#maybe a posture collar too...

[vivsinkpot]

Zoom In, Don’t Glaze Over: How to Describe Appearance Without Losing the Plot

You’ve met her before. The girl with “flowing ebony hair,” “emerald eyes,” and “lips like rose petals.” Or him, with “chiseled jawlines,” “stormy gray eyes,” and “shoulders like a Greek statue.”

We don’t know them.

We’ve just met their tropes.

Describing physical appearance is one of the trickiest — and most overdone — parts of character writing. It’s tempting to reach for shorthand: hair color, eye color, maybe a quick body scan. But if we want a reader to see someone — to feel the charge in the air when they enter a room — we need to stop writing mannequins and start writing people.

So let’s get granular. Here’s how to write physical appearance in a way that’s textured, meaningful, and deeply character-driven.

1. Hair: It’s About Story, Texture, and Care

Hair says a lot — not just about genetics, but about choices. Does your character tame it? Let it run wild? Is it dyed, greying, braided, buzzed, or piled on top of her head in a hurry?

Good hair description considers:

Texture (fine, coiled, wiry, limp, soft)

Context (windblown, sweat-damp, scorched by bleach)

Emotion (does she twist it when nervous? Is he ashamed of losing it?)

Flat: “Her long brown hair framed her face.”

Better: “Her ponytail was too tight, the kind that whispered of control issues and caffeine-fueled 4 a.m. library shifts.”

You don’t need to romanticise it. You need to make it feel real.

2. Eyes: Less Color, More Connection

We get it: her eyes are violet. Cool. But that doesn’t tell us much.

Instead of focusing solely on eye color, think about:

What the eyes do (do they dart, linger, harden?)

What others feel under them (seen, judged, safe?)

The surrounding features (dark circles, crow’s feet, smudged mascara)

Flat: “His piercing blue eyes locked on hers.”

Better: “His gaze was the kind that looked through you — like it had already weighed your worth and moved on.”

You’re not describing a passport photo. You’re describing what it feels like to be seen by them.

3. Facial Features: Use Contrast and Texture

Faces are not symmetrical ovals with random features. They’re full of tension, softness, age, emotion, and life.

Things to look for:

Asymmetry and character (a crooked nose, a scar)

Expression patterns (smiling without the eyes, habitual frowns)

Evidence of lifestyle (laugh lines, sun spots, stress acne)

Flat: “She had a delicate face.”

Better: “There was something unfinished about her face — as if her cheekbones hadn’t quite agreed on where to settle, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of disagreement.”

Let the face be a map of experience.

4. Bodies: Movement > Measurement

Forget dress sizes and six packs. Think about how bodies occupy space. How do they move? What are they hiding or showing? How do they wear their clothes — or how do the clothes wear them?

Ask:

What do others notice first? (a presence, a posture, a sound?)

How does their body express emotion? (do they go rigid, fold inwards, puff up?)

Flat: “He was tall and muscular.”

Better: “He had the kind of height that made ceilings nervous — but he moved like he was trying not to take up too much space.”

Describing someone’s body isn’t about cataloguing. It’s about showing how they exist in the world.

5. Let Emotion Tint the Lens

Who’s doing the describing? A lover? An enemy? A tired narrator? The emotional lens will shape what’s noticed and how it’s described.

In love: The chipped tooth becomes charming.

In rivalry: The smirk becomes smug.

In mourning: The face becomes blurred with memory.

Same person. Different lens. Different description.

6. Specificity is Your Superpower

Generic description = generic character. One well-chosen detail creates intimacy. Let us feel the scratch of their scarf, the clink of her earrings, the smudge of ink on their fingertips.

Examples:

“He had a habit of adjusting his collar when he lied — always clockwise, always twice.”

“Her nail polish was always chipped, but never accidentally.”

Make the reader feel like they’re the only one close enough to notice.

Describing appearance isn’t just about what your character looks like. It’s about what their appearance says — about how they move through the world, how others see them, and how they see themselves.

Zoom in on the details that matter. Skip the clichés. Let each description carry weight, story, and emotion. Because you’re not building paper dolls. You’re building people.

[kjhbsies]

Say It Loud

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join my 500 celebration!

James Potter x Slytherin!reader

synopsis: James Potter is in a secret relationship with Y/N, but things spiral when someone mistakes Regulus Black for Y/N’s boyfriend and spreads the rumor around Hogwarts. How far will he go before he can’t take it anymore?

wordcount: 2,624

note: 16+ fluff. last part for this series. kudos to this request.

part I. part II.

James Potter stumbled down the Gryffindor boys' dormitory staircase like he was half-dreaming, half-dazed, and one hundred percent very recently kissed stupid. His tie was hanging through the collar of his shirt loosely, hair even messier than usual, and there was a pink flush creeping into his neck that no amount of cold morning air could erase.

Remus was waiting in the common room with a book tucked under his one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand, looking put-together as usual. His eyes were trained on James before his eyebrow slowly shot up.

James didn't notice. He was too busy suppressing a moonstruck grin, humming something off-key under his breath.

"You look different," Remus deadpanned once James was beside him.

James looked at him. "What?"

"You're glowing."

"I am not," James replied, voice suspiciously high-pitched.

"You're literally blushing."

James coughed and tried to compose himself. Putting on his best neutral face, but it still didn't work. Remus was about to add something when James immediately cut him off.

"Where's Pads and Wormy?"

"Already outside, waiting for your arse to come down."

James rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks deepening to a red hue. "Overslept."

"Hmm," Remus nodded while sipping his coffee. "Overslept or... overloved?"

James almost choked on the air. "What?"

Remus simply smirked. "Nothing. Just wondering why you're walking like your knees don't work."

"Because I almost tripped on the stairs!"

"Riiight," Remus drawled. "Must've been a hell of a staircase."

James grumbled and busied himself by fixing his tie. The two began walking towards their classroom, and James tried not to think about what Remus had said earlier, but he still couldn't stop taking glances at him from time to time.

Remus noticed, and his smirk widened.

James's brows furrowed. "What?"

"You look like a lovesick fool."

"I do not," James muttered, straightening up his posture like it would do something.

"Evans finally said yes to a date?"

"I didn't ask her out."

Remus blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't know why everyone keeps assuming that!" James threw his hands in exasperation.

"Maybe because you spent years infiltrating her?"

"So?" James huffed. "Is it unbelievable that I just... stopped?"

"Yeah, Prongs. Very."

"Well, she isn't the reason why."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"So... was it Y/n, then?"

"Yes!"

Silence.

The two stopped dead in their tracks.

James froze as if he had been hit by a full-body Petrificus Totalus. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened and then closed. Opened. And closed it again.

"...Moony."

Remus sighed deeply. "Since when?"

James stammered. "Six— six months ago— how did you—?"

Remus slung an arm over his shoulder, guiding them back to motion. "Did you know your ears go bright red when you're jealous?"

"They do not!"

"And your wand hand? Twitchy. Like it's about to launch a full-scale magical assault every time someone mentions Regulus Black."

James groaned, stopping again from walking. He buried his face against his hands. "I— I proposed it, you know? Keeping it a secret. Thought it would be easier that way. House rivalry and all that. But Moony... I love her."

Remus offered a tight-lipped smile. "You know, Prongs, for what's it worth, I was more surprised that you lasted six months keeping it hidden when we know your mouth is relentless."

James grumbled. "I don't even care that she was a Slytherin. Didn't matter when I met her. Didn't matter when she was in the same house as that slimy, smelly, Snivellus or that platinum-haired Malfoy.. And I know we vowed to make the Slytherins' lives miserable but— she made me realize how stupid that was. And I'm just... scared, mate. Scared of what people will say. Scared she'll be the one getting crap for it. What if Sirius finds out and gives her a thirty-minute dramatic monologue about betrayal?"

"Pads does have a thing for theatricals."

"I just— I just want to tell people, but I don't know how."

Remus turned, offering a warm smile. "You're the bravest person I know, Prongs. The same bloke who challenged seven-year Slytherins to a duel because they said McGonagall played favorites. The one who tried riding a Hippogriff during Care of Magical Creatures class because 'you felt a connection.'"

"That was one time."

"My point still stands. Don't worry about us. You're our mate, and we'll stand by you. Pads will be mad for like... 3 hours. 5 hours max. Then he'll get over it."

James nodded slowly, thinking about it. And the two started walking again.

"Besides, if you don't say something soon, someone will ask her out. Like Regulus. Again."

James immediately frowned.

"I hate that smug little—"

"Then act like a Gryffindor, mate. Stake your claim before someone else does."

Just as James puffed his chest like a man preparing for war, Sirius and Peter came bounding down the hall, both looking disheveled and full of chaotic energy.

“What’s taking you two so long?” Sirius barked.

“You two planned a prank for Snivellus without us?" Peter asked.

“We didn't." Remus calmly grabbed Peter by the collar and started dragging him down the hall. “You’re on a roll today, mate. Let’s save that energy for class.”

“Wait— what? Moony, I can walk!”

James stared after them, then turned back to Sirius with determination burning in his eyes.

“I’m telling her today,” He said.

Sirius blinked. “Telling who what?”

"Her." James ignored him and marched off, heart pounding, tie still a disaster.

Peter nudged James in the ribs for the third time in under five minutes. "She's looking at you again," He hissed, barely masking his grin.

"No, she's not." James quipped, not even looking up from his parchment.

"She is," Peter insisted. "Left corner, three rows down, red hair— ringing any bells?"

"I don't care," James grumbled under his breath.

"She's twirling her hair."

"Maybe it's her habit."

"She's twirling it while looking at you. And she just bit her lip."

James groaned and finally looked up, just in time to catch Lily looking away, a pink hue dusting her cheek.

"Mate. She wants you."

Sirius, who had been fighting sleep next to Remus, yawned and leaned forward to join the conversation.

"Who wants who?"

"Lily," Peter whispered too loudly. "She's looking at Prongs like she wants to tutor him. If you catch my drift."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Please shut up."

"Well, well. Look who's finally getting attention from his lifetime crush." Sirius grinned.

"Was." James corrected immediately. "Was my lifelong crush."

Peter gawked at him. "You're moving on?"

"Moved."

"With who?" Sirius asked, suddenly alert. "Do we know her?"

James coughed. "Focus. Minnie is watching."

But that didn't stop the torture.

Once McGonagall dismissed the class, James immediately stood up, with three boys trailing behind him. Just as they were about to round the corner, Lily immediately showed up.

"Potter," She said, immediately stopping them dead in their tracks. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

He stiffened. But before he could answer, Sirius was dragging Peter and Remus by their collars.

"We'll be waiting there." He said, smiling sweetly.

"Is this about Head duties?" James asked.

"Oh, Merlin, she's talking to him." Peter whispered, elbowing Remus, as they all peek out their heads to look at James and Lily nearby.

"No— no," Lily huffed out a smile while shaking her head softly. "I was just wondering if you're planning to go to Hogsmeade this weekend? You usually go with your friends, but... thought maybe you'd want a change."

James blinked. Wait— what? Was this Lily Evans asking him out? Oh, no. It's too late because he already had a perfect, lovely, incredibly sexy, secret girlfriend who just last night—

"I'm actually... not available this weekend." He said, glancing down his parchment.

"Oh." Lily's face fell. "Got plans?"

James coughed. "Yeah, plans. Private plans. Secret ones. Very private. Very secret."

Peter and Sirius's faces contorted into a confused one as they watched Lily's smile faded. Remus sighed, clearly knowing what was the reason.

Lily blinked, trying to regain her composure. "Well... let me know if anything changes." She said before turning away.

James shrugged before going to where his friends were, and Sirius wasted no time in grabbing the back of his robes and cornering him to the wall.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" Sirius asked, throwing his hands in the air.

James blinked. "What?"

"Evans was flirting with you!"

"I... noticed."

"And you turned her down?!"

"Why not?"

"Why—" Sirius closed his eyes and tried to calm himself for a second. "Why not?!"

"Prongs... are you sure you're okay? I mean, that was Evans. The love of your life—!" Peter added.

James frowned deeply. "She's not the love of my life!"

Sirius's mouth opened. Then closed. And opened again.

"Okay, what?" He asked.

James looked at Remus for silent help.

"Prongs here... wants to tell you guys something." Remus walked beside James and patted his shoulder for encouragement.

James sighed deeply. "I've been dating Y/n."

Silence.

More silence.

"Slytherin Y/n?" Sirius clarified.

"Yes."

"Hot, terrifying, definitely has-a-dagger-in-her leg, Y/n?"

“Yes.”

"Intimidating-walks-like-a-queen-and-slays-men-with-her-eyes, Y/n?"

"...Yes."

Sirius looked at him, bewildered. "And you didn't tell me?!"

"I thought you'd be mad!"

"I am mad!" Sirius yelled. "Mad that you pulled a Slytherin goddess and didn't give me any heads up?! What kind of best mate are you?"

"What—"

"You, a certified tosser, bagged someone like her?"

"I am not a tosser!"

"You are a first-class, deluxe tosser with curly hair!"

"I am very hot, thank you very much."

“Hot? HOT? Prongs, you look like a broomstick that rolled through a pile of dung and developed a personality.”

James lunged, and within seconds, he had Sirius in a headlock, aggressively messing up his already disheveled hair.

Peter clapped and smiled widely. "Yeah, get him, Prongs!" He cheered.

“Take it back!” James shouted.

“Never!” Sirius wheezed, struggling against James. “You're a mediocre seven at best!"

“I’m an eight point five! And my mum thinks I’m handsome!”

Remus, who thought this would be a calm conversation, shook his head and left them alone. "I hate my bloody life."

The Great Hall was in its usual evening chaos— floating candles, plates clattering, murmurs and laughs flying in the air. You sat at the Slytherin table, elegantly picking at a piece of corn while Narcissa talked about her love adventures. Both of you two refused to eat without Andromeda, who had been late because she's tutoring a third-year student.

"I've already picked a location," Narcissa gushed. "The Astronomy Tower at sunset. I know it's going to be good. And Lucius said he has a surprise planned. Can you believe that?"

"A surprise? What's he going to do? Part his hair in a different way than usual?"

"Hey!" Narcissa lightly slapped your arm. "You take that back. Lucius is thoughtful, romantic, and regal."

"He's got an emotional depth of a teaspoon." You reminded her.

"Well, at least someone's taking me out on Valentine's Day."

You frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're seeing someone, aren't you?" Narcissa's eyes narrowed at you. "I've seen the way you disappear after curfew hours and then go back the next morning with that dazed, post-snogging look. Is it Regulus?"

You choked. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

Narcissa shrugged. "I just assumed because he's your type."

You opened your mouth to say something, but someone caught your line of vision. From across the hall, sitting at the Gryffindor table, was James. James, who had been looking at you with such intensity that it made your stomach flip.

You offered him a smile— a barely noticeable one from the eyes of the masses. But it still made his heart flutter. That small act from you seemed to relax his nerves, the tension from his shoulders lifting off slightly.

At the Gryffindor table, Remus had also noticed it. He gave James a subtle nudge. "Go on, mate. It's your time. You should ask her out now."

James blinked. "Right— right now?"

"Go on, it's almost Valentine's Day. Go full cliche like the man you were."

James chewed on his lips, clearly nervous. He had been doing this for years with the wrong girl, and he should've been used to it. But right now, almost all of his courage was gone, which was shocking because he's James bloody Potter.

"Five o'clock," Peter whispered dramatically. "Baby Black has entered the scene."

"Bloody hell," Sirius's brows furrowed. "He's holding a flower. What the bloody hell is he doing with a flower?"

"Where would he go— ooohh— is he going for Y/n?" Peter asked gleefully, too happy to stir the pot.

James didn't waste a second. He stood up so fast he almost knocked Peter out of the chair.

The entire Great Hall paused, but James didn't care. He walked— practically stormed— towards the Slytherin table.

Time went slow around him, and the background faded into a blur. All he could see was you looking at him with wild, confused eyes and a small plate of corn in your hand.

Be brave, James. He told himself. Be brave.

Once he reached the Slytherin table, he could feel his heart thrumming against his chest, that he almost thought it would burst right there and then. People were staring at him like he was mad— and maybe he was utterly, truly, mad for you. Even the professors craned their necks, and Dumbledore had even paused mid-sip of his tea, clearly entertained.

Narcissa was the first to break the silence.

"Can I help you with something, Potter?" She asked, placing a hand under her chin.

James stammered. "I— I need to talk to your friend."

You blinked. "James— I mean, Potter— what are you doing?"

"The right thing." He said, sighing deeply. He turned to examine the room, whose eyes were placed on him like hawks. He dramatically placed his hand on his chest. "I have something to say and it's very important!"

Everyone fell silent.

"Yes, I'm a Gryffindor. Yes, I don't like most of the Slytherins. Yes, I said I'd rather kiss a Niffler than a snake..." James inhaled deeply. "But life is weird. Love is weirder. And sometimes you fall for someone who threatens to hex your eyebrows and steals your pudding without asking."

You couldn't help a wide grin breaking at your face despite the whispers around you.

James pointed at himself. "So, yes. That's right! I'm a big dork and I listen to emo muggle music..." He turned, tugging you lightly and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "...And I'm dating her."

Chaos erupted.

Regulus stepped forward, flower forgotten. "Potter— what...?"

James shot him a glare. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Regulus blinked. “I—”

“She’s mine.”

“You’re—”

“MINE.”

James wrapped a possessive arm around your waist like he was claiming treasure. Then the two of you walked from the Great Hall despite the loud whispers and eyes around you.

“I think I need a drink,” Sirius muttered.

“Can we all pretend that never happened?” Remus sighed.

Andromeda, who just walked in, cluelessly pointed at the two of you. "What the hell was that?" She asked Narcissa.

In the corridor, you turned to James, pouting. “Love, I really appreciate your whole dramatic, publicly-declared love monologue thing. It was very sweet. But I haven’t eaten yet.”

James grinned, smug. “It’s okay. Moony packed us food in the kitchen.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?”

“And,” James added, pulling you closer, “Maybe after dinner… we can do what we did last night again? Hmm?”

You laughed genuinely, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Then you kissed him so hard it stole the air from his lungs.

Somewhere in the castle, Sirius Black screamed into a pillow.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @dearmy-diary @kmhbygss @ladycaramelswirl @mao-nuwang @alwayslatetothefandoms @niceskyler @sunflouer04 @donaldsonsgirl @chaevvonders @belle-blue @thegoddessofnothingness @nikt-wazny-y @littlepippilongstocking @spirit-of-a-b1tch

[cressidagrey]

In Denial

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times Lando Norris probably should have realised that his teammate had a child, but never did and 1 time Oscar Piastri made very clear that he is a father. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

The most colourful beaded bracelet in existence

It was their first official McLaren shoot as teammates. Media day. Race suits. Matching smiles. More lights and cameras than either of them had patience for.

The studio was freezing.

Typical, Lando thought, shivering slightly as someone adjusted the collar of his race suit for the third time. Glossy black floor, high-power lights, white backdrop — the usual setup. All sleek, all clean, all perfectly curated for sponsor-ready content.

Across from him, Oscar Piastri was already mid-shoot.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink too much. Just stood there with that absurdly steady posture and those deadpan, almost neutral expressions that somehow read as confident and composed on camera. Arms folded. Chin slightly tilted. That understated brand of cool that made McLaren’s marketing team positively froth at the mouth.

That was one of the first things Lando had noticed about Oscar — how quiet he was. Calm. Low-effort on the surface, but the kind of low-effort that made you realize it was actually hiding effort in a very specific, efficient way. Not cold, exactly. Just... still. A little private. And hard to read unless you really tried.

They weren’t close yet. But they weren’t strangers either. A few simulator sessions. Some preseason testing banter. Dinner once, in a group, where Oscar had said maybe twenty words total — but had watched everything. Not in a weird way. Just in that Piastri way. Calculated. Patient.

So Lando wasn’t surprised when Oscar handled media day like he handled everything else — with the expression of someone who had long ago accepted the chaos and decided to simply outlast it.

What did surprise Lando was the bracelet.

It caught his eye halfway through Oscar’s solo shoot.

Right wrist. Tucked just under the edge of the suit cuff. Beads.

