,” you said, smiling softly.

And as the tension between you began to ease, And in that moment, Obito realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry the weight of his past alone anymore. He felt a flicker of hope—a hope he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

After that evening by the stone wall, you could feel the tension slowly melting between you and Obito. It wasn’t immediate—trust, especially when it’s been broken, doesn’t come easily—but the small steps you both took toward each other started to matter.

One afternoon, you found Obito sitting at the edge of the village again, this time not as a place to isolate himself, but to think. You approached him slowly, the familiar weight of silence hanging in the air.

��Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice gentle.

Obito looked up, surprised, but smiled faintly. “It’s… fine.”

You settled next to him, your shoulders brushing for just a second. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something—something warm.

“You’ve been looking out at the sunset a lot lately,” you commented softly, “Is it peaceful?”

He nodded. “It makes me think.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” he said simply, his gaze on the horizon. “About mistakes. Things I’ve done. Things I could have done differently.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. “I think… no matter how hard we try, we can’t change the past. We can only learn from it.”

He glanced at you, then, his expression softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “But sometimes it’s hard to move on when the past doesn’t want to let go.”

You reached out, your hand resting on his. He stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed, his fingers curling around yours. There was a silent understanding between you, a shared comfort.

As the days passed, you and Obito started to spend more time together—simple moments that became significant. One evening, after a quiet dinner in the village, you suggested a walk. You knew he’d been keeping to himself a lot, and you wanted to give him space to talk, if he wanted to.

The path through the village was lit by lanterns, their soft glow making the night feel peaceful, almost magical.

“You know,” you started, “I never really got a chance to ask you about your past. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Obito’s steps faltered, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But instead, he stopped walking and turned to face you.

“It’s not a story I like to tell,” he admitted, his voice low. “It’s messy… painful. But I think it’s time you knew.”

You stopped, looking up at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Obito. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. I’m here.”

He let out a shaky breath, his hand gently resting on the back of his neck. “I was once someone different. Before all of this… Before the war. I had dreams, I had friends. But it all fell apart. I became someone I didn’t even recognize.”

You took a step closer, your heart aching for him. “But you’re not that person anymore, Obito. I see you. The real you.”

He met your gaze, and for a moment, his eye softened. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never had someone look at me like that before.”

Weeks went by, and your bond with Obito continued to deepen, but there were still moments of hesitation. One night, you noticed that he seemed particularly distant during dinner. You weren’t going to let it go this time, not after everything you’d been through.

Afterward, as the two of you sat outside under the stars, you finally spoke.

“Obito, what’s going on?” you asked softly, your voice sincere. “You’ve been pulling away again.”

He sighed deeply, his gaze fixed on the sky. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this… ready for something like this with you.”

“Something like what?”

“A relationship. You deserve someone who can give you everything… I’m not sure I can be that person.”

You reached over, gently brushing your fingers against his. “I don’t need perfection, Obito. I need you. Just you.”

He looked at you, and for the first time, his eyes were completely open. No walls. No hesitations. “I’m scared of hurting you,” he confessed.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “I’m not asking for you to be perfect. I’m just asking for you to be here with me.”

He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting. “I’m still learning how to be… better. For you. But I’m trying.”

“I can wait,” you said, your voice unwavering. “As long as you’re trying, that’s all that matters.”

4. Building Trust, One Step at a Time

In the following weeks, your relationship with Obito grew more comfortable. You spent more time in the village together—doing mundane things like walking through the market, sharing small meals, and simply talking. But those moments, those quiet, normal moments, became your favorites.

One afternoon, you found him fixing his cloak by the training grounds. He looked up when he heard you approaching.

“Do you need something?” he asked, his usual guarded expression still there, but with a hint of warmth in his eyes.

“I wanted to thank you,” you said, stepping closer. “For letting me in. For trusting me.”

He blinked in surprise. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you replied. “But I think it’s important. I’m grateful for you, Obito. And for everything we’re building together.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. It was a small smile, but one that spoke volumes.

It was a quiet evening again, the two of you sitting side by side beneath the trees in the village. It felt different now, like the bond between you had solidified into something deeper, more meaningful.

Obito turned to you, his expression softer than usual. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

You looked at him, curious. “What is it?”

His voice faltered slightly, the nervousness evident. “Would… would you be willing to let me be your boyfriend?” He didn’t look away, his gaze unwavering despite the vulnerability in his words. “I’m not perfect, and I know I’m not always easy to be around, but I want to try. I want to be with you.”

Your heart swelled in your chest, and for a moment, you could hardly believe it. This was the same Obito who had once pushed you away, the same one who had been so afraid of letting anyone in.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice full of certainty. “I want that too.”

And just like that, everything shifted. Obito leaned in, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss—a promise of more to come.

✎ . . . If you liked this please leave a like, comment and reblog to support me and my works! <3

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aithusarosekiller · 7 months ago

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Concept: James who doesn't actually enjoy people being mean to him, he just strongly encourages it so he can go away and mull over it sadly for hours bc he's self-destructive. It's why he taunts other people, he likes the backlash from it. Severus is an easy target bc he's both volatile and scared, making him super fun to pick on with almost no consequences

BUT he prefers it when there's more of an emotional connection behind it- making Regulus an amazing target. Mainly because of all of that pent up hatred over Sirius but also that suppressed attraction to James. He's perfect for it, he gets the job done and doesn't realise he's doing it, he ends up projecting his own bitter insecurities onto James, and he clearly needs someone to let all his anger out on.

