#he can handle anything as long as what he cares about is safe

[221beeeeeee]

Angsty post-Show Johnlock one shot🔎🫶🏻

Tldr- john moves back to Baker street with Rosie. Life returns to “normal”. Sherlock puts himself in danger as per usual, pissing off a grieving Watson. John angrily kisses him. Uhuh what are we?

John moves back into Baker Street without a word. There’s no dramatic declaration, no discussion, no moment of decision. It just happens. One night, he falls asleep on the sofa after a case, too exhausted to make it back to his own flat. Then it’s two nights. Then his old room is mysteriously clear of dust, the sheets changed, his things tucked neatly into place as if they’d never left. His mug appears next to Sherlock’s in the mornings. Rosie’s toys end up in the corners of the sitting room, as much a part of 221B as the skull on the mantle or the bullet holes in the wall.

Sherlock never asks. Then again, he never had to.

Instead, he adjusts. He makes sure the fridge is stocked with milk. He folds John’s jumpers over the armrest instead of letting them pile on the floor. He learns how to hold Rosie without making it look like a conscious decision.

Neither of them acknowledges the shift, but it settles between them, something unspoken and solid.

John tells himself he’s just getting used to things again. That’s all. That’s why he watches Sherlock too long when he’s thinking. Why his eyes trace the way Sherlock’s fingers move, the way his mouth tightens in concentration. Why he catches himself cataloguing the small, unconscious ways Sherlock has changed since the fall.

Sherlock pretends not to notice. He’s good at pretending. At ignoring the way John leans against the kitchen counter in the mornings, sipping his tea, watching him like he’s measuring something. He doesn’t let his voice falter when John stands too close, doesn’t allow himself to react when John’s hand lingers just a second longer than it should.

Nothing changes. But everything changes.

Then comes the case.

Sherlock is reckless. He always is. But this time is different.

This time, John watches him step into danger like he has nothing to lose. Like he’s still the man he was before the fall, before Mary, before Rosie before John came back.

And John snaps.

The moment they’re safe, the moment the adrenaline crashes through him, John rounds on him.

"What the hell was that?!" His voice shakes. His hands shake. His whole body is still thrumming with the aftershock of almost losing him.

Sherlock blinks at him, expression infuriatingly blank. “I handled it.”

John laughs. It’s bitter, hollow. “Handled it? Handled it? You nearly got yourself killed, Sherlock!”

Sherlock tilts his head, unreadable as ever. “It wasn’t even”

John shoves him. Not playfully, not lightly. Just enough. Enough to make him feel it.

"You don’t get to do that.” John’s voice is hoarse now, rough with something dangerous curling at the edges. “Not anymore. Not after everything. You don’t” He cuts himself off, breathing hard, hands clenching into fists.

Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t react. Just watches.

Waiting.

John exhales sharply, fists still curled tight. Then, before he even thinks, before he can stop himself,

He grabs Sherlock’s coat and pulls him in.

The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t careful. It’s furious, desperate; you absolute bastard, don’t you dare leave me.

Sherlock doesn’t react at first. Just lets it happen. His hands don’t move. His body doesn’t lean forward or away.

John pulls back first, breathless, his hand still gripping the front of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Just stares, wide-eyed, lips parted like he’s about to speak but can’t seem to find the words.

John’s jaw clenches. His hand twitches where it still rests against Sherlock’s chest before he abruptly lets go, shoving Sherlock back a step.

Then he turns sharply on his heel and strides toward the curb.

Sherlock doesn’t follow at first. He stands there, frozen, eyes still locked on John like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him. His hand lifts slowly, almost unconsciously, pressing to the spot where John’s mouth had been just seconds ago. His fingers curl against his skin, like he can still feel it.

John raises an arm. A cab slows, tires hissing against the wet pavement. He wrenches the door open before turning back toward Sherlock, his voice low but sharp.

"Get in the cab."

Sherlock swallows, still unmoving, still wide-eyed, still standing there like a child caught red-handed.

John’s fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks. Breathes in. Exhales. Then, finally, finally, he moves, stepping forward, lowering himself into the cab without a word.

John follows, slamming the door shut behind them. The cab pulls away, and neither of them look at each other.

The cab is silent except for the sound of John’s heavy breathing, still sharp at the edges, still rough with everything he isn’t saying. His hand rests on the seat between them, fingers curled loosely, like he hasn’t quite decided if he’s clenching a fist or letting go.

Sherlock is still. Too still. Pressed into the corner of the seat like he’s trying to disappear into it, like a child waiting to be scolded. His hands are in his lap, his coat pulled tight around him. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t explain, doesn’t defend himself.

Then, finally, softly, hesitantly—“I’m sorry.”

John exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at Sherlock, just keeps staring ahead, his body still humming with anger, with panic, with the fear that hasn’t left him yet.

And then Sherlock moves.

Slow. Careful. His hand lifts from where it’s curled in his lap, hovering for a moment, hesitant, before he finally lets it settle, just barely, on top of John’s.

Not holding. Not gripping. Just resting.

The tips of his first two fingers brush against John’s knuckles, a ghost of a touch, featherlight and barely there.

A silent apology.

John doesn’t react. Not at first. His breathing is still too heavy, his pulse still too fast.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Sherlock stays where he is, unmoving, waiting.

Then, slowly, John shifts. His fingers flex, hesitating for just a second before his palm turns upward, meeting Sherlock’s touch. Their fingers brush, then intertwine, warm and solid between them.

Sherlock doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. Just lets it happen and John squeezes his hand as a silent,”I accept your apology”

The rest of the cab ride home is silent

[distant-screaming]

nueng loves so so much. god. he has his walls up high, so high, terrified of caring and being hurt but at the same time he falls in love so easily. so hard. with everything he has. he loves and loves and he does his best to protect those he loves. it's not that he's unloved - not quite, not fully - but it's that he's so cautious with love that when he does get it in the form of a boy, sunrise pretty and salty like the ocean air, he does everything in his power and then some more to keep that boy safe. he's willing to give up everything he has just for a chance to keep palm safe, even his own love, and - we always talk about how insane palm is, how he's so self sacrifical (and he is), but he has nothing to lose except nueng. on the other hand, nueng is willing to sign over whatever the hell uncle kit wants without hesitation, give up all his executive power, it doesn't matter, just - as long as palm is safe.

[mostly-imagines]

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

��I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing, 

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague

[dollishmehrayan]

BATBOYS TOXIC TRAITS / RED FLAGS + GREEN FLAGS ── .✦

a/n: the thing is, they all aren’t like problematic when it comes to relationships but they do have some things and flaws which when heard sound “oh okay that’s fine” but may be like super annoying in a irl relationship also this was a request by anon (here)! (Tags: batboys x reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Chronic People-Pleaser: Will prioritize everyone’s needs over his own (or yours), leading to burnout… and you having to remind him you exist.

Flirty by Nature: He’s not trying to flirt… it just happens. That waitress? Nope, not on purpose, but yeah, you’ll roll your eyes a lot.

Hero Complex: He always has to “save” people, including you, even when you’re perfectly fine handling it yourself. “I got it, babe.” No, you don’t, Dick.

GREEN FLAGS:

Emotionally Intelligent: He can read your mood like a book and knows exactly how to make you smile (with pancakes shaped like hearts).

Physical Affection Expert: Hugs, cuddles, forehead kisses—you’re basically his personal teddy bear.

Supportive King: He’s your biggest cheerleader, hyping you up in the most genuine, heartfelt ways. “That’s my girl.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Anger Issues: He’ll throw hands for you at the slightest provocation. Guy looks at you wrong? Jason’s already removing his jacket.

Emotionally Guarded: Good luck getting him to open up. He’s more likely to tell you his deepest fears after you’ve fallen asleep.

Reckless Behavior: He’ll drag you into the most insane situations and act like it’s no big deal. “What do you mean this is dangerous? It’s fine.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Loyal to a Fault: He’ll defend you with his life, no questions asked. “You mess with her, you mess with me.”

Soft Romantic: Beneath the tough exterior, he’s writing you sweet notes and remembering the little things, like how you take your coffee.

Protective (in a good way): He won’t smother you, but he’ll make sure you always feel safe, even if it’s just crossing the street.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Workaholic: He’ll forget to eat, sleep, and sometimes text you back because “the case was just getting good!”

Overthinks Everything: Spends hours analyzing your last text to figure out if you were mad or just tired. “Was that period passive-aggressive?”

Terrible Self-Care: You’ll have to force him to drink water and go to bed like a mom with a rebellious child.

GREEN FLAGS:

Incredibly Thoughtful: He remembers every detail about you, from your favorite flower to that obscure hobby you mentioned once.

Adorably Awkward: His shy smiles and fumbling over words when you flirt back are endlessly endearing.

Problem Solver: He’ll find solutions to all your problems, from fixing your computer to making your bad day better with tea and soft music.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Insanely Jealous: He glares daggers at anyone who looks at you too long. “Why is he breathing near you?”

Judgmental: He might critique your taste in music, books, or anything else with his usual bluntness. “This… is what you listen to?”

Control Freak: He likes things done a certain way and will try to “help” you by micromanaging your life.

GREEN FLAGS:

Devoted Partner: Once he’s in, he’s all in. You’ll never doubt his commitment because he’s always showing up for you.

Loyal Beyond Measure: He’ll defend your honor to anyone, even Bruce. “She’s perfect, Father. You simply lack taste.”

Surprisingly Gentle: Despite his tough exterior, he has a soft side that only you get to see, like the way he pets animals—or you—so tenderly.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Emotionally Repressed: He’s basically a human brick wall when it comes to expressing his feelings. “I’m… fine.” No, Bruce, you’re not.

Work Comes First: He’ll disappear into the Batcave for days unless you drag him out by the cape which becomes quickly annoying.

Overprotective: He’ll want to track your every move, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he worries too much. “It’s for your safety.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Quietly Romantic: He may not be overly expressive, but he’ll show love through subtle gestures—like a bouquet of your favorite flowers left on the table.

Ultimate Provider: He makes sure you never want for anything, whether it’s emotional support or physical comfort.

Unshakable Devotion: Once you’ve captured his heart, he’s yours forever. There’s no halfway with Bruce—he’s in it for the long haul.

[pucksandpower]

La Regina

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Charles Leclerc x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: a girl raised at her father’s knee goes from rising star to princess to queen (or in which becoming a legend runs in the Schumacher family)

You bounce excitedly in the passenger seat of your papa’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the karting track. At 5-years-old, you’re too young to race officially, but he promised to let you drive some practice laps after the scheduled competition today.

“Remember, Maus, listen closely to the instructors and stay safe out there,” Michael says, ruffling your hair affectionately before getting out.

You scramble out after him, having to jog to keep up with his long strides across the parking lot. You reach to take his hand, but freeze when a small crowd starts converging around your papa. Men in bright vests are rushing over, cameras flashing rapidly.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” You ask, startled by the commotion.

Before Michael can respond, a curly-haired woman thrusts a baby into his arms. “Oh my god, can you just hold her for one second? I need a picture!”

Your papa looks bewildered but graciously cradles the infant, giving an awkward smile as more and more people start shoving pieces of paper and pens in front of him.

“Excuse me, please, I have my daughter with me today,” he tries saying over the chaos, but no one is listening.

You shrink back, overwhelmed by the pushing crowd and flurry of voices pleading for autographs and photos. Where did all these people come from? This has never happened before when you’ve gone karting with your papa.

Sensing your unease, Michael gently passes the baby back to its mother and kneels down in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay, Maus. Why don’t you wait for me over there?” He gestures to a bench off to the side.

Part of you wants to cling to him, scared of all the strangers crowding around so aggressively. But you also don’t want him to have to worry about you on top of everything else. You nod bravely and make your way through the throng to the little bench, watching apprehensively as your papa tries politely handling the requests.

After what feels like forever, the crowd finally starts dispersing, though a few linger behind like stubborn cats begging for scraps. Michael shakes the last few hands and accepts some papers to sign before gratefully escaping over to you.

“I’m so sorry about that, Maus,” he says, looking apologetic as he plops down on the bench. “I didn’t expect such a scene on what’s supposed to be our fun day.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” You lean against his side, still a bit rattled but comforted by his familiar warmth. “Who were all those people? Why did they want your … uhh …“ You can’t quite remember the word for the scribbles people ask famous people for.

“Autographs,” Michael supplies with an amused chuckle, wrapping an arm around you. “And they wanted photos too, I suppose. I’m … well, I’m quite a famous racecar driver.”

You cock your head, trying to process this concept of your papa being some kind of celebrity. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just your goofy, loving dad who takes you karting and makes the silliest voices for all your stuffed animals at home.

“Really? Like the famous famous people on TV?” You’ve seen the paparazzi swarming the actors and musicians during awards shows, but you’d never imagined that could happen to your own papa.

Michael nods, drawing you closer with a squeeze. “Yes, somewhat like that, though it’s a bit excessive at a small karting event.” He laughs again and brushes some of your wayward hair from your face. “But you’re right, to you I’m just Papa. I don’t expect anything more from my favorite Maus.”

You beam at the affectionate nickname, all the earlier stress melting away. Who cares if strangers want your papa’s autograph or photos? All that matters is you two spending the day together like always.

“Can we go get our karts now?” You ask eagerly, bouncing a little on the bench. “I want to show you how fast I can go!”

“Of course!” Michael jumps up and scoops you into his arms with a playful growl, making you shriek giddily. “My little speed demon is going to leave me in the dust.”

He swings you up onto his shoulders and you cling on tightly as he strides toward the pit area. A few more people spot him and make a move closer with cameras and sharpies extended, but seem to think better of it when they see you perched up high.

The two of you spend the next couple hours karting together, trading places taking warm up laps and cheering each other on. At one point, a young attendant working the pit area approaches Michael somewhat nervously.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Schumacher?” He’s clutching a crumpled baseball cap in one hand, ducking his head shyly. “I’m just such a huge fan, would you mind taking a photo and signing this for me after your session?”

Your papa smiles kindly at the young man and takes the cap. “Not at all, no problem.” As the attendant walks away, looking elated, Michael turns to you with a wink. “See? That’s how you politely ask for an autograph.”

You giggle and mime zipping your lips. “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t let the fame go to my head when I’m a famous racecar driver too someday.”

Scooping you up once more, Michael presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “That’s my girl. Now, last few laps — let’s see who can go the fastest without ending up in the grass!”

As evening starts falling, the two of you make your way back through the now nearly deserted lot after returning the rental karts. Most of the other karters have cleared out, leaving just you two strolling unhurriedly back to the car.

“Well Maus, despite the, uh, overexcited fans, I’d call this day a success,” Michael says, swinging your joined hands idly. “We both had our fun on the track, and I think you handled that crowd back there like a champ.”

You smile up at him, still so proud just to be his daughter. “I don’t care about all those other people, papa. As long as I have you, that’s all I need.”

Stopping beside the car, Michael crouches down and cups your face in his calloused racing palms, looking at you with such fierce adoration.

“Maus, you have me, always. No matter what happens out there,” he gestures vaguely at the empty track, “When I’m with you, I’m just Papa. My greatest accomplishment, my biggest award, is being your father. Verstanden?”

You launch yourself into his arms, hugging as tightly as you can. “Verstanden, Papa. I love you.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Maus,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your hair. “Now, what do you say we go get some victory ice cream?”

As the two of you climb into the car, you can’t keep the smile off your face, practically glowing with contentment. Sure, maybe your papa is some big famous racecar driver that everybody wants a piece of. But really, he’s just your papa — and you’re his whole world.

***

The ringing of the house phone cuts through the tense silence like a knife. You shrink further into the couch cushions as your mother rushes to answer it, shoulders visibly taut.

“Hello? No, I cannot make any comment at this time. Yes, I understand there is interest but-” Corinna breaks off, rubbing her temples wearily. “Please respect our privacy as a family right now. Thank you.”

She hangs up and leans against the wall, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. Before she can even draw a full breath, the phone rings again, shrill and insistent. With a muffled curse, your mother snatches it up.

“What? I told you, I cannot give any statements! This is a private matter. How did you even get this number?”

You watch apprehensively as she responds again, her voice rising in distress. In the days since your papa’s skiing accident, it seems like the entire world has been hounding your family, desperate for any scrap of information.

On the TV across the room, the endless cycle of news reports drones on lowly. Images of your papa’s broken, still body being rushed from the slopes into a helicopter. Flashing advancer texts speculating on his chances of recovery from the traumatic head injury.

It makes you feel ill.

Beside you on the couch, Mick sits blank-faced, looking nearly as pale and worn as your mother. At 14, he understands the gravity of the situation all too well. Your big brother has always idolized your papa, hoping to follow in his racing footsteps one day as well. The thought of him not being there to see the realization of that dream is devastating.

Gina is curled up in the armchair, her shoulders shaking every so often with muffled sobs. At 16, she’s arguably been taking this the hardest of all you kids. She keeps her face stoically dry in front of your mother, but you can see how red and puffy her eyes are from constant crying.

As for you, at 11-years-old, you’re somehow both numb and feeling everything all at once. Part of you still can’t fully process that this nightmare is real. That your hero, your papa, could be lying comatose in a hospital, hovering between life and death. The other part of you is overwhelmed in a tsunami of terror, panic, anger, sadness — any and every emotion crashing through you at all hours.

“Kids, I’m so sorry about this,” your mother says, defeated, as she rejoins you in the living room after ending her latest call. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened further overnight. “I know this is incredibly difficult and intrusive. But your papa is … he’s a public figure. People are concerned.”

“Incredibly insensitive is what they’re being,” Gina spits, uncurling herself from the chair enough to shoot your mother a resentful look. “We’re going through actual hell and all these people care about is getting a sound bite for the evening news!”

Corinna looks pained but doesn’t rebuke her. “I know, liebling, I know. But your papa has millions of fans all over the world who have followed his career for decades. Whether we like it or not, they care about him … and about us by extension.”

You think back to that day at the karting track all those years ago when you first realized your papa was what people called “famous”. How all those strangers clamored around him so aggressively just for a photo or an autograph. That level of fandom seemed exciting and novel at the time, when you were just a naïve 5-year-old. Now you see it for how intrusive and violating it is, this sense of entitlement people have to the private life of a public figure.

The phone starts ringing again, shattering the fragile quiet. Your mother squeezes her eyes shut and makes no move to get it this time. After four rings, the call goes to voicemail. A moment later, the tinny sound of an Italian voicemail being left blares through the speaker.

“Scusi, scusi, please, if there is any update on the condition of the great Michael Schumacher, any information at all! We are all holding vigils and saying prayers, but we must know how he fares! The world is watching and waiting!”

The words, pleading and demanding all at once, are like a slap across your face. The man’s voice is laced with such desperation, as if your papa’s life is mere entertainment to be consumedby the masses. You feel abruptly furious, incensed that a stranger’s morbid curiosity is given the same weight as your family’s anguish.

“Turn it off,” Mick mutters through clenched teeth, hunching over on the couch. “Just turn it off, Mama.”

Corinna nods numbly and reaches to end the voicemail, her mouth set in a grim line. Buzzing fills the room again as the TV drones on, the reporters’ voices a dull roar that you can no longer discern actual words from as your ears ring with white noise.

The shrill ringing of the phone cuts through once more, like a record scratching in your brain. Your mother flinches violently, hands coming up to clamp over her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut, finally at her breaking point.

Unable to watch this torture anymore, you surge to your feet and storm across the living room. You rip the phone from its cradle and hurl it against the far wall, the plastic casing shattering loudly. The ringing blessedly ends, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

Mick and Gina stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. Your mother simply deflates, sliding down the wall to the floor as the adrenaline drains from her body. For several beats, no one dares breathe too loudly. Then, Gina starts to shake her head slowly, tears slipping free.

“Brava,” she murmurs, the barest hint of approval in her voice.

Your mother doesn’t scold you for the outburst. She merely reaches out a hand, silently beckoning you closer until you slowly cross the room again and sink to your knees in front of her. She cups your face in her palms, her own cheeks glistening with fresh tears.

“You’re right, liebling, you’re right,” she whispers brokenly. “This is about our family, not … not the world thinking they’re owed something.”

She pulls your head against her shoulder and you cling to her tightly as she begins to weep in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking her whole frame. Gina scrambles over and tucks herself against your mother’s other side, and soon all three of you are tangled in each other’s arms, letting the tidal wave of grief crest over you.

Mick stays frozen on the couch, watching over your huddle with dark, haunted eyes. For the first time since this ordeal began, the four of you are united in simply feeling, truly letting yourselves shatter. No more putting on brave faces or pretending to be okay — from this moment, you can finally grieve as a family behind closed doors, blockading out the rest of the cruel, prying world.

Later that evening, after crying yourselves into an exhausted stupor, you drift up the stairs and sequester yourself in your bedroom. You bypass the framed photos of your papa on your nightstand, the sight of his bright smile and twinkling eyes too searing at the moment. Instead, you sink to your knees in the middle of the floor and clasp your hands tightly, bowing your head to murmur desperate pleas.

“Please, please let my papa be okay. I don’t care about all his fame or the stupid reporters. I just want him to get better and come home to us. He’s not just the famous Michael Schumacher to me. He’s Papa. He’s my whole world.”

The words spill out in a torrent, all the fear and longing you’ve been bottling up for the better part of a week erupting forth. You plead to any higher power that may be listening, bargaining away your future, your dreams, anything — as long as your papa pulls through this nightmare.

How many times had you taken for granted those moments of him just being your dad — making you pancakes on Saturday mornings, dozing on the couch during family movie nights, playfully tossing you into the pool when you grew too whiny in the summer heat? You’d give anything to have those simple, precious daddy-daughter moments back.

“The world can have his trophies and titles,” you whisper fiercely, tears slipping free to patter on the carpet. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want my papa. Please, please bring him back to us.”

You curl in on yourself, forehead pressing into the floor as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. All the adoring fans, the fawning media, the hangers-on clamoring for a piece of his glory — they only know the manufactured public persona of Michael Schumacher, legendary racer and famous celebrity. But to you, he’s always just been the quiet hero tucking you into bed at night, the gentle presence reading stories in funny voices, the mighty protector pulling you in for all-encompassing bear hugs.

You miss that wonderful, silly, tender father more than anything in the world. You don’t give a damn about his racing accolades or his fame. You just desperately need your papa back home where he belongs — with his family, the people who loved and treasured him most as simply Michael.

Just Michael. Your one and only papa.

The raw ache of that longing consumes you utterly. You lay there amid the fading light from your bedroom windows, dreams and memories of your papa flickering behind your eyelids as you plead to any benevolent force that may be listening. All you want is the chance to make more joyful memories with him, to hear his rich laugh, to keep basking in his unconditional love for years and years to come.

Please, you beg the universe silently, one last time. Please let this nightmare end. Don’t let the brightest light in my world be extinguished before its time.

Let me have my papa back.

***

A tense hush has fallen over the dining room table, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound cutting through the thick silence. Gina avoids everyone’s eyes, pushing food around her plate listlessly. Mick stares down at his half-eaten dinner, jaw working like he’s chewing over something weighty. You pick at a bread roll, too knotted with anxiety to muster much appetite.

Your mother is the one to finally break the stifling quiet, clearing her throat. “Kids, I know these last few weeks have been … incredibly difficult for us all.”

You risk a glance up at Corinna. Her eyes are tight at the corners, her mouth a taut line. Just like all of you, the constant vigil at your papa’s bedside, combined with the relentless badgering from the media, has clearly taken its toll.

“But we have to keep trying to be a family, yes?” She reaches across the table to grip your hand. “We’re all Michael has right now. We have to … to stick together for him.”

You nod numbly, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat at the reminder of your papa’s unchanged condition. The waiting, the not knowing if or when he’ll wake up, is a special kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mick abruptly shoves his plate away, the porcelain scraping loudly across the wood. You all flinch a little at the harsh sound.

“I’ve been thinking ...” he starts, then seems to reconsider his words, shoulders tightening fractionally. “Well, Y/N, you know how I … how I race under Mama’s last name?”

You frown slightly, uncertain where he’s going with this. “Betsch, yes. Because you wanted to make your own name without the expectation and pressure of being Michael Schumacher’s son.”

He dips his chin once, looking almost pained. “Exactly. And I think … I think maybe you should consider doing the same.”

The words sit heavy and convolulenting between you all like a sack of wet cement. You blink dumbly, hardly comprehending what he’s suggesting at first. When the implication hits you, you actually recoil as if he’d slapped you across the face.

“What? No. No, absolutely not, Mick. How can you even say that?”

“Y/N, just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “With Papa … with what happened, the paparazzi and the fans, they’re going to be watching our every move even more than before. Especially you since you’re planning to continue competing-”

“Don’t you dare make this about his condition,” you spit, fury thrumming through your veins like struck lightning. “And of course I plan to keep racing — it’s what Papa would want! I’m not going to hide from his name like it’s some shameful thing!”

Gina is watching the exchange with wide, startled eyes, her food forgotten. Mick runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s not about hiding or shame, it’s about protecting yourself! Don’t you see how crazy things have gotten? All the reporters harassing us, the fans leaving awful messages online hoping for updates ...”

He leans forward, expression almost desperate. “If you race as Betsch, you can compete without having that extra spotlight. You can just be a normal kid on the track without people peering in.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck in waves of humiliation and rage. How dare he insinuate that inheriting your papa’s legacy is some kind of burden to be shrugged off? That the name Schumacher is a burden to bear rather than a badge of honor?

“I’m not you, Mick,” you bite out, fists clenching beneath the table. “Maybe racing under Mama’s name helped you deal with the pressure better and that’s fine. But I’m proud to be Michael Schumacher’s daughter! And if people can’t respect that, if they think it means they own a piece of me, then they can go to hell!”

“Language!” Your mother gasps, both appalled and slightly impressed. But you ignore her admonishment, too fired up to rein it in now.

“What, you think pretending to be someone else is going to spare me from living in Papa’s shadow anyway?” You shake your head adamantly, leaning across the table towards Mick. “It’s not, and you know it. Even if I raced under a fake name, everyone is still going to know exactly who I am and make comparisons.”

Slamming your palms on the table, you surge to your feet, chair screeching harshly against the floor. All the pain and uncertainty of these past few weeks is bubbling over into bitter, biting words.

“So why should I hide it? Why can’t I take pride in my name and my heritage? Maybe it’ll mean more scrutiny, but it’s a million times better than feeling like I have to be ashamed! Like I can’t fully honor Papa and make him proud!”

Chest heaving, you stare down a wide-eyed Mick, almost daring him to challenge you further. He seems to read the conviction blazing in your eyes, features softening into chagrin.

“You’re right ...” he murmurs with a wince. “You’re right, Y/N, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You hold his repentant gaze for a long moment before deflating back into your chair with a muted thud. In the ringing silence, you can hear your mother’s soft sniffles from the far end of the table. When you look over, she has her head bowed, hands pressed to her eyes as she cries quietly.

“M-Mama?” Gina ventures in a small voice, reaching across to grasp her mother’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

Corinna lowers her hands, swiping at the tears streaking her cheeks. When she meets your bewildered gaze, her expression is a complicated brew of pride and heart-wrenching sadness.

“Nothing is wrong, liebling,” she assures Gina with a watery smile, before turning back to you. “Y/N, you’re so much like your papa, do you know that? So brave and determined … so full of that same fighting spirit.”

She dips her chin, lips trembling faintly. “He would be so proud to hear you defend his name like that. To see you ready to take on the weight of wearing it, regardless of what the world throws at you.”

More tears spill forth, but she brushes them away impatiently with the backs of her hands.

“But liebchen, you have to understand … Michael spent decades bearing that scrutiny and expectation. People analyzing his every move, always under a spotlight so harsh it burned. I never wanted that for any of you.”

Sliding her chair back, your mother crosses to kneel before you, cradling your face gently between her palms. Her eyes are shining but intensely serious, almost pleading with you.

“The Schumacher name casts such a long shadow, one so great that your own light can be eclipsed before you ever have a chance to properly shine. I don’t want you smothered by that burden, mein schatz. I want you free to make your own amazing mark on this world, completely unchained.”

You feel your throat grow tight at her words, the weight of them ringing so true and terribly sad. You reach up to circle your fingers around her wrists, holding her hands to your cheeks like vices.

“I know, Mama, I know,” you whisper roughly. “But that light you want me to shine? Papa is the one who sparked it inside me in the first place.”

You meet her watery gaze steadily, willing her to understand the conviction taking root inside you.

“The joy and passion I have for racing doesn’t come from some anonymous dream. It comes from him — from the nights he spent giving me a play-by-play of his biggest victories, from the days we spent at the karting tracks making memories, from everything I want so desperately to honor.”

Leaning forward until your brows nearly touch, you let the pleasing words spill out directly from your heart.

“So please, please don’t ask me to race as anyone other than your daughter, yes, but also proudly as Michael Schumacher’s daughter. That name isn’t a burden or a shadow to me. It’s something I want to carry forward and make blaze even brighter.”

Your mother’s eyes slip shut as she draws in a shuddering breath. For a long moment, she simply holds your face cradled in her palms, seeming to bask in your impassioned words. When her eyes finally open again, they are overflowing with a fierce tenderness.

“Oh liebchen,” she murmurs, voice thick with an odd mix of grief and wonder. “You are your father’s daughter through and through. So determined, so unafraid to face the world head on ...”

She strokes her thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, swiping away the dampness there. “I only hope he knows just how brightly his fire still burns in you. How it is living on in the most brilliant way.”

Surging up onto her knees, your mother pulls you into a fierce embrace, tucking your head beneath her chin. You cling to her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth, her tireless support and love. Over her shoulder, you can see Mick and Gina watching silently, their own eyes overly bright.

When your mother finally leans back, cupping your face once more, her expression has regained some of its usual firmness and resolution.

“Very well, then,” she nods, offering you a watery but determined smile. “If you truly feel ready to take on the world, to claim that name and legacy as yours, then we will face it together. As a family.”

She rises lithely to her feet, drawing you up along with her. Gathering Mick and Gina in with the sweep of her arms, she folds you all in her protective embrace, holding your foreheads together in the center.

“You may be Schumachers, but that name does not define or limit you,” she declares, quiet but firm. “It is simply one part of your identity, one piece of the incredible legacy you inherited. What you choose to make of it, how brightly you make that legacy burn, is up to you alone.”