Chunky plastic ones — definitely the homemade kind, with alphabet letters, random sparkly shapes, a few bright neons. The kind you’d make at a kids’ party. It clashed completely with the McLaren fireproofs, and absolutely no part of it matched the slick, brand-polished aesthetic of the shoot.

Lando narrowed his eyes. There was a glittery dinosaur bead. He was almost sure of it.

He leaned over to one of the stylists nearby, curiosity piqued. “Hey. Is he supposed to be wearing that?”

The stylist glanced at the screen, then rolled her eyes fondly. “Tried to take it off. He said, and I quote, ‘It stays.’”

Lando raised both eyebrows. Oscar, the human embodiment of “yeah, sure, whatever you need,” had refused to remove a beaded dinosaur bracelet?

“For real?”

“Dead serious. Wouldn’t even consider it. Said it was for ‘focus.’” She shrugged, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing she’d seen today — which, to be fair, it probably wasn’t.

Lando stared a second longer, then turned away, biting back a smirk. “That’s so weird.”

But not in a bad way. Just… unexpected.

It was his turn soon after.

They swapped spots in front of the camera. Oscar stepped down, took the bottle of water someone handed him, then wordlessly handed Lando one as well — like he’d read his mind.

“Cheers,” Lando muttered.

Oscar just nodded, sipping his own. Then:

“Nice accessory,” Lando said casually, nodding toward the bracelet as he took the water.

Oscar didn’t even glance down. “It’s for focus.”

Lando raised a brow. “Right. Because nothing says elite athlete like a kindergarten craft project.”

Oscar did glance at him this time. But not with offense. Just a kind of calm indifference.

“It helps me remember what actually matters,” Oscar said calmly. 

F1 Driver and Snack Mule

Lando looked up from his phone when he heard the private jet door seal with a soft thunk, expecting to see Oscar stroll in like he always did: calm, quiet, annoyingly composed, maybe a hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck.

Instead, Oscar Piastri appeared in the aisle looking like the final boss of an airport convenience store.

It was almost comical. One over-the-shoulder canvas tote, handle fraying. One plastic bag from what looked like a 24-hour corner mart — already strained to breaking. One very full backpack that absolutely should not have been that heavy unless it was packed with bricks, hardcover physics textbooks, or illicit quantities of pineapple tarts. And dangling from his wrist: a second tote with a glass bottle poking out of the top like the flag of carbohydrate surrender.

Lando stared. Horrified. “…Why do you look like a snack-themed pack mule?”

Oscar dropped into his seat across the aisle, completely unfazed by his appearance. “Oh. I had a list.”

“A list?” Lando echoed, eyes darting between the bags like one of them might spontaneously explode. “Of what? Food to outlive the apocalypse? A year’s supply of… squid?!”

Oscar adjusted the seatbelt over his mountain of bags. “Some of this is hard to find in the UK. It’s just smart logistics.”

At that exact moment, one of the plastic bags betrayed him. It split with an unfortunate pop and dumped half its contents across the aisle carpet.

Lando leaned forward to get a better look and immediately recoiled.

Out spilled: —A large bag of sweet chili crab chips. —Two packs of pastel-wrapped milk candies. —A sealed glass jar of something brown and deeply alarming. —snacks with so many chili peppers printed on the bag it looked like a dare —Five types of instant noodles, all labeled in languages Lando didn’t speak. —Something that was either a sesame snack or a trap. —And, inexplicably, a box of Hello Kitty band-aids.

Lando blinked harder.

Oscar saw his face and added, like it helped, “Some of it’s not for me.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lando muttered as Oscar started sorting the contents of the split bag into the other bags.“You opening a snack stall mid-flight?”

Oscar opened a shrimp chip bag and popped one in his mouth. “Want some?”

Lando took one sniff.

Gagged audibly.

“OH MY GOD,” he wheezed. “THAT SMELLS LIKE SEAFOOD DIED IN A TRASHCAN.”

Oscar shrugged, chewing peacefully. “You’re dramatic.”

Lando had fully recoiled into the corner of the seat. “That is not food. That’s a warning sign. I’m going to smell like a fish market by the time we land.”

Oscar opened a second bag. “This one’s milder.”

Lando peeked. “What’s that?”

“Dried squid.”

Lando gagged again. “You have layers, Piastri. None of them are good.”

Oscar reached for the closed glass jar, filled with some brown paste, checked the lid, nodded like he was mentally ticking off inventory. “Hard to find a good brand at home.”

Lando stared. “Who even eats this much weird stuff?”

Oscar’s eyes flicked up just slightly.

And that’s when it clicked.

Lando didn’t say anything. Not out loud. But his brain — finally — started piecing it together.

This wasn’t “Oscar the Snack Enthusiast.”

This was “Oscar the Supply Mule for Someone Else.”

Someone very particular. Someone who didn’t want the Tesco version. Someone who sent him out with a list that included: “the pink milk tea, not the yellow one” and “not that brand, the other brand, you know the one.”

Oscar crunched another chip, calm as ever.

Lando eyed him. “So. Just you doing some shopping, huh?”

Oscar nodded.

Lando didn’t ask again.

But he did silently move one seat over when the durian candy came out.

Oscar being shockingly competent with kids

Lando didn’t think much of it at first.

It was just another media day.

Some local promotional thing for McLaren — sponsor meet-and-greet, fan Q&A, a few demo laps in a two-seater. The kind of chaotic-but-managed event they’d both done a dozen times. A little exhausting. A little awkward. Mostly harmless.

There were fans, of course. Grown ones. Screaming ones. Cool ones. Weird ones. The whole buffet.

But this one was different. There were kids. Lots of kids.

Some had come with families. Others were part of a junior karting initiative McLaren was launching — a handful of lucky young fans picked to tour the paddock and meet the drivers. There were matching T-shirts, oversized hats, those little paper lanyards they always lost within fifteen minutes.

Lando was fine with kids. Ish. He’d gotten better at it.

He crouched for selfies, signed baseball caps, knelt to high-five a girl who asked if he liked unicorns, and almost let one small boy sit on his shoulders until PR made eye contact with him and shook their head like he was about to commit a legal crime.

“Next time, little man,” Lando had said cheerfully, patting the kid’s head.

Then he’d stepped back, reached for his water, and glanced down the row toward Oscar.

And paused.

Because Oscar Piastri was crouched on both knees, arms resting loosely on them, eye-level with a girl who couldn’t have been more than four.

She was talking. Earnestly. Tiny hands flailing, expression serious.

Oscar was holding something — a piece of paper, maybe. Crinkled. Bright markers. Stickers.

He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t giving the half-smile-and-nod routine that Lando had seen a hundred times from drivers and team staff alike.

He was listening.

Really listening.

He held her earmuffs in one hand — the glow-in-the-dark kind with a space pattern on them — and tilted his head as she explained the rocket car she’d drawn for him. He smiled at the picture. Asked if she’d used glitter glue. Told her she had a good sense of aerodynamics.

Then, completely seriously, he handed her his cap.

“Wanna sign it?” he asked. “So I can remember you.”

The girl beamed. Lit up like a Christmas tree. She took the offered marker with the solemnity of a royal decree and scribbled something right on the brim of his hat.

Oscar glanced at it. “Best handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

Lando blinked.

Alright.

That was... weirdly natural.

Still watching, he saw Oscar gently return her earmuffs and wave her off toward the line of handlers. The girl skipped away, ecstatic.

But Oscar’s attention had already shifted.

There was a boy now — maybe five or six — standing stiffly just behind her. His hands were pressed against his sides. He looked overwhelmed. Pale. Eyes darting around. The noise, the crowd, the lights — it was too much.

Oscar stepped out of the way. Smooth, instinctive. Like he’d already clocked the signs.

He knelt again, this time a little more to the side. Not directly in front of the kid. Just there. Present. Safe.

And then, as if by magic, Oscar pulled something from his jacket pocket.

A juice pouch.

A whole juice pouch. With a bendy straw already poked in.

He offered it without a word.

The boy hesitated. Then took it. Slowly. Clutched it like a lifeline.

Oscar said something Lando couldn’t hear. The boy nodded.

And the moment passed. Quiet. Undramatic. But… important.

Lando stared.

No one just had juice pouches on them.

Unless, you were Oscar Piastri apparently. 

Redecorating

Lando was bored.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual.

But this brand of boredom was especially aggressive. The kind that clawed at your brain and made you wander aimlessly until you accidentally annoyed every single person in the building.

They were in the middle of a weather delay and a telemetry glitch. The engineers were scrambling like caffeinated ants, and even the usually chill media team had gone slightly feral over a reshoot that got rained out. There was nothing to do. No one to annoy who hadn’t already threatened him with a torque wrench. 

Which was how he ended up outside Oscar’s driver room.

Hovering.

Like a stray cat looking for food and attention.

The door was cracked. A faint tapping sound came from inside — someone scrolling. Or texting.

“Yo,” Lando called through the gap. “You in there?”

Oscar’s voice came back, muffled and flat. “Yeah. Come in.”

Lando shoved the door open with the dramatic flourish of someone who had absolutely nothing else to do and flopped down onto the tiny couch tucked along the back wall like he owned the place.

Oscar didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“No, you can’t have my last protein bar.”

Lando scoffed. “I didn’t come here to rob you.”

Oscar looked up. “You always come here to rob me.”

“Well, not this time.”

“Suspicious,” Oscar muttered, but he didn’t seem bothered. He just turned back to his phone, thumb moving slowly over the screen.

Lando let his head loll back against the wall, eyes scanning the room.

It was, predictably, the most Piastri-like space ever. Minimal. Tidy. Not much flair. A clean stack of team shirts in the corner. Spare gloves lined up in perfect pairs. Charger cables coiled like they’d been arranged by a computer.

But then something caught his eye.

Drawings.

Not many — maybe six or seven in total — but they stood out. Bright against the otherwise monochrome setup. Crayon. Marker. One done entirely in glitter gel pen, which sparkled faintly in the overhead lights.

They weren’t on display, exactly. More like… tucked in. Slipped into corners of the mirror. Taped carefully to the inside of the locker door. One pinned to the corkboard with a bright pink pushpin.

One had Oscar’s race number scribbled in purple and red, surrounded by stars and what might have been hearts or tire marks.

Another showed a very vague interpretation of a Formula One car — lopsided wheels, dramatic flames, one suspiciously smiley face on the helmet.

Another still featured a chicken driving a race car.

Lando leaned forward to squint at that one.

Definitely a chicken.

“GO FAST BUT NOT TOO FAST,” it said in glitter pen under the drawing. The O in “GO” had eyes. The "S" in "FAST" had a lightning bolt through it.

Lando snorted.

That was… incredibly specific.

“Wow,” he said, smirking. “You’ve got a lot of fan art in here.”

Oscar finally looked up. “Hm?”

Lando gestured around the room, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m just saying… this is the softest your room has ever looked. What, did a fan send you a care package?”

Oscar blinked once. Twice.

Then followed Lando’s gaze. Paused.

“Oh,” he said casually. “Yeah. It just felt kind of cold in here, you know? So I figured I’d redecorate.”

Lando blinked. “With chicken-themed fan art?”

Oscar shrugged. “Adds character.”

Lando couldn’t help but snort. Only Oscar would think that plastering fan art all over his drivers room would make it feel “warmer”. 

A weird obsession with kid sized merch

Lando noticed it for the first time at the McLaren factory gift shop.

They were doing a casual walk-through after some filming, mostly killing time while someone printed updated media decks. Lando wandered toward the wall of merch — adult sizes, junior kits, baby onesies, even tiny McLaren teddy bears in miniature race suits.

He wasn’t really looking for anything.

Oscar, on the other hand, made a beeline straight for the kids’ section.

Again.

Lando leaned on the shelf. Watched.

Oscar stopped by the back racks — fully absorbed in comparing three different sizes of junior caps.

Children’s sizes. Bright colors. One of them had glitter.

Lando blinked.

Oscar picked one up, turned it in his hands, and squinted at the stitching like he was inspecting it for FIA approval.

Lando wandered over, casually sipping his drink. “Uh… you planning to wear that?”

Oscar barely glanced up. “No. This one’s too stiff. It’ll bug her ears.”

“…Her?”

“Yeah.” Oscar didn’t elaborate. Just picked up another and pressed the inside seam with his thumb. “The elastic on this one’s better, but the Velcro’s weak. It won’t survive more than a week.”

Lando squinted. “Mate, why do you know that?”

Oscar blinked at him like he’d just asked what 2 + 2 was. “Because I’ve bought five of them.”

“Why?”

Oscar’s voice was perfectly calm. “Because the glitter ones fall apart in the wash and the regular ones shrink in the dryer. The 2022 version held up best.”

Oscar was now holding up a toddler-sized hoodie like he was inspecting fabric for a bespoke suit. “Do you think this runs small?”

Lando blinked. “Mate, you’re not gonna fit into that.”

Oscar gave him a look. “It’s not for me.”

“...So you just spend your free time evaluating baby merch like it’s Pirelli compound data?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’ve upgraded the stitching. And the seams used to pill after a few washes.”

Lando stared at him.

Hard.

Because this wasn’t the first time. Oscar always stopped by the kids’ section. Asked weirdly specific questions about youth sizing and durability. Once, Lando had caught him muttering something about how the toddler cap’s brim was too short to be practical. A few months ago, he’d gotten into a five-minute debate with a merch rep about the brim angle on the toddler caps. Something about sun protection and ear coverage.

Back then, Lando figured Oscar just… liked miniature things. Or had a secret side hustle selling baby teamwear on eBay.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

“…You do know you’re twenty-two and not a kindergarten stylist, right?” Lando asked, watching Oscar inspect a youth t-shirt like it had secrets.

Oscar nodded. “I know.”

“And you’re over here comparing fabric blends like you’re prepping a McLaren baby line?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea, honestly. The old toddler polos had awful seams. They improved the 2024 batch.”

Lando just… stared.

Oscar wasn’t joking. Oscar was never joking about this stuff.

Finally, Lando said, slowly, “Mate. What is it with you and tiny clothes?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’re fun.”

+1: The one time Oscar made it very clear that he was a dad. 

Lando heard them before he saw them.

He’d wandered out back looking for a charger and maybe a second espresso—just enough time to breathe between debriefs—when he caught the tail end of a conversation.

Four mechanics. Leaning against the pit wall crates. Talking louder than they probably should.

“Had to FaceTime during lunch again,” one was saying. “My kid wanted to show me his drawing. Looked like a bloody squid with legs. Had to pretend it was good.”

Another one snorted. “Mine locked himself in the pantry last week. Thought it was funny. I told my wife to deal with it—I was too tired.”

The others snorted.

“Mine’s worse,” another said. “Always clinging, always needing something. It’s like—I don’t get a break at work, and I don’t get one at home either. It’s exhausting.”

“Mine told me he missed me,” a third said, voice cold. “Like that’s my fault. What does he want, a medal? I’ve got a job. I pay for everything. That should be enough.”

The first mechanic groaned. “…I swear, every time I get home there’s some new passive-aggressive list on the fridge from the Mrs. As if I haven’t been working twelve-hour days in the heat.”

“Mine’s mad I missed her mum’s birthday. Sorry, forgot to pencil in emotional obligation between Bahrain and Jeddah.”

“Be glad your kid is still cute at least. Mine’s hit the talking-back phase. Thinks he’s a comedian. Little smartass. I swear, sometimes I look at him and just think—God, you ruined my sleep, my weekends, and my peace and quiet.”

Lando flinched.

He didn’t mean to listen.

He told himself to walk away.

But then—

Oscar’s voice. Low. Razor-sharp.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

It wasn’t loud.

But it cut through the air like a switchblade.

Lando stilled.

Oscar stood off to the side, arms folded, posture loose—but his face was hard. Cold. Not angry in the explosive way. Angry in the kind of way that stayed.

One of the mechanics laughed awkwardly. “Oh come on, mate. Wait until you’ve had kids for more than a week—”

“I have a three year-old,” Oscar said. Flat. Unapologetic. “And I’ve never once looked at her and thought she ruined anything.”

That shut them up.

Oscar stepped forward, voice soft, but lethal now. “You sit here and talk about your children like they’re inconveniences. Like they’re parasites who robbed you of something. But they’re kids. They didn’t ask to be born. They didn’t ask for your job or your exhaustion or your bitterness.”

One of the men tried to scoff. “It’s just venting—”

“No,” Oscar snapped. “It’s cruelty. Dressed up as banter.”

One of the mechanics snorted. “Alright, Piastri. Settle down.”

Oscar stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against a crate—quiet, composed, and lethal.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “Because I’ve heard this conversation three times this season. And every time it makes me want to be sick.”

Another mechanic scoffed. “You’re twenty-three, mate. What would you know? Come back and talk to us when you’ve had a toddler scream in your face for an hour straight.”

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“I have,” he said, voice steel-edged.  “What do I know?” Oscar said, low and sharp. “I know more than you, apparently.”

The laughter died.

Oscar stepped closer, and when he spoke again, it was the kind of voice Lando had only ever heard on race comms—precise, icy, lethal.

“I know what it’s like to walk out the door while your kid clings to your leg crying and you still have to leave. I know what it’s like to miss first words and bedtime because your job doesn’t wait. I know what it’s like to hold my wife at night while she tries not to fall apart from doing everything alone.”

One of the mechanics muttered something under his breath—maybe “dramatic”—but Oscar cut him off.

“No,” he said, sharper now. “You don’t get to complain about your kid loving you. You don’t get to bitch about someone wanting your attention when they’re four years old and trying to understand the world. You don’t get to complain about your wives holding down the fort at home while you are gone.”

He stepped in fully now. Lando could just see the edge of him. Jaw tight. Hands still. Eyes like fire under ice.

“You think you’re tired? Your wives are tired. My wife holds our whole world together while I fly across time zones and come home with a smile and a suitcase. She handles everything—school, food, laundry, tears, scraped knees, nightmares. All the invisible things you think just… happen. You think your job is hard? Try explaining to a toddler why Papa’s never home.”

His voice dropped.

“And you sit here and talk about your kids like they’re weights around your neck instead of the best damn thing that ever happened to you?”

No one said a word.

“You think being exhausted means you’ve earned the right to resent your family? No. You want to know what makes someone a man? Showing up. Even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. Because your family doesn’t stop needing you just because you had a long day.”

He looked around, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“You are not entitled to love. You’re lucky to receive it.”

Oscar’s face was set. Calm. Controlled. But there was fury simmering just beneath it—grief, too. And something bone-deep and unwavering.

“You think they slow you down? Maybe they’d be better off without you dragging them behind.”

There was a heavy pause.

Then, soft but with the impact of a sledgehammer:

“Being loved that hard is not a burden. It’s a gift. And if you’re too selfish to see that—then don’t be surprised when they stop waiting for you to come home.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one.

And then he turned.

Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t look back.

Just walked away—like he’d said everything that needed to be said.

Lando stood there a second longer, heart still thudding.

Then, quietly, he turned and followed Oscar.

Because that?

That was the most brutal, honest thing he’d heard all year.

And somehow, he knew—

Bee would never have to wonder how loved she was.

Not with a dad like that.

[daisymooonart]

May my Emperor live ten thousand years!

An (un)official painting of the Emperor and Empress of Huaxia. I would absolutely bow for Wu Zetian. Maybe not Qin Zheng, but he is hot and communist so I am tempted.

This took me around 15-20 hours to make and it was so worth it <3

Details under the cut!

First off: the faces.

Because of how obscured it was going to be, I wanted to get a good sense of what Zetian would look like before the makeup and the mask. I tried to give her a kind of average appearance, because I wanted to try and make her look like a normal person under all of that Empress garb (she's only 18... she should have been at the clurbbb). Her face is purposefully a little asymmetrical.

For makeup, I went for the blush-that-makes-you-look-drunk look that was apparently fashionable among Tang ladies. Her lips and yedian are pretty standard. I saved the xiehong on the wrong layer like a clown 😭 but it's still visible under the mask. Not entirely sure if her huadian would be accurate, but it's the one on the painting of Empress Wu that I see most often.