James' parents spent his entire childhood doting on him and telling him how much of a perfect miracle he was to the point where they accidentally made him incapable of channelling emotions like normal person (not their fault, just a tragic outcome)

He has a morbid curiosity with negative emotion to the point where he comes across as completely unfazed when people are mean to him because he just smiles, nods, and encourages it more (despite the fact he knows he'll be thinking about it for weeks)

Example:

Regulus- I hate you

James- mhm, tell me more

Regulus- you're arrogant

James- go on, give me more than that

Regulus- you're attention seeking, you think you're better than anyone else despite the fact your family doesn't belong in the sacred 28 or the muggle world, making you a complete loser who sticks out like a sore thumb

James- that all?

Regulus- you appear to have gotten the idea that you're completely untouchable because you have friends and fans but you aren't. I have both of those things and a hell of a lot more influence than you. You seem entitled to everything you see including people's time, energy, and love. I don't think you've ever been told no in your life, and you just don't understand that there is a world that exists apart from you and some people have larger problems than who the pathetic gryffindor chaser is planning to ask out to prom. You have never been anything more than a speck in the world and that is all you will ever be. People don't like you as a person, they like the idea of what they can get from you.

James, grinning, knowing he can mentally tear himself up over it later- yeah, that's perfect. Got all your self-loathing out, Reggie?

Regulus- *storms away*

#self-sabotage is his thing #james potter #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #regulus black

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razzle-n-dazzle · 1 year ago

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hello, friend!! i saw your adam hcs and i loveddd themmm!! i was hoping to request smth if that’s okay? could we get lucifer with a reader who also struggles with depression like he does (it’s mentioned in episode five if you didn’t know!!) and maybe reader had a practically rough week and gets home from work and just breaks down in tears, and luci find a way to cheer them up? either fem! or gn! reader if that’s chill, tysm for taking your time to consider this even if you don’t get to it!!

— 🪽anon

ᯓ★ "Give Your Corpse Some Smile Lines." Lucifer / Reader | Oneshot TW! Read at your own risk and comfortability! | talks about depression, suicidal topics/actions, overdosing topics/actions, reader breaking down, hurt to comfort, self destruction, abuse

ᯓ There are days and weeks, sometimes months and years, that prolonged like time, made it appear like it no longer moved and served a purpose. Like time was nothing but a feign idea that was made to torture everyone and anyone who dared think about it, who dared to calculate how it traveled and how long it took to pass a minute. And some days it made people want to break, and some day it made people want to kill other people, and some days it made people overjoyed, and some days it made people excited, and some days it made people nervous, and some days. . . It made you want to die.

ᯓ To be killed in the most brutal fashion known to man, to explode in a death either as silent as taking your own life in your own home or as bright and fantastic as the explosion of fire works. Time for you was never a friend and it continued to taunt you after you had died, overdosing on the pain medication you were prescribed after a horrible accident. Horrific! You had heard people call you, friends and family, after they saw the state of your decaying body after being rammed by a truck who lost control. Monstrous! None of them chose to stay around, none chose to help you when you were at your weakest and worst, when you could barely help yourself. And all you had done back then was help them! Was care for them! Be there for them at any time of the day whenever they needed, whenever they wanted, whenever they asked or called or texted or shouted or pleaded or-

ᯓ And it was a coward move, you were sure. Weak, many would call it, blasphemous and you were sure it was why you never got into Heaven despite having done everything in your power to be okay, to be the perfect person everyone wanted, to be good. But one night, when everything was moving too slow and no one seemed to blink twice at your presence, you would take your own life in silence. To overdose on your own pills, both praying it wouldn't work but gain the attention of someone yet also praying it would kill you and finally let you live in peace. In a world of black nights where you didn't have to open your eyes no longer, where time wouldn't be creeping over your shoulder, where nothing would hurt anymore because dammit. . . everything hurt.

ᯓ IT ALL FUCKING HURT.

ᯓ And then you ended in hell, and then you realized this would be your life . . . and then you realized you were still stuck with your worst enemy of all: Time. Forever stuck in an eternity after life, forever stuck here by yourself, forever being another face in the crowd or another person on the street for people to pass by and not think about twice. Someone. Just someone! Not even someone, no one. Just a shell, just a person decaying on the streets, decaying for all to see. A pitiful show.

ᯓ You could hardly remember when you met Lucifer; Maybe you were down on your luck one day and was eating cold Ramen out of the streets and he took pity to sit by you, to talk to you. Maybe it was when you were at a bar, downing another drink to forget the fact that you were chained down here, chained to your enemy, chained to your eternity of a never ending moment of the hands of time. Maybe you were working your minimum wage job to barely survive, or maybe you bumped into him. You memory hadn't always been good, party due to your own mental health and a constant flight or fight response, yet you had always knew life to be so bleak before you had met him. And then one day, everything was slightly a bit more okay. And slowly everything was a little more barrable; Even just slightly.

ᯓ And maybe a life can be handled in eternity, and you didn't have to be alone anymore . . .

ᯓ Yet, no matter how much anyone wished, love cannot fix all problems. Love can teach you how to heal, love can teach you how to live, love can teach you how to handle everything inside of you in a better manner than self destruction. But love cannot instantly fix everything wrong with you; You should have realized that sooner.

ᯓ You lived a life nothing short of a fairy tale for the last few months, living life alongside a partner who you could share the weight of the world with. Who felt comfortable enough to share the weight of the world with you. Where in the days you both laughed and played, pushing and pulling each other, peppering kissing on skin and longing ones on the lips. And at night you cuddled against each other, both with the fear of losing, both with longing, both just enjoying the company you now had, that you could now share. You've already shared tears, concerns, worries, troubles. You've both been vulnerable under the other's eyes, staining shirts under the other's careful and cradling hug, broken down and rushed out apologies. You've already both taken care of each other, took your time and held patience with each other and you both tried to heal the broken pieces of one another. Most would call it a disaster, a tragedy, yet for you both . . . it was like some sort of twisted hope, knowing you were no longer alone in your self deprecation. Knowing that even if either of you tried to self destruct everything around you, tried to gain that control that's slipping away, tried to push the other away, they would understand and be there. That in the end of the day you had someone to crawl to.