She pulls back just enough to meet each of your eyes in turn, her own gleaming with resolute pride.

“So let them watch, let them scrutinize and sneer and make their judgments. You will simply keep chasing your passions and living your truths. Yes, the world may know you as Schumachers, but you alone will define what that name represents, now and for generations to come.”

***

The roar of the engines fades as you cross the finish line, taking the chequered flag. The broadcast team erupts in excitement.

“Unbelievable! Y/N Schumacher has done it — the daughter of the legendary Michael Schumacher wins the Formula 2 championship in her rookie year!”

You can hardly believe it yourself as you start your cooldown lap, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The pit crew is cheering wildly, holding up the #1 sign. Your race engineer is on the radio, his voice cracking with joy. “You’re a champion, Y/N! A first-year champion!”

“What an incredible drive from the young German. Shades of her father with that relentless determination and racecraft. She’s carried on the Schumacher name proudly.”

As you return to the pit lane, you spot Mick getting out of his own car. He has a huge smile on his face, eyes shining with pride. You take a moment to drink it all in as you bring your car to a stop and he’s the first one there, ripping off your helmet so he can hug you tightly.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you!” He’s beaming as he pulls back to look at you.

“Aww, Mick ...” You blink back happy tears, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished. “I couldn’t have done it without you pushing me every single race.”

Mick shakes his head dismissively. “This was all you. You were the faster driver this season, plain and simple.” His face falls a little. “I really thought I had you there at the end, but you just wouldn’t give up.”

You grin cheekily. “Of course not! I’m a Schumacher — we never give up.”

“What a beautiful moment between the siblings. You can see the immense pride Mick has for his sister, despite coming up just short of winning the championship himself.”

The rest of the team surrounds the two of you, lifting you both up onto their shoulders as the celebrations kick into full gear. You lock eyes with Mick over the sea of smiling faces and he winks at you contentedly.

Later, after you’ve returned to the garage, you find a quiet moment alone with Mick. He pulls you into another hug, this one more lingering.

“I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You’ve worked so incredibly hard for this.” Mick’s voice is thick with emotion.

You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you, Mick. That means everything coming from you.”

He pulls back, cupping your face fondly. “I remember when we were kids, dreaming of following in Papa’s footsteps. And now look at us!”

You laugh, a few happy tears spilling over. “I know, it’s crazy! I couldn’t have done this without your help, you know. You’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

“A storybook ending for the Schumacher siblings. Y/N cementing herself as a future star, with her older brother not far behind.”

Mick shakes his head adamantly. “No, Y/N, this was all your talent and determination. I just got a front row seat to watching greatness in the making.” His eyes are shining with sincerity.

You throw your arms around his neck, struck by how lucky you are to have such an amazing brother. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for always believing in me.”

He hugs you fiercely. “I’ll always believe in you. You’re a champion now, but I know this is just the beginning for you.”

The team arrives then, champagne bottles in hand and ready to continue the celebration. You pull back and grin at Mick mischievously, cracking open the first bottle with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you … for now.”

The bubbly liquid sprays everywhere as you both dissolve into laughter, reveling in this perfect moment of sibling bonding and love. Mick pulls you into a wet hug, so proud and grateful to share this with you.

“And an iconic image — the Schumacher children celebrating a Formula 2 title just like their father did in the upper series so many times before. A changing of the guard, with the name Schumacher set to dazzle racing fans once more for years to come.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered off the champagne and slipped into comfy clothes, there’s a soft knock at your hotel room door. You open it to find Mick standing there, shifting awkwardly.

“Hey, you’ve got a second?” His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, like he’s been crying.

“Of course, what’s up?” You gesture him inside, concerned by his demeanor.

Mick enters slowly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He seems to be struggling to find the words.

You rest a hand on his arm. “Mick, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods jerkily, finally meeting your eyes. “I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you accomplishing your dreams.” His voice catches with emotion.

“But?” You prod gently.

Mick’s eyes water again. “But … it’s also really hard for me. This was my dream first, you know? To become a champion like Papa.” He swipes at the tears angrily. “And now you’ve beaten me to it. I’m just … I’m struggling with that a bit.”

Your heart clenches at his quiet admission. You pull Mick into a tight hug, rubbing his back soothingly. “Oh, Mick … I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “No, no, it’s not your fault at all. You earned this, fair and square. I’m just … dealing with some complicated emotions, I guess.”

You push him back by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes intently. “Mick, listen to me. You are one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. This is not the end for you, not even close. You’re going to be a champion too, I know it.”

Mick seems to deflate slightly at your words, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you state firmly. “We’re going to take this to the top level together. And we’re going to make Papa even more proud than he already is.”

A slow smile spreads across Mick’s face. “Together,” he repeats, reaching out to take your hand and give it a squeeze.

You squeeze back reassuringly. “Always together. You and me, just like when we were kids. We’re a team, remember?”

Mick nods, the brightness returning to his eyes. He seems lighter now, the melancholy cloud lifted by your words of encouragement.

On impulse, you throw your arms around him again, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Mick laughs delightedly, squeezing you just as tightly.

“Thank you, Y/N. I needed to hear that from you,” he murmurs shakily into your hair.

You pull back just enough to grin at him cheekily. “What are little sisters for?”

Mick lets out a surprised bark of laughter, warmth and affection shining from every part of his expression as he gazes at you fondly. “You’ll always be my little sis, champion or not.”

It’s your turn to laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “Well this little sis just kicked your ass this season, so show some respect!”

Mick’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll remember that for next year, believe me.”

***

It’s a crisp autumn evening at the Schumacher family home in the Swiss Alps. You’re curled up on the plush couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine while your brother paces back and forth anxiously.

“Will you please sit down?” You ask, eyeing him over the top of the pages. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Mick runs a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sorry, I’m just … worked up, I guess.”

You set the magazine aside. “About what? We haven’t had a race in weeks.”

He stops his pacing to face you. “You know the season’s almost over, right? And Haas still hasn’t said anything about re-signing me for next year.”

“Oh, Mick.” You offer him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. You’ve had a solid season.”

Mick flops down next to you, deflating a little. “I don’t know. There are so many other options on the table. What if Haas decides to go a different direction?”

“Then you’ll find another seat,” you say firmly. “Any team would be lucky to have you behind the wheel.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I just wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You flash him a cheeky grin. “It’s a gift.”

The peaceful moment is shattered as both of your phones start ringing in unison. You exchange a puzzled look before digging them out.

“My manager,” Mick says, furrowing his brow as he answers. “Hello?”

You do the same, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hey, Nicolas, what’s up?”

For the next few minutes, you and Mick are silent, listening intently with rapidly changing expressions — yours elated, his crestfallen. When you finally hang up, Mick is staring at the floor, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well?” He asks, voice tight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You take a deep breath, trying to tamp down your surging excitement. “Ferrari wants me for next season.”

Mick’s face falls even further, if possible. “You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!” You can’t keep the grin from overtaking your features. “Can you believe it? Driving for the Scuderia! It’s a dream come true!”

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Mick mutters darkly.

You blink at his tone, smile fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags a hand down his face wearily. “Haas declined to re-sign me for next year.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What? No, that can’t be right!”

“Afraid so.” Mick’s voice is flat, resigned. “They said something about … needing to bring in fresh blood or some bullshit excuse.”

You scoot closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Mick, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be.” He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as dejected. “At least one of us is moving up in the world.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You protest. “We’re teammates! We were supposed to take on Formula 1 together!”

Mick snorts humorlessly. “Looks like that’s not going to happen after all.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between you. You open your mouth, searching for the right words of reassurance, but come up empty. How can you comfort him when your own dream has come true at his expense?

“Hey.” Mick’s somber tone breaks the quiet. “I’m happy for you, you know. Really, I am.”

You meet his sincere gaze, feeling your eyes start to well up. “I know. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty for you.”

He manages a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“So what are you going to do now?” You ask quietly.

Mick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Keep grinding, I guess. Look for another seat, any seat, even if it’s not in F1 next season.”

“You can’t give up on F1!” You protest instantly. “You’re too good for that, Mick.”

“Am I, though?” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Face it, Y/N, you’ve always been the better driver. This just proves it.”

You shake your head adamantly. “That’s not true at all! You’re every bit as talented as me.”

“Then why did Ferrari pick you instead of me?” There’s no accusation in his words, just weariness.

You falter, mind churning as you search for an answer that won’t come. “I … don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Mick closes his eyes briefly. “Maybe it’s for the best. At least this way, one of us still gets to live out the Schumacher legacy and race for Ferrari. Carry on the family name, you know?”

“But you’re a Schumacher too,” you say, feeling your throat start to tighten with unshed tears. “It should be both of us out there, not just me.”

Mick reaches over to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry about it. I’ll be okay, really.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” You swipe angrily at the moisture gathering in your eyes. “It’s not fair, Mick. It’s just not fair at all.”

He levels you with a look that’s decades older than his years. “Life rarely is. You know that as well as I do.”

You fall silent, unable to formulate a response. He’s right, you realize with a pang. The two of you, of all people, should understand that success and failure often go hand-in-hand, even for the most talented competitors.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and pull Mick into a fierce hug. He tenses for a split second before wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’m still so proud of you,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my incredible big brother.”

Mick lets out a shaky exhale against your hair. “And you’re the most badass little sister a guy could ask for. Ferrari has no idea what they’re in for.”

You pull back just far enough to meet his eyes, emboldened by the warm affection shining in them.

“Just promise me one thing?” You ask.

He arches an eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that?”

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips. “That you’re not going to take it easy on me whenever you’re back on the grid.”

***

You take a deep breath as you pull your sleek new Ferrari up to the iconic factory in Maranello. This place holds so many memories — some joyful, others bittersweet. Your father cemented himself as a legend here, and you can’t help but feel the weight of that legacy on your shoulders now more than ever.

The door swings open and there stands Fred Vasseur offering you a warm smile. “Y/N, welcome home.”

You return the smile, unable to mask the flood of emotions. “It’s good to be back, Fred.”

He gestures for you to follow him inside. “I’m sure this place brings back quite a few memories.”

“You have no idea,” you murmur, taking in the familiar sights and smells. The rosso corsa that coats every surface, the scent of machinery and high-octane fuel … it’s intoxicating.

A tiny you runs through the hallways, giggling madly as your frantic mother tries to catch up. “Mick! Y/N! Get back here this instant!”

Mick peeks out from behind a workbench, sticking his tongue out at Gina, who playfully swats at him. You spot the perfect hiding spot — a massive green recycling bin tucked in the corner ...

“Y/N? Are you still with me?” Fred’s voice breaks you from your reverie.

You shake your head. “Sorry, got a bit lost in thought there. This place just … feels like stepping into the past.”

Fred nods knowingly. “I can only imagine. But today is about your future with the team.” He leads you through the winding corridors, pointing out various departments. “Over here is aerodynamics, that hallway takes you to the design labs ...”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Your father’s voice echoes down the corridor, his tone playful but tinged with desperation. You stifle a giggle from your hiding spot as his footsteps draw closer.

“Michael, any luck?” That’s Paolo, one of the mechanics. You chance a peek and see half the team has been enlisted to search for you.

Your dad scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s too good at this game. Should’ve known better than to play hide-and-seek in a place this size.”

You chuckle softly at the memory, prompting a curious look from Fred. “Sorry, just … reminiscing again.”

He gives you an easy grin. “By all means, feel free to share. I’d love to hear some of those old stories.”

You take a breath, composing yourself before launching into the tale. “Well, there was this one time when I was maybe … four or five? Mick and I were causing an unholy ruckus as usual, and Papa suggested a game of hide-and-seek to wear us out. Big mistake on his part.”

Fred’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess, you proved to be a master hider?”

“You could say that.” You grin mischievously. “I found this big recycling bin, crawled inside, and stayed completely silent while the whole team tore the place apart looking for me. Papa was just about to call in the overalls for backup when Paolo finally peeked in the bin.”

Fred throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “I can just picture your poor father’s face when they found you! He must’ve been both relieved and completely exasperated.”

You nod. “Oh, he wore that particular blend of emotions often when we were young terrors around here.”

The two of you continue chatting amicably as Fred shows you around the various facilities — the simulator room, the engine workshop, even the gym and physiotherapy center. With each new area unveiled, another flood of nostalgia washes over you.

You and Mick sprint into the wide-open workshop, engines and miscellaneous car pieces scattered all around. Gina is closing in, her longer legs giving her an advantage.

“Got you now, you little gremlins!” She scoops Mick up with one arm, then turns her sights on you.

You let out a shriek of laughter, dodging around a massive piece of equipment as your mother joins the chase. “Come here, Maus! It’s time for your nap!”

You shake your head furiously. “No nap! No nap!”

Corinna’s hand finally snags the back of your shirt, and you erupt into a fit of giggles as she pulls you into a hug ...

“That’s some smile you’ve got going there,” Fred notes with a wry grin. “I take it another happy memory?”

You give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Just … remembering how this place used to be our personal jungle gym. Mick, Gina, and I would run absolute loops around Mama while she tried to wrangle us for nap time.”

Fred chuckles fondly. “I can picture three tiny terrors leaving chaos in their wake.” His expression softens. “It must be incredibly special to be back here after all these years. To follow in your father’s footsteps like this.”

You swallow hard against the swell of emotions. “It’s … overwhelming, if I’m being honest. But in the best possible way.” You glance around at the familiar setting with new eyes. “These halls practically raised me. And now … now I get to write my own chapter here.”

Fred gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve got a long road ahead, but I have complete faith you’ll make us all proud, Y/N.”

You straighten your shoulders, giving him a determined nod. “I’m ready.”

As you follow him further into the factory, you can’t help but revel in the rush of coming full circle. Yes, this team, this place, is indelibly woven into your childhood. But now … now it’s time to create new memories.

To race.

To win.

To become a legend.

***

The crowd outside the Ferrari headquarters swells as you emerge from the famous red doors for the first time as an official Scuderia Ferrari driver. Shouts and cheers erupt from every direction, fans pressing forward eagerly with pens and photos clutched in their hands.

“Over here, Y/N!”

“Un selfie, per favore!”

“Can you sign this for my daughter?”

You plaster on a polite smile, trying to graciously oblige as many autograph and photo requests as possible. But the throngs only grow more insistent, hands grabbing at you from all angles as the crowd closes in. Your heart races and you feel yourself starting to panic at the lack of personal space.

“Per favore, let her breathe!” An insistent voice cuts through the commotion in lightly accented Italian.

The crowd parts slightly as a familiar, lean figure pushes through — your new teammate. His green eyes meet yours with a reassuring look as he plants himself firmly by your side.

“Give her some space!” Charles barks out in English this time. “She can’t breathe!”

You shoot him a grateful glance as the fans reluctantly take a step back. Charles gently takes your arm and pulls you out of the scrum.

“Sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. “I know how intense they can be around here.”

“No, thank you,” you reply earnestly. “I was about two seconds away from an anxiety attack.”

Charles chuckles. “Well, we can’t have the new driver cracking under pressure on day one.”

You make a face at his teasing remark. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Laughing, Charles puts his arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come on, I know just the place to escape the madness for a bit. Dinner’s on me.”

He guides you across the plaza and down a side street to a cozy trattoria — Ristorante Montana, known as the unofficial “Ferrari restaurant” frequented by team members. As you enter, a stout woman with a warm, welcoming smile emerges from the back.

“Ah, Charles! Welcome back. And this must be ...” Her eyes widen as they land on you. “Oh, la piccola principessa is all grown up!”

Flustered, you open your mouth to respond, but the woman has already swept you up in a tight embrace.

“Rossella, you’re smothering the poor girl!” A elderly man’s voice calls out in amused rebuke.

“Hush, Maurizio, and pour us some wine!” Rossella releases you and holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “Michael’s little girl, all woman now. I’ll never forget the first time your father brought you in here as a bambina.”

She gestures to a framed photo hanging on the wall of a much younger Rossella standing next to Michael, who is holding a grinning toddler — unmistakably you.

“He was so proud,” Rossella continues misty-eyed. “Just like I know he would be of you today, following in your father’s footsteps.”

You swallow hard, touched by the warm welcome and memory. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Charles watching you with a soft smile.

Rossella shifts gears abruptly, all business. “Now, what will you two have? The usual for you, Charles? And for you, la principessa, I insist you try the gnocchi al ragú. Just like my nonna used to make it.”

As Rossella whisks off to the kitchen, Maurizio appears with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts with a wink, pouring for you and Charles.

You raise your glass to clink against Charles’ with a smile. “New beginnings.”

Over pasta and wine, you and Charles fall into an easy rapport, bantering back and forth as the weight of the evening’s earlier stress dissipates. You find yourself repeatedly distracted by the dimpled grin that lights up his face whenever he laughs at one of your quips.

“So is this a regular hazing ritual you put all the rookies through?” You ask innocently. “Get them away from the crowds and ply them with wine so they’re too drunk to be nervous on day one?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You’ve found me out! Although I do seem to recall my own initiation being a lot harder. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

“Old age? You’re what …12?” You retort, eyes dancing with mirth.

The waiter arrives with the dessert menu, but Rossella shoos him away.

“No, no menu. I’m bringing you the tiramisu to share. My secret recipe.”

Charles groans in delight. “You’re a legend, Rossella.”

She pats his cheek affectionately before disappearing again. A comfortable silence falls between you and Charles as you each take a bite of the rich, velvety tiramisu.

“Mmmm, this is literally heaven,” you murmur happily.

Charles hums in agreement around another forkful.

Your eyes catch movement out of the corner and you turn to see Rossella returning, carrying a large framed photo under her arm. She sets it down on the empty chair next to you with a proud grin.

It’s a glamor shot of you from a recent photoshoot for Vogue Italia — hair and makeup impeccable, lips parted in a secret smile as you gaze directly at the camera.

Rossella rests a hand on your shoulder. “For me, bellissima? So we can hang la principessa right next to il padre.”

Touched, you take the proffered sharpie and scribble out a quick inscription before signing your name with a flourish at the bottom.

“Grazie mille,” Rossella breathes, throwing an arm around you to squeeze you against her ample frame. “You’ve made this old heart very happy tonight.”

When she finally releases you, you see Charles watching you both with a soft, almost wistful expression. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

As you and Charles prepare to depart, Rossella calls out once more. “You come back soon, eh principessa? I have more pictures to collect.”

You throw her a wink over your shoulder. “D’accordo, d’accordo. We’ll be back soon!”

Out on the street, you pause, conscious of the evening rapidly drawing to a close. You turn to Charles, studying him properly for the first time. His deep green eyes crinkle at the corners as he meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t swooped in to rescue me back there.”

Charles shrugs nonchalantly, but his expression is kind. “We look out for our own in Ferrari. That’s what teammates are for, no?”

A beat passes, the momentary tension thickening between you. Then Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I should let you get going before your handlers send out a search party. Need me to call you a car?”

“No, no I’m good,” you reply quickly, trying to mask your disappointment at the night ending. “My performance coach has the car around front.”

You start to turn away, then impulsively pivot back. Rising up on your toes, you throw your arms around Charles’ neck and pull him in for a brief, platonic hug.

“Seriously, thank you,” you murmur in his ear. “For everything.”

As you pull back, your faces are just inches apart. Charles’ eyes are warm, his gaze intense. For a dizzying moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you. Then just as suddenly, the moment passes and he steps back with a friendly smile.

“Anytime, princesse. I’ll see you bright and early next week for our first time running the SF-23 on the simulator.”

With a wink, he turns and saunters off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets in that effortlessly cool way of his. You let out a long breath, flustered and exhilarated all at once.

Your performance coach has indeed been waiting with the car, looking mildly concerned. “Everything alright?”

You flash her a bright smile, practically skipping to the car. “It is now, Mara. It absolutely is.”

Your first day as a Ferrari driver was certainly more than you bargained for. But as you settle into the plush leather seats, you can’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Something tells you this new chapter with the Scuderia is going to be an adventure — in more ways than one.

As Mara pulls away from the curb, you catch a final glimpse of Charles striding confidently down the street. Even from a distance, you can make out the dimpled smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning back against the headrest, you think back to the memory of his arm slung casually around your shoulders and sigh contentedly. Yes, you have a feeling this is just the beginning of what’s shaping up to be a very interesting partnership with Charles Leclerc.

***

Sebastian looks over the wine list, pretending to be engrossed in selecting the perfect vintage as he peers over the top of the menu. His eyes are fixated on the entrance to the upscale Italian restaurant, waiting for Charles and you to arrive.

This had better work, he thinks to himself. The two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for months now, but are both too stubborn to make a move.

Finally, the hostess leads Charles and you into the dining room. Sebastian ducks down, pulling the brim of his fedora lower over his face and adjusting the fake mustache he’s wearing as a disguise. He watches as the hostess shows Charles and you to an intimate table for two by the window, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your faces.

“There must be some mistake,” Charles says, looking around in confusion. “I was under the impression we were meeting Sebastian here for dinner?”

You look equally perplexed. “That’s what he told me too. He said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp.”

“Well this is just awkward,” Charles runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Should we wait for him or ...”

Before you can respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of bread and butter. “Good evening, my name is Gerardo and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re still waiting on-” Charles begins, but the waiter cuts him off.

“Ah yes, Mr. Vettel asked me to inform you that he will be unable to join this evening after all. A last minute obligation came up. He insisted I take excellent care of you both and that the evening is on his treat.” Gerardo smiles broadly. “So what will you have to drink?”

Sebastian smirks to himself at his cleverly orchestrated ruse from his secluded table in the back corner. He watches with bated breath as a flustered Charles and you exchange an awkward look.

“I’ll have a glass of Chianti,” you say finally, breaking the tension.

“Make that two,” Charles adds with a resigned sigh.

As Gerardo heads off to grab your drinks, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table. “You know, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Charles says, ever the gentleman. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, offering him a warm smile that makes Sebastian’s heart melt a little. “It would be rude to ruin the evening Sebastian so carefully planned, even if he’s not actually here to enjoy it.”

Charles visibly relaxes at your acceptance of the situation. “You’re right, of course. If it’s a free dinner, we would be fools to turn that down!”

You both share a laugh, finally breaking the ice. Sebastian feels a swell of pride watching the two of you start to let your guards down around each other.

Over the next hour or so, Sebastian is delighted to see Charles and you become more at ease, trading jokes and stories over several delectable courses of pasta, veal, and freshly baked focaccia. He’s never seen either of you look so lighthearted and carefree, nor has he witnessed two people connect on such an organic, genuine level before. It’s positively magical to behold.

Gerardo arrives once more, this time bearing a decadent slice of torta della nonna for you to share for dessert. “Compliments of the house,” he announces with a wink before departing.

You immediately dig into the lemony confection with gusto. “Oh my god, this is dangerously good,” you moan through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky crust.

Charles tries and fails to stifle a laugh at your unabashed enthusiasm. “You’ve got a little ...” he gestures vaguely at the corners of your mouth.

“What? Where?” You ask, attempting to wipe the stray crumbs and smears of powdered sugar from your cheeks.

“Here, let me,” Charles says softly, reaching across the table with his cloth napkin.

Sebastian watches with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Charles tenderly swipes the napkin along your lips, his thumb grazing your cheek in the process. The moment seems to last an eternity, the two of you locked in each other’s smoldering gaze.

Then, ever so slowly, Charles leans across the table towards you. Sebastian can scarcely breathe as he witnesses the magnetic pull drawing the two of you together. This is it, this is finally happening, he marvels silently.

Sebastian lets out an inadvertent yelp of glee and instantly slaps his hands over his mouth. A table of nearby diners turns to gawk at the strange mustached man.

“Ahem, sorry! Hairball,” Sebastian rasps out in a terrible Italian accent. He slinks down in the booth, burning with embarrassment as the other patrons slowly turn away with disgusted looks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles and you also turn towards the commotion, the heated moment effectively ruined. Damn it, he was so close!

You and Charles eventually turn back towards each other, the awkwardness having returned. “We should, uh, probably ask for the check soon,” Charles mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve got an early training session in the morning anyway,” you reply, the disappointment evident in your voice as you stare down at the table.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Sebastian motions for the bill and slips his black credit card into the folder when Gerardo brings it. He knows the only way to redeem this night is to insist you and Charles stay for one more drink. Maybe add a little more wine confidence to help reignite that spark you both nearly combusted over just moments ago.

As Gerardo whisks away to process Sebastian’s payment, the older German steels his nerves. He removes his ridiculous disguise, straightens his tie, and makes his way over to your table with purpose.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Sebastian asks with an exaggerated wink as he reaches you. “It appears Mr. Leclerc and Miss Schumacher were stood up this evening. For shame!”

“Ah, Seb!” Charles laughs in surprise at seeing his friend and former teammate. “We should have known you were behind this madness.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a menace! I can’t believe you tricked us like that.”

Sebastian claps his hands together and flashes you both a devilish grin. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic who cannot abide two clearly smitten people tiptoeing around each other any longer. Now, Gerardo is going to bring you the finest Barolo they have, on my dime, and you are going to remedy this sexual tension situation once and for all over another bottle or three!”

Charles opens his mouth to protest, but you laugh delightedly and nod towards Sebastian. “You know what, I could go for another drink. What do you say, Charles?”

The older Ferrari driver seems to wilt under the weight of your brilliant smile, Sebastian can’t fault the man for that. “Ah, what the hell,” Charles shrugs, throwing his arm around the back of your chair. “Let’s see where this night takes us!”

Sebastian settles in, pouring you all generous glasses of the deep ruby wine when Gerardo delivers it. He may be getting on in years, but his matchmaking job has only just begun. One way or another, he’s determined to ensure his two protégés quit stumbling over each other and finally discover the romance that’s been blossoming under their noses all along.

Sipping his wine, Sebastian gazes at you and Charles, sees the tenderness flickering in both your eyes as you lean in closer together over the candlelight. He smiles contentedly to himself.

Mission accomplished.

***

The paddock is mostly deserted at this late hour, the muffled sounds of the teams packing up drifting in from the garages. You linger near the Ferrari motorhome, watching Charles sitting alone on a stack of tires, shoulders slumped. He’s been increasingly withdrawn these past few days leading up to the Japanese Grand Prix.

You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Charles? You okay?”

He looks up, managing a small smile when he sees you. “Hey, mon amour.”

There’s a weariness to his voice that tugs at your heart. You take a seat beside him, letting your arm brush against his in a subtle show of support. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Charles is silent for a long moment, pulling his helmet off and turning it over in his hands. “It’s Suzuka,” he finally says, so softly you have to lean in to hear him. “Being back here … it’s difficult.”

Your brow furrows. Right, this is where Jules Bianchi crashed, his accident eventually proving fatal. Charles had been incredibly close with his mentor and godfather. “I can’t even imagine how painful this must be.” You cover his hand with yours. “Having to race on the same track ...”

“I relive that day over and over.” Charles’s accented voice is thick with emotion. “I can still see the footage of his car slamming into the crane, like it’s burned into my mind. He was my friend, my godfather, like a brother to me. And now every year, I have to come back to this place that took him from us far too soon.” He squeezes his eyes shut, a stray tear escaping.

“Oh, Charles ...” You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is rigid at first before melting against you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly as his breath hitches with suppressed sobs, your own eyes stinging. How many times has he bottled up this grief, putting on a brave face for the world?

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve carried all these years. But Jules wouldn’t want you torturing yourself like this.” You pull away enough to frame his face with your hands, meeting his reddened eyes. “He’d want you to keep living, to keep pursuing your dream that he helped nurture. He’d be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Charles manages a watery smile, covering one of your hands with his. “You’re right. Thank you, chérie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a shuddering sigh. “I just miss him so much some days. Like an ache I can’t shake.”

“I know.” You brush away the dampness on his cheeks with your thumbs. “Believe me, I understand that ache all too well.”

A crease forms between Charles’s brows as he regards you intently. “Your papa.”

You give a solemn nod. “Everyone talks about him like he’s gone. But he’s not, he’s still here, still breathing. It’s just … he’s not the same man I grew up with anymore.” You blink back tears of your own. “Sometimes I’ll see flashes that remind me so much of how Papa used to be. And then that illusion is shattered and I’m grieving all over again for the person he was.”

Charles’ arms wrap around you fully, tucking your head under his chin. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Seeing those glimpses of the man he was, only to have that hope ripped away.” He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, definitely doesn’t feel like it most days.” Pulling away, you try for a smile. “But we Schumachers are fighters. We don’t stay down for long.”

“That’s my girl.” Charles grins, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m lucky to have you by my side through all of this craziness. I don’t know what I’d do without your support, especially this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” You turn to fully face him, clasping his hands in yours. “Charles, you’ve been my rock too, you know that? Signing with Ferrari this year, following in my father’s footsteps … the pressure has been immense. But you’ve never let me crumble under it. You’re always there with a laugh or a hug or some silly joke to make me smile even on the hardest days.”

Charles’s grin turns lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Well, someone has to keep that ego of yours from inflating too much, future champion.” He leans in until his lips are a mere breath from yours. “But in all seriousness, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have your back.”

“I know,” you murmur, feeling his words like a soothing balm over the parts of your heart still aching for your father as you once knew him. “And I’ll always have yours. We’re a team, on and off the track.” You close the distance between you, kissing him deeply.

Charles returns the kiss with fervor, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you close. The worries plaguing you both seem to temporarily fade into the background amid the warmth and solidity of his embrace. When you finally break apart, breathless, his emerald gaze holds an intensity that steals the air from your lungs in the best way.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, the endearment like a vow falling from his lips. “No matter what happens out there tomorrow, or any other race day, that will never change. You and me against the world, princesse.”

You flash him a coy smile, feeling desire begin to simmer low in your belly. “Is that a promise, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Mmm, I can make it one if you’d like.” Charles waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle as his hands roam freely over your back and sides, pulling you flush against him. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Maybe I can find more convincing ways to pledge my devotion once we’re back at the hotel.”

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you say breathily, leaning in to nip at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan. “Though if memory serves, I seem to recall you saying something about honoring the team’s curfew tonight?” You trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to be … sleep deprived before the race.”

Charles’s fingers flex against your hips as he lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re really testing my willpower here.”

“Payback for all those times you’ve tortured me.” You punctuate the statement with a sharp nip to the sensitive skin below his ear, making him jerk against you with a strangled sound. Pulling back, you smirk at the glazed look in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He blinks slowly, then his gaze narrows in a way that makes heat flare across your skin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that later.” His voice is low, almost a growl that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“I look forward to it.” You lean in until your lips are nearly brushing his again.