Would Qin Zheng have a stroke if he saw Zetian hang out with men wearing this mask? Absolutely. Am I Qin Zheng? Nope I'm an artist who spent wayyyyy too long drawing Zetian's face and didn't want to cover it up fully. Her haircomb is in the shape of an upside-down butterfly. The sharp bit on the collar is inspired by a shirt I saw in the Hunger Games once, it's a style that's supposed to force you into keeping good posture. I hc that Qin Zheng included it to piss her off, and it's definitely working...

Now for Qin Zheng's face. I tried to go for a simple, smooth-wing look. I never really envisioned him as twink-y when I read the book and tried to go for a hot-and-scary-man look whilst keeping it a little bit androgynous. He'd never ever have his hair down for a formal painting but I want to separate his face from the rest of the piece. His eye is weaker on his scarred side. He looks a little feverish and a little bit infuriated: he is probably wondering why the hell he needs to be painted when photographs now exist.

It's a very busy painting and I fully expect people to gloss over this, so here's a little zoom on Qin Zheng gripping Zetian's armour. He's a freak.

Now for the throne. I tried to do a dragon/phoenix piece but it didn't show very well in the actual painting, so here it is. You can really tell how much I love scribble art lol.

And here's the base of the throne, with two dragons to keep our lovely tyrants company

I opted for a double-seated throne because I accidentally drew them too close together and couldn't move them because of the layers because feminism <3

Now for clothing. I noticed that on the HT cover, Zetian has a white gem whilst Qin Zheng has a black gem, but the clothes underneath are the opposite colours. I made the details on Qin Zheng's armour white and Zetian's details black, but Qin Zheng's armour ends up being darker whilst Zetian's armour is a lot paler. Symbolism... or something... Also they both get a heart because its cute, like a friendship bracelet.

I really can't draw scales though so erm. Yeah.

If you notice any er,,,, imagery in their lower robes it was unintentional I swear

Even though Qin Zheng is very much the taller, dominant figure in the piece, I tried to actually put the focus on Zetian, by making her armour a different shade of gold to the throne and by keeping her closer to the centre. I don't know if it worked but my eyes think so. I think out of the entire piece though, Zetian took me the longest because I hadn't settled on what look I was trying to go for her. I redrew her armour about five times, but thankfully by the time it was done I had pretty much solidified where I was going with Qin Zheng's armour and I finished that in no time.

Again I absolutely loved making this painting, it was SO worth it. It might me my most detailed ever. I adore Heavenly Tyrant so so so much it might actually be my favourite book ever lol.

[flwrkid14]

Please please please give me tim drake who has always wanted a little brother. Give me tim drake who was so excited to have damian as a little brother. Give me Tim drake who was heartbroken that damian hated him. Give me Tim drake who gave up on his dreams of being the best older brother.

But also give me Tim drake who was so happy when duke came into the family and was happy to meet him. Give me Tim drake who has to experience the awe and admiration Duke has for him because HE is Duke's robin. Give me a Tim drake who FINALLY gets to be the older brother he always wanted to be.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GIVE ME A TM DRAKE WHO TEACHES DUKE HOW TO BE A DRAKE, WHO TEACHES DUKE HOW TO ACT AT GALAS AND INTERACT WITH HIGH SOCIETY LIKE JANET TAUGHT HIM.

(No pressure, I love your work so much)

hi anon !! tysm for the ask and sorry it took me a minute to get to it, but I had so much fun writing this, and this was such a brilliant idea! <3

Tim always wanted a little brother.

Not to boss around or dump chores on—he just liked the idea of it. Someone to look after. Someone to share things with. To protect. He grew up alone in a house full of silence and secrets, and maybe he thought a little brother would make it all feel a little less cold.

So when Damian came into the picture, Tim was excited. Really, genuinely excited. Damian was younger. He was new. He was Tim’s chance to finally be the older brother he’d always wanted to be.

Except Damian… hated him.

From the start. Didn’t even hesitate. It was instant, razor-sharp disdain. Like Tim had done something unspeakable just by existing. Just—rage and rejection and contempt.

And Tim—he didn’t know what to do with that. He tried, at first. But everything he did just seemed to make things worse. So eventually, he stopped trying. He let the silence settle between them again, let the distance become a wall, and then a canyon.

And eventually, it just felt like—he’d never had a little brother at all.

Then Duke joined the family.

Younger than Tim. Bright. Smart. So much potential. And Tim didn’t let himself hope. Didn’t reach.

So he stayed polite. Friendly. Civil. He helped Duke when he asked, guided him when it was needed. But he kept that emotional distance. Just in case. Just in case Duke ended up hating him too.

Except… Duke didn’t.

Instead, Duke started standing by him at events. Letting Tim take the lead. Letting Tim show him the ropes of high society and backhanded condolences.

Tim noticed the way Duke mimicked his posture, his cadence, his etiquette. Like he trusted him.

And something in Tim—hope. It sparked again.

He started softening. Started doting. Just a little. Then more. Checking in. Saving him the good snacks. Making sure he wasn’t left behind in the chaos of everything.

And one day, Duke tells him— “You were my Robin. Not Dick. Not Jason. You. I always looked up to you.”

And that—Tim has to sit down. Because. No one’s ever said that to him. No one’s ever meant it like that. He’d never expected to hear it from anyone, let alone from Duke—the kid he hadn’t let himself hope for.

Duke likes when Tim teaches him how to be a Drake. When Tim smooths his collar and reminds him to arch one eyebrow when a socialite says something snide. Duke notices the difference, too. Damian learns how to be a Wayne. But he learns how to be a Drake.

And Duke thinks he might actually like being a Drake, even more than he would a Wayne, at least. There’s something gentle about it. Something warm.

Tim looks at Duke and thinks: maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Maybe this is what having a little brother feels like.

And it’s not perfect. It’s not how he pictured it when he was ten years old and lonely.

But it’s real.

And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[aventurineswife]

Can i ask... hsr men with a reader who always calls them by their name, when the reader suddenly uses a pet name, an intimate one at that out of nowhere? Like, would they ignore would they get flustered or stuff?

“Call Me That Again and I’m Yours”

Synopsis: They’ve always known you as someone steady—reliable, composed, respectful. Names were a boundary you never crossed. Until you did. Suddenly, a soft pet name slips from your lips—they can only respond in the only way they know how.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Caelus x Reader, Argenti x Reader, Romantic Tension, Emotional Vulnerability, Subtle Fluff, Soft Pet Names, Slow burn/Sudden Intimacy, Banter turning Tender, Hurt/Comfort (esp. for Mydei and Sunday), Stoic Men Unraveling, Subtext and Suppressed Feelings, Unexpected Reactions.

Warnings: Light mentions of blood (Mydei's scene), Slight angst / emotional baggage, Suggestive tension (Aventurine, Dan Heng), Emotional themes (e.g., trauma, guilt, redemption).

A/N: I might have to do multiple parts of this req, so let me know which characters you wanna see next! :DD

You’d always called him Aventurine—not Kakavasha, never anything soft. Just Aventurine. Clean, professional, distant. Even during your playful banter or those late-night strategy sessions when his voice dipped and his eyes lingered a little too long, you’d kept the line firm.

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 1

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

You were always “the Wayne heir.”

That’s what they called you.

In interviews.

In society columns.

From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.

“Wayne’s golden child.”

“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”

“Just like dear Brucie.”

And maybe, from a distance, you were.

You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.

A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.

You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.

Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.

You played the part.

Because someone had to.

But every crown leaves a bruise.

What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.

The pressure.

The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.

Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.

And you? His child.

That’s what the headlines said.

But the whispers always followed.

Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some random fling, probably.”

“She was a dancer.”

“Or a thief.”

“Or worse.”

“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”

They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.

In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.

Some said she never existed.

Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.

None of them knew her.

None of them wanted to.

That’s what stung the most.

You learned to hold it all in.

Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.

Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.

Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.

Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.

They’d see you weren’t perfect.

And then the whole façade would crack.

You were proud of what you built.

Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.

You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.

But it still didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.

“Just a name.”

“Just a shadow.”

“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”

And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:

Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?

Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?

You never got an answer.

Not one that lasted.

All you had were trophies.

And silence.

And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.

They could doubt you.

They could doubt her.

But you wouldn’t let them erase you.

You earned your place.

And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The clock read 3:47 a.m.

You shouldn’t have been awake.

But you were.

You always were—whenever someone was out.

Especially Tim.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.

No ping.

No signal.

No return alert from the field.

Your gut twisted.

Something was wrong. Off.

And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.

The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.

But screw that.

Not tonight.

You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.

Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.

He barely looked at you.

But your eyes weren’t on him.

Because a second later, Tim emerged.

He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.

He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.

Because he knew this wasn’t new.

Just the first time you saw it this up close.

Your stomach flipped.

“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.

Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was.

And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.

“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”

Handled?

Your eyes snapped to him.

“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”

He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.

That’s when something inside you cracked.

“He’s fourteen, Dad!”

Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.

“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”

Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.

You weren’t finished.

“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”

Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.

“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”

Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.

Still, no answer.

“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”

Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”

But you couldn’t stop. Not now.

“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”

That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.

Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.

And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.

Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.

“Go upstairs.”

His tone was colder than the cave floor.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your lungs.

Not part of something.

Not your responsibility.

The words carved through you like glass.

“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.

Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.

“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”

You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”

You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.

You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.

His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.

•

The kitchen was dim.

Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.

Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.

The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.

He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.

Just:

“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”

You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.

You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.

Alfred worked in silence.

Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.

Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.

You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.

And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.

Finally, Tim broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to yell like that.”

You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.

“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”

He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:

“I am part of the mission. You know that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.

And that made it worse.

“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.

“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”

You nodded numbly.

As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.

“You did the right thing.”

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like the kind of right that hurts.

You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.

Finally, he spoke again.

“You were always the one who held it together.”

You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.

“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”

He looked at you now.

“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.

“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than it should have.

Your lips parted. No words came.

Just a slow, sharp inhale.

Because you didn’t know.

Because it was too much.

Because if you said one word, you might cry.

So instead, you shook your head.

And whispered the only thing that still felt true:

“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”

Tim looked down.

And this time, he didn’t argue.

──── ୨୧ ────

The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.

Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.

You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.

You hated it.

The press called the gala a success.

A smooth handoff.

Wayne blood stepping into legacy.

“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”

“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”

And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.

Because this wasn’t your night.

This was Gotham’s.

And you were the mask it wanted.

Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.

A single message through Lucius that morning:

“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”

“They.”

Means you.

But you showed up anyway. Like always.

Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.

You handled it all.

Flawless. Smooth.

Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.

•

By hour two, though… you felt it.

That pressure. That itch.

Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.

You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.

Nothing obvious.

But someone was watching. You knew it.

You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.

There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.

“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink.

“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Not like that.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.

“…Paranoia?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”

He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.

Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.

It was enough.

Moments later, a softer step approached.

Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.

“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.

“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”

You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.

“Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”

But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.

“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”

You looked away.

“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.

He nodded. No judgment.

Damian, sharp as ever, added:

“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”

You met his gaze.

He was right.

“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”

I should have stopped it sooner.

I should’ve fought harder.

I should’ve been more like Bruce.

Tim’s voice pulled you back:

“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”

You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”

•

The party wore on.

And so did the mask.

But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…

You told the boys:

“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”

Lie.

Tim frowned, but didn’t push.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Lie.

Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.

“Don’t linger.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”

He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.

And you?

You returned to the ballroom.

Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.

Backstage.

Behind the curtain.

Where the lights couldn’t find you.

You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.

You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:

“Maybe I was too harsh.”

The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.

“This isn’t your responsibility.”

“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.

You didn’t wear a mask.

You weren’t trained like them.

You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.

You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.

A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.

Your voice shook.

“I tried. I really—tried.”

But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.

No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.

Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.

You buried your face in your hands.

I wasn’t enough.

I never will be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.

The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.

You were alone.

The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.

No footsteps.

No echo.

Just silence.

You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.

And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.

Muscle memory.

You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.

“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.

“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”

You hadn’t used it.

Not once.

You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.

Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.

But tonight…

Tonight the air felt wrong.

You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.

Until it blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Red.

Your breath locked inside your throat.

You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.

Something was watching you.

But the ballroom behind you was still empty.

The curtains didn’t move.

The marble floor gave no sound.

You stared at the blinking light.

Tapped the screen.

Just to be sure.

LOCATION: This building.

DISTANCE: 28 meters.

MOVEMENT: Advancing.

You inhaled—sharp and shallow.

Your hands started to tremble.

“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.

“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”

But the blinking didn’t stop.

Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.

“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”

Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.

“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”

Back then, you didn’t understand.

Tonight, you did.

You felt it in your skin.

In your bones.

This wasn’t panic.

This was warning.

You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Then again.

A third time—

Then out.

Gone.

Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.

Someone had cut power.

Someone had planned this.

No cameras. No signal. No eyes.

You stood frozen for a full five seconds.

Then—

You bolted.

Not because you were brave.

Because you were trained.

Selina’s voice again:

“Never wait to be cornered.”

Bruce’s, colder:

“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”

You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.

The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.

You could feel it.

Someone was following.

Too quiet to hear.

But close.

So close.

You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.

You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—

Into Crime Alley.

You stopped.

The breath in your lungs died.

Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.

You knew this alley.

You shouldn’t have ended up here.

You couldn’t have.

You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.

The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.

Unless someone rerouted the doors.

Locked the others.

Funneled you.

Your hands clutched the sensor.

It was still blinking.

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

“Please, someone…”

Your thumb hovered.

Trembled.

You activated the emergency beacon.

Pulse sent.

Silent. Invisible. Immediate.

But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:

No one’s coming.

If they were, they’d be here by now.

If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.

Someone would’ve stayed.

Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.

Would’ve felt the silence closing in.

But they didn’t.

And now you were here.

Alone.

In the alley that made Gotham what it was.

Where the myth of the Bat was born.

You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.

“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”

A sound behind you.

You turned.

And the last thing you felt…

…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:

“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111 @hai-there-how-are-you

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[solxamber]

Prologue: A Day Like No Other

This is the prologue for the 1k Event! It'll split into routes from here!

1k Masterlist

When you woke up that morning, you expected an ordinary day—classes, Grim stealing food from your tray, and maybe an explosion or two courtesy of Ace and Deuce. What you didn’t expect was for nearly every boy in the entire school to suddenly decide, out of nowhere, that they wanted to ask you out.

Riddle Rosehearts

He corners you right after class, red as a lobster, clutching a rulebook in one hand like it’s his lifeline. "I… I thought you might like to attend a formal tea ceremony with me this weekend. You have excellent posture, and I believe we would engage in delightful conversation."

He clears his throat and adjusts his collar. "Of course, I’ll have a list of acceptable topics for us to discuss."

You stare at him. He's shaking slightly.

"...Is this a date?"

His ears turn crimson. "It is not—" He exhales deeply. "Yes, it is. Please say yes."

Trey Clover

Trey smiles warmly as he approaches you after club activities. "Hey, I made a batch of tarts, and I thought we could eat them together. Just us. I mean... It’d be nice to spend time with you. Alone."

He rubs the back of his neck, trying not to look embarrassed. "And if you’d like, I could teach you how to bake something... Maybe, uh, something sweet?"

Cater Diamond

Cater pops out of nowhere, phone already in hand and pointed at you. "Yooo! Wanna go on a date with me? We could take tons of selfies, make Vil jealous, and trend under #CoupleGoals."

You blink at him.

"And hey," he adds with a wink, "if we get along, maybe I’ll tag you in my socials. Exclusive content, you know?"

Ace Trappola

"Okay, look," Ace says, leaning casually against the wall. "I’m not saying you should pick me over, like, Leona or Malleus or whoever—but I’m way more fun than those guys. C’mon, let’s go out. I’ll buy you ice cream. Two scoops."

He wiggles his eyebrows. "You know you want to."

Deuce Spade

Deuce looks nervous but determined, like he’s psyching himself up for a boxing match. "I—I know I’m not the smoothest guy around, but I really like spending time with you! And if you’ll go out with me, I promise I’ll… I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Or at least, uh, I’ll try to be."

Leona Kingscholar

Leona, as usual, doesn’t even try to sugarcoat it. "Come nap with me."

"Is that your idea of a date?"

He shrugs. "You don’t seem like the type to want fancy dinners. This is less effort. Plus, I sleep better when you’re there."

Ruggie Bucchi

"Heyyyy," Ruggie grins, tugging on your sleeve. "How ‘bout you and me hit the town? I know a place that gives out free meals if you pretend to be engaged. C’mon, it’ll be fun!"

Jack Howl

Jack frowns, clearly struggling with the words. "I’m not great at this stuff, but... If you want, we could run together sometime? Or, uh, go on a walk?"

He glances away, ears twitching. "It’d be nice. With you."

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul adjusts his glasses, smiling like he’s just sealed the most important business deal of his life. "It would be an honor to escort you to a dinner at Mostro Lounge. Of course, all expenses will be covered. Consider it... an exclusive arrangement."

Jade Leech

Jade leans in just a little too close, that unsettling smile plastered on his face. "I believe we would have an interesting time exploring the woods together. Perhaps we’ll discover some mushrooms... or each other’s secrets?"

Floyd Leech

Floyd swings an arm over your shoulder, grinning ear to ear. "Oi, let’s go somewhere fun! If anyone bothers us, I’ll squish ‘em."

"Floyd, is this a date?"

"Obviously! Hehe, you're stuck with me now, Shrimpy."

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim’s eyes sparkle with excitement. "Wanna come to a party? It’ll be huge! And afterward, we can ride my magic carpet under the stars!"

You barely have time to respond before he’s already planning an itinerary.

Jamil Viper

Jamil sighs, looking like he’s regretting this already. "If Kalim hasn’t dragged you off yet… would you like to grab lunch? Somewhere quiet, where I won’t have to babysit anyone."

Vil Schoenheit

Vil regards you with a calculating smile. "We could attend an opera together. Or a fashion show, if you prefer. You have potential, you know. I wouldn’t mind refining it."

Rook Hunt

"Ah, mon trésor!" Rook exclaims, dramatic as ever. "It would be a delight to hunt for beauty with you! A picnic in the forest, perhaps? Under the moonlight, where all things enchanting dwell."

Epel Felmier

Epel grins mischievously. "Wanna go smash stuff?"

"...That’s your idea of a date?"

"Yup." He winks. "You in or what?"

Idia Shroud

Idia looks like he’s on the verge of fainting. "So, uh... I-I heard there’s this new game releasing. M-maybe we could play it together? Or not. Forget I asked."

Before you can respond, Ortho pops up cheerfully. "Say yes! My brother’s been practicing this for weeks!"

Malleus Draconia

Malleus looms over you, an almost shy smile on his face. "I would be honored if you would accompany me on a stroll through the gardens. There are many things I wish to show you... and, perhaps, learn from you as well."

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia grins, his fangs glinting in the light. "How about a little mischief together? We could visit an amusement park or play pranks on the first years. Either way, I guarantee it’ll be memorable!"

Silver

Silver, looking half-asleep, gives you a soft smile. "If you’d like, we could... I don’t know. Sit under a tree and talk. Or just... exist, I guess. As long as it’s with you."

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek stands stiffly, as if on the verge of saluting. "I would like to take you to dinner! Not that it matters to me, of course! But it would be... logical for us to spend time together. As comrades!"

Rollo Flamme

Rollo catches you alone, adjusting his pristine cuffs with his usual air of seriousness. “I dislike crowds, so I will be brief,” he says, voice as even as his posture. “Would you like to accompany me to a quiet tea house? I find your company... less intolerable than most.”

You blink at him.

He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Consider it a date.” Then, after a pause, he quickly adds, “If you wish, of course.”

His ears are red, but he refuses to meet your gaze, determined to keep his dignity intact.

And just like that, you find yourself drowning in invitations. Your phone buzzes with reminders from Ortho ("Don't forget to reply to my brother!") and Epel’s laughter rings in your ears. Ace and Deuce whisper ominously about Riddle’s wrath.

Leona, meanwhile, lazily waves from the other end of the hall. "Pick whoever you want. If it's not me, just don’t wake me up."

So...

Who will it be?