ᯓ Yet even with constant oxygen and wood, a fire can still grow dim in it's own silence and try to snuff itself out.

ᯓ This week had been long, it had dragged you by the heels and you could no longer put the energy to fight against it's slowing seconds. Working a minimum wage job, even after Lucifer had told you that you never had to again (yet you continued to do so for some sort of feeling of schedule and stability), that you hated and wished you could quite for a paycheck that wasn't even that high to withstand the abuse you had to. Lucifer constantly worried about you, about how the job affected you both physically and mentally. You often came home either drained or hurt, as costumers tended to get rather violent down in Hell. It was common to be stabbed during a shift and having to endure it until your shift was over. Effectively causing you to bleed out while still having to rep a costumer service smile. And the stabbing might not even be the worst part of everything; As you had to try many times to bite back any sort of emotion, ire and frustration and sorrow, as costumers yelled, screamed, tossed shit your way for a mistake you didn't even make. And yet it was your fault. It was always your fault and you couldn't do anything but stand there and take it, as your job would be on the line if you did anything other than stand there and take the anger and take the frustrations and the yelling and the stabbing; Being everyone's personal punching bag without any sort of composition.

ᯓ What was the point of it?

ᯓ The thought had came to you one day after you came home, slugging your shoes off your feet and tossing your keys onto the counter. Lucifer wasn't home, he usually was, yet you guessed he had something better to do than hear your sorrows of the day. You would want to do anything than hear about your sorrows as well, you couldn't blame him for trying to avoid you. So you dragged yourself to the bathroom, heavily sitting down upon the close lid of the toilet before sinking down some. A hand rested upon your stomach, the knife that pierced through your side slid in between your fingers like it didn't draw your blood out. Like it wasn't causing you pain; not even the worst pain in your life, just pain that poked and pricked and brought tears to the eyes, but you were no stranger to tears or to blood. You were no stranger to the bruises that covered your body from angry costumers, from the blisters that grew from harsher treatment, from the blood that seeped and stained. And maybe you should take care of that wound, but it was best to keep a knife into the wound than take it out; It stopped bleeding and you hadn't stained that much, you didn't think, and you were oh so tired so maybe. . .just a nap would help. It didn't have to be a long one, yet something in the back of your mind hoped it would be, and you leaned your head back against the back of the toilet. The light above gave out a buzz, showing it was working, sounding that it was on and here.

ᯓ Yet a nap sounded nice.

ᯓ "Honey! I'm home!" Lucifer shout, a cheerful laugh followed and a careful grin was stretched on his face as he tried to balance the bags of groceries that were in his arms; Trying to make his one round of bringing groceries in to work. He didn't want to drop a single one of them, "I'm sorry I took so long, yet I went to the store and wow! There were a lot of options for things that I was sure I would never make it out of there! Did you know that there's like. . ." Lucifer would pause to count his fingers, having successfully delivered the bags onto the counter without breaking anything, ". . .15 different brands of milk?! And they had like this Milk called Almond milk, where they apparently milk the almond and I don't know how they do that but-" Lucifer's voice fell flat as soon as he noticed you weren't around, at least, not around as usual. By now you would have sprung from the couch, or yelled at him from the bathroom that you were doing your business, or came from the bedroom to wrap him in a hug. Yet your presence was absent and it didn't allude Lucifer, at least, not many more. "H . . . honey?" He would call out again, this time with a more shaken voice and frowned eyebrows; His smile no longer held the confidence of a man who managed to do one round of bringing groceries in with 13 bags.

ᯓ And yet you didn't respond to his call, how could you when your own breath was so shallow your heart was speeding up, stressing, just to pump blood through your body; And Lucifer grew worried. It would triple upon seeing the mess you had left, a mess that hadn't caught his eye until now. . . Your shoes left lazily by the door, your keys stained with blood. Blood that streaked like a hand across the counter top and traveled inward, towards the bathroom and it's door that lingered tauntingly open. And instantly, Lucifer felt his mouth run dry and his feet speed towards the bathroom with nothing but horrible thoughts piling up in his head. You were hurt and you weren't answering his calls. You were hurt and you weren't doing anything to signal to him that you were okay. Are you okay? Are you dead? Oh god he hoped he didn't get to that bathroom door and see your dead body there, all stained and pale. Please don't be dead, please please please. . . "OH MY GOD!-" Lucifer hated to admit the way his body froze in horror by the doorway, one hand clinging onto the frame and the other shot up to cover his mouth. He hated the way his feet stuck to the ground like they were rooted, forcing him to look at your bleeding and barely breathing figure on the floor.

ᯓ And no, he didn't miss the way your blood was smeared on the toilet. He could never miss such a detail when your blood was the last thing he ever wanted to see seep out of your body and pool and stain everything around you.

ᯓ "Oh fuck! Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!" The words fell out of his lips, fell onto deaf ears, as he ripped his rooted feet off the ground and rushed over to you, to your body. He felt dazed, confused, unsure of himself all of a sudden. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? "Hey, don't be dead come on!-" He didn't realize he was rambling to himself as he kneeled down next to you, not minding the way your blood seeped and stained his white clothes. He shuffled around, looking for your wound, looking for something he could fix to help you! He was so panicked, and had to stich up your wounds so often, that the thought of calling a doctor didn't cross his mind. Lucifer was hesitant to touch you, but didn't want to hurt you, "Wound, wound wound! Where the fuck is your wound?!" He asked before spotting the knife that was jagging out your side. It was mostly covered by your body, as he had happened to kneel down on the opposite side of where your wound pierced in. "Oh fucking duh, it's where the knife is. Nice job Lucifer can't spot a fucking knife when your lover is bleeding out on the floor!- Shit wait I need to actually take care of that. Fuck! Where the hell is the first aid kit?!"

