#i hate this i hate everything i want to run away and never come back to this house

[aleskie]

hii!! hope you’re having a week day, i was wondering if you could write max verstappen angst after 2021 baku dnf?

HIIIII ANON! I actually don't remember what the lore with baku 2021 was ajnskskj so i hope you like this general DNF comfort fic instead MWAH

WHY DOES SHE GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME | Max Verstappen x Reader

SUMMARY: Max is a winner. But when it comes crashing down, you've got him.

Warnings: None. Hurt with comfort!

He doesn’t say anything when he comes back home — just closes the door a little harsher than usual and heads straight to the terrace after making himself a gin and tonic. He needs to calm down. You know that. You don’t follow him right away. You give him space.

Max was a champion. He won. That’s what he did, what he was born to do, what he was trained to become. Losing took a toll on him — whether it was a DNF or finishing out of the points. It never felt good. But there were things to learn from it, things to improve on. Both on his end as a driver and with the constructor’s team for the car. He could live with that.

But having a car malfunction? Not finishing the race? And when you were in second place? That hurt. That really hurt.

The sun is sinking lower, casting long shadows across the terrace as he sips his drink. The ice clinks softly against the glass. It’s calming, a familiar ritual — but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw stays tight. There’s a lot on his mind. What he could’ve done better. Where he’d be in the championship if he’d won. The what-ifs, the could-have-beens.

You watch him from the doorway for a moment before stepping outside. You don’t say anything. You just sit beside him, quiet and steady, while the sky turns gold and the weight of disappointment settles with the evening breeze.

“I hate myself,” he says, taking another sip from his drink. His words are slurred just enough to tell you he’s a little tipsy — no surprise, considering the drink he poured earlier was mostly gin with just the barest splash of tonic. “I’m a fucking loser. I lost.”

“Don’t say that,” you reply softly, keeping your voice gentle. “The car malfunctioned. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Was it not?” He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh and takes another swig. “I can drive bad cars. I’ve done it before. I’ve pushed them to their limits and I made it work—I made it win. But I couldn’t drive this one? Couldn’t win in it? Fucking pathetic.”

You want to reach for his hand, but you don’t. Not yet. You know that right now, he’s fighting a battle in his own head — one you can’t quite pull him out of. So you stay close, your voice steady even when his isn’t.

“You’re not pathetic,” you say quietly. “You’re one of the best drivers in the world. Four championships, Maxie—that’s nothing to scoff at.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he mutters, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The sunset’s almost gone now, the sky bleeding into deeper shades of blue and orange. “Feels like I’m just…wasting everyone’s time. Wasting my time. Wasting yours.”

The ice clinks again as he lifts the glass, and for a second, you wish the drink would run out. But you know the problem isn’t the gin. It’s everything that’s come before it — the pressure, the expectation, the disappointment.

“You’re not wasting anything—especially not my time or my energy,” you say. “You had a bad day. That’s all it was.”

He shakes his head. “It’s never just one day. It’s every day that comes after it, every chance that slips away. And I—” His voice breaks, just for a second, before he swallows it down with the rest of his drink. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

That’s when you reach for his hand. And this time, he lets you.

“That’s fine too.” You plant a kiss on the back of his hand. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“But I do.” He pulls his hand away and runs it through his hair. “I have to prove it. To the team. To the fans. To dad. To you—”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s worse than you expected. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face drawn tight with exhaustion and frustration and something deeper—something you don’t know how to fix.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. His voice is so quiet, but the weight of those words hangs heavy between you. “You think you’d still love me if I stopped winning? If I stopped trying?”

“But you aren’t not trying,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You try your best with everything you do. And that’s one of the reasons I love you.”

He shakes his head, his jaw clenching like he’s holding back something that’s threatening to break free. “No. You love the champion. You love the winner. And that’s not who I am right now. This…this isn’t who you signed up for.”

“Don’t tell me who I love,” you snap, your voice trembling. “And don’t treat this relationship like it’s some kind of contract. I didn’t sign up for anything. I’m here because I want to be. Because I love you. Even now—when you’re hurting, when you’re in pain. I still love you.”

For a second, he just stares at you, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the fight between believing you and the doubts that have been eating away at him for weeks. Maybe months.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough for you,” he whispers finally, his voice breaking. “And I want to be. God, I want to be perfect for you. But I…I can’t.”

Your chest aches. That helpless, hollow kind of ache that comes when you want so badly to fix something — someone — and you know you can’t. All you can do is hold his hand tighter, like maybe that will stop him from slipping away completely.

“You are,” you say softly. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

He closes his eyes, but a tear escapes anyway, sliding down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. “It’s been a tough season,” he murmurs. “The car is fucked. And I—I don’t know how to keep you if I can’t even keep this seat. And I don’t even know who I am without the wins.”

“You’re a four-time world champion,” you remind him, your fingers brushing through his hair. “You’re dragging a seventh-place car to third place. That’s more than enough. You are doing so much—more than anyone should have to.”

You guide his head to rest on your shoulder, feeling the way his breath stutters against your skin. “You can rest for now,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

For the first time that night, his body eases—just a little—against yours. The tension doesn’t vanish, not completely, but you feel the slightest shift, the way his weight leans into you like he’s finally allowing himself to stop holding it all together. And you hold him like you’re trying to keep him from falling apart—like if you hold him tight enough, maybe you can take some of that hurt away.

His breath slows, but every now and then it still catches, like there’s something inside him he can’t quite let go of. You press your lips to his hair, soft and reassuring, and whisper, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, voice rough and low.

“You do,” you insist. “And I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his fingers tighten around yours. And for now, that’s enough.

[lovemetsumu]

you and me, religiously ; miya atsumu x f!reader

˚₊ ⸝⸝ ⟶ summary: you were never good at saying how you felt—and neither was atsumu. but the love was always there, quiet and aching, in the way you almost reached for each other but never quite did.

˚₊ ⸝⸝ ⟶ tags: bestfriend!atsumu, childhood friends-to-lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst

˚₊ ⸝⸝ ⟶ word count: 4k+

˚₊ ⸝⸝ ⟶ notes: just me writing about my fave boy and my fave trope again.

──────── · · · ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* · · · ────────

“you think coach’ll still let me start if i show up late?” suna asked you, monotone, eyes fixed ahead.

you snorted. “not if he finds out you stopped for vending machine snacks again.”

he gave a noncommittal shrug, tapping the volleyball against his hip. “cut me some slack. i just turned eighteen. feels like i should get a pass or something.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, happy birthday, grandpa. we're all eighteen this year. it's not that deep.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, gaze still on the hallway ahead. “last year of high school, and we’re still running late to practice.”

you grinned teasingly, “just you, sunarin.”

the gym wasn’t far now, the sound of drills and shouting teammates already bleeding into the hallway. then, without looking at you, he said it—casually, like it was just another update from class.

"atsumu’s transferring back here.”

you stopped walking mid-step, shoes skidding slightly against the hallway floor. “what?” you asked, turning your head so quickly toward suna it made your hair shift over your shoulder.

but he didn’t repeat it right away. just kept casually spinning the volleyball in his hands like he hadn’t just dropped the most shocking news you’d heard in years.

“no—wait,” you said again, voice a little breathless now. “are you serious?”

you searched his face for any sign that he was joking. a smirk. a twitch in his eye. something. but there was nothing—just suna, as unreadable as ever, giving a lazy shrug like it wasn’t the one name you never thought you’d hear again.

your heart was pounding. loud, quick, all-consuming.

atsumu was a memory you’d tucked away so deeply you thought it couldn’t reach you anymore. a name that still made something shift in your chest. and now—he was coming back?

he tossed the volleyball up once, caught it again. “yeah. thought it was already going around. he's starting next week.”

it had been years since you last saw him—back when you were both barely fifteen in the middle of junior high. he said goodbye outside your house, late in the evening. the streets were quiet, just the faint humming of the air. you still remembered the way he stood there under the dim porch light, his bag slung over one shoulder, eyes avoiding yours.

atsumu's voice had barely held steady when he said it, like each word scraped its way out of his throat. his fingers curled tightly into the hem of his hoodie, knuckles pale, like he was holding himself together with the smallest thread.

his eyes never really met yours—not for long. they kept flicking to the side, then back again, like he couldn’t decide whether looking at you made it harder to leave or easier to pretend he could.

the streetlight outside your house flickered gently overhead, casting his face in dim amber. he looked older in that moment. not because of time, but because of everything he wasn’t saying.

his heart was thudding too loud in his chest. he wanted to tell you it wasn’t his choice. that he hated the idea of leaving. that every time he packed a bag or thought about his flight, it felt like he was leaving a piece of himself behind.

“i didn’t wanna leave,” he said quietly, almost like it was a secret. “it was just… my mom’s job. she had to move to tokyo, so I had to go too.”

and then he smiled—tight, fleeting. not bright or cocky like usual, but small, like he was afraid that if he smiled any wider, it’d shatter.

“i’ll see ya, ‘kay?” he said, voice barely steady. “promise I won’t forget, y/n. not ever.”

he hesitated for just a second before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around you—tight, like he didn’t want to let go. his chin brushed your shoulder, and you could feel the way he held his breath.

“i'll text you. or, like… send pictures or somethin’. i dunno.” he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes earnest. “i'll keep in touch. i mean it.”

and then he let go—too soon—and took a step back, like staying any longer would make it even harder to leave.

he was gone. and at first, he tried—texts here and there, blurry pictures from tokyo, the occasional call late at night when he couldn’t sleep. you clung to those moments, tucked them away like little keepsakes.

but the messages grew farther apart. the calls stopped. life got louder. you were both just kids, and maybe that’s what growing up does—it pulls people in different directions before they even realize it.

until one day, there was nothing. no calls. no letters. just silence. and with time, you started to believe that maybe he was never coming back.

and then, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding—he was there. a week later, just like suna had said, as if he’d never really left.

it was early. the quiet hum of spring had just begun to slip in through the open windows, the scent of cherry blossoms faint in the breeze. your shoes tapped softly against the floor as you stepped inside, half-lost in thought. you enter the room without hesitation, making your way to your usual seat by the window.

as you settle in, you notice that suna isn’t in his seat beside yours. irritated, you grab your phone and quickly type—where the hell are you? i thought we were supposed to come early, then sit back, waiting for his reply.

the room is quiet until a gentle laugh cuts through the silence.

it was the laugh you’d known since you were little, in sun-warmed days playing tag in the park, scraped knees and shared popsicles, pinky promises made on random lazy summer afternoons. the same one that used to pull you by the wrist across the playground, that whispered you’re my favorite in a boy’s clumsy way—through laughter, and shared snacks, and sheltering you from the rain with a too-small umbrella.

you look up, startled, and there he is, already watching you from across the room.

miya atsumu

he looked the same. and he didn’t. he was taller now, with broader shoulders. his blonde hair still framed his face, and his uniform was worn in that casual, half-cared-for way. but it was his eyes that drew you in—something heavier, something older. they held a quiet intensity.

but the way he looked at you—gentle, surprised, as if he was seeing you for the first time—made his breath hitch for a moment. his eyes, focused and soft, took in every detail of how different you looked now. he noticed the way your hair now fell in waves, catching the light just so, and how your eyes looked like it could light up the entire world.

in that split second, atsumu thought none of the girls in tokyo, none of them, could come close, his lips parted, just slightly. he looked like he might say something.

“....y/n?” he called softly, uncertainty tinting his voice as if he weren’t sure the years had changed you both.

he took a step toward you. then another. and you thought you’d forgotten the sound of his voice, but now that it filled the room—low, a little raspier, softer than it used to be—you knew you hadn’t.

not really.

“'tsumu?” you said, your voice soft—like it might disappear if you spoke any louder.

“god,” he said, “you’re really here.”

the silence between you stretched, but not awkwardly. he looked at you like he was still piecing you back together from memory, and you looked at him like you were afraid to blink in case he disappeared again.

“you’ve…changed,” you murmured, eyes tracing the slope of his jaw, the line of his mouth.

he shrugged, then rubbed the back of his neck—boyish, sheepish, but his eyes never left yours. “you haven’t. not really.”

you smiled, and it hit him all at once—how much he missed that smile, how many nights he’d spent regretting the space that had grown between you. guilt settled quiet in his chest, and he wondered if you were angry with him. if he even had the right to miss you this much. and for a brief second, he found himself thinking if the two of you could ever find your way back to how it used to be—before the distance, before he left.

but whatever he was about to say got lost the moment another voice chimed in behind you.

“there you are!” osamu popped in first, eyes lighting up the second he saw you. “holy shit, i knew it! it was you!” he grinned, barely giving you time to react before he threw an arm around your shoulders, hugging you tight like you were still in junior high. “you haven’t changed one bit,” he laughed, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“speak for yourself,” you teased, smiling up at him.

then came suna, hands in his pockets. “you look the same, but less angry,” he said casually, lips twitching in the closest thing to a smile.

you gave him a look. “this why you ignored my text?”

he shrugged, sliding into the seat beside you. “figured you’d find me eventually.”

“yeah? next time we make a plan, i’m ditching you first,” you muttered, nudging him lightly with your foot under the desk.

osamu chuckled as he leaned against your desk. “some things never change.”

“like you being late?” you shot back.