“Tease,” Charles accuses, though his kiss quickly swallows any further retort.

You lose yourself in the press of his mouth, the exploring glide of his hands over your body, the undeniable chemistry that still sometimes takes your breath away. When you finally break apart, gasping for air, you stay wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads resting together.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs after a long beat of comfortable silence. “For always knowing how to pull me out of my own head. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” you say simply, brushing back the silken strands of chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are so warm, so full of love and adoration, you feel it envelop you like a cozy blanket. “I’ll always be here to lean on, just like you are for me.”

Charles catches your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “And I’m grateful for that every single day. Facing the good times and bad, together.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I know Suzuka will never be easy, not with the weight of the memories here. But you make the burden feel lighter. Like no matter what, I’ll be okay as long as I have you by my side.”

You lean in, brushing a featherlight kiss across his lips. “Always. No matter what the future holds, you’re stuck with me, Leclerc.”

A slow, utterly content smile spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He steals another lingering kiss before glancing toward the pit area, where the last few stragglers are packing up for the night. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, I suppose we should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

Sliding off the tire stack, he offers you his hand, that warm gleam still dancing in his forest-colored eyes. “Though maybe we could indulge in a long, hot shower first? You know, to … unwind after such an emotionally draining evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at his transparent attempt at nonchalance, but can’t help a smirk from tugging at your lips. “Why, Mr. Leclerc, are you propositioning me?”

“Would that be so terrible?” He tugs you into his arms, leaving a trail of teasing kisses along your jaw. “After all, we did have quite the … charged conversation just now. I’d hate for all that pent-up tension to distract us on track tomorrow.”

You let out a breathless giggle as his wandering hands and lips leave tingles across your skin. “Well, when you put it that way … I suppose a nice, relaxing shower could be just what we need to clear our heads.” Looping your arms around his neck, you meet his heated gaze through lowered lashes. “Lead the way, liebling.”

Charles’ responding grin is nothing short of wolfish. “With pleasure.” Scooping you up in his arms, he heads for the parking lot at a swift pace, leaving the weight of Suzuka and its ghosts behind for the night.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you bring your Ferrari across the finish line, tires smoking from the incredible pace. Your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio, congratulating you, but the words are drowned out by the thunderous cheers echoing around the Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

You can hardly believe it. Your first season with the Scuderia and you’ve just won the Italian Grand Prix — on the hallowed ground that your father once ruled. The sea of fans decked out in red is a sight to behold, celebrating wildly as you complete the cool-down lap.

Pulling into parc fermé, you kill the engine, the high-pitched whine slowly dying away. Undoing the straps, you clamber out, still trying to process what just happened. This is really real.

“You!”

The familiar voice makes you turn. It’s Charles, beaming from ear-to-ear despite settling for second place today. He pulls you into a massive hug, squeezing you tightly.

“I can’t believe you just did that! Amazing drive!”

You laugh, giddy with joy and adrenaline. “I still can’t believe it either! Everything just … clicked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Charles chuckles, ruffling your sweat-damp hair. “You were incredible out there. Absolutely brilliant.”

Hearing the praise from your boyfriend means everything. You know how hard he’s worked, how much he’s sacrificed to get this far. And he’s still your biggest supporter.

The two of you finally pull apart as the rest of the team makes their presence known, congratulating you with bearhugs and massive pats on the back. You did it — you brought the victory home for Ferrari at the Temple of Speed.

After the chaos of the post-race celebrations dies down a little, it’s time for the podium ceremony. You can’t wait to stand up there, basking in the adulation of the wildly passionate Tifosi. As you make your way out with Charles and the third place finisher, the crowd’s cheers swell to a new eardrum-bursting level.

Climbing the steps, you take your spot on the top level, heart racing as you look out over the endless sea of fans. The air is filled with brilliant red smoke, passionate flag-wavers creating mesmerizing patterns. You’ve seen Grands Prix in Italy before, but being up here, having actually won — it’s on another level entirely.

Speeches are made, anthems are played, and then it’s time to crack open the podium champagne. As the bottles are picked up, a rolling chant starts building in the grandstands:

“La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

The sound shakes you to your core. Tears instantly spring to your eyes.

Charles, beside you on the second step, grins and nudges you. “Listen to them! You’ve done it — you’ve made them fall in love with you just like they did with your father.”

Looking down at him with misty eyes, you mouth, “Thank you,” so overwhelmed that you can’t speak. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. The two of you share a soft kiss as the chanting grows louder and louder.

As you pull back, gazing out over the surging tide of humanity, faces beaming up at you in adoration, it finally sinks in. This moment — winning at Monza for Ferrari, with Charles by your side, the Tifosi embracing you wholeheartedly — is beyond anything you ever could have dreamed.

The emotions pour out in waves of joy and pride and disbelief. You raise your bottle high, echoing the chants and cheering your heart out to the crowd. They roar back even louder, feeding off your energy in the way that only this group of diehard fans can.

Once the champagne showers subside, giddy fans whistling at you and Charles canoodling on the podium, it’s time to head back down. But the celebrations are just getting started. The team wants to keep the party going.

On the drive over to Maranello, you find yourself sandwiched in the backseat between Charles and your race engineer, Ricky. Everyone is grinning like maniacs, high on the thrill of victory, singing drinking songs at the top of their lungs.

“Solo per lei! Principessa di Monza!” Ricky bellows, gently elbowing you. The rest join in, filling the car with the chant of “Only for her! Princess of Monza!” You can’t stop giggling, leaning into Charles, deliriously happy.

Once you finally roll up to the factory, the party spills out of the car and into the streets. The entire workforce has turned out, waving huge Ferrari flags, beating drums and sounding air horns in celebration. You’re immediately swarmed, being passed from hug to hug as champagne is sprayed in joyful arcs.

They finally manage to sweep you, Charles, and most of your garages inside the factory, where long banquet tables have been set up in the main hall. An enormous cheer goes up as you enter, sparkling wine sloshing from hastily poured glasses all around you.

The meal that follows is a total blur — amazing food, flowing alcohol, raucous toasts, and the happiest pandemonium you’ve ever witnessed. You keep getting tugged from conversation to conversation, everyone wanting to hear how the race played out from your lips. Charles sticks by your side the whole time, looking on with sheer pride.

At one point, you end up going shot for shot with Fred Vasseur, the team principal pouring vodka like his job depends on it. “La mia principessa!” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of joy. “You’ve made us all so proud today!”

He hoists his glass. “To our Princess! The Princess of Monza!”

The chant starts up again all around you. “La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

You beam at them all, squeezing Fred’s hand. No words can describe this feeling, being embraced so completely by your team — your family. This is what you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Following in your father’s footsteps, bringing glory to Ferrari, carrying on the legend.

The party rages on long into the night. At some point, you lose track of time completely, delirious with exhaustion from the whirlwind of emotion.

You come around for a moment, blinking in the dim glow of the factory lights. There’s quiet rumbles of laughter around you, echoing off the walls. Looking around blearily, you realize you’ve been tucked into a makeshift bed fashioned from a pile of Ferrari t-shirts, nestled in one of the car assembly spaces.

Charles is there too, cradled against your side, one arm wrapped protectively around you. The rest of the team — your PR officers, engineers, mechanics, everyone — is strewn about in similar nests, all of them totally conked out.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle deeper into Charles’ embrace, feeling his lips brush the top of your head. This bizarre, wonderful scene seems to encapsulate everything about being part of the Ferrari family. It’s chaotic and overwhelming and unlike anything else in the world.

But most of all, it’s home.

As you start to drift back to sleep, savoring the lingering scent of champagne and motor oil, one final chant echoes in your head:

La principessa di Monza.

La principessa di Ferrari.

***

11 Months Later

The last few laps feel like they’re happening in slow motion. Every turn, every gear shift, every tiny input to the steering wheel is magnified tenfold as the circuits count down. The pressure is immense, but you’ve been here before. You can do this.

“Stay calm, stay focused,” your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “The calculations look good. Just bring it home steady.”

Nodding to yourself, you downshift entering the stadium section, the roar of the massive crowd surrounding the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez swelling in your ears. This is it — your chance to join the likes of motorsport’s greatest heroes by winning the Formula 1 World Championship.

Your first victory at Monza, being crowned the “Principessa di Ferrari” by the adoring Tifosi, was a dream come true. But this … this is what you’ve worked towards since you were old enough to understand what your father achieved. To etch your name into the history books forever.

The laps tick by agonizingly. Every time the pitboard comes into view, your heart rate spikes. But you’ve got a comfortable gap to second place, managing the race perfectly. Just a few more corners now.

“Final lap, final lap,” your engineer calls out. “Looking brilliant. Stay comfortable and you’ve got this!”

You suck in a deep breath to steady your nerves. Out of the sweeping Curve 3 and onto the pit straight, the crowd’s thunderous cheers are reaching fever pitch. You can see the seas of red-clad fans absolutely losing their minds, knowing the woman they idolize is about to achieve immortality.

Crossing the finish line, you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like ages. The emotion is overwhelming — a combination of pure elation, disbelief, and total exhaustion.

You did it.

World Champion at last!

You cruise around, yelling unintelligibly into the radio as the celebrations kick off around the circuit. There’s confetti in the air, smoke flares going off in brilliant shades of red, and a full-throated roar that could probably be heard all the way back in Europe.

Pulling into parc fermé, you switch off the car, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Tears of joy prick at your eyes as the magnitude of your achievement hits home. Ever since you were a little girl, running around watching your papa, this has been the ultimate dream for you.

And now, it’s finally happened. You’re a World Champion. Just like him.

The first person to reach you is Charles. He comes sprinting over from his own car, bounding past the marshals without a second look. One glimpse of the huge smile plastered across his face is all it takes for you to dissolve into giggles and delirious tears.

“You did it! You brilliant, brilliant woman, you did it!” He shouts, grabbing you up in his arms and spinning you around in a whirlwind hug.

“I can’t believe it, Charles! It felt like a dream … like it wasn’t really happening!”

You’re both laughing and crying at the same time, drunk on the euphoria of the moment. Clutching each other tightly, you press your foreheads together, trying in vain to compose yourselves.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles murmurs, gazing at you with adoring eyes. “You worked so incredibly hard for this. You deserve everything.”

Surging forward, you capture his lips in a searing, passionate kiss. For a few brief moments, the two of you are alone, lost in the depth of your emotions and your all-encompassing love for each other. Nothing else in the world matters but this perfect second frozen in time.

You finally break apart, breathless, when the rest of the team sweeps in to congratulate you. They swarm around in a laughing, whooping mass, jumping up and down, hugging, chanting your name over and over.

“To our champion! The Queen!”

The cry comes from Antonio, one of the veteran mechanics who’s been with the team since your papa’s days. He clasps your hands tightly, gazing at you with pride.

“Sei la regina! The Queen of Ferrari!” He hollers over the raucous din, tears shining in his eyes. “Just like your father, you’ll reign forever!”

Your eyes start brimming over again, overwhelmed. The tears roll down your cheeks, smearing streaks of sweat and grime from the race. But you can’t stop beaming.

All at once, the rest of the crew picks up on Antonio’s declaration. Their cheers and chants coalesce into one booming refrain:

“La Re-gi-na! La Re-gi-na!”

The sheer adulation washes over you in waves, every face beaming up at you in utter reverence. You find yourself struggling to take it all in. In a few incredible seasons, you’ve elevated yourself into the realm of legend in their eyes.

Charles wraps his arms around you from behind, steadying you as your knees start to go weak. You can feel his smile radiant against your neck as he cheers and whoops right along with the rest of them.

“You hear them?” He chuckles, kissing your temple. “It’s all for you, mia regina! My Queen.”

Hearing your love, your partner, your other half call you that sets off a fresh round of giggles and sobs. Turning in his embrace, you loop your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

When you finally part, you look out over the still-roaring crowd, many of them carrying elaborate signs with intricate drawings depicting you as a regal sovereign. Some have fashioned ornate crowns out of random merch and foam, holding them high. Others set off flares and smoke bombs in Ferrari red.

For a moment, their euphoric cheers fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears. Closing your eyes, you let the enormity of the moment wash over you, embracing the pride and humility and disbelieving joy.

This is your coronation. The new ruler of the Scuderia — la regina di Ferrari.

“La Regina di Ferrari! La Regina del Mondo!”

You can only chuckle in disbelief, Antonio and Ricky carefully taking your hands to hoist you up onto their shoulders in throne-like celebration. Charles is right by your side, standing vigil as your King Consort.

As the party spreads out around you, confetti and smoke filling the air, you look out across the ecstatic crowd. All you see are fervent faces, worshiping you as their new Queen of the World.

It’s a delirious scene that you never, ever could’ve imagined. And yet it feels so natural, so right. Like you were born to be in the center of this storm of jubilation. This is your true home.

And now, you’ve taken your rightful place as its ruler.

Mexico City burns long into the night in tribute to the newly-coronated Queen. Tomorrow, the party will likely continue all the way back to Maranello. But in this moment, you’re lost in the swirl of ecstasy, allowing yourself to be swept up in the currents of adoration.

La Regina di Ferrari.

La Regina del Mondo.

***

Eight Years Later

Jules can barely contain his excitement as you and Charles help him into the little red race suit. He’s practically vibrating with energy, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Easy there, petit coureur,” Charles chuckles, ruffling Jules’ hair affectionately. “We’ll get you suited up and on the track soon enough.”

“I’m gonna beat everyone!” Jules declares confidently. You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“That’s my boy,” you say with a wink. “Just like your Papa and me.”

Charles grins and pulls Jules into a hug. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? Today’s just for fun though, remember? No official points or anything.”

“I know, I know,” Jules says impatiently. “But I’m still gonna win!”

You laugh and swing him up into your arms, peppering his face with kisses until he squeals with delight. “Whatever you say, liebling. Now let’s get you out on that track!”

The three of you make your way out to the karting circuit, hand-in-hand. You can already see a small crowd starting to form along the fences, phones and cameras at the ready. A familiar scenario, even at such a low-key local event.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Jules points excitedly. “Those people want to take pictures!”

“That’s right, schatzi,” you say gently. “Your Papa and I are pretty well known in motorsports.”

“Like movie stars?” His eyes go wide.

Charles laughs. “Something like that, I suppose. More like … really famous racecar drivers.”

“Whoa ...” Jules seems to be processing this new realization. “You’re the best ever, right? The bestest?”

You share an amused look with Charles. “Well, we’ve had our fair share of success,” you hedge.

“Your mother is a multi-time World Champion,” Charles says proudly. “As am I. We did pretty okay, I think.”

“Woooaahh!” Jules looks absolutely awestruck, like his little mind has been blown. It’s both adorable and bittersweet — your own child, only just now grasping the level of your accomplishments and fame.

The crowd has grown considerably by the time you reach the pit area, people pressing against the barriers in hopes of getting a glimpse of the royal family of Maranello. A small team of event staff try valiantly to keep order, but it’s a losing battle.

“Excuse me! Y/N! Can we get a photo?”

“Charles! Over here, please!”

“Oh my god, is that little Jules? He’s so cute!”

Jules clings a bit closer to you and Charles, startled by the commotion. You pull him protectively against your side.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “Just some fans who are excited to see us.”

Charles gives the crowd a regretful smile and a small wave before ushering you both past the security team and into the pit area. The calmer, more controlled setting seems to ease Jules’ nerves.

“Why were all those people yelling and taking pictures?” He asks with a small frown.

“Like I said, we’re pretty famous racers,” Charles explains patiently. “A lot of people know who we are and want our autographs or photos with us.”

“Like celebrities!” Jules says, the admiring light returning to his eyes.

You laugh and ruffle his hair again. “Something like that, yeah. Your Papa and I have had a very successful racing career over the years.”

“The best careers,” Charles amends with a wink at you. “Multiple world titles each.”

“World titles?” Jules looks utterly baffled by the concept. “Like … the best in the whole world?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, feeling that familiar swell of pride. “We were the fastest drivers in the world, for a few years at least.”

“Whooaa ...” Jules seems torn between awe and disbelief. “You’re like … superheroes!”

You and Charles both crack up at the adorable comparison.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Charles laughs, “but I suppose to some we come pretty close, eh?”

He scoops Jules up and swings him around, making him shriek with laughter. You watch them with a content smile, suddenly aware of how blessed you are to have this life — your incredible husband, your precious son, the career successes you both achieved. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed.

“Alright,” Papa says, setting Jules back down. “Why don’t you go grab your kart and we’ll get you out on the track? Think you can take on the world champions?”

Jules gives a determined nod, that familiar fire blazing in his eyes — the same look you’ve seen in your husband’s familiar green ones a thousand times over the years. “You bet! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

With one last hair ruffle, you send him scampering off excitedly. Charles slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” He murmurs against your temple. “So much like us at that age. I can already tell he’s going to be a hell of a driver someday.”

You lean into his embrace with a contented sigh. “He is … and just look at how the crowd reacted to him. He’s barely grasped that we’re famous, and now he’s already getting mobbed himself. Our little star in the making.”

Charles makes a rueful sound. “We’re going to have to get used to that, I suppose.”

“Oh, I think we can handle it,” you say lightly. “We’ve had plenty of practice being in the spotlight, after all.”

He laughs and drops a kiss to your hair. “That’s true enough. As long as we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Exactly.” You turn in his arms to face him properly, cupping his jaw tenderly. “You, me, Jules … nothing else matters as long as we have each other.”

Charles’ eyes are warm with devotion as he gazes down at you. “My soulmate. My family. How did I ever get so lucky?”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, the rest of the world temporarily fading away. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of his embrace, the love you share-

“Ewww, gross! Stop kissing!”

You break apart with a laugh to find Jules making over-exaggerated gagging noises nearby.

“And the moment’s ruined,” Charles teases, keeping an arm looped around your waist.

You bend down to Jules’ eye level with a mock stern look. “You just wait until you’re all grown up with a sweetheart of your own. Then you’ll understand.”

He scrunches up his nose theatrically. “Never! Girls are gross!”

You and Charles share an amused look.

“If you say so,” Charles chuckles. “Now let’s get that kart fired up.”

Jules’ entire demeanor shifts in an instant, that fierce competitiveness surfacing once again. He scrambles into the cockpit of his little kart and takes firm hold of the wheel, looking suddenly years beyond his age.

“You’re going down!” He declares brazenly. “I’ll leave you both in the dust!”

And just like that, the proud parents are replaced by your familiar racing mentalities — the thrill of competition, the desire to win. You share a conspiratorial grin with Charles.

“Is that so?” He taunts playfully. “In that case, no more taking it easy on you two.”

You bend down to kiss Jules’ forehead, unable to resist a parting quip. “Promise you won’t be sad … because Mama always wins.”

With that, Charles heads off to grab his own kart, leaving you and Jules alone for a brief moment. He looks up at you with shining eyes.

“You’re my hero, Mama,” he says simply. “And Papa too. I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

You feel your heart swell fit to burst, filled with more love than you could possibly put into words. Bending down, you pull your beautiful little boy into a fierce hug, eyes shining with unshed happy tears.

“Oh liebling … you already are. You’re everything we could have dreamed of and more.”

You press a lingering kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed with affection. When you finally pull back, there are indeed tears shining in your eyes.

“Now go show your parents what you’ve got, baby,” you say with a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Jules gives you a determined nod, eyes blazing with that trademark fire. “You got it, Mama! Get ready to lose!”

With that, he slams down the visor on his helmet and revs the little engine. You step back with a laugh, watching him peel out onto the track with all the confidence and flair of a seasoned pro. Like parents, like son indeed.

By the time Charles rejoins you, his own kart idling beside yours, Jules has already completed a couple of warm up laps. You can’t resist shooting Charles a smug grin.

“Well, well … looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He drives just like you.”

Charles snorts, clearly trying to downplay his obvious pride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s all your genes coming through.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a sudden commotion from the fences draws your attention. The crowd has grown even larger, people pressing against the barriers with raised phones and voices calling out excitedly.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

“They’re so cute together!!”

“Over here, please! This way!”

You share a resigned look with Charles as event staff rush to try and control the growing swarm.

“This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it?” You murmur. “Our little family, constantly in the spotlight.”

Charles shrugs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he watches Jules blaze by. “What else is new? We’ve been there our whole careers. At least this time, we get to share the fame together … as a family.”

You lean into his side with a contented smile. Out on the track, Jules whips past in a blur of determination, completely unbothered by the fawning crowd. Just a little boy living out his dream, regardless of who his parents might be.

“You know what?” You say softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charles drops a kiss to your hair as the roar of the crowd and engines swells around you. “Me neither, mon amour. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

[hallowxiu]

How the Brothers Would Deal with MC's Mortality

Mammon:

You casually brought it up as a joke

Probably something like “i’m here for a good time, not a long time” or “why should i care what happens in 100 years? It’s not like i’ll be around to care”

Would probably confuse Mammon at first as to why you wouldn’t be around, but he would put the pieces together in the middle of the night when trying to sleep.

A whole, eyes snapping wide opening and flinging out of his bed kind of moment.

Mammon would worry himself sick

Yes, he knows humans can die, hell, he used to mock you for being so frail when you first came to the Devildom, but now? 

Well, now things are different. How he feels about you is different

He's spending all his money on ways to keep you kicking longer. 

Anything he can think of that’ll help, he’s buying it. Vegetables, fruits, protein powder, comfortable clothes, a nice pillow, vitamins, shampoos- anything. He has no idea where to start, so he just starts grabbing everything. 

I mean, something will have to help, right? 

If you notice he looks panicked, don’t point it out, it’ll only make it worse. Unless you want to be smothered to death from his affection and worry, then by all means. ;)

Leviathan:

Look, he can barely handle his favorite anime characters dying, so you? Yeah, no, that’s way too much. 

Nothing actually popped up to remind Leviathan of your mortality, it was because of Satan throwing his books all around the house that did it. 

Suddenly, it was all he could think about. How did he not think of this before? 

Leviathan is no Satan though, and he’s certainly not Lucifer. Researching medical documents and trying to think of things to keep you alive longer are a little over his head. That being said, there were some things he could do.

Leviathan dove into his own research that would be within his realm of understanding, studying that humans who have more positive mindsets and who are less exposed to depressing forms of media, may live longer than the average person. This- this was something he could work with. 

Suddenly, you were constantly being invited to his room, Leviathan having a variety of slice-of-life anime for you to watch with him, all of which had happy endings to boot. If an anime was even remotely depressing, he made sure to keep that out of reach. 

Video games? He’s keeping it safe; he’s not risking anything here. If it’s not similar to Stardew Valley, Animal Crossing, Dreamlight Valley, or The Sims (which must be on a good day), you’re just not playing it. Kingdom Hearts if you’re lucky. 

Satan:

Would do an insane amount of research 

Likely overheard the topic on a news segment about the tragically short lifespans of humans before it all clicked together.

Satan, unlike the other brothers, has never experienced death before, so while it sounds silly, he never had reason to think of you dying.

Looks up humans who had long lifespans to see how he can implement those things into your lifestyle.

Books will be littered everywhere (although that’s not really unusual, but what is would be the topic of said books- The Long Lives of Humans, Human Lifestyle for Dummies 101, The Road to Human Immortality, etc. etc.)

This is when Satan learns just how easy it is for a human to kick the bucket.

Heart attacks, brain aneurysms, strokes, seizures, cancer, the list goes on and on and it’s starting to scare him. He didn’t know humans could just drop dead. 

He’s going to start researching curses to increase your lifespan, or at the very least he’s going to make sure you’re careful as hell. 

You won’t even get as much as a cut without him being aware of it; he’s going to hover around and mother hen the absolute shit out of you. 

Try not to get too annoyed with him though, it all stems from good intentions. 

Asmodeus:

He’ll be damned if his shopping partner for life is going to die on him.

Asmo isn’t stupid; if anything he’s pretty emotionally aware. He's known for a long time just how short the lifespan of humans is.

But still, it came in the form of a nightmare. One where he couldn’t save you, despite giving his best efforts. The way you died was tragic, long before your life should have ended. 

This sent Asmo somewhat into a frenzied state trying to find things to keep you alive once he woke up. 

Vitamins, vitamins, vitamins

Humans benefit from vitamins, right? Surely you’d benefit from Devildom vitamins then. If it’ll increase the lifespan of a demon, he sees no reason why it wouldn’t increase your lifespan. 

Of course, it really only gives you nicer nails and shinier hair. 

He’s 10x more intense with your morning and night routines. 

He will be unloading all his facial creams on you, and telling you the benefits of each one and how it might add a few years to your lifespan. 

You want to stay up late at night to finish homework? Maybe watch a movie? Yeah, no, not on Asmo’s watch. 

Your ass is going to bed every night at 10pm, right along with him. You do realize you’ll be getting exactly 8 hours of sleep each night, too, right? 

Beelzebub:

Regarding his trauma with Lilith, it came as no surprise when he started to fret over your well-being. 

Poor Beel saw an article that discussed how tragically easy it is for a human to die. The cherry on top? How they could die from simply overeating. 

Overeating isn’t a concept Beel is overly familiar with (because to him, it’s never overeating), and while he knew most people couldn’t keep up with his eating habits, he didn’t think it could actually cause harm to a human, let alone kill them. 

Grocery trips are now a more anxiety-inducing event. 

He’s suddenly paranoid that any of the Devildom food could and will kill you. Are you allergic to anything? How would you even know? 

What if one day he serves you his favorite boiled dragonhead and you just drop dead at the dinner table?? No, that will never do. 

There’s a list of Devildom foods that he knows for sure you can have without dying, but then comes the issue of portion control. How much is too much for a human? 

Beelzebub swore he would never lose another loved one again, and it’s a promise he intends to keep. From now on, you will only eat what he deems safe. 

You want to try a new food in the Devildom that you’ve never had before? You better get some seriously good convincing skills if you want him to cave in. For someone who only ever thinks with his stomach, he’s surprisingly stubborn. 

Belphegor:

He’s still plagued with nightmares about Lilith, especially since he still thinks it’s his fault. Tack that on to the way he blamed you and the rest of the human race for it? The man is walking trauma. 

 Like Asmodeus, this was brought on by nightmares about you dying. Different from Asmo’s, however, you usually died by his hand. Naturally, considering your tumultuous history. 

Belphegor, unlike his brothers, takes a different approach. He just doesn’t approach you at all. 

What better way to keep your lifespan long than by staying away from you altogether? 

Is it something that he wants? Of course not! But how can he trust himself to never hurt you again? To never kill you again. 

He can’t. 

So, he locks himself away in his room, sleeping most of the day or just avoiding the areas you normally like to lounge. 

On a normal day, almost everyone in the household, including yourself, would notice this behavior change. However, since you’re now being cornered by all the brothers and their concerns about your lifespan, it’s easy for Belphegor’s absence to slip your mind. 

This hurts Belphegor, but at the end of the day, he believes this is for the best.

Lucifer: 

Lucifer didn’t need a reminder of your short lifespan; if anything, it’s something he’s thought plenty about. 

Lucifer has trauma, we all know that much. After Lilith, he’s absolutely terrified of losing another loved one to something outside of his control.

And your lifespan is not something that’s out of his control. At least not how he sees it, anyway. 

If you thought he was overbearing or overprotective before, brace yourself. He’s going to step it up several notches. 

No excess of junk food, no more pulling all-nighters, no more sitting around the house gaming all day, and definitely no more overexerting your use of magic. He’s no fool, he knows the toll your magic could eventually take on your body. 

Honestly? He wasn’t this bad until his brothers started to panic about your mortality, and though Lucifer told himself he was above such nonsense, he quickly found himself taking all the precautions they were taking (and then some). 

Fortunately, if you find yourself becoming overwhelmed, they’ll be more than willing to listen to you (granted you take some of their concerns into account).

[tbaluver]

When You Have A Baby- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader

genre: fluff fluff

a/n: writing these are so much fun <3 any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! if you have any more ideas for me to write my requests are always open! enjoy!

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Xavier:

He would be so smitten with his newborn. He won't stop internally and externally praising your strength for carrying and birthing his child. He would compare the size of your new baby's hand and his hand. "Their hands are so tiny" He would whisper. As he holds his new born so closely, he vows to make sure no harm came to the two of you.

Your baby room would have a couple plushies that either you won from the claw machines. He can put the baby to sleep so quick whether it was rocking the baby or reading them a bedtime story.

He's very protective but also very cautious. He'll make sure the baby would be all bundled up and comfortable before you two leave the house. Also very soft and sweet with the baby. Spoils the baby with so much love with forehead kisses and snuggles!

This man loves to cuddle the baby. When you come home and you don't see him anywhere, then he's probably in the nursery. He would sit on the rocking chair with the baby in his arms. He just wants to spend as much time as possible with the baby. Nothing in the world can compare to the happiness that brings him where his child is sleeping peacefully in his arms. One of your favorite moments is when you two would be peacefully asleep, the baby safely and comfortably in between you two.

Zayne:

He might not show it physically, but he's definitely in pain seeing you in labor. He'll be by your bedside, gently holding your hand and letting you squeeze his hand as much as you need too. It's all worth it in the end when he sees his baby with his own eyes. Inside he's melting but he keeps his cool.

Like I said in my pregnancy post this man is always ready. Ready whenever you were pregnant and ready when the baby is born.

When the baby cries when your both asleep, he'll assure you that he can do it and let you go back to sleep. He'll handle anything whether it's feeding the baby, cradling, changing the diaper, or helping put the baby back to sleep, as long as you get some rest. He would even be the first to wake up just to check up on the baby just so you can have a few more minutes of rest before you have to get up.

One of your favorite memories would be seeing him handle the baby so well in his arms in the nursery. You would snake your arms around him and rest your chin on his shoulder as he continues cradling the baby.

He handles his new responsibilities as a father so well. He can barely pull himself from the baby. It's like he had everything under control and nothing can affect him as long as you were okay. He made sure to validate any frustrations and anything you were anxious about. He was always there to reassure you.

Rafayel:

His eyes would be shimmering from glee as he cradled the baby. "They're so tiny!" He would whisper shout, carefully not trying to wake the baby. The first time he ever held the baby, he didn't think it would be possible for his body to let go of the small bundle of joy in his arms.