ᯓ To say Lucifer was freaking out during the whole process of taking out the knife, tossing it to the side to be picked up later, disinfecting your wound, trying to stitch it up with shaking hands, and wrapping you up. . . would be an understatement. He was terrified to hold you, afraid he might make the wound worse or he might put you in more pain, yet somehow managed to move you from the bathroom floor to the couch in the living room. He would have put you to bed, at least provided your body a little more comfort, yet he was afraid to leave your side. Afraid that if he took his eyes off of you that something might happen, that you might roll onto the wound and break the sticking, that you might just stop breathing as a whole and leave him alone.

ᯓ He tried calling Charlie to help, yet physicked himself out right before he was going to press the call button. He needed some sort of help, he couldn't go through this alone, yet he didn't want to put his daughter through this either. All he could really do was find himself sitting in front of the couch, head resting upon the cushion, watching your chest rise and fall with heavy eyes; Just to reassure himself you were still here, that you were still alive and you could wake up. Maybe tomorrow? Hopefully. Maybe he should bring you to a hospital. Either way he was here, waiting, hoping.

ᯓ Fuck . . . He didn't know what he would do if you didn't wake up. But you did! By some grace of god you had happened to wake up in the middle of the night, the day after Lucifer had found you. He hadn't been awake, and you were barely moving due to the pain that jabbed at your side. Though you noticed the weight that indented the couch by the edge, slightly turning your head to see Lucifer's crossed arms and nuzzled head into it; He was sleeping, leaning against the couch while sitting on the floor. Drowsy, tired, you glanced over at the couch, wondering why he was sitting down there instead of up here with you. When did you even get to the couch? And then you noticed how you were wearing some of his clothes, with the shirt pulled up to expose your wrapped chest, the bandages still a stained a little crimson red. And you frowned, eyes heavy, looking down at the wound and realizing, at least to some sort of extent, why he wasn't up here. You had scared him . . . A heavy sigh left your lips as you reached a hand out, shaking, as you leaned down into the cushions. Gently, you placed your hand on top of Lucifer's, trying to intertwin your fingers without waking him. If anything, by the way he looked, you were sure he just managed to fall asleep . . . and most likely passed out from exhaustion rather than willingly succumbing to slumber.

ᯓ Though feeling the sudden warmth on his hands, and being half-awake and half-asleep in general, Lucifer's eyes fluttered open despite being rather heavy. He felt heavy, he felt tired . . . yet his hand felt warm, causing his eyes to glance down and notice your hand on top of his. Your hand, your thumb rubbing against his. "Love?. . ." He would mumble out, hoping this wasn't a dream, as he gently raised his head. You noticed the way his eyes sagged a little, his eyelids clearly heavy with eyebags starting to form under his eyes. The frown that had been on his face, tugged down out of pain, began, sluggishly, to tug into a warm smile. "You're awake. . . how are you feeling, do you need anything?" The way his voice croaked, clearly tired and clearly worn from tired and sobbing. His disheveled look, the way his hair was more frazzled than normal and the way his clothes were stained. It all made you upset; Not at him, no, you could never be upset at Lucifer. You were upset at yourself. For causing him so much pain, for making him probably so worried and panicked with the crawling thoughts of your death if he dared to ever take his eyes off of you.

ᯓ Lucifer, waiting for your answer, would gently bring your hand up to his cheek. He had missed your warmth, you had been so cold when he touched you last to move you from the tile of the bathroom floor to the plush cushions of the couch. He was glad that the warmth had returned to body, that he was able to watch your eyes sparkle in the dim lights that flooded in from the kitchen stove hood.

ᯓ His eyes were so gentle, his smile was so genuine, and all you managed to weakly croak out was a, "I'm sorry." And you felt bad feeling the warm tears starting to clump up in your eyes again and spill over. And you felt horrible as Lucifer shot awake, seeing your tears through the light of the kitchen, and rushed to bring his free hand up to your cheek to wipe away your tears. "I'm so sorry Lucifer I. . ." You would choked out, unsure what else to say. How else could you apologize to Lucifer when you knew that you had laid there, on the toilet, with the intention to hopefully die. And you didn't know how to tell Lucifer that to his face, especially when you've never had to tell anyone who's gotten as close to you as Lucifer has that you've thought about killing yourself. That you tried to plan it out in your shared home. Where you knew they would find you. Where you knew. . . "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're-" Lucifer paused for a second, glancing down at the side of your stomach. He had to reassure himself that you were alright before trying to comfort you, "-okay. You're okay now!" Lucifer grinned towards you, a little nervous at first before it fused out into more worry. "You're awake and you're not dying and it's okay! We can. . . talk about it all later okay? Just focus on getting better."

ᯓ You both would sit there in a comfortable, slightly-comfortable, silence as Lucifer stared up at you, and you stared back down at him. His hand, after having cleared your tears, hand reached up to play with your hair, trying to coax you back to sleep. Even when you knew he needed sleep himself, with the way his heavy eyes closed for long periods of time before opening again to meet mine. "Come here. . ." You would mumble, trying to reach for Lucifer, wanting to feel his warmth against yours. He was hesitant to do so, you could tell by the way his eyebrows scrunched upward and the frown that tugged on his lips. It took a while to coax him onto the couch, where even then he gingerly laid on his side and wrapped his arms cautiously a safe place above your bandages and nuzzled his head between the crook of your neck. You were able to play with his hair this time, give him a soft peck on the forehead. A silent apology for all the pain he had to endure because of you without you there to help, without the support he had shown you countless of times without fail.