“hey, at least i brought onigiris this time.”

atsumu hadn’t said a word, but somewhere in between the teasing, he’d moved closer. now, he stood just beside you—quiet, lingering—like something in him had been pulled there before he could think twice. it had been years, but standing next to you again made it feel like no time had passed at all. like if he reached out just a little, you might lean into him the way you used to.

he didn’t, though. instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets, let his arms barely brush your shoulder, and said, “jeez, you’re still short. thought you would’ve grown a little by now.”

he let out a soft chuckle, eyes flicking down to you. you could tell he was trying—softening the edges, reaching out in his own awkward way—and so you tried too.

you glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “you’re just freakishly tall 'tsumu,” you said. “it’s not my fault you hit a second growth spurt or whatever.” the words came easier than you thought they would. like muscle memory. like maybe this didn’t have to be as hard as you feared.

atsumu's shoulders eased, just a bit. he thought maybe you weren’t mad after all. maybe this could still be okay. and when you let out a small laugh—barely more than a breath, but real—and flashed him that same smile he used to see after long practices and stupid jokes, it hit him, soft and sudden—this was home. it always had been. wherever you were.

then, in between moments, the bell rang sharp, but not enough to break the feeling entirely. footsteps echoed into the room as more students trickled in, voices rising, chairs scraping against the floor. the teacher entered not long after, calling for everyone to return to their seats.

atsumu lingered for a second longer, then nudged your head gently with his elbow. “see ya later,” he said, tone light, almost too casual.

osamu gave suna a small nod. “don’t fall asleep in the first ten minutes.”

they both turned—and while osamu crossed the room, atsumu circled behind you.

you didn’t turn to look, but you felt it anyway—the way the air shifted as he sat in his chair just behind yours, of course he did. that was always his seat. still is. and somehow, that small familiarity felt louder now than it used to.

you pressed your pen to the page a little harder than necessary. he was right there. this was going to be distracting. you weren’t even sure why it got to you—just that it did. that he was close enough for you to hear the way he exhaled, the soft scrape of his chair against the floor. that if you leaned back even slightly, you might hear him humming under his breath like he used to.

time blurred after that. one class bled into the next—notes scribbled half-heartedly, lessons that barely registered. your pen hovered over your notebook, unmoving, eyes flicking toward the window, and then back—because you could feel it. that quiet, burning stare.

he was seated just behind you. too close. or maybe not close enough. his presence folded into the edge of your awareness like static, never fully gone. always there.

atsumu stretched once, and the motion behind you was slow, languid. a little exaggerated, a little too casual. you felt the back of his shoe nudge the leg of your chair when he settled again, not hard, just enough to make you glance over your shoulder. you didn’t. but he knew you felt it.

the teacher’s voice faded in and out, words smearing into the background. when he answered a question, his voice came from just behind your ear—low, raspy, but quite soft, like sleep hadn’t left it yet. you didn’t mean to notice it. didn’t want to. but it slipped in anyway, warm and steady. it didn’t matter what he said. it was the sound of it. the way it got to you.

you kept your eyes on the board, but the paper beneath your hand stayed mostly blank. a few scattered notes. a sketch in the margin you didn’t remember starting. you were half-listening, half-drifting, when you felt him lean forward.

“what was the thing the teacher said earlier? somethin’ about that definition?”

you blinked down at your notes. “which one?”

“dunno. you wrote it down, right?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the half-finished sentence on your page. the question wasn’t real—not really. he wasn’t looking for an answer. he was looking for a reason.

“you could just listen for once."

you dipped your head slightly, lips tugging into a smile before you could stop it.

“yeah, but then i wouldn’t get to bother ya.”

he let out a faint sound, something like a breath of amusement, like he was smiling into his hand. you didn’t look back, but you could feel it—his grin, lazy and crooked and far too pleased with himself.

you didn’t turn, just kept your eyes on your notebook. “you gonna keep staring while you do it?”

there was a soft shift behind you—the creak of his chair, the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned forward just enough for his presence to press closer.

“can't help it,” he murmured, and you swore you could feel the curve of a smile in his voice—quiet, a little tired, like it slipped out without thinking.

you told yourself not to read into it. it was just a line. just him being him. still, your grip on your pen tightened, and you had to blink down at your page like it could ground you. first day back and he was already getting to you.

then the final bell dragged itself through the halls like a tired breath. you packed your things slowly, letting the weight of the afternoon settle into your shoulders.

beside you, suna stretched in his seat, back cracking faintly as he let out a quiet sigh. the scrape of a chair. the rustle of bags.

osamu wandered over, dropping his bag beside suna’s desk with a thud. “coach’s gonna go hard today, huh.”

suna snorted. “yeah, well, it’s your fault for skipping practice for three years.”

“not my fault we had that whole tokyo thing,” osamu muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“you and atsumu both,” suna said. “hope you like serving drills. you’re gonna be doing them for the rest of the week.”

atsumu leaned back in his chair behind you, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to prove. “try me, i’ll still ace every serve,” he said, all confidence, even if it wavered just a little.

osamu gave him a look. “you were complaining about it all lunch.”

“yeah, well. not in front of suna.”

suna rolled his eyes, and you kept your head down, slipping your notebooks into your bag. quiet, careful, like you weren’t listening—but you were.

you were halfway through packing your things, slipping your notebook into your bag while the boys were still talking—half banter, half complaint. suna said something under his breath that made osamu scoff, and atsumu laughed a little too loud, the sound stretching into the space behind you.

you didn’t look back, but you could feel him glance your way. once. then again. like he was waiting for something—or maybe just working up to it.

“you comin’ to watch practice?”

you blinked, unsure if he was talking to you. your hands hovered over your bag, halfway zipped. the question hung there for a moment, light but deliberate. you glanced over your shoulder.

he was looking at you now—eyes steady, a little too focused for something that was supposed to be casual. and so were suna and osamu—conversations fading, the room dipping into a pause. all three of them watching, like the question needed an answer.

you didn’t say anything at first. just nodded to yourself a little, like you were still thinking about it.

“…dunno,” you said eventually, softer than you meant to.

“she never misses,” suna said, deadpan, already slinging his bag over his shoulder.

you shook your head, smile tugging at your lips. “do you memorize everyone’s schedule or just mine?”

suna didn’t miss a beat. “just yours,” he said flatly, nudging your desk lightly with his foot as he stood. “gotta keep an eye on our number one fan.”

osamu snorted as he got to his feet, and atsumu was rubbing the back of his neck, trying (and failing) to hide a grin.

atsumu huffed. “we’re headin’ now. you should come.”

you hesitated. “i gotta drop something off with the teacher.”

he gave a small nod, like he didn’t want to make a thing of it. “alright. see ya there, then.”

they left together, voices fading into the hallway.

once they were gone, the room felt quieter somehow. still full of leftover noise—chairs askew, papers rustling—but without them, it settled into something gentler. something easier to breathe in.

you took your time packing the last of your things, then made your way to the front to drop off a paper with the teacher. your footsteps were unhurried, almost quiet. no real reason to rush.

instead of heading straight to the gym, you circled around the courtyard, taking the long way on purpose. the breeze brushed your face, the late afternoon sun soft against your skin. it wasn’t about avoiding them, not exactly—it was just… everything had felt a little too much all at once.

you lingered at the hallway corner, just outside the gym doors, fingers curled loosely around the strap of your bag. there were voices inside already—shoes squeaking on the polished floor, a whistle cutting through the air.

and then you stepped in.

the sharp thud of volleyballs hitting the court greets you first, followed by the low calls of names, the rhythm of feet against wood. they’re already warming up—spikes on one side, serves on the other. your eyes instinctively search for suna, and you find him crouched near the net, focused and loose-limbed, his movements precise.

but it’s the opposite end of the court that holds you still.

atsumu stands at the service line, a ball in hand, his body already in motion. you catch the fluid arc of his arm, the way his form slices through the air with such practiced grace that it almost looks like muscle memory brought to life.

then the ball sails.

it spins—fast, controlled, almost cruel in the way it dips just before the line. a perfect serve.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until he’s already lining up another.

he looks up. his gaze catches yours.

and it’s… steady. not surprised, not sharp like before, but something softer—open, maybe. the edges of him aren’t as guarded now. he holds your gaze even as he tosses the next ball, his eyes never wavering until the last second, when instinct takes over and he strikes.

this one lands just inside the corner, making even osamu whistle low from the sidelines.

you shift your weight, unsure of what to do with the heat blooming behind your chest.

suna glances over and gives you a slight nod, as if to say you saw that too, huh? you manage a small smile, one that falters when you look back at atsumu—who’s still watching you, even as osamu tosses him another ball.

there’s something unreadable in his expression. not arrogance, not pride. just a quiet hope.

you sit where you usually do, just beside the gym wall. a little removed, a little safe. suna jogs over on a water break and tosses you a bottle he probably stole from someone’s bag.

“you made it,” he says, voice low and dry.

you nod. “long practice?”

“coach is squeezing blood out of us before prelims.” he leans against the wall, brushing sweat from his temple. “he’s serious about nationals this year.”

you hum in response, eyes drifting back toward the court.

atsumu’s still at the service line, though this time, it’s osamu who steps beside him, saying something only the two of them can hear. atsumu’s mouth pulls into a crooked grin before he sends another serve flying.

when it hits the court, it echoes.

a few minutes pass, filled with the steady rhythm of shoes squeaking and balls thudding against the court. The gym hums with effort, voices rising and falling as drills wind down. when the whistle blows for a break, the players scatter—some toward their water bottles, others to the benches lined along the wall.

atsumu makes his way toward you, towel slung around his neck, sweat glinting at his temples. you don’t look up right away, too focused on the notebook in your lap, the corners curled from how tightly you’ve been holding it. it's only when his shadow stretches over the page that you glance up.

“oh,” you say, blinking. “didn't realize your stuff was here.”

he doesn’t answer right away, just drops down beside you with a soft exhale, the kind that comes after a training that steals breath but feels good in the chest.

you give him a sidelong look, then smile a little.

“you're serving really well today, 'tsumu.”

he pauses, mid-reach for his water bottle, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes. he masks it quickly—tilting his head, smirking like it’s nothing—but inside, the words ring louder than the ball had when it smacked the court earlier.

“yeah?” he says, casual, wiping his neck with the towel.

you hum in agreement, eyes already drifting back to the court, unaware of how the praise has settled in him.

he chuckles, quiet but real, gaze still lingering on you.

“guess it’s ‘cause you’re watchin’.”

the words come softer than his usual teasing—lighter, but not a joke. and for once, he doesn’t try to cover it up.

you glance at him, but he’s already looking away, pretending to be more focused on the court than he is. but you can see it—the way his mouth almost twitches into a smile, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

there’s a beat of quiet, stretched just long enough to feel like it matters.

“that place we used to go to after practice,” he says, voice casual, like it’s nothing. “it still around?”

you nod slowly, zipping up your jacket halfway. “yeah. still there.”

he reaches for his water bottle, then turns back to you with a look that doesn’t quite match the lightness in his tone—something steadier, warmer, a little more certain than before.

“wanna go after this?”

you pause, caught off guard in that quiet, fluttering kind of way. it’s not a big moment. he’s not making it one. and maybe that’s what makes it feel like one anyway.

you smile—soft, barely there, but genuine. “yeah. sure.”

he doesn’t say anything else, just nods once and turns back toward the court. but the expression on his face lingers like an echo, tucked between something fond and something hopeful.

and for a second, it sits with you—settles in, quiet and familiar, like something you almost forgot the shape of. not just the question, but everything behind it. the ease of old routines. the echo of afternoons spent in the same spots, sharing food and stories and laughter that spilled too easily.

you don’t breathe too hard around it, afraid it might break the spell. because it’s been years, and still, somehow, it feels the same. and maybe, just maybe, it always will.

──────── · · · ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* · · · ────────

© lovemetsumu

[slutforvoldy]

“ ILLICIT AFFAIRS. ” ( lando norris ! )

SUMMARY: an illicit affair between the reader and lando spirals into heartbreak, leaving behind only stolen moments and broken promises.

word count: 0.9k

warnings: angst, infidelity, taylor swift references, mentions of y/n.

pairing: lando norris x female!reader

IT WAS WRONG. You knew it was very wrong. To be someone’s forbidden fruit—a mistress. You knew the risks and the consequences of your impulsive actions. Yet, you felt no ounce of regret.

You hated yourself.

You hated how you let yourself sink into this.

You hated how you kept falling into bed with him, knowing he belonged to someone else. A wife, even.

You hated how selfish you had become.

You told yourself you could stop anytime. But you never did. Maybe it was the thrill. The secrecy. The pleasure. The stolen moments that made you feel wanted.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You never wanted this to happen. But with Lando Norris, it all felt too good.

It all began at a Formula 1 afterparty—a world of dazzling lights and champagne-fueled celebrations. One glance across the crowded room, and your eyes met with a pair of green eyes staring right back at you.

And somehow, that's how your story started.

You started sneaking around, making excuses, whispering lies to those who asked where you were, telling them you'd be going out for a "run." In reality, you were having sex in the backseat of his car.

Months passed.

Secret meetings. Stolen glances at parties. Midnight rendezvous that left you breathless. Every whispered promise, every fleeting moment of passion made you fall deeper for the British guy.

You craved the rush.

The way his gaze burned into yours across a crowded room.

The way he said your name, like it was the only thing that mattered.

The way his touch ignited something in you—something dangerous, something irresistible.

And then, one morning, everything changed.

“Let’s talk. 4 PM”

The formality of the message sent a wave of unease through you. Something was wrong. You felt it in your bones.

But you ignored the warning bells and went anyway.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

Lando’s voice was steady, but the weight behind his words crushed you. He leaned back in the dimly lit café—the place that had become your hidden world.

Your breath hitched. Your mind raced, scrambling for an explanation.

How could he say this so easily?

What happened to all the promises?

And most importantly,

Why now?

“W-what?” Of all the things you wanted to say, that was all you could manage.

“Baby, don’t—”

“Don’t call me baby!”You snapped, your voice raw with heartbreak.