You are so strong for having to take care of two babies. The one you birthed and your husband, Rafayel. He playfully pretends to be your baby so you can also take care of him like you do with your new born.

You guys would have such a beautiful baby room. The room would have such warm lighting. He would have the walls painted with what he had envisioned and a mix of furniture that you both planned out. You guys would have a crib mobile that is obviously sea themed.

You would also walk in on him many times cradling the baby and encouraging his baby to say his first words would be anything of dad or the baby has to show him first when they learn how to walk.

He would def take so much memories of you and your baby. He'll put some baby safe paint on your baby's hands and stamp their hand print on a small canvas so when they grow up, you'll all remember the time they were so tiny. Finding you again was a miracle in itself and having this baby with you, he would need or create a different word to describe it all.

Sylus:

He would be right at your side during labor, wiping your sweat off your forehead and giving you reassurance. "You're doing so well sweetie. Our baby will be out soon."

He does everything that he can without protests. He would give warm baths and sweet kisses to your baby's head every moment he can.

He makes it all look easy and even handles any chores around the house himself or makes Luke and Kieran do it so you have time to recuperate. He would spend quality time with you any time he can to make you feel just as loved if not more with your growing family.

It would physically pain him to leave you and his newborn at home when he had to leave for business. Although neither of you would have gotten that much sleep in weeks, a part of him wished that it would never end. Even if it would be just for a few hours, he did not want to miss anything that happens. What if the baby laughs and he wasn't there to take a video of it? What if an emergency happened and you needed him? He would make you record everything you and your baby do because he doesn't want to miss any milestone in his baby's life.

Just like you, he would spoil the baby rotten. When he would come back from his business trips or meetings he would bring back gifts for you or anything that reminded him of you and your baby.

You would ban him from singing any lullabies to your baby but sometimes when you're already asleep he would secretly sing your baby a song. He would feel fully content in his life.

[erwinsvow]

omg please do something about comforting rafe after his shitty day, like him trying shed a tear while laying on ur chest while u scratch his back and him being all needy for ur touch like nuzzling his nose into ur neck ughhh 🫣🫣

being nice to rafe was all too easy for you, even though he never felt like he deserved it.

you don't know exactly what had happened today. you'd been out with friends and then home with your family all day, but only because rafe had been busy. you knew it wasn't necessarily good, but you'd drop your plans in a heartbeat if rafe was free.

so you had gone all day without him—which was fine. you were able to handle it, you'd even had a good day.

but you had forgotten something—something important. so concerned with your own dependency on rafe and how much you wanted to see him, but still trying to behave as normally as possible around him, you didn't remember that rafe had also gone all day without you.

and normally, he could handle that too. if he was having a good day.

bad days without you were something entirely different for rafe, something close to unbearable. he couldn't pinpoint exactly why or when this had started, but over time, it had turned into a beast of its own.

even thinking about it made him angry. all rafe knew was that if he didn't see you in the next ten minutes, he was either going to break a door or break someone's bones.

and you, like the good girl you are, come open your door the second you hear rafe's truck pull up. it doesn't take long for you to see something's wrong, inviting rafe inside and both of you staying silent while you get up to your bedroom.

a haven of soft blankets and sweet-smelling candles, your room is your safe space. you hadn't realized it was rafe's too.

the thing with you and rafe has been, for some time now, that you don't need words to communicate all the time. sometimes looking at each other is enough to tell the other what's going on, and today was one of those times.

when rafe comes in, you close the door gently behind the two of you and then take a seat on the bed. he's still standing at the foot of the bed, and you glance up.

rafe looks, more than anything, tired. and you don't need to know why, or what caused it, or to ask him what's wrong. you just need him to feel better.

you take his hand in yours, smiling up at him when he finally glances down. you move up, resting against the headboard and trying to make as much space as possible for your boyfriend, even though he can never fit on your bed. still holding his hand, you tug it until he comes and joins you.

with still no words, you let him rest his head on your chest, running your fingers through his hair. at first he just lays there but after a few minutes, you feel his hands snake around your waist, hearing a small sigh of what you hope is relief. and knowing that he feels better, you feel a little better too.

the two of you stay like that for a while—though you don't mind. you don't want it to end. rafe is always taking care of you and this feels like your chance to take care of him.

when rafe finally shuffles and gets up to sit beside you, you hear a quiet sniffle and look down to see some wet marks on your shirt. you immediately look up at rafe, taking his hand into yours again.

"it's gonna be okay, rafe." you really mean it, and you hope he believes you.

"yeah," he clears his throat and you look away, focusing on the pattern of your quilt. rafe lifts your face towards him, fingers moving to your jaw and tilting you in his direction, before he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek. "thanks, kid."

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Real Man"

Older Au Chapter 3.

THIS IS A MATURE STORY. IT HAS SOME SEXUAL SENCES, IF YOU DONT LIKE DON'T READ. Ok yall ik i said i was gonna post this last night but i hated it so i rewrote it! if it sucks don't say anything pls. sorry if it's repetitive, lmk whose team ur on!!! And what you want to happen next. comments, reblogs, likes and kind asks are always appreciated. If this one random anon keeps sending theses crazy things, i'll have to remove anon asks, which I dont want to do. I love my anons, so pls be nice. Send in asks, I miss yall, I've been sooooo busy with school lately and I havent had time to get on here. THIS IS MY 1ST TIME WRITNG ANYTHING LIKE THIS SO LMK HOW IT ISSSSS

WHY AM I GETTING THE FEWLINF EVERYONE HATES THIS??? IM ABT TO DELEYEB TS NGL 😭

Six months had passed since that night—the night you let Slade’s words sink into your skin like venom and made the choice that changed everything. For better and worse.

You hadn't accepted his offer easily. Not after what happened with Two-Face. That betrayal still sat in your chest like a dull ache, a constant reminder of how easily people could take what they wanted and leave you with nothing. You had sworn not to trust so easily again, not to let yourself fall into another cycle of being used and discarded. So when Slade made his offer, you hesitated.

"You're smarter than this," you had told yourself that night. "You know what happens when you trust the wrong person. You know what men like him want."

And yet, here you were. Living in his world.

Not as a prisoner, not as a puppet, but as something more. The lines were blurred, shifting with every glance, every order he gave that you didn’t question, every moment that stretched too long in the dim glow of your shared space. Because that’s what it was now, shared.

The apartment Slade had set up was far from a safe house. It was huge and spacious, Slade wasn't a cheap man. It felt lived in. Your things mingled with his, your scent lingering in the air. You bought vases and filled them with flowers, you organized the kitchen and bought him real groceries, not just canned food. You hung pictures you developed of you and him. Ones he didn't know you took. You roped him into painting your room a baby blue, a color he swore he hated, yet he still slept in your room every night. It was comical to see such a large man laying in a pastel colored room on your floral bedsheets, the last man you let into your bed was equally large. But we don't talk about him.

Slade cared for you deeply, or at least tolerated you. At first you were always at each others throats, each person throwing a more cutting remark than the other. When your arguements got so bad that you began to ignore him, he brought home women, made sure he heard them moaning through the walls till you snapped and began screaming.

You hated Slade Wilson

But after the first month things began to change, Slade never said anything about it, but you caught the way his eyes would darken when he returned from a mission, his gaze sweeping over you like he needed to confirm you were still here. Like he expected you to disappear.

You leaned against the counter, watching him from the corner of your eye as he cleaned his weapons. The rhythmic motion of his hands, the way he handled each blade with the kind of care most reserved for something fragile, it was almost mesmerizing. Everything he does is.

“You’re staring,” he said, not looking up. God, he's so smug.

You scoffed. "No, you are. I don't stare at creepy old men. In fact, it's usually the opposite."

His lips curled into that knowing smirk, the one that made something tighten in your chest. “If you say so, sweetheart.”

The nickname used to irritate you. Now, you weren’t sure what it did. All you knew was that it made your heart race the way only one person had before. He used to call you sweetheart too.

Slade’s presence in your life was suffocating, an unshakable force that wrapped itself around you, squeezing tighter with every passing day. He was cruel in the way he trained you, brutal in his expectations. If you failed, he had no patience for it. Slade trained you for greatness and he wouldn't tolerate anything less.

“You call that a punch?” he sneered one evening in your early days of training, after you had barely managed to land a hit on him. “Pathetic. I’ve seen senior citizens put up more of a fight,"

Gritting your teeth, you launched at him again, only for him to sidestep effortlessly. A sharp pain bloomed across your ribs as he shoved you down, hard. The thing that you loved and hated most about Slade was that he treated you like an equal. He didn't see you as his younger, fragile, kind-of girlfriend; he saw you as an equal opponent.

“You hesitated,” he said, standing over you. “That hesitation will get you killed.”

You spat blood onto the mat and glared up at him. “Or maybe I just don’t care if I live or die. Nothing is ever really this serious.”

Something flickered in his eye, dark and unreadable, before he crouched beside you. His fingers dug into your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He didn't understand your humor sometimes, considering he's old enough to be your father.

“Oh, but you do, you want to survive. To be great, ” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

He let go of you with a sharp shove and stood. “Get up. We’re not done.”

The tension between you both had only grown over the months. Slade had a way of pressing in, invading your space without ever needing to touch you. Sure you guys fucked almost twice, sometimes three times a week, but there was that small sliver of confusion and hesitation.

Sure, he slept in your bed ever night now, called it "our room," and sure you stayed up waiting when his missions would take too long. Yeah, you would run and jump into his open arms, feeling nothing but content as he kissed your forehead and took you to the bed, it's normal that ya'll didn't even have sex some nights, that you just cuddled.

Sometimes, you swore he was waiting, waiting for you to be the one to close that final inch between you. But you never did. You couldn't bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you fell into a rhythm. Training. Fighting. Learning with him and laughing with him. He pushed you harder than anyone ever had, demanding perfection, never letting you slip back into old habits. He didn’t coddle you like they did. He didn’t pretend you were something delicate. He made you strong.

Most nights, after an exhausting day of training, you would sit on the brown leather couch cuddled up to him with your head on his chest and his arms around you, the dim glow of the television flickering between you. Slade wasn’t much for small talk, you talked enough for the both of you, but the silence between you felt... comfortable, almost warm

“Why did you take me in?” you had asked once, voice barely above a whisper.

He had taken a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. “Because I saw something in you,” he finally answered. “Potential. Something you’re too afraid to admit to yourself.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but deep down, you wondered if there was truth in his words. You liked that he believed in you, no one had done that before.

Then there were the other moments. The ones that made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge. The way he stood too close when showing you how to hold a blade properly, his breath warm against your skin. The way his hands lingered too long when correcting your stance. The way his gaze dropped to your lips before he forced himself to look away.

Neither of you ever acknowledged it. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. It's completely normal for your teacher/mentor/enemy to sleep in the same bed as you every night. It'd be weird if you didn't make breakfast and dinner for the two of you. It'd be weird if you didn't know his favorite foods and if he didn't know how to braid your hair. It'd be even weirder if he didn't make you coffee exactly how you like it and help you put away the dishes.

Slade had become an inescapable presence, his control over you extending far beyond training. He knew where you were at all times, had a way of appearing when you least expected it, his eyes always sharp, always knowing. Some nights, when you tried to slip out for air, you’d find him already outside, leaning against a wall as if he’d been waiting for you. He let you do what you wanted, think you were free, but he was always watching you.

If you were singing at a bar, you could count on him to be in the crowd. If you met with Selina at a restaurant you could count on him to drive you home. Slade was always there. Selina thought it was strange, you took comfort in it.

“You really think you can go anywhere without me knowing?” he had mused once, a shadow of amusement in his voice.

It should have bothered you. Maybe it did. But part of you had started to crave it, the way he made you feel like you belonged to him, even if neither of you would ever admit it.

Slade had been… watchful lately. More than usual. He came back late from missions, missions he didn't let you come to, sometimes with a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before. He was hesitant to let you go and preform at bars, sometimes convincing you to just play the songs on your guitar in the living room and run your fingers through his hair as you both laid on the couch.

There were the calls—brief, coded. You were offended, Slade told you almost everything these days but somehow no amount of sweet talk and bedroom eyes could get him to budge this time. And then there were the other things. The subtle shifts in the city’s underworld. More movement in Gotham than usual. The quiet whispers of old ghosts stirring, names you hadn’t spoken in almost a year.

Dick. Jason. Tim. Damian. Bruce.

You saw it in the way certain streets had too many eyes. As if waiting. As if listening.

And then there was the whisper of something else. Something darker, something clawing at the edge of your awareness. A name that had once sent a thrill through you, now only bringing unease and resentment.

Harvey Dent.

A name you hadn’t spoken in months, yet it clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t shake. A man you couldn't bare to even think of. A drink left for you at a bar you hadn't performed at in weeks, a coat draped over the back of a chair that looked too familiar.

Slade noticed before you did. “You’ve got a ghost,” he murmured one evening, the flicker of a knife between his fingers. “One that doesn’t know how to stay buried.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant. You didn’t have to. You already knew. You just didn't know why. Had he finally seen through Tiffany, now that it was too late?

At first, you didn’t question it. Slade had always been territorial—watchful, overbearing when he wanted to be. He had a way of controlling things without seeming like he was. That was how he worked.

So when you first noticed the shifts, you didn’t react. Your schedule changed, but not because you changed it.

You used to go out when you wanted. Walk the streets when they were quiet, feel the Gotham night press against your skin, the air cold and sharp. Not anymore.

Things began to change this week. Now, every time you thought about leaving, something stopped you.

The fridge was always stocked, eliminating any reason to step outside. Your favorite food. Your favorite drinks. Little things appeared when you needed them; new clothes, supplies, anything that might have made you leave for even a moment. Things you mentioned only in passing, like the new lipstick you wanted or a pair of vintage heels or a new bag.

If you reached for your coat, Slade would speak before you even touched the door. Asking where you were going, trying to be casual.

It was never a command. Never outright control. But the implication was there. And every time you hesitated, he won. If you needed to leave or just wanted to go out, he would come with; a silent yet protective figure always in the shadows.

The night was quiet, the kind of stillness that should have been peaceful but wasn’t. The apartment smelled like old wood and gun oil, the faintest trace of smoke lingering from Slade’s cigar earlier. You had just stepped out of the shower, skin still warm from the heat, hair damp as you walked barefoot across the floor in your towel.

Your hand brushed against the pretty golden door knob absentmindedly.

And then you froze. Something was different.

Your fingers curled around the lock, tracing over the new ridges, the reinforced structure. The weight of it felt wrong.

It wasn’t your lock. Not the cute one you insisted on buying at the antique shop that Slade hated. It didn't match the walls.

Your stomach twisted. You turned slowly, your damp hair clinging to your skin as your mind raced. This wasn’t an accident. You hadn’t imagined it. Slade had changed the locks. The thought sent something icy down your spine. Alarm bells blared in your mind.

You tried to shake it off, tried to tell yourself it was nothing. Maybe it was security. Maybe he just wanted better protection.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. Because he didn’t tell you. Because Slade never did anything without a purpose. Because Slade Wilson didn't need a lock to keep people out. And because you hadn’t noticed until now. You took a slow, steady breath and turned toward the living room.

Slade was there, like always, seated in his usual chair by the window, sharpening a knife. The sound of steel against whetstone was rhythmic, deliberate. His posture was relaxed, but you weren’t fooled. His fingers were too steady, his shoulders just a little too still.

He was waiting. Watching. Like he had already predicted this moment, like he was ready for an argeument. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, heart pounding too fast, not caring if you were in a towel.

"Planning on keeping me in a cage?" you muttered.

Slade didn’t pause. Didn’t even look up. “Planning on keeping you alive.” The words were so smooth, so easy, that your stomach turned.

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t hiding it. He wasn't denying it. Not anymore. This wasn’t a mistake. This was intentional.

You forced a laugh, though it felt hollow in your throat. “Right. Because I’m just so incapable of keeping myself safe. Even after all the training we've done. Even with my literal super-human abilities.”

Slade finally looked up. His eye locked onto yours.

There was no humor in his gaze. No smirk, like he usually had on while teasing. Just that slow, assessing stare that made your pulse stutter.

"If I thought you were capable of that," he murmured, voice quiet, too quiet, "we wouldn’t be having this conversation."

Your chest tightened. Because the way he said it sent something sinking into the pit of your stomach. This wasn’t just about protecting you. This was about making sure you never left.

Two days later, you decided to test it. Just to see what would happen. Slade had stepped out—or so he wanted you to believe. The moment you heard the door shut behind him, you moved.

Your fingers curled around the knob.

Turned it— but a large, scared hand beat you two it

"Going somewhere?"

Your entire body locked up. You gulped and licked your suddenly dry lips, he had you cornered with one hand on the knob and the other caging you in as he towered over you. His voice was smooth, calm—too calm. You turned slowly, pulse thrumming in your throat. Slade stood right behind you.

The door was still closed.

Your heart stuttered. You hadn’t heard him come back. Hadn’t even realized he was there. So much for super hearing. Nothing worked on Slade Wilson. You kept your expression neutral. Didn’t let him see the panic creeping up your throat.

"Didn’t realize I had a curfew," you muttered with an uneasy grin, trying to start your usual banter. Slade didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just watched you.

“You don’t.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. But he didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. Didn’t let you leave. The silence stretched too long.

Finally, you forced a smile, tilting your head. “Then I’ll be back in an hour.” Nothing changed in his expression. But you could feel the weight of his stare. Then he tilted his head, eye dark and calculating.

“It's not safe out there anymore. Not for you.”

You blinked. Something in his tone shifted.Not amusement. Not control. Something else. Something darker. Like he was waiting for you to figure it out.

Your stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t answer. Didn’t even move.

Just let the question hang in the air, stretching the silence tight between you. And that’s when it hit you.

He wasn’t stopping you because he was afraid you’d leave.

He was stopping you because something else was waiting outside.

Something he wasn’t telling you about.

Your mouth went dry. Slade finally let out a slow, amused breath, pushing off the wall.

And then—

He stepped aside. A challenge. Daring you to open the door. You hesitated. And that was all it took.

The moment you hesitated, you lost. Slade smirked, shaking his head like he had already predicted every move you would make. "Let's get to bed." He rasped out, looking at you with dark, seductive eyes.

And then he turned, walking past you like the conversation was over. Because it was. Because he knew you wouldn’t leave now.

The next morning, the locks changed again. The windows were reinforced. Your pretty pink curtains replaced with black shutters. Your phone stopped working. You couldn't call Selina. Every excuse to leave was removed before you could even think about it. You tried not to panic. Tried not to question it.

But Slade was closing the walls in. And you weren’t sure if it was to keep someone out—

Or to keep you in.

The first time, you thought it was a coincidence.

You had slipped into a bar down the street, needing to breathe, needing something normal.

The moment you stepped in, your stomach turned. Something familiar. Cologne. Not just any cologne. Expensive. Sharply tailored. The scent of whiskey and authority.

You froze.

Your mind screamed at you. It’s just someone else wearing it. It’s just your imagination. And then you saw it. A glass at the bar. Untouched. Neat. No ice. A double pour. your breath hitched.

Harvey’s drink.

It wasn’t until you came home that you truly realized. Because that’s when you saw the rose.

A single red rose on the kitchen counter.

Waiting for you. Your entire body went cold. It wasn’t from Slade. It couldn’t be from Slade. Slade would never bring you roses, he wasn't a gentleman. And he knew you liked hydrangeas and peonies now.

You turned slowly and nearly threw up.

Slade was already standing there. Watching. Waiting. His jaw was tight. His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t say anything. And that’s when you knew,

He had seen this coming.

“Where did that come from?” you asked, voice thin. Why was he doing this? Was shattering your heart not enough? Did he want to ruin things with you and Slade?

Slade didn’t answer. Instead, he walked forward, plucked the rose from the counter, and rolled it between his fingers. Slowly. Deliberately. Then, he crushed it.

Your stomach dropped. The petals crumbled to the floor. His voice was dangerously calm. "You tell me, sweetheart."

For the rest of the night, he didn’t let you out of his sight. Not directly holding you hostage, but you felt it. The way he lingered in doorways. The way his hand ghosted too close when you passed him.

Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to ask. Waiting for you to figure it out. Waiting for Harvey to stop playing games and make a real move.

You weren’t sure when it had happened; when you had stopped keeping track of time, stopped caring about the difference between one night and the next. Slade made sure you had no reason to count the days. He made sure you had no reason to want anything. You woke up every morning in his arms and went to bed satisfied and well loved. It wasn’t a prison but it wasn’t freedom either. It was something in between. A limbo of his design. A small slice of heaven in hell.

You were happy. But something was off, Slade was being more paranoid and he got less subtle about it each day.

You weren’t trapped, not physically. Slade let you leave the apartment. You weren’t chained to the walls, weren’t locked in a room. He took you out on missions, let you get your hands dirty alongside him, let you breathe in the crisp Gotham air under the cover of night. In some ways, those nights were the only times you felt alive, other than when you were with Slade. The weight of a blade in your hand, the burn in your muscles from the chase, the sharp adrenaline rush of the fight, of using your powers on someone they affected; it reminded you that you still existed outside of this quiet game he played with you. Because that’s what it was. A game.

Slade never said it outright, never told you he was keeping you on a leash, but you could feel it tightening with every passing week. At first, it was small things. The way he subtly redirected missions away from Gotham’s city center, keeping you to the outskirts, where the shadows were deeper and the chances of running into familiar faces were slimmer. The way he always made sure you stayed close during a job, always just within arm’s reach. It wasn’t just protection. You knew better than that. It was control. He was testing you, waiting to see if you would try to slip away, if you would give him a reason to remind you just how easily he could pull you back.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the real test wasn’t in the field. It was what happened after.

After the job was done, after the adrenaline had settled into exhaustion, after the long, banter filled walk back to wherever Slade had decided to keep you that night. It was in the way he never let you wander too far. The way his hand would hover at the small of your back without quite touching, guiding you down the streets like he was the one who decided where you went. It was in the way he never left you alone for too long.

At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Slade was always working, always had something that needed his attention. But then you started to notice the patterns. You ate together, you slept together, trained together, hell; you even showered together. You were never alone for more than a few hours. If he had business elsewhere, you were given something to occupy your time—training, surveillance, a task that kept you exactly where he wanted you.

You tested it once again, just to see what would happen. After he had left for what you thought was a routine meeting, you had grabbed your coat and made your way to the door. You weren’t even thinking about leaving him, not really. You just wanted to see if you could. If there was still a part of you that could step outside without feeling the weight of his presence pressing against you.

Your fingers had just curled around the doorknob when you heard his voice. Low. Even. Inevitable.

“Going somewhere?”

You were getting de ja vu. This happened last time too. You had swallowed hard, pulse spiking in your throat as you turned. He was standing right behind you.

You hadn’t heard the door open. Hadn’t heard his footsteps. He was just there, watching, waiting. The worst part was that he wasn’t even angry. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you, wasn’t raising his voice or blocking your way. He didn’t have to.

Slade had simply leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eye scanning you with that sharp, unreadable expression that made your stomach twist. “Didn’t realize I needed permission,” you had said, forcing your voice to stay steady. You wouldn't let him control everything, not another man would be in charge of your life.

“You don’t.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he had already solved. “Just wondering if you really think it’s safe out there.”

Not this odd shit again.

That made you pause. The way he said it. Not like a threat. Not like he was trying to scare you into staying. He said it the same way as last time. Like he already knew something you didn’t.

Your grip on the doorknob tightened. “What are you talking about? You said this last time.”

Slade didn’t answer right away. He just let the silence stretch, let you feel the weight of your own hesitation. Then, slowly, he took a step back. Another challenge.

“If you want to go,” he said, gesturing toward the door, “go.”

Your breath caught. You should have. You should have walked out.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew that if you did, if you stepped outside now, you wouldn’t just be walking into Gotham. You would be walking into something else. Something waiting.

Slade knew it. And now, so did you.

You swallowed hard, stepping back from the door. Slade huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head like you had just proven his point. Then, without another word, he walked past you and disappeared into the other room. That was the moment you knew, whatever was waiting for you out there was worse than what was waiting inside. You just didn’t know what it was yet.

You found out a week later. A part of it, at least.

The envelope was waiting for you when you returned from a job with Slade, slipped under the apartment door like a whisper of something you had tried to forget. You had bent down, fingers hesitating just for a second before picking it up. The paper was thick, expensive. No return address. No markings. But you didn’t have to open it to know who it was from. The sharp smell of cologne gave it away.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising in the back of your throat as you tore it open, your hands gripping the edges a little too tightly. The letter inside was simple. Only four words.

You won't forget me.

Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled. Because the worst part was, he was right. No matter how much Slade consumed you, or your occasional fantasy about Clark; he also stayed on your mind

You barely had time to process it before you heard the apartment door shut behind you. Your fingers snapped the letter closed, chest tightening, but it was too late.

Slade had already seen.

His expression didn’t change, but you could feel it. The shift in the air. The way his shoulders set just a little too still, the way his single eye flickered from your face to the envelope with something dark and unreadable. He stepped forward, not rushing, just closing the distance between you with the kind of inevitability that made your breath come short.

You turned, but before you could move, his hand shot out. Not rough, not gentle like usual, just firm. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, halting you in place.

“Let go,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t.

Instead, he reached for the letter.

You pulled back.

Slade’s grip tightened. “Let me see,” he said, his voice low, controlled. He wasn't used to you denying him these days, not when you loved him.

Your stomach clenched. You didn’t let go, but it didn’t matter. Because Slade never asked twice.

With one sharp tug, he tore the letter from your grasp, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. You watched as his eye scanned the words, his jaw tensing, his fingers tightening around the paper just slightly.

Then, finally, a quiet chuckle. A dark, amused sound. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Your breath hitched. Slade looked at you now. Expression unreadable.

“Do you miss him?” Your heart stopped. You denied it, but you could see in Slade's eyes that he didn't believe you. In the way he turned away from you that night. You didn't blame him, you didn't even believe yourself.

Harvey always knew how to play the long game.

Small things began to shift in your life and you knew who was behind it. The song on the radio. A scarf. A photo photo. They were never coincidences, he didn’t believe in coincidence. The man was calculated, meticulous in his pursuits. When he wanted something, he played patient, steady, unyielding, watching from the shadows, striking when you least expected it.

Slade was the same way, but Slade never needed patience. Slade took what he wanted. Harvey waited for it to come back to him.

The jazz playing in the bar was nothing, just white noise in the background while you sat beside Slade, nursing your drink, your head still fogged from the last mission. You weren’t thinking of anything other than how good it felt to finally sit still.

Then, days later, the scarf appeared. Neatly folded on the couch, like a gift wrapped in silence, waiting for you to pick it up. You hadn’t touched it at first, just stood there, staring at it, fingers twitching at your sides. It was a trick of the mind, an old memory manifesting in a way that didn’t make sense.

Except it wasn’t.

He had been here. Or close enough to touch. You should have told Slade. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. And then, the photo. A photo Selina took of you and him dancing at the Pink Pony Club. It smelled like him too.

That was what shattered the illusion of security, the idea that you had control over this. The moment you saw it, you knew.

Harvey had always been a sentimentalist, clinging to memories long past, treasuring things most people would discard.

You, once upon a time, had been one of those things. And now? You weren’t sure. You weren't sure what he wanted, especially since he had Tiffany. You had placed the photo down carefully, afraid to crumple it, afraid to acknowledge what it meant.

You had kept your movements neutral, your breath steady, but Slade had been watching. His presence in the other room was a solid weight pressing into your chest. The shuffle of files, the slow deliberate sound of metal being set down, he was waiting.

He had noticed. Of course, he had. Slade noticed everything. And yet, he didn’t say a word.

You lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, feeling Slade’s presence next to you like a silent storm waiting to break. He wasn’t asking. He was waiting for you to give yourself away. To tell him the truth, to trust him like he trusted you.

Slade had been watching you too closely, keeping his invisible leash tight without ever pulling. That was the way he worked, he let you think you had freedom while keeping you within his reach. If you had tried to leave through the door, he would have known.

So, you didn’t.

You waited, feigned sleep, forced your breathing into something slow, even, something convincing. You heard him move in the other room, heard the creak of his chair, the slow inhale of a cigar.

You moved the moment he shifted. Window, not the door. Silent steps. A fire escape that groaned beneath your weight. By the time Slade glanced back toward the couch, you were already gone.

Harvey knew you would come.

You knew that from the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, the Gotham skyline stretched out behind him like a kingdom.

He turned before you could say anything, a slow, easy movement, his face shadowed beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. And then, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not the sharp, dangerous grin you had been expecting. It was something softer. Something more desperate. Like a man in the desert coming across a well.

“Took you long enough, didn't think you got my message. I started thinking that maybe the note didn't reach you.” he murmured. The message he left in the women's bathroom at a bar you and Slade frequented.

Your throat felt tight. You felt hurt all over again. Like someone reopened the wound of his betrayal. Like the same broken girl Slade took in six months ago. You came here for closure. So that it wouldn't hurt when you said his name or sang the songs you wrote for him. “How did you find me?”

What did he want? To torture you? Rub salt in your wounds?

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I never lost you.”

Only Slade called you that now. The words made your stomach twist, a cold knot settling in your chest. You should have walked away then. But you didn’t. Because you had to know.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you haunting me? Not letting me move on?” Your voice shook as you said it. This conversation was long overdue.

Harvey’s fingers gripped the railing, his knuckles white. “Because I need you to listen to me. Just once. Just this once. Hear me out.”

Your heart hammered. Hear him out? He could've started with an apology.

“You think I’ll forgive you?” you spat. You would, because when you looked at him, you still felt the same warmth you did all those months ago; only this time it was mixed with resentment and longing.

He flinched. And for the first time, you saw it—the raw, desperate emotion that he had always hidden behind sharp words and confident grins. The mask cracked, just for a second.

His voice turned rough, unsteady. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know that. But I need you to hear me out.”

You shook your head, stepping back, but he reached out—not touching, not yet, but close.

“You don’t know what’s happening,” he continued, his voice dropping into something urgent, pleading. “Your family—Tim, Dick, all of them—they’re figuring it out. They’re finding out the truth about Tiffany. They'll realize what she's doing, like I did.They'll know soon, maybe not today or tomorrow; but soon. They'll realize she's been using her powers on them like she did to me.”

Your breath came too short. No. This was not happening. Not when you were finally happy again. Not when you think you've fallen in love with Slade.