ᯓ "I. . ." Lucifer's voice warily mumbled out, ". . .thought I was going to lose you." And the way his voice cracked broke your heart into a million pieces. And the only pathetic response you could muster back to him was a soft, shaken, "I'm sorry." As tears silently began to fall down your cheeks, and you could feel the silent tears that fell from Lucifer's eyes stain your neck. "I'm. . . so, so sorry. . ." "It's okay. . ." Lucifer would hug you a little tighter, "We'll work through it together, you're not going to lose me that easily, even if-" He would pause, choking out a bit of laughter between his tears, "-you try yourself."

ᯓ Oh. . . he knew. . .

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souliebird · 1 year ago

Text

[[and then I met you || ch. 12||

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

pt: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11

Words: 5k

banner thanks to the wonderful @theradioactivespidergwen

Even in the middle of the night, the heat of summer in Hell's Kitchen is oppressive. It doesn't help that there is a storm rolling in and it is so humid Matt feels like he's breathing in water. Sweat is pouring off of him and he's glad he opted out of wearing his red armor - he has the feeling he would have overheated within an hour.

The only good thing about it pushing eighty degrees at two am is that only people that have to be out are out. Even though it is Saturday night/ Sunday morning, the streets are empty and Matt has only encountered people on their way back home. He hasn't even needed to scare off any muggers or stop any break ins. In fact, all he has really done all night is track people to make sure they got to their destinations safely.

There was a small surge of people around midnight coming off the trains and they had been rowdy, but hadn't caused any problems. Matt quickly worked out they were part of the protesters who have been crowding outside the courthouse for the past few days and deemed they were not a threat to his beloved city.

He's spoken to a few of them while at the courthouse and he fully supports their cause and their right to protest. Admittedly, Matt is not one to stay on top of current events, but he thinks it is suspicious that the government will not reveal what caused the massive explosion in Connecticut. It's been weeks but instead of answers, it feels like everything about the incident is being shoved under the rug and Matt knows if it was closer to home, Karen would be chomping at the bit to investigate.

Over six hundred people lost their lives and no one is being brought to justice for it. They are saying it was an attack, but no one is claiming ownership or being blamed for the destruction. It makes him angry, and though this isn't his fight, he'll do his part protecting the voices in his community who demand the truth.

Tonight, it seems like his community is safe and Matt will be able to get more than two hours of sleep before he needs to go to Mass. He needs to do a final pass around the neighborhood before he turns in for the night, so he pushes himself up from where he has been crouching like a gargoyle and stretches his limbs. His knees pop and his back screams at him and he decides that despite the heat, he will take a scorching shower to soothe his muscles. He may not have gotten into any big fights the past few nights, but that doesn't matter to his body - it's always aching and throbbing in one way or another.

He pulls his mask down over his face, hating how it instantly makes his forehead sticky and wet, and starts his loop.

He starts at the top of 10th and weaves across and down until he passes Foggy and Marci’s apartment. He pauses across the street and crouches down as he tunes his ears to their bedroom. They are both in a deep sleep and there is no threat he can detect, but still he stays for a minute just to be sure. Daredevil may have complicated his best friend's life, but Foggy has never had trouble making his own enemies. He may not be a vigilante, but his sense of justice is just as strong as Matt's and that has caused people to come at him violently. Someone breaking in is not out of the question.

Marci has her own enemies but if anyone ever tries to come after her, well, Matt will pray for their soul because not even he is that self-destructive. She once made a joke about becoming a crime lord and he still has the occasional nightmare over it.

Matt scans the surrounding buildings for any problems once more before he starts off towards Karen's place. She was still awake when he last passed her building and the odds of her still being up are pretty even. He wouldn't be surprised to find her typing away at some article - stirring up the pot as always. He loves her for that personality trait, even if it mentally puts him through the ringer with worry over her - he supposes it is nothing compared to what he does to her.

But luckily, for the collective sanity of Nelson, Murdock, and Page, more people care about Karen's well-being than care about Matt's.

He knows she has Jessica's number on speed dial - letting them meet is one of his greatest regrets in life. He is well aware of the cameras set up by Frank's computer friend and while the Marine is out of town, he's left her with another layer of protection - his dog Max.

Not that Karen can't take care of herself.

If she and Marci teamed up to take over Manhattan, Matt doesn't know if he could stop them.

Maybe he'll tell her that for her birthday - it will make a better gift than anything he'd be able to think of.

Matt lands on the roof of Karen's building, relieved to find she has gone to sleep since he last checked on her. She must have let the dog get in bed with her, because it's snoring is making it hard for him to tune into her without concentration. She's safe and seemingly happy, so he lingers only a moment before resuming the last dredges of his patrol.

He heads down to the docks next. There are people there, but they are meant to be - prepping for the fish markets and early morning cargo ships. These are good, hard working men who don't dabble in things that would make the Devil hunt them. In fact, he's got a good contact in one of the fish mongers, who will let him know if there's been anything suspicious in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn't need to check in now, as there have been no whispers as of late, and he disappears back into the shadows of the city to head towards Clinton Church.

Matt's stomach turns as he gets closer to where he grew up. His feelings about the location and the people there have been a ridiculous rollercoaster since he found out he was a father.

He deeply misses Father Lantom. Despite what everyone has told him, he firmly blames himself for the man's death and does not understand why God made that choice. It hurts that he isn't here and Matt can barely bring himself to go into the church - he's only started to re-attend Mass since learning about Minnie to seek guidance from God about this new path. He'd give anything to be able to speak to the man who mentored him in life - to hear what he would say about Matt having a daughter.