Lando shut his eyes, exhaling heavily.

“You made me look like an idiotic fool,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Look at me, Lando. Look at this godforsaken mess that you made of me!” You cried out, not even noticing the sorrowful tears that you shed.

“I love you, Lando…” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. For the first time, you said it aloud.

For the first time, it felt real.

His eyes widened. For a moment, he looked at you like he might say it back.

The silence between the two of you was so loud. It was deafening. Just the two of you gaping at each other.

But then he looked away, feeling ashamed.

“I’m going to be a father, Y/N.”

The words hit you like a crashing wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body went cold.

Your heart shattered.

Silence stretched between you. The air felt suffocating.

You had no right to be jealous. No right to be angry. You were just the mistress. The secret. The sin.

He would always choose her. You should have known.

You should have seen this coming.

It was your fault for believing his empty words.

Stupid, stupid girl.

“I hope you understand… my family needs me,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

You remembered the times when you would lay against his chest, naked under the bedsheets, with him muttering sweet words against your ear, and you giggling while you were wrapped around his arms.

“I love you,” he had whispered before. “I can’t wait to be with you forever.”

“But what about your wife?” You asked looking up, doe eyed and staring at his green eyes. His green eyes that started all this mess.

“Does it matter?” he had murmured, brushing a kiss over your lips. “I’ll always love you. No matter what.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Lies.

Lies.

Lies.

"Any man would be lucky to have you, Y/N. I really valued these months with you," he said now, as if his words could soften the inevitable goodbye.

You let out a hollow laugh. "So, that’s it?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

You stared at him, memorizing the curve of his jaw, the way his fingers fidgeted, the way his lips parted slightly like he wanted to say more.

But he wouldn’t.

And even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything.

For the first time, you truly understood what you were to him.

A secret. A mistake. A fleeting indulgence that he could afford to leave behind.

You inhaled sharply, forcing a smile onto your lips—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"Have a good life, Norris."

His jaw tensed. He gave you one last look, something unreadable in his expression.

“I love you, Y/N. Don’t forget that.”

You clenched your fists. “You’re making this harder. Just go, Lando. Please.”

A heavy sigh escaped him before he stood. The rustling of his clothes filled the silence.

You watched him walk away.

You watched him glance back at you.

You watched him leave.

And just like that, it ended the way it started—

Stolen glances filled with unspoken words.

Only this time, they clung to the remnants of their so-called love.

[moongirlcleo]

Nothing.

❤︎  tags and content: enemies to lovers, accidental feelings, rough sex, oral sex, f!reader x sylus, desperate and messy ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI �� Dividers: @/cafekitsune  Fic: @moongirlcleo  

It was supposed to be simple. Get in, get the protocore, get out.

But when a mission goes sideways, you find yourself trapped with the last person you ever wanted to see—Sylus. The only thing worse than his smug, infuriating attitude? The fact that you can’t seem to keep your hands off each other.

Too many close calls. Too many charged glances. Too many moments where the line between hate and something sharper blurred—

Until the tension finally snapped.

The facility was still burning.

Overhead, sparks rained down from shattered wiring, fizzing against the metal floor like dying embers. Smoke coiled through the corridor in thick, acrid waves, curling around the wreckage of what had once been a high-security research lab. Somewhere in the distance, alarms blared—a futile warning for a building already reduced to rubble.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, exhaling sharply. Your ribs ached, bruised from where you'd hit the ground after that last explosion. You could still feel the heat of it against your skin, the way the force had nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

The mission was a disaster.

And you knew exactly whose fault that was.

"You look like shit."

The voice—smooth as glass, sharp as the edge of a blade—slithered through the smoke before he did. You didn't need to turn to know who it belonged to.

Sylus.

You gritted your teeth, your fingers curling into fists as you finally faced him.

He was leaning against a half-collapsed doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. Perfectly composed, perfectly unbothered, like he hadn’t just been responsible for everything going up in flames.

“Funny,” you shot back, “I was about to say the same thing.”

His gaze flicked over you, assessing, dissecting—lingering for just a second too long on the way you were favoring one side.

You straightened immediately, squaring your shoulders despite the ache in your ribs. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction.

Sylus clicked his tongue. “You should really be more careful. Running into explosions isn't a great strategy.”

"Neither is sabotaging an op just to get in my way."

He let out a quiet hum, tilting his head. "You assume I wanted to get in your way."

"You always do."

Your pulse was still racing, a mix of adrenaline and simmering rage. This wasn't the first time he'd pulled a stunt like this—interfering, throwing a wrench into your plans just to come out ahead. It was like a game to him. A war waged in stolen intel and ruined operations, in missions that ended with one of you slipping away before the other could get the upper hand.

And you hated him for it.

Sylus sighed, feigning disappointment. "I’d say I’m hurt, but let’s be honest—you like the game as much as I do.”

You scoffed, stepping forward. "This isn't a game."

His smirk deepened. "Isn't it?"

You wanted to hit him. Wipe that infuriating expression off his face. But that was the problem with Sylus—he thrived on pushing buttons, on finding the cracks and digging his fingers in. If you let him know he was getting to you, he wouldn't stop.

So instead, you inhaled sharply, forcing the frustration down. "If you're done wasting my time, move. I’ve got places to be.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he shifted, just slightly—blocking your path in that way of his that felt deliberate, measured. Testing you.

Your breath hitched, irritation sparking hot beneath your skin. The air between you was thin, charged. This was how it always was with him—words that cut too close, the constant circling, the weight of something heavier lurking beneath it all.

He was watching you now, his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingered.

And for a split second—one you’d never admit to—you wondered what would happen if you pushed back. If you got too close, just to see if he’d flinch.

But you wouldn’t.

Not yet. Not tonight.

Instead, you exhaled, rolling your shoulders back. “See you around, Sylus.”

Then you shoved past him, ignoring the way his breath ghosted over your skin as you passed, ignoring the way his smirk lingered in your mind long after you left him behind.

***

Two days later, you realized the universe had a sick sense of humor.

You stood stiffly in the dimly lit briefing room, arms crossed, trying very hard to ignore the man standing beside you.

Sylus, of course, looked completely at ease.

He leaned against the edge of the table, fingers tapping idly against the surface as he listened to the mission debrief, looking every bit as smug as he had two nights ago, when he’d single-handedly ruined your op.

And now, apparently, he was your partner.

You exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to drag a hand down your face. “This is a joke, right?”

Across from you, the handler—some tight-lipped, no-nonsense officer you didn’t recognize—didn’t so much as blink. “Not at all.”

You shot a glare at Sylus, who offered you nothing but a slow, amused arch of his brow.

You turned back to the handler. “You do realize he’s the reason my last mission went sideways?”

“And you do realize,” Sylus cut in smoothly, “that you were the reason I had to improvise in the first place?”

Your jaw clenched. You refused to look at him.

The handler exhaled. “I don’t care about your history. This mission is bigger than your personal issues, and unfortunately for both of you, you’re the best assets for the job.”

Unfortunate, indeed.

You folded your arms, schooling your expression into something cold. “Fine,” you bit out. “What’s the objective?”

The handler tapped a holographic display, bringing up a map of a heavily secured compound. “A high-profile scientist with classified intel is being moved to an underground facility in the next seventy-two hours. We need him intercepted before he reaches that location.”

Simple enough. Or, at least, it should have been.

Then—

“You’ll be going in as a couple.”

Silence.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

The handler didn’t so much as hesitate. “The event is a private auction. High security, invitation-only. You’ll be posing as wealthy clientele. A married couple.”

You stared. Your lips parted, then closed again. You struggled for words, grasping at anything to convey how bad of an idea this was.

And then—

A quiet chuckle.

Slow, low, amused in that way that made your blood boil.

You turned your head just in time to catch the smirk curling at Sylus’s lips.

He was enjoying this.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

***

The dress was too tight.

Not in an uncomfortable way—no, it fit perfectly, tailored to every curve, every dip of your body—but that was precisely the problem. You didn’t like feeling exposed. Not in a situation like this, not when he was watching.

Across the sleek, high-rise hotel room, Sylus adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, expression unreadable. He looked good. Too good, if you were being honest—sharp lines, crisp tailoring, the kind of effortless confidence that made it look like he belonged in a place like this.

You hated that it suited him.

You folded your arms, forcing your gaze away as you exhaled sharply. “This is ridiculous.”

Sylus hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t know. You play the part well enough.”

You turned, shooting him a glare. “I haven’t played the part yet.”

He smirked, slow and knowing. “Haven’t you?”

Your fingers twitched. Do not punch him. Do not punch him.

You were barely two hours into this mission and already regretting every life decision that had led to this moment.

The plan was simple—pose as a wealthy couple attending a high-profile auction, gain access to restricted areas, locate the scientist, and extract him before the night was over. Simple in theory. Excruciating in execution.

Because the moment you stepped out of this room, you and Sylus had to sell it.

Which meant touching. Smiling. Acting as if you weren’t this close to throttling him every time he opened his mouth.

And worse?

You had to let him lead.

He stepped closer now, hands sliding into his pockets, gaze sweeping over you in a slow, assessing way that made your skin prickle. “If you’re going to glare at me all night, kitten, people are going to notice.”

Your breath caught—not at the pet name, no, absolutely not. It was just—he said it so easily. Like he’d said it a thousand times before.

You swallowed, rolling your shoulders back. “I’ll do my part. Just don’t get in my way.”

Sylus chuckled, stepping even closer. “Oh, I think you’ll find I’m very good at staying in your way.”

He was close enough now that you could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of something dark and crisp—expensive. It made your pulse stutter, just for a second, just long enough for his smirk to deepen like he noticed.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Then try to keep up, darling.”

And with that, you turned sharply on your heel, striding toward the door, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing the way your fingers curled into fists.

This was going to be a long night.

The auction was held in a mansion that dripped with wealth—ornate chandeliers, polished marble floors, gold-threaded tapestries lining the walls. It was the kind of place where power wasn’t just displayed; it was worn like armor, draped over shoulders in the form of diamonds and tailored silk.

You adjusted your grip on Sylus’s arm as the two of you stepped through the grand entrance.

The touch wasn’t for comfort. It was for the role.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Sylus, of course, played his part effortlessly. He led you through the crowd with the kind of presence that made people part around him, murmuring greetings that carried just enough charm to be believable but just enough indifference to remain untouchable.

You kept pace beside him, your expression schooled into pleasant disinterest. Married couple. You had to look like you belonged here. Like you were his.

The thought sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“I’d tell you to relax,” Sylus murmured, just low enough for only you to hear, “but I know that’s not in your nature.”

Your nails pressed slightly into his sleeve, just shy of digging into his skin. “And yet, I still look more convincing than you.”

He made a quiet, amused sound but didn’t argue.

You hated that he was right about you being tense, though. This entire situation was unnerving—the opulence, the veiled threats hidden behind false smiles, the fact that everyone in this room could likely kill with a glance.

But worse than that?

The way Sylus played his part.

Casual touches. A guiding hand at the small of your back. A murmured sweetheart in passing.

All of it meaningless. All of it necessary.

And yet—your skin prickled every time.

You wanted to blame it on adrenaline. On the fact that you had to be hyperaware of him, had to follow his lead, had to match his every move.

But that wouldn’t explain the way your pulse stuttered when he leaned in slightly, lips barely ghosting your temple as he murmured, “We’re being watched.”

You swallowed. “How many?”

“Three. Balcony, far left. Man in navy—watch his hands. He’s armed.”

You inhaled through your nose, nodding subtly.

“Smile,” Sylus murmured, and when you hesitated, his thumb brushed lightly against the back of your hand. Not enough to be intimate. Just enough to be felt.

You clenched your jaw and lifted your lips into a slow, calculated smile.

Sylus exhaled a quiet chuckle. “See? Not so hard.”

You resisted the urge to step on his foot.

The music shifted. A slow, sweeping waltz.

You barely had time to register it before Sylus turned to you, offering his hand.

You stared at it. “You cannot be serious.”

He arched a brow. “What, scared you can’t keep up?”

Oh, fuck him.

You huffed, placing your hand in his. His grip was firm but easy, pulling you effortlessly onto the dance floor, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling yours in a practiced hold.

Of course, he knew how to dance. Of course, he was infuriatingly good at it.

You followed his lead, moving in perfect sync despite the tension thrumming between you. Each step, each turn, was too easy—like your bodies already knew the rhythm of each other, even when your minds refused to.

It was intimate in a way you hadn’t expected.

Close enough that you could smell him again—crisp, clean, something dark threaded beneath it. Close enough that the heat of him seeped into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

You should have hated it.

You did hate it.

But for the first time tonight, you felt something other than sharp, biting irritation.

And that was dangerous.

You forced your focus back to the room, scanning the crowd. Eyes on the mission.

And that’s when you noticed him.

A man at the edge of the floor, watching you. No glass in hand, no idle conversation—just watching.

You recognized him from the briefing. One of the scientist’s handlers.

Your grip tightened slightly on Sylus’s hand. “We have company.”

Sylus followed your gaze, his expression unreadable.

Then—

He slowed the dance.

It was subtle. A shift in rhythm, a slight adjustment in proximity—so slight that to anyone watching, it would look natural. But to you?

He was pulling you closer.

Your breath hitched as his fingers pressed just slightly against the curve of your waist, as his head tilted just enough for his lips to almost brush your ear.

It was a silent message. A subtle correction.

Let them see this.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You wanted to shove him away. You wanted to lean in.

Instead, you forced yourself to relax into the movement, playing along as he dipped his head closer, as if whispering something sweet.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your ear.

Motherf—

You stepped on his foot.

His low chuckle ghosted against your skin.