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[sunbeamlessreads]

Private Negatives - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader] ~7.8k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, smut, voyeurism themes, power imbalance, emotionally explicit content, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, kids), workplace tension

you’re the one behind the lens. but he’s the one who sees you.

notes: this one was super fun to write for me. i really hope i didn't screw anything up lol. i hope you guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. <3

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You keep your head down as you move through the paddock, your camera strap biting into your collarbone and a fresh credential swinging at your hip. The McLaren media lanyard feels heavier than it should. Not in weight—in implication. New territory, new rules; three races embedded with the team, to finish off the season. Vegas, Qatar, Abu Dhabi. Your name on the contract, your watermark on the final selects.

Just don’t make noise.

The paddock is already thick with it—generators humming, pit lane chatter bouncing off the concrete, PR staff herding talent like overcaffeinated sheepdogs. You’ve worked in motorsport before, mostly on the American side: IndyCar, IMSA, a brief stint with NASCAR that taught you everything you never wanted to know about beer sponsorships and flame decals.

But Formula 1 is something else. Sleeker. Sharper. Quieter, even in its chaos. Everyone moves like they already know what comes next. You’re the only variable.

You duck into the McLaren garage and make yourself small in a corner, lens already raised. You find your rhythm fast—motion in bursts, posture quiet, shutter clicks softened by muscle memory and padded gloves. You’re good at being invisible. Better at looking than being looked at.

That’s when you see him.

Oscar Piastri, back turned, talking to an engineer in low tones. Fireproofs rolled to his waist, team polo damp at the collar. His posture is precise—his arms are folded, one foot is slightly out, and his weight is settled like he’s bracing for something. You know the type. Drivers are like that: built for pressure, too used to watching every move replayed in high-definition.

You lift your camera and catch the side of his face—jaw set, eyes somewhere far off. The light’s doing strange things to his skin. You click the shutter once. Just once.

He doesn’t notice.

You lower the camera and frown. It’s not a good shot. Or maybe it’s too good, too telling. You can’t tell.

You move on. The lens doesn’t linger.

Through the next hour, you cycle between pit wall and garage, hospitality and media pens, cataloging the edges of everything: mechanics with grease under their nails, engineers pointing at telemetry with a ferocity that doesn’t match the volume of their voices, Lando laughing too loud at something a comms assistant said. You catch him mid-gesture, mouth open, eyes crinkled—a perfect frame. That one will make the cut.

Oscar again, later—seated now, legs splayed, one knee bouncing under the table during a pre-FP1 briefing. Someone’s talking at him. He’s listening, but only barely. You zoom in. Not close enough to intrude, just enough to see the faint vertical line between his brows.

Click.

He glances up, just then. Not directly at you—at the lens. It’s only for a second.

You drop the camera a beat too late. You’re unsure if he saw you, or if you just want to believe he did. Doesn’t matter. You move.

By the time the session starts, your card’s half full and your shoulders ache. You shoot through it anyway—stops at the pit, tire changes, helmets going on and coming off. Oscar’s face stays unreadable. You begin to think that’s just how he is. Not aloof. Not rude. Just… held.

Held in. Held back.

You catch a frame of him alone in the garage just after FP1. Not polished, not composed. Just tired, human, real.

Click.

You keep that one.

You spend the next hour doing what you’re paid to do, but not how they expect.

Most photographers chase the obvious: the cars, the straight-on portraits, the victory poses. But you don’t work in absolutes. You’re not looking for the image they’ll post. You’re looking for the one they won’t realize meant something until later.

Lando’s easier. He moves like he knows he’s being watched—not in a vain way, but in a way that’s aware. Comfortable. Charismatic. You catch him bouncing on the balls of his feet while waiting for practice to start, race suit zipped to the collar, gloves half-pulled on, teasing a junior mechanic with a flicked towel and a crooked grin.

Click. Click.

He’s animated even in stillness.

You crouch by the front wing of the MCL39 as the garage clears and the mechanics prep Oscar’s car for the next run. The papaya paint glows under the fluorescents, almost too bright. You let the car fill your frame—the clean lines, the blur of sponsor decals, the matte finish of carbon fiber. You shoot the curve of the sidepod, the narrow precision of the halo, the rearview mirror where someone’s scribbled something in Sharpie.

You zoom in: “be still.”

It’s faded. Private. You don’t ask.

Oscar again.

He’s suited now, fully zipped, gloves tugged on sharp fingers, balaclava pulled to his chin. A McLaren PR assistant hands him a water bottle, saying something you can’t hear. He nods once. That’s all.

You adjust your position. The light behind him throws his figure into sharp contrast—full shadows across the orange and blue of his race suit, his name stitched at the hip, his helmet in hand. It’s a photo that shouldn’t work. But it does.

Click.

Helmet on. Visor down. The world shifts. He’s gone behind it again.

You lower your camera. Breathe out.

The difference between a person and a driver is about seven pounds of gear and one hard blink. You’ve seen it before. But this is the first time it’s made your fingers tremble.

You offload everything just before sunset, feet sore, mouth dry, memory cards filled past your usual threshold. The McLaren comms suite is quieter now—the day's buzz winding down into a lull of emails, decompression, and PR triage.

You’re at a corner table, laptop open, Lightroom humming. You work fast, fingers skimming across the touchpad and keys, instinctively flagging selects. You’re not here to overshoot. You’re here to find the frames. The ones that breathe.

A shadow crosses your table.

“Show me something good,” Zak Brown says. His voice is casual, but not careless. Nothing about him ever really is.

You shift the screen toward him. He slides his hands into his pockets and leans in. Just enough to see, not enough to crowd.

Silence.

You’ve pulled ten frames into your temp selects folder: Lando mid-laugh, a mechanic half-buried in the undercarriage with only his boots showing, Oscar’s car being wheeled back into the garage under high shadow, smoke curling from the brakes.

Then there’s him.

Oscar, post-FP1. Fireproofs peeled down to his waist. Sitting on the garage floor with his back against the wheel of his car.

Zak exhales. “Didn’t know the kid had this much presence. Or soul.”

You hover the cursor over the next shot—Oscar standing behind the car, half-suited, helmet under one arm, visor still up. His gaze off-frame. Brow furrowed. Light skimming the cut of his jaw.

Zak glances at you. “You ever thought about sticking around longer?”

You don’t answer. Not because you haven’t thought about it, but because you’re not sure you should.

That’s when you feel it. The shift in the air. That quiet, unmistakable stillness that means someone’s watching.

You turn.

Oscar is standing a few feet away.

No footsteps. No sound. Just there—calm, unreadable, still in his fireproofs. His eyes are on the screen.

“That’s not what I look like,” he says.

His voice is even. Not guarded, not accusing. Just… uncertain.

You click the laptop shut. “That’s exactly what you look like.”

A pause.

He looks at you, not the screen. “You’re good at your job.”

Then he turns and walks off, no nod, no glance back—just the low hum of the paddock swallowing him whole again.

You don’t head out with the rest of the team.

No drinks. No debrief. No passing your card off to the media coordinator and pretending to relax. You just take your hard case, your bag, and the image of Oscar Piastri walking away burned somewhere behind your eyes.

You don’t touch the selects folder.

You open the other one. The one you didn’t label. Just a generic dump of the shots you couldn’t delete but didn’t want reviewed, not yet.

Inside, there are maybe five frames.

One of Lando, overexposed and blurred, laughing so hard his face distorts like motion through glass. Another of a mechanic in the shadows, holding a wrench like a confession. A stray shot of the track, taken too early, too bright. A mistake. But not really.

And then there’s the one of him again.

Oscar.

Captured between moments—not posed, not aware. He’s sitting on the garage floor, one knee bent, one glove off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His suit is creased. His helmet is behind him, forgotten. His head is tilted just slightly toward the light. Not enough to be dramatic. Just enough to feel real.

You zoom in, slowly.

The edge of his jaw is lined with sweat. Not the fresh kind—the dried kind, salt clinging to skin after exertion. There’s a furrow between his brows, soft but persistent. His lips are parted like he’s just sighed and hasn’t caught the next breath yet.

You should delete it.

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too still. A kind of stillness that belongs to someone when they think no one’s looking. It feels like something you weren’t supposed to witness, let alone keep.

But you don’t delete it.

You hover the cursor over the filename. The auto-generated one: DSC_0147.JPG.

Your fingers drift to the keyboard. You add a single character.

DSC_0147_OP81

No tags. No notes. No edits. Just the letter. Just the truth, you’re not ready to say out loud.

You sit there for a long time after that. Laptop closed. Lights off. The glow of the city is bleeding through the curtains in faint, uneven lines.

You wonder if he knows—not about the photo. About what it means to be seen like that. About how rare it is, and how dangerous.

The hospitality suite hums around you in low tones—lights on dimmers, coffee machine off but still warm, the faint scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the corners. The carpet is that neutral industrial gray meant to hide wear. The kind of flooring that swallows footfalls. The type of silence you can live inside.

The rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You told them you needed to finish sorting shots for socials. No one questioned it. Louise nodded once, already halfway out the door, and Zak offered a distracted goodnight without looking up from his phone.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

You told them you were sorting selects. You didn’t say which ones.

You’re tucked into a corner booth at the back of the room, laptop open, knees drawn up, one foot pressing flat against the faux-leather seat. The day’s weight settles in your spine—low, dull, familiar. Your body aches in the ways it always does after being on your feet too long, shouldering gear heavier than it looks.

You haven’t eaten since lunch. You haven’t cared.

A few dishes rattle faintly in the back as catering finishes their sweep. After that, it’s just you. You and the quiet click of your trackpad. You move like you’ve done this a hundred times—and you have. This is your space. Not the paddock. Not the pit wall. Not the grid. Here. The edit suite. The after-hours.

This is where the truth lives. After the lights are off, the PR filters are stripped, and no one’s watching but you.

You scroll through today’s selects—the public ones. The safe ones. There’s one of Lando on a scooter, wind in his curls, mid-laugh, and practically golden in the late light. He’ll repost it within the hour if you give it to him. Another of the mechanics elbow-deep in the guts of a car, all orange gloves and jawlines under harsh fluorescents. Sweat stains, sleeve smears, real work.

And then… him.

Even in the selects folder, Oscar’s different. Cleaner. Sharper. More precise. You didn’t filter him that way. He just arrived like that. Controlled. A study in restraint.

But that’s not the folder you’ve got open.

You tab over. The unlabeled one. The one you didn’t offer.

Five images. One thumbnail bigger than the rest—clicked more. Held longer. A private gravity.

The shot is unbalanced. Technically imperfect. You should’ve deleted it hours ago.

You didn’t.

You should color correct. Straighten the angle. Try to fix it. But some part of you—the part that works on instinct more than training—knows that would ruin it. The frame only matters because it wasn’t supposed to be seen. Not even by you.

You sit back against the booth and stare at it. Not studying. Just being with it.

And then you feel it—not sound, not movement. Just a shift in the air.

A presence.

You glance up.

Oscar’s standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds his place near the threshold, one hand resting loosely on the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he’s interrupting. He’s changed—soft team shirt, track pants, hair still slightly damp. Not a look meant for a camera. Not a look meant for anyone, really.

“I didn’t know anyone was still here,” he says.

You sit up a little straighter. “Didn’t expect to be.”

He steps in quietly, letting the door close behind him. Doesn’t make a move to sit or leave. Just hovers a few paces off, gaze flicking from the booth to the glow of your screen.

“What are you working on?” he asks, softer this time. Not performing curiosity. Just… genuinely curious.

You pause. Then turn the laptop slightly in his direction.

“Sorting photos,” you say.

He tilts his head to see. You expect him to take the out, nod, change the subject, or wave off the offer like most drivers do. Instead, he steps closer. One hand is on the booth’s divider for balance, and the other is loose on his side.

He looks at the screen. Really looks.

You’ve clicked back to the safer folder. The selects. It’s still full of him, though—his car in profile, a side view of his helmet under golden light, his hands resting lightly on the halo as a mechanic adjusts something behind him. Not posed. Just there. Present.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet.

Then: “Do I really look like that?”

The question isn’t skeptical. It’s not even self-deprecating. It’s something else. Wonder, maybe. A genuine attempt to see himself from the outside.

You don’t answer right away.

You scroll to the next frame. Him post-practice, hands on hips, visor up. Sweat cooling on his neck. The curve of tension in his spine visible through the suit. You scroll again—him in motion this time, walking past a barrier, the shadow of a halo bisecting his cheekbone.

He leans closer. Almost imperceptibly.

You look up at him. “What do you think you look like?”

He exhales slowly, not quite a laugh. “Flat. Quiet. Efficient.”

You click on the next photo—one you weren’t planning to share.

Oscar, half-turned. Not looking at anyone. Not performing. His face caught in mid-thought, eyes unfocused, something private flickering there and gone.

“You’re not wrong,” you say. “But you’re not right either.”

He studies the screen. Closer now. You can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin. He’s not watching himself anymore—he’s watching what you saw. And something about that visibly unsettles him.

“These are different,” he says after a moment.

You nod once. “They weren’t meant for the team folder.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Not guarded. Not suspicious. Just aware of you, of the space between you, of whatever it is this moment is starting to become.

You don’t look away from him. Not when his eyes finally lift from the screen. Not when they meet yours.

It’s not a long stare. But it’s not short either.

He blinks once and turns back to the laptop, brows drawing together—not in discomfort, but in something closer to focus. Like he’s still trying to understand how you’ve caught something he didn’t know he was showing.

You let the silence hold. Let it stretch into something close to peace. There’s no PR rep in the room, no lens turned back on him. Just you, the laptop, the low hum of refrigeration from the kitchenette, and Oscar Piastri looking at himself like the photo might answer a question he’s never asked out loud.

He gestures faintly toward the screen. “Do you photograph everyone like this?”

You know what he’s really asking. Not about composition. Not about exposure. About intention. About intimacy.

“No,” you say.

That’s it. One word. No performance. No clarification.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—more like a muscle catching a thought before it can turn into something else.

Another moment passes.

Then he shifts his weight slightly, hand brushing the table's edge as he leans in just enough to be beside you now, not just behind. Not touching. Not crowding. But near.

You don’t move away.

And he doesn’t move forward.

You both stay still, eyes on the screen now, like that’ll save you from the implication already thick in the air.

On the screen, he’s in profile. Brow relaxed, mouth parted like he was about to speak but didn’t. You remember the exact shutter click. You hadn’t meant to capture that. It just happened.

“I don’t remember this moment,” he murmurs, half to himself.

You almost say, That’s what made it real.

Instead, you close the photo. Not to hide it. Just to breathe.

You don’t open another image. You don’t need to.

He’s still standing beside you, and the silence between you has started to feel like something structural—a pressure system, an atmosphere. He hasn’t moved away. And you haven’t pulled back.

You’re not touching. But you feel him. The warmth of his shoulder. The stillness of his breath. The way his presence shifts the air around your body like gravity.

You glance sideways.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore.

He’s looking at you.

Not boldly. Not playfully. Just… plainly. Like he’s seeing you in real time and letting it happen.

He doesn’t speak right away. You think he might—you think the moment’s cresting into something spoken, into confession or contact or maybe just a name dropped between sentences. But instead, his gaze flicks once back to the laptop. Then to you again.

And all he says is:

“You’re good at seeing things people don’t mean to show.”

It’s not a compliment. Not exactly. It’s not judgment either.

It’s just true.

You swallow. Your throat is suddenly dry. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think he expects an answer.

He steps back.

Not abruptly. Just enough to break the spell.

His hand brushes the table's edge as he moves—the lightest contact, accidental or deliberate, you don’t know. Then he straightens.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say goodbye.

Just leaves.

The door clicks shut behind him like a shutter closing.

You don’t move for a long time.

The garage is quieter after a successful qualifying than anyone ever expects.

There’s no roar of celebration, no sharp silence of defeat—just the low, rhythmic scrape of routines. Cables coiled. . Tools clacking back into cases. Mechanics speaking in shorthand. Half-finished water bottles stacked in corners like the day couldn’t quite decide to end.

You stay late to shoot the stillness. The after. The details no one asks for but everyone remembers once they see them: the foam of rubber dust around a wheel arch, the long streak of oil under an abandoned jack, the orange smudge of a thumbprint on a visor that shouldn’t have been there. These are your favorite frames—the ones no one knows how to stage.

You think you’re alone.

You aren’t.

Oscar’s there—crouched beside his car, still in his fireproofs, the top half tied around his waist. His undershirt is damp across his back. His gloves are off. One hand rests on the slick curve of the sidepod, like he doesn’t want to leave it just yet.

He doesn’t look up at you. Not at first. Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re there.

But you raise your camera anyway.

Not for work. Not for the team. Just to capture what he looks like when no one’s telling him how to be.

You half-expect him to move—to shift, to block the frame, to glance up with that quiet indifference you’ve learned to recognize in him.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his head.

And holds your gaze.

You freeze, viewfinder still pressed to your eye. Your finger hovers over the shutter. One breath passes. Then another.

You click once.

The sound is soft but rings like a shot in the hollow space between you.

He doesn’t blink.

You lower the camera.

He stands. He steps closer.

Not dramatically. Not like someone making a move. Just a fraction forward, enough that you catch the warmth of his body before you register the space between you is gone. His suit still carries the heat of the day—sweat-damp fabric, residual adrenaline, maybe even rubber and asphalt baked into the fibers.

You could step back.

You don’t.

You look at him. Not through a lens. Not through the controlled frame of your work. Just him. Face bare, eyes steady, skin flushed faintly pink from the effort of the race, or maybe from this—from now.

His gaze drops—not to your lips. Not to your hands. To your camera. Still hanging there. Still between you.

“I thought it’d bother me,” he says, voice low. “Having someone follow me around with a camera.”

You don’t speak. Just let him say it.

“But it doesn’t,” he adds. “Not with you.”

That lands somewhere in your chest, soft but irreversible.

You tilt your head slightly. He mirrors it, barely perceptible—like you’re both circling something you’ve already agreed to, but neither of you wants to be the first to name it.

Your hand twitches—a half-motion toward his arm that you stop before it lands. He catches it anyway. You see it flicker in his eyes: awareness, restraint, the line he’s thinking about crossing.

And for a second, you both just breathe.

You can hear his, shallow and careful. You wonder if he can hear yours.

He looks at you again, not past you, not through you. At you.

He takes that final step toward you.

Close now—too close for the lens, too close for performance. Just the space where breath meets breath. Where silence turns into touch.

Your camera strap tugs lightly at your neck, caught between your bodies. The lens bumps his ribs—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

He glances down at it. Then back up at you.

You hesitate.

For a moment, it’s a question: leave it on, keep the wall up, pretend this is still observational. You could. You’re good at hiding behind it.

But not now.

Not with him.

You reach up, slow, deliberate, and lift the strap over your head. The camera slides down and into your palm with a soft weight. You turn and place it on the workbench beside you. Careful. Quiet. Final.

When you face him again, the air feels different.

Lighter. Sharper. Bare.

He looks at you like something just shifted—like whatever existed between you when you were holding the lens has burned away, and now you’re just here. With him.

You take a breath.

So does he.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No performance. Just the simple, exact motion of someone who’s been thinking about it too long.

His lips find yours with surprising clarity—not tentative, not rushed, but precise. Like he knows how not to waste the moment. Like he doesn’t want to use more force than he has to. His hand comes up to your jaw, steadying. Guiding. His thumb brushes just beneath your ear.

You sigh into it before you realize you’ve made a sound.

It isn’t a long kiss.

But it says enough.

You part—barely—breath warming the inch between your mouths.

Oscar looks at you the way he did in of some your photos. Like he sees you and doesn’t need to say it.

You don’t speak.

You just pull him back in.

After that second kiss—deeper, hungrier, not rushed but no longer careful—your back bumps against the edge of the workbench. Something shifts behind you, a soft clatter of tools or metal. Neither of you reacts, beyond a quick glance to make sure your camera is still ok.

Oscar’s hand finds your waist. Not pulling. Just grounding. He’s breathing hard now—not from nerves, but from restraint. From the way his body wants more than it’s being given.

You want more too.

But not here.

The garage is still too open. You can feel the risk of movement beyond the wall, the flicker of voices down the corridor. You know better than to do this out in the open. And so does he.

You draw back slightly. Not far. Just enough to say: we can’t stay here.

He meets your eyes. Doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

You slip out through the back corridor, your boots soft on the concrete, camera long forgotten. The hallway narrows. The air feels different—more insulated. Familiar layout. You’ve walked this path before, with your eyes forward and your badge visible.