It isn't that Matt dislikes the new priest - he just doesn't like him. He's resistant to change and it should be Father Lantom giving Communion and taking his Confession.

It should be Father Lantom who Baptizes Minnie, not this man Matt has never even spoken with.

Maggie is trying to get Matt to interact with the man, but his relationship with her is going through a rocky patch and he hasn't actually spoken with her in about two weeks. She hasn't done anything wrong - he is just having an internal crisis over how learning he is a parent changed him and his abandonment issues. He's spent a lot of time in reflection and understands why she left him and his father, but he now has a renewed anger at her for not telling him the truth sooner.

Did she not love him like he loves Minnie? Was it something he did wrong?

Will she love Minnie like she loved Matt? He trusts her to care for his daughter, but will she love her granddaughter the way she deserves to be loved?

Everything is made more complicated over how guilty he is over having these feelings and so, instead of talking to his mother, he's been avoiding her. He knows he needs to eventually address it, but for the moment Maggie is none the wiser about his mini-me.

He'll tell her after he tells you about her.

It is something he needs to do still - it just hasn't come up yet. Most of your conversations center around Minnie and you are still getting to know each other. You've shared few stories about your childhood - mostly about school - and Matt isn't so sure how your anxiety will handle Maggie. His mother is a good person, but she is a lot and he knows you have your own parent issues.

Like at the docks, there are people active at the Church. A few homeless patrons are seeking shelter before the rain and there is a nun tending to their needs. The kids are safely tucked into bed, and while it sounds like a few are having nightmares, there is nothing he can do for them at the moment.

If they wake and cry out, he prays their calls are answered.

Matt practically flees the sacred grounds and his anxiety only settles once he crosses into Chelsea.

As he runs, he hones his senses to the apartment building you live in. It is easy for him to lock onto - he's already spent countless hours perched on the boundaries of the two neighborhoods listening to you and Minnie sleep. He knows it is creepy, but he cannot help himself.

Minnie’s laugh is his new favorite sound, and not far behind it is your heartbeat. Much like his daughter, he's found himself focusing on it when things get too much and it is the perfect way to end patrols - winding down while you and Mouse dream.

You mumble in your sleep and it is the most endearing thing he's ever encountered. He likes to respond to your strange statements, imagining he's right there in bed with you. There has been a recurring theme of parrots and he is thinking that the bird exhibit will be off limits during Minnie’s birthday trip to the zoo, based on what he's heard.

But it isn't you mumbling in your apartment tonight - it's Minnie.

His daughter is awake and has moved from the bedroom to the living room. The television is on - playing what he thinks is Sesame Street - and she seems to be fussing with a toy. Context clues tell him she's playing with a doll or stuffed animal - dress up is one of her favorite games and he knows it is one of her Quiet Games.

“Nexts,” she says sweetly to her toy, “we gotta do your make ups.”

Matt decides to wait until he's landed on the roof before he makes her aware of his presence. He kneels and takes a moment to center himself, taking a deep breath to do so. He focuses on calming the Devil in his chest - this is the first time he's caught Minnie awake in the middle of the night and he needs to address it as Matt and not Daredevil.

He doesn't want to scare her, after all. She'll probably be very confused as to why he's there and being scared won't help anything.

“Minnie, sweetheart, can you hear me?” He asks, keeping his voice soft as possible as he does.

To her credit, she doesn't start at all. It takes her a moment to process, but then she questions, “Daddy?”

The name makes his heart soar - everytime she says it, he breaks into the biggest smile. It is the sweetest sound and the fact she switched to calling him that all on her own means the world to him.

She wants him to be her Daddy.

“Yeah, sweetheart, it's me. What are you doing awake?” he questions, smiling as he hears her get up and start to walk around. He wonders if she is looking for him and his guess is confirmed when he hears her start lifting things up to look under them.

“I'm watching Cookie Monsters,” she replies and Matt chuckles. He thinks it is so adorable she is also so direct with her answers. She always answers exactly what is asked.

“I don't think it is time for Cookie Monster, Mouse. I think it's sleep time. Mommy is sleeping.”

You are in a deep sleep, your breathing slow and even. He can tell you've been exhausted lately and probably need the sleep. More than once he's found you awake during his patrols. If Minnie tried to wake you up, you probably weren't responsive and she had left you to sleep.

She peters her way back to in front of the television and plops back down after checking under the dining table. Matt waits for her to respond, knowing sometimes it takes her time to form what she wants to say.

“I can't sleep,” she mumbles, upset clear in her voice, “there's a monster.”

The Devil flares up inside of him and he instantly scans the area for a threat. There are few people awake in the area and he focuses in on them - none of them appear to be any sort of danger to his daughter. At the moment.

But they could have been earlier. They could have woken her up by doing something horrible. A mugging. Domestic violence. Something worse.

He curls his lip into a snarl.

He'll find whoever upset his daughter and drive them from his city. The state.

It's a miracle he manages to keep his voice calm and gentle, “A monster?”

“A monster,” she confirms sadly. Her breathing becomes muffled and Matt figures she has shoved her hand into her mouth to self-comfort.

“Can you tell Daddy about the monster?”

She sucks on her fingers and with her free hand, pulls her toy into her lap. He wants to push her to tell him, but he knows he can't. She's not a witness or a suspect - she's his daughter trying her best. He can tell she wants to answer, he just needs to be patient.

“He ran really fast,” Minnie starts to say, barely taking her hand out of her mouth to do so, “and went eek-eek-eek and smelled like poopy-butt.”

The words baffle him and Matt knits his brows - this monster was close enough for Minnie to smell him? The monster in his chest snarls and he has to fight to keep his composure. He knows Minnie is locked onto him and if he lets his rage show, she will know and she will get scared.