You swallowed back the heat crawling up your spine and focused on the mission.

After the dance, you moved through the crowd, still locked at Sylus’s side as you navigated the room.

The opposition was still watching.

And then—

The man in navy started moving toward you.

Your pulse quickened. Shit.

Sylus noticed.

Before you could react, he turned slightly, shifting his grip on your hand—not possessive, not forceful. Just… there.

A small, grounding pressure. A silent reassurance.

It was so subtle, so unlike his usual smug, over-the-top antics, that it threw you.

For the first time tonight, he wasn’t playing a role.

He was just… there.

And that? That was more unsettling than anything.

Because it meant, just for a second, he wasn’t doing this for the mission.

Just for a second, it almost felt like he didn’t like being watched, either.

The air was thick with expensive perfume and quiet conversation, the hum of wealth and power woven into every hushed word, every clink of delicate crystal against marble countertops.

You had barely recovered from the dance—barely managed to steady your pulse, to ignore the lingering press of Sylus’s touch against your waist—when you felt it.

The shift.

A presence.

The man in navy.

You knew he was armed. Sylus had clocked him the moment you entered the auction. Now, he was moving toward you with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who knew they held all the cards.

Your grip on Sylus’s hand stayed loose—outwardly calm. Inside, your mind sharpened, calculating. What does he want?

The man stopped in front of you, offering a cordial but thin smile. "Congratulations," he said smoothly, voice low enough that only the two of you could hear. "It seems you've won the bid for the protocore."

Your breath stilled.

Sylus didn't hesitate.

"Of course we did," he said, the words rolling off his tongue like he had expected this outcome. His grip on your waist didn’t tighten, didn’t shift—but you felt it anyway. The smallest shift in weight, the almost imperceptible tell that said: Stay ready.

The man in navy tilted his head slightly, studying you both. His gaze lingered on Sylus for half a second longer than necessary, and something about it itched at the back of your skull.

"You must be very eager," the man mused. "Your bid came in significantly higher than the rest."

Your stomach twisted.

We never bid.

The protocore—the very thing you were sent here to prevent from falling into the wrong hands—had just been hand-delivered to you on a silver platter.

Which meant one thing: someone else wanted to see what you would do with it.

Sylus exhaled slowly, like this was nothing more than an amusing game to him. He smiled—charming, easy, the kind of expression that put people off their guard.

"Can you blame us?" he said smoothly. He turned slightly, brushing his lips against your temple in an almost thoughtless gesture. To anyone watching, it looked like an intimate moment between lovers.

To you, it was a warning.

Play along.

"After all," he murmured, just for you, "we always get what we want."

The words sent something cold down your spine.

The man in navy smiled, but there was no real warmth in it. “Well then. I do hope you’ll find it worth the price you paid.”

There was something pointed in his tone.

A test.

Sylus chuckled, smooth as silk. "Oh, we always do."

The man gave a slow, deliberate nod. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled, forcing the tension from your body even as your pulse pounded.

"That was too easy," you murmured.

Sylus hummed, still smiling like nothing was wrong. "Nothing is ever easy."

You knew what he meant. This wasn’t a win. It was a trap.

And you had just walked into it.

The second you were alone, slipping through a side exit into a private corridor, you turned on him.

"What the hell was that?" you hissed.

Sylus didn’t even look fazed. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. "That," he said lightly, "was us avoiding a very public confrontation."

You scoffed, stepping closer—too close, but you didn’t care. "They were expecting us to bid. Do you realize what that means?"

Sylus met your glare head-on, his expression unreadable. "It means someone set us up."

You exhaled sharply, fingers twitching at your side. This was wrong. This was too easy. And Sylus—Sylus was acting like this was just another game.

Except—

Something flickered behind his eyes. Just for a second.

Not amusement. Not calculation.

Something else.

And it bothered you that you couldn't place it.

The memory of his hand at your waist, the way he had pulled you closer, the way he had murmured good girl in your ear—it all resurfaced too fast, tangled with the adrenaline still thrumming through your veins.

Your breath came a little too sharp, a little too uneven, and Sylus noticed.

Because of course he did.

His smirk curled, slow and knowing. "You should be careful," he murmured. "You're looking at me like you might actually trust me."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And for the first time tonight, you weren’t entirely sure if the pulse pounding in your throat was from the mission—

Or from him.

The second you stepped out onto the balcony, you knew something was wrong.

The air was too still. The background murmur of the auction had dimmed just slightly, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Sylus knew it, too.

His hand slid to the small of your back, the touch feather-light, but the tension in his body told you everything.

“We need to leave,” he murmured, voice low.

You exhaled sharply. No shit.

The two of you moved fast—casual enough not to draw attention, but deliberate enough to slip unnoticed through the maze of corridors leading toward the side exit.

You made it as far as the back hall before you heard it.

The click of a safety being disengaged.

Time slowed.

Sylus moved first.

Before you could react, he was grabbing you, spinning you behind him just as the first shot rang out.

Silenced. Quiet. Precise.

The bullet grazed your arm, a sharp, searing sting.

Sylus didn’t hesitate. He pulled his gun, one smooth motion, and fired.

The man barely had time to react before he was down.

Silence.

Your breath came in sharp, uneven pants as you pressed a hand to your arm. Blood. Not deep, not life-threatening, but it burned.

Sylus turned, gaze sweeping over you, sharp and assessing. His jaw tightened.

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

He exhaled through his nose, something dark flickering across his expression. He reached for you, but you jerked back instinctively.

He stilled.

For half a second, something unreadable flashed in his eyes. But then it was gone, replaced with cool calculation.

“We need to move.” His voice was even. Controlled. “Now.”

You didn’t argue.

The two of you ran.

Out the exit, into the night air, slipping through the alleyways behind the estate. Your arm ached, but you pushed forward, Sylus’s presence a solid weight beside you.

Footsteps. Close.

Shit.

A second gunman, closing in fast.

You barely had time to react before Sylus was grabbing your wrist, yanking you behind cover as another bullet whizzed past.

You turned, raising your weapon—too slow.

Sylus moved first.

A single, precise shot. The man crumpled.

The silence that followed was deafening.

You swallowed hard, your breath uneven. Sylus turned to you, and for the first time since the mission started, his expression wasn’t unreadable.

It was furious.

He stepped closer, voice low. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You hesitated.”

Your stomach twisted. “I—”

“You hesitated,” he repeated, quieter this time.

You clenched your jaw. “It was a second—”

“A second would have gotten you killed.”

The words landed like a strike.

You opened your mouth—ready to argue, ready to tell him to go fuck himself—but then—

His hand was on your wrist.

Not harsh. Not forceful. Just there.

Grounding.

Your breath stilled.

His gaze flickered to your arm, to the blood seeping through your dress. His jaw tensed.

“We’re leaving.”

Before you could protest, he was pulling you with him.

***

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Sylus had barely shut the door before he was grabbing a first aid kit, his movements too sharp, too controlled.

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, watching as he kneeled in front of you, opening a bottle of antiseptic.

“You don’t have to—”

He grabbed your wrist before you could pull away.

His grip was firm. Not rough, but unwavering.

You swallowed.

Sylus exhaled through his nose. “Stay still.”

You did.

Not because he told you to, but because—for the first time since you’d met him—his voice held something else.

Not amusement. Not arrogance.

Something dangerously close to concern.

He pressed a cloth to your wound, and you hissed at the sting.

His fingers twitched against your skin.

Your gaze flicked to his face—his expression was still schooled into careful indifference, but his jaw was tight, his brows drawn just slightly.

The sight of it—the way he was reacting—sent something dangerous curling in your stomach.

“You saved my life.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Sylus didn’t react immediately.

Then—

He scoffed, shaking his head. “And you hesitated.”

You clenched your jaw. “I had it under control.”

His fingers curled slightly against your wrist.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You hesitated,” he murmured, voice lower now, quieter. “And that scared the shit out of me.”

Your breath caught.

The confession was so soft, so fleeting, that you almost didn’t believe you heard it.

But you did.

And from the way Sylus’s grip tightened—just for a second—you knew he knew it too.

The air felt too thick.

Your skin burned beneath his touch, and not just from the antiseptic.

You should pull away. You should.

But you didn’t.

Because for the first time since this entire mess started—

You weren’t sure if you wanted to.

The antiseptic stung, but it was nothing compared to the way Sylus was looking at you.

Not that he was looking at you, exactly.

No, he was focused on your arm, on the slow, careful way he wrapped the bandage, on the way his fingers skimmed against your skin with infuriating precision.

Like he didn’t even notice how close he was.

Like he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes treating your injury with a quiet intensity that felt too much like concern.

You should say something. Break the silence.

But for once, you couldn’t.

Because your brain was still catching up to what had happened.

He had saved your life.

Sylus. Sylus. The man who had spent months making your existence a living hell. The man who smirked when he saw you struggle, who thrived on one-upping you at every opportunity.

And yet, the moment the gun was raised—he had moved first.

Had stepped between you and the bullet like it was nothing.

Had looked at you afterward like he was angry—not at the situation, but at you for being reckless.

That wasn’t how this worked.

That wasn’t what you were.

Enemies didn’t hesitate for each other.

So why had he?

You exhaled sharply, rolling your shoulders back. "You didn't have to do that."

Sylus didn't look up. "Do what?"

"Step in front of me."

He tied off the bandage with practiced ease. “Would you rather be dead?”

"That's not the point."

Now, he did look at you.

His gaze was cool. Unreadable. But there was something beneath it—something sharp, something unsettled.

"You were too slow," he said simply. "I handled it."

Like it was that easy. Like he hadn’t just—

You clenched your jaw. "I didn't ask you to."

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. "No, you didn't."

The air shifted.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Because you both knew.

This had stopped being just about the mission the second his hand landed on your waist in that ballroom. Maybe even before that.

But acknowledging it? That would be dangerous.

So instead, you pulled your wrist free and pushed off the bed. "I need a shower."

He leaned back, exhaling slowly, watching as you grabbed a spare towel from the bathroom counter.

"Don't take too long," he murmured.

"Why?" you shot back, trying to shake the weight of whatever the hell had just happened. “The sooner we freshen up, the sooner we can leave.”

Sylus only smirked. “If you say so,” he murmured. "Get going, before I end up taking the shower first.”

You slammed the bathroom door behind you.

The water was scalding, but you welcomed it.

Anything to burn away the frustration still thrumming beneath your skin.

It wasn’t just the mission. It wasn’t just the injury.

It was him.

The way he lingered in your space, the way he looked at you like he was cataloging your every move, the way he had pulled you just a little too close when he danced with you at that goddamn auction.

It wasn’t supposed to get under your skin.

Sylus wasn’t supposed to get under your skin.

You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. Get it together. You just needed to focus. Get cleaned up. Patch the mission report. Go to sleep.

Nothing else.

By the time you stepped out of the shower, you felt somewhat calmer—at least until you realized you hadn’t brought any spare clothes into the bathroom.

You exhaled sharply. Great.

Wrapping the towel tightly around yourself, you cracked the door open, checking to make sure Sylus was—

Too late.

He was already looking at you.

And that was the moment you realized—you had fucked up.

Because Sylus was always composed. Always calculated.

But right now?

His eyes were dark. Focused.

And nothing about him looked composed.

The silence stretched too long.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

All you knew was one second you were standing in the doorway, and the next—

Sylus was in front of you.

Towering, close enough that the heat of his body pressed against your damp skin.

His eyes flicked over you, slow and deliberate.

Then—

His fingers brushed your wrist. Lightly.

Like he was giving you a choice.

Like he was daring you to take it.

Your pulse pounded.

“Sylus,” you warned.

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Tell me to stop.”

You should.

You had to.

This was a mistake. A bad idea.

You weren’t supposed to want this.

But when you opened your mouth—

Nothing came out.

Sylus exhaled a quiet chuckle, the sound dark, almost knowing. His fingers ghosted higher, skimming the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up just slightly.

“This is nothing,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. “What?”

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and burning.

“This,” he repeated, voice lower now, rougher. “It’s nothing. Just a release.”

Your stomach twisted.

You should shove him away. Call his bluff. Laugh in his face and walk out.

But the way he was looking at you—like he was trying to convince himself as much as you—

That was what made you stay. Because maybe, just maybe—

You weren’t the only one losing control.

Silence hung between you, thick and electric, stretching the space of a single breath.

Then—

“This is nothing.”

Your own voice barely sounded like yours—low, rough, strained with something neither of you wanted to name.

But the second the words left your lips—

Sylus snapped.

He was on you in an instant, grabbing you, pulling you, devouring you.

His mouth crashed against yours, nothing careful, nothing soft—just hunger, sharp and consuming.

Your back barely hit the bed before he was on top of you, pressing down, his weight solid and commanding. The towel was barely clinging to you, but he didn’t rip it away—not yet. Instead, he gripped it, just like before, taunting, as if waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

Because fuck—his mouth was everywhere. His teeth at your jaw, his tongue swiping over the sting before he bit down again.

A gasp ripped from your throat, but he swallowed it, ate it, shifting lower, lips tracing fire along your throat, down to the place where your pulse raced against his tongue.

“This is nothing,” he rasped against your skin.

Then why was he touching you like he couldn’t stop?

Why was he dragging his hands down your body, mapping every inch of skin beneath his fingertips?

Why did it feel like he was memorizing you?

Your breath hitched as his grip on the towel tightened.

A warning.

A threat.

And then—

Then he untied the towel that wrapped around you like a shield.

Cool air hit your skin for half a second before he replaced it. His hands, his mouth, all of him—everywhere.

You arched beneath him, nails digging into his back, into the expensive fabric of his dress shirt that he hadn’t even bothered to remove yet.