“No,” you whispered.

Your vision blurred. It was happening. Everything you had tried to scream about for years, everything they had ignored, it was going to come to light. Harvey’s fingers brushed your wrist.

Soft. Careful. Like he was trying not to scare you away.

“And when they realize what they did to you,” he murmured, “they’re going to come running. Crawling back like I am.”

Your stomach twisted.

“They’re going to act like they care,” he continued, voice soft, insidious. “Like they’re sorry. But they’re not. Not like I am. You know that, don’t you?”

Your lips parted. You hated how much sense it made. Hated how deep the doubt had already burrowed into your skin. Hated how genuine and honest he was being, you could sense it. Harvey tilted his head.

And then, voice lower, almost fragile he said, “You don’t have to go back to them.”

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back. “I’m not going back,” you said, voice shaking. Never.

Harvey swallowed hard. And for a moment, you thought he might break, that the weight of what he had done, what he had lost, might finally crush him. But then, he looked at you.

And you saw it, the shift. The danger. Not Two-Face. Not the cold, calculated criminal.

Just Harvey Dent. The man who never let go. “You think you’re free?” he murmured.

The words sent a chill down your spine. Harvey smiled, but it wasn’t kind. “You think he just let you leave?”

Your chest tightened. You tried not to show the flicker of doubt, the small crack in your resolve. But Harvey saw it.

And then, voice so soft, so dangerous—“He’s not going to let you go either. He'll keep you locked up. I won't.”

You should have never gone to him.

You had known it was a mistake the second you saw him standing there, leaning against the rooftop railing, the glow of Gotham’s skyline making him look almost human.

But you had gone anyway. Because Harvey had always been a mistake you kept making.

You clenched your fists, how dare he talk about Slade? What right did he have to tell you who to trust. "Yeah and I'm gonna take advice from you. That's rich."

He softened immediately, his regret and remorse so obvious; yet he refused to apologize. You wanted to hit him, hurt him like he hurt you; yet when he stood in front of you in the moonlight, your treacherous heart still beat for him. Your heart didn't want to hurt the man who showed you what love is. The man who picked up the shattered pieces your family and Clark left and rearranged them beautifully. It didn't care that he broke them again; he could fix it.

“I made a mistake. I paid for it, I know the truth now.” He said steadily stepping closer, sensing your reluctance.

Your pulse pounded. “What do you want from me?” You were here for answers, not to rekindle an old flame. Not when you were starting one.

Harvey exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Nothing from you. ”

The words hit you too hard. You understood what he was implying, what he wanted. You knew he would come crawling back someday, you just didn't expect it so soon

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “Why?”

His smile faltered. His hands curled around the railing, gripping it like he needed something solid to hold on to.

"You know why. But that's not what i called you for. I called you to warn you about your family and Tiffany,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher. More desperate. “I can throw them off for a little while, lead them off track and make sure they don't know the truth. If that's what you want. But once they know the truth, they won't leave you alone. Certainly not with him.”

You hated the way your chest tightened with affection at his consideration. You hated that you were here. You hated that he still had a hold on you. You hated how he talked about Slade. You hated hearing him say Tiffany's name, it brought back so much hurt and hatred.

“I don't care about them Keep them away for as long as you want. You know I'm not here to hear about them or your whore.” you said viciously, your eyes shining and your teeth sharpening.

Slade would be proud.

Harvey didn't react to your fangs, he wasn't afraid of you. He came closer and grasped your hand, his eyes so heartbroken that it gave you satisfaction, only for a minute.

His voice cracked slightly. “Nothing I do or say can make up for what I did.” His jaw tightened. “I know that.”

You should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because Harvey’s voice dropped lower, his words curling around you like a trap you should have seen coming. “But I need you to know something,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. “She wanted to be you, she tried so hard.”

Your breath hitched. You knew this. But hearing Harvey say it made you feel so much better.

Harvey’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “But she never could.”

Your stomach dropped. Why did this have to happen now? Why now when you finally forgot about him?

“She dressed like you,” he continued. “Talked like you. Watched the way you moved. The way you laughed.” His voice hardened. “The way you loved.”

You shook your head, backing away. You couldn't take this anymore. You wanted to run back into Slade's arms, where nothing could touch you. “Shut up.”

Harvey didn’t.

“She wanted to take everything from you.” His expression twisted. “And maybe, if I had been a different man, I would have let her.”

Your skin crawled at the thought. Harvey let out a breathless laugh, bitter and sharp. “But I couldn’t. I had to go digging, looking for clues.”

His hands clenched at his sides. “Because she wasn’t you. No matter how hard she tried to be. No matter how much she played with my mind, she could never replace you.”

You hated him.

You hated that you believed him.

You hated how you still loved him.

Harvey exhaled sharply, tilting his head, watching you with something frighteningly raw. “Every time she touched me, every time she tried to take something that wasn’t hers—” his voice dropped into something dangerous, low and dark and broken— “I was thinking of you.”

Your breathing came too fast.

Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her,” he whispered, “I wanted it to be you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop. I don't care.” Lies.

“She wasn’t you,” he repeated, voice almost pleading. “She never could be.”

Your throat closed. Your eyes watered and your teeth burned with unshed venom just thinking of his betrayal. Why was this happening.

Harvey’s fingers ghosted over your wrist. Not touching, not quite.

“I never wanted her, not really” he murmured. “Not once.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. This was all you wanted to hear, all you wished for for so long. So why did you feel trapped. Harvey’s voice dropped even lower. He moved even closer

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

You forced yourself to look at him.

“If you don’t care,” he whispered, eyes burning, “why are you still here? Why do you want answers so bad? Why do you still look at me like that?”

You shouldn’t have come.

But you hadn’t been able to help yourself.

Because Harvey always knew what to say, how to linger in your mind like an open wound that refused to heal.

And now here you were, standing under the dim glow of the rooftop’s city lights, your eyes watering, the weight of his gaze pressing into you, sinking into your bones like something familiar, something dangerous.

You forced yourself to keep your stance steady, your pulse even. “You don’t get to ask me those questions.”

Harvey let out a breath, almost a chuckle, but there was no humor in it. His hands curled around the railing as he moved away from you again, gripping the cold metal like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you.

“Do you know how many times I told myself you were gone? That I lost you, ” His voice was steady now, but there was an edge to it—something dangerous. “How many times I tried to let you go, to let you move on?”

Your chest tightened. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something else, something more dangerous. “I didn’t ask you to wait for me. I didn't want you to regret your choice. I didn't want anything but happiness for you. No matter how much you hurt me.”

Harvey’s fingers twitched.

“No.” His lips pressed together in a thin line, he knew the truth, that you always wished the best for him. “No, you didn’t.”

The wind curled between you, cold and sharp, carrying the weight of everything unsaid. You should have turned away. Should have walked back the way you came.

But then Harvey laughed, a bitter, broken sound.

“She used her little snake charm but somehow,” he continued, “after a week I was thinking of you. I never loved her. Couldn't even bring myself to like her, honestly.”

Your stomach dropped. It was a gut punch, sharp and unforgiving. He saw it—the flicker of emotion in your face, the tightening of your jaw, the way your breathing caught for just a second too long.

And Harvey, Two-Face, the man who never let go, moved forward, voice soft, eyes burning.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I never stopped loving you”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Shut up.”

He ignored you. Again.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice low. “You love me too or you wouldn't be here.”

“I said shut up.” He was right, he always is.

Harvey smirked, but there was nothing victorious in it. It was almost self-loathing.

“I never loved her,” he whispered again. He was making sure you knew.

“She wanted me to,” he continued. “She wanted to take everything from you.” His jaw tightened. “And maybe, if you had been a different woman, I would have let her.”

The thought of it made your skin crawl.

Harvey, Tiffany. Together. The ultimate betrayal.

“But I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “Because she wasn’t you.”

He kept repeating it, trying to speak his remorse into your heart directly. You hated how much it affected you. Hated how your chest ached, how your mind burned with the thought of what could have been. You shouldn’t care. But you did. And Harvey knew it.

“You’re lying,” you whispered, forcing steel into your voice. “You used her, just like she used you. You wanted to spy on Bruce and I wouldn't do it.”

Harvey let out a sharp breath. “Yeah.” His eyes met yours. Unflinching. “I did.”

There was no shame in his voice. Just cold, simple truth. No regret anymore. He didn't regret using her, he regretted hurting you.

“But it wasn’t revenge, sweetheart,” he murmured, his Gotham accent slipping in the angrier he got. “It was survival. She had me under her little spell at first; when that stopped working, her little dream team made sure I never stepped outta line. Never came crawling back to you, never told anyone the truth. But I'm done with them now.”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Harvey stepped closer.

“Every time I kissed her, every time I played along, I was thinking of you.” His voice dipped, lower, darker. More desperate. “Every time I called her by her name, I wanted to say yours.”

Your breathing came too fast. This wasn’t fair. Harvey was not supposed to be able to do this to you. Not anymore. He was supposed to be dead to you. He had killed himself in your mind the day he let himself be used, the day he betrayed you.

And yet—

Yet.

You couldn’t move.

Because deep down, a part of you knew—you had thought of him, too. When you weren't with Slade, Harvey consumed your thoughts.

Your stomach twisted as he stepped closer again. “You’re smart, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You always were. Choose carefully.”

You swallowed hard. This wasn't about your family anymore. This was about him and Slade.

“You don’t have to go back to them.” He repeated himself again trying to convince you. His words settled in your bones, heavy, unshakable.

You clenched your jaw again. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Harvey’s eyes flickered, something dark and pleased curling at the edges. And then, voice low, almost dangerous, “Then why are you still with him?”

Your breath hitched. Slade. Your body went rigid.

Harvey took another step closer. Your noses almost touched and you nearly threw yourself into his arms.

“You think he's better than me?”

Your chest tightened. Doubt crept in. You had been so careful. So quiet. Hadn’t you? Harvey saw it. And he smiled.

A slow, knowing smirk. “He’s not going to let you go, he won't give you a choice. I don't blame the man, if I hadn't fucked everything up; I wouldn't let you go either.”

Your stomach dropped. The realization hit you all at once, suffocating, crushing. You hadn’t been careful. You had been playing into Slade’s hands all along.

Because Slade always knew. And if he hadn’t stopped you?

That meant he was letting you dig your own grave. A shiver ran through you.

The moment Harvey’s voice dipped, the second his fingers ghosted over your wrist like a lover’s touch—you should have walked away. But you didn’t. Because part of you needed to hear him say it. Needed to hear him tell you what you already knew.

That he still wanted you. That he never stopped. That you were never meant to be replaced. And it felt amazing to hear the regret in his voice and see the pure longing in his eyes.

The wind curled between you, cold and biting, but Harvey’s presence was stiflingly warm. He was watching you the way he always had; like you belonged to him, like the months between you hadn’t changed a thing. And for the first time all night, you let yourself look at him.

Really look at him.

The scars on the left side of his face had deepened, his two-toned gaze more piercing than before. The weight he carried in his shoulders was heavier, more defined. He was still Harvey, but he wasn’t just Harvey anymore. He had become something darker, something rough around the edges, something broken in a way that made you feel like a piece of you had broken along with him.

You swallowed. “I have to go.” Before you did something you couldn't take back.

Harvey exhaled, slow and deliberate. He nodded, but he didn’t move. He didn’t stop you. But he wasn’t letting you go, either.

“You’re going back to him.” It wasn’t a question. A statement, like he knew it was coming

Your pulse stuttered. “It’s not like that and you know it.” You still felt the need to defend yourself, even though you knew you didn't owe him an explanation.

You still loved him, that much was clear.

Harvey let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Sure it isn’t.”

You took a step back. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t say anything to stop you, but his presence curled around you like a shadow, wrapping itself around your spine, keeping you anchored in place. And then his voice dropped. Low. Certain.

“I’m letting you walk away. But I'm not letting you go. Not when we still love each other.”

Your throat tightened. He wasn’t chasing you. Not yet. But you felt it. The promise in his voice. The inevitability. You didn’t respond.

You didn't deny that you still loved him, it was like a child insisting they didn't eat cookies when they have crumbs all over them.

You just turned and forced yourself to walk away.

The apartment was silent when you returned. Slade was waiting, seated in his chair, drink in hand, legs spread, glaring at the walls. He didn’t turn when you entered. Didn’t move when you stepped further inside, carefully shutting the door behind you. You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

You slipped off your shoes, moving slowly, watching him, waiting. Nothing. No reaction. Just that unshakable stillness. The kind that had always been more dangerous than his anger.

You took a steadying breath. If you didn't speak first, he wouldn't speak at all. “Slade—”

“I knew you’d come back.”

His voice cut through the room, sharp and even. Your fingers curled at your sides. “Of course I came back.”

Now, he looked at you. Finally. And when he did, it felt like a blow. That single eye, cold and assessing, swept over you, taking in every detail, every movement, every breath you tried to keep steady. Then, his lips curved. Slow. Controlled.

“Did he tell you what you wanted to hear? Make you want to run into his loving arms again?”

Your stomach dropped. You didn’t let it show. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Slade exhaled through his nose, the faintest huff of amusement. “Don’t insult me.”

Your jaw tightened. Silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. You weren’t sure if you were waiting for him to snap, or if he was waiting for you to confess. Then, finally—Slade leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, voice lowering into something dangerous.

“Tell me something,” he said lowly.

You didn’t move. “What?”

Slade tilted his head, watching you like he was already playing out the end of this game. “Did you hesitate?”

The words hit harder than they should have. You swallowed. You could lie. You could tell him what he wanted to hear. But it wouldn’t matter. Slade always knew. And that was the worst part.

Slade was quiet for too long. Then—he sighed. Tired. Expectant. And that was worse than anger. You hated when he treated you like this, so indifferent. You liked his anger better, at least then you could get a reaction out of him.

“Take off your coat,” he said. You hesitated. Slade’s expression didn’t shift. “Now.”

Slowly, carefully, you did as he asked, slipping the fabric from your shoulders, letting it drop onto the chair beside you. Slade’s eye flickered toward it. Then, back to you.

You weren’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe he was looking for something Harvey left behind. Something you didn’t even realize you had carried home with you.

Then, after a long pause—Slade smirked. And it wasn’t kind like the ones you've grown accustomed to.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You stiffened. “Realize what?”

Slade leaned back again, completely relaxed. Like he had already won. “You'll know soon.”

Your breath caught. Where was he going with this? You hated when he spoke like some ancient being and he knew that. He was gonna be insufferable these next few days; he always is when you do something he doesn't like.

“Doesn’t matter where you go,” he continued, his voice so damn certain. His smirk widened, mocking. “You’ll always come back to me.”

Your chest tightened. You hated him. Because he was right. He knew you hated it, too.

You lay awake that night. Not because you couldn’t sleep. Not because Slade was in the other room, making you sleep alone for the first time in months, still awake, waiting, watching, knowing.

But because you couldn’t shake the way Harvey had looked at you before you left. Not angry. Not resentful. Just patient and remorseful. Like he already knew something you didn't.

Slade never brought it up again. Not directly. You weren’t sure if that was worse. You weren't sure if you wanted him to scream at you and demand you never see Harvey Dent again. You would rather anger than the silent treatment.

He didn’t demand answers. He didn’t press the issue. He simply carried on as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t watched you walk through the door smelling like another man’s presence.

That should have been a relief. But it wasn’t. Because Slade didn’t let things go. He let them fester.

It was in the way he touched you now, more deliberate, more possessive. The way his hands lingered a little too long on your waist when he passed you in the kitchen, the way his fingers grazed your wrist, as if reminding you that you were still there, still his.

It was in the way he watched you. He had always been observant, but now it was different. Sharper. He wasn’t just looking at you, he was reading you.

Every twitch of your fingers. Every slight shift in your breathing. Every time you looked over your shoulder without realizing it. You had brought something back from that rooftop, and Slade knew it.

And still, he said nothing. Instead, he tightened his hold.

It was late. The apartment was quiet, but neither of you were asleep. Your back pressed into the cool sheets, heartbeat steady but too aware of the man beside you. It'd been three days since Harvey and Slade was finally sleeping next to you again, but you knew he wasn't truly letting things go.

Slade’s fingers traced slow circles against your wrist, his grip loose but present. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he murmured.

You exhaled, shifting slightly beneath his hold. “And you have?”

A quiet chuckle. “I sleep when I need to.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze in the dim light of the bedroom. “And when do you need to?” You missed teasing him.

Slade’s smirk was lazy, knowing. “Whenever you’re not around to keep me entertained.”

You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t let you pull away. His grip tightened, just enough to remind you he was there.

“You think too much,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Keeps you restless.”

“Maybe I like thinking,” you shot back booping his nose. You lived to annoy him, to push his buttons in a way only you could get away with.

Slade hummed, shifting to prop himself up on his elbow, still watching you. His fingers trailed down your arm, you would've though he was trying to start something if his movements weren't so slow and calculated.

“What are you thinking about now?” He said reeling you into his trap, his eyes hard. You hated when he tried to trap you. Your pulse skipped. Nothing you said would be the right answer.

Slade’s lips quirked up slightly, but there was something in his expression—something darker, something expectant.

“You can say it,” he mused. “Say his name.”

You were tempted to do it, moan Harvey's name just to piss him off, but that was a line even you knew not to cross. You rolled your eyes, "God, just let it go Slade. It wasn't important."

Why couldn't he just let this go? Slade smirked, mocking. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t break his gaze. Didn’t look away. Because he knew. He always knew. Nothing goes over Slade Wilson's head.

The next morning, you woke up to a message. Not a text. Not a voicemail. A gift.

The small wooden box sat on the kitchen counter, neat, precise. Like it had been waiting for you. Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t heard anyone come in. You hadn’t even felt him. But Harvey had been here. You swallowed, fingers brushing over the lid before carefully lifting it open.

Inside was a single playing card.

The Two of Hearts.

And beneath it—folded carefully, as if it was meant to be unwrapped like some kind of sentimental treasure—was the same scarf he had left before.

Except this time, there was something else. Perfume. Your perfume. It smelled like you and him. Like Harvey had held onto it. Like he had kept it close. Your stomach twisted.

Harvey had been here. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the box, breath coming a little too sharp, too shallow. The walls of the apartment felt smaller. You didn’t hear Slade approach, but you felt him before he spoke.

His voice was smooth, dangerous. “Something I should know about?”

You forced yourself to breathe. “No.”

Slade leaned against the counter, eyeing the box like he already knew exactly who it was from. And then—he laughed. A quiet, amused sound, as if this was a game he had already won. “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” he said, in the same tone some used when regretting not buying a book before it sold out.

Your stomach dropped. Slade tilted his head, eye still locked on you. “But you wouldn’t have liked that, would you?”

You said nothing.

Slade smirked, shaking his head. “Soft spot for old flames.” He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist. “That’s your problem.”

You clenched your jaw, jerking your arm away. “And what’s yours?”

Slade’s gaze darkened. “I don’t have problems.”

You let out a breathless, humorless laugh. Always with the tough guy persona, honestly it must be tiring always acting untouchable. “Right. Sorry, I forgot. Because you don’t feel anything.”

Slade didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, unreadable. His hand reached for your jaw, firm, demanding. His thumb traced your cheek, slow, deliberate. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“I feel plenty.” You swallowed. Slade smirked. “You just don’t like what I feel.”

You stepped back before you could do something stupid. Something that would make you forget about the box on the counter, the scent of Harvey still lingering in the air. Something that would make you forget that you weren’t sure who you were more afraid of losing.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Harvey was right. They were going to find out the full truth soon. And when they did, they would come for you.

Now, a week after your meeting with him, your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Message after message, call after call, each one from Tim Drake-Wayne. All asking you questions about Tiffany, about yourself. About where you were.

Your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled through the texts, hands shaking, stomach twisting itself into knots so tight you thought you might be sick. Of course Tim was the first to figure out something was wrong. He was about five years too late though.

Tim: We need to talk. Please answer. I have questions. About Tiffany..

You could barely breathe. He wanted to investigate, to look deep into Tiffany. Now?

Now, after years of pushing you aside, after ignoring every cry for help, now he wanted to take your warnings seriously.

Your eyes burned, fingers tightening around the phone, your mind screaming at you to respond, to finally say all the things you’d held in your chest for too long.

But you didn’t. Instead, you turned the phone off. You shoved it under the pillow, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to push away the tears, trying to ignore the way your chest ached with something ugly and desperate.

The moment you walked out of the bedroom, you knew he had seen.

Slade was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, gaze heavy with something unreadable. The phone was still buzzing beneath the pillow in the other room, and somehow, you knew he had heard it.

He had been waiting for this. You swallowed, standing stiffly near the doorway, trying to pretend like everything was fine. Slade didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

“Took him long enough,” he mused, his voice casual, controlled.

You rolled your eyes. He's been bitchy ever since the whole Harvey thing.

Slade’s eye flickered to your hands, still clenched at your sides. “And let me guess—you ignored him.”

You hated how easily he could see through you. You glared at him, jaw tight. “None of your business.”

Slade chuckled, shaking his head, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was lower now, smoother, curling around your spine like a threat disguised as affection. “Everything about you is my business.”

You tensed. Slade reached up, tracing a gloved finger along your cheek, tilting your chin up slightly, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“He’ll keep calling,” he murmured. “He’ll keep begging. He'll figure it out and tell the rest of the little squad and they'll all come running back. Just like your dear old Dent. ” His lips curled into something mocking. “That’s what they do, isn’t it? Make mistakes because they know you'll forgive them?"

You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. Not to hurt you, just enough to remind you who was in control.

His thumb brushed over your lips, slow, deliberate. “What are you gonna do?”

Your breath hitched. Slade leaned in slightly, voice dropping even lower. Dangerous. “Do you want Tim to tell the others? Want your family back? Want him back? Even after he fucked your sister while you were lying sick in your bed?”

Your throat tightened. He was toying with you. Mocking you, trying to hurt you. Making you say it. And you didn’t want to say it. Because you didn’t know. Your family had been your world.For so long, all you wanted was to be seen.

To be loved.

To be something more than just a ghost standing in the background, watching them fawn over someone who had stolen everything from you. And Harvey gave that to you, before he betrayed you.

And now, he was sorry. Soon, they would all know the truth and be sorry.

The emotions clawed at your throat.

You wanted to scream at Tim. Tell him it was too late. Tell them that he could never fix this. No amount of investigating and apologies could make up for years of neglect.

But another part of you, the part that still ached for their love, the part that still wanted them to prove you wrong,

That part whispered, “What if?” What if when they found out the truth, they would love you? What if this time, they actually stayed?

What if this was your chance to finally have the family you always wanted?

The war inside your head made you dizzy. And Slade knew it. He was still holding you, still keeping you rooted to him, while your world spun out of control. After a long, suffocating silence, Slade finally sighed. “You’re a mess.”

You glared at him, pushing away from his grip. “Fuck you.”

Slade chuckled, unfazed. “You do it almost every night.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, "You're a child, you know that?"

You turned away, grabbing a glass from the counter, hands still shaking slightly as you filled it with water. You weren’t thirsty, but you needed something—anything—to keep yourself grounded.

Slade leaned against the counter again, watching you with amusement, but something deeper lurked beneath it. Then, in a voice so casual it almost didn’t register, “I’ll make him stop. I'll make them both stop.”

The glass almost slipped from your fingers. You turned sharply, eyes wide. “What?”

Slade shrugged, like it was nothing. “You don’t want to deal with them. You don’t want to make a decision. So I’ll make it for you.”

Your breath caught. Slade never dealt with things peacefully, he got rid of problems permanately. “You can’t just—”

“I can.” His smirk deepened. “And I will.”

Your stomach twisted. Because the worst part was; you weren’t sure if you were relieved or horrified. Because Slade was right. You didn’t want to make a choice. You wanted someone to do it for you.

And Slade was more than happy to take that burden.

The first thing you noticed the next morning was the silence. No more buzzing. No more messages lighting up your screen. Slade had done it.

He hadn’t waited for you to argue. Hadn’t given you the choice. By the time you checked your phone, every number had been blocked. Every contact erased like they had never existed at all.

And maybe that’s what Slade wanted.

For them to be nothing but ghosts in your past. A clean break. A fresh start. So why did it feel like your chest was splitting open?

You had spent years craving their attention. Years begging for even a scrap of love. And now? Now you had the chance to get it. And you ignored it. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t need them. That you had spent too long chasing something that was never meant to be yours.

And yet, as you stood in the quiet of the apartment, phone gripped too tight in your hands, you ached. Because you had wanted them to fight for you.

Slade had left that morning, his usual teasing smirk in place, but there had been something off.

Maybe it was the fact that his mission was dragging out longer than expected.

Maybe it was the way his fingers had lingered under your chin before he left, thumb brushing over your jaw like he was making sure you were still his.

Or maybe it was the way he had muttered, “Be good while I’m gone, sweetheart.” as you kissed him goodbye.

Like he already knew you wouldn’t be. Like he already knew something was coming. The apartment felt too big without him. His absence wasn’t something you should have noticed.

But you did.

It was in the empty space beside you when you sat on the couch. The extra portion of dinner you made out of habit. The lack of footsteps behind you. The missing weight of his presence pressing against your world, keeping you safe.

It was the first time in months you had been truly alone. So you did the only thing you could think of.

You took a nice, long, hot, shower, trying to dull the ache below your hips. You and Slade had sex last night, but somehow you were already wanting more. It was like your body could sense his absense.

You stood under the hot water, letting the steam curl around your skin, letting the heat scald away the thoughts clawing at your mind.

Maybe Slade was right. Maybe it was easier to just let go.

There was a sound. Soft. Distant. A creak where there shouldn’t be one. You wouldn't have heard it, wouldn't have sensed the body heat if you didn't have your powers. Your heart stopped. You turned off the water immediately, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe it was just—

Another creak. Closer this time. You swallowed, pulse hammering, every nerve in your body screaming at you that something was wrong. Slade was gone.

No one should be here. But you weren’t alone.

The second you stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around your damp skin, fangs reader and a knife in your hand, you felt him.

The shift in the air. The weight of someone watching. And then, his voice.

“Gotta admit,” Harvey mused, voice smooth, mocking, as if he had any right to be angry “didn’t think you’d be the type to shack up with a guy like him.”

Your stomach dropped. You turned sharply, eyes darting across the room, breath catching in your throat when you saw him.

Sitting on your bed. On Slade’s bed.

Harvey was leaning back against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, looking far too comfortable. Like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t the intruder in this equation.

Harvey sat there like he hadn’t broken in, hadn’t shattered what little peace you had left. The moment you stepped out of the shower, still dripping, wrapped only in a towel, you knew, he was waiting for you.

Your fingers clenched around the towel’s edge, jaw tight, pulse pounding.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," you muttered, stepping further into the room, closing the distance between you and him.

Harvey leaned back against the pillows, one arm draped lazily over the headboard, watching you with something smug, something knowing.

"Had to see you," he said simply. Like it was normal. Like it was nothing.

Your stomach twisted. It was never nothing with Harvey.

"And let me guess," you bit back. "You just let yourself in."

His smirk widened. "Door was unlocked, it’s not breaking and entering if you used to live together."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Bullshit. That’s exactly what it is, Dent. We don't like together anymore. Never did officially either."

Harvey didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze slid lower. Over the damp strands of your hair. Over your throat. Your collarbone. Your bare legs.

You knew that look. It made something ugly stir inside you.

He looked at you, gaze slow, deliberate, taking in every inch of you. The damp strands of hair clinging to your skin. The way the towel barely covered enough to keep you decent.

His lips curled into a smirk. “Don’t stop on my account. Nothing I haven't seen before.”

Your fingers clenched around the towel, pulse thundering. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Harvey let out a quiet chuckle, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thought I’d drop by. Say hello. You wouldn’t answer your phone, so I figured—” he spread his arms in mock innocence, “—why not pay a visit?”

You hated how calm he was. How easy he made it look. Like he hadn’t just broken into your home. Like he hadn't broken your heart. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, heart hammering against your ribs. Slade was gone. Gone.

No one was coming. But you could handle yourself. And Harvey knew it. His eyes flickered down your body again, this time slow, calculating. Looking at all the marks and love bites Slade had left the night before. “You always did have a thing for older men,” he mused.

Your jaw clenched. Low blow.

Harvey smirked. “What’s the matter? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Thought you could just run off and play house with Gotham’s favorite mercenary and I’d let it slide?” He tsked, almost disappointed. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart.”

You glared at him. Where did he get the audacity? “You don’t own me. Especially not now. Especially not after what you did. Your apology didn't change anything. You've got no right to be here.”

Harvey’s expression darkened, but only for a second. Then he grinned. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted. Because you knew what he was doing. He wanted you off balance. He wanted you to doubt. It was working. Because a part of you—a part you hated—was already wondering what Slade would do when he found out. Because he would find out. How jealous would he be? Would he finally drop the whole nonchalant act, ask you to be official?

Harvey’s smirk widened. “You think he’s coming back soon? You waiting for him? That's real cute princess.”

Your throat tightened. “He'll be back tomorrow.”

Harvey shrugged, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How missions can just drag out longer than expected?” His grin turned sharp. Cruel. “Would be a real shame if something happened to keep him… occupied.”

Your blood froze. Harvey watched you, waiting for the realization to sink in. He knew. He knew Slade wasn’t coming home anytime soon.

Your fingers curled into fists and suddenly you were on top of him, fangs bared, “What did you do?”

Harvey simply leaned back, enjoying himself and the view of your almost naked body on top of him. He turned his neck, as if trying to give you more access to him.

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Now, now. Don’t go blaming me. I didn’t lift a finger.” His grin widened. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know who did.”

Your breath was coming too fast, too shallow, panic creeping up your spine. Slade was gone. Harvey was here. You were trapped. And Harvey knew it. Your pulse pounded. Slade was gone. Harvey was here.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pinning him down harder against the mattress, your fangs bared, breath coming in sharp, furious exhales.

"What did you do?" you hissed again, voice low, dangerous, shaking with barely contained rage.

Harvey smirked up at you, completely unbothered. His eyes gleamed with that same smug amusement, like he was playing with his food.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmured, voice infuriatingly smooth, teasing. "No need to get all worked up."

You pressed your thighs against his sides, pinning him harder. "Answer me, Harvey."

He let out a slow breath, his smirk twitching, dark amusement flickering across his features. "You always were so determined. I love that about you."