He needs to protect his daughter. He needs to believe God will not test him in this.

“Minnie, sweetie, can you tell Daddy where the monster is?”

Her little head turns up to face exactly where he is standing, asking in a small voice, “are you gonna fight him?”

The Devil roars ‘yes’, but the Father in him says, “Do you want me to?”

“Mommy scares him away,” she advises hesitantly. He can practically feel the nerves radiating off of her and it makes him clench his fist.

Matt doesn't understand. This has happened before?

Then it beams him in the head like a baseball and Matt feels like a complete idiot.

Minnie is a toddler. Her monsters are shadows, creaky pipes, and the four legged creatures in the city. Those are things that no longer register on Matt's radar but she hasn't learned to tune them out yet. Of course she would be scared of those things - Matt was scared of those things when he first got his senses and he was much older than Minnie at the time.

He remembers his first phone call with you and how it ended - something about Monster Repellent.

“I can go scare off the monster - would you like that?” he asks, the Devil in him settling down now that he knows no one is trying to hurt his little girl.

He doesn't know if it's Minnie sensing his shift in mood or if she didn't want him to fight the monster and scaring it away is what she wants, but she untenses her shoulders and her hand comes out of her mouth.

“You'll scare him away?” She asks after hugging her toy right to her chest.

“I'll scare him away,” he quickly promises.

“He smells like poopy-butt,” she repeats and Matt wonders if she is making a stinky face. That is something you tell him he and Minnie share - a certain curl of their lips when they find something unappealing.

“That's okay, sweetie, I'll make him go smell bad somewhere else. He won't bother you,” he says. “Can you tell me where he went and I'll go chase him away.”

Finally, she points down towards the alleyway between her building and the neighboring one and adds, “He can climb walls. Like Spidey-Man.”

Matt resists the urge to huff over the mention of the other vigilante. He has met the kid twice before and his biggest take, besides it was a kid under the mask and that had been its own thing, was that he needed to learn how to throw a proper punch. It confirmed for him all that Avengers training and showboating really meant nothing and they really were better off fighting aliens and wizards than helping out real people.

“Don't worry, Mouse, I can climb the walls, too.” He's definitely letting his Pride show through, but if he can't show off for his daughter, who can he show off for?

He makes a quick map in his head, then goes to the edge of the roof. Minnie’s head is still angled up towards him and she ‘watches’ as he parkours down to street level. If he adds a few unnecessary flips, well, that is no one's business but his own.

Once he is on the pavement, he opens his senses to the things he normally blocks out. The city becomes far more lively around him - cats, raccoons, birds, dogs, all sorts of bugs and things he doesn't like to think about. There's yowling and chirps and suddenly so much more movement, most of it under his feet.

Mouse’s monster is easy to find. It is a disgustingly large rat that has built a nest of trash and grime under a dumpster. The thing has a respiratory infection, which has it wheezing and rattling and he very much understands why Minnie was scared of it. It is not a pleasant sound and the infection is not at all helping how the creature smells. Animals smell at the best of times, but this rat clearly enjoys the sewers and ‘poopy-butt’ doesn't begin to cover how rancid it is.

Matt starts to work out what he needs to do to make sure this sick rodent stays far away from his family. If it has a nest, it will come back, so he needs to destroy that - without damaging the animal. He doesn't have the heart to actually hurt the thing.

He pulls out his billy clubs and snaps them together to make a bo staff, then moves to crouch in front of the dumpster. “Okay, sir, I'm here to evict you,” he says, more for Minnie’s benefit than anything. “You gotta go.”

He jabs at the nest of wet cardboard and almost immediately, the rat scurries out and hisses at him. It snaps its jaws at him a few times instead of running away and Matt huffs at the display, turning his staff towards the creature and swatting at it. “Get out of here.” To its credit, it tries to fight him, biting at his billy clubs and screeching at him, but after a few good thwacks to its side, it realizes it has no chance against him and dashes toward a nearby grate.

He listens to it go down into some pipes and once it's out of range, he tilts his head up towards Minnie, a smile starting to form in his lips, “The monster has been vanquished, my princess.”

His words make her giggle and he can't help but chuckle as well. He hears her push up into standing and she toddles towards the window. There's a table in front of it, so he knows she can't see out of it, but he knows she's trying to find him.

“He's not gonna come back?” She questions and in response he starts to break up the nest. He spreads the trash around, knocking things down and away. It's not a big very big rat den, relying heavily on the dumpster.

“He's not, he's gonna go find a new home,” he promises as he works, and once he's satisfied with his destruction, he collapses his billy clubs and holsters them. He pushes up into standing and steps away from the trash can.

“Far away?” Minnie asks and his heart breaks for her. The stupid animal must have terrified her.

“Very, very far away.”

He locates the fire escape and starts to scale it back up to your apartment floor. As he does, he starts closing off his senses again. Things begin to fade into the background - the things he will need to start teaching Minnie. She's got a good handle on it already, having learned to function with it instead of needing to adapt.

He's so proud. So unbelievably proud.

She's such a good and pure child. She always wants to help and asks about other people. She may be shy, but she's empathetic.

You've taught her well.

Matt understands how Minnie is a mini-him in her abilities and mannerisms due to those abilities, but her sweet nature is from you.

He knows he's gone for you.

Foggy has pointed it out. Karen has pointed it out. God has smacked him in the face with signs.

His realization moment was hearing a man purchasing an engagement ring for a woman who shared your name. He had gotten so furiously jealous he had to go take it out on the punching bag.

Foggy laughed so hard at him.

He doesn't think you noticed at all. It is nothing against you, he completely understands. You are like him - you don't think you deserve love. You had been painfully shy your first night together, as well, and he had been charmed by it.

He's angry at himself for letting you be a one night stand.