And God, you hated that.

Hated that he still looked put together while you were falling apart beneath him.

So you grabbed at his tie, yanking him down until your lips were against his, swallowing the sound that escaped him as you kissed him like you wanted to ruin him.

And maybe you did.

Because he growled into your mouth, low and dangerous, before finally tearing his shirt open, buttons scattering, his hands immediately returning to your skin, rough and needy.

The towel hit the floor.

And then his hands were on you.

No hesitation. No slow, teasing buildup.

Sylus had waited long enough.

His fingers dragged down your body in one deliberate, claiming stroke, his breath sharp against your throat as he pinned you beneath him.

And fuck, the way he looked at you.

Like he owned this moment.

Like he was starving for you.

“This is nothing,” he murmured against your skin.

Then why did his hands move like he was memorizing every inch of you?

Why did his mouth trace its way down your collarbone, his lips warm, his teeth sharp as he bit down just hard enough to make you arch?

A sharp inhale, your fingers clawing into his shoulders.

He chuckled. Low. Dark. Triumphant.

"That easy, sweetheart?"

You should shove him away. You should tell him to go to hell.

Instead, your breath came out in a quiet, ragged, "fuck you."

Sylus smirked against your skin. "In a minute."

And then—

His mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, lower, lower, each one sinking into your skin like he was claiming you.

You gasped when he reached your stomach, his tongue tracing the dip of your hip, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs as he pushed them apart.

Your breath hitched.

Sylus looked up at you, eyes burning.

"Tell me to stop."

You swallowed hard, your head pressing back against the mattress, your pulse thundering.

But no words came.

Not even when his fingers brushed against your heat, not even when he parted you with slow, aching precision, dragging his fingertips through the slickness he knew was for him.

A low growl rumbled from his throat.

"Not so reluctant now, are we?"

You barely had time to react—

Because then he dropped lower.

And fucking devoured you.

A sharp, helpless gasp tore from your throat, your fingers yanking at his hair as his tongue flicked against you, as his mouth latched on and sucked.

Heat exploded beneath your skin, a white-hot rush curling low in your stomach as Sylus worked you—his mouth unrelenting, his grip bruising as he held you open for him, like he wasn’t going to let you escape this.

Like he wanted to feel you fall apart.

Like he needed it.

Your legs shook against his shoulders, your body arching as his tongue swirled, as he teased just enough to wreck you completely.

"Sylus," you gasped, barely a whisper, barely a breath—

But he heard it.

And fucking groaned against you.

Your stomach tightened at the vibration, at the way he dug his fingers into your thighs, like he liked hearing his name from your lips.

Like he wanted to hear it again.

"You can take more," he murmured against you, his lips brushing exactly where you needed him most.

And then his fingers joined his mouth.

A single, smooth stroke inside you, curling just right, pressing just deep enough to make you see stars.

Your moan shattered against the walls.

Sylus laughed, dark and breathless.

"That's it," he rasped, pressing a second finger inside, stretching you open, pushing you higher.

Your breath came in broken gasps, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips rocking against his mouth, chasing the sharp, aching pleasure building low in your stomach.

And Sylus—

Fuck, he was enjoying this.

The way he was groaning against you, the way his grip was tight like he never wanted to let go—

The way his tongue stroked, the way his fingers fucked into you, slow but intentional, curling just right—

"Sylus," you choked out again, and his grin was wicked, smug, completely devastating.

"Say it again."

You refused.

You bit your lip, shaking your head, refusing to give him that satisfaction.

But then—

His fingers twisted, stroking right there, his tongue flicking—

Your back arched, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your body tightened beneath him.

Sylus growled, low and satisfied.

"That's what I thought."

And then—

Then he fucking finished you.

Mouth and fingers and intent, tearing you apart with nothing but skill and precision, forcing you to come undone beneath him, forcing you to give in.

The pleasure crashed over you, sharp and devastating, a white-hot rush that had your whole body trembling as your climax hit you full-force.

You barely registered the deep, satisfied hum from Sylus as he watched you fall apart, as he felt your body tighten, as he kept moving, slow and languid, drawing it out, refusing to let you go until he was satisfied.

And only when the aftershocks faded, only when your body finally stilled, did he pull away.

Sylus hovered over you, his fingers still inside you, his mouth wet from you, his eyes ravenous.

His lips brushed against yours.

A slow, taunting whisper:

"This is nothing."

Sylus was already stripping before you could breathe.

Buttons ripped, fabric discarded, his shirt hitting the floor in a careless heap. Then his belt—yanked off, the clink of metal barely registering before his pants followed, until there was nothing left between you but skin and heat and pure, aching need.

You barely had time to react before he was grabbing you, his hands rough, demanding, pulling you onto him until you were straddling him, pressed against him, skin to skin.

A strangled gasp tore from your throat as your bare thighs brushed against his, as you felt the hard, hot press of him against your core.

And fuck, he was big.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

He was just as affected as you.

Good.

But before you could move, before you could tease him the way you wanted, Sylus’s hands tightened on your hips, grinding you down against him in one sharp, devastating motion.

Your head tipped back, a moan slipping from your lips, and fuck, he felt that.

He heard that.

And it wrecked him.

Sylus snapped.

He grabbed your jaw, yanked you down into a searing, desperate kiss, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, his breath sharp and ragged.

There was no rhythm. No hesitation. Just hunger.

You felt his grip bruise against your hips as he guided you, rocked you against him, his cock thick and aching against your slick heat, sliding through your wetness, teasing, tormenting—

Your nails raked down his chest, your own breath coming in sharp, helpless gasps.

And Sylus—

He was gone.

His lips trailed fire down your throat, his teeth scraping over sensitive skin, his hands gripping, pulling, taking.

You were dizzy. Drunk on him, on the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, on the low, wrecked groan that rumbled from his throat as you moved against him, the both of you pushing each other closer and closer and closer to the edge—

No words. No thoughts.

Sylus snapped first.

His hands clawed at you, yanking you down onto him with enough force to bruise, your bare skin colliding with his, heat against heat, his cock thick and hard as it pressed against your slickness, teasing, taunting.

A strangled gasp left you, but you barely had a chance to breathe before he was moving, his hands gripping, guiding, grinding you down against him in a slow, devastating stroke that made your body tremble.

“Fuck—” you gasped, nails digging into his chest, muscles tensing as pleasure licked up your spine, white-hot and overwhelming.

Sylus groaned, low and wrecked, his grip tightening on your hips, his head tipping back against the pillows for just a second—

Just long enough for you to take control.

Your nails raked down his chest, your lips crashing against his, teeth clashing, biting, your hips moving in a slow, taunting rhythm as you teased him, sliding against him, feeling the hard, aching press of him against your slick heat—

His hands snapped up to your waist.

And then, without warning—

He lifted you, lined himself up, and slammed you down onto him.

A sharp, broken moan ripped from your throat as he filled you, thick and deep, stretching you until your nails dug into his shoulders, your whole body shaking at the sensation of being so full, so completely taken.

Sylus groaned at the feel of you, his grip bruising, his teeth gritted, like he was barely holding himself together.

“You feel—” he exhaled sharply, voice rough, wrecked, his fingers digging into your waist—“so fucking tight—”

You barely heard him.

You were already moving.

Already rocking against him, already taking more, dragging your hands down his chest, your hips grinding, your own breath ragged as the pleasure built and built and built.

Sylus growled, his hands slamming your hips down harder, forcing you to take him, forcing you to feel every inch of him, deep and devastating, stretching you open and ruining you completely.

The air was thick, hot, humid with breath and sweat, with the sound of skin meeting skin, of ragged gasps and desperate moans, of Sylus’s quiet, wrecked groans as you rode him, as you pushed him closer to losing control.

And fuck, he was close.

His fingers dug into your thighs, his breath staggered, his body tensed beneath you—

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You grabbed his wrists, slamming them above his head, pinning him beneath you, rolling your hips in a slow, torturous grind.

Sylus let out a sharp, guttural groan, his jaw clenching, his entire body twitching beneath you.

“Fuck—” he gritted out, his muscles coiled so tight, his restraint shattering at the seams.

Your nails dragged down his chest.

“You wanted this,” you taunted, voice breathless, wrecked. “Admit it.”

Sylus’s lips curled, his dark, burning eyes locking onto yours.

“You love this,” you whispered against his lips.

And that?

That was what broke him.

His arms snapped free from your grip—

And then he was flipping you, slamming you onto the bed, his body caging yours, his breath hot against your lips as he thrust into you, hard, deep, brutal.

A sharp cry ripped from your throat, your body arching as he fucked you into the mattress, as his hands held you down, his lips stealing every sound you gave him.

“You think—” thrust—“I’m the only one—” thrust—“who wanted this?”

You clawed at his back, the pleasure too much, too consuming, your mind white-hot and burning.

Sylus growled, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his eyes wild, unhinged, absolutely wrecked.

“You think I haven’t—” thrust—“been thinking about this?” Thrust. “About you?” Thrust, thrust, thrust.

You were falling apart beneath him, your body tightening, clenching around him, pleasure coiling sharp and devastating.

“Sylus—” you gasped, voice breaking.

His lips crashed against yours.

“I know, kitten,” he murmured against your mouth, his thrusts slowing, dragging against your sensitive, trembling body, his own breath coming in ragged, wrecked gasps.

“I know.”

You shattered.

Pleasure exploded inside you, hot and overwhelming, your back arching, your nails digging into his skin, your body clenching around him as he followed right after, a low, wrecked groan leaving his throat as he buried himself inside you, completely, fully, desperately.

The room went silent except for the sound of your breaths—shattered, uneven, raw.

Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his hands trembling slightly where they held you.

The air was thick.

Heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, with the heat still lingering on your skin, with the weight of what had just happened.

Neither of you moved.

Sylus was still inside you, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

And you—

Your fingers were still dug into his back, your body still trembling in the aftershocks, your own breath coming in ragged, broken pulls.

But neither of you spoke.

Because fuck.

What had you just done?

Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else, but you still felt him. Still felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, the way his hands twitched against your hips, the way his forehead barely rested against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips.

Not moving.

Not pulling away.

Just… there– like he was realizing it, too.

Your eyes flickered open.

And fuck.

Sylus was already looking at you.

Not arrogant. Not smug.

Just… raw.

His brow was furrowed, his breathing still uneven, his dark, burning eyes searching yours like he was trying to make sense of this.

Like he was just as lost as you, the weight of the evening settling heavily on his shoulders.

Your throat tightened.

Because this was not supposed to happen.

Not like this. Not with him.

But here you were.

Still tangled in him. Still wrapped in the heat of his body, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a force you couldn’t escape.

His fingers twitched on your waist.

Like he was going to say something.

Like he was going to move. But he didn’t.

Because what the fuck was there to say?

Neither of you knew how to undo this.

Neither of you knew how to breathe without thinking about the way you had just taken each other—

Hard. Fast.

Desperate.

Neither of you knew how to pretend that this was just about need when your bodies still ached from how much you had chased it.

Sylus moved first.

A sharp inhale. A flex of muscle.

Then— he pulled away.

You barely registered the loss at first—your mind still reeling, your pulse still pounding from the way he had just taken you, the way you had taken him back.

But then the cold air hit your skin

You lay there, bare against the sheets, still flushed, still trembling, as Sylus sat up—his movements slow, measured, like he was resetting himself.

Like he was putting the walls back up.

Your chest tightened.

Your lips parted—instinct telling you to say something, anything, to fill the silence pressing between you.

But what the fuck were you supposed to say?

That you could still feel him? That your skin still burned from his touch? That even now, as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers shaking just slightly before curling into a fist, you could see the wreckage of what you’d just done all over him?

No.

You wouldn’t say any of that.

Because you weren’t supposed to care.

And neither was he.

Sylus stood, his movements deliberate as he reached for his pants, as he fixed himself, rolling his shoulders like he was erasing every second of the last hour.

You watched as his jaw ticked, as his fingers flexed before he grabbed his shirt from the floor, as he hesitated for just a fraction of a second before pulling it on.

Then— Sylus turned.

For the first time since pulling away, his gaze locked onto yours.

And fuck.

That look— that quiet, burning something.

It was still there.

For a split second, you swore he might say something.

Might admit that this wasn’t nothing.

Maybe acknowledge the way you were still wrapped in the heat of each other, the way his mouth was still wet from you, the way you both knew this wasn’t over.

His expression shuttered. And whatever had flickered across his face for that one fleeting second— was gone.

Replaced with something distant. Unreadable.

And then—

He smirked.

But it wasn’t his usual smirk. It was something darker. Something knowing.

“I’ll see you at the debriefing.”

His voice was level. Calm. Like this was just any other night.

Like he hadn’t just wrecked you.

And with that, he turned and walked out the door of the hotel room.

The click of the door closing behind him sounded final.

But it wasn’t. It wouldn’t be. You knew that.

Months of fighting, of colliding, of pretending not to see each other across crowded rooms—it was inevitable.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair, your skin still tingling from him, your legs still weak from the way he had just ruined you.

Something was different now. Something neither of you wanted to name.

Sylus’s final words before leaving weren’t the problem.

It was the implication. The certainty that you would see him again.

It was the prospect of this– whatever this was, ever happening again. The look in his eyes told you everything his words refused to say.

He craved this. Craved you.

And fuck—

You weren’t sure you wanted to stop it from happening again.

[moldycheezeit]

Prologue

Before You read I'm letting you know again this is the first time I've ever written fan fiction so if it sucks I'm sorry. :(  This does have swearing and mentions of death and blood. Also I think I'm just going to make batsis just a mix of Nami and Uraraka b/c idk how to incorporate Mitsuri into her. And if you watch mha or one piece I'm sorry if I don't make batsis accurate to both characters, even though I've watched both shows I feel like I'll mess it up somehow.