Your fingers tightened, nearly scratching his back, sharp acrylics pressing into his skin through the fabric of his white button down. You didn't want to hurt him, not badly at least.

"Tell me why Slade’s mission is taking so long," you demanded, your weight pressing down on him, your legs gripping him tighter.

Harvey’s hands moved then; sliding slowly up your thighs, gripping just hard enough to make your breath catch.

"You really think I’m gonna make this easy for you?" he murmured, voice dropping to something lower, something thicker with something he wasn’t bothering to hide.

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping down your spine, twisting through your limbs. He knew. He felt it.

His smirk widened, his hips shifting beneath you just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Throbbing. Pressing against the thin fabric of his slacks, against the barely-there barrier of your towel. You nearly moaned, stop being a slut, you tried to tell yourself.

You froze, just for a second. And Harvey noticed.

You were straddling him, baring your venomous fangs. You could kill him. And he was hard. You could feel it, it was impossible not to, thick, twitching against your inner thigh, pressed right against you.

Your powers didn’t help. They never fucking did. The second you got close enough to feel body heat, it was over. It was a constant hum under your skin, that ache, that need, clawing at your sanity. Your towel barely clinging to your damp skin, the heat of his body seeping into yours, you didn't know how much longer you could hold on.

He let out a low, pleased chuckle, his good hand settling on your waist, just barely gripping. "Didn’t know you missed me this much, sweetheart. Thought you were over me?"

Your nails dug into his chest even harder, but he didn’t flinch. He never fucking did. "Tell me where Slade is," you demanded.

Harvey hummed, mocking. "You sure you wanna talk about him right now?" His fingers flexed against your skin, his smirk widening as he shifted slightly beneath you again. "Because from where I’m sitting, you got bigger problems."

Your breath hitched, and you hated it. Hated the way your traitorous body reacted to him. Hated the way he felt so familiar.

His gaze flickered, taking in the flush on your skin, the way your thighs squeezed involuntarily around him. He felt it too. The heat. The tension. The pull that never really disappeared, no matter how many times you had tried to convince yourself that you were done with him.

"You always were greedy," Harvey murmured, tilting his head, eyes dark with something wicked. He was loving this. "You just can’t get enough, can you?"

Suddenly, you were angry at him again. You remembered Tiffany. Your grip tightened around his wrists, holding him down, pressing harder into him, and his smirk twitched, just slightly.

Good. Let him fucking squirm. "You still think you have control here?" you whispered, lowering your head, your breath grazing the sharp line of his jaw.

His breathing faltered. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, just as quickly, his lips curled again, sharp and taunting.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, voice deep, smug, full of sin. "As long as youre on top of me or under me, I don't give a shit who's in control."

Your entire body tensed. Your nails dragged down his chest, slow, teasing, right over his shirt. You could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath your fingertips, fast, erratic, out of sync with the smug bastard act he was putting on.

He was burning for you. Just as much as you were for him. But you weren’t going to give in.

"You still think you can do whatever you want to me?" you whispered, leaning in, letting your lips hover just over his.

Harvey’s eyes flickered. A muscle in his jaw ticked. And for the first time since he had shown up, his smirk finally fucking dropped.

You grinned. Then you moved your hips and ran your fingers up and down his chest.

Harvey cursed sharply through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening instantly, fingers digging into your skin like a vice. His dick twitched against you through his slacks, so fucking hard and aching that you could almost feel the pulse of it.

You let out a slow, breathy chuckle. "Guess you do still want me, huh?"

Harvey’s breathing was uneven. "Careful," he rasped, voice lower, darker, more dangerous now. "You’re playing a real stupid game, princess."

"Why?" you taunted, grinded your hips again, watching the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to snap. "Because you can’t handle it? Because you can’t handle me?"

It was fun being in control. Slade never let you do whatever you wanted to him, barely ever in the bedroom. You loved control, especially when it meant having a man at your mercy beneath you.

Harvey’s eyes flashed. Then, he flipped you. Fast. Brutal.

You barely had time to react before you were the one beneath him , your towel barely hanging onto your body, his hand locked around your wrist, pinning you down, his body hovering over yours, pressing you into the mattress.

His breathing was hard, uneven, tense.

"You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?" he murmured, so close now.

Your chest heaved. You got too cocky, too confident, and now you were paying the price, "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Harvey laughed softly, mocking, brushing his nose against yours. "Liar."

You swallowed, pulse hammering.

"You love this," he said, voice like gravel against your skin. "The attention. The desperation and groveling. You love seeing me beg. The way you talk like you want to kill me, and the next second," his lips ghosted your cheek, his cock pressing hard against your thigh, "you’re grinding against me like a fucking addict."

Your breath hitched. His grip tightened.

"He ever let you get on top?" he murmured, lips just barely grazing yours.

Your stomach twisted. "Don't."

His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Did you think about me when he had you at first? Did you close your eyes and pretend it was my hands on you even after I broke your heart? Should I tell him that?"

Your nails dug into his shoulder, your body betraying you, the heat between your legs only getting worse, stronger, overwhelming, unbearable.

"You wish," you rasped, but it sounded too breathless, too shaky.

Harvey smirked. He knew. "Say you don’t miss me," he challenged.

You clenched your jaw, turning your head away, trying to ignore the way your body burned beneath his.

"Say it," he demanded.

You tried to, but the words wouldn't come out.

Harvey hummed. Then, his fingers slid lower, trailing along your bare thigh, teasing the hem of the towel.

"Yeah," he mused, smug and cruel. "That’s what I thought."

His fingers flexed against your thighs, his grip tightening.

"Little desperate, aren’t you?" he murmured, his voice thick with something smug, something rough.

You scoffed, but your heart was hammering, your body betraying you. "If I was desperate," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were just barely brushing against his, taunting, teasing. "You’d already be inside me."

Harvey let out a low groan. He flipped you back around, giving you full control. Letting you be on top. You lost yourself for a moment, lost the plot. You melted into him and began kissing his neck slowly and unbuttoning his shirt as you slowly moved against him. But then, you saw the picture frame you hung of you and Slade, right behind Harvey.

Slade made you take down all the photos whenever he went away on a mission, in case someone broke in and saw them, and decided to hurt you to get back at him. It was the only one you refused to remove.

It was of you and him, two months ago. Slade had a mission in Paris and he let you tag along, after you were done, you made him go to an ice cream shop. Some sweet old man asked if you wanted a picture together, Slade wasn't smiling, barely even smirking, but you could see the happiness in his eyes as he had his arms around your waist, looking down at you.

You felt nauseous, all the arousal you felt was gone. You were a whore. How could you do this to Slade? You stopped moving as your eyes watered, what if Harvey had done something to him?

Harvey's hands snapped up, gripping your hips, grinding you down onto him. He wasn't gonna let you stop now.

"Fuck, baby, I forgot how good you are at this. Don't stop, please." he exhaled, almost begging, his jaw tightening, his cock pulsing against you.

You bit your lip, trying to fight the heat clawing through your body, the way your nerves lit up at the sheer pressure of him beneath you. It felt so good. You were horny again. But you could use this to your advantage, Harvey wanted you even more that you wanted him.

"Tell me," you whispered, rolling your hips just slightly, torturing him. "Tell me what you mean when you say Slade's occupied.."

Harvey’s smirk curled, his hands dragging you down harder, making you feel every inch of him. " What’s it worth to you?"

Your breath hitched. Harvey’s fingers trailed up your back, slow, possessive, teasing. "You wanna make sure your merc comes back in one piece?"

You swallowed hard, your body thrumming with frustration, anger, something else. All control you had was slipping, your powers were making you horny but they weren't working. Harvey wasn't listening to what you told him to do.

"Make me happy, sweetheart. If I’m happy," his smirk deepened, his voice dripping with dark amusement. " the bastard stays alive."

Your chest tightened, heat roaring up your spine, burning you from the inside out. You hated him. You wanted him. You needed to keep Slade alive. Harvey’s hands slid lower, his thumbs tracing slow, burning circles into your skin.

"Make a decision, pretty girl, his flight leaves soon." he murmured, his dick twitched against you, heavy with need. God, how could he be horny while threatening your teacher/ mentor /situationship's life?

You couldn’t lose Slade.

So you kissed him. Hard. Desperate.

Harvey groaned against your lips, his hands flying up to grip your waist, dragging you down harder against him, practically trying to merge your bodies together.

"That’s my girl," he muttered, his voice rough, victorious, possessive.

Your stomach burned with shame, with need, with something twisted and terrible. You hated him. You loved him.

You needed Slade to live.

But you couldn't do this to Slade, couldn't betray him on the bed you shared every night. He would be livid, what would he do in this situation? Probably kill Harvey. But you weren't Slade, you weren't as brave or as cruel as him.

So you did what you do best: You ran.

You jumped off of Harvey, punching him in the nose, still only in your towel that somehow stayed on, and shut the bedroom door in his face. You had powers, you were faster than Harvey, maybe even stronger than him. You made it to the front door in seconds, but your heart dropped as you saw the three new deadbolts.

Fucking Slade. You debated letting him die at that point.

Suddenly, you felt him behind you, grabbing you and pinning you against the door.

“Goddamn,” He laughed, amused, mocking, “you really thought that would work?”

You snarled, struggling harder, but he didn’t budge. His grip only tightened.

“Let me go, Harvey.”

His breath hitched at the way you said his name. Not Dent. Not Two-Face. Not some alias meant to keep distance. Just Harvey.

And it made something in his chest clench. His fingers flexed, his other hand dragging up your spine in a slow, deliberate motion, making you shudder.

“You always run, don’t you?” His voice was low, smooth—but there was something dangerous beneath it. “Always running from someone.”

His grip tightened on your wrists, pressing them into the wall, “From them. From me. From yourself.”

You hated how well he knew you. You hated that he was right. You hated how he got you into bed willingly even as the guilt ate you up. You hated how good he made you feel, how you couldn't bring yourself to say no. If you did, he would stop, and you didn't want that.

"Don't act like you don't want me now. You were all over me not even a minute ago." He sneered, as he ripped off your towel like it offended him.

You didn't know how many times you came, or how long you went for. You felt so good, but somehow you've never felt worse. Even as Harvey made you scream his name, you thought of how Slade would react.

You felt even worse as the night wore on, and instead of rough sex, you began to make love. Harvey buried his face in your neck as he muttered apologies, still buried inside you, and swore he would make it up to you.

You began to cry, it felt so good. But it was so wrong, so disgusting.

And you knew you never felt true regret until you woke up the next morning in Harvey Dent's arms, naked on the bed you slept on with Slade Wilson.

WHAT YALL THINK?? 1-10?? ALSO COMMENT DOWN BELOW TO BE ON THE TAGLIST FOR THIS STORY

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiiii I was looking to see if your request is open but couldn’t find it so I’ll just drop it here and feel free to write it :) I love your writings! 🌸

May I ask for batboys reacting to shy reader who wants them to lie down on her lap after their long day. She wants to praise them, play with their hair and shower them with kisses :0 thank you!

Dick:

Would rest his head on your lap regardless of whether you asked him to do not, your lap was the perfect pillow for him and he will not have it any other way.

‘Hi baby.’ He greets as he beams up at you from the comfort of your lap.

‘Hi honey, long day?’ You greeted back, your hands already finding their way into his hair and began to comb through it slowly as he hums, burrowing himself closer to you as a means to feel more of you against him.

‘Yeah but it’s nothing I can’t handle.’ Dick replied and smiled wide when you kissed his cheek before kissing his nose, and felt his heart melt upon giggling you giggling when he scrunched up his face.

‘Is there nothing that my handsome man can’t do?’ You asked sarcastically as you pressed a kiss to his other cheek. ‘Or is he just the most perfect man in existence?’

Dick made a face at this. ‘Have you maybe considered that this handsome man of yours has an amazing, wonderful and beautifully cute spouse waiting at home for him as inspiration?’ He looks at you with a raised brow.

‘I’m the one who’s meant to be praising you tonight, not you praising me.’ You chuckled as you peppered his face in small, quick kisses that had Dick reaching a hand to the back of your head, holding you close so he could give you a plethora of kisses of his own.

‘Well what if we could just both praise the other tonight.’ Dick said against your lips.

‘I can deal with that.’ You replied as you spent the rest of the night whispering sweet nothings to one another and trading kisses.

Jason:

Your lap was his save haven after a long and tiresome day from having to listen to Bruce critique his way of ridding crime out of Gotham. So he wasn’t going to refuse your affection, not when you shyly patted your lap as an invite to rest his head and looking cute whilst doing so.

God had his permission to smite him to his second death should he actually refuses your requests to coddle him and shower him in all your love and adoration.

If anything the days where you offered up your lap to him were the best days of his entire life as he got to spend it looking up at an absolute angel that he was lucky enough to call his own.

‘How’s my gorgeous jay birdie feeling today?’ You asked as you kissed his along his jaw and stopping when you got to his chin.

‘I’m feeling fantastic now that I’m with you sweetheart. How about you.’ He replied back as he looked up at you with his pretty eyes that he knew made you weak. Jason only wanted to give you back the love and support that you give him on a daily basis tenfold, for it’s what you truly deserved in his eyes.

He loved you too much to allow you to settle for mediocrity.

‘I’m feeling much better now my strong, brave boy has come home to me safe and one less bruise to ice.’ You responded with a lighthearted chuckle as you lifted up one of his large hands and pressed a kiss to the back of it, before resting your cheek against it to commemorate his warmth and callouses to memory.

‘Don’t come at me with that sweetheart, I know you love icing my bruises, especially when they’re on my abdomen.’ Jason cheeked as he winked at you, taking pure enjoyment out of seeing your flustered face. It was a much needed breath of fresh air coming home to sweet, caring you from the cold, unforgiving outside and he cherished every bit of it for as long as he could.

‘Meanie.’ You murmur, booping him on the nose.

‘Meanie? How am I being mean chipmunk, I know how much you love my abs and my thighs.’ Jason chuckled as he booped your nose in retaliation. ‘Why do you think I never skip leg day?’

‘You’re more than perfect the way you are Jason,’ you countered, ‘perfect body or not you’re still my jay birdie. Forever and always.’ You whispered the last part as you pressed a sweet tender kiss to his lips as he smiled in response.

Tim:

He always finds himself perpetually tired from working himself to the bone, so when you offered up your lap for him to rest, the poor man practically sighed in relief, almost as if he were a man dying of thirst in the desert; finally having found the oasis he had been wandering aimlessly for.

‘You don’t know how much I needed this.’ Tim groans as he made himself comfortable in your lap, trying his hardest to not to close his eyes right then and there from the prepping of light kisses you were scattering across his forehead and under his eyes.

Gosh he hates how weak he gets from your little kisses but would die a little on the inside if you didn’t.

‘I’m sure I can take a guess.’ You said sweetly as you ran your hand through his hair. ‘You’ve been overworking yourself so much lately that I rarely see you as much,’ Tim’s stomach dropped upon hearing this but let you finish speaking, ‘but when I do see you it always makes me happy knowing that you’re okay.’ You then pressed a kiss to his cheek.

‘I’m sorry for-‘ you cut him off by pressing a finger to his lips, muttering a soft ‘don’t. Don’t blame yourself for things you can’t control.’

‘But I can control it!’ Tim exclaimed. ‘It’s not fair on you to exhaust yourself on me every night after patrol and still find it within yourself to take care of me…I don’t deserve any of it as it feels as though I’m taking advantage of you somehow.’ Tim trailed off as he looked away for you as guilt are away at him.

‘Tim,’ you called, ‘my sweet Tim as long as I know your okay and come home to me every night, then I don’t care how long I have to stay up just catch a glimpse of your handsome face.’ You reassured him as you kissed his jawline softly, and Tim felt himself weaken under your words and affection as he looked back up at you.

‘You really mean that?’ He asked almost quietly.

‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it with all my heart my sweet, smart boy.’ You said while pressing a singular kiss to his forehead.

[candykissd]

drunk bingo

𝓗𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐒 🐇

drunk bingo is a crazy time, especially when you're a lightweight. although, harry's there to take care of you.

warnings : alcohol consumption, nausea, mature language, fluff

nats notes : idk how to feel about this, i feel like it could be longer? i'm not sure though, i can never really write long chapters... but lmk what you think !! - luv from nat <3

the flashing lights were enough to make you feel sick, sicker than you already did. drunk bingo was one of your most favourite events, though, it's safe to say alcohol isn't your best friend.

you were already pretty much pissed by the third drink, and yet somehow were managing to pass out coherent sentences.. up until the eight drink, at least.

you were wedged between george and harry, with bach and arthur tv on the ends of the table. at the start of the night you were sure you were going to be the best team, winning all the challenges, calling bingo here and there. but then they decided to give you a few drinks. not a smart move.

"number 63!" simon called out from the platform on which he stood, the various flashing lights surrounding him sending your head spinning into a vortex of feeling sorry for yourself.

"'m gonna get some air.." you slurred out as you stood up, making your way around the tables, not without stumbling into a few, and finding the back door. pushing it open with all your might and leaning against the railing outside.

"she okay?" arthur asked the other boys as he saw her leave. "yeah, probably just so unbelievably shitfaced." harry shrugged as he stood up, following along the trail that you had walked just a minute ago.

deep breathe in, deep breathe out, is what you told yourself, the nauseous feeling creeping up on you again, despite the fact that it felt as though it had only just washed away. you couldn't help but jump in your skin as you felt a hand on your lower back.

"you okay?" sounded harry's familiar voice as he smiled down at you.

"yeah... 'm good." you mumbled out, raising your hand to your forehead as you turned slightly to face him, whilst you still felt ill, you couldn't help but smile up at him.

you'd liked harry for the longest time, and the two of you had somewhat of a flirtation-ship, always taking the piss out of each other, and flirting with one another. but, it was all harmless. you both denied having feelings for each other; even though all of your friends could see through it.

harry's hand slid up your back, his touch light, but enough to make you shiver as his hand made its way to play with your hair, tucking a piece behind your ear. "you wanna go home?" he asked, tilting his head, as if he was secretly admiring you, which he wasnt doing a good job at hiding.

you didn't say anything, not feeling the need, nor the ability to speak properly, just nodding and smiling softly at him as he stood up straight.

he turned around and signalled to the others through the door that he was taking you home, and just to carry on with the game, before placing his hands on your shoulders from behind, spinning you around and practically pushing you towards the main road where he called for a taxi.

when the two of you got to your apartment, you fumbled around in your bag for your keys. harry laughing as he saw you struggle, grabbing your bag and pulling out your keys for you, unlocking the door and letting you stumble inside first, shutting the door behind him as he followed you in.

it was a good thing harry good handle is alcohol, as he was damn near sober, sober enough to take care of you properly.

you stumbled into the kitchen, steadying yourself with your hands on the countertop as you looked over at him.

"come on.. let's get you ready for bed." he said with a fond smile as he picked you up bridal style, a childish giggle escaping your lips as your arms wrapped around his neck, just as an extra precaution to make sure he doesn't drop you.

"harry wroetoshaw lewis if you drop me..." you laughed out, throwing your head back as he walked you down the hallway and into your bedroom.

"i won't drop you, love, don't you fret." he shook his head playfully as he plopped you down on the edge of your bed.

you sighed contently as you watched him disappear into your en suite bathroom, coming out with the bottle of micellar water and a cotton wool pad, crouching down infront of you.

without saying anything, he wet the wool pad with the micellar water and helped you wipe the makeup of your face, eliciting a small laugh from you and a smile.

once all your makeup was off he threw the cotton wool pad in the bin and looked at you, "you're so good to me..." you mumbled, titling your head as you smiled at him childishly.

"well, im not prepared to get a bollocking off of you in the morning when you wake up with your makeup on." he laughed out as he stood up.

you flopped back onto the bed with a sigh. "these jeans are so uncomfy.." you grumbled out as you swayed from side to side on the bed, as if the action would somehow wriggle them off of your body.

"you wanna get changed?" he asked, looking down at you as you nodded.

"gimme your hoodie." you practically demanded, crossing your arms as he laughed and shook his head.

"so demanding..." he mumbled, pulling his hoodie off over his head, the shirt that he had on underneath riding up slightly, a sight that caused a slight blush to creep up on your face, despite the flush you originally had from the alcohol in your system.

he walked over and stood infront of you, "arms up." he motioned with his hands as well as his words, with you happily obliging as he pulled the top you were wearing off your torso and over your head, placing it on the bed beside you.

you fumbled with the button of your jeans and unzipped them, laying back and lifting up your hips slightly as he pulled the denim off of your legs in one swift movement, before helping you into his hoodie, which you quickly settled into, the warmth of his body still stuck in the fabric, as well as the subtle scent of his cologne.

you let out a soft hum as you crawled over into your bed, snuggling in under the duvet, your head resting perfectly on the pillows.

"you comfy?" he asked, smiling at your drunken state.

"mhm.." you hummed with a small nod, just as extra reassurance. he nodded slightly as your eyes closed, and he knew you'd quickly drifted off to sleep as he made his way to your bedroom door, flicking the light off on his way out, making sure not to make too much noise when leaving your apartment.

the fresh sunlight woke you up as it filtered through the curtains of your room, the sun just directly shining on you as you rolled over with a groan, trying your hardest to shield yourself from the blinding light.

your eyes fluttered open, settling on the glass of water and paracetamol on the bedside table, a small smile forming on your face, your mind flooding with the memories of the previous night, and just how well harry had taken care of you. looking down at yourself and seeing the hoodie your were wrapped up warm in, quickly identifying it is harry's, causing your smile to grow.

although the smile was quickly overtaken by a frown as the pounding in your head grew. pushing yourself up on your arms slowly, and leaning back against the headboard; you reached over for the glass of water and tablet, desperate for some sort of pain relief.

and all you could thing to yourself was:

harry lewis, the man you are.

[aardelea]

How He Handles Jealousy

Thank you so much for the request for this headcanon! It turned out to be longer than I initially anticipated, but I hope you find it enjoyable to read. Happy reading!

Being fresh in a relationship often means confronting one's own insecurities. One of these is the question of whether one can fully trust their partner and how to deal with it when the partner themselves is plagued by the question of whether they are truly enough. So what about the ghouls: How do they handle this in both directions? In this scenario, we assume that you are in a relationship and that you, of course, never pursue any ill intentions when creating a situation that makes your loved one jealous, and vice versa. We are always talking about a healthy level of jealousy.

Jin

Jin does not strike you as a man who becomes jealous easily. He has rank, status, outrageously good looks, and charisma. Who would dare to even consider getting too close to his beloved? And what could lead him to think that you might have an interest in someone other than him? Exactly: nothing.

Nevertheless, even the king of Frostheim occasionally experiences a strange feeling in his chest when he sees you showing a little too much interest in another person. There's nothing wrong with playing it safe, right? He will be quite open about his jealousy, though he wouldn't label it as such. Instead, he will explicitly ask you what you have going on with the other person. Depending on your answer, he will either allow you to continue interacting with them undisturbed or he will ask you to keep your distance. If you disagree, he will accept it but will become noticeably clingy and unusually touchy in the presence of that person in the future.

Conversely, Jin cannot imagine that you could ever be jealous of anyone. Aside from the fact that you are his everything, which he always shows you in his own way, he considers you superior to all other people. How could you possibly think that anyone could measure up to you? Since he can't stand most other people anyway, he would never deliberately get too close to someone else.

He won't notice your jealousy unless you communicate it clearly. Initially, he will stare at you in disbelief and will need to process what you just said. Once he has absorbed the information, he will suddenly start laughing heartily. He'll begin to grin devilishly, cup your chin, and gently pull you a bit closer to his face. "Come to my room after the event tonight. I'll show you enough good reasons why you don't need to worry."

Tohma

Tohma is a true gentleman with far too good manners for you to ever suspect that he feels jealousy. However, in the early stages of your relationship, this feeling is anything but foreign to him, as your time together is limited, and he is careful to keep your relationship a secret for as long as possible. Who wouldn't feel negative emotions when they see the person they desire getting close to other people, even if it's just a fleeting touch of their hand?

Without the chains he has bound himself with by moving to Frostheim, he would certainly be the type to charmingly but firmly put any rivals in their place. Depending on how far the rival has gone with you, it could even be imaginable that he would elegantly beat him to a pulp in an alley. Otherwise, a public display of your connection through physical contact would suffice to remind the audacious guy who he’s messing with. However, in Frostheim, Tohma is forced to use different means. If your new clingy acquaintance suddenly starts keeping their distance from you, it will likely be because they received an anonymous and highly convincing threatening letter. Everyone has skeletons in their closets, and Tohma knows exactly how to find and leverage them.

Although he is rather distant, Tohma has a seductive way of conversing with others, so it's highly likely that one or two women may have cast an eye on him. Since you are suffering as much as he is from the secrecy of your relationship, you will, sooner or later, inevitably find yourself ensnared in the burning arms of jealousy.

Even if Tohma can empathize with your feelings because he knows them as well as you do, he will want to maintain the façade at all costs and will earnestly ask you to be patient and hold back just a little longer. Sooner or later, everything will fall into place, and you can be together whenever you want. But whatever happens, don't act too rashly, as Tohma's goals for his service to the Frost King will always take precedence. By letting you into his life, he is undoubtedly risking a lot, so cut him some slack if he can't change his public behavior for now. The silver lining is that you'll receive more messages asking you to bring him "special documents" to the vault room. Reviewing those together will always take a bit more time.

Luca

Luca sees you as an honorable person and won't easily entertain the thought that anyone could take you from him, unless it’s death itself. Some situations may seem strange to him in the early days of your relationship when he sees you getting close to other men, with whom you're building a tighter (albeit genuinely platonic) relationship. Even Luca is not immune to feeling a bit uneasy.

Assuming that everything must be as it should, he will swallow that uncomfortable feeling for a long time and won’t let on. Unfortunately, he will do this until it boils over, and his feelings overwhelm him. In the next situation he observes – even if it’s just lunch at Sho's food truck – he will come directly to you and confront you both. Since by that point you likely won't have known anything about Luca's emotional state (how could you?), you'll be utterly incredulous and shocked as you watch Luca throw all his pride overboard, take your hands in his, look deep into your eyes, and seriously ask whether you still love him and want to stay with him, or if you've decided to be happier with another man. The shame reflected on his face when you tell him he couldn't be more wrong will remain a topic of conversation on campus for a long time. He won't stop apologizing to both you and your friend, promising that such behavior won't happen again. It might be best to take the poor man along to your meetings so he feels better.

Luca is an old-fashioned gentleman, inherently friendly and courteous to everyone. Unfortunately, he can quickly lose sight of his surroundings when he believes he is doing the right thing, leading to situations that may push others too far and evoke jealousy without him ever intending to.

If you react to your jealousy with a corresponding mood, Luca will quickly notice and address it. However, he won't pick up on any subtle hints you might drop that aren't blatantly obvious, as he won’t be aware of any inappropriate behavior. Once he knows how you feel, he won't stop apologizing and will be overwhelmed with guilt, culminating in showering you with attention and gifts. He promises you that he won't make such a mistake again, and he means it.

Kaito

Unfortunately, Kaito suffers from extremely low self-esteem, which also reflects the intensity of his feelings. Any tiny bit of attention you give to another man will immediately be interpreted as a sign of disinterest in him. At first, he will try to calm himself down. "Come on, Kaito, that's perfectly normal! Everyone has friends of the opposite sex! It doesn't mean anything." Despite all his efforts, his insecurity will eventually overwhelm him, and he will try to speak to you privately during a quiet moment, trying to subtly inquire about the person he is feeling envious of. "What exactly do you two discuss all the time?" "Where do you know him from?" "Does he have a girlfriend?"

Depending on the nature of your response, it will either calm him down for a while or bring him to tears. However, he would never bring it up in public. His crying will, at worst, only be noticed by his neighbors (who probably aren't surprised). Have some compassion for the poor man. He is so happy with you and still can't fathom that an angel like you chose him as her boyfriend of all people. Him, who feels like he has nothing to offer. Thus, the fear of losing you becomes even more pronounced because you might realize that he is really worthless. This, of course, is not true, and you've likely told him enough times. However, words alone won’t help him in this case. Involve him in your outings with friends and communicate or show publicly that Kaito is your boyfriend. Besides making him the happiest person on the planet, it will help calm him down.

If you, on the other hand, become jealous of someone Kaito is interacting with, you can assume that he won't pick up on it at first. After all, he wouldn’t know what there is to be jealous about. Sure, Kaito didn’t pass up any chance to flirt with other women on campus before your relationship, but that was, as stated, before you got together. Meanwhile, he would never risk making you feel unloved. If you initially don’t communicate your jealousy directly and react with a worse mood instead, the last thing he will suspect is jealousy.

So if you can’t shake off those feelings, communicate them. He may respond with confusion and even shock, but secretly he will be flattered. This will be an opportunity for you to boost his self-esteem, which can only benefit Kaito. He will cease any activities that lead to your jealousy and will make it clear in public (as long as you both agree on how to appear in public) that it is only you by his side.

Alan

It’s relatively hard to imagine Alan becoming quickly jealous in the classic sense. Since he’s already unsure in the early stages of the relationship whether it was the right decision to enter it on his part, he wouldn’t really hold it against you if you got closer to other people. Not that you yourself would ever have such thoughts, but Alan might interpret even the slightest closeness to someone else as you reconsidering your relationship with him.

Just because he won’t actively bring it up doesn’t mean he won’t feel uncomfortable when he sees you (in his view) getting too familiar with another person. When his chest tightens, and he feels the urge to step in, hold you in his arms, and never let go to ensure that you belong to him alone, he would never act on that feeling.

On the other hand, he would never assume that you might be jealous of another woman he interacts with. Let alone that he would ever give another woman enough attention for you to even consider it. So, if you want to clear things up, you’ll need to bring it up directly with him.

Knowing that you're jealous would simply break his heart, and he would wonder where he went wrong. Did he give you the impression that you’ve become unimportant to him? Did he not give you enough attention? Did he actually get too close to someone else? He would apologize a thousand times and reassure you that you are his everything and that there’s really nothing to worry about. He would avoid the other person as much as possible from then on, or at least behave much more distantly. He would never want to give the wrong impression or hurt you in any way.