But this time, you pause.

The door ahead is unmarked, but you know it’s his.

You don’t hesitate.

You open it.

Inside: the quiet hum of ventilation. A narrow cot. A low bench. His helmet bag in the corner. A duffel unzipped and half-collapsed against the wall. One small light left on, warm and low. A private space, lived-in but untouched. No one else is supposed to be here.

The door clicks shut behind you.

It’s quiet. Not padded silence—earned silence. The kind you get after twenty laps of tight corners and exact braking. The kind where everything else falls away.

You put your camera on the bench now.

Oscar stands behind you.

You feel him before you hear him—a shift in air, in presence. And when you turn, he’s already moving.

This kiss is different.

Less measured. More real. His hands find your waist, then your back, sliding up beneath your shirt—fingertips slow, but sure. Like he’s still learning the shape of permission. Like he won’t take anything you don’t give.

But you give it.

You pull at the hem of his undershirt, and he lets you. It peels off in one clean motion. His skin is flushed, chest rising with each breath. The restraint that’s lived in his shoulders for days has nowhere left to go.

Your hands map over it.

He kisses you again, harder now, with that same focused precision you’ve seen in every debrief photo, every lap line, every unreadable frame. But this time, it’s turned inward. On you.

He makes a sound when you push him back onto the bench—not a moan, not yet. Just a low breath punched from his chest, like he didn’t expect you to take the lead. But he doesn’t stop you.

He just watches.

You settle onto his lap, knees straddling his thighs, and he lets his hands drag up your sides like he’s cataloguing every inch. Your shirt rises. His mouth follows.

He kisses you there, just beneath your ribs, then lower.

By the time you reach down to tug at the knot in his fireproofs, his breath is uneven. Controlled, but slipping.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods. Swallows.

Then, quietly: “You’re not what I expected.”

You lean in, lips at his ear.

“Neither are you.”

Oscar doesn’t rush.

Even as your fingers fumble with the tie at his waist, even as his hands trace your hips like he’s memorizing something that won’t last, he stays grounded. Breath steady. Eyes on yours. Like he’s still trying to be sure—not of you, but of himself.

You press your forehead to his, lips brushing his cheek, and whisper, “Lie back.”

He does.

You shift to the cot together, clothes half-off, half-on—his fireproofs peeled down, your underwear already sliding down your thigh, your shirt somewhere behind you on the floor. It’s not perfect. It’s not staged.

But it’s real.

He lets you settle over him first. Let's you find the angle, the rhythm, the breath. His hands stay at your hips, thumbs pressing into the softness there like he doesn’t want to grip too tight, like this might still vanish if he closes his eyes.

He exhales sharply when you take him in.

You sink down, slow, controlled—the way he drives, the way you shoot. Like it’s all about reading the moment.

His breath stutters. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate.

Then he says it. Quietly.

“Thank you.”

It’s not a performance. Not something meant to be romantic. It slips out like instinct, like he doesn’t know how else to name what’s happening.

You still, just slightly, your hand on his chest.

“For what?” you breathe.

He looks up at you, eyes wide, completely unguarded for the first time. His answer is barely audible.

“For seeing me.”

You freeze, just for a breath.

It’s not what you expected. Not from him. And not here, like this. But he says it without flinching, without looking away.

And then, just as your chest tightens, just as you reach for something to say, he exhales sharply through his nose—

And flips you.

Your back hits the cot with a soft thud, the thin mattress barely muffling the motion. You barely manage a breath before he’s over you, hips slotting between your thighs like they’ve always belonged there.

It’s not rough. It’s measured. Intentional. Every part of him radiates heat, tension, and restraint held so tight it hums beneath his skin.

Oscar leans in—forearm braced beside your head, the other hand gripping your thigh as he presses it up, open, wide. He looks down at you like you’ve stopped time. Like he’s memorizing what it feels like to have you under him.

“You don’t get to do all the seeing,” he murmurs, voice low and firm. “Not anymore.”

Then he thrusts in.

Slow. Deep. Full.

You cry out—not from pain, not even surprise, but from the way it takes. All of him. All at once. The way he fills you like your body was waiting for it.

He doesn’t move right away. Just holds there. Buried inside you, chest rising and falling against yours. He dips his head to your neck—not kissing, just breathing there, letting the moment press into both of you.

Then he rolls his hips.

Long, steady strokes. Not fast. Not shallow. Each one drags a breath from your lungs, makes your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, anything you can hold.

“You feel…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.

He shifts, adjusting your leg higher on his hip, changing the angle—

God.

He feels the way your body stutters, tightens, clenches around him, and groans—quiet, rough, broken. His control flickers. You feel it in the way his pace falters for just a second, then steadies again, even deeper now.

Your thighs shake.

Your nails dig in.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your lips—hot and open, tongues brushing, messy now. Focused turned to need.

He thrusts harder. Not brutal. Just honest. Like he’s done pretending this isn’t happening.

“You wanted this,” he pants into your mouth. “You watched me like—like I wouldn’t notice.”

You nod, breathless. “I did. I couldn’t—fuck, Oscar—”

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

His hips snap forward.

“I want you.”

He groans, low in his throat, and fucks you harder.

The cot creaks under you. The air is damp. Your legs are wrapped around him now, pulling him closer, locking him in. He thrusts deep, precise, again and again—your body no longer holding shape, just pulse and friction and heat.

He knows you’re close.

You feel him watch you—not just your face, but your whole body as it trembles under him. His hand slides down, between your thighs, two fingers pressing exactly where you need them, circling once—

And you break.

It tears out of you—sharp and full and shattering. You gasp his name. Your back arches. Your whole body pulses around him, and he feels it—curses once, softly, like he’s never come like this before.

He thrusts twice more, rougher now, chasing it, falling into it.

Then he groans deep in your ear and comes, spilling into you with a low, drawn-out moan. His body stutters against yours, then goes still.

You stay like that. Twined together. Sweaty. Breathless. Quiet.

Not speaking yet.

Just feeling everything settle.

He stays inside you for a few long seconds—breathing hard, his forehead pressed lightly against yours, the heat between your bodies thick and grounding.

Neither of you speaks.

Eventually, he shifts.

Withdraws with a low groan, like he didn’t want to but had to. You wince a little at the loss, at the sensitivity. He notices.

“Hang on,” he murmurs.

He stands—a little unsteady, a little flushed—and crosses to the corner without putting anything back on. You watch him: tall, bare, hair a mess from your hands. He grabs a towel from a low shelf and brings it back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up.

You half-laugh through your haze. “Didn’t take you for the towel type.”

“I’m methodical,” he mutters, like that explains it.

You tilt your head. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just focuses on being careful—one hand steady on your thigh, the towel warm and folded, the silence less awkward than it should be.

Then, quietly: “I’m sorry I didn’t have a condom.”

You blink.

His voice is low, calm, but not casual. Intent.

“I’ll get Plan B tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll—figure it out. I just didn’t think…”

He trails off.

You reach for his wrist. “It’s okay.”

He looks at you, really looks, and nods once. More to himself than you.

He tosses the towel to the floor. You sit up slowly, legs unsteady, shirt still off, everything about this moment too real to feel like aftermath.

He starts to pull his fireproofs back up.

You watch him for a second. Then, without thinking, you ask:

“Do you regret it?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

“No,” he says. Then, quieter: “Do you?”

You shake your head.

“I don't think so,” you whisper.

And you mean it.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then your eyes drift to the bench, where your camera still rests, right where you left it.

You reach for it.

Not out of instinct. Out of something slower. Softer. He watches you, but doesn’t stop you.

You flick it on. Adjust nothing. Just cradle it in one hand as you shift down onto the cot again, your body still warm, your shirt forgotten somewhere on the floor.

Oscar follows.

He lies beside you, then settles halfway across your chest—head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm looped around your waist. His breathing slows against your skin.

He doesn’t speak.

You lift the camera, carefully—just enough to frame the moment.

No posing. No styling. Just him, resting against you, the tension drained from his body, his face soft in a way you’ve never seen it before.

You take one shot.

Just one.

No flash. No click loud enough to stir him. Just the soundless capture of something unrepeatable.

You lower the camera and let it rest on the floor.

Then you press your hand to the back of his neck, fingers brushing the sweat-damp hair there.

He doesn’t move.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself close your eyes too.

The light coming through the slatted blinds is too thin, too early, and absolutely not the kind of light you wanted to wake up to.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then freeze.

Oscar is still asleep on your chest.

His arm’s heavy across your stomach. His mouth is parted just slightly, his breath warm against your ribs. The sheet barely covers either of you. Your leg is tangled between his. Your camera’s on the floor, lens cap off, body smudged from where your hand landed in the dark.

And from somewhere beyond the door, you hear voices.

Early. Sharp. Professional.

Your blood runs cold.

“Oscar,” you hiss.

He doesn’t move.

You jab your fingers into his side.

He grunts. Groggy. “Five more—”

“No, Oscar. People are arriving.”

That wakes him up.

He blinks fast, eyes wild for a second, then zeroes in on your very, very naked body, “Shit.”

You’re already rolling off the cot, grabbing for your shirt, your underwear, anything. He sits up, hair sticking up in every direction, blinking hard like he’s trying to reboot.

“Where are your—?” he starts.

“Somewhere under you,” you snap, tugging your jeans over your legs with one hand while trying to find your bra with the other. “How the fuck are people already here? It’s—”

He glances at the clock.

“Five fifty-eight.”

You freeze. “AM?!”

He shrugs, one leg in his fireproofs. “We’re a punctual operation.”

You glare. “You owe me a coffee for this.”

“I’ll bring it with the Plan B,” he mutters, hopping on one foot, still trying to get the other leg into his pants.

You both freeze.

Half-dressed. Half-wrecked. Fully undone.

Your eyes meet—and something flickers. Not fear. Not regret. Just recognition.

Then the laugh slips out.

His first. Yours chasing after it. Quiet. Breathless.

It’s not elegant. It’s not even sane. But it cuts through the panic like oxygen.

And somehow, it’s enough to pull yourselves back into motion.

By the time you make it out of Oscar’s room, it’s six-fifteen.

The sky is still dark, just starting to take on that pale, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look more suspicious. The air is cool against your sweat-damp skin. Your shirt clings uncomfortably beneath your jacket. Your hair’s a disaster. There’s dried spit on your collarbone.

You try to ignore it.

You sling your camera bag over one shoulder and walk fast, like speed is professionalism. Like maybe if you move quickly enough, no one will notice that your bra is in your pocket.

The paddock is starting to stir—lights in the garages flipping on, early logistics staff wheeling carts, someone laughing too loud over a radio.

You don’t look at anyone.

Instead, you beeline for the McLaren hospitality suite—the same corner booth you’d claimed last night.

You slide into it like you’ve been there for hours.

You open your laptop. Plug in your card. Scroll through a few photos like you’re reviewing footage from a very long, very productive night.

You sip from the cold cup of tea you left there the evening before.

Someone passes by and nods. You nod back, like, Yes, I live here now.

And when you’re finally alone again—no footsteps, no voices, no Oscar—you flick through the frames.

And there it is.

Oscar. Half-asleep on your chest. One arm slung across your waist. Face soft. Human. Completely unguarded.

You don’t smile. You don’t linger.

You just right-click and rename the file:

DSC_0609_OP81

Then you close the folder.

The room is quiet. Still holding the shape of him.

You let it sit for a few more minutes—the aftermath, the ache, the image that still feels too close.

Then you move.

Hotel. Shower. Clothes. Routine like armor. You scrub his breath from your skin and pull your hair back like a statement.

By the time you reappear, you look like someone who’s been working since dawn.

You slip back into the hospitality suite just after seven-thirty, hair still damp, your badge hanging neatly over a neutral jacket. You walk like you’ve been here all night. Like you didn’t sneak out of Oscar Piastri’s driver’s room just before the first truck arrived.

The booth where you left your laptop is still yours—same coffee cup, same open Lightroom window, same half-edited photo of brake dust curling off a rear tire. You slide into the seat like nothing’s changed.

Your body aches.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a you-should-not-have-done-that-on-a-thin-mattress-with-an-F1-driver kind of way.

You sip lukewarm tea. You click through a few photos. You try to find your place again—in the day, in your work, in your skin.

You almost have it.

And then Oscar walks in.

He’s clean. Composed. Damp hair pushed back. Fresh team polo. His eyes sweep the suite once, briefly, and stop on you.

Not long. Just enough to register.

You feel it in your throat. In your chest.

He keeps walking.

You don’t look up again. You wait until he’s out of sight.

Then, casually, like you’re just checking the time, you unlock your phone.

There’s a tag notification at the top of the screen.

@oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

Your stomach tightens.

You tap it.

The photo loads slowly—the Wi-Fi is never good this early—but you already know. You can feel it before it appears.

And there it is.

One of yours.

Oscar, from Friday. Fireproofs rolled to the waist. Helmet in hand. Standing just off-center, eyes somewhere past the camera. The light is warm and sharp. The moment is quiet.

He looks human. Present. Exposed.

You didn’t submit that one for publishing yet.

You didn’t even color-correct it.

But he posted it.

No caption. No emoji. No flair.

Just a tag. 

Your throat goes dry.

You swipe up to see the comments.

'he NEVER posts like this' 'why does this feel personal' 'who took this photo?? i want names' 'soft launch energy or what'

You lock the screen.

Then unlock it again.

Same image. Same tag. Same hush in your chest.

He chose this. Publicly. Silently. Deliberately.

You don’t know what to feel.

Except seen.

And maybe a little bit fucked.

You flip back to Lightroom, but your fingers don’t move.

The cursor hovers over a batch of unprocessed photos. Tire smoke. Candid Lando. Engineers pointing at telemetry. Everything you’re supposed to be focused on. Everything you usually love.

You stare straight ahead, forcing your breath to even out.

Footsteps approach—light but confident.

You don’t look up until he’s beside you.

Zak.

Coffee in hand. Shirt pressed. Sunglasses hanging off his collar like it’s already noon. He doesn’t sit; he just leans one hand on the booth’s divider and glances at your screen.

“Anything good in there?” he asks.

You click once, purely for show.

“A few,” you say.

He nods. Then gestures vaguely toward your phone, which is still facedown on the table.

“You see what Oscar posted?”

Your throat tightens.

You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This morning.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t fill it.

Zak hums. A noncommittal sound. But there’s something behind it. Something knowing.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen him post a photo of himself that wasn’t mid-action,” he says. “Certainly not one that… quiet.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you. He’s scanning the room, like he’s talking about the weather.

Then he looks down.

“That one yours?”

You nod. “Yeah. From Friday.”

“Hm.” He sips his coffee. “Good frame. Eyes open. Looks like a person.”

You don’t answer.

Zak straightens, adjusts his watch.

“Well,” he says, already turning away, “don’t let him steal your best work for free.”

And then he’s gone.

You don’t move.

Because your heart is pounding.

Not from guilt.

From the sick, unshakable feeling that something real is happening, and people are starting to see it.

You’ve made it almost four hours without thinking about it.

Or at least—without actively thinking about it.

You’ve answered emails, flagged selects, and dropped a batch of your best Lando photos into the team's "for publishing" drive. You’ve even had a second coffee. You’ve done everything you’re supposed to do, professionally and invisibly, just like always.

But your phone’s still sitting face down next to your laptop. And it keeps catching the corner of your eye like it knows.

You flip it over. No new notifications.

You open Instagram anyway.

The post is still there. Still climbing.

Sixty thousand likes now. More than three hundred comments. You stop scrolling after the third one that says something about the way he looks at the camera, like he knows who’s behind it.

You close the app.

You open it again three minutes later.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for.

Until the screen lights up.

Oscar Piastri

10:02 a.m.

You okay with me posting that? Didn’t mean to make things harder.

You read it once.

Then again.

Then three more times, like you’re searching for a different meaning. Like the phrasing might shift if you look long enough.

It doesn’t.

You picture him typing it—sitting somewhere behind the garage partition, race suit half-zipped, that permanent crease between his brows as he stares at the screen too long before hitting send. You picture him thinking about the photo. About what it looked like. About how it felt.

About you.

You rest your phone on your thigh and stare out the window beside your booth.

It’s bright now—full daylight. The paddock’s humming. Lando’s somewhere laughing too loudly. Zak just walked by again, talking about tire wear. You’re surrounded by normal.

But nothing feels normal.

Your phone buzzes again.

Same name.

Oscar Piastri

10:06 a.m.

I’ll still get the Plan B. After work. Just didn’t want you to think I forgot.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Not because you were worried—but because he remembered.

Because even now, back in uniform, back on the clock, back in the world where no one is supposed to see what happened, he still thinks about what comes after.

You rest your phone on the table. Thumb hovering.

You type:

Thank you. Don’t worry about the post.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t reread it. You just hit send.

And that’s enough.

INBOX

Subject: Assignment Continuation: Photographer, Track & Driver Coverage

Hi,

Following an internal review of mid-season content delivery, we’d like to formally request that you continue in your current capacity with McLaren through the following season. Your on-site coverage—particularly around driver documentation and live access environments—has added measurable value across platforms.

Please note that this recommendation also reflects internal feedback, including a request from one of the drivers for continuity.

If you’re open to continuing, we’d be happy to align on updated terms and logistics for the remaining calendar.

Best regards,

Lindsey Eckhouse

Director, Licensing & Digital

McLaren Racing

notes: well... it's no 'let him see,' but i'd say not too shabby. let me know what you think!! <3

taglist: @literallysza @piceous21 @missprolog @vanteel @idontknow0704 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @andawaywelando @yeahnahalrightfairenough @whatsitgonnabeangelina @missprolog @emily-b @number-0-iz @vhkdncu2ei8997 @astrlape

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

© Copyright, 2025.

[manmuncher777]

CURSED

Gojo x reader SMUT MDNI 18+

~ when you gets hit with a curse, Satoru can’t resist paying you a visit

The mission was long, bloody, and loud. Gojo still had flecks of cursed residue staining the collar of his jacket, and the air was still buzzing in his ears from the last blast of cursed energy. He was tired—not physically, not really. Just… irritated. Depleted in that way only endless bureaucracy and weak curses could manage.

So he heads straight to your dorm.

You always waited up for him. Always.

The hallway is dim, dusk bleeding in through the tall windows. Your door is cracked open. His hand pushes it fully ajar with a familiar cocky ease.

But you’re not there.

His stomach tugs—not concern, not yet. Just surprise. Maybe a flash of disappointment. He steps inside, looks around. Your bed’s made. No lamp flicked on. No scent of your perfume lingering in the air like it usually is. No snacks laid out. Not a trace.

“What the hell…” he murmurs under his breath.

That’s when he hears the voice behind him.

“She’s not here.”

Suguru.

Gojo turns slowly. Suguru’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. There’s something stiff in his posture. Gojo doesn’t like it.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Gojo’s voice is sharper now.

Suguru shrugs, but it’s forced. Like he was hiding something awkward he didnt want to tell Gojo, and embarrassing story maybe “Yaga had her moved. Thought it was best for now.”

Gojo’s gaze sharpens. “Why?”

Suguru hesitates, then gives a slow shake of his head. “You should hear it from him.”

Gojo stood there for a moment, sucking on the candy he had yanked from his pocket before turning around, heading straight for Yaga’s office.

“Where is she?” he asked without ceremony, leaning against the doorframe.

Yaga didn’t look up from his papers. “She’s not to be disturbed right now.”

“Okay, but what if I ignore that?” Gojo grinned lazily, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “Where is she?”

Yaga finally looked up, his expression grim. “She’s being kept in isolation. There’s been a… complication.”

The lollipop snapped in Gojo’s mouth.

“What kind of complication?”

Yaga paused. “She’s been possessed. It’s not a violent curse—it doesn’t harm her directly. But it feeds off… sexual energy. Emotional repression. Touch. The more you deny it, the stronger it grows.”

Gojo blinked once. Twice.

Then he laughed.

“Are you fucking with me? That sounds like a damn succubus, not a curse.”

Yaga didn’t flinch. “We’ve had two staff members already fall under its influence just by being near her too long. The energy is potent. Addictive.”

Gojo’s grin faded.

“She asked for you, you know,” Yaga added quietly. “Before she realized what was happening. Before the curse took hold.”