By the time you were born Bruce Wayne and his wife, your mother, had adopted Richard Grayson also known as the first robin or Dick. Your mother was heavily pregnant at the time and about to pop. But when the birth happened about a month later something went wrong, she lost too much blood and did make it. Overcome with grief Bruce nor Dick could look at you, because they couldn’t see a daughter/sister all they would see was the thing that killed somebody whom they loved. 

This caused Alfred to be the one who had named you because no one else would, so Alfred picked the name (y/n). He can remember how much your mom loved the name. But let's interrupt the sadness if you had to talk about your run in with your so called “family” it would be like this…

Dick would talk to you but it’s not like he enjoyed or wanted to so he made excuse after excuse to get out of talking with you. Like how he’d said “ I’m sorry (y/n) but Damian asked me to help him study you know how it is.” you knew he really meant training with Damian. another lie he'd say was “oh I’m busy at the moment i'll catch you next time.” which was never.

Jason was a great brother. keyword was, when he first joined he loved to hang out with you even if you couldn’t do much because you were a toddler. When he died no one told you well Alfred tried to explain that Jason would never come back but all it did was confuse you and made you start looking all around the manor for him hoping he would appear. When he did return you were 10 and wow was he an ass. When you tried to talk or bond with him like you used to he’d yell things like “go the fuck away” or “stop being such a whiny princess” God that man got irritated easily.

Tim, well you didn’t really talk to him. I mean you tried to, he seemed to like similar things to you, like building and inventing gadgets. But all he did when you tried to talk to him was just look at you with disgust in his eyes. Well screw him too. 

Now Damian what to say about this demon you're related to. The first time you met him was when you were 16, you were 2 years older than him. And kinda excited to meet someone other than Bruce you're related to by blood. God how blind you were. Damian had walked into the library while trying to find his way around the Wayne manor.

“Oh hello I’m (y/n) you must be Damian, Alfred had said you were to arrive some time today.” you had happily said to him. But he took one look at you and had the impression of who you were. “Tch.” Was all that was said but you knew instantly he thought you were some weak defenseless bimbo.

Bruce, god how you hate being related to this man. As you could tell he practically seemed to blame you for your mothers death. Like how is it your fault, you couldn't control if she was going to live or die. Anyways the man seemed to not care for what you do and where you are. The media doesn't even know about you so why bother acting like he cares. But why do you care about what he thinks you can practically have done everything on your own. Some father he is.

Lastly Alfred. He's the man that practically raised you. He was there for you when you were younger but the older you got the more you pulled away from him. You love him but anytime you bad mouth any of you “family” he instantly defends them.  You also have to remember he serves the whole family, not just you.

YIPPIE I FINALLY FINISHED IT (≧∇≦) hopefully you guys liked it. Well thats it for rn buy :)

Taglist: @cxcilla @starslightzz @jackchanzzz

[rosenclaws]

accidents || a sugar and spice drabble (Baker!Logan x Reader)

a/n: Here's just a cute little baker logan drabble <3 Its short and I kinda hate it BUT I wanted to get something out to you guys since I've been slacking the last couple of days.

wc: 1k

link to the og fic

"Bake at 350 for 20 minutes..." You glance down at your own messy handwriting, trying to see where you went wrong with these damn cupcakes. Logan has been giving you some private baking lessons at his house.

Yes you two did actually bake, among other things. But he did actually teach you some of his favorite recipes, including these cupcakes you swear are magical.

After a couple months of lessons you wanted to surprise Logan by showing him just how much you've improved. So you told him to come by your place after work and to not bring a thing but himself. But dinner was the last thing on your mind right now because of these damn cupcakes.

You glance at the clock, only 10 minutes before Logan was supposed to get here. Sighing you throw the recipe on the table. The frosting is made but the cupcakes are still watery in the middle. You wanted to frost them before he came by but there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

Maybe you could take them out of the oven and stick them in the fridge? Then distract Logan and frost them when he's not looking?

Ugh. What a disaster. You open the oven and reach over to stick a toothpick through the center. Suddenly a knock at the door makes you freeze.

Fuck. Logan was early.

"Hey sweetheart? Hope you don't mind but I got off work earlier than I thought. But I brought some pastries that didn't sell." You can hear the smile on his face. He never listens when you say not to bring anything now does he.

"One second!" You just need these out of the oven.

Take them out and let them cool. Without thinking you reach in to grab the tin. The very hot tin that has been in the oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Not your smartest idea. The moment your hand gripped the tin you didn't register the pain and then it hit all at once.

"Fuck!" You yelp as you drop the tin on the ground. You grab your hand and run to the sink. Turning on the cold water and putting your hand under it.

"Is everything okay!?" You hear Logan ask. His voice filled with worry as he tries to open the door.

"Yeah! Just give me a second." You call back, trying to hide the pain in your voice. You take your hand out from under the faucet and try to stop yourself from crying. Just breathe.

This is so embarrassing. Sheepishly you walk over and open the door. Hiding your hand behind your back as you try and smile. Logan clocks something's wrong immediately. Your teary eyes give it away in a heartbeat. Worry over comes him as he pushes past the door.

"What happened?" He asks as he sets down the bag of pastries.

He looks over the counter and sees the spilled cupcakes on the ground and still running faucet. His face softening as he turns back to you. He can see the way you're trying to hide the pain. The way your lip quivers as you try to stay strong. But you don't have to be strong for Logan.

"Sweetheart, give me your hand." Reluctantly you bring your hand out from behind your back.

Logan takes it and gently looks at where you burned yourself. You sniff quietly as the pain really starts to get to you. You let the tears fall as he accidently brushes up against your skin. "Sorry, I'm so sorry." He quickly apologizes, one of his hands cupping your cheek to brush a few tears off your face.

"It's not too bad, do you have a first aid kit?" You wordlessly point to under your sink and gently takes you with him.

"Come here, don't cry you'll be okay." He lifts you onto the counter so you can sit while he rummages through the first aid kit. He pulls out some aloe vera and a bandage.

You wince as he squirts some aloe onto your hand. He gently massages it into. Trying his hardest not to hurt you further. Yet his rough hands are nothing but soft as they take care of you. His hands are so warm too. Slowly your tears stop as you let Logan fix you up.

"I'm sorry. I wanted to surprise you with dinner and cupcakes." You whisper. Logan glances up at you, wrapping the bandage around you firmly but not too tight.

"There's nothing to be sorry for sweetheart, I've burned myself countless times." He hums as he brings your hand to his lips. Kissing it softly.

"Feel better?" He asks with a small smirk. You think for a moment before shrugging.

"Maybe after a few more kisses." You mumble making Logan laugh.

"Alright, I think I can do that." He presses another few kiss to your hand, trailing his lips up until he's at your neck, and then your jaw until he finally reaches your lips. You let out a few soft giggles as his beard tickles your skin, making him smile.

"There's that perfect sound." He hums as he gently helps you off the counter.

He puts his arms under your legs and your back and scoops you up in his arms with ease. Carrying you to the couch and placing you onto the soft cushions.

"Do you want to order pizza?" He asks as you settle on the couch. Turning the TV on to some random crime show. Sighing you nod your head yes. Looks like your real dinner date will have to wait.

"You're a real quick learner, but maybe you should leave the baking to me." Logan teases with a wink. You roll your eyes and throw his arm over your shoulder, forcing him closer.

"Shut up old man." You bite back, huffing as he gently moves your arm out of the way so he doesn't hurt your hand.

"Aw don't be like that," He purrs, burying his face in your neck to pepper it with kisses. "I'm only joking, I'll be your first aid whenever you want."

"Would you be dressed as a hot nurse too?"

"Okay, now you're pushing your luck sweetheart."

[empressdede]

The Secretary - 10

Previous. Next

CHAPTER TEN

Serena didn’t waste any time.

As soon as she left the locker room, she made a beeline for Roman’s private office.

Her heart was pounding, frustration burning in her chest. She had spent years proving she was good enough, and now, just because she was close to Roman, people thought she was only here because of him?

Hell. No.

When she reached the door, she didn’t hesitate—she knocked once before pushing it open.

Roman was sitting at his desk, but as soon as he saw her, his brows furrowed. “Serena?”

She shut the door behind her. “We need to talk.”

Roman sat up straight, immediately giving her his full attention. “What’s wrong?”

Serena took a breath, trying to steady herself. “Do people actually think I’m getting special treatment because of you?”

Roman’s expression darkened. “Who said that?”

Serena crossed her arms. “Charlotte.”

Roman exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “Figures.”

Serena scoffed. “So it’s true? People are actually saying this?”

Roman leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “People are always gonna talk, Serena. They see me close to someone, and they assume things. It’s not new.”

Serena shook her head. “That’s not fair.”

Roman’s gaze softened. “I know.”

Serena let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve worked too hard for this, Roman. And I won’t have people thinking I’m only here because I’m with you.”

Roman nodded slowly, studying her. “So what are you saying?”

Serena hesitated.

Because she knew what she was afraid of—what she had always been afraid of.

That being with Roman would overshadow everything she had built. That people wouldn’t see her as her own person anymore.

And now, those fears were coming true.

She sighed, dropping into the chair across from him. “I don’t know.”

Roman leaned back, his gaze never leaving hers. “You thinking about ending this?”

Serena’s stomach dropped. “No.”

Roman’s expression didn’t change. “Because if you want out, you need to say it now.”

Serena looked at him, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest.

Because this wasn’t just a fling for him. He wouldn’t fight her on it if she wanted to walk away, but he was making it very clear—this was real.

And she needed to choose it.

She exhaled slowly. “I don’t want out.”

Roman nodded once, like he had already known her answer. “Good.”

Serena sighed. “But this is still messy.”

Roman smirked, leaning forward again. “Serena, we were always gonna be messy. You knew that.”

Serena groaned, covering her face. “I hate you.”

Roman chuckled. “No, you don’t.”

Serena dropped her hands. “So what do we do?”

Roman shrugged. “We do what we’ve been doing. We let people talk. Because at the end of the day, your work speaks for itself.”

Serena exhaled. “And if it doesn’t?”

Roman’s expression darkened again. “Then we shut them up.”

Serena blinked. “I feel like that’s not exactly professional.”

Roman smirked. “What? You think I’d let anyone disrespect my woman and get away with it?”

Serena felt way too many things at once at those words.

She swallowed. “I hate when you say things like that.”

Roman just grinned. “No, you don’t.”

Serena groaned again.

This man was impossible.

But she knew one thing for sure.

She wasn’t walking away.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Roman was not letting this slide.

Charlotte could talk all she wanted—he was used to people running their mouths about him. But dragging Serena into it? Questioning her credibility?

Nah. That wasn’t happening.

And if he was going to confront Charlotte, he was bringing backup.

Which is how he found himself standing outside the women’s locker room, arms crossed, while Naomi gave him an unimpressed look.

“So let me get this straight,” Naomi said, tilting her head. “You dragged me all the way over here just so I can help you check Charlotte?”

Roman nodded. “Pretty much.”

Naomi scoffed. “Boy, you do not need me for this.”

Roman smirked. “No, but it’s more fun when you’re involved.”

Naomi rolled her eyes, but she was already pushing the door open.

Inside, Charlotte was standing near her locker, scrolling through her phone.

Naomi didn’t waste time. “Yo, Flair.”

Charlotte glanced up, her smirk already forming. But when she noticed who was standing beside Naomi, the smirk faltered for just a second.

Roman stepped forward, his expression completely unreadable. “We need to talk.”

Charlotte arched a brow. “About what?”

Naomi scoffed. “Girl, don’t play dumb. You know exactly what.”

Charlotte sighed dramatically, placing a hand on her hip. “Let me guess—this is about Serena?”

Roman didn’t blink. “You got something to say about her, say it to me.”

Charlotte’s smirk returned, but there was something uneasy about it now.

“I was just making an observation,” she said smoothly. “People talk, Roman. And when they see you getting close to someone, they start making connections.”

Roman tilted his head, his jaw tightening. “Let me make something very clear.”

Charlotte actually straightened, sensing the shift in his tone.

Roman stepped closer, his voice dangerously low. “Serena got her job because she earned it. Not because of me. And I don’t ever want to hear you—or anyone else—imply otherwise.”

Charlotte crossed her arms. “It’s not my fault if people assume things.”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “And it’s not our fault you feel the need to run your mouth about business that ain’t yours.”

Charlotte scoffed. “Please. It’s wrestling. People talk. It’s not that serious.”

Roman took another step forward, his presence commanding.

“I don’t care what people talk about,” he said, his voice firm. “But if I ever hear you disrespect Serena again, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Charlotte’s smirk finally disappeared.

Naomi smirked in satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Roman didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, Naomi right behind him.

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Naomi grinned. “Damn, I love when you get all scary.”

Roman smirked. “That’s the point.”

Naomi bumped his shoulder. “You really care about her, huh?”

Roman didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

Naomi smiled knowingly. “Good.”

And for the first time all day, Roman felt like he had finally shut everyone up.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Late post but I hope you guys enjoy. 😭🫶🏾 Charlotte a pain huh? 😔

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[sturnswrites]

innocent!reader finds it hard to deal with coworkers finding out about her and protective!matt...

You should have known it wouldn’t be easy.

Being with Matt—whatever this even was—was never going to be simple.

But you thought, maybe, after everything, after the week he spent proving to you that he wasn’t going anywhere, that the hard part was over.

You were so wrong.

Because now, it’s Monday morning, and instead of soaking in the newness of whatever you and Matt are becoming, you’re dealing with something you should have seen coming.