Sho

Sho is a very easy-going and uncomplicated guy when it comes to relationships. He gives you all the freedom in the world and fully trusts that you’d never let anyone cross the line. The only thing that could trigger jealousy in Sho is his highly developed protective instinct. Thanks to his friendship with Leo and their excessive clubbing, he knows the dark sides of human nature all too well, and he wants to shield you from them at all costs.

So, if he notices another guy leaving his hand on your shoulder for just a millisecond too long, the good man’s protective instinct kicks in, and he feels the need to set that guy straight by joining in and adding some physical contact with you. He will throw the rival a few unmistakable looks. Once the boundaries are established and Sho has made it clear with his body language what happens if the guy gets too close to his beloved girlfriend, Sho will disappear just as quickly as he came. Have fun with the rest of your evening!

In the case that you are jealous when Sho interacts with certain people, he’ll notice it from your body language right away, unless you outright tell him. Sho is, after all, an extremely attentive and surprisingly empathetic man who doesn’t miss a single one of your glances. Even though he would expect the same trust from you that he gives you, he doesn’t react with disappointment or rejection, but with loving teasing. “What, seriously, you’re jealous of her?” He simply finds your jealousy too cute to be genuinely angry.

Sho also belongs to the type of guy who would take you along to meetings with the respective person to make things more obvious and help ease your insecurities. From now on, he’ll also be a little more careful to ensure that his actions toward others don’t provoke any negative feelings in you.

Leo

Leo would never admit that he’s jealous of someone who (in his eyes) is getting too close to you. Absolutely not. If he feels anything, it’s anger because you’re risking being seen together, and his followers might think there’s trouble between you and the influencer. Yeah, that’s definitely the only thing that comes to his mind when he sees you with a supposed rival. It’s the same when he sees overly nice comments from men about you under his videos and promptly deletes them. Don’t let it go to your head or get any silly ideas.

So, don’t think too much of it when he grumbles at you to be careful how you interact with other guys because it could give off the wrong impression. Don’t read too much into it either if he starts marking his territory when you don’t listen and still let that boring guy (allegedly) get too close. For Leo, the smallest form of physical contact is enough to trigger his jealous attentive radar. He’ll then quickly start pushing himself between you two, showering you with physical (and surely inappropriate for the situation) attention. Additionally, in his usual cruel style, he’ll subtly insult and try to humiliate his supposed rival. If you’re in a relationship with Leo, you’ll have to love him very much to deal with his behavior.

In Leo’s eyes, it’s obviously nooooo problem at all if other girls get too close to him. After all, he’s a popular influencer and can’t neglect his fans. Why would you even think he’d start anything with one of those airheads? If you do somehow let your jealousy show, you can expect to be met with plenty of scorn and mockery on his part.

Leo won’t be able to stop laughing and will call you “stupid” in the most creative ways more than once. Of course, he’ll never show outwardly how cute he actually finds your jealousy. And he certainly won’t change his behavior toward his fans. Bad for business.

However, he’ll now start including you in his videos much more frequently to make you feel better. It’s definitely not because he enjoys showing off his cute girlfriend to everyone and bragging about you. Now, he just has a really good excuse to hide his true intentions behind.

Haru

Haru is usually too busy to worry about something like jealousy. Just like you, he also has his tasks and his daily life, which you can arrange however you like, with whomever you like. Things only get critical if you start spending time with someone else (for whatever reason) that’s meant for the both of you. The first couple of times, he would take it as normal, but by the third rejection, his attention would be caught. Do you have someone else?

Haru isn’t really the type to want to take away anyone’s freedom. And certainly not yours. But sooner or later, he won’t be able to bear that uncomfortable, gnawing feeling in his chest anymore and will ask you, more or less casually, what’s going on. Are you lacking something? Did he do something wrong? If you ask him more specifically why he’s asking, he’ll calmly explain that he finds it strange that you have less time for him and that he’s worried you’re dissatisfied with him. Since you certainly aren’t (and if you are, please bring it up directly – communication is everything in a relationship!), you’ll reassure him that there’s a very good reason for your absence and he doesn’t need to worry. He’ll accept any explanation you give with relief because he fully trusts you.

In the reverse situation, Haru will quickly sense your discomfort if you somehow develop jealousy. He may not invest as much time in a relationship as others, but the time he does take for the both of you is used to its fullest. As a result, he gets to know you very well, very quickly, and senses right away when something is wrong. He’ll immediately ask you about it and want to know exactly what’s bothering you.

If it’s his light flirting with female guests at the Safari Park, he’ll do his best to cut it out, even though it’s completely meaningless to him. However, he won’t always succeed entirely because it’s just part of his nature, so please don’t hold it against him too much. Whatever else has triggered your jealousy, he’ll try to stop doing it from now on, as long as it’s within his control (some circumstances just don’t allow certain behaviors to change). At the same time, he’ll encourage you to have a bit more self-confidence and stop doubting his feelings for you because they’re more than genuine. To be sure, though, he’ll conspicuously and practically tell everyone just how fantastic his girlfriend is. Absolutely everyone. In every situation. Ren will get tired of hearing it. Towa, on the other hand, will love it. Eventually, everyone on campus will know that you are the great love of the ranger. You’ll also soon read this fact on the new brochures for the Safari Park. Still have doubts?

Towa

Once you enter a relationship with Towa, you are completely devoted to him. You are his dandelion, and he is your Prince Charming. Your love is pure and true, making it unthinkable for anyone to come between you. While Towa wouldn’t dream of restricting your time with friends, he won’t tolerate anyone who seems to have more than friendship on their mind.

Towa feels his emotions intensely and is quickly overwhelmed by jealousy once it arises. You'll notice his mood shift instantly—where sunshine was, storm clouds now linger when you and a friend are too close. He’ll wait for you to approach him, but if you bring it up, his anger will flare. Why would you let anyone come so close? Explanations won’t suffice here, and actions must follow to calm him. A little more physical distance between you and your friend will be necessary from now on. Towa dreams of a fairytale romance with his soulmate, and that includes avoiding any outward appearances that could be misunderstood.

On the flip side, it’s rare for Towa to get close to someone else, as he tends to keep people at a distance. Besides, it’s almost unthinkable for him to give much attention to anyone other than his beloved dandelion. His love for you is deep and genuine.

Should the impossible happen, and you feel jealous of someone else, Towa would drop that person in a heartbeat. Everyone besides you (and maybe Haru) is practically irrelevant to him. He’ll have no problem acting in a way that reassures you. “You’re being silly, dandelion. You’re the most beautiful flower of them all!”

Ren

Poor guy. Wasn’t it painful enough for him to realize his feelings for you and act on them? Now he must also admit that you mean so much to him that even the thought of you leaving him for some brainless dullard drives him insane? Even though you likely wouldn’t give him such reason to worry, the thought is hard to avoid. Ren has healthy self-confidence, but at the beginning of your relationship, he can’t shake the fear that you might be one of those girls who’d ditch him for a macho guy at the first chance.

Ren’s jealousy is noticeable by how harshly he insults his supposed rival. “Why are you hanging out with a guy who looks like he sleeps at the gorilla enclosure?” or “Are you sure you’re actually texting with him and not an AI? No way that guy learned how to write.” These are just some of the quips you’ll hear. It won’t take much to figure out how Ren is feeling. He wouldn’t ask to join you at these meetups or accompany you if you asked. Nor would he ever demand you stop seeing this person; it’s still your life, after all. However, showering him with extra affection won’t hurt, and though it won’t make his mood improve immediately, he’ll deeply enjoy your attention. He knows he has to handle his feelings himself, and with time, he will.

You’re unlikely to feel jealous of anyone in Ren’s life, as he tends to avoid most people. If anything, you might get jealous of an online acquaintance he chats with often. Should you bring it up, he’ll likely be annoyed since he can’t comprehend how someone can feel threatened by a person who isn’t physically present.

He’s not the type to change his behavior just because you’re uncomfortable. He expects the same freedom he gives you. However, he’ll (grudgingly and indirectly) assure you that you never need to worry about him being interested in anyone else. After all, you’re his fellow inmate in the prison called Darkwick, and no one could replace you.

Romeo

Romeo is a territorial type who hates when someone tries to intrude on his kingdom. It’s not pure jealousy driving him to chase off his so-called rival but more so his outrage at someone daring to approach what belongs to him (yes, you belong to him).

However, how he reacts depends heavily on who you’re spending time with. If you’re hanging out with Kaito, Romeo won’t care much since he doesn’t see him as a threat. But if your “rival” is more elegant and even remotely comparable to Romeo’s beauty, things get dangerous. First, he’ll start appearing around you more often, publicly wrapping his arms around you and giving you tender kisses on the cheek. While you’re still trying to figure out what’s happening, he’ll brush your flushed cheek and whisper in your ear about how stunning you look today, all while shooting a triumphant glance at his rival. Not only does he publicly claim you, but he also secures a romantic interlude in his office—unless, of course, you can resist a jealous Romeo. This scenario could repeat endlessly, but it wouldn’t be wise to test Romeo’s patience. One day, your rival might mysteriously disappear. Strange how things happen…

Conversely, Romeo expects you to have enough self-confidence to not let such a petty feeling as jealousy control you (easy for him to say). There will likely be plenty of occasions to make even the most confident person sweat with anxiety. After all, Romeo is incredibly attractive and knows how to use his charm to get what he wants. Who wouldn’t be tempted?

If you can’t hold back and express your discomfort over his behavior with someone else, you’ll initially be met with disbelief and disappointment. Did he really choose a partner so insecure that she thinks the infallible Romeo would ever be in a relationship with someone replaceable? Nonsense. His words might make you feel like he’s dismissing your feelings, telling you to pull yourself together, but his actions will tell a different story. From then on, he’ll bring you along to meetings with that person, showing you subtle yet unmistakable affection for everyone to see.

Taiga

It won’t be easy to provoke jealousy in Taiga. Not because he’s incapable of such feelings or because he doesn’t care about you, but simply because he hardly takes his eyes off you. He’s quite the clingy type and takes you practically everywhere he goes. Where would be the time to connect with someone else well enough for Taiga to have any wrong ideas?

However, if you do have enough time to become close friends with another guy, such that you have some (purely platonic) physical contact (a hand on the shoulder is enough), Taiga will quickly become dangerously jealous. Who dares to touch his beloved lucky charm?! This friendship won’t last long, as Taiga will swiftly come up to you, casually drape an arm around you, and with the other, draw his weapon and shamelessly aim it at his rival. “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Even though he says this calmly with a smile on his lips, hardly anyone will miss the seriousness of the situation. He’ll tolerate your complaints about his behavior and wave them off with boredom. But he will do it again if anyone approaches you in that way. His jealousy only flares up with charismatic types; the only exception might be Romeo. With people he perceives as losers, you can remain friends as you like. Don’t look at him like that. You chose this relationship for yourself.

In the very unlikely event that you become jealous of someone in Taiga’s vicinity, an (extremely uncomfortable) solution will also quickly present itself. Taiga will notice your jealousy if you react to him in a particular mood. When you tell him the reason, he will laugh loudly and pat your head, visibly amused as he asks if he means so much to you that you become jealous so quickly.

“No reason to worry, kitty cat, look.” Without hesitation, he pulls out a weapon and aims it at the person who triggered your jealousy. You should really react quickly at this point to prevent something worse. He truly doesn’t care about anything except you, and unfortunately, he has no qualms about showing that.

Ritsu

To provoke someone like Ritsu into such a base feeling as jealousy would take quite a lot. He is an extremely pragmatic man who has his own way of handling feelings, which he keeps quite well under control. Moreover, as his chosen one, you must possess certain qualities to even be considered at his side, including loyalty.

So why should Mr. Shinjo even worry that you might fall for another man? After all, you entered into a relationship, and that comes with rules—like an invisible contract that you both signed with a kiss. If he has doubts about you, they are likely to be well-founded—like obviously more than purely platonic physical contact with another man or blatantly ignoring Ritsu in the presence of certain people. In this case, he will immediately address it and ask for clarification of the matter.

Conversely, it will also be difficult for him to develop jealousy towards someone Ritsu associates with. You know his professional nature too well. So unless you yourself tend toward strong jealousy over trivial matters, you will only be overwhelmed by your feelings in absolutely justified situations.

Ritsu is a good observer and will quickly notice if something is wrong with you. He will directly address it to inquire about the reason for your mood swing. However, he would be a bit disappointed if you didn’t bring it up yourself. He will address the problem directly and won’t waste time on the fact that he cannot comprehend your feelings, because the fact is, you have them, and he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Whatever behavior led to your jealousy: he will cease it immediately.

Haku

Haku is not someone who becomes jealous easily, which is why he grants you a lot of freedom. You would have to give someone an unusually large amount of attention to evoke that feeling in Haku. However, he isn’t the type of person to directly express his discomfort. Instead, he will endure the feeling and the sight of the two of you for quite some time until he can no longer help but take action.

Nevertheless, he won’t directly address it; instead, he will take care of the problem himself, activating his hunting instinct and increasingly joining you whenever you’re with that particular someone. In doing so, he will try to more or less subtly solidify his status as your boyfriend. A spontaneous kiss on the cheek, his arm around your waist throughout the meeting, the casual question of when he can expect you tonight… Yep, he’ll manage his emotional chaos on his own. So you can sit back and enjoy this extra attention.

If you are the one who becomes jealous (which is more than understandable considering Haku’s naturally flirtatious nature), he will quickly notice regardless of how you communicate. Not that he would want to hurt you intentionally, but he will likely find your jealousy quite adorable and will playfully tease you about it. He certainly won’t pass up the chance to annoy you. “Watch out, I’m meeting a certain lady today who is quite pretty, but she can’t even begin to compare to the princess in front of me,” or “I don’t know if you’re ready for this, but I’m seeing that one person today to whom I recently told her hairstyle looks good. But don’t worry: I won’t take her home.” He’ll ride that horse for a long time.

But rest assured, Haku only wants what’s best for you. So to take away any uncertainty, he will present you even more obviously as his beloved girlfriend in public. He won’t suggest it himself, but if you express a desire to meet those individuals who triggered your jealousy, he won’t refuse. After all, he has nothing to hide. However, you’d need to be pretty thick-skinned to endure that meeting, during which Haku will naturally be all over you the whole time to show you that you needn’t worry about anyone taking his flirting seriously, as everyone should already know he’s taken.

Subaru

The former Kabuki actor suffers from many insecurities regarding himself. This is likely connected to his somewhat impractical ability that can activate without his active involvement, showing him things that were never meant for his eyes. Despite all circumstances, he has entered into a relationship with you and, given the physical contact you’ve likely had, knows pretty much everything about you there is to know. This includes knowing your sincere feelings for him.

Because of this, there’s hardly any reason for Subaru to develop jealousy. You have your friends and handle them your way. That’s absolutely okay for him. The only exception might be strangers who have just appeared and are still difficult for Subaru to assess. In this case, especially charismatic individuals who are also very friendly toward you could provoke some jealousy in him, but he would never show it openly or address it, because, as mentioned: he knows you and trusts you completely. However, you might notice a change in his suddenly much more self-confident and assertive demeanor towards the strangers, indicating what has triggered this character change.

Conversely, Subaru will notice even the slightest change in your mood or behavior and interpret it correctly, so your jealousy won’t remain hidden for long. Being who he is, he won’t stop apologizing, sincerely assuring you that he never intended to evoke those feelings in you. The situation is visibly uncomfortable for him.

Since he takes your feelings very seriously and feels them himself through your physical contact, he will take all necessary measures to nip them in the bud. This includes, of course, assuring you thousands of times that you never have to worry. He’s far too polite to simply dismiss other people, but he will still behave a bit more distantly towards those individuals.

Zenji

Given his circumstances, Zenji was likely quite difficult to convince to enter into a relationship, so he probably gives you a lot of freedom in how you interact with others—even though he, too, can reach his limits. However, he would never expect you to completely devote yourself to him when you still have your whole life ahead of you.

When it comes to the feeling of jealousy in general, he knows it all too well, as he practically feels that biting sensation towards anyone who has the privilege of being physically close to you and feeling your warmth. However, assume that he would never communicate this feeling under any circumstances. He loves you too much and is too at peace with himself and his situation.

We can probably skip the reverse scenario, as besides a few chosen ones, no one can see him anyway. But if Zenji was already that kind of person in life, it stands to reason that someone with the right disposition could quickly become envious of his admirers, with whom he interacts very openly and invitingly, even if he never has any ulterior motives.

Zenji is the definition of a pure soul. If for any reason you were ever in a situation where you became jealous of someone who interacted with him, he would notice—whether you show it or not. Without ever bringing it up himself, he would simply cease the behavior that led to your jealousy. For you should never even entertain the idea that anyone could be more interesting to him than his dearly beloved muse.

Rui

Since Rui is someone who could easily steal a girlfriend from one or two guys, he is even more wary of guys of his caliber. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you per se, but he just knows how quickly someone can be tempted when the right buttons are pressed. To make matters worse, Rui isn’t really able to defend himself. He can’t just take you in his arms to present you as his or stand up to a guy to show dominance. Your relationship is, at best, only known through hearsay. Of course, he will feel unbearably burning jealousy when he sees someone who can touch you so easily while Rui stays in the background. And this type of jealousy is a thousand times worse than the one he literally feels toward anyone who has the privilege of touching you.

In a relationship with Rui, you should be quite careful about how you interact with other men, as Rui finds himself in an extremely vulnerable position that has been exacerbated by your relationship since he suddenly has even more to lose than before. Since he already feels guilty about being in a relationship with you when you should ideally be with someone who can offer you more than he can, he will never openly reveal his feelings to spare you what he considers an inappropriate guilty conscience. Nevertheless, his jealousy will inevitably reflect in his mood and won’t escape your trained eye. When confronted about it, Rui will admit his jealousy but assure you that you don’t need to worry about him because you haven’t done anything wrong, and it’s solely his problem. At this point, it doesn’t really matter how you react, whether you change your behavior towards the person involved or not. Unfortunately, the damage is already done for Rui.

On the other hand, Rui makes a tremendous effort not to give the impression that he’s still acting the same way as before your relationship or even before his curse. However, flirting is just too natural for him, so he can’t always suppress it, even if he doesn’t really think anything of it. He will quickly realize if he has crossed a line in your eyes and immediately backtrack. He would never hold your jealousy against you, as he’s self-aware enough to admit that it is absolutely justified, even if he would never go too far.

As far as it’s in his power, he will unobtrusively try to communicate to every woman that he is more than happily taken. So, never be too angry with him. He really is doing his best.

Ed

The elegant vampire is not so easily made jealous, especially since you certainly know what kind of dangerous man you’ve gotten yourself into. He’s also a bit too old and experienced to be overwhelmed by such feelings. However, he absolutely will not tolerate attention-seeking and obvious rivals who come a little too close to you.

Let’s be honest: Ed is a drama queen and has no sense of shame. So brace yourself for a performance worthy of an Oscar. “So you want to abandon your poor, sick lover? You would just leave me to certain death?” While speaking in a dramatic tone, he physically pushes his rival away with his back and throws himself around your neck after letting out some truly serious coughs. “Haven’t I given you all my attention and love? Haven’t I satisfied you to your utmost delight every single time? What have I done wrong?” Before you can even sink into the ground out of embarrassment, he begins passionately kissing along your neck until he eventually reaches your mouth. If you don’t push him away, he will continue this act until you both find yourselves in a rather compromising position in front of everyone present, while he gains access to your mouth with his tongue. If that’s not one of your kinks, you should definitely reject him and dramatically declare that he is your great love and has absolutely nothing to fear. He will only be satisfied once you’ve embarrassed yourselves so thoroughly in front of everyone that no one would ever think of getting too close to his prey girlfriend again. But if we’re being more honest, that’s definitely better than the scenario where your supposed rival suddenly disappears from campus and is never seen again.

Conversely, Ed loves to flirt for his life. It’s in his nature to wrap his prey around his finger so they willingly give him whatever he desires. Fortunately, his interest in other people is quite limited, so you will rarely see him interacting with anyone else besides Lyca and Rui. However, if situations do arise that provoke jealousy in you, Ed will definitely notice it immediately. And he will exploit it.

He loves you fiercely. You can be assured of this when he enters into a relationship with you. However, he remains a man who loves exaggeration. So, if he observes changes in your behavior that indicate jealousy, he will ride that feeling until he pushes your patience to the limit, leaving you with no choice but to explode and confront him. Just as in the case where you “made him jealous,” he will fairly pull the reverse show and swear his sincere love to you in the most emotional way you can imagine, immediately sending the lady (?) he was just with to hell. He will then hope that you will throw yourself around him, just the way he loves it.

Lyca

For Lyca, the concept of a relationship is quite new, and he must first learn to cope with the new emotions that have opened up to him since then and learn to assign individual feelings. This also includes jealousy. However, it is unlikely that it will quickly become a part of his portfolio, as physical contact is something natural for him and merely a sign of affection. He must first understand that this affection can indeed go deeper before he begins to worry about other guys.

Once he learns what distinguishes a relationship from a good friendship, he will indeed feel that uncomfortable tightness in his chest when he sees you with someone (like Ed) who develops in his new definition of appropriateness. Instead of observing or addressing you about it, he will impulsively take action and confront your perceived rival. “Hey, why are you so close to her? She already has a boyfriend, got it?!” Despite Lyca’s heated mood, the situation can quickly and calmly be resolved, as he will listen to your explanations and apologize if he has indeed overreacted (which is quite likely at the beginning). After all, he is still learning, and everything takes time.

In the unlikely event that Lyca interacts with girls that provoke jealousy in you, he will only acknowledge your feelings if you openly communicate them. A changed mood will otherwise simply be dismissed as “women are just unnecessarily complicated.”

“Huh, why are you thinking such silly thoughts? Look.” He will immediately wrap his arms around you and give you an unexpected kiss on the mouth. “Do you think I would want to do that with someone else?” However, Lyca takes your feelings seriously enough that he will adjust his behavior toward the individuals involved in the future. Whatever has caused your jealousy will now be stamped as “inappropriate in a relationship.”

Yuri

The great and exalted Yuri Isami would never feel such a base emotion as jealousy. Where do you think you’re going?! It’s not as if he has no experience with relationships and therefore cannot assess what behavior toward others is normal and what isn’t. No, no. He has much more important things to do than pay attention to your leisure activities. As if he would care how close that one guy gets to you, how casually he places his hand on your shoulder, or the way he looks at you. As if Yuri would even give a thought to whether he’s coming so close that the guy can smell your delicately fragrant perfume, which Yuri loves, or whether you give that guy the same charming smile you give Yuri every time you finally see each other again after a long, work-filled day. Really. Completely beneath his dignity.

So if he asks you who that dishonorable worm is that you’ve been spending so much time with lately or about whom you’ve mentioned one too many times in Yuri’s eyes, he only wants to comply with your alleged request that you should get to know each other better and participate more in each other’s lives. Even the biggest idiot on the planet wouldn’t miss the intentions behind his questions, and it’s certainly incredibly tempting to mention that he is definitely the epitome of the jealous boyfriend. But do you really want to do that to this proud man? He would deny it anyway, and dwelling on his obvious questions would probably only lead to a bad atmosphere. Just assure him that the worm is just a worm you like and that no one can compare to your knight in shining armor. But go ahead and enjoy the feeling of having completely captured this man’s heart.

If you ever feel jealous of someone Yuri is involved with, you will need to communicate it directly, as Yuri won’t quickly come to the idea that you are jealous, even if you react to him with obviously poor mood and irritation.

Even though he will feel very flattered when you confess that you are jealous, he unfortunately belongs to the type of person whose self-confidence should not be stroked too much. He will give you a lecture on how silly it is to give in to such a lowly feeling as jealousy and remind you that there is no reason for it. However, if you insist on it, he will pay more attention in the future to how he interacts with other people so that it doesn’t provoke negative feelings in you. The positive side of the story is that Yuri will then give you even more attention and become even more romantic. Because in truth, despite all his strictness, he would never want you to feel bad.

Jiro

Many of the feelings that develop in Jiro during your relationship are completely new to him. The fluttering in his chest when you’re together, the goosebumps your touch gives him, the need to feel your whole body against his skin, and also this new discomfort he feels when he sees you with another man. Generally, he doesn't mind if you spend a lot of time with other men, so it takes quite a bit of physical closeness to evoke feelings of jealousy in him.

Jiro is a pragmatic and very straightforward man. When he observes a situation where you get close enough to another person to provoke jealousy in him, he will first carefully watch both you and himself until he is sure that he can't dispel his insecurity on his own. So be prepared for questions later like, “Is there a special reason why you’re so close?”, “Am I no longer evoking romantic feelings in you, so you've reconsidered our relationship?”, “Is it normal to have multiple lovers?”

Since Jiro is quite an attractive man who works with numerous patients, it won’t be uncommon for him to interact closely with them, and some examinations may take a while. He will never think anything of it and will never come to the idea that you might think something of it either. It’s his job to take care of his patients. Nothing more, nothing less.

The only exception might be if he has experienced jealousy himself beforehand. In that case, he will have taken note of the trigger and will make sure to avoid giving you the same feeling. Therefore, he will closely observe you in this scenario, and at the slightest hint that you might be jealous, he will come to you and directly remind you that you don’t need to worry. Even if you’re not actually jealous. If he hasn't experienced jealousy yet, you will need to directly address your feelings with him and probably explain them in detail so that he can understand, which will likely result in a very awkward conversation for you. And no, he won’t really be able to understand it, as he will never see a reason for jealousy from his perspective. Nevertheless, he will then try to avoid the behavior that triggers those uncomfortable feelings in you.

[lissdiary]

katsuki comforting his pro!hero gf when she kinda fails her mission because she didn't get to save the people but defeated the villain? love your writing btw, wouldn't have guessed you were new if i hadn't read your profile!

katsuki sat on your shared couch, watching the news on your recent mission. the headlines were tragic, you had done what you could in order to protect the civilians but the damage was greater than you could handle. luckily, you managed the capture the villain but you just couldn’t shake off how many lives were lost.

he looked towards the apartment door, he heard your keys jingle trying to open the door. as you walked in, he started walking towards you. the soft expression on his face was enough to make you cry, he knew how much stuff like this hurt you. “katsuki.. i couldn’t-“ you dropped everything in your hands, tears swelling in your eyes. “i couldn’t save them ..” the lump in your throat began to hurt more and more, katsuki caught you before you fell to the ground.

“shh.. it’s okay baby” you couldn’t do anything but cry, he held you in his arms as you cried. your tears staining his black t-shirt, you were frustrated with yourself. “it’s, it’s not kats.. the people, they-“ he caressed your head, fixing your hair after it had gotten messy. you couldn’t even form the right words, it was difficult and traumatic.

“hey, look at me.” he cupped your face in his hands, picking your head up to look at him. your tears continued to flow down your cheeks, sniffling as you looked at him. he knew you tried your best, he knew you did what you could. “look, you did what ya’ could alright. who cares about what some shitty reporters say about ya’?” he wiped your tears with his thumbs, kissing your temple before resting his head against yours.

he wrapped his arms around you, allowing you to cry in his arms.“what matters is that you’re safe and you did your best throughout the entire mission, you ensured the safety of the people.” you both sat on the floor for the next hour, realizing it was late and time to sleep. although katsuki has an early bedtime, he stayed up until you were asleep. he knew you’d have trouble sleeping due to what had happened, and he would’ve rather died than let you stay up alone with your thoughts.

it broke katsuki’s heart to see you lay in bed the next morning. you laid there, puffy eyes with no light in them, dried tears stains down your cheeks, there was no light in your body whatsoever. katsuki made sure to call off work, he knew you needed him by your side and he made sure to stay there for as long as you needed him.

he made you a light hearted breakfast, just enough for you to eat. he knew you would wake up with no appetite but you needed to eat. a simple breakfast that consisted of pancakes, fruit, and coffee made just the way you liked. he served you breakfast in bed, plopping beside you so he can feed you. “you’re okay baby, nobody blames ya’ alright?” you nodded, allowing him to feed you another bite.

if it wasn’t for katsuki, you don’t know how you would’ve managed to cope with the trauma. he kissed your cheek when you managed to finish the plate he made you. “thank you baby, feelin’ a little better now?” he put the plate on your nightstand, pulling you close to him. you laid by his side, your head on his shoulder. “mhm, thank you kats..” you cuddled up closer to him, his warmth comforting you.

“yer’ welcome baby, just glad yer’ back home safely.”

tysm for requesting! it truly means a lot knowing you love my work!! (*≧∀≦*)

[enderlovez]

Stay Happy

Spencer Reid x Female BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 5700+

Summary: In the midst of a case, thinking it's safe after they've caught the criminal, you go into the crime scene alone to inspect the place, only to be taken hostage by a second unsub nobody knew about.

Content Warning: kidnapping, blood, stabbing, gunshot wounds, reader being tied up, broadcasting torture, mentions of death, blood again because there's a lot of it, broken bones, sprains, dislocation, speeding, drug usage (reader is drugged by the kidnapper)

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're not even sure how it happened.

One moment, you were simply walking around the crime-scene, scribbling notes down as you stepped around shattered glass and pools of blood, and it was peaceful for the most part — except, of course, for the police sirens blaring in the distance.

Perhaps that's why you felt so safe navigating the abandoned house alone, taking one for the team so they could discuss outside. The criminal had already been caught, so surely there was no reason to worry about something bad happening, right?

Wrong.

You were so extremely wrong. The moment somebody reached out from the shadows of a seemingly empty room, wrapping a hand tightly around your arm and slapping a hand over your mouth, you wished more than anything that you could take your decision back.

Spencer had insisted on going in with you. Practically begged you to take him inside with you, but his words about the possible dangers lying inside fell on deaf ears. They'd caught the bad guy. There was no danger, and he was the brains of the team, so surely they would need him more than you would, right?

Wrong.

Nobody hears your scream for help as it's abruptly cut off by the stranger's hand, nor does anybody realize you've been gone longer than would be necessary as you're being tied up and gagged and thrown into the trunk of a car with no more care than you'd give a piece of scrap metal.

You can do no more than screw up your face and beg for mercy as they jab a needle into your arm, then another into your neck, injecting a kind of colorless liquid directly into your bloodstream.

Your mind runs into overdrive, quickly running through all the possibilities as you would usually do when working on cases — except this time, you're the victim, and you're trying to come up with something — anything — before you lose consciousness.