That made his stomach turn.

Not in a sweet, romantic way—but something colder. Like dread with a blade edge.

“…Where is she?” Gojo asked again, this time softer.

Yaga sighed. “Underground ward. And I’m only telling you because I know you’ll go anyway.”

Gojo didn’t respond. Just turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked away—his heart weirdly tight.

Gojo’s steps echoed down the underground corridor, slow and deliberate, his usual swagger dulled beneath the sterile hum of the facility lights overhead. It didn’t feel like a hospital down here—too cold for that. Too quiet. The kind of place they kept people they didn’t know what to do with.

He hated that you were down here.

Yaga hadn’t said much—just that your condition was “sensitive” and “contained.” Whatever that meant. Gojo knew cursed spirits. Knew how they clung to energy, to pain, to lust. And he knew how dangerous it was to get too close to someone being fed on by a curse like that.

Still, he couldn’t help it.

He had to see you.

When he reached the heavy final door—no window, just concrete and steel—he rested his hand on the handle, just for a second. The silence on the other side pressed against his skin like something alive.

Then—

“Gojo?”

He froze.

It was your voice. Muffled but unmistakable. Quiet. Almost questioning.

He tilted his head toward the door, just as your voice came again.

“Are you there?”

Gojo blinked, lips parting. The sound of you sent a strange ripple down his spine. His fingers twitched where they rested against the doorframe, throat tightening.

“Gojo,” you said again, a little stronger this time. Not frantic, not desperate—but wanting. Like the word itself was something heavy you were trying to hold.

“I know you’re there.”

He wasn’t used to his name sounding like that. Not from you. Not soft and… warm.

He stepped back. Just a little. His body suddenly too hot in his jacket, collar tight around his neck. His eyes fluttered beneath his blindfold like he was fighting something.

“I am,” he finally answered, voice soft. He cleared his throat. “I’m here.

A beat.

Then, quieter: “Can you come in?”

Fuck.

There it was again—that feeling. Like the air was syrup, clinging to his skin, crawling under his clothes. A slow throb started behind his navel, deep and dull. He could picture you too clearly now—sitting curled on the bed, eyes wide and vulnerable, reaching out for him like you knew exactly what you were doing.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t. Not with the curse attached to you. That… thing that fed on tension, on longing, on the charge between bodies.

Gojo swallowed hard and forced a grin you couldn’t see

“Sorry, sweetheart. Not today,” he murmured, voice light but shaky. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ll come back, yeah? When it’s safe.”

A silence fell. You didn’t respond right away. He thought maybe you’d stopped listening—until you spoke, barely audible through the door:

“Don’t forget.”

His stomach twisted.

He backed away, letting his hand fall from the handle.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, too softly.

He walked away fast. Not quite running. But not at his usual pace either.

The heat in his chest didn’t fade—not even after the cold air of the surface hit him again.

And for the first time in a long time, Gojo Satoru felt unsure of what exactly he’d just walked away from.

The rest of his evening was normal.

Shower. Sweatpants. A late dinner eaten lazily in the common room while half-listening to the news. A game of shogi with Suguru that he didn’t really pay attention to.

Everything was routine. Comfortable.

But something felt off.

His skin was warm. Too warm. He rolled his sleeves up, ran a damp hand over the back of his neck. It wasn’t summer yet, but he felt sticky. Hot. Like the heat was under his skin, in his skin.

Maybe it was the mission earlier—still lingering, still simmering in his blood. That had to be it. The tension of combat, the rush of adrenaline not fully worked out of his system.

It wasn’t until he was in his room, sprawled on his bed with the fan running and his eyes half-lidded behind his blindfold, that he realized—

It wasn’t the mission.

It was you.

You, standing just behind that locked door, voice soft, so soft, whispering his name like a prayer. Like a plea.

“Satoru… Are you there?”

His breath hitched, jaw flexing as he shifted on the bed.

You’d said his name before. Countless times. But never like that. Never with that warmth in your voice, that invitation. Like you wanted him, even if you didn’t understand why.

And now, the memory of it wouldn’t leave him alone.

His fingers curled into the sheets, chest rising slow and heavy.

“Can you come in?”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It was just the curse. That’s all it was. It was designed to do this—to manipulate, to twist, to pull at him. He wasn’t actually affected.

Right?

But then why was his heart thrumming in his throat? Why was his body reacting like he could feel you curled against his chest, like your voice was something physical, wrapping around his ribs, sinking into his lungs?

Why did he feel like you were still calling to him?

His breathing turned shallow.

“Don’t forget.”

Gojo sat up. Abruptly.

The room was dark, the fan still buzzing, his body tense and restless.

Something was wrong.

His fingers twitched. He felt it now—an almost imperceptible tug. Like a thread, pulling at the edges of his mind.

Not strong. Not forced. Just a whisper.

“Satoru…”

His head snapped toward the door.

There was no one there.

But he swore—he swore—he could hear it.

Your voice.

Inside his mind.

Soft. Distant. Calling to him.

Wanting him.

His chest rose, sharp, unsteady. His cock twitched in his pants, half-hard and aching.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

“Shit.”

He wasn’t just thinking about you anymore.

The curse had him now, too.

Gojo’s footsteps echoed through the empty hall as he stumbled into the bathroom, fingers raking through his hair. The faucet creaked loudly as he turned it on full blast, cupping cold water in his hands and splashing it over his face. Again. And again.

The shock of it hit his skin like needles. He braced himself over the sink, dripping, panting, fingers curled tight against the porcelain as he glared down at the basin.

“Get a grip,” he muttered, jaw tense. “It’s just the curse. It’s fucking with your head.”

But his body wasn’t listening.

His cock was hard. Aching. Heavy and unrelenting beneath the fabric of his sweats.

All because of you.

Your voice, replaying over and over in his head like it was meant to be there. That soft, desperate little call.

Gojo…

He cursed under his breath, standing upright and yanking the blindfold from his eyes. His reflection was flushed—color high in his cheeks, pupils dark and wide. He looked… wrecked.

“God,” he breathed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so fucked.”

You were his friend.

Sure, he flirted with you. He flirted with everyone. But it was harmless. Friendly. Casual. You were cute—he’d thought that from the moment he met you. Strong, too. Sharp-tongued. He liked that.

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about how your voice sounded all soft and needy. How your lips might look parted and breathless. How your skin might feel under his palms.

His hips jerked forward slightly, an unconscious twitch of arousal he couldn’t control.

His fingers flexed against the sink.

“Fuck.”

It was unbearable.

Like your name was etched into the lining of his throat. Like your scent was already on his hands. Like the idea of you—needing him, wanting him—was setting his entire body on fire.

It wasn’t just desire. It was something else. Something deeper.

He wasn’t sure if it was the curse or if it was him. But the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he cared.

He backed away from the mirror, shoulders tense, the fabric of his sweats uncomfortably tight around his cock.

He wanted to see you.

He needed to.

But if he did…

Would he even be able to stop himself?

The corridor was dim and quiet at this hour, but Gojo could barely see straight. Not because of the lighting. No—because something far darker, far hotter was coiling around his spine, latching onto his lungs, throbbing in his veins like it had a pulse of its own.

He shouldn’t be here.

He knew he shouldn’t.

But his feet kept moving anyway—soft steps down the hallway like a man possessed.

The closer he got to your room, the worse it became.

A fever bloomed under his skin. His breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched with restraint. Sweat lined his hairline, his body reacting to a hunger he barely understood. Every nerve was buzzing. Every thought was you.

He felt dizzy with it—like sex was clinging to the air, thick and suffocating.

Like you were right there on the other side of that door, waiting for him.

Calling to him.

His cock throbbed beneath his sweats, leaking and swollen. It had been since the minute he left you earlier. But now? Now it felt unbearable. Like he could smell you. Taste you. Like the curse had sunk its claws deep into his instincts and turned his restraint into raw, primal desperation.

He reached your door.

Paused.

Rested a hand on the frame as he stared at it, chest rising and falling, lips parted.

He shouldn’t go in. He knew that.

You were vulnerable.

You were cursed.

And he was—supposed to be better than this.

But his hand was already moving to the handle.

Just see her. Just make sure she’s okay. That’s what he told himself.

But even that lie tasted filthy in his mouth.

He hesitated, eyes fluttering shut, trying to center himself.

And then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

The second the air shifted—humid, sweet, full of your scent—Gojo felt something snap loose in his chest.

A soft voice drifted to him from the shadows. Your voice.

“Satoru…?”

His breath hitched.

He stepped inside.

There was no going back now.

Gojo stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. His eyes adjusted to the low light, sweeping over the room until they landed on you.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, knees tucked up, hair a little messy, lips parted. Sweat clung to your skin, and the second you saw him, your entire body seemed to light up.

“Gojo…” you breathed, soft, relieved, hungry.

He swallowed hard, forcing a lopsided grin. “Hey. There you are.” He kept his tone light, even as his chest felt too tight, his pants too restricting.

You shifted, uncurling yourself, moving closer—too close.

“I was calling for you,” you whispered, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown. “I knew you’d come.”

Gojo took a small step back, hands raised slightly in a playful but cautious gesture. “Easy, sweetheart. You’re not thinking straight right now.”

But god, you looked so good. Flushed and pliant and glowing in the dim light like temptation made flesh. His gaze flicked over the curve of your throat, the swell of your chest beneath your thin shirt. His cock twitched, aching in his sweats.

“I am thinking straight,” you insisted softly, following him as he backed up. “It’s not making me want things I didn’t already want. The curse… it’s just making it louder. Making me feel it more.”

You stopped in front of him, tilting your head, gaze searching his face. “I wanted you before, Satoru. I swear.”

That name—falling so honest, so bare from your lips—made something snap inside him.

“Yeah?” His voice came out hoarse, almost strangled. “You… wanted me before all this?”

You nodded. “Always.”

And when you reached for him, resting trembling hands against his chest, Gojo felt his resolve fray, thin and fragile as silk.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmured, half a plea, half a warning. But he didn’t move away. Didn’t push you off. His hands hovered near your waist, fists clenching.

“I do,” you whispered, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer until your bodies nearly touched.

He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath. “Fuck.”

Your lips ghosted along his jaw. “Please don’t leave me again.”

His breath hitched, arms finally snapping around you, yanking you flush against him. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You smiled, lips brushing his ear. “Yes, I do.”

And when your hips pressed into his, feeling the undeniable weight of his arousal straining against you—Gojo groaned, deep and broken, head dropping to your shoulder as he shuddered.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered.

But he was already pulling you towards the bed, already sinking into the inevitability of you, trembling hands tracing reverent, desperate paths across your skin.

Gojo stood over you, chest rising and falling fast, his hands braced on either side of your head against the wall. His lips hovered a breath away from yours, his pupils blown wide, a flush crawling high on his cheekbones.

“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but thick with something darker underneath.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering as your hands slid up his chest, tracing the slope of his collarbones. “You’re the one who came here, Satoru.”

“Yeah?” His lips brushed yours, barely touching. “Can’t stay away.”

And then—he kissed you. Slow at first, tasting you, savoring you, but it wasn’t long before it deepened, his tongue sliding past your lips, a hungry groan rumbling in his chest. His hands found your waist, gripping tight, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when you felt him, hard and heavy against your stomach. “Satoru—”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, dipping his head to mouth at your neck, nipping and licking the delicate skin there. “Makes me wanna do things.”

You arched into him instinctively, hands threading into his hair, tugging lightly. “Maybe I want you to do things.”

That snapped something in him. Gojo’s hands roamed lower, cupping your ass, lifting you easily so your legs wrapped around his waist. He spun, carrying you toward the bed, kissing you feverishly between steps.

But when he dropped you onto the mattress, he didn’t pounce. Instead, he hovered over you, eyes raking down your body with something close to reverence.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he breathed, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Bet you’re even prettier when you fall apart for me.”

You squirmed beneath him, heat flooding your skin as his hands skimmed under your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch until you lifted your arms for him to pull it off completely.

“Fuck,” Gojo muttered, palms smoothing over your bare chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples, watching them pebble beneath his touch. “Sensitive, huh?”

You whimpered, back arching when he rolled them between his fingers. “Satoru—”

He grinned down at you, cocky and smug, leaning in to lick a slow stripe over one. “Gonna drive me crazy if you keep saying my name like that.”

Your hands fumbled with the hem of his shirt, tugging insistently. “Take it off. Wanna touch you too.”

“Yeah?” He peeled it off with a lazy smirk, tossing it aside. “Can’t keep your hands off me, huh, baby?”

You sat up enough to press your palms to his chest, sliding over his abs, feeling the flex of muscle under your touch. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off.”

He laughed, warm and wild, leaning in to nip at your lower lip. “Fair enough.”

And then his hands were back on you, skimming down your sides, thumbs hooking into your waistband. “Let me see all of you.”

You shivered as he peeled your shorts down slowly, kissing every new inch of exposed skin, his lips trailing lower, teasing and patient, making you writhe.

When he reached the edge of your panties, he pressed a kiss to the soft skin just above them, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Still sure about this?”

Your breath came fast, chest heaving, thighs trembling beneath his hands. “Never been more sure.”

His grin turned feral. “Good.”

He kissed along the edge of your panties again, then bit down lightly, tugging the fabric with his teeth before pulling it off completely. “’Cause I’m not gonna stop, baby. Not tonight.”

And as he settled between your thighs, hands stroking up the insides, lips hovering just shy of where you ached for him most, you realized—he wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t teasing.

He was worshipping.

And you were already falling apart before he’d even really started.

“Need a taste,” Gojo murmured, voice hoarse, almost reverent as his hands pushed your thighs apart wider. He settled between them like he belonged there—like he had every right in the world.

You barely had a second to breathe before he ducked down, licking a broad stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning low in his chest. “Fuck, baby—knew you’d taste good. Knew it.”

He licked again, slower, savoring it, nose nudging against your clit as his tongue dragged lazily through your folds. “Could eat this pussy all night.”

Your hips jerked involuntarily, a whimper escaping you. “Satoru—”

He chuckled against you, the sound vibrating through your skin. “God, I love when you say my name like that. Makes me wanna ruin you.”

And then he really got to work. His mouth sealed around your clit, sucking gently at first, tongue flicking rhythmically while his hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you spread for him. He moaned like he was the one getting off on it, burying his face deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You fisted the sheets, head thrown back, breath coming in shaky gasps. “O-oh—oh my god—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, pulling back just long enough to look up at you, lips shiny, pupils blown wide. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

He dove back in with renewed hunger, flicking and circling your clit faster, his tongue relentless. One hand slid lower, slipping a finger inside you, crooking just right until your hips bucked up into his mouth.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmured against your skin, adding a second finger, fucking them into you slow and deep while his mouth never let up. “Takin’ it so well.”

You were trembling, thighs trying to close around his head but his broad hands held you open, made sure you couldn’t escape the overwhelming sensation.

“S-Satoru—! I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can, baby.” His voice was a growl now, dark and possessive. “Give it to me.”

He sucked hard on your clit and crooked his fingers again and you shattered—crying out his name, back arching off the bed, thighs quivering as you came on his tongue.

But Gojo didn’t stop. He kept licking you through it, slow and greedy, drinking you down like he’d never get enough. “Fuck, that’s it,” he whispered, tongue pressing lazy circles against your overstimulated clit. “So sweet for me.”

He finally pulled back, chin wet, grinning down at you like the cockiest bastard alive. “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You could only pant up at him, dazed and boneless beneath his hands.

Gojo leaned down, kissing your trembling thigh, his eyes dark and glinting with heat. “And that’s just the start, baby.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he growled against your skin, biting just below your jaw. “You don’t know what I’ll do to you.”

You gasped, arching beneath him, nails scraping up his back. “I want it, Satoru. Want you.”

He cursed again, harder this time, his hips grinding down against yours. “Fuck—you’re gonna regret saying that.”

But you shook your head, dazed, drunk on him “N-no I wont…. I need you”

Your plea made him snap. Gojo sat back, hair falling wild around his face. His chest heaved, muscles taut, pale skin flushed with a fevered pink.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he muttered, voice dark and low, sliding his sweatpants down his hips“Every fucking time you looked at me like that. Every little smile.”

You squirmed beneath him, breath shaky, watching the way his cock bobbed heavy and hard between his thighs. “You—think about me?”

He laughed, sharp and ragged, leaning down so his mouth hovered over yours. “Think about you?” He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, lining himself up with the other. “Sweetheart, I dream about you.”

His words setting your skin on fire, and as much as you wanted to keep your eyes on his, you couldn’t help but let your gaze drop to his cock. The tip so pretty and pink, leaking precum messily down the shaft. You were fucking salivating at the sight of him, rounded tip poking at your entrance

A soft gasp leaving you as grabbed your hips

And then he pushed in, slow but deep, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you inch by inch.

“Ohhh—fuuuck,” he moaned, voice cracking as he bottomed out. “You feel… so—goddamn tight, baby.”

You gasped beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, toes curling. “Satoru—”

His lips crushed into yours, messy and greedy, swallowing your whimpers as he rolled his hips experimentally, grinding deeper. “Yeah? That’s it? You gonna say my name like that every time I fuck you?”

Your head tipped back, lips parted, breathless. “Please—more.”

He pulled back, thrusting harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Fuck, you’re perfect. This pussy—shit, made for me.”

You cried out when he let go of your wrists, hands immediately flying to his back, clutching tight as he set a brutal, relentless pace.

“You’re mine now,” he panted against your ear, voice going hoarse. “You hear me? Nobody else gets to have you. Nobody else gets you like this.”

You nodded frantically, unable to form words, just babbling incoherent whimpers as his hips snapped into yours, harder, faster, deeper.

“Say it,” he demanded, biting at your throat, rutting into you like a man possessed. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m—yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—” you sobbed, body trembling under the weight of him, every nerve alight.

Gojo groaned, shuddering, slowing his thrusts just enough to grind his pelvis into your clit, pulling broken little gasps from your lips. “Gonna make you cum so hard, baby. Gonna feel me for days.”

You clenched around him, legs wrapping tight around his waist as your orgasm built fast, too fast, dizzying and intense.

“Satoru—I—I’m—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured, kissing the tears from your cheeks, fucking you through it as you shattered beneath him, moaning his name like a prayer.

And when you finally collapsed, boneless and dazed, he wasn’t far behind—groaning into your neck as he thrust deep one final time, spilling inside you with a shuddering, broken moan.

“Holy… fuck,” he breathed, forehead resting against yours, chest heaving.

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“…so… is that the curse, or…?”

Gojo chuckled, breathless, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “that was all me.”

[hufflezki]

summary: james likes grand gestures. he has the flair for drama. and makes a big deal out of—almost—anything (in a good way). but when he sees a lost bowtruckle on his desk, one afternoon, he's forced to keep it on a down low.

-> james potter x hufflepuff!reader (who likes to take care of magical creatures), yes the bowtruckle is named pickett (I know, I'm unoriginal), james potter is a listener, swearing (like twice, probably ) all fluff with a bit of comedy, word count: 1,628

James finds himself with his head down on his desk, as Professor Binns falls asleep after writing down another historical timeline on the board. And everyone in the room took this opportunity to do their own things. Some are found napping, chatting, and even teaching the lesson themselves. For James, he was fighting the strong urge to doze off. That is until he feels something brush against his forearm.

His head perks up, curls obscuring his view, and he can almost make it out—something small, green, spindly, and leafy perhaps? “What?” He whispers to himself, pushing his hair to the side, only to see a tiny bowtruckle staring at him—mirroring his own confusion.

James sits up, careful not to scare the small insect, as he offers his hand. Though the bowtruckle seems to be wary, only giving him so much as a glance before trying to leave. “No, no, wait!” James exclaims, accidentally, catching the attention of some students. He gives them a sheepish smile, before turning back to his desk. Only to see the bowtruckle climbing the hand of another. And when James looks up, he meets your eyes. “What– Is it yours?” He asks, completely oblivious to the way you’re trying to hurry back to your desk. You give him a nod, placing your hands behind you, as you let your bowtruckle hide under the sleeve of your robe.

It wasn’t ideal to bring any magical creatures inside Hogwarts but your bowtruckle, Pickett, grows anxious every time he gets separated from you. Which leads to him escaping your case, trying to get closer to you. Despite him not wanting to be seen by others, Pickett doesn’t really do a great job finding a hiding place. So you still have to usher him into places where he won't be seen, and consider it still close to you.

Thankfully, James doesn't inquire further about Pickett, and decides that asking you where and how you got him was more interesting.

So with Professor Binns still asleep, and the other students minding their own business, you find yourself sitting next to James Potter for the remaining time in the classroom.

And so far, he seems surprisingly interested. He’s just so attentive, it kind of makes you doubt if he’s really listening. But then James does things like repeating whatever you said, just to confirm that what he heard was right. You got Pickett after rescuing him from his branch because they didn't like him? No shit?! He’s absolutely in disbelief. And he’s going to show it too. Which is when you start shushing him, telling him to keep it down.

But that honestly confuses James a bit, if you had a bowtruckle, why wouldn't you want to show other people?

“James, it's more than that.” You respond, your posture deflating as you lean back on your chair. James furrows his eyebrows, watching you. Truth is, you didn’t just have a bowtruckle. You had plenty more magical creatures that you’re taking care of, all hidden inside your suitcase. And it's not like you’re purposely hiding them from everyone. People who are close enough with you know that you like taking care of these creatures.

You just don't like the idea of parading around, telling people you own these exotic and magical animals. It kind of defeats the purpose of why you’re doing this in the first place.

“Pickett gets easily overwhelmed by new people.” You say as the bowtruckle peeks from under the collar of your robe. Pickett is looking at James, inspecting him, but when they make eye contact he immediately hides. Which makes James smile, fondly. “I get it. Maybe I can try and win him over.” You let out a chuckle, feeling Pickett shift under your robe, probably curious.

“I guess we’ll see.”

You start seeing James more frequently after that. Most of the time you meet during your classes together. But then, sometimes, he finds his way to the Hufflepuff table and sits next to you and your friends during lunch. Which was a huge surprise for them.

“Potter? James Potter?”

“I did tell you, yes.”

“Uhm, are you sure it's okay for me to be here?”

Needless to say, your little spot in the table has never been more alive.

As for James’ friends, you seem to have caught their attention as well. It was Sirius who first noticed that James was disappearing a whole lot. Remus then agreed and shared his observations, as well as Peter.

It's unusual but they soon arrive to the conclusion that their friend has been trying to impress someone. Which makes so much sense as to why Peter, as Wormtail, saw James head down to the kitchen, but then turned the other way to the Hufflepuff common room, that one time. Despite this, they never confronted James about it, waiting for him to tell them himself.

James is thrilled. And you may argue that that’s how he is most of the time, but today, he really is very thrilled. You revealed to him, a week ago, about the other creatures you’re taking care of. And although it isn't really that impressive, you’re only taking care of smaller creatures for now to be fair, James still wanted to see them.

Which is why he finds himself in your dorm room, looking at the suitcase that has been bewitched with an extension charm, able to transport him to practically another dimension. To his surprise, you step inside the suitcase and James watches as you grab his wrist, pulling him down with you.

“Alright, what in the fuck was that just now?!” James now sits on the floor of your shed, whispering under his breath about how he must be dreaming right now. But then Pickett climbs on to his shoulder, poking his ear and sending him to a swearing frenzy. You reach your hand out with a smile, and he takes it, chiding an ever reluctant Pickett.

“Okay, James, I think we’ve long established that he doesn't listen to anyone. Do you, Pickett?” The bowtruckle seems to dismiss your comment, sticking its small tongue at you and turning its head away.

“It's like he gets sassier each time.”

“Pretty sure he got it from you.”

“Oh– Hey, why is it my fault?” James pouts as he follows you around, watching as you gather the feeds for the creatures. On your way out, you tell James the tale of how you got this suitcase in the first place.

It was from your grandmother originally. She used it a lot during her travels, and when she didn't feel like setting a camp. Until it became your family heirloom. She had passed it to your mother, and during your second year, your mother had passed it onto you. The suitcase served plenty of purposes prior. But after being passed to your mother, it’s main purpose now is to keep magical creatures in.

“So, is your mother a Magizoologist?” James asks, continuing to follow you around the vast land outside the tiny shed you were just in. And, to be frank, he still didn't get how you can fit this much space inside your suitcase. Despite believing in magic. “Yes she is. And she loves Newt Scamander a lot.” You respond, exaggerating the last few words. Though it was the truth, she’s always just singing praise for him.

“I think it's sweet that she has someone to look up to.” James says, stopping when you go to check on the tree the other bowtruckles live on. Your lips form into a big smile. “Well, aren't you just a sweetheart?" You tease and he lets out a chuckle. Then James notices Pickett hiding behind his neck. “Everything alright?” He mutters, you lift your head to look. “Pickett doesn't really like them. Even though I try to get him to interact with them sometimes.” James hums, reaching to give Pickett a few pats.

“It's okay, buddy, you have me.” You find yourself smiling at their little interaction. Pickett really has come so far with James. You remember he used to hide from him, and now he’s all cozy on his shoulder.

“James, do you wanna see the Puffskeins?” His head perks up immediately, and you swear you see his eyes light up. “Of course, I think my entire life has been leading up to this moment.” You hum, going along with his dramatics. “I’m sure it has.” You turn to your left, leading to a grassy plain, where a bunch of round, furry, colorful Puffskeins are bouncing around.

And now James is looking at you as if you’ve hung the moon.

“Well? Aren't you gonna–” He cuts you off, giving you the biggest and warmest hug you’ve ever had in a while. And it's almost enough to melt you, but he pulls away before that can happen.

“I’m seriously falling in love with you, you know that right?”

“What?” You stand there as James hurries to pick up one of the fluffy round creatures hopping around, leaving you gawking and wondering if what he just said was true or just a figment of your imagination.

The truth comes to you a few days later, when he sets up a small picnic date for the both of you. Which you end up sharing with Pickett as well.

Even if James found himself in circumstances he didn't expect to be in, and had to keep them a secret. He still enjoyed every time he spent with you.

And if this ends into any type of conclusion, it's that James is actually pretty good at keeping secrets.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[bearforcecaptions]

Dylan Harper had never been a man of presence.

He was the kind of guy people’s eyes skimmed over in a crowd — slight frame, short haircut, the kind of posture that folded in on itself like a question mark. He spent most of his days behind a desk in a mid-tier consulting firm, organizing data, avoiding conversations, eating his turkey sandwich in the break room while pretending to read.

But today… something was wrong.

He was in the back of a rideshare, heading home just like any other evening, when it began. At first, it was subtle: a tingling in his arms, like his skin had been lightly sunburned. He rolled up the sleeves of his cardigan and frowned. The hairs on his forearms were standing on end — but there were more of them than usual. Thicker. Darker. Spreading.

"What the hell...?" he muttered, rubbing his arm.

Then came the heat.

It surged through his chest and neck like a fever, swelling his muscles, tightening his skin. He gasped and unbuttoned his shirt collar, only to find a growing patch of coarse, black hair erupting over his pecs. His narrow chest — once soft and unimposing — was pushing outward, thickening with firm muscle, draped in a forest of fur.

His hands were trembling.

Dylan pulled out his phone, panic bubbling in his throat. He hit the front camera. What he saw didn’t match who he was. His jaw was squarer. His cheekbones more pronounced. His eyebrows looked thicker, more defined. Worst of all — or maybe best, depending on your perspective — a thick beard was creeping over his cheeks like ivy in fast-forward.

“No, no, no, no…”

He hit Record. His voice shook.

“Okay—uh—my name is Dylan Harper,” he said, almost pleading. “I work in accounting. I don’t know what’s happening right now. I was just riding home from work and—something’s happening to me. My body’s—it’s changing. I feel like I’m burning up, and I’ve got hair growing all over my chest and face, and my voice is—”

He coughed, and it came out as a growl.

“Jesus—my voice is changing too. Please—someone has to help. This isn’t right. This isn’t me.”

He moved the phone to show his chest. His once-flat torso had swelled into something broad, masculine, dusted with an ever-thickening pelt. His collarbone was hidden beneath it. His nipples were larger, darker, firm with muscle behind them. He gasped as a burst of heat filled his arms — his biceps were swelling, tearing the sleeves of his cardigan.

Dylan looked horrified.

His fingers shook as he tried to upload the video.

Upload failed.

His phone buzzed. The Photos app opened.

“Wh—what the hell? No, no—”

The screen lit up, and the video started to play. But it wasn’t the one he recorded.

On-screen was the same face… but not the same man. He was shirtless now, glistening slightly with sweat, beard thick and perfectly shaped. The chest hair that once terrified Dylan now framed him like a badge of pride. He leaned into the camera with a cocky smirk and a slow rumble in his voice.

“Hey there, stud,” he said, fingers brushing through his beard. “Name’s Dirk McLean. Big, bad, bearded, and damn proud of it.”

Dylan froze.

On the video, Dirk rolled his shoulders, his pecs flexing visibly beneath a mat of dark fur. His eyes burned with confidence, voice honeyed with flirtation.

“Just got back from the gym, thought I’d show you boys what a real man looks like. You like chest hair? I got a damn forest. Wanna touch? Bet you do. I know you’re watchin’ this with one hand already.”

“No! That’s not me! That’s not—I didn’t say any of that!” Dylan shouted at the phone, his hands trembling.

But something in him… shifted.

A numbness rolled over his thoughts like fog. The fear drained away. His mouth parted. His eyes lost focus. And then…

He found himself holding the phone again, like before. But this time, he wasn’t watching the video. He was recording it.

And he was saying it all—word for word.

“Hey there, stud,” he purred into the lens. “Name’s Dirk McLean. Big, bad, bearded, and damn proud of it.”

He grinned wide, deep voice laced with flirtation as he rubbed his fingers through his dense beard, slowly sliding down to rake across his hairy chest. He let out a satisfied growl.

“Just got back from the gym, thought I’d show you boys what a real man looks like. You like chest hair? I got a damn forest. Wanna touch? Bet you do. I know you’re watchin’ this with one hand already.”

He winked.

Dirk stopped the recording, smiling lazily. His thumb hovered over the send button — not to family, not to coworkers. Not even to anyone he’d known before.

He opened Grindr.

There was a guy nearby, profile name “MuscleChaser69.” Dirk didn’t hesitate.

Sent.

As he leaned back into the leather seat, stretching his now-massive arms behind his head, he felt no trace of Dylan Harper in his mind. The meek office drone, the nervous wreck in a cardigan — gone. His memories were foggy, faded like a bad dream. All he knew now was Dirk McLean: bold, flirty, hairy, hot as hell.

He scratched his beard, admiring himself in the reflection of the window. That smirk never left his face.

And when his phone buzzed with a “🔥” and a message saying “Damn, stud. U free tonight?” he just chuckled.

“Damn right I am.” he sent.

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

[crustyfloor]

A new pop-up store dropped for ALIEN STAGE's 2nd anniversary and wow. It's so sick.

It's Interesting what exactly these experiments are focusing on and monitoring.

Instrument practice

I found it interesting earlier that Till was so tame, more so than he usually is when he's going through experiments, but music, and making music is what he loves doing, So he was fully in his element here. This was probably the only thing he was made to do by the aliens that he at least tolerated.

(Additionally, judging by his collar (orange), he was at least calm. maybe he just isn't fazed anymore.)

//Side note, that head contraption looks familiar BUT this most likely isn't related at least i hope

(It puts me at ease, at least..)

Dance practice

This surprised me, but I suppose Mizi needed more skills.

She looks very startled here, and nervous(?) +It looks like she's doing this while singing. And with that face covering I assume this was a test monitoring her dance balance, precision, etc. At first, I did think it was odd, "Why would Shine put her through that" But alas I was reminded that even though Mizi is the flower of the group she was never untouchable, to Shine, this was the equivalent of teaching your dog to sit and stay.

(seeing this it reminded me of those scenes in movies where the people are dancing, and the music gets faster and faster until they fall. I wonder if she was doing through something similar to that)

Singing practice (?)

Similar to Till she also looks quite calm outwardly, if the machine around her neck is an iteration of the collars they have, then this process wasn't something she liked, or given how intense this experiment looks, this was a test of high-pressure to ensure she always stayed calm during performances (?). Then again this could also be a posture practice given all the structure focused on maintaining her position.

(What I believe was another form of this test was shown before so I think so)

(With her hands in a praying stance I wonder if she was praying to herself or singing a religious song (sweet dream?) It's also interesting that the machinery around her looks like a halo, and she looks so...angelic? holy?)

Image making practice

By image making, I think they made Ivan replicate expressions with his face. Whether this process was painful for him or not...I'm not sure. But it looked visibly uncomfortable, maybe that was the point. (His expression, even in this circumstance is so dubious..)

Ivan, among other things, needed to have a spotless appearance to be successful, his image was a priority given his skills were certainly guaranteed.

I assume the aliens eventually took note of his lack of expression, in the real world this can be a detriment to one's career, so the Aliens had to ensure quality was perfect. (To a more...dedicated level)

Superiority test

'Superiority test' Is very vague.

HyunA is very calm here too, likely sedated in that water with all the tablets on her. I guess this was a test to get an idea of a pet human's strengths and weaknesses, endurance, and temperament to compare and contrast them with others, testing who is more viable for Alien stage?

Another interesting, and sad part about this is that HyunWoo was there, watching his sister through her experiments.

(Also, it looks like both of her legs are normal, no alien leg yet.)

Heart rate variability

And finally, the most visceral of them all. The wording 'variability' makes this all the more sickening, the Aliens were testing his heart hours, testing it at different rates, speeds, and states. And he was in agony the entire time. Even the way he's clutching his chest, it gives me chills. This would've been a completely harmless test in a normal setting, as something quite similar to this can be performed efficiently in real life. But he's being tortured in the process.

This is one of the first times we've ever seen Luka's face so truly clear and unprotected, (understandably so.) He's even crying.

[ijbolgawon]

THE BASTARD'S WITCH. kaz brekker

in which. kaz finally gives in, even if it makes him look weak

wc. 1.2k

a/n. i suggest listening to this song since it's one of the main reasons i even wrote this lol

Kaz Brekker knew the sound of footsteps approaching, the distinct rhythm of each person who dared step into his office. He heard the short creak of the floorboards outside his office, the subtle shift of weight, and for a brief moment, he thought it was her.

Y/N.

His grip on his cane tightened as he turned around.

But it wasn't Y/N. It was Pekka Rollins.

Two of Pekka’s men loomed behind him, their postures too relaxed, too sure of their authority.

“Mister Brekker, isn't it?” Pekka greeted, his voice like the slow drag of a blade against stone.

Kaz didn't move. He slowly watched as the man pulled a chair in front of him as his men grabbed Kaz’s shoulders, kneeling him in front of Pekka.

He made a show of looking around, as if he were the one letting Kaz stay here, rather than the other way around.

“You’re after the Heartrender,” Pekka asked, even if it sounded more like a statement.

Kaz’s expression didn’t waver.

Pekka smiled, all teeth. “Go ahead. Take the job. But if you do, I’ll make sure your little Summoner doesn’t see another sunrise.”

A long silence.

Kaz forced himself to remain still. Not to react. Not to show the way the words latched onto something deep, something ugly.

“She’s not my concern,” Kaz said. Even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. He felt his own cane being pressed to his throat.

Pekka chuckled. “That so? Then why does it feel like she is?”

He leaned forward, slowly. “I’ve been watching her, Brekker. Ever since she came to the Menagerie, I knew she was special.”

Kaz’s fingers twitched inside his gloves, his hands itching with anger.

“She still wears that collar,” Pekka continued. “Still belongs to Heleen. Which means —” His voice dropped, his words slow and deliberate. “She belongs to me.”

Kaz said nothing.

Pekka studied him, his head tilting slightly. “So here’s the deal. If you want the Heartrender, you kill her. If you want Ghafa’s freedom, you do it for me.”

He continued, a slight smirk forming on his lips, “Or maybe I’ll just kill the witch myself. And we’ll see if you still care to finish the job after.”

A heartbeat of silence. Then another.

“I’ll deal with her.”

Pekka’s smirk widened. “That’s what I like to hear.”

And then, just as quickly as he came, he was gone, leaving him alone, knees stuck on the wooden floor. Kaz stood there for a long moment, his mind already working, already calculating.

He would deal with her.

The job was supposed to be simple. In and out. No blood.

Yet Y/N found herself gasping against the alley wall, pressing a trembling hand against the wound just below her ribs. The knife had been quick. She hadn’t even seen the attacker’s face.

One moment, she was making her way back from the job Kaz had sent her on, the next, steel in her ribs. Blood seeped through her fingers, warm and thick.

She straightened, forcing herself upright as she heard footsteps. Making her way back to Slat, barely alive, a trace of blood sticking to all the buildings she had passed by.

Throwing herself on the nearest chair inside, she ripped her coat open, fingers grazing over the bloody cut. Her free hand grabbed the aid kit, mindsely searching for the needle and the thread.

There is no way she could've done it by herself, but she didn't want anyone to find out she had failed at the easiest job: she was a Grisha after all.

As soon as she began stitching, Jesper made his way inside, a soft smile on his face.His grin faltered when he saw her.

“Well, that’s not good.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, “Brilliant deduction.”

Jesper walked forward, gaze flicking to the blood darkening her coat. “What happened?”

“I accidentally stabbed myself”,she jokes, showing him that she was not in the mood.

Jesper sighed, defeated. “Kaz is already pissed, you know. And now this?”

“Why is he pissed?”, he takes in her frown, then his face suddenly changes. Like the realization hit him. ‘You can't tell her’, he recalls Kaz's words, and he wishes he hadn't opened his mouth.

Jesper hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pekka paid him a visit.”

Not failing to notice the way she stiffened, he continued.

“He made a deal,” his voice was too casual, too careful. “A million kruge. Inej’s freedom. But there’s a condition.”

Y/N swallowed. “What condition?”

The door slammed open. Kaz barely had time to look up before Y/N stormed in, her coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal the blood staining her shirt.

He took it in immediately: the slight hitch in her breath, the tension in her shoulders, the fire burning in her eyes.

“You’re going to kill me for a million kruge?” she asks, voice latching with despair.

Kaz shut his ledger. “You should be resting.”

She scoffed, stepping forward despite the limp in her stride. “Is a million kruge more important than me living?”

Silence.

Her breath came sharp, uneven. She reached into her belt and pulled out a knife, flipping it so the hilt faced him.

“Then do it.”

Kaz didn’t move. Her fingers curled around his wrist, forcing the knife into his palm. “Do it, Brekker.”

He felt the weight of it, the cool steel pressing against his skin.

Then, slowly, he placed the knife on his desk and stepped toward her.

She backed away instinctively, but her wound betrayed her, her knees buckling, and she stumbled.

Kaz caught her before she could hit the ground, his gloved hand draped around her waist.

Her breath shuddered, their lips almost touching. “You’d do anything for your freedom, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Her fingers curled around his sleeve, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Then kiss me.”

A command.

Kaz saw the shift in her eyes, the pull of her power curling around the words. But he had already anticipated it.

His fingers pressed into her wound.

She gasped, her body jolting as pain lanced through her. And then he kissed her.

His lips crashed against hers, sharp and unyielding, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was not soft or gentle. It was the same as everything Kaz did: calculated, precise, deliberate.

When they finally pulled away, she winced, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence. Kaz looked down.

Blood.

His hand was still pressed against her wound.

Understanding flickered in her eyes, then horror.

“When a Grisha is in pain, their powers don’t work,” Kaz murmured. “I knew you were about to command me.”

He had been pressing on her wound from the moment she stumbled. Not to hurt her. Not to stop her.

But to choose. To choose the kiss. To choose her.

Y/N’s hands trembled against his arm, the pressure he was applying making her even more dizzy.

“Kaz…”

He stepped back, his touch remaining as a ghost on her skin. The weight of the moment settled between them, thick and suffocating.

“I’ll deal with Pekka.”

Then, before she could say anything else, before she could look at him like that, he turned and walked away.

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ body double.

sugar baby!paige x sugar baby!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: azzi and paige are both sugar babies who have no prior knowledge of each other. they end up meeting when their shared client invites them to the same hotel room. on the same evening.

cw: power dynamics, mentions of drugs (neither p nor a are the ones using), non-graphic & non-fatal overdose, non-sexual intimacy, suggestive content, the eroticism that comes with finding someone almost exactly like you, strangers to maybe lovers.

notes: hello, my loves. this was written as a part of a challenge to help me write more. the challenge was as follows:

work with isolated locations for the majority of a piece. only one place or two, almost like a film. pairing is pazzi. type: oneshot. prompt: body double.  

d.c. can feel exactly like new york city if you drink enough. azzi learns this about two months into the sugaring game. she also learns that people with copious wealth will wield it to test your willingness to receive it. 

azzi wonders if they see something when she looks up at them. if there’s a large question mark that they click onto that asks them: what else can i do for love? and the thing is, it’s not about love. it’s about affordability. but still, the wielding of wealth is exactly what’s gotten her into this hotel room with two women she doesn’t know.

one of them is clearly another baby, sugar. the one with the money, and therefore the most power, is currently in the bathroom getting ready for their “night of fun.” azzi and the other girl are sitting so still, each frozen on one of two twin beds, faces steadfastly turned away from one another. 

azzi is pressing her thoughts down like petals under glass. she’s trying to forget she has a body at all. the other girl seems to be evaluating whether or not this is really worth it. azzi understands. 

the drip of the shower is abysmally insanity-inducing, so azzi turns herself slightly so that she can study the woman who still refuses to look directly at her. she’s beautiful, even from the side.

she’s all-american: blonde hair like wheat tumbling past her shoulders, blue eyes that seem to x-ray anything she’s looking at, skin that’s probably more pale than the tanning spray it’s been painted with tonight, a sharp jawline that leans into a strong neck.

she’s awkward, tall, and a bit gangly. slacks. a collared shirt that doesn’t quite fit right. it looks too nice to be hers, probably the client’s pick. azzi fidgets with the glittered hem of her mini dress, which, too, is the client’s pick.

they fit the profile of what most older women with money seem to need: younger, younger in posture still, bodily desperation or at least the shape of it, wide eyes because it makes them appear more into it than they ever are. 

the other woman turns her wrist over, studying underneath her unpainted nails. azzi catches a flash of a tattoo sitting sweetly on her inner wrist. scales. libra, azzi thinks. she tries to think if libras and scorpios are known to be compatible, and she finds she can’t remember. 

she once had a client so into astrology that he used to check his horoscope before they ever slid into bed. he drove her insane. 

that was a valium heavy year. 

the shower is still running, and azzi belatedly wonders what the water bill for the hotel must look like. it’s how she knows she’s getting bored. next to her, on that other bed, her blonde counterpart shifts impatiently. azzi feels a smile flicker along the curl of her mouth, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep it captive.

something about that urges the woman to look at her, and as she does, azzi lets her bottom lip slide out from where she’s bitten it bloodless. the plumpness returns to the vermilion, and the woman watches as the skin steadily fills back out. it sits pretty and wet in the low light. 

a pause. then:

“you know about this?”

the words both startle and provide clarity to azzi. she knows almost immediately what the appeal is. her voice is low, deliberately kept that way. azzi can tell. her thing is probably not to talk much unless necessary. the charm is always in what you never say.

“about…” azzi says, tilting her head.

“the alleged threesome we’re about to have,” the other woman says, voice just on the side of dry.

azzi gives a non-answer. “alleged is a great word, because with the size of her pupils and the slur of words, i’m not sure she’s making it out of that shower.”

there’s another pause, and then they both slide off the edge of the bed and stand. they do an odd dance for about five minutes: azzi forward, the woman backward, then stand side to side. all of this and never moving closer to the bathroom. finally, azzi is the one to push ahead and knock the door open with a manicured finger. 

they find their client slumped halfway in the shower, water still cascading down the curve of her back, mascara in twin tributaries running past her temples. azzi is the first to move, toeing off her heels, padded and slow over the tile. the other girl doesn’t move from the doorway, only exhales loudly. there's no scream, no panic. just a long, stunned silence.

“she breathing?” she asks, voice flat.

azzi kneels, checks a pulse she barely remembers how to find. “um, yeah,” she says. “i think so.”

they exchange a look.

“do we…call someone?”

azzi’s lip curls. “what, 911? and say what? ‘hi, our shared sugar mommy did too many muscle relaxers and now she’s unconscious in the waldorf astoria bathroom’?” 

her voice goes high as she does the impression, her cheeks slightly puffing so that she can mock pout as she blows her eyes out to look as innocent as they’re paid to be.

the blonde presses her thumb to the bridge of her nose. “we are not getting paid.”

“not tonight,” azzi agrees.

azzi stands up from where she’d crouched beside the tub, brushing her palms over her thighs like she can shake it off. she doesn’t look at paige when she says, “her lips look a little blue.”

the girl—azzi's coined her blondie— frowns. “what?”

azzi turns, finally, eyes more honest than they’d been all night. “i’m not a nurse, okay? but she wasn’t that color before.”

that’s what makes them check again. blondie steps forward, nudging the shower curtain back with two fingers like it might bite. the woman is still breathing, barely, but her head has lolled too far over the side of the tub, and her chest rises, falls, stutters again.

“fuck,” blondie groans.

azzi’s already moving, digging through the woman’s massive purse like she owns it. lipstick. loose twenties. pills. more pills. 

“are you stealing?” blondie asks, and she knows its the wrong thing to say but she’s shit at this. 

azzi tenses and doesn’t look at her as she answers. “i’m looking for narcan.”

“oh.” blondie's voice sounds steadier than she must feel, less apologetic than she wanted. “well, you’re calling.”

azzi glances over her shoulder, brown eyes dark like a deer’s in the light. she studies blondie for two seconds flat before nodding sharply. there’s hesitation, only for a second, then she dials. the conversation is short and strange: no real names, just room numbers and coded panic. she hangs up and drops the phone face down on the carpet.

“she’ll live,” azzi says, finally. “they said they’d send someone. told me to leave her in the tub. that seems cruel."

blondie says nothing.

paige observes how the other girl tucks a strand of hair behind their client’s ear, how she fixes the strap of her dress so she’s more dignified in her self-designed destruction. then, whatever paige sees? it’s gone. there’s nothing. just the buzz of silence around them, and water still running because neither of them dares to reach in and touch her again. azzi moves again, turns the water off. 

they slink out of the bathroom and sit on the beds again. paige rises, always antsy in conflict, and azzi watches her as she reaches behind herself to grasp her curls in one hand and pin them with the claw clip in the other.

paige leans on the dresser. “guess we’re not going anywhere.”

azzi snorts, then sighs like something inside her unhooks.

she stands, crosses the room, and tugs at the zipper of her dress. it’s glittery and stiff; it could hold its shape without her. 

“jesus, i can’t feel my ribs,” she mutters, more to herself.

the dress peels off like fruit skin. underneath, azzi wears something so worn it’s almost faded: a ribbed cotton tank with a thin daisy print and matching boyshorts, simple, clean, hers. paige is pretty sure it's from h&m.

azzi stretches, shoulders rolling back, head falling to one side in a sleepy waterfall. paige can’t not look. and then can’t stop.

azzi is beautiful. she’s fuller where paige isn’t, hips wide and waning like the moon. her chest is full, the skin glowing with an endless layer of body butter and maybe oiled perfume. her thighs are strong, indicative of an athletic background—her arms too.

paige is helpless to the way her eyes catch on the spill of her ass from her boyshorts, the high rise of them in the front that strip down in a tiny patch of fabric to keep her cunt hidden and alluring. she tries not to look at it for a second time, a third. tries. fails. then begins to wonder.

what does she look like in motion? in your mouth? is it like a flower rising toward the sun?

azzi glances over her shoulder. “are you okay?”

paige nods, too quickly. “yeah. yeah, ‘m fine. i’ve just never seen glitter look so relieved to leave a body.”

that gets a laugh, a bright, real burst, and azzi flops onto the nearest bed, folding one leg over the other. it’s the one paige had been sitting so clinically on before. “you’re kind of funny. didn't expect that.”

“why would you? you don’t know me.”

azzi hums, not disagreeing. “i’m azzi.”

“paige.”

azzi nods, then leans over and yanks a beaded clutch from underneath the bed.

“you’re kind,” paige says after a minute, voice quieter now. “didn’t expect that either. you kind of come off as…”

“a bitch? yeah, i know.” azzi shrugs. “it’s not kindness, it’s survival. but thank you.”

paige wants to sit, but she doesn’t want to take the other bed. it’s too close to the bathroom. azzi looks up from where she’s scrolling on her phone, its delicate skeleton encased in a pink, plastic case with gold lettering airbrushed across it that looks as though it's seen the world. she shifts, makes space. paige climbs up to be with her. 

they sit like that for a while. the wet gurgle of the bathroom, the long shadows, the strange closeness of a night that probably would’ve been later repressed. 

outside the window, the city murmurs on without them. inside, paige’s eyes won’t stop catching on the soft places azzi has let show. not just skin, but still skin.

“what’s it say?” she asks, and azzi looks at her. “your phone case.”

“oh,” azzi says. she flips the phone over, holds it up to the light. “you have all these things inside of you. [i wish] you could turn into something beautiful.” 

“why the brackets?”

azzi brings the phone to the pit of her lap and looks at paige. “without the brackets, it’s a great motivational quote. with the brackets, it’s itself.”

“meaning…”

“it’s the last thing my mother said to me before she kicked me out and cut me off.”

paige lets out a breath. azzi smiles wryly. “we’re kind of okay now. she got comfortable with the liking girls thing when she realized it was technically half of me.” 

the joke makes paige laugh. 

“but still, bisexuality is a large pill for her to swallow. by the time she started to try, i was already thick in the game.”

azzi says it like she’s over it. like it’s a throwaway story she only tells when she’s bored or brave or buzzed off a stranger’s attention. but paige can tell by the way azzi presses the phone to her lap as if it might spill something, by the way she won’t meet her eyes again yet, that there’s nothing throwaway about it.

“that’s kind of beautiful,” paige says softly. “in a fucked up sense.”

azzi's shirt is clinging to her like a second skin, damp where the collarbones dip and the cotton’s gone sheer with sweat. the room smells like sterile panic, like baby powder and bile and something almost sweet underneath. paige’s perfume, maybe. azzi saw the valentino on the nightstand. or maybe it's the city. 

azzi tends to find the skyscape sweet when she has time enough to enjoy it.

paige shouldn’t still be watching her. should’ve turned away after that first scan down her legs, after the boyshorts and the way they cut in at the curve, gave shape to things paige wasn’t supposed to be cataloguing. but it’s like catching sight of your reflection in a window you didn’t know was there. she can’t look away, and azzi doesn’t seem to mind it.

“you always wear them like that?” paige asks. it’s nowhere near as casual as she hopes. she blames the question on adrenaline. on proximity. on whatever the fuck is happening with the allegedly arriving emts and the non-present narcan.

azzi raises an eyebrow, half-lidded, a little mean. “wear what like how?”

“you always wear your favorite underwear under a thousand-dollar dress? then strip down like you want someone to notice?”

a pause. a glint of something dangerous moves through azzi’s expression, then quiets. “how do you know they’re my favorites?”

paige raises a light brow. “baby, those things have seen leagues of better days.”

the pet name hangs between them like a dare. azzi’s mouth twitches.

“bitch.”

“sorry,” paige quips, smiling fully now. azzi can see teeth.

“don’t be.”

that hangs between them, too. 

paige looks down at the bed, at the mussed sheets, and then toward the bathroom where the person who paid for it is still lying. her gaze transfers to azzi, whose mouth is slightly parted like she’s catching breath that won’t come easily. paige feels her own stutter, short-circuit. 

azzi doesn’t look scared. she looks resigned, empty. nothing about this scenario is new to her.

paige thinks: she could be me. if i let go of the wheel. 

azzi catches her staring.

“would you have done it? fucked me, i mean. i’m starting to gather we both didn’t know about this...endeavor.”

it’s the answer to paige’s question from earlier. it’s not coy or flirtatious. it’s almost accusatory, clinical. like she’s calling paige on a secret she didn’t mean to let slip. paige doesn’t answer right away. her eyes flick down, then up again. the air hums.

“since i didn’t know about this whole proposition till we crossed the threshold, i don’t know if i would’ve fucked you,” she says. 

azzi looks at her from beneath her lashes. “do you want to?”

paige leans back on her hands, stretching her body out across the pillows she’s sitting on. she shrugs.

“i think i wanna figure out what happens if i do.”

azzi leans back a little, her head tipping so the tendons in her throat show. her arms are crossed but loose, like she’s considering the confession academically. there’s no warmth in her smile.

“you think it’s something about how we live the same?”

paige swallows. “a bit, yeah. but you’re not that hard to look at.”

azzi laughs again. second time tonight.

there’s a sudden knock, a bang against the doorframe, then rubber soles and clipped voices calling in. azzi rises and grabs one of the satin robes hanging in the room’s wardrobe. she ties it around herself, the belt coming into a neat bow along her hips. she turns, leans forward just enough so that paige can smell the caramelized citrus and musk of her perfume, and pops a few buttons of the shirt paige wears.

“try to look like you’re getting ready for bed,” azzi tells her. paige stands, tries to do her best.

the door opens.

“hi, ma’am. we’re answering an earlier call about an overdose. is she breathing?”

azzi nods jerkily. paige moves up behind her, arms up, closing the space like it’ll prove something. she presses two fingertips to the small of azzi’s back. azzi leans into her.

“she hasn’t woken up,” paige says. “we didn’t want to leave her alone.”

“how do you know her?”

“uh, we had dinner together.”

the excuse makes no sense, and they both ignore the knowing gaze of the team’s head member. a pair of emts flood the space with too much presence, all nylon and light and metal clips. one kneels beside the older woman on the tile, shining a small penlight into her eyes, asking questions she can’t answer. the other reads her vitals off the monitor like a grocery list.

paige backs into the corner, unnoticed, but not unseen. azzi is quiet.

the woman is now out of the tub, a puppet with its strings cut. she lets them touch her, prod and measure, like none of it matters. paige watches the whole time, arms crossed tight over her chest. she should leave. should fade into the background like any good girl caught someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.

instead, her eyes stay trained on azzi’s body, which now seems on the verge of collapse. paige slides closer to her, fits a finger into the hollow under her ribs. the room’s residue of glamour is approaching its expiration date.

“we’ll take her in,” one of the professionals says. “she’ll make it, but just barely. she needs observation.”

azzi finally turns her head, catching paige’s gaze like a hook in the mouth.

“that’s fine.”

it’s not a plea. it’s not a question, even. paige hesitates. then nods. the woman, nothing more than a bank deposit and a shared gps pin, is gone in under five minutes. a transaction cleared.

the silence after is paramount. paige closes the door, latches it. she turns, leaning against it with her arms crossed. 

“want to go to bed?” azzi asks. 

paige huffs out a low laugh. “might as well, mama.”

the sheets are still warm from when they’d sat on them. it makes them both shiver. they don’t say anything about it. 

paige pulls her shirt off first, then kicks out of her jeans, the slow reveal of ink across her shoulder blade catching azzi’s eye in the mirror. sports bra, soft boxers. nothing delicate, but it still makes azzi blink. her gaze stalls on the cut of paige’s abs, and when she’s caught, there’s nothing said.

paige knows she can’t say anything, not when moments before she was thinking about sucking azzi loose enough to make her cry, right through her fucking see-through underwear.

“do you think they have extra toothbrushes in the bathroom?”

“it’s the astoria. of course they do,” azzi answers, already turning toward the phone. “but probably only one. we’d have to call reception.”

they do. two pristine bamboo toothbrushes are left outside the door on a silver platter alongside a slim tube of marvis toothpaste. they wait for the other to finish despite there being two sinks.

azzi climbs in first, wriggles to the far end of the bed to steal the cold side, but paige follows. long limbs, loose breath, the heavy scent of sleep, something like chlorine and money.

they don’t cuddle. this isn’t what this is. not really. they just… end up there. one turn, another. an arm flung out. a thigh slips between the other’s legs. the legs that hold that thigh clench closed, keeping it there.

“it’s too fucking hot, bruh,” paige mutters, peeling herself off azzi—whose thigh is freed—and stumbling to the thermostat. “what is this, dubai?”

azzi laughs into the pillow.

“d.c., paigey.”

paige shoots her a look at the nickname.

“you could’ve asked her to pay for better a/c.”

“i don’t ask for shit.”

“you’re such a liar.”

“sue me.”

“maybe.”

paige doesn’t answer, just flops back onto the bed. azzi shifts, her knee bumping paige’s thigh as if trying to get her to open up again.

“stop moving,” paige mumbles, one hand flattening against azzi’s hip, her voice heavier now, eyes half-lidded.

“don’t tell me what to do,” azzi snaps back. but she doesn’t really mean it.

she moves more. on purpose. wiggles until the sheets shift and whisper in the most irritating manner allowed.

paige sighs, sharp. she presses a large hand flat against azzi’s stomach, just low enough to make azzi’s chest sing. her palm spans the place paige would push if she wanted azzi to cum on her.

“azzi, chill. ‘m tryna sleep.”

azzi only grows more agitated; she hates the pressure. she tenses, rolls halfway over paige with an arm to the side. her other hand sneaks low, fingers slipping just under the waistband of paige’s boxers before pausing.

“no.”

she rolls away, securing the colder side.

paige’s laugh is low, rough around the edges. a warning bell in a dimly lit room. 

she reaches, snaps the band of azzi’s boyshorts sharp enough to sting.  

azzi gasps, half-startled.

paige pulls her back anyway, drapes her arm over her waist, presses their bodies close, spine to chest. the room tilts. azzi goes heavy, steeped in jasmine and amber. she’s a little dizzy. paige’s scent curls around her throat like a loose ribbon. threatens to tighten.

“go to sleep, azzi,” paige murmurs.

and they do.

they don’t wake up at the same time.

paige stirs first, slow and unspectacular. she’s rising from too many layers of sleep, more than she’s had in weeks. her limbs are heavy, eyes gummy, the weight of another body is still pressed to hers like a shadow she can’t fully shake. 

azzi’s hair is a mess against the pillow. her lashes are long enough to cast shadows. her lips, parted. there’s a faint imprint of paige’s chain on her collarbone. paige thumbs over it, then remembers herself.

she does it again and understands—it's time to go.

she slides out from under the covers with practiced stealth. quiet but not quite careful. not tender, but still respectful. she dresses without ceremony: yanks on her jeans, and tugs her hoodie over her head. no perfume. no lip balm. not even a glance in the mirror. she ties her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

she doesn't take anything but her phone.

as she passes the room desk, she spots a little leather portfolio with the wifi information tucked inside. beside it, a small tray meant for bills, folded sharply, ideally meant for tips for the cleaning staff. she pauses.

pulling a pen from the nightstand, she lifts the thick body of her phone case and slides out her last twenty. scrawls something quick, crooked, onto the face of jackson. she crosses the room again, barefoot. the carpet is plush, apricot-colored, and a little worn out.

azzi has rolled closer to the bed’s edge.

paige lifts the duvet, lifts the underside of azzi’s waistband, and tucks the bill against her skin with a faint twist of her mouth. she presses a kiss to azzi’s cheek. it’s barely there, more breath than lip. 

“see you, mama.”

she disappears. the door closes with a whisper, not a click.

she takes the elevator down to the lobby. nobody looks up. paige keeps her hood on, shoulders loose, head tilted forward like she's dodging the day.

outside, it’s too bright. the city is alive in that expensive, awful way it is at 9 am on a weekday. people in trench coats and bluetooth headsets. black cars. barking dogs. everything important, no time to feel. paige walks a few blocks before finding the metro.

she checks the time, taps her card, and descends.

halfway down the escalator, her phone buzzes. she closes her eyes, mildly irritated, already assuming it's her boss once again requesting that she cover another shift. she fishes it out, taps the screen.

unknown number. a text.

the twenty’s unusable btw.

your number’s all over it.

she stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. then she smiles, small and stupid.

sorry

was trying to do something nice 

another minute passes, then,

hmm

make it up to me. 

it’s not a request. paige shakes her head, laughs once. it comes low.

course

she tucks her phone into her pocket.

the train screeches into view.

© hcneymooners.