The whispers. The stares.

The knowing glances between coworkers when you walk into a room.

It starts small. A quiet hush when you pass by the break room. A couple of people exchanging looks when they see you walking into Matt’s office to drop off a file.

You ignore it. Try to, at least.

Until you hear it.

“Guess we know who’s got the boss wrapped around her finger.”

The words are barely hushed, spoken by some junior designer you barely know. You freeze, grip tightening around the portfolio in your hands.

Heat burns at the back of your neck.

You want to turn around. You want to say something.

But before you can, a new voice cuts through the room.

Low. Dangerous.

“Want to repeat that?”

Your stomach drops.

Matt.

When you turn, he’s already there. Standing in the doorway of the conference room, arms crossed, a look on his face that could kill.

The guy who spoke looks like he’s just realized he stepped into traffic. His face drains of color. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Matt doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares.

“You have a problem with my decisions?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a weight that makes the air in the room feel heavy. “Or do you just have a problem with running your mouth?”

The guy stammers out an apology, but Matt’s already done with him.

He turns to you next.

And you hate that your stomach clenches when his eyes land on yours.

But it’s not the usual warmth you’re met with. Not the barely contained smirk, the teasing familiarity.

No, this is different.

He’s pissed.

And not just at that guy.

At you, too.

Because in his mind, he’s protecting you.

But in yours?

He’s making it so much worse.

You don’t say anything. You just turn and walk away, gripping the portfolio so tightly your fingers ache.

You don’t make it far.

By the time you’ve stormed into your office, slammed the door, and tossed the portfolio onto your desk, your hands are shaking.

A knock on the door.

You already know who it is before he even opens it.

Matt steps inside, closing the door behind him with that calm, collected energy that just makes you even more frustrated.

“What the hell was that?” You spin to face him, your voice sharp.

Matt barely reacts. He just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That was me handling it.”

Your jaw clenches. “That wasn’t handling it, Matt. That was making it worse.”

His brows lift, like he genuinely can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You think it’s better to let people talk about you like that?”

“Yes!”

That makes him pause.

Your breath is coming too fast. Your heartbeat is erratic.

“You think I don’t care?” you demand. “You think I don’t hear what people say? That I don’t know what they think? But you making a scene doesn’t fix it, Matt. It just proves them right.”

Matt’s jaw tightens, his expression darkening.

“The hell it does.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Just frustration. Just exhaustion. “You don’t get it.”

“No.” He pushes off the doorframe, stepping closer. “I get it perfectly. You don’t want me to protect you. You don’t want people knowing about us—”

“That’s not what this is about,” you snap.

Matt stops, searching your face.

“Then what is it about?” he asks, voice softer now.

You hesitate.

Because you don’t know how to explain it.

That it’s not just about the rumors. That it’s about you—about the way you still can’t let yourself believe that this thing with Matt could ever be safe.

Because it never has been before.

And he knows it.

He sees it in the way you won’t meet his eyes. In the way you fold your arms over your chest like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Matt exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler.

“I’m not going to stop protecting you.”

Your throat tightens.

“No matter how much you try to push me away,” he adds, voice rough.

You don’t know what to say.

Because you want to believe him.

But you’re so damn scared to.

------------------

[punker-topia]

i finally watched the infamous roman reigns vs seth rollins match in the 2022 royal rumble and i have some thoughts about it

i don't think i've ever seen roman so shaken before. as soon as the shield music theme came up, any control he could've had over himself just... left. and then you have seth coming down the stairs in the middle of the crowd, making his way to the ring WEARING THE SHIELD'S GEAR. that's a mind game roman certainly wasn't ready for.

"come on, big dog!"

we all know how roman is in the ring. he studies his opponents, lets them do their thing for a while and then surprises them by turning the tables. i've watched a lot of matches with roman since i got into wrestling, but this was the only one where his emotions completely took over. long gone was the tribal chief, the collected master manipulator. there was only roman reigns and the emotions he could no longer keep under control.

seth had the upper hand during the first few moments of the match because roman was feeling all messy. it took a while for roman to recover and fight back, and seth took advantage of that.

the moment where roman mounted seth and started punching him? that was deeply personal. roman isn’t one to act like this. pacing all over the ring, looking at the crowd. insecure, alone, trying to reconnect with this tribal chief persona he created.

seth laughed at him. he laughed in roman's face. that was the moment clarity slipped from roman's fists and he just wanted to end seth.

seth taunted him so, so much. with the music, with the gear, with the nickname. but worst of all, he taunted roman by acting like you can't get me. i'm better than you.

i'm smarter than you because i know you.

and then... this?

i love how roman and seth are deeply connected to their characters. those gifs are so full of emotions. their actions have so much story behind. roman in disbelief and confusion when seth offered him his fist, when seth called him brother, and then standing up and trying to ground himself. not that it worked, because at this point, he had seth running in his veins. seth got what he wanted. he destabilized roman reigns so hard that once roman got him on the guillotine, he realized the grip seth had on him.

here's the thing: when roman said "he won't allow me to let go", it wasn't about the guillotine. it was about the emotional grip seth has on him. seth can never let roman go. this feud they have could've ended ages ago. could've ended when the shield made up a few years back.

but seth can't let roman go. it's the only way he can still have roman, because the big dog won't come back. the big dog is dead. seth killed him.

and roman saw his past in front of his eyes when the crowd chanted roman sucks! roman sucks! remember when roman was hated and he was vulnerable and fragile? when he was still scared of becoming the face of the company? when his confidence was in shambles?

his distress was quickly replaced by anger, by resentment. and that's how it ended. with a chair to seth's back and with roman saying "you took a piece of me that i'm never gonna get back. but now i have to take it. you can't take from the tribal chief".

roman's only mistake was walking away from the mat saying he could finally move on. he had his revenge. his soul was finally whole again, right? because he made seth feel the pain he felt ten years ago. it was over now, right?

right?

that's the beauty of storylines told in wrestling. the story isn't just told with words and body language. the characters aren't just feuding out of nowhere.

everything has a reason.

[what-if-i-like-my-mechs-older]

As Optimus was coming with them, they'd had to make up some plan, basic really, make it seem like he was chasing them. Orion had let them draw on his arm this time, adding a moustache to the autobot symbol, it was the guards symbol and honestly after being under Sentinels command he'd come to hate it, the more he'd been there the more he saw the corruption within it.

So let the rascals draw on it.

Let others think he was chasing them through the Nemesis and cursing them out as they laughed, all three were genuinely having fun in this act of play.

Upon reaching the exit lift, two guards immediately stood infront of him.

"Megatron's orders are for you not to leave the ship, Autobot."

The other guy looked him over and nudged his friend.

"I hear he doesn't mind fraternising we could get him to do a favour for us and-"

Optimus didn't let them finish that sentence, especially not infront of the casseticons, he still didnt know how they were considered in this world and at least on his watch would not let them hear anything uncouth, covering both the guards faces in hydrant foam Orion pushed them to the side, he wasn't going to stick around to watch as they tried to clear their faces, he ran and grabbed the two smaller mechs and headed for the lift.

Prime was anxious, he wasn't running away, even though it was a short journey up he really did long for the outside, someone could stop them at any moment....and when the doors opened it was beautiful, the vast expanse of a glittering sea and bright sunlight.

The sweeping of waves and cries of seagulls he never thought he'd be so happy to hear them, understanding just a little of what Prowl had always admired of nature.

Breathing it in, oh he could be happy right here , but Rumble and Frenzy said they were taking him somewhere, he probably really shouldn't be trusting them as they were Soundwave's buuuuut...he could carry them straight back if they tried any tricks.

"Wait, how's the big guy gonna fly?"

Frenzy spoke first, looking at Rumble, who only shrugged.

"About that, I have a void space around me that only I can access, it's where my trailer goes among other things such as this."

(Because where else does it go no one knows)

They heard the similar sound of transformation as wing attachments formed on his back and both stood there , mouths hanging open as they stared at him.

"Now let's go, we gotta get out of here before we're caught, I want to see this place you two hang out!"

Not needing to be told twice they immediately went off with the Autobot trailing after them.

Megatron however along with Soundwave saw everything on the cameras. Rumble and Frenzy had nothing to do with their spying.

The Decepticon leader had believed Orion would be left at the lift opening, or dumb enough to jump from it, his disbelief had him loosening his grip on his mug causing Energon coffee to spill as it tilted.

Watching as wings just like that damn trailer of Optimus's appear out of the airs ass, what in the name of Primus and Unicron.

"Well, that didn't go as planned."

Soundwave stated, he'd already dropped his mug on the floor.

Megatron straighted his one and only chuckled.

"Indeed, it would seem our guest is full of surprises, but that does not matter, he will be back, I have a feeling that Optimus's from no matter what world do not break their promises, however if he does escape, you may personally bring him back yourself."

"And throw him back in the brig to cool off?"

Megatron sipped what was left of his drink , giving him a sideways glance.

"Yes back in the brig to cool off, we're letting him have a walk outside but let us hope your Casseticons don't draw the Autobots attention...we should probably prepare a disguise if he's going to do this sort of thing...the last thing we need is our Optimus discovering him. "

Soundwave sighed making an aggravated sound as he leaned his head back.

"Why did you take him in again?"

"As if the autobots need more fire power, seems like I made the right choice, can you imagine two Optimus Primes on the Autobots side?"

Soundwave literally couldn't argue that point, two Optimus's, even if this one did spit insults in his direction in particular might just make the Autobots completely unstoppable.

"If my Casseticons get hurt-"

"Don't start dictating to me, you bring them into battle constantly."

Megatron cut him off and set his mug down.

"Perhaps we should send in one of the seekers?"

"Not Starscream."

Soundwave answered, groaning as he rubbed his temple circuits, this whole ordeal was becoming a pain in his aft.

"Yes, agreed, Skywarp, would be better suited for this. At least he will not stab me in the back, but I'll send him out in due time. For now, let them have their fun."

Previous

First piece

[chloe-skywalker]

The Good Out Of The Bad - Cedric Diggory

Cedric x Fem!Reader Malfoy

Warnings: parents disowning child

Word count: 999

Summary: Being disowned by the Malfoys, Y/n goes to her boyfriend Cedrics home. The Diggorys are more than welcoming.

Authors Note: For sake of the story Cedrics moms alive. I don't know if she's alive or dead, they don't say in the movies and I haven’t read the books. Part 2? Maybe a run in with the Malfoys? Or he proposes? Or they go over to invite the Malfoys to their wedding? Comment below which one you’d like or should it be all of those.

Masterlist

Harry Potter Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Y/n had possibly had the worst day of her life and all she wanted right now was Cedric. It was a long journey but she needed him right now. Once Y/n reached the Diggory residence she knocked on the front door.

“Y/n? What's wrong?” Cedric answered the door, shocked to see his girlfriend on the other side, soaked from the pouring rain. With her face red and blotchy.

“I was kicked out.” She hiccuped looking up at him with more tears gathering up in her eyes.

“Come in sweetheart. Its way to cold out.” Cedric’s mother says once she saw the girl she thought of as a daughter, having come to check on Cedric at the door. The older woman rushed Y/n into their home having her and Cedric sit on the couch. Cedric's mother and father joining them in the living room.

“What happened Y/n/n?” Cedric asked, wrapping a towel and a big heavy blanket around her trying to make sure she doesn’t get sick. He pulled her close into his side to comfort and protect her.

“I've been disowned. Name burned off of the family tree and everything.” Y/n told them with a shaky voice and a shiver. Whether it was from being drenched in the rain or the vent’;s she experienced with her family they didn’t know. But the guess was both.

Cedric rubbed a hand up and down her back trying to provide her with as much comfort as possible.

His parents were shocked to hear her words. How could they, then again something similar happened to Sirius Black back when they were younger.

“Why?” Cedric ask’s, curiously and angry at whatever reason they could give to do this to their own daughter.

“I disagreed on some views my father hold’s, and he decided that if I didn’t agree then I’m no longer a part of the Malfoy family.” Y/n took a deep breath as she told them she didn’t want to cry anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” She apologizes to Cedric and his parents not wanting to be a burden.

“Don’t be sorry sweetheart.” Cedric's mom shakes her head, heartbreaking for the girl.

“You're always welcome in our home.” Cedric's dad tells her they'd never turn her away, especially after what she just went through.

“Thank you.” Y/n sends them an appreciative smile leaning into Cedric’s embrace.

“You can stay here for as long as you want.” Cedric's mother tells her as she notices Y/n relaxing into her son’s arms.

“I don’t want to be a burden.” Y/n shake’s her head looking at Cedric’s mom.

“You could never be a burden.” Cedric’s dad tells her not wanting her to think she was being a burden.

“Thank you.” Y/n nodds before leaving to go to the bathroom.

“Why would she think she’s a burden staying here?” His mother asked Cedric once hearing the bathroom door shut.

Cedric sighed sadly looking at his parents knowing they were gonna hate his explanation. “Her father- Luscious always called Y/n and Draco burdens. So it’s something she’s been told her whole life. She’s used to it.”

“That's not right.” His dad was appalled at hearing this.

“She’s welcome to stay her for as long as she want’s.” His mother tells him also appalled and upset that they would treat Y/n so poorly. No wonder she never wanted to be home.

“I’ll make sure she knows. And probably have to remind her.” Cedric nodd’s happy to hear that but also knowing she’d be safe with them helped washed away his worry. With that Cedruc got up to make sure Y/n was okay.

“We’ve always loved her.” Cedric’s mom smiled at her son as he left the room.

“Like a daughter.” His dad smiled at his wife, resting a hand on her shoulder standing next to her.

“She’s family.” his wife stated, an unspoken agreement between them that the girl would become even more a part of their family now than she already was.