He should have been there when you needed him most.

He's not going to fuck that up again.

He pulls off his mask before making a show off popping up in front of your window and Minnie dissolves into giggles.

“Hi, Daddy!” She waves at him and he can tell she is absolutely beaming. He eagerly waves back and he knows he's matching her smile.

“Hi, Mouse.”

“Why are you outside?”

He's planned for this. He has discussed this with Foggy and Karen at length. He did the unthinkable - he asked Frank - who apparently knew who Minnie was before either Foggy or Karen did. They had attacked the question from all sides. As the firm. As friends. As parents.

They couldn't lie to Minnie. Matt can see the signs she's picking up on what different heart beats mean. She's going to know and there's nothing they can do to hide it. She can hear all of Hell’s Kitchen just as well as he can. It may not happen until she's older, but she'll figure it out.

So, he's not going to lie to her. He thinks you would approve. You don't like lying to her - you soften the truth into something she can comprehend. He's going to follow your lead.

“I'm working,” Matt answers, crouching on the rails and resting his wrists on his knees. He's suddenly very glad he had a very boring night. “What are you doing inside?”

Mouse accepts the answer and hugs her toy to her chest, swaying side to side “I'm talking to you.”

He laughs at her utter sweetness. She giggles along with him.

He gives a fond shake of his lead, then leans forward so she can see him a bit better, “What should you be doing, sweetheart?”

She scrunches up her face as she thinks, then she falls into a pout, “Sleeping.”

“Yeah, you should be sleeping. You're going to be tired tomorrow. It's not going to be fun,” he gently warns. He knows it isn't her fault, but he knows it will eventually help her learn to push those noises to the background.

“Okay, I'll go bed. I gotta clean up first. Mommy says …Mommy says don't leave it until morning. You'll make morning you sad. Be nice to morning you,” she recites, patting her hands against her stuffed animal - it's not Scooby or Pig. (He doesn't know this one. His best guess is it's a Raggedy-Anne type princess doll. His little girl loves princesses - no specific one, just the concept and aesthetic.)

He loves the values you are instilling in her. He's going to steal this mantra and tell it to Foggy and Karen.

“Okay. I'll keep watch for any monsters,” he tells her. This is one of the reasons he wants her to know the truth. He wants her to know her Daddy will protect her from all of the monsters.

“Okay. Thank you. Love you!” She chants, then turns away.

“I love you, too, Mouse. So much.”

And he will tell her every chance he gets.

She carefully walks back to where she had been sitting and turns off the television, then goes to put her toys away. Like always, she's very methodical about what she does. He could spend hours watching her play. She fascinates him. She picks up one toy at a time and tells it good night as she puts it back into her toy chest.

She doesn't have much to clean up and when she finishes, she turns to face him.

“Will you tuck me in? Please? Thank you?” Minnie asks like he can say no.

“Of course, my love. Are you all ready for bed?” He questions as he hops down onto the fire escape - one of the screws holding it together shakes and he decides he'll come back another night with a wrench to tighten everything up.

“All ready!” she confirms and he can tell she's watching him with great curiosity.

He begins to run his fingers over the edges of the window, searching for a way in. You certainly don't make it easy - you invested in apartment security and it takes him a moment to disable it. He's careful as he slides the window up and pops out the screen. He slips into the apartment, then quickly closes the window behind him, leaving the screen on the floor.

Minnie has the decency to wait until that moment to run to him with open arms. Matt scoops her up, swinging her a little before putting her on his hip and once she is settled, he leans down to press his forehead to hers.

“We have to be quiet, okay? We can't wake up, Mommy,” he tells her and she quickly nods in understanding.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you wake up and find him in your home - but luckily you are still in a deep sleep. As long as Minnie keeps calm, you should stay lost in Dreamland.

He kisses her forehead then starts towards the bedroom. She returns the affection, planting a big kiss on his cheek before she gently smacks him in the face with her doll with a quiet, “mwah!” Then, she flops against his shoulder, using him as a pillow.

He has to fight back a pleased huff - his little angel is so sweet. He'll never get sick of getting kisses from her toys - it's so loving and innocent and he is greedy for any and all affection.

Your bedroom is a good twenty degrees cooler than the rest of the apartment - there's a fan going and accompanying it is a little window unit blowing in cold air. It feels like Heaven in the blistering heat that is the rest of the city. The chill seems to suck the consciousness from Mouse - she gives a big dramatic yawn, smacking her lips against his neck. Her body slumps into him and he rubs her back encouragingly.

He crosses the room carefully, hyper aware of any toys that may have found their way to the floor post-bedtime. It absolutely breaks his heart to have to pull her away from him and she does try to stay clinging to him - not fighting him just resistant - but she ends up in her bed and under her covers. He doesn't know if he would have had the strength to force her to let go if she really did want to stay in his arms.

He helps her adjust her sleeping headband so it is around her eyes and ears, then kisses her cheek one final time, “ready for sleep?”

The response is a barely there nod and Matt can't help but feel so much love for his daughter. Being able to conk right out as soon as she's comfortable shows how much she trusts him. His little girl is always so wary and subtly alert.

He's going to cherish this moment forever.

“Love you, Mouse.” He whispers.

“Luvo, Daffy,” is what it sounds like she says as she rolls to bury her face into her pillow. A moment later she is snoring.

Matt allows a few tears to fall before wiping them away and turning his attention to you. You have nested yourself under your blankets, breath hitching every so often. He's learned over time from various people this usually means bad dreams - not nightmares but things that can leave you shaken.

He doesn't dare move closer to try to soothe you with touch - that would certainly wake you up.

Instead, he promises, “I'll chase all your monsters away, too.”

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#soulie writes #fanfiction #daredevil #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #and then i met you

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