You don't get very far.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

"Reid," Hotch says in a tired voice, not looking away from the paper in front of him, leaning it against the top of the car as he scrawls something down, "will you go in and see what's taking L/N so long? She's been gone almost fifteen minutes, we need her back here now."

Spencer doesn't have to be asked twice for him to make his way towards the crumbling house. Admittedly, he's been counting the seconds since you left, fighting the urge to run in there regardless of everyone's warnings of 'she's a big girl, she can handle herself' and 'she's good at her job, Reid, you need to relax a little'.

He knows you're beyond good at your job, which is why he trusted that you would be okay going in alone... But you typically only take, on average, ten minutes to do a quick search of the house and scratch down anything of importance.

While it might not seem like such a big deal to everyone else, Spencer knows you inside and out, better than anyone else in the world, and he knows that you taking even five minutes longer — especially in such a small house — is definitely a cause for concern.

Glass and debris crunches under his foot as he steps inside the house, flashlight pointed in front of him down the decaying hallway. It's quiet inside, unnervingly so, to the point where a chill runs down his spine. In a house of this size, with everything littering the floor, he should be able to hear your steps as you walk around, but there's nothing, just an ear-splitting silence that he can't seem to shake.

"Y/N?" he calls out hesitantly, pointing the light around in search of you. There isn't a response, not even a hum of acknowledgment from nearby, or a step indicating you've heard something close to you.

Just more of this silence.

He knows something has to be wrong now. Even looking past the fact that you would never ignore anybody, especially not Spencer, he has a horrible wriggling feeling in his gut, a sickening sensation that makes him want to curl into himself and hurl all over the floor.

"Y/N, are you in here?" he tries again, voice slightly louder and tinged with panic as he speeds up his search of the house, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees something sitting on the ground, too clean and white to have been there before, and covered in your delicate handwriting. Spencer's hands shake as he picks it up, eyes scanning over all the things you've written down.

And if he's not already in panic mode now, that changes entirely when he spots the smaller, fresher pool of blood, spreading out on the floor nearby, seeping into the cracks of the withering floorboards.

Without a second thought, he's running outside, notepad gripped in his hand so tightly that the paper crinkles. You're not in there. There's fresh blood on the floor in the same place he found your notepad, discarded.

Everyone turns to look at Spencer as he runs back to the car, lips turning down slightly when they see you're not following behind him.

"Where's Cupcake?" Morgan asks first, eyebrows furrowed as he peers behind the other man in search of you. "Thought you were going in to get her, is she not—"

"We need to get back," Spencer abruptly cuts Morgan off, already making to get in the car. "Y/N's gone. She's not in there, but I found her notes on the floor, next to her blood."

"That place was filled with blood," he tries to push, though the more time you spend in that house, considering you're usually so fast with this part, and without your notes, he's becoming less and less sure. "Maybe she just dropped it and hasn't realized yet?"

"All the blood in there is days old. This, most definitely was not." Something has happened to you — he knows something has happened to you, and every extra second that ticks by, he knows that you're likely slipping further and further away.

It seems that everyone else comes to the same conclusion, as they all immediately jump into action, splitting up and piling into the two cars. They're almost thirty minutes away from the Bureau, and by the time they even get there, who knows what state you could be in?

You could be dead.

You could be dead.

Spencer, of course, knows the dangers that come with this job. He himself has been shot and almost killed on multiple occasions, but it never really occurred to him, in all of his 187 IQ glory, that something similar could happen to you.

Emily is on the phone, speaking to someone — telling them to search the area, so it's likely the local police, who were already there before.

"I thought we caught the bad guy," Morgan comments tightly. "How's we even miss a second unsub?"

"Many reasons," Spencer replies instantly, force of habit. "Our primary unsub sits the profile so well that we've overlooked the possibility of a second offender. If they're working together, the second might deliberately mimic the first's MO or play a background role, making them harder to detect. "

"And what are the stats—"

"Twenty to twenty-five percent of homicides involve multiple offenders, and thirty percent of criminal partnerships have this dynamic. Cognitive bias affects nearly sixty percent of investigators."

"We don't know for sure if this is—"

Morgan is cut off by his phone ringing, so he picks it up without looking at the caller ID and puts it on speaker for everyone to hear. Before he can even greet the person on the other end, Garcia's voice, panicked and out of breath, comes through the speaker.

"Something pretty disturbing has come up here," she rushes out, the clicking of a keyboard vaguely there in the background. "You all need to get back here — now."

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You realize three things when you finally come to.

The first, is that you are tied to a chair, ropes so tight that every slight movement has your skin raw and chafing. Your ankles feel cemented to the floor, held down by something heavy. Or maybe that's because the sedative hasn't fully worn off yet.

The second thing you realize, when you force your eyes to open against the drowsiness, is that you have absolutely no idea where you are right now. The plain yellow walls have no defining characteristics, and there are no windows to look outside — chances are, you're in a basement, or a room in a storage facility.

And the third and final thing that comes to your realization, is that there is a camera set up in front of you. One of those home-video cameras, propped up on a tripod, and pointing directly at you, little red light indicating that it's already recording.

Sick bastard.

You tentatively pull against the ropes binding you, face screwing up when they only dig into your already raw skin. Tears prick at your eyes as panic surges through you, realizing you're really stuck here, that you're too weak to even try to do anything about your situation.

I am going to die here.

I am going to die here.

I am going to—

A door opens somewhere around you, footsteps descending a set of stairs. Definitely in a basement, then, but knowing that doesn't really do much good — there are countless basements, after all.

"You're finally awake," a voice drawls from behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "I was worried I'd already killed you back there, pretty girl."

Already.

He is planning to kill you regardless.

"Please, just... let me go," you beg weakly. Though you can't see him, you just know he's shaking his head, rubbing a hand on your shoulder. You try to turn your head so you can get a good look at him, but a shooting pain sparks down your spine at the movement.

"You know I can't do that," he says simply, the smile evident in his voice as he steps around you to adjust something on the camera, clicking a few buttons and zooming in on you some — trying to get the perfect angle, you quickly realize, to do...

"Why are you recording me?" you ask quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain of talking with such a dry throat. You work with the FBI, you know very well about cases where the suspect has recorded their killings for their own sick pleasure.

You just... never thought you'd be on the other end of it.

"I'm not recording," he says after a beat of silence, looking away from the camera to stand at his full height, his smile somehow widening to show all of his yellowed teeth. You take a moment to memorize his face, but with the drugs still clouding your mind, it's hard.

"Well what are you doing, then, if this recording camera isn't recording me?"

"It's a broadcast," he says simply, stepping back around you and squeezing your shoulder so tight you worry it might break, "to all your little agent friends."

Your blood runs cold, eyes snapping to the camera lens. They're probably watching you right this second, tied up and in immeasurable amounts of pain, yet still interrogating the suspect like you're on the job.

"What are you going to do to me?" The question you least want the answer to, but the most important one.

He doesn't say anything more, remaining behind me for a few more minutes before crouching at my side. "You and your friends got my brother in trouble," he begins, reaching up and caressing your face, so gently you begin to wonder if this is even the same person who threw you in the car. "So let's just stick with this: I'm going to put you in trouble."

That doesn't sound good.

And before you can say anything more, he's standing up again, reeling his hand back behind his head, and punching you in the face with enough force to make all thoughts flurry from your head.

Warm liquid fills your mouth instantly, spilling out through your parted lips. Your head is ringing with a sound that's not really there, vision blurring even though you're not crying — or maybe you are. Your world turns on its axis as your head flops to the side, neck unable to support you due to the shock.

Not broken, though.

Thank God, your neck isn't broken.

"Please," you whimper, but the single word sends a peircing pain straight to your temple, and even the single word is slurred. He has concussed you, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he murmurs, cupping your cheek with his palm, much like how a lover would — much like how Spencer does. Then, with an unnerving slowness that has you trembling, he pulls a tiny pocket knife out of his pocket, one of those little flower ones you'd get online for fifty cents, and brings it close to your face.

He presses the sharp point of it to the base of your cheekbone, and drags it alone your skin, opening a thin, shallow cut on your cheek, and stopping just before it reaches the corner of your mouth.

You cry out, struggling against your restraints. Shallow as the cut may be, and though you've been through so much worse throughout your career, it hurts like hell, and while you're already in so much pain, so vulnerable and exposed like an open nerve...

To say you're scared is an understatement.

Scared for your life that you're most definitely going to lose if your team can't find you. Scared for your future, and the things you so desperately want to do with it. And scared that you will never see the love of your life again — the very one who is likely watching you right now, through the camera.

"Please don't," you choke out through the tears that are now freely streaming down your face, stinging as they run along the length of the open wound on your face.

He smiles and walks over to a little table you didn't notice before, decorated with a variety of scary looking tools, and with the drowsiness still lingering from the drugs and the concussion you've been given, you can't stop your eyes from rolling back as your consciousness leaves you once again.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Everything hurts when you wake up again, your skin littered in a multitude of cuts and bruises and more injuries you think you've ever had at once. A gun sits on the other side of the room on a little table, loaded. It's your gun, the very one you had holstered to you when he grabbed you in that house. You don't want to know when he's planning to use that, but you're sure it's soon.

The man you've since dubbed 'Belial' is gone for now, leaving you alone in the room with half of a kitchen knife jammed into your right thigh and the camera still pointing right at your face. It's hard to tell exactly how long it's been, but if you have to take a guess, maybe a few days.

During that time he's been continually drugging you, this time not with sedatives, rather with things that'll leave you with lasting conditions. You're not sure what it is, but it doesn't necessarily cause you pain at the time. Only after, when the effects are wearing off, and you're left begging for more.

Right now it's all out of your system, and it hurts. Almost more than the deeper cut he left on your stomach, and the discus sized bruise on the back of your shoulder. Almost more than the knife stuck in your leg, and the busted lip and broken nose and—

You have too many injuries to count. You might just die of infection before he gets the chance to leave a bullet in your brain.

Though your hope isn't yet entirely gone — over the last while, you've been slowly but surely wiggling your wrists, stretching the rope and allowing yourself a little bit of leeway.

The indomitable human spirit, Spencer would have commented to calm you down, if he was with you right now, before spouting off some facts about why the human body stays fighting for so long. The thought of him brings a tiny smile to your face, but it's short-lived as something happens.

As you're twisting your wrists around, using your own blood as lubricant, a strange little sound from behind you, so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so on-guard lately, followed by the sudden and immense release of pressure from your wrists as blood flow is restored.

Your hands are free from their restraints, you only fully realize when you bring them up in front of your face, eyes flicking between your own two hands and the camera. An exhausted laugh bubbled up in your chest, and luckily, you're able to keep it down as you lean around the knife sticking out of your leg and undo the knots around them.

Standing up on shaky legs, you take an even shakier breath, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife to keep it in place and the other pressing against your stomach.

Your gun is across the room.

You could probably grab it, if you can manage to get over there.

Smiling into the camera and making a vague gun symbol with your fingers, you shift out of frame, slowly limping across the room towards the little table where your glock 22 is sitting, along with the holster.

Almost there...

Your hand is reaching out towards the gun when a deafening sound echoes off the walls, and an excruciating pain shoots through the left side of your hip. You know that sound, and you know the feeling just as well — you've been shot once, but it was in your leg, and all of the doctors were able to repair the damage perfectly fine.

This time you're not so lucky.

In an instant you drop to the floor, the blade of the knife shoving itself the rest of the way into your leg as you hit the concrete. The tripod holding the camera topples over as the man rushes across the room towards you. It doesn't break, and just to your luck, the way it falls has it angled in a way where all of you is on show to anyone watching.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

You're entirely correct in thinking Spencer is watching everything, chest tightening and nausea rolling in his gut with every little pain inflicted upon you. He's seen things during his time in this job — mutilated bodies and such, things many others would deem so much worse than what you're going through — but in his mind, this is most definitely the worst thing he's ever been forced to witness.

Still, he can't seem to make himself take his eyes off you for more than thirty seconds at a time.

Nobody has tried to make him leave Penelope's office, despite the fact that everybody has access to the video footage, nor has anybody reprimanded him for being so distracted.

"How long is it going to take you to track him down?" Spencer demands, his knee bobbing up and down and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Garcia glances at him before looking back to her work, typing furiously on her keyboard.

"I'm trying my best, Spencer," she says back, calmly despite the frustration and worry burning inside her. "He's using a masked signal, I think. There's no way for me to easily get their location."

The man nods. He understands that Penelope's trying her very best, especially with him sitting right there, but as he looks back at your bruised and bleeding body, he can't help being more irritable than usual. Not as the man — Avery Kane, they were able to identify him as — stuck another needle into your arm and injected you with God knows what.

"We have to go out and find her," Spencer decides after a beat of silence, his lip now bleeding from how hard he was biting it. "They can't be that far, realistically, if he was trying to avoid being pulled over. At most thirteen minutes away from the crime scene."

"Spencer, you of all people know that probably won't work," Garcia answers back, eyes never straying from the screen. "There's nothing to go off of in the video, and she definitely won't know where she is."

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat as Kane drives the sharp end of a kitchen knife into your thigh, pushing it in an inch before pulling it back out. "You heard him, Garcia — he's going to kill her. She'll be dead by the time we find her at this point."

The thought has her grimacing. She knows that he isn't just saying things — these are surely real statistics. You will be dead by the time they find you.

Spencer stands up and starts pacing the room, arms crossed tightly over his chest, mind reeling like a fishing line. They have to be missing something, otherwise they would have found you by now.

Garcia's gasp draws his attention, and he finds her staring at the screen with you on it. He rushes back and practically falls back into the chair, watching as you manage to free your bloodied hands from their restraints, smiling and making a pistol symbol with your hands as you shuffle out of frame.

Your gun is in the room.

A sense of half-relief washes over Spencer, and Garcia's shoulders relax ever-so-slightly — at least, that's until they hear the painfully familiar bang of a gun going off. Not your gun, but the one belonging to the man now standing in frame.

Everything happens in a rush. Kane rushing forward and knocking over the camera. Said camera being focused on you on the floor, knife sticking fully into your leg, pool of blood spreading out around you. Avery huffs and drops the gun on the ground, too far for you to reach, and walks out of the room muttering to himself.

Within seconds Garcia is frantically speaking to who Spencer can only assume is Hotch, and he is pulling the video feed up on his phone before rushing out of the room. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest, stomach in his throat and tears pricking at his eyes.

You can't die — not yet. Not for a very long time, after you've lived a very happy life together, not until he's gone. You're the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to him, he can't possibly live without you by his side.

And then, as if his guardian angel was leaning over his shoulder, listening to his silent prayers, Penelope starts yelling out about how she's got the coordinates, and she's forwarding them to everyone.

Spencer looks down at the video feed again, watches as you roll onto your back and cry, pressing your trembling hand to the wound on your hip, murmuring pleas about how you don't want to die —you're not ready. Your body is already weak from being beaten and cut for three days straight, nobody is sure how you'll handle being shot.

The odds aren't looking good.

There's a less than ten percent chance you'll survive this, and that's if they can get there in the next two minutes, with the wounds you've acquired. Spencer tells the team as much, as they speed down the road at three times the speed limit, lights blaring on top of the car to signal an emergency.

You make a little sound, barely audible through the video, so Spencer turns up the volume as far as it'll go. "Sleep, my love, the stars are dim, the night is soft, and the world is thin," he hears you choke out.

"What's she doing," Morgan asks from beside Spencer, peering over his shoulder and cringing at your bloody form. "Is she... singing?"

"It's the song her mom wrote for her when she was a child," Spencer replies in a broken voice. "She was so scared of the dark, and her mother wanted to make the night seem a little less scary. She sang it to her when she was in the hospital."

"Rest your head, and close your eyes, where dreams are sweet, and time is kind," you continue in a hushed voice, voice shaking from the effort of staying alive. You have to keep living. "The winds may call, the shadows dance, but here you're safe, inside my hands. Though I must go, I'll stay with you, in every breath, in all you do."

"She's not dying, Reid," Morgan says softly. "We won't let her. She can't get away from us that easily."

It was his attempt to lighten the mood, but it only earned him a quiet scolding from Hotch.

"Sleep, my love, the night will weep, but I'll be with you, in your sleep," you continue quietly, voice getting softer and softer with each word as you slowly bleed out on the floor. "And when you wake, the world will shine, a piece of me will always be mine."

They come to a forceful stop outside the house, ambulance already there in preparation for whatever happens and three police cars stationed outside the house.

"This man is armed," Hotch comments matter-of-factly, glancing around at everyone. "Morgan, you go in with the police to detain the guy — Reid and Prentiss, you run in immediately after with the paramedics..."

You've stopped singing, the only indicator that you're still breathing, and your unmoving. Eerily still with your eyes closed and a the tiniest smile on your face. You must hear all the commotion outside. Spencer slips his phone into his pocket, though he doesn't want to take his eyes off you, and nods.

So does Avery Kane, it seems, as he runs out through the front door and attempts to make a run for it. Someone tackles him, and just as Hotch said, Emily and Spencer are immediately running into the house with the paramedics hot on their tails, searching desperately for the basement.

"Y/N!" Spencer yells out, opening every door until they finally find one that leads down a set of stairs — where they immediately find you attempting to crawl across the floor towards them, hand clutched to your gunshot wound, movements sloppy as you continue to bleed.

He doesn't get a chance to touch you, or talk to you, as you're placed onto a stretcher and rushed back outside, or as he sits with you in the ambulance while everyone works to suppress the bleeding and keep you alive. You're all that's on his mind as he and the team sit in the waiting room of the hospital while you're in surgery.

Survival rates for gunshot wounds to the hip vary based on a lot of factors, but generally speaking, if the bullet didn't hit anything vital, there's about an eighty to ninety percent chance you'll survive... but that isn't taking into account that it very much might've hit something important, and it's not taking into account your already sustained injuries.

Everyone else seems to realize this, too, but they don't comment on it. Nor do they say anything when a nurse comes out and tells them the surgery was a success, and Spencer actually cries from relief. They don't push it when he asks if they can stay behind while he goes in and sits with you, just until you wake up.

That's not to say they leave the waiting room, though, except for Hotch, who says he has a lot of work to do. Everyone knows he's always had a bit of a soft spot for you, so this upset him more than any regular kidnapping case.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

The feeling of someone holding your hand is the first thing that comes to your attention, their thumb rubbing gentle circles onto the back of it. You already know who it is without opening your eyes, but you open them anyway, wincing at the bright white fluorescent lights shining down into my eyes.

Spencer's forehead leans against the edge of the bed, his breathing even as he sleeps.

He hates hospitals, is the first thing that comes to mind when you look at him, the way his mop of brown hair falls down either side of head, like a curtain hiding his lovely face.

You can barely remember what happened to you, why you're in the hospital — only that you were in more pain than the human body should be able to comprehend, and that you're still in pain now — but the sight of him sleeping so peacefully in a place he hates so much has every thought eddying from your head.

You carefully reach your other hand across your body and run your injured fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as he begins to stir from his slumber. You almost feel a little bad waking him up, but you just couldn't resist the opportunity.

He's just far too cute for you to not want to touch him.

When his hazel eyes meet yours, you're suddenly filled with a sense of worry. They're red-rimmed, like he's been crying — a lot, and there are heavy bags under his eyes, due to lack of sleep.

Jeez, am I really that terribly injured?

"You're awake," he murmurs quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a gently kiss to the back of it.

"You know," you start off with a teasing tone in your voice, "your hands are dirtier than your mouth. You're more likely to get sick from touching my hand than you are if you were to kiss me on the lips."

He hums in agreement, a smile on his lips, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes, the way it normally does when you start talking nerdy to him. "How could I forget?" he whispers, leaning forward and leaving a delicate kiss on your lips. He doesn't let go of your hand, continuing his ministrations of rubbing circles.

"So, what's the damage?" you ask when he's fully seated again, both of his hands holding your one to his mouth. "What happened to end me up in the hospital?"

His eyebrows furrow. He looks puzzled, and silver lines his eyes, tears building up and begging to be dropped.

"You don't... remember?" he asks softly. You shake your head and look down at yourself — you've never been in worse shape, casts and bandages littering almost every inch of skin.

A sob builds up in his chest, and he can't stop it from escaping against your hand. You frown and use your free hand to wipe the tears from his cheek, caressing it as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye.

"Are you okay, Spence?" you ask quietly, worriedly, like him crying is the worst thing in the world. In your mind, it actually is.

He laughs bitterly, but nonetheless leans into your touch. "You almost died, Y/N, and you're still looking after me?" he asks, sniffing. "You're too soft for this world, my sweet girl. I'm alright, you don't need to worry about me. Just glad you're alive is all."

You smile and gently pinch his cheek. "So, are you going to tell me what happened? Or at least, the injuries I sustained?"

He nods dejectedly and leans further forward. "You had three fractured ribs, a cracked sternum and a cracked scapula. Three broken phalanges, a broken nose. Dislocated mandible, left shoulder and both your wrists. Sprained ankle," he stops for a moment, simply watching you absorb the information he's feeding you.

You don't seem too worried, but he can see the confusion and panic in your eyes.

"Is... that all?" you ask hesitantly, as if you don't really want to know, and Spencer has half the mind to not tell you. But it's your body, and you're the one in the hospital, so you deserve to know regardless.

"Those are only the breaks, you're all bruised and cut up, like a piece of meat," he says, at least bringing a slight smile to your face with his 'joke'. "You sustained a full-length stab wound from a kitchen knife, a grade two concussion, and a gunshot wound on your hip. It's a miracle you're even alive."

Your mouth hangs open with a goldfish. "No kidding," you breathe, squeezing his hand, your eyebrows furrowed. He can't help but remove one hand from yours to smooth out the little crease, lingering as you leaned your cheek against his hand.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, in a voice so quiet, you can barely even hear it.

You're silent for a second, nuzzling your face against him despite the ache in your neck. "I'm wondering how I possibly could have gotten all these injuries, and I'm thinking that I'm glad you're here with me. And that I love you so much, and I'm glad you love me enough to stay with me in a hospital, even though you're a germaphobe."

He leans forward and leaves a kiss on your taped-up nose. "I love you, too. Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

You think for a second, the crease between your brows making a reappearance, but you ultimately shake your head — slightly, because you have a raging headache and more movement will only make it worse. "This seems bad, so... I'm not so sure I wanna know."

Spencer nods and leans back, getting to his feet. "There are some people who wanna see you, if you're up for it?" he suggests gently, watching as a smile makes its way onto your lips.

"I think I'd like that very much."

Spencer knows you'll need to know at some point, but right now, while you seem relatively happy, he won't tell you about how you were kidnapped and drugged with ketamine and heroin, or how your torture was broadcasted to everyone at the BAU.

For now, he'll let you stay happy.

[nomie-11]

Xaden Riorson x Reader - Every Scar I Bleed For You

masterlist!

“What in Malek’s name were you thinking!?” She chastised, soaking another pad in alcohol to clean another wound on his back. “Making that deal with the general? We could have figured it out together!”

“Ouch,” He hissed, instinctively arching away from her touch that was only slightly harsher than normal due to her heightened emotions. “I did what we needed to do, I couldn’t drag you and Garrick into it.” 

“That’s the stupidest thing you could have ever said,” she snapped, slamming the blood-soaked pad down on the table next to his bed. Her hands trembled as she reached for another. “Do you honestly think Garrick and I wouldn’t have stood by you? We would have taken part of the punishment! Do you think I wouldn’t have?”

Xaden exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiffening beneath her touch. “It wasn’t about you standing by me. It was about protecting you.” 

“Protecting me?!” Her voice cracked with incredulity. “You threw yourself into the middle of a negotiation with a woman who would slit your throat without blinking, all because you think I can’t handle it? You’re not just my leader, Xaden. You’re…” she paused, fighting back tears. “You’re everything to me. And you think you can keep me safe by breaking yourself into pieces?” 

He flinched, not from the sting of alcohol, but from her words. “Y/n…” His voice was softer now, laced with regret. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to—”

“To what? To care so much about someone you’d do anything to protect them?” she interrupted, her hands pressing a clean antiseptic cloth firmly against a particularly deep gash. He winced but didn’t pull away this time. “Because if you think I don’t know, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.” 

He was silent, his head bowed, the tension in his body palpable. 

She took a steadying breath, her tone softening, though the fire in her eyes didn’t dim. “You’re not invincible, Xaden. And you’re not alone. You’re not some lone wolf fighting battles for everyone else while carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You have me. You will always have me. You know that, don’t you?” 

His hands clenched into fists on his knees, the sinews in his arms taut as he absorbed her words. “It wasn’t just for them,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “The kids, the general’s demands—it wasn’t for them. It was for you.” 

Her breath caught, her hands stilling mid-motion. “...oh.” 

“Every choice I made, every risk I took—it was because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being executed next. Of you being in danger. Of losing you.” He turned slightly, to look at her, and his eyes met hers with a burning intensity. “I can’t lose you, Y/n.” 

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, a torrent of emotions crashing over her. Anger, fear, love—all of it tangled into a knot she couldn’t untangle. “And you think I can stand the thought of losing you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You think watching you bleed out for me doesn’t tear me apart?” 

He stared at her, his jaw tight, his vulnerability laid bare she’d rarely seen. “You mean more to me than anything,” he murmured. “More than my life, more than this rebellion, more than anything.” 

Her throat constricted, and tears pricked at her eyes. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, her hands clutching the cloth that had once rested against his wounds. “You idiot,” she choked out. “You reckless, infuriating idiot. I love you. I have always loved you.” 

His breath hitched, and he fully turned toward her, ignoring the searing pain in his back. He lifted a hand to cradle her face, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. “I love you too,” he said, the words low and raw and filled with every emotion he’d been holding back since the execution of his father. “I have for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.” 

She leaned into his touch, her tears feeling freely now, her walls crumbling under the weight of his words. “Then stop trying to protect me by shutting me out,” She pleaded, her voice breaking. “We fight together, Xaden. Always.” 

He nodded, resting his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers. “Always,” he echoed. “No more shutting you out. No more trying to do it alone.” 

For a long moment, they stayed like that, the world around them fading away. It was just them, their breaths steadying in unison, their love a fragile yet unbreakable thing that tied them together. 

Finally, she pulled back, a watery smile tugging at her lips. “Good. Because Garrick and I aren’t going anywhere. And next time you decide to sacrifice yourself, I’ll be right there to stop you. Got it?” 

He chuckled softly, his own smile breaking through the pain etched on his face. “Got it.: 

“Good,” She said again, pressing a kiss to his forehead before returning to her work. “Now sit still while I finish cleaning these wounds. You’re not dying on my watch, Riorson.” 

And she pressed another clean cloth to a wound on his back, and he hissed, and they stood there in silence, and for now, that was enough. 

-------

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml

[portgasdwrld]

★ Naked in bed.pt2

⋆ ★NSFW content, suggestive

⋆ ★featuring: Sanji, Ace, Buggy (all the simps), GN!reader

⋆ ★authors note: you ask ! You shall receive 🫶🏻

Sanji

Congrats, you killed the man

jokes aside, we all know how Sanji is down bad and you better believe that when it comes to HIS lover?? He’s more down bad than you can imagine

So it started all because you realized your underwear/sleepwear started to smell like smoke so you thought a great solution would be to just go sleep naked and then take a shower in the morning. Then your clothes would be technically safe from the smell.

Sanji was already lying in bed, heavily anticipating you changing into your pyjama or lingerie before bed. You could sense your boyfriend heavy gaze on your body.

You smirked to yourself and started to remove your first layer normally and then you attacked the rest. He cleared his throat and mumbled your name under his shaky breath as he was faced to your nude body.

« Y-y/n..? »

« I hope you don’t mind baby, I just don’t wanna smell like smoke »

His nose is bleeding and he’s quick to pull you by your arm into him. Your body falls on top of him and he’s already kissing you as his hands roam all over your curves.

« Who would complain about this..»

He finally replies with a smirk and mischievous eyes. He’s so down bad for you.

Ace

Ace devil fruit power is very useful when it’s cold, when it’s time to defeat powerful enemies, and so on. But when the ship is in a summer island territory and the heat is almost unbearable, sleeping with Ace who has a high body temperature can be hard.

You lay down on his bed with nothing but small shorts and a tank top as you wonder how long you’re going to have to endure the heat. Your eyes were growing heavy as fatigue started to grow in you, but you knew that even the little clothes you have on you right now, felt irritating.

Sleeping naked doesn’t seem like such a bad idea…

That’s what you do, you remove your clothes and lay down again on the bed, waiting for the commander to find you. Then you hear the door slowly open with a distant goodbye from your boyfriend to someone behind the door.

« Oh- Uh hey there? »

He smirks as he put his hat down and starts removing his accessories. You push your upper body up and stare at your lovely freckled man.

« Hey.. » you say in a sleepy tone. Aces eyes are devouring you and you feel butterflies in your stomach as his eyes linger shamelessly.

« Thé weather is too hot, so I thought I would sleep naked… »

« Umm, I see »

He says as he sits on the bed and let his hand play with your hair.

« My baby can’t handle the heat? »

You nod with a small pout and lean into his touch.

« How about I make your forget about it and give you a good reason to sweat »

You blush and truly who were you to deny anything to this man when he looked at you with so much love and lust.

« Sure.. » you smile as you pull him into a kiss.

Buggy

You felt lazy to put clothe on after your shower so you just walked back to the bed and laid down there. You found again the article you started to read on the nightstand but stopped as you got interrupted earlier. With that you forgot that you were still nude on your bed.

That was until Buggy walked into your shared room with a screech, his eyes popping out of his face.

« What are you doing naked like that ??? »

He screamed-whispered in panic. He didn’t know if he was totally turned on or shocked, maybe both.

You finally turned to him and looked at yourself slowly and back to him. Your mouth gasped a little, but you didn’t care because it was your boyfriend and it wasn’t like it was his first time seeing you naked lol.

« Aren’t you overreacting babe? » you chuckled as you turned your body more to his direction and let the article fall on the bed.

« What if it wasn’t me who walked in?? Are you insane?! »

He said as he walked into your direction. You knew how to shut him up, so you just pulled him harshly by his collar into you and smashed your lips into his. You then ran your hands over his clothed torso and pulled out to whisper into his ear.

« But it’s you , isn’t it? So how about you take care of me instead Captain »

He’s blushing and groping your body.

« If that all you want, don’t ask me twice »

He smirks and dive back into kissing you, having the upper hand this time.