^     ^     ^

Over the summer Cedric’s parents got to watch their son's relationship and behavior over the weeks and found it interesting to watch their son in his relationship. They got to see the two young adult’s grow even closer and their love grow bigger.

“We did a good job.” Cedric’s mother stated about how they raised their son.

“Yes we did.” His dad agreed watching beside his wife.

^     ^     ^

“Thank you for letting me stay all summer Mr. and Mrs Diggory.” Y/n thanked her boyfriend's parents with a smile having enjoyed her summer with them. They treated her like she was their daughter, their own flesh and blood.The way a family should be is what Y/n thought. But now it was time for them to go back to school for their final year. They were currently at the train station.

“It was a pleasure having you my dear.” Cedric’s dad hugged her after hugging his son, they enjoyed having her with them all the time she was the daughter they never had.

“We can’t wait to have you both back for christmas.” Cedric’s mom says excited and already missing the both of them. She hugged both of them at the same time.

Y/n smiled hugging her back just as tight. She loved being with the Diggory’s it was a big contrast to what she grew up with and she loved it. “I can’t wait.”

It was time for Cedric and Y/n to board the train. As they did they waved back at his parent’s before heading off hand in hand to find a seat together.

“I hope he marry’s her someday.” Cedric’s mother said out loud as she hugged her husband as they watched the train leave. Cedric’s dad let out an airy laugh even though he knew she was being completely honest and he hoped for the same thing in the future.

Taglist:

@padawancat97 @gruffle1 @daughter1of2anita3dearly

[gamergirlwrites]

Title: Rescue

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Female!Reader

Synopsis: Leon subtly leads you away from danger.

CW: Mentions of alcohol/alcoholism.

"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like this," Leon said as he stepped in behind you. His hand rested on the small of your back, and to anybody else, it would look like a conversation between friends. Anybody who knew Leon, most likely also knew you. The two of you were linked together, but he was "Ada's boy" to most of Washington. She had him running around doing her dirty work, while you tended to stay in the more bureaucratic aisles.

"Ah yes because it makes so much more sense for a pseudo secret service guy to be at a political fundraiser like this than the daughter of the senator who organized the event," you said. Leon's face scrunched up a bit as he tried and failed to think of an argument. "It's okay to admit I hurt your feelings Leon. Nobody has to know."

"You're insufferable," Leon grumbled. The two of you were terrible for each other, and yet, you gravitated towards one another. Leon would blow you off in favor of whatever Ada wanted him to you, and when he inevitably came back to you, you'd put him through the ringer.

"Don't forget deceptive, vindictive, and unbelievable sexy. Well, that's not exactly how Mr. Klein over there described me, but I know what he meant," you said with a smile. Leon's jaw clenched in a way that pulled at your heart strings a bit. Despite everything, Leon wasn't really one to just let you be dragged through the mud. "Calm down, he'll come over here if it looks like we're fighting."

"I don't know why the hell you blew me off for that guy," Leon said. You sighed as you waved the bartender over for a refill. "You're drinking again?"

"Leon, you'd be able to smell it if I was. Just like I can smell the scotch on your breath. And all of us are allowed to make mistakes, especially when it' out of our hands. I wanted to be there for dinner, I swear I did. You know what my parents are like, Eric's father is an investor." You hated how the words rolled off your tongue. It was the truth, but hearing it hurt. You were a business pawn at the best of times and a publicity stunt at the worst of them.

"You could make it up to me," Leon offered. You glared at him, having heard that from boyfriends and flings in the past. It usually meant something different when they said it, but you doubted that Leon just wanted sex from you. Even in bed, he had been far less selfish than anyone you were used to.

"Need a break from your handler for a night?" you joked.

"If I say yes, can we leave this place and waste these fancy outfits somewhere you shouldn't be caught dead at?" Leon asked. You nodded and let him lead you out of the party. Nobody made a deal about you leaving, not even as Leon paraded you out through the middle of the room. You caught a glimpse of Ada in the corner and pushed the feeling that Leon was on a rescue mission out of your head.

He had a dangerous job, one that he tried to keep you away from. You had been born into it though. Your mother worked wonders for shady businesses and your father took large payouts. You had lived a life without struggle, but there had always been a painful guilt that ate at your heart. Leon stayed with you while you hung low and waited for the inevitable headline that your parents' party had ended in disaster. It never seemed to come, but you knew the illness that started to run rampant through the shareholders at your mother's company wasn't some tragic coincidence.

[kiyosato-yuri]

Here’s my takes on Canto 7, if you like it. You probably shouldn't read (?) it's still a personal opinion and view. Idc if this get me lost all of my followers or even, hated

Note that I will call the real Don Quixote as Alonso instead for less confusion between our Don Quixote/Sancho

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Canto 7 has only one redeeming quality: it shows that Alonso hasn’t completely given up on his dream. But the way everything is executed… is just messy.

La Manchaland exists, but it’s not something eternal. It harms humans, yet at the same time, it runs away from humans.

This perfectly represents Alonso’s conflict—he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but he also can’t let go of his little dream, even though it’s already falling apart.

Sinclair does mention this, but the transition into the “power of friendship” moment feels off.

There should’ve been a proper scene where Sancho is persuaded—something along the lines of “Alonso hasn’t given up on his dream, so as his kindred, Sancho must continue that dream.”

Alonso’s dream is also Sancho’s dream, and that connection should have been emphasized more.

Then, after defeating Sancho, the justification for fighting Alonso is unclear.

Because she wants to continue his dream? Because she wants to keep adventuring? Because she wants Alonso to dream of that dream once more?

And then out of nowhere, the “power of friendship” is used to just... let Alonso pass on peacefully. That felt so forced, and on top of that, all the Bloodfiends there just went extinct.

I'm not even gonna bring up Samson after all he did from part 1 and 2

The father-child scene at the end is good, but the build-up is so clunky. It shifts from Alonso and Sancho’s story to the Sinners’ group so abruptly, and then Heathcliff appears in a way that’s just... really lmao, i couldn’t even find a word for this.

We get that PM wants to say Sancho needs motivation to keep going—not just from Alonso but also from those around him—but the execution is just… eerrrrr.

That line Hong Lu said at the start of the dungeon should’ve been repeated to answer Sancho’s question. Creating a perfect parallel between Sancho and Hong Lu makes perfect sense since both come from big families, and it would have set up perfectly for Hong Lu’s Canto well since he's next, they have build it good from part 2

But instead, PM pushed Sinclair into this too much. Even Sancho says she’s no longer the Don Quixote everyone knows, while Hong Lu says that Sancho is still the Don Quixote he knows.

That line should have been there. Hong Lu fits the role of encouraging Sancho perfectly, while Sinclair just feels... weak.

According to Hong Lu, Don Quixote was already the most "awaken" from the start—there was no need to “beat some sense” into them like Sinclair or Heathcliff.

So why shove Sinclair in to "snap Sancho out of it" when Dante should’ve been the one to say that line? Dante is the manager, Sinclair just talks a lot, but it never proves he has any real influence on Sancho’s life.

The ones who truly shaped Sancho in canon are Bari and Alonso.

Hong Lu is the only one who acknowledges Don Quixote as the most lucid of them all, saying that their eyes shine like stars—the very stars Alonso and Bari nurtured into her.

"Her eyes, Dante. Always twinkling like two bright stars. They're so fascinating."

And yet, after dropping some amazing lines throughout part 1 and 2, Hong Lu barely gets to say anything when it’s time to convince Sancho.

Instead, again they use Sinclair—who has no dreams of his own and has always just followed others—somehow gets to be the one to push Sancho forward. Even in his own book, he couldn’t do or decided anything for himself unless there is someone motivating him. He completely clueless in between his two wolrd

Looking back, Hong Lu has never really had his own dream—most of his voicelines revolve around doing what his family tells him to.

Maybe that’s why he’s so fascinated by the stars in Sancho’s eyes. But their dreams are fundamentally different, and Bari’s way of speaking would have fit Hong Lu’s character much better—soft, understanding.

In short, Canto 7 had good ideas, but terrible execution.

Heathcliff was forced into Ishmael’s Canto, Sinclair was shoved into Don Quixote’s Canto—when both of them had other sinners who could have played the support role way better, which is Outis and Hong Lu.

The writing is terrible and rushed. It introduces a bunch of ideas, but in the end, none of them are explored properly, and it just dilutes the entire Canto.

What was Sanson’s role in all of this? What ultimately happened to the Giant Bloodfiends? And why the hell would someone like Sancho—who built her entire life on her father’s ideals—be convinced by the power of friendship?

PM just slapped some half-baked dialogue together, threw in some vague "teamwork" message, and called it a day.

And the worst part? Instead of making the most of the themes they introduced, they rushed through everything and left us with a mess of underdeveloped ideas.

[j0kers-light]

Choices part Three

Finally the last choices chapter because omg that was torture to read. Don’t get me wrong it was vital for the plot but

I need Joker now 🖤✨

At first it was sweet, endearing even, well to an extent. Bruce showered you with attention that you never experienced before with a partner and he spoiled you absolutely rotten. What more could a girl ask for?

Apparently some chaos from a certain clown.

You hated the reflection that glared back. You looked nothing like your former self that was once so full of life and hope. This choice of yours to stay with Bruce was sucking the life out of you like a leech.

This is why you never settle ladies. Take notes.

“I know what I want." You glanced up and caught him staring directly at you with a headed gaze. He wasn't talking about the pizza. Oh boy.

Bruce I love you but pipe down a bit you coming off way too strong my guy. 👀

The minute they said Joker's name, your ears tuned in like a radio feed, itching for more. "Something's off man. He's more.. I dunno. Violent? Crazier? If that's even possible."

Joker violent? No he would never 🥴 he’s just acting like a baby whose favorite toy got taken away.

and thus a sour, dark look fell over Bruce's face. You were reverting back to your socially awkward self. Bruce wasn't a real fan.

Seee? They are so incompatible and Bruce is trying so hard to make this relationship work, dude let it go.

“Now I run with the big boys. Frost, Mac, and I are the pyramid that keeps Joker's operation running and.."

It’s our troublesome goon Neo!!! 😍

Technically Neo’s first appearance was choices part one but I didn’t assign him a name at the time. Neo catcalled you when Frost was carrying you inside the hideout and also the goon that yanked your hair in front of Joker. A lovely first impression 👀🥴

“I gave him everything but the one time I do something self-indulgent, I get dragged for it? Why do I have to be punished?"

“That's the Joker I know. You get his jagged edges but I know his smooth lines and I love his many flaws. I want that Joker back.. my Joker back. And guess what? You are in my way!"

Tell him Y/n!

“I see you're a bit slow so I'll say it again where even bimbos like you can understand. Go back inside. Eat your meal. Have fun with rich boy Wayne because that's who you chose."

Watch your tone Neo 🤨

“You want your brain splattered on the sidewalk?" He saw you shake your head. Tears flew in the air from the jerky motion. "Then go back inside." He pointed to the pizzeria with the gun.

I know this boy didn’t pull a gun on us. I know he didn’t just

You needed Joker's unpredictability in your stale life and you craved his dark cloud looming in your corner. It grounded you in so many ways you realized only until it was gone.

That’s the case in life you always miss something until it’s gone so please cherish what you have even it doesn’t seem like much today, it’ll be valuable tomorrow.

Your eyes instantly lit up. "Bruce.. I can explain." "Then by all means do so." He waved his hand and gave you the floor.

Bruce chuckled lowly. "Right. Let's head back to the Manor. After you collect your things I'll drop you off at your place."

He didn’t have to do us like that 😭😭😭😭😭

You just got rejected by Gotham City's most eligible bachelor but you were on cloud nine. It took every ounce of your strength to keep the wide grin off your face.

Y/n got Joker on her mind and nothing else love that for her. 🥴🤣

Joker truly ruined you for all future men. You were fine with that.

🥴🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 and that’s final 🥴

Bruce wanted an excuse for you to come back but you weren’t falling for it. You expected a delivery soon. It was time to close the Bruce Wayne chapter in your life for good.

YESS FINALLY! It only took three chapters. 🙄😒

“Hey Boss! We got movement on the Grant Row cameras."

Okay so. Joker installed cameras inside your apartment. In every room except your private bedroom and the balcony. He’s crazy yall but we love him. 👀

He wouldn't mind being called that by you. Or being babied by you. He was desperately craving your attention due to the long separation between you two.

That was the only excuse for his random thoughts. Why would he want to be called a baby? It was nonsense really.

who’s gonna tell him?

Joker was numb. He didn't hear his goons asking for orders, his eyes were still watching the horror unfold on the screen.

Our baby is spiraling you hear me? Oh the Joker POV would be insane.

Joker was already insane, but the days spent without Y/n's presence made the green haired clown even more unhinged.

More unhinged? Oh yeah we’re screwed.

You were the cure to his madness if there was such a thing. Witnessing you getting kidnapped was the last straw for Joker's sanity.

His Lighthouse Re-Read Thread

Hey hi my loves!!! I've read my own story 14 million times but I never did an official reread thread so thank @jaysmentalspace for what's about to happen! 🖤✨

This will be an interactive thread. Yes, you can join in with your own comments, reblogs, whatever! I will start from chapter one and I guess, review/commentate my own story! I hope you enjoy the ride. There's gonna be fun facts, behind the scenes commentary, who knows. 🤷🏾‍♀️

His Lighthouse masterlist let's get started.

[gilfrespecter]

Listening to coinstar by the growlers and thinking about mel so hard I get nauseous

Ridiculous stream of conscious in the tags apologies but not really

[faewaren]

Me: literally just sees an image of Dys again

Me: