#split the yellows from whites

[antisocialxconstruct]

.

[pucksandpower]

Pollinated

Day 11 → Sex Pollen 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content and dubious consent

Kinktober Masterlist

“You’ve got a stack waiting for you.” Alan leans on the edge of your desk, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He’s holding a bundle of envelopes, some thick with scribbled messages, some thin and printed with clean, crisp fonts.

Your PR officer’s eyebrows raise in mock exasperation as he shakes them at you. “How do you even have time to race with all these fans wanting a piece of you?”

You grin, setting down your coffee and wiping your hands on your pants. “That’s the problem of being so popular, Alan. It’s a curse, really.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real burden. Everyone loving you.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

He drops the stack in front of you with a soft thud. “Take your time. I’ll be back in a bit.” His tone is teasing, but you catch the flicker of something more serious underneath, like he’s reminding you there’s more work to be done after this.

You roll your eyes as he walks off. You love this part of your day — the letters, the drawings, the fan art from kids who see something in you that makes them believe they can be here too. They’re always so personal, full of energy, like they’re rooting for you from their living rooms or school desks.

You flick through the pile, reading the familiar opening lines. Dear Y/N, you’re such an inspiration or I love watching you race! Your heart lifts as you come across a brightly colored drawing from a girl named Chloe, of you standing on a podium, arms raised in victory. It makes you smile so wide your cheeks hurt a little. You can practically hear the little girl’s voice, excitedly telling her parents, “That’s gonna be me one day.”

“This is what it’s about,” you mutter under your breath, running your fingers over the crayon marks.

More letters. More words of encouragement. A scribbled note from a group of university students who drove twelve hours just to see you race last season. A letter from an older woman who says she’s been watching F1 since her husband introduced her to it in the ‘70s and how proud she is to see a woman making waves. You pause at that one, your chest swelling. You’ll have to write her back.

You reach for the next envelope, a bit plainer than the others. No stickers, no hand-drawn doodles in the margins. It’s simple, just your name written on the front in neat black ink. Your gut tugs slightly, but you brush it off. Not every fan is an artist.

You open it, pulling out a card with a printed picture of a car on the front. Your car. You smile, flipping it open to read the message inside.

But your smile fades as you start to read.

You don’t belong here.

The words are bold, black, and stark against the white paper. They stand out like a punch to the gut, each line colder and more hateful than the last. The handwriting is meticulous, like whoever wrote it wanted to be sure you’d understand every word.

Women like you are ruining the sport.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers grip the edges of the card a little harder than before, the edges bending under the pressure.

Go back to doing what you’re good at: nothing.

You try to swallow, but it feels like there’s a knot lodged in your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve seen something like this. Hell, it’s not even the worst thing anyone’s said. But right now, it’s too sharp, too specific, too venomous.

You reach up to close the card, your hand trembling slightly. But before you can fully shut it, something catches your eye — a tiny puff of fine yellow powder shoots from the fold, drifting into the air in front of you.

“What the-” You blink, confused for a split second.

Then, it hits.

A burning sensation spreads through your throat and nose. Your skin tingles, a wave of heat rushing over your face. You gasp, trying to catch your breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling fire. Panic spikes as your vision blurs.

“Alan!” The name barely makes it past your lips before you feel your legs give way beneath you.

“Alan!” You try again, but it comes out weaker this time. Your limbs feel heavy, your chest tight, and the room starts to spin in slow, nauseating circles.

Footsteps pound across the floor. Alan’s voice sounds far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. You catch a glimpse of him sprinting toward you, his face pale, eyes wide. “Y/N?”

Your body jerks uncontrollably, a violent shudder running through you. The room twists, everything turning hazy as you hit the floor hard, your fingers twitching against the cool tile.

“What the hell — Y/N!” Alan’s panic is sharp now, cutting through the fog. You can barely see him through the haze clouding your vision, but you feel him grab your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, okay?” His voice cracks, fear bleeding through the edges.

Your entire body seizes again, every muscle clamping down painfully. A sharp cry escapes your throat as the convulsions take over, uncontrollable now.

“Help! Somebody, help!” Alan’s voice is frantic, desperate, echoing through the room as the world starts to fade. His hands are on your face now, trying to keep you conscious. You feel his fingers trembling against your skin, hear the panic rising in his voice as he keeps shouting for help.

But you’re slipping, sinking deeper into the darkness as the convulsions wrack your body. You can’t speak. You can’t move.

Alan’s voice is the last thing you hear before everything goes black.

***

The world returns slowly, like surfacing from a deep dive. There’s a ringing in your ears, muffled voices blending into the constant hum of machinery. Your body feels like it’s on fire — each nerve sizzling under your skin, radiating heat. You try to move, but it’s as if you’re bound by weights. The sheets beneath you cling to your body, too warm, too tight, too much.

Someone’s talking nearby, but it’s distant, warped. You can’t make out the words yet. Everything feels heavy — your eyelids, your chest, even your breathing. Your mouth is dry, your tongue like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth.

Slowly, the fog begins to clear, and you catch fragments of conversation.

“… highly illegal substance …” A voice, crisp and professional, filters through. The doctor. “… extreme toxicity … very few cases on record …”

You try to focus, but the burning sensation inside you only intensifies. It’s everywhere — your limbs, your core, your mind. Like you’re being torn apart from the inside out.

You manage a groan, the sound barely escaping your lips.

“She’s waking up,” someone says, closer now. Alan? It sounds like him, but there’s a hitch in his usually confident voice. Panic.

Your eyelids flutter open, and the room comes into blurry focus. Harsh fluorescent lights. Sterile white walls. The sterile smell of antiseptic clogs your senses, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through you. You blink slowly, your vision sharpening enough to see Alan standing by your bedside, pale and jittery, his hand running through his hair in nervous strokes.

Across from him is the doctor, his white coat stiff and immaculate. He’s holding a clipboard, and his face is a mask of concern. When he speaks, it feels like each word takes a lifetime to process.

“… the substance she was exposed to … it’s not just any powder,” the doctor is saying, his voice measured but grim. “It’s a synthetic pollen derivative, known as Lust Dust on the black market.”

Lust Dust. The words sink into you, but you don’t recognize them. Your throat feels too tight to ask for clarification. Alan, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“What does that mean? What the hell is that?” Alan’s voice is raw, frayed at the edges.

The doctor sighs, flipping through the notes on his clipboard before answering. “It’s an extremely illegal bio-weapon, developed underground. It was used in several isolated attacks a few years ago, mostly in war zones. The symptoms … well, they’re brutal.”

You don’t like the sound of this. Brutal. Illegal. Bio-weapon. The words swirl around in your head, each one setting off alarm bells, but you can barely move enough to react. You just lie there, heat pulsing through you, your body screaming in agony.

“The pollen attacks the body’s nervous system,” the doctor continues, his tone clinical. “It acts as a stimulant, targeting primal instincts, heightening … certain responses. The most dangerous part is that, if untreated, the body will burn out within hours.”

“Burn out?” Alan echoes, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What does that mean? You mean … she’ll die?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies, his tone darkening. “In most cases, without intervention, the victim’s body will shut down. It’s a highly sexualized toxin. The only way to counteract the effects is through physical release.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The words hover in the air, sinking into the room with a weight you can almost feel. Your heart races, your mind struggling to comprehend what’s being said. Physical release? The burning sensation in your body intensifies, like it’s reacting to the very idea of what the doctor’s suggesting.

Alan’s face pales further, his hand gripping the back of his neck in horror. “Wait, are you — are you saying she has to-”

“Sex,” the doctor says bluntly, not sugar-coating anything. “Yes. If she doesn’t have sex soon, she will die. The sooner, the better, to mitigate the damage the pollen’s already caused.”

A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, despite the unbearable heat raging inside you. The fire in your veins is consuming everything, twisting the doctor’s words into cruel irony. This can’t be happening. Not this.

“I … I …“ Alan stammers, clearly at a loss, his eyes flicking to you, desperate and terrified. “There’s got to be another way. Medicine? A procedure? Something?”

The doctor shakes his head. “There’s no antidote. The only option is the one I’ve given you.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. But you can’t do anything except lie there, burning from the inside out, unable to stop the panic surging through you as the realization sinks in.

Alan takes a shaky breath. “What … what do we do now?”

The doctor straightens, his voice calm but commanding. “The most important thing is finding someone who’s willing to … assist.”

Alan’s eyes widen in horror, but before he can say anything, the door bursts open and several members of your team file into the room — engineers, mechanics, staff. Their faces are tight with concern, and they crowd into the small space, murmuring amongst themselves.

“What happened?” Someone asks, their voice tense.

Alan quickly explains, his voice shaking as he goes over the details. The pollen. The bio-weapon. The need for “intervention.” Every word makes your heart pound harder, and you can feel the collective shock ripple through the room as the reality of the situation sets in.

“She needs someone,” Alan says, his voice thick with emotion. “She needs someone to …”

He can’t even finish the sentence.

The room falls into stunned silence. You can hear the soft hum of the machines around you, the ragged breathing of the people in the room. It feels like time has stopped, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

Then, the whispers start.

“I’ll do it,” someone mutters.

“No, I will,” another voice pipes up. You recognize it as one of the engineers, his voice shaky but sincere.

“I mean, she’s our driver, right? We have to help.”

More voices chime in, each one offering, each one willing. The panic in the room turns to a frantic eagerness, as though everyone suddenly realizes what’s at stake. You can barely comprehend it — the idea that your team, your colleagues, are discussing this as though it’s just another task, something to be done to save your life.

Your mind is spinning, your body trembling with the heat still coursing through you. You want to shout at them, tell them to stop, that this isn’t how things should be. But you can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is listen as the conversation grows more chaotic, more desperate.

Then, the door opens again, and a new voice cuts through the noise.

“Everyone out.”

It’s Max.

The room falls silent instantly, every head turning toward him. He stands in the doorway, his face hard and set, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity you’ve never seen before. He looks around the room, his gaze sharp, taking in the faces of your teammates, the panic, the confusion.

“I said out,” Max repeats, his voice calm but firm.

No one moves at first, too shocked to respond. But then one by one, they start to file out, murmuring to each other in hushed tones as they leave the room. You hear Alan hesitate for a moment, but even he doesn’t argue. The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone with Max.

You’re too weak to turn your head, but you can hear him walk closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring your condition.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Max’s voice fills the room. “It’s going to be me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“No one else is touching you,” he says, his tone low, steady. “I’m your teammate. I’m the one who’s going to help you. Not them.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the resolve in his voice, the determination. He’s not offering. He’s deciding. There’s no question, no hesitation. It’s going to be him, and no one else.

And as the burning inside you flares again, you realize that part of you is grateful.

***

The air between you and Max is thick with tension, the kind that crackles in the silence, heavy with unspoken words. You lie there, your body still ablaze, the fire under your skin pulsing in waves, but something about his presence — steady, resolute — grounds you, if only just. You can’t move, can barely speak, but your mind races, half-paralyzed with the agony of the pollen and half with the strange anticipation of what’s to come.

Max stands beside the bed, his face framed by the fluorescent lights above, casting shadows that sharpen his features. He doesn’t look afraid, though you can tell there’s something behind his eyes — something that trembles just beneath the surface. His gaze locks onto yours, and it feels like he’s looking past the pain, past the situation, to something deeper.

“This isn’t how I imagined …“ His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, as though the words aren’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. He reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours, tentative at first, like he’s asking permission for what’s about to happen.

You want to respond, to say something, but your throat is too tight, too raw, the burning heat still tearing through you. You manage the faintest of nods, your hand twitching against his, and that’s all he needs.

Max leans over, his face close to yours now, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand trails gently down your arm, his touch soft, careful. “I’m here, okay?” He murmurs, his voice low, soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in that same quiet, tender voice, he adds, “Schatje … you’re so strong.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and despite everything — despite the fire tearing you apart from the inside out — it brings a strange, aching warmth to your chest. Max has never called you that before. The intimacy of it catches you off guard, though you don’t have the strength to dwell on it for long.

His hands move lower now, brushing across your skin with reverence, as though you might break under his touch. You shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You don’t deserve this,” Max whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. His voice cracks ever so slightly, betraying the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. “I’ve … I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he admits softly, his words a confession, raw and vulnerable. “But not like this. Never like this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the feel of his hands on your body, the way he’s handling you with such care, as though he’s afraid of hurting you. And somehow, through the pain, you manage to relax just enough to let him in. Just enough to let him take some of the weight from you.

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft, lingering kiss, and you can feel the tremble in his breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the burning inside you dims, replaced by something else. Something warm, and tender, and utterly consuming. Max moves with purpose now, his touch becoming more sure, more confident, but never losing that careful tenderness. He’s cooing to you, whispering soft praises in Dutch, his voice like a balm against the fire raging inside you.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Max admits again, his words spilling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “For so long. I just … I didn’t know how to tell you.”

His hands continue their journey, and despite the circumstances, despite the fire still licking at your insides, your body responds. Every touch feels magnified, every brush of his skin against yours sending a jolt of something deeper through you, something primal and desperate and… needed.

“You’re so strong,” he says again, his voice reverent, almost in awe. “So perfect. I don’t know how you do it.”

Your body trembles beneath him, not just from the fire that’s still coursing through you, but from the way he’s touching you, the way his words wrap around you like a soft embrace. It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, the vulnerability of the moment stripping away any pretense, any barriers you might have once had.

“I’m here, liefje,” Max whispers, his lips brushing against your ear now. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You don’t know how he manages it, how he makes something so painful feel like this, but he does. His hands are everywhere, soothing the burn, coaxing your body to relax, to give in to what you need. And with every touch, every whispered endearment, the fire inside you dims, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

“I wish it was different,” Max murmurs, his voice thick with emotion now. “I wish this was … just us. Not because of this. Not because of …“ His words trail off, but you understand. You understand perfectly.

He presses his forehead against yours again, his breathing ragged, his body tense with the effort of keeping himself composed. “But I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, his voice fierce with determination. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Your body reacts to him instinctively now, every nerve ending lighting up in response to his touch, the fire inside you blazing hotter but in a way that feels … different. Less painful. More like an ache, a deep, desperate need that only he can fill.

“Max …“ you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible. It’s the first word you’ve spoken since waking up, and it feels like a release, like a crack in the wall you’ve built around yourself. He hears it, though, and his gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

His movements quicken, and you can feel yourself spiraling, the fire inside you building to a crescendo, but this time it’s not just pain. It’s something more, something overwhelming and all-consuming. You can feel him with you, guiding you, coaxing you toward the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers again, his voice breathless now, his own control slipping. “I’ve wanted you for so long …“

His words send you tumbling over the edge, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it nearly takes your breath away. The fire beneath your skin peaks, then suddenly, blessedly, begins to recede. It’s like the flames are being extinguished, one by one, leaving only warmth in their wake.

And Max is there, holding you through it, his arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move.

As the last of the fire dies down, as your body finally begins to relax, you hear him whisper, so softly you almost miss it.

“I love you.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, unguarded and raw, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The room, the pain, the circumstances that brought you here — it all disappears, leaving only the two of you, tangled together, vulnerable and exposed.

You’re too weak to respond, too exhausted from everything that’s just happened, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He holds you close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach.

“I love you,” he whispers again, like he’s afraid you didn’t hear him the first time. “I’ve always loved you.”

His confession hangs in the air, delicate and fragile, but it feels right. Like it’s been waiting to be said all along.

As the fire beneath your skin finally dies out completely, as your body settles into a state of calm for the first time in hours, you let yourself fall into the safety of his arms, his warmth the only thing keeping the remnants of the fire at bay.

Max doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. And you don’t want him to.

***

Max holds you close, his body pressed against yours, his breath still coming in shallow bursts as the two of you lie in a tangled heap on the bed. The burning fire that had been searing through your body has finally been extinguished, leaving only a lingering warmth that feels manageable now.

But even though the pain is gone, even though your body has found relief, there’s still something… unfinished. A strange, restless feeling that hums beneath your skin, an ache that begs for more.

Max is quiet beside you, his hand brushing gently through your hair as he watches your face, his expression soft but intent, like he’s still worried, still waiting for some sign that you’re okay. But you can see it in his eyes — he knows. He knows it’s not over yet.

You shift beneath him, the subtle movement sending a ripple of sensation through you, and your breath hitches involuntarily. The fire is gone, but that need, that craving — it’s still there, simmering just below the surface. It’s not the urgent, desperate heat of the pollen, but it’s undeniable.

Max’s gaze sharpens, reading the subtle cues in your body. His hand stills in your hair, and you feel him shift beside you, his body tensing slightly as he watches you, waiting for you to say something, to ask for what you need.

You don’t have to.

“Oh liefje,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “You still need more, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens, and you nod, unable to form the words. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes — understanding, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He already knows.

Max’s hand trails down your body, his touch feather-light, and it sends a shiver through you, your body responding to him instantly. He presses a kiss to your temple, then to your jaw, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “I’m here,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Whatever you need.”

His lips travel lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and you arch into him, your body aching for more. He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each touch, each kiss, as if he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

You can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips when he moves lower still, his mouth brushing against your collarbone. He’s taking his time, drawing this out, making sure every second is filled with pleasure, with tenderness. There’s no urgency now, no frantic need to cure the fire. This is something else — something deliberate, something intimate.

Max’s hands slide down your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs as he lowers himself down the bed. His mouth follows the path his hands have carved, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing, as he moves lower, kissing across your stomach with slow, deliberate care.

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, each touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, gripping them tightly as you fight to keep your composure, but Max makes it impossible. His lips are everywhere, soft and warm and completely unrelenting.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t think you even realize …”

His words send a thrill through you, and your breath catches as his hands slide lower, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips. He presses a kiss to your navel, and you feel the heat pooling deep inside you, the need building again, stronger this time, more insistent.

“Max …” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you. He always hears you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, his voice soft, reassuring. “Just relax.”

You try, but it’s impossible with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s kissing you, like every part of you deserves his undivided attention. He’s worshiping you with every movement, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Max’s hands slide up your thighs, and your breath stutters as he spreads your legs wider, his eyes dark with want as he looks up at you. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he presses a kiss just below the dip of your waist, teasing you, making you wait.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. “Do you know that?”

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but arch into him, desperate for more. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s giving it to you slowly, carefully, savoring every moment.

Max’s hands grasp your thighs, and he pulls them apart slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something in his gaze — something raw, something vulnerable. He’s giving himself to you completely, just as much as you’re giving yourself to him.

His lips trail lower, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, and your entire body shudders in response. Every nerve is on fire again, but this time it’s not the cruel burn of the pollen.

This is different. This is Max.

He pauses for a moment, his lips hovering just above where you need him most, and he looks up at you, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

You can’t form the words. All you can do is nod, your body trembling beneath him.

Max smiles, a small, almost shy smile, and then he lowers his head, his mouth finally, blessedly, on you. The sensation is immediate, intense, and you cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he works you with a precision that only he seems to know. His tongue moves slowly at first, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the rhythm that makes your entire body sing.

He’s relentless, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony, driving you higher and higher until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you’re sure you’re going to break.

“Max!” You gasp, your body arching off the bed. “Please …”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. If anything, he goes faster, his tongue working you with an intensity that leaves you trembling. You’re so close, so impossibly close, and he knows it.

“That’s it,” he whispers against you, his voice thick with need. “Let go, schatje. I’ve got you.”

And then, with one last flick of his tongue, you’re gone, tumbling over the edge into a wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. Your entire body convulses, your vision going white as you fall apart beneath him, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly they burn.

Max doesn’t let up, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re nothing but a trembling, panting mess. When he finally pulls away, you’re left gasping for breath, your body slick with sweat, your heart racing in your chest.

He crawls back up the bed, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he goes, his hands soothing over your trembling limbs. When he finally reaches your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers brushing your hair back from your face.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soft, reassuring. “You’re okay.”

You can barely nod, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your release. Max pulls you into his arms, holding you close, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back as you come down from the high. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

For a moment, everything is still. Quiet. Perfect.

And then, just as your breathing begins to slow, the door creaks open.

The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight of you and Max — sweaty, tangled together, your bodies still humming with the afterglow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at his clipboard, then back at you.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his tone entirely too clinical for the situation. “It appears the cure has been administered.”

Max stiffens beside you, but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice — or care. He simply jots down a few notes on his clipboard, his pen scratching loudly in the silence.

“Residual effects of heightened libido may persist,” the doctor adds, almost as an afterthought. He glances up from his notes, his gaze flicking between you and Max, then nods, satisfied. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

And with that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you and Max in stunned silence.

Max lets out a breath, a low, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Did he seriously just …”

You nod, still too dazed to form a coherent response.

Max shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “Well, I guess we’re not done yet.”

And with the way your body still hums with need, you know he’s right.

[khioneee]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐃.

simon makes weekly visits to your flower shop, leaving you curious about the person he’s mourning.

pairing. simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader

word count. 4.2k

Every Tuesday, exactly at three in the afternoon—never a minute early, never a minute late—he walks into the shop. Simon always looks the same: tired and drained, pale skin stark against the bruised shadows under his eyes. The cracked red of his lips stands out like a wound, and the way he moves, slow and heavy, makes it seem like sorrow clings to him, weighing him down like an old coat that doesn’t quite fit. Among the bright flowers and soft light of the shop, he stands out like a dark cloud against a summer sky.

"Just a bouquet," he mutters, his voice rough, as though speaking is a struggle.

You grip the counter a little tighter, his presence unsettling yet familiar by now. "Any flowers in particular?" you ask, knowing what the answer will be.

"Doesn’t matter," he says, shaking his head. "Whatever works. I’m not staying long."

He avoids your gaze, as he always does, like looking at you would be too much. The question lingers at the edge of your tongue—Who are the flowers for? Why every week?—but you hold it back. The weight that surrounds him warns against prying too deep, like a thin layer of ice ready to crack.

Instead, you turn away and begin gathering the flowers. You choose yellow and orange roses, soft lilies, daisies, and carnations—delicate blooms that contrast with his rough edges. For some reason, the usual kraft paper wrap feels wrong today, so you arrange them in a small white basket instead.

He always drops more than enough money into the animal shelter’s donation bucket by the door, so you add a few extra roses—your own small gesture to a man who seems to be carrying too much on his back.

When you finish, you find him standing at the far end of the store, idly turning over small trinkets in his large hands. His fingers brush the edges of old picture frames and porcelain figurines, movements careful, almost reverent, like he’s touching something that once meant something.

You approach him quietly, the bouquet in hand. "Will you be back next week?" you ask softly as you hold the flowers out to him.

Your fingers brush his—just for a second—and it’s enough to make him freeze in place. His breath catches, and something shifts in him, like a fault line trembling just beneath the surface. His expression flickers, the tired vacancy in his eyes replaced by a sharp, aching sorrow.

"I… I shouldn’t be here," he mutters under his breath, as if he’s only now realizing it. His hand retreats from the bouquet, and for a moment, he stands there, lost, as though the ground beneath him has crumbled.

Before you can say anything, he takes a step back, stiff and disoriented, his shoulders weighed down by something unseen. "Sorry…" he mumbles, though you’re not sure who the apology is meant for.

Then, without another word, he turns and strides toward the door. The bells jingle softly as it swings open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-scented air. You watch as he disappears into the storm, swallowed by the rain, leaving only the faint scent of flowers—and the feeling that he’s carrying far more than anyone ever should.

You don’t see Simon for three long weeks. And when he returns, it’s not inside the shop—but at three in the morning, under the flickering glow of a streetlamp outside.

He stands there like a shadow—silent, worn, and distant, as if he exists somewhere far from this moment. His hood is pulled low over his unkempt hair, and his black jacket, torn across the chest, looks like it’s been through just as much as he has. One hand rests in the pocket of his jeans, the other dangles at his side, knuckles split and raw, as if he’s been fighting battles no one else can see.

At his feet lies a crushed rose, its petals scattered near the bushes where it must have fallen. And for a moment, you wonder if his heart lies there too—shattered and discarded among the ruins.

You step out into the quiet street, the cold biting your skin as you approach. Words linger on the tip of your tongue, but you’re not sure if anything you say will be enough. The silence between you is thick, oppressive, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

A distant siren wails through the empty streets, and a group of strangers staggers past, their drunken laughter too loud for the hour. One bumps into your shoulder, and the force sends you off-balance—straight into Simon.

He catches you easily, his grip steady and firm. But he doesn’t react. No flicker of emotion, no sound—just the same vacant stare, his gaze lost somewhere you can’t follow.

"Does any of this even matter?" His voice is low, frayed, and cold, as if it’s been left out too long, ready to snap.

You crouch down, gathering the crushed petals by his feet. "What do you mean?" you ask softly, trimming away the thorns with the small scissors always tucked in your work bag.

"Buying flowers for someone who’s gone…" He pauses, his words falling heavily from his lips. "What’s the point? They’ll never see them. They’ll never know they were meant for them."

The crack in his voice is small, but it slices through the night, sharp and raw. You know that kind of grief—the kind that lingers beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to break free.

"Maybe it’s not for them," you say gently. "Maybe it’s for… the ones left behind. Trying to find something beautiful in the loss."

For a moment, his gaze softens. Just slightly. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion hidden beneath the rough edges.

"Do you need a ride home?" you offer, voice careful, trying not to push too hard.

He shakes his head, glancing down the empty street, his expression slipping back into something unreadable. "I shouldn’t have come here," he mutters, raking a hand through his tangled hair, frustration bleeding into his tone.

"You called," you remind him quietly. "Don’t you remember?"

You must be insane, coming after a man this massive. When his call came, you answered without hesitation, not stopping to think how reckless it was to trust a customer you knew nothing about. Rationality had left you somewhere along the way.

“Such a savior you are.” A bitter laugh escapes him, more a sigh than sound. "You shouldn’t waste your kindness on someone like me."

After months of quiet visits and fleeting conversations, it’s hard to believe he was ever a stranger. You’ve learned the way he pulls away just before he opens up, the way sorrow clings to him like an old wound that refuses to heal.

Simon flicks open a lighter, the tiny flame flickering between his fingers. The cigarette at his lips glows faintly as he inhales, the smoke curling into the cold air.

"You shouldn’t try to save me," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I’m already lost."

You don’t push him for answers, knowing he won’t give them. "I’ll call a cab," you say gently.

"Why?" His voice cracks, raw and tired. The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers. "Why are you being kind to me?"

Your heart tightens with the weight of everything you can’t explain. There’s no logic to how you feel—no clear reason for the pull that keeps drawing you to him. All you know is that ever since Simon walked into your shop, something within you shifted, and the thought of letting him slip away now feels unbearable.

"I don’t have anywhere to go," he admits quietly, his voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "She’s gone. There’s no one left."

The way he says it. It’s not just a statement. It’s a confession, a truth too heavy to carry alone.

"Loving someone that much…" You search for the right words, careful not to tread too heavily. "It’s not something you just let go of. It stays with you because it mattered."

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting toward the sky where the moon hides behind thick clouds. The weight of the night presses down on both of you, but you stand there with him, sharing the quiet until it feels just a little less overwhelming.

And this time, Simon doesn’t walk away.

Simon’s frame fills the entrance, broad and imposing, but the way he stands, rigid and hesitant, makes him seem smaller somehow—weighed down by something invisible yet heavy.

"Hi, Simon," you greet him gently, already sensing the weight he carries. "Visiting her grave today?"

For a moment, his expression flickers, as if your words pulled him back from somewhere far away. "Who—?" He catches himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah… yeah, I am."

You nod, knowing better than to press. Some things are only said when the time is right. "Anything specific you’d like for the bouquet?"

He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Whatever you think is nice… something you’d like."

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, unexpectedly personal. Your breath hitches, but you hide it behind a small smile. You step behind the counter and begin gathering flowers: soft pink roses, delicate white lilies, and sprigs of lavender. Something light, hopeful, but not too much—a bouquet that balances beauty and sorrow without overwhelming either.

The silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid. You can feel his gaze following your hands, watching as you arrange the flowers with practiced care. You wonder what it must be like for him, visiting her grave week after week, carrying a grief that never really leaves.

"It can’t be easy, coming by this often," you say gently, your voice soft as you focus on the bouquet. "That must be hard."

He shifts slightly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something invisible. "No… it’s not," he admits, his voice low and rough, as if the words scrape on the way out. "But it feels right. I’ll do anything to see her."

You pause, heart aching at the rawness in his voice. As you finish tying the bouquet with a soft ribbon, you hand it to him. "She must have been lucky to have you," you whisper. "If you’ve been giving her flowers this often."

Simon’s hand hovers over the bouquet for a second, the compliment hitting him deeper than you expected. He shakes his head slowly, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Not as lucky as I was to have her," he murmurs, voice quiet but filled with something raw and unguarded.

For a moment, the world narrows to the two of you. His hand brushing against yours as he takes the bouquet, the warmth of his fingers a sharp contrast to the cold weight of his words.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he mutters, glancing down at the flowers, then back at you. "For disturbing you the other night."

His apology catches you off guard, not because it’s needed, but because it’s so unexpected coming from him.

"It’s alright," you say softly, offering a small smile. "You didn’t disturb me."

Simon gives you a subtle nod, as if the exchange carries more meaning than either of you will say aloud. Then, with the bouquet cradled gently in his hands, he turns toward the door.

The bell chimes softly as he steps out into the night, vanishing into the shadows beyond the streetlamp’s flickering glow. You stand there for a moment longer, heart heavy with something unnameable.

Simon’s presence was different today—darker, heavier. The quiet energy that usually followed him had given way to something more burdensome. His broad shoulders sagged as if carrying the world, and his gaze was distant, clouded with thoughts too deep to share.

You offered him a small smile, though you could feel the tension radiating from him. “Hey, Simon.”

He tried to return the gesture, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he muttered, voice thin and tired, like it barely crossed the space between you.

Concern stirred in your chest, tugging you away from the counter. “You seem… off today. Wanna get out of here for a bit?”

He blinked, surprised by the suggestion, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was too tired to refuse.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook by the door. “I’ve got a place I think you’ll like.”

The drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Simon sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, lost in thoughts he wasn’t ready to share. You didn’t press him. The hum of the tires on the road filled the silence, carrying the two of you away from the noise of town and into somewhere softer, quieter.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time you arrived, casting the field ahead of you in warm hues of gold and lavender. Wildflowers swayed gently beneath the breeze, stretching out toward the horizon as if they could touch the fading light.

Simon stepped out of the car slowly, his breath catching slightly as he took in the sight before him. The field seemed endless, open and free—a stark contrast to the burdens he carried.

You sat cross-legged among the flowers, and Simon followed, settling beside you with his arms draped over his knees, staring out at the horizon like he was searching for something lost in the past.

For a long time, neither of you spoke, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers and filling the silence between you. Eventually, Simon’s voice broke through, low and rough like a confession.

“It’s been a year… since she passed.”

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of deep, unrelenting grief. His gaze stayed fixed on the sunset, as if watching the sun disappear beneath the earth brought him closer to her.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you whispered, wishing there was more you could offer him. “What was she like?”

At first, he stayed quiet, and you wondered if you had asked too much. But then, in a voice soft with nostalgia, he said, “A lot like you.”

The simplicity of the statement caught you off guard.

“How so?” you asked, glancing toward him.

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“She loved flowers,” he murmured. “Used to fill the apartment with them, even though I told her it was too much. She’d just laugh and say there was no such thing as too many flowers.”

You could see it clearly—a home bursting with blooms, her laughter filling every corner, her presence bringing life to everything she touched. Now, it made sense why he returned to your shop so often.

Hoping to ease the heaviness in the air, you plucked a dandelion from the ground and held it toward him with a playful grin.

“Make a wish.”

Simon eyed the dandelion, a tired chuckle slipping from his lips.

“Wishes don’t work like that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Maybe not,” you said, twirling the stem between your fingers. “But it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

He huffed another quiet laugh, the sound brief but genuine.

“Any chance you got a whole field of these somewhere?”

You tilted your head in mock consideration. “Not yet,” you teased. “But we’ve got this one, and I’d say that’s a good start.”

He shakes his head lightly, but the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. It’s a small smile—barely there—but it’s something, and that’s enough for now.

After that quiet evening in the field of flowers, something shifted between you and Simon. His visits became longer, lingering beyond the brief exchanges of bouquets. What had once been fleeting moments stretched into hours—sometimes the entire day—as if your presence gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years.

But Simon didn’t just idle. He threw himself into the heavy work around the shop without a word. If there were heavy pots to lift or supplies to haul, Simon was already on it before you could even ask.

"I’ve got it," he would mutter whenever you tried to help, brushing you off with that quiet determination. He lifted bags of soil with ease, rearranged displays as if it was nothing, and hauled boxes of supplies like they weighed no more than feathers. He’d even repair things you hadn’t realized were broken—fixing wobbly shelves or leaky faucets without waiting to be asked.

He worked with an intensity that didn’t match the simplicity of the tasks, as if lifting heavy things or rearranging displays was more than just helping—it was his way of staying close to you. The repetition, the quiet rhythm of it, seemed to steady something deep inside him, keeping him grounded. If exhausting himself with work meant he could be near you a little longer, he’d do it without a second thought.

Some days, the two of you would talk as you worked side by side. You’d tell him the little frustrations of the shop—how the clippers were always dull, or how the ribbon spools always seemed to run out at the worst time. You’d walk him through the same explanations, over and over again, with the same quiet enthusiasm every time. And every time, Simon would listen. Closely. Intently. Like your words were something invaluable.

But the truth was, it wasn’t new to him.

He knew the rhythm of your voice, the way you moved effortlessly between tasks, your hands brushing over scissors, twine, and ribbons with ease. It was too familiar, a life he once knew—now distant, fragmented, slipping through his fingers.

And every time you smiled at him, he had to remind himself: She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t know me.

You weren’t the same woman who had once filled his life with flowers and light. The way you arranged bouquets, the way you laughed, the way you tilted your head when you talked—it was all a little different now. Not enough for most to notice, but to Simon, the subtle differences were glaring.

And still, the pull of familiarity was there, undeniable.

There were moments when he stood too close, lingering a little too long, as if searching your face for something lost to time. When the memories became too sharp, he’d force himself to remember: She’s not her. She’s not the same.

But the words didn’t stop the way his heart softened toward you.

The quiet comfort of your presence, the sound of your voice filling the shop like sunlight through the windows—he found himself craving it. If he could stay busy hauling heavy pots, rearranging shelves, or carrying supplies just to stay close, then that was what he would do.

You weren’t the same woman he’d lost. But in ways that scared him more than anything, you were becoming just as important.

“Here,” you said, holding the flower out to him.

Hyuck blinked, caught off guard. “For me?”

You nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. It suits you.”

He stared at the rose in your hand, hesitant at first, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it. But then, with a small, uncertain smile, he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed against yours in the exchange—soft, fleeting, but enough to make something stir quietly between you.

“Why a rose?” he asked, twirling the stem between his fingers.

You shrugged, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Because it’s beautiful, obviously.”

He gave a short laugh, the kind that carried both amusement and disbelief. “Did it remind you of me?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your grin widening. “Or maybe you just needed one. Ever think of that?”

He looked down at the rose in his hands, the smile lingering on his lips. For a moment, the usual shadows behind his eyes seemed to lift, replaced by something softer.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice quiet but sincere.

You leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. “Roses are special, you know. They mean different things depending on who gives them.”

He glanced at you, curious. “And what does it mean when you give one to me?”

You smiled, the answer slipping out before you could stop it. “It means I want you to keep coming back.”

For a moment, Simon just looked at you, his expression unreadable. His breath hitched, and the weight of your words settled between you like the scent of roses on a warm breeze. Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost like recognition, but not quite.

He gave the rose a little twirl between his fingers before tucking it carefully into the pocket of his jacket, as if it were something precious.

"I’ll keep coming back," he whispered, the words low like a vow meant only for the two of you.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by flowers and the slow hum of the day, something shifted between you—something delicate, like the first petals of a rose unfurling under the warmth of spring. You felt it bloom, soft and new, even though you couldn’t fully name it.

But Simon knew.

Because as much as he tried to convince himself that you weren’t the same woman he had once loved—weren’t the same person who had filled his world with light—this moment, the way you smiled at him, felt like a memory he had been chasing for years.

And as he stood there, with a rose tucked safely in his jacket and the sound of your voice lingering in the air, he knew he was already lost to you—just as he had been once before.

And this time, no matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t sure he could let go.

So, Simon stayed—lifting, moving, fixing—working himself to the bone, not because the tasks needed doing, but because he needed this. Needed you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, even if you couldn’t remember the life you once shared, he remembered enough for both of you.

And being near you, no matter how different things were, was better than being without you at all.

The evening settled over the quiet town, the cool air thick with the scents of late autumn and flowers nearing the end of their bloom. Simon's steps dragged as he made his way toward your flower shop, exhaustion settling deep in his bones from weeks away on deployment. His body was used to this kind of weariness, but the heaviness in his chest, that was something else entirely.

Between his fingers, he toyed with the rose. The one you’d given him weeks ago, now dry and brittle, its once-vibrant petals curled and shriveled. He had carried it with him everywhere, like a lifeline, as if holding onto it might somehow keep him connected to you.

As he approached the familiar glow of the shop’s windows, Simon slowed. When he peered through the glass, he froze.

You were inside, dancing under the soft overhead lights—not alone, but with another man. His hands rested at your waist, and your smile was radiant, carefree in a way Simon hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. Even through the glass, he could see the happiness in your face. Happiness that used to belong to the two of you.

The knot in his chest twisted painfully. He knew things had changed. People moved on, especially when left with no answers, no promises. But seeing you like this, with someone else, felt like a knife to the gut he wasn’t ready for.

He thought of the accident—the one that had shattered your life and stolen your memories. The memory was jagged and relentless, lodged in his mind like a blade he couldn’t pull out. He could still hear the screech of tires, the shatter of glass, and your voice, soft and afraid, just before everything went dark.

You had been with him that night. Trusted him. And he had failed. The guilt twisted in his chest, blooming like thorns, sharp and unforgiving. If he had been more careful, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up in that hospital bed, lost to the world. Lost to him.

Inside, the man twirled you effortlessly, your laughter filling the shop with warmth. To you, the accident, the hospital, and everything you shared with Simon had never happened. But for Simon, it was a moment he could never escape. A scar that bled every time he thought of it.

He remembered sitting at your bedside in the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the room. Your body had been bruised and broken beneath the white sheets, and your mom’s sharp voice echoed in his mind.

“You prick yourself because you don’t know how to take care of flowers,” she had said, her words as cold as the machines keeping you alive.

Simon hadn’t argued because she was right. He didn’t know how to care for flowers—or for you, not without breaking something delicate in the process. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. But trying hadn’t been enough. And now, he stood outside your shop, watching you dance with someone else—watching you live a life where he no longer had a place.

If it were before—before the accident, before the memories slipped away—he might have begged for more time. A proper goodbye. Maybe even a lifetime spent loving you until the flowers grew over his grave, the weeds plucked away so only beauty remained.

But now, he stood outside, a ghost at the edge of your new beginning.

The worst part wasn’t seeing you in someone else’s arms. It was knowing that you had no idea what you once meant to him. That every time you’d asked, "Visiting someone special?" you never realized it was you—your memory—he was mourning.

You didn’t remember the nights when your fingers ran gently through his hair, quieting his restless thoughts. You didn’t remember the mornings tangled in bedsheets that smelled like the roses from your shop, or the lazy afternoons when you’d hold up dandelions with that teasing grin of yours.

"Make a wish, Si," you’d say, eyes bright with playful mischief.

And every time, he’d push the flower back toward you with a soft, knowing smile. "I don’t need to. I already have everything I need."

And back then, it had been true.

But now, standing outside your shop with the brittle rose clutched between his fingers, Simon realized just how much he had lost. Not just you, but the version of himself who once believed love could be enough.

He knelt slowly at the threshold, placing the dried rose among the wilted petals and fallen leaves scattered near the entrance. The petals cracked under his touch, their fragility mirroring the ache in his chest. He didn’t bother plucking the petals—didn’t need to play the old game of ‘she loves me, she loves me not.’ Love, he knew, didn’t need an answer. It just was, even if it went unremembered.

Through the window, he watched you again, the man spinning you under the soft light, your laughter carrying in a way that felt like a distant memory.

And despite the sharp ache in his heart, Simon smiled—a small, sad thing, but genuine.

He had loved you once. More deeply than words could ever express. He still did. Even if you didn’t remember. Even if you never would.

Maybe that had to be enough.

With a deep breath, Simon tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away from the shop, his boots heavy against the pavement as he walked into the night. Behind him, the dried rose rested among the dead petals and brittle leaves, marking the spot where he let you go—not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.

The cool night air wrapped around him as he walked down the empty street. He thought of those dandelion afternoons, how you used to hold the flowers up to him with a grin, urging him to make a wish.

And for the first time, Simon let himself wonder what he would wish for now, if given the chance. But deep down, he knew the truth. No wish could bring back the version of you who had once loved him.

With your laugh still lingering in his mind, Simon kept walking.

It wasn’t the ending he wanted, but it was the one he had.

And this time, he would learn to live with it.

[dcxdpdabbles]

#Holiday Request I love all your AUs so much, thank you for sharing them! I've been craving some Bruce/Danny lately, would you be willing to write more of Freelance Inventor?

Danny helps his mom set the foldable table, lining it up with their dinner table and the second one he had placed previously. Quickly cleaning off the surface with a wet rag, Danny ensures there is no dust before laying a lovely red tablecloth on it.

The red material nearly hides the poinsettia embroiled in the design in a darker shade of red. He runs his hands over it, smiling at the memories this cloth has brought him.

His grandmother passed it down to his mother after his parent's marriage. It was initially meant to be used for Christmas dinners only as per Fenton tradition. Still, seeing as his parents always turned that into a month-long argument, the Fentons started to use it as a Thanksgiving dinner decoration only.

He always brightened whenever his mom would come down from the attic saying the truck of unique Thanksgiving tablecloths. There were seven altogether, but it warmed him whenever he saw it.

Maddie promised to give the trunk to the first of her children to marry, and secretly, Danny hoped it would be him. His sisters liked Thanksgiving fine but not as much as he.

Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday. His family always cooked together, played games, watched movies, had silly little Fenton traditions, and it was just a time to be together.

Bruce and his kids would be coming over this year. Alfred had hurt his back and could not cook Thanksgiving dinner as usual, so Danny asked if the Waynes could join them.

Ever since their friendship, Danny has spent Thanksgiving in Amity Park. Christmas in Gotham and New Year would be a switch between them. His family had been fine with him splitting the holidays, but his Dad had been asking for years for the two to mix, and this year would finally be it.

Danny finishes setting the plates, knives and forks down. He made sure to fold the napkins into animals for the respected person sitting there. A peacock for Alfred, A butterfly for Bruce, an elephant for Dick, a robin for Jason, a bat for Tim, A dog for Damian, an octopus for Steph, a swan for Cass, a bunny for Duck, a bear for Jazz, a cat for his mom, a jellyfish for Dad, an owl for Dani and finally gorilla for himself.

Danny has his own trunk for Thanksgiving, having started purchasing solid linen napkins when he was seven. He uses multiple sizes and colors to make his animals, and when he's done, he can't help but beam at the colorful animals on the plates.

Except for Alfred's. His peacock is sitting inside his wine glass, the green and blue of his tail falling over his plate.

In the kitchen, his mom and dad are dancing around each other, wiping up a meal that, for once, isn't anywhere near ectoplasm. The pair had gone in beforehand to remove contamination and cleaned it out, claiming they wanted to impress Bruce's family. This means that their food will likely not come to life this dinner.

It also meant the Waynes would be mighty surprised by how good chiefs his parents are. In the privacy of his heart, Danny keeps the secret that while Alfred was good, he was nowhere near Fentons' level of cooking.

Jazz comes down from upstairs, looking dazzlingly in her black dress and perfectly done make-up. The Fentons always dressed to the nines for Thanksgiving, even if they only stayed in their living rooms.

"Looks great, Danny!" She says with a bright smile,e eyeing the table and smiling when her eyes land on her bear. Danny had used a white napkin to simulate Bearbert's lab coat. "Finished with the rest of the house?"

Danny waves his hand, beaming at the decorations he has set up. The entire first floor had miniature pumpkins scattered about on tabletop surfaces. The couch cushions had been replaced with light orange ones. Hung up around doorways and surrounded windows were red, brown, and yellow leaves fines, interweaved with sunflowers.

Small sunflower wreaths were also placed on the walls, and linking them together was a sheer red cloth that dropped into small hoops between them.

A few larger pumpkins were placed near the walls, and some fake leafy vines were placed on the ground to resemble a pumpkin patch pathway. Danny loved the multiple scented candles and small acorn lights he had looped around the edges of the furniture, turning off the other lights to make them pop.

It gave a homey but festive vibe that he knows the Waynes are unused to. The decorations for their Holidays were always large and expensive. Brought together by a team of interior designers who made everything look great, just slightly artificial.

Or maybe that was Danny's middle-class mindset.

The Fentons had money- with his parent's PhDs, Danny's freelance, Jazz's brilliant work, and Dani's photos- but they had always remained with a middle-class mindset, never going for the over-the-top shows of wealth the Waynes had.

Even the clothes he had on now made him feel like they were too much, despite having bought them himself. He was wearing his best suit, and Bruce took him to get tailored because heaven knows Danny couldn't tell what was considered good quality. Although they hugged his body in all the right places, Danny felt silly.

"Wonderful work as usual." Jazz's smile turned even larger. His sister considers the hung-up wreaths with a critical eye. Danny moved to stand next to her as she sighed wishfully. "Remember the year you learned how to make those?"

Danny laughs. "Yeah, you biked me to all the hobby stores in Amity Park because I was determined to make my own decorations and didn't understand why a seven-year-old couldn't walk alone."

"You threw such a fit about standing on my training wheels while I petaled." She snorts, shifting her voice higher to emulate kid Danny. "Jazz, can't you go faster! People think we need training wheels like I could ride a bike without them. I literally hit a tree the day before!"

"I was embarrassed people were seeing us 'cause I didn't realize how awesome it was for my nine-year-old sister to do something like that for me." Danny side hugs her. "You were pretty amazing growing up, Jazz. I'm sorry I didn't realize it as a kid."

His elder sister hugs him back. "It's alright. I'm sorry I was so stubborn as a kid, too. You were right back then. We could have just walked."

"Yeah, but then we would have missed out on bonding in the hospital when we went down Sisneros Hill." Danny laughs. " The matching casts were a good lesson for how breaks worked."

Jazz snorts, then bursts into laughter as the memories play again behind her eyes. Danny finds himself joining her, and his heart swells with love. Eventually, they calm down long enough for Jazz's eyes to soften at the small table with crafts supplies. "You're going to include the Waynes in the Danny's decor tradition?"

"Yup." Danny rubs the back of his head. "I figured we could do it after Dinner. Before or during Dad's karaoke."

Danny planned on having the Wayne children make their own wreaths to add to his collection. He hoped they liked it as it was a Fenton tradition he started with his family when he was nine.

The one above the little table was the first ever wreath he made at nine years old. It looked terrible compared to the others, but it made him happy.

Jazz hums "I'm sure they will love it. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what's up."

"What's going on between you and Bruce?" Jazz turns to him, crossing her arms but not looking judgmental. If anything, there is only curiosity in her voice. "You've known him for ten years, you're heavily involved with his kids' upbringing, and even though you always travel for work, you always make time for him and the kids. Are you two dating?" "

Danny blinked, taken aback. "I mean....Bruce means a lot to me, but I'm not sure we have that kind of relationship."

Jazz considers his response before carefully asking, as if worried her words will offend "Do you want to have that kind of relationship with him?"

The question causes him to pause. He finds his mind drawing a blank even if his heart leaps a little in his chest.

"I don't know. You know I don't really feel urges like that." He admits after a while, leaning back into the wall and picturing Bruce's face. It flashes with a warmth that he rarely saw the billionaire betow upon anyone else. But did that make him excited? Was it only for him? Did he want to do things with Bruce?

He wrinkles his nose at the thought of Bruce and him in bed, but the idea of kissing the other man isn't so bad. Unusual since Danny always found the action to be gross.

"I know you're asexual, but that isn't the same thing as being aromantic." His sister says gently. "You can want to have a romantic relationship with someone without the physical aspects."

"I guess I just never considered it." He admits after a moment of the pair standing there. His mind is whirling with the idea now. He thought that after ten years, he had never considered the idea that Bruce was something more.

But in a way, he was. Bruce had somehow turned into one of his most important people, always playing in the back of his mind, and when Danny thinks of happiness, he imagines the Waynes. When someone says family, it isn't just his parents and sisters; it's the rich man with a heart of gold, his butler, and his ragtag team of children.

Goodness. When did that happen?

"That's alright if you don't," Jazz tells him. She nods her head to where his parents are finishing the touches on the dinner. Dani had come down at some point- looking fabulous in her red jumper- and was helping Dad with the fudge. "They consider Bruce your lover, you know? Mom and Dad still struggle with the concept of asexual, so don't let them pressure you tonight. They will start asking for you two to set a wedding date, and although I talked them out of it, don't be surprised if they corner you later."

Danny thinks back to all the graduations, the birthday cards, the Christmas presents, and the random visits his parents would do for the Wayne children. It hits him then that they had been treating them like grandchildren since Dick was nine, and he wonders why he never noticed before.

No wonder Dad has wanted mixed holidays for years now. They thought they were grandparents.

The strangest part? Danny was okay with it if they saw the Wayne children as grandchildren. It actually made him feel warm and proud to be their son.

But that would mean they saw Bruce as their son-in-law, and Danny wasn't sure how he felt about it yet. He liked it, but he was scared of what it implied.

Why did his heart leap with joy? Why did he imagine coming home to Bruce? Why did he feel giggly and nervous like a schoolboy again?

Had Danny....been in love with Bruce for years and never noticed? Is this feeling the same as other people's when they like someone romantically?

Jazz observes his face, able to read him long before she finishes her psychology degree in profiling. She must see his thoughts because she reaches out to place a comforting hand on his arms. "Whatever you figure out, Bruce has been here for ten years. He'll be here for ten more, even if it's just as friends."

The doorbells dings. Dani bounces out of the kitchen towards it with a cheer. "They're here!"

Danny glances over, and his eyes catch Bruce's warm ones over his younger sister's head. His heart flutters as his friend gives him that unique smile despite Dani clutching him in a bone-crushing hug. His children are piled behind him, and seeing it all makes him feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

Oh gods, was he in love?

[simp-ly-writes]

To Forgive, Is to Regret

─────── · · Hate the Love That Drives Ambition (pt.2)

Pairing: Father!Silco x Mother!Reader, Jinx & Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: When you thought to have rid yourself of Silco once again, he somehow always finds a way to come back and this time in the form of a blue-braided girl who is more determined than ever to have you all together.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, reader called 'mom/mother,' angst, groveling, found family, fluff, miscommunication, blood and violence, hurt/comfort, alcohol and suicidal thoughts mentioned, swearing, happy ending, not beta read.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,185 | PART ONE

─ · · A/N: so proud of this fic, let me know if you enjoy! :)

─────── · ·

When Silco returned back to Zaun most people that saw him walking back to the Last Drop thought nothing of it with his long calculated steps and hardened glare. His coat flaps flying behind him in the wind as wisps of his breath exited his nose and rose up with the smog. But it was when he sat at his desk, cigar in one hand, knuckles turning white around a amber filled glass in the other, that Sevika could tell something was most certainly wrong with the man.

Sevika opened and then closed her mouth, thinking it better not to say anything in that moment. She listened as his foot tapped underneath the desk as he wore underneath his breath before flinging everything off his desk with the back of his hand, glass shattering against the floor.

The table groaned by the force in which he gripped the wood afterwards, hair falling down onto his forehead as his yellow eye twitched in pain.

Silco's mind raced with the image or your eyes burning hatred into his own, the unshed tears welling in your eyes before they couldn't stop. He felt the knife pushing past his skin, its cold exterior finding the warmth of your arms circling around his shoulders as you welcomed him before it became twisted, digging and scraping, he was bleeding, Silco felt sick as you shoved him away, kicking and yelling like he was the devil in everyone else's sight.

He remembers the feeling of your cheek in his palm, his fingers brushing past your quivering lip. He wanted nothing more than for you to grip his vest and wrap your legs around him with the same force you pushed him away with.

He wanted nothing more than to explain if he could have you physically but you did not even give him that. You shook your head, your son, our son, Silco corrected himself, his heart gripped so tight he felt sick, hunching over himself as he groaned. Cigar burning his fingertips as he closed his eyes tighter, no, you spoke so softly.

Yet such a simple word that he heard on the daily did nothing to compare when it came from between your lips as Silco's parted, murmuring what echoed through his head, no...

"No!" Silco yelled into the room as Sevika took a step back, trying to push herself into the darkness. lies- would love me, would protect me- lies!

I never meant to lie to you, if I had known a minute earlier... If I had known a minute earlier. Silco shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought of seeing only your blood left on that sewer grate and the years of torture his imagination put him through thinking that his henchmen that turned to be rivals had done to you...

How your skin must have split, shattering its radiant glow. How your smile must have been cut by your screams, your bones broken alongside your hope, you disgust me. Silco groaned, hands shaking as he struggled to breathe before going into a fit of coughs.

Jinx sat upon open the rather's, her shoulders tense as she looked down at her father-figure in what looked to be a deep pain; something she understood deeply as she picked at the skin by her fingertips leaving just enough skin before they bled.

She had never seen Silco like this... so far gone and removed from himself. He was acting like a completely different person, muttering to himself, and is that a tear running down his eye? Jinx was concerned, the wood beam she sat upon groaning as she shifted her weight in contemplation of going down to greet he struggling man yet a knock at the door told her else wise.

The oxygen becomes thin in the room as the seconds tick over not slow enough. Silco nods his head towards the door, falling back into his chair and reigniting his cigar before looking up towards the ceiling where he catches a hint of blue.

Sighing he looks down to see who arrives seeing his contracted hitman turn in the men who had hunted you through the streets he had thought to have scared in order to keep you safe, you disgust me.

The scaled hitman opens his palm, demanding his payment as Sevika throws him a dufflebag of cash before the heavy oak doors slam closed. And with a calmness both women hadn't seen earlier, Silco stands up from his chair, tapping his cigar out before unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves.

The ex-henchmen's eyes go wide with panic, they move their bound feet and hands frantically, trying to flee from Silco as he slowly walks over and stands before them both at his feet.

They watch as his head tilts, neck cracking with the side-to-side motion. A band over their mouths blocks their screams of their impending doom as Silco leans forwards, hair covering parts of his eye yet his yellow one glows through the darkness as he chuckles.

"You took everything from me," Silcos words echo throughout the room, softly spoken to hide the pain fluctuating in his words. He lets his words sit heavy in the room, falling and engraving themselves into their ears before all that can be heard his their screams calling out to Silcos heart.

Sevika shifts her footing, looking up to Jinx who blankly stares at the two dead figures in the office, her eye twitches before she jumps down watching as Silcos back tenses, shoulders rising and falling with his ragged breaths.

Grabbing a towel set down on an armchair, Silco cleans off the blood from his fingers tips slowly, watching them get clean before interlacing his fingers and closing his eyes, "one minute quicker, hm," he whispers underneath his breath before looking over his shoulder.

"Sevika?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Dispose of these corpses, burn them, throw them into the bay, I do not care- just be rid of them, " Silco demands, stepping over one of their legs before standing before Jinx who opens her arms in a silent ask before Silco sighs and gives her a hug.

Jinx can feel his tremors, his fingers shaking as they pick up a braid, "you know that I will protect you, always," Silco whispers into her hair and all Jinx can do is nod, her mind racing with scenarios to explain what just happened but she decides to save those questions for another moment as she waits for Silco to calm.

─────── · ·

"Let us take a walk," Silco says, appearing suddenly in Jinx's space a few days after the... event. She stands up abruptly, shutting down the music and nods violently before jogging after the man.

Silcos hand stay in the pockets of his jacket as he walks down through the streets and through the mist before standing above a drain cover. Jinx raises a brow, looking around the alleyway confused.

"Why are we here?" she asks, turning with a whistle as she kicks an empty trashcan, a rat scurrying away between her feet as her lip moves up, showing her teeth in disgust.

"Here is where I lost another part of myself, here it died," Silco states before crouching down to feel where he remembered your blood to have settled between its grooves. "But I though Vander tried to drown you in the bay?"

"That he did but he only killed a weak man then. Here is where I don't identify with the living any longer," Silco explains before standing to watch the confusion cloud over Jinx's features.

"I don't get it... are you like a cat with nine lives or some shit?" Jinx asks, taking a step closer to poke at the man with a smile yet all she receives is a bitter chuckle and dead stare forwards.

"Hm, no. You could have had a mother, you do have a mother, before the world had to take that away from us too. See that we can only trust in one another and if you were to kill me for whatever reason know that I would not blame you for there is little I could want now, even my own life," Silco spits out that last word with distaste as Jinx panics, hands stopping just before giving the man another hug.

"Why- why would you say something like that?!" Jinx cries, stepping back as she shakes her head. "I could have had a mom, how, what? Silco- I'm so confused..."

"I loved a woman- love a woman ever since I had known Vander. She reminds me much of yourself, bright, cheerful, intelligent and holds a wicked sense of humour. She could just stand there and you couldn't help but want to be near her... and then I... I killed her unknowingly... the men I had hired to protect her took her from me. Took the life away we could have had together as a family..." Silco turns around without another word, storming back to the Last Drop in need of another drink as Jinx watches him leave with a huff before reaching down to feel here Silco just touched.

"I'll find you," Jinx says with a determined tone to herself before standing back up and jogging to catch up with Silco.

─────── · ·

You stood in your apartment, a pot of stew boiling on the stovetop as you danced around to a record you had just bought. Your cat was sitting in their window box, tail swaying side to side with the beat as the setting sun illuminated the space in a golden glow.

A sudden turn of the front door had you smiling as you moved underneath the kitchen sink to dispose of your vegetable offshoots, "welcome back hun! I folded your laundry and dinner should be ready in five!"

You had heard no response, moving up swiftly and knocking your head against the countertop as you cursed, rubbing your scalp. To your surprise, your son, Rhyker was not there waiting for you at the dining table but a young woman around his age with two long braids that dragged across the floor.

How the fuck do people keep getting in? You ask yourself, picking back up that kitchen knife as you point it towards the younger woman. "And just who the fuck are you?" you question, the blade glimmering in the sunlight through the sheer blinds.

"I'm Jinx, pleasure to meet ya!" she says with a smile while opening her arms before stepping up to stand on the table, bending down to grab the knife out of your hand and to shake your other. "And now I'm gonna politely ask you to break-up with whatever 'hun' you have and come back with me!"

You stare at her, blinking and unmoving before furrowing your brows and tilting your head, "Is that a threat?" you ask in a calm tone, your patience reaching its breaking point after the week from hell you had experienced since Silco had decided to make a reappearance into your life. Rhyker had non-stop been asking questions every time he came home and every time you refused to answer he threatened to go and find his father and ask him himself.

You pinched your brow, trying to remove the oncoming headache as Jinx through the knife across the room without a second care and you did not even budge that had Jinx smiling. "I'll make it one if you don't start moving your top-side-ass to the door. I really need you to come with me, I mean I was used to his brooding and off-putting nature but now? Its a step to far, I mean, asking me to kill him? God, whatever you two must have done together must have been important for him..."

The door opens as Jinx's speech dies on her lips once seeing a younger Silco enter the door, "no fucking way," she mutters underneath her breath before leaving you in the dust to pick at your sons features and walk around his form.

"You look so much like him, holy shit!" the blue-haired woman says as you roll your eyes. "If Silco want anything to do with us, tell him this again for me, maybe it'll finally get through his thick skull, we are never coming back- not after what he did to me- to us!" you shout, picking up the knife once more as Rhyker rolls his eyes before setting down his bag. Not even sparing Jinx a second look before serving enough bowls for all three of you at the table.

"If you want answers, you might as well stay for dinner since I don't think my mom is letting us out of Piltover except in a bodybag," Rhyker explains without looking up from the pot as you and Jinx look between one another. This was going to be a long night...

─────── · ·

"So wait, let me get this straight, you and the old man were running Zaun and what? A little life or death scare and your out of it? I mean I at least die one a week, no wonder you are in Piltover you weak ass," Jinx says with a scoff before downing the rest of her second bowl of stew, "Great cooking by the way."

You return a scoff, picking up everyone's plates before moving back towards the sink. "When you get older... have a child... you tire more easily from that line- that at times, all you wish is to cross over rather than ride it," you explain.

"You sound just as depressing as Silco is, you two I would say are fucking perfect for one another," Jinx retorts, giving Rhyker a shove as he glares at her.

"No, that man has caused my mother nothing but pain. It was a mistake on my part going to look for him," Rhyker says, giving Jinx a shove back of her own as she miles wildly at him. "Well tinker-boy, know that me and your mom are heading back to Zaun tonight if you like it or not! I really need her, I mean Silco is ruining the business after he returned from whatever happened topside!"

"What? Did he finally feel the weight of his choices then? Good, then let him suffer as I did raising my boy by myself on the run and exhausted. If he can't last a few days then what good is he to me?" you retort, "I think it's time for you to leave."

"But!"

"No," Rhyker stands, looking down upon the blue-haired girl with a hardened glare. She can see Silco flashing in and out of her vision as she shakes her gaze clear and next thing she knows, she's being thrown out into the hall, the door locking behind her.

─────── · ·

Jinx stares at the closed door, giving it a solid kick before heading back to the Last Drop where Silco was already waiting for her in the lobby. "And where have you been, young lady?" Silco demands, kicking a shard of glass with his boot as both watch the pice shatter some more and scatter across the uneven floors.

"I went to go see, mom. She's really pretty, Silco! I have no idea how you pulled someone like her back in your days, I mean even her neighbour looked interested," Jinx says with a wide smile watching as Silcos eyes widen before hardening.

"What. did. you. just. say?" Silco asks again, annunciating every syllable.

"I. went. to. go. see. her." Jinx responds back before reaching over the bar to pour herself a glass of juice. "And just so you know, you son says 'hi'" With a echoing slurp, she sets her glass back down before giving Silco a pat on the back and running out the doors, "They're serving roast tomorrow!"

─────── · ·

Like clockwork, every night the blue-haired girl who you learned to be 'Jinx' shows up at your door and invites herself in for dinner. It takes weeks for you to finally warm up to her as Rhyker struggles with the concept of not having all your attention yet at the same time enjoys how much she seems to know about Silco without having to annoy you any longer.

You start to see her like your second child by the end of the mouth, making sure to buy foods she likes in the fridge and her favourite juice prepared as well for dinner. She helps you with the dishes afterwards, chatting to you (or sometimes at you), about how things are going in the Undercity as you nod along.

Her stories make you smile as she using her whole body to tell them, you love watching as Rhyker and Jinx share their sketchbooks and tech with one another on the living room carpet as you lean against a doorframe and observe them both, "do you two want some snacks?" you ask, looking at the time to be early morning hours yet nobody seems ready or really wanting to leave just yet- not even yourself from this moment.

Jinx nods enthusiastically as you laugh, her smile only growing from the sound as Rhyker throws a pillow at her before they both are play-fighting and tossing the couch contains everywhere before settling down for cheese and crackers. You nibble on some yourself, nodding along as they present to you their newest findings and next thing you know, you all are asleep in front of the fire that burns through to the next day.

When your eyes reopen you see Jinx staring down at you her hand hovers over your head as you reach up and hold her hand with a smile, "you are welcome to move in with us," you speak softly, not wanting to wake Rhyker up.

Jinx's eyes well with tears as she gives no reply but hugs you, gently before tightening as she sobs. You rub up and down her back, humming in her ear and rocking back in forth, "thank you," she whispers, closing her eyes to savour the moment as do you.

─────── · ·

Silco paced around his office, Jinx had not come back in days and every-person he hired to scout the undercity turned back without answers and empty handed. Sevika rolled her shoulders, "I could always look topside-"

"No. she wouldn't be there still, not unless..." Silco trails off before shaking his head and standing, Sevika beings to follow after him before he pauses, looking over his shoulder. "I should be good on my own, take the day off, If I do not return... know that you are left in charge-"

"Boss! I-" Sevika begins to plead, a part of her knowing how everything would turn tits up if he left.

"No, this is something I must do on my own for myself." And with that, he was gone from the shadows and emerged into the daylight, awaiting at your doorstep and surprised to see Jinx opening the door in fluffy pyjamas.

Silco glared, about to tell her, what if an officer was here instead? what if- "Don't worry, I knew that it was you at the door. Wouldn't have opened it otherwise, I know I'm still hot stuff up here now come in!" jinx opened the door that bit wider and Silco looked around the space in search for you.

"Mom-" Jinx's eyes widened alongside Silcos as they sat there in silence at the call of the title before Jinx continued, "Mom, won't be home until tonight. She's helping with one of Rhyker's school events."

Silco nods, closing the door behind himself and locking it before observing the various photos on the walls he didn't have a chance to the first time he visited. Only a visitor, Silco reminded himself as he set down a picture of you with a younger Rhyker in your arms with flowers in your hair.

You smiled widely in the photo as you did in each image, Silco watched as Rhyker grew up through them all before pausing at a smaller on on the mantel. It was you standing behind Jinx and Rhyker, your hands on their shoulders as they both looked up to you with smiles. Silco's heart ached, his fingers twitching to caress your face through the glass before falling back down to his side.

Jinx watched while rubbing her arm, "We hide that too anytime anyone comes over, I hide with Mr. Whiskers over here," Jinx explains, pointing to the cat now resting on her shoulders between her braids with a smile.

Silco observes how calm she appears, walking around the apartment and pouring out two glasses of water, "You know, I don't think I've ever been happier here. Sure I like walking around and shit and I do miss my stuff, and that drawing from Vi... and you and I guess Sevika couldn't give a shit but I miss her too and I just... I don't know."

Jinx can't explain what she feels when in the comfort of your home, of having a sibling that does annoy her yet also protects her, speaks with her and you... offering unconditional love, opening your home up to her even when she was connected with Silco. And maybe that was what made you offer it in the first place, that vision only your heart could see through its pain and torment just as Silco stood there in the Silence. Listening to how the tap dripped and the cat purred.

"I can see how it would be hard to leave, I do miss you back at home," Silco says yet hating the look of guilt that washes over her face. "Do not feel guilt, child, for living through happiness."

Jinx nods, "I have been having less... thoughts as well. I just, I don't want anything to ruin this."

"I know how you feel," Silco says, taking a seat at the table as Jinx does the same opposite of him. "Moms, not going to be happy when she see's you here," Jinx says watching as the cat hops down from the table to return to the sunlit windowsill.

Silco hums, disregarding Jinx's last words, "To love, is to hate. To forgive, is to regret, and when we face our reflections, we live wanting the past."

"Don't go speaking poetry on me again, old man. No wonder mom can't figure her feelings over you when you constantly speak in riddles!"Jinx ridicules, pointing a finger across the table as Silco shifts in his seat.

"I regret not following after your mother... of not taking a step away from my work to prioritize her. I was so focused on building our future, something I thought we both could be proud of. Yet my ambition drove through it all and now we are stuck here. It is no longer if Sevkia would have told me a minute earlier before the enforcers came- no. It was always me..." Silco sentence slows as he hears footsteps nearing. He is surprised to have not noticed the two people entering the room as Jinx smiles. Taking Rhyker by the arm and heading to his room as he shows her his newest robot.

Silco moves to stand before you place a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing at his back in a soothing motion. Silco reaches up, placing his hand atop your before picking it up and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

You both sit there in the silence that speaks greater than any words you both could come up with. Both of your life lines meeting at an intersection once more. You toy with us, picking up your other hand to feel the softness of his hair going through your fingers as Silco leans back so his head rests upon your chest.

"I don't know if I have it within myself to forgive the past you, Silco. But maybe I will be able to live with the new one," you explain, watching with a small smile how his eyes close from your touch as he murmurs back, "the old me died when I saw only your blood in that alleyway but my love will remain throughout the ages."

"I hope that love is something I don't have to count on again, Silco."

"You won't need to but only count on my actions."

"I hate that I have always loved you, Silco," you chuckle, beginning to pull away before Silco stands, stopping you as he pulls you into a hug, your head resting upon his chest, listening to how his heart beats in time with your own.

"Hate, love, all are the same at the end of the day as they both share passion at their core. All I want is you, your lips or your words placing stakes into my heart. Nothing of that matters as long as I have you. I love you, darling," Silco says, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other resting upon your lower back as you let out a breath.

"I love you too."

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: who doesn't love a happy ending 🥰

─ · · PART ONE

[bedoballoons]

Helloooo! May I request Zhongli, Itto, Neuvillette, and Tighnari's s/o asking them to make her a mommy?

Oh what a wonderful idea~

─⊰💕𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤💕⊰─

{༻~Make me a mommy, pretty please~༺}

CW: NSFW, MDNI!!, Fem! Reader, breeding kink, no protection, slight mommy kink, creampie, slight mention of nipple play, scratching, big d*ck, and rough s*x!

Names used on the reader: Itto: Princess and Tighnari: Mutt, Neuvillette: My love

(Includes: Itto, Zhongli, Tighnari, and Neuvillette!)

𑁍༄Itto:

"I-i want to be a mommy, mmnhhg please Itto! C-cum inside!" You moaned loudly into the air, your nails digging into the large onis back as he nearly split you in two. You were a puddle beneath him, soaking the bed as he filled you past your limit with his thick cock, god you couldn't even see straight with how hard he was fucking you into the mattress.

He paused his movements, looking at you with this knowing glint in his eyes and smirk that left your legs quivering even more then they had been. He lifted up your chin and licked his lips, "You gonna carry my child for me like a good princess, give me a perfect baby~"

You couldn't even respond only weakly nod under his gaze and oh how he enjoyed seeing you so weak under him, "Then lets make sure you get pregnant tonight~"

𑁍༄Zhongli:

"I w-wanna be a mommy, wanna carry your b-babies, mmnhhg!" You gasped your words in between his messy kisses, your body screaming for him to fill it with his seed, oh archons you didn't even know what had gotten into you but your urges had you clenching around his hard cock like it was the end of the world if you didn't. Your hands held bunches of his hair and with ever thrust of his hips you were almost blinded with ecstasy, the rest of existence drowned out as he groaned into your mouth "Mnhghh~"

He pulled away long enough to look you in the eyes, his gleaming yellow orbs shining like he intrigued by your request...you almost wanted to look away with how intense of a stare he somehow managed to hold while he still thrusted into you. "That's no trouble at all, I'll breed you until you're swarming with my offspring. Till your perfect body can't handle anymore and then just as it's healed up, I'll do it all again~"

𑁍༄Tighnari:

"T-tighnar-i nhhg! Let me h-have your child, make me a mommy mnnh!! P-pleaseee" You gripped the sheets so hard your fingers where turning white, but it felt so good you were basically in a bath of your own heat. His cock destroying your tight pussy from behind you and the angle he was at reaching the places that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. You needed him to put a baby in, you just needed it animalistic instincts taking over when his teeth left imprints in your neck "F-fuck please mmnh! Please!!"

His hands slid up from where they'd been playing with your sensitive nipples and he pulled your whole body away from the mattress, your back up against his chest as he whispered into your ear, "My mutts so eager to be a mommy hmm, you gonna take every bit of my cum then? Cause I won't stop till you're overflowing~"

𑁍༄Neuvillette:

You let your head fall back as a loud desperate moan escaped you, your hips moving on their own as your desperately rocked into his massive cock, every inch of it making you feel like you were being torn apart but god it was so good you couldn't stop, "Neuvill-ette Mnhgh! O-oh god, please cum inside. M-make me a mommy! F-fuck please!!"

He groaned into your ear, his grip on your body growing tighter like he'd just forgotten every other thing but your request and how wonderful your pussy felt around him, "You want me to make you a mommy...you want to carry my child?" He forced you down onto him roughly and you absolutely screamed in joy, "Y-yes! Fuck yes!!"

"Then consider it done my love, just remember that you never get pregnant first try and I don't plan on going easy on you~"

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚~Have a nice day!~*⁠.⁠✧

[irisintheafterglow]

can i put in my two cents on girldad!bakugo whose daughter got mom's quirk

cw: prohero!bkg, swearing, fem!reader, fluff and crack with a small side of angst

"yer mom's gonna fuckin' kill me if we don't get this out," he mumbles, furiously scrubbing at the splotches of rainbow paint covering his three-year-old daughter's previously white dress.

"fuckin!" his daughter echoes and he flinches.

"no, no, no. we can't say that," he says softly, kneeling down on the tile of the laundry room where she was watching him work. "mama's gonna kick my ass if she hears you swear, so we can't say that word...yet. m'kay sweetheart?"

"kick ass!" she laughs innocently, giggling as his face contorts into a mix of horror, shock, and joy. "dada, you funny," she babbles, reaching up to grab at his face. he fights the instinct to pull away, afraid of how she'd react if she looked too closely at the scars covering his face. you'd talked him through it numerous times before, but he was still scared she would be scared of all the battles etched into his skin. it was his own anxiety talking, he knew, and she must have received her empathy from you because she reached up toward her dad anyway. her little eyebrows pinch and her stubby fingers brush over the rough, discolored tissue. "dada ouchie?"

"dada ouchie long time ago, bubs," he murmurs, taking her hand and kissing her tiny nails. "but mama saved dada. and now," he lifts her from the floor and positions her comfortably on his hip, her head leaning against his shoulder, "baby needs to help save dada from mama."

"mama angry?" his daughter frowns and he nods, staring frustratedly at the pastel stains on the white fabric. "what dada do?"

"oi! it's not always my fault," he protests, leaning closer as his daughter tries to tug his hair. "though, i do admit, this is my shit to clean up."

"shit!" she repeats brightly, grinning up at him as he fondly rolls his eyes.

"i think you're doing this on purpose, you gremlin," he grunts and she smiles up at him mischievously.

"gremlin!" it's the same smirk he does, the only difference being her eyes match yours instead of his.

"you got yer dada's dirty mouth. mama's not gonna be happy, but i," he pecks a kiss on her forehead, "am ecstatic." his daughter's eyes temporarily flash emerald green and she points to the front door.

"zuzu," she informs him. he groans and bites back another curse, throwing the stained dress into a basket and hoping for the best.

"that dumbass isn't supposed to be here until six," bakugo grumbles. he adjusts his daughter and moves into the living room in time to catch a car pulling up at the curb of the house.

"dumbass!" he doesn't have time to scold her because, unfortunately, her quirk isn't done yet. while he hurries to kick any toys under the couch and wipe the faded paint off his hands, her eyes flash pink, red, and yellow a split second before a knock at the front door.

"mimi! eiji!" his daughter squeals in excitement. he sets her down so she can rush to the door, opening it to reveal a half-dozen pro heroes squished onto the front porch. she jumps straight into kirishima's open arms, a string of drool dripping from her wide smile.

"you're early," bakugo deadpans while his high school friends toe off their shoes. "wasn't expecting her to alert for another half hour." his daughter transfers from kirishima to mina, who throws her up into the air like a beach ball. "oi, watch it with her, pinky. don't be giving her a concussion."

"lighten up, bakugo," mina replies without missing a beat, tossing the squealing child again. "what's got your panties in a twist?"

"did her flight get delayed or something?" denki asks, taking the baby from mina and flying her around the room while making racecar noises. bakugo watches his daughter like a hawk, never more than five feet away from her. he won't admit that he trusts his friends, but he also knows he could never be too careful.

"nah," he frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "i jus' fucked up, is all."

"how so?" bakugo mindlessly unpacks the various packages of chips and soda, organizing them on the kitchen counter and punching a stray balloon out of his way.

"accidentally sent her to school with the wrong dress on," he grimaces. "thought it was a different white one, but it was supposed to be the one for today." he disappears momentarily into the laundry room, re-entering with the stained white dress in his hand. "she was screamin' and cryin' about not having anything to wear for her school's paint-a-thon thing, so i just put this on her without checkin..."

"yeesh, she really did a number on this, didn't she?" kirishima says, examining the various spots of pink, blue, and green. "her mom say anything about what she was supposed to wear?"

"i didn't wanna bother her," he mumbles in shame. "you know how important this gig was for her." his friends nod, wracking their brains for how to improve the situation. it was mina's idea, originally, to host a welcome home party after you'd been overseas for a reconnaissance mission, which was why they'd all congregated at your house.

"if it means anything, i think it looks even better," she assures him with a pat on his shoulder. "the colors are nice."

"thanks, pinky. i'm just not good at this shit."

"what, being a dad? like it's hard?" kirishima clicks his tongue, lightly slapping denki on the back of his head.

"dad of a girl," bakugo corrects with a scowl, "you got sons, pikachu. don't even try me."

"i think what he means," kirishima gently interrupts after shooting denki a look, "is that you should be a little easier on yourself."

"she's just got her mom's quirk, y'know? i don't want her to grow up with a shitty dad that doesn't know how to help her develop her quirk." though your daughter could only track up to six people and locate them when they're within 100 feet, your ability to track up to 65 people and locate them on a country-wide scale made you highly desirable to agencies around the globe. with you gone, it was up to bakugo to take care of his daughter and keep the house in order, but he found himself struggling to know what decisions were the right ones.

"you're learning, bakubro, and so is she." denki gestures to your daughter sitting on the living room floor, concentrating on stacking wooden ice cream pieces. "she doesn't know what a 'bad dad' is. she just knows you, and i don't think you're a terrible dad at all." bakugo nods in lieu of answering, his cheeks heating as the rest of his friends echo their agreement.

"if this little ball of spunk is any indication of how much of you she's got in her," mina says with a fond smile, "then she's gonna be just fine." any further thoughts are halted by the front door swinging open again.

"i got the cake! we gotta put it in the fridge, though, since it might've been smushed during travel," deku announces, handing off a stack of gift boxes and catering platters to denki. "now where's my favorite girl?"

"zuzu!" on cue, she comes waddling around the corner of the couch and helps herself to her favorite uncle's shoulders, finding two fistfuls of green hair as handles.

"you better not drop my fuckin' daughter, izuku," bakugo warns. "i'll blast your ass to mercury."

"do you always swear this much with her around?"

"fuckin!"

"that's exactly what i don't think should happen," kirishima states, unsurprised. "have you been teaching her that stuff?"

"she's a smart girl. picks up on things quick, like her mama," he dodges. "speaking of, you got eyes on mama yet, baby?"

"no mama, dada," she replies. "mama home soon?"

"yeah, mama home soon, so we gotta get you ready." he's about to take his daughter off deku's shoulders when he hears mina gasp. he'd known her long enough to know that sound meant she had an idea, and those ideas weren't necessarily good ones. "you got somethin' to say, pinky?"

"let me get her ready, and i'll fix your little dress problem for you," she says cryptically. bakugo doesn't have much time to protest as his daughter is already stretching from his arms to mina's, giggling while they disappear down the hallway.

---

forty-five minutes and a handful of inflated balloons later, his daughter's eyes flash neon orange, the same color your eyes flash for him. she doesn't know any other color to assign me, you theorized one night as you laid together in comfortable darkness. i guess she just associates me with you.

"welcome home!" denki excitedly opens the confetti shooter while kirishima bombards you with a sizable flower bouquet. you're standing speechless in the doorway and he watches your eyeline; it scans the room and its many shimmering balloons, paper streamers, and hero friends until it lands on him and your daughter, holding tightly to his pinky by the kitchen table. when the glitter settles, he gives her a nod, an okay to let her run to you.

"hi, my darling!" you beam, picking her up to hold her close and meet your husband's eyes over her shoulder. "and hello, my love," you murmur as his hands find your waist, pulling you close and pressing his lips to your forehead.

"missed you," he hums, his breathing finally returning to a steady rhythm for the first time in weeks. "she's been a handful."

"i'm sure she has." katsuki's expression is soft, only reserved for you and the child in your arms.

"how was the job?"

"a lot," you admit, allowing yourself to decompress now that you're home. "i can't tell if my head hurts from my quirk or the ten-hour flight," you smile tiredly.

"you got enough in the tank to entertain our friends? or do you need me to kick 'em out?"

"if it's these guys," you say, looking at the rowdy group of guests passing around plates and flatware, "of course i can."

"i guess we got more incoming," katsuki observes as another carload full of his friends arrive. "can we get you some food? baby and i will handle being welcome committee."

"well, do you, uh," you chuckle, finally acknowledging the pink-splattered elephant between you two. "do you wanna tell me why your shirt looks like you hugged a rainbow? and why her dress' stains look older?"

"oh, right. this." he looks down at his previously white button-down, now colored various shades of orange, blue, yellow, and pink to match his daughter's dress. you raise your eyebrows knowingly, already amused even before he answers.

"yeah," you smirk. "that." he shrugs, snaking a hand behind your back and leading you to the platters of dinner on the counter.

"it was paint-a-thon day."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! commissions and nsfw requests can be sent through my fiverr! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[saphirafoxgirlspost1]

(Open Rp) Helluvaboss X Hazbinhotel in "Suitors Delima"

(Warning, this contains NSFW, Muscle growth, transformation, Ect. If your a Minor please don't reply to this..Viewer disgression is advised)

On the Glorious day At the Kingdom of The Mystic Inferno Fox, The Last Suitor was Kicked Out from the Kingdom..as the guard told the bad Suitor that he's no longer set foot in this castle again…Saphira The True Ruler of hell was Standing there watching the Bad Suitor walks away all beat up and torn..Saphira was Quite Stern..the reason why he was beat it..He Dared to lay a horrible Hands On Her which is a Huge Mistake..But Luckily..He Kept his hands though..otherwise his hands will be chopped off Sooner.. Then Saphira goes back to her throne..rubbing her Forehead with fustration and growls…Knowing that She wouldn't allow Abuse In this hell..then Her Goetia Royal Advisor (which she is a Snowy Owl) Name "Eliza" Comes to her..and she said with a warm concerning tone,

Eliza: "Oh dear Friend, I knew This Suitors is nothing but trouble.. and I don't blame you for Banishing him For Daring to lay hands on you..Luckily He kept his hands as well."

Saphira: "Indeed, Other wise..he'll be left with no hands at all. heh"

Saphira Use her magic to spawn a wine glass full of greatest wine in hell and took a sip of it..but then Eliza said,

Eliza:"So..What Shall we do? You must find Someone who is worthy for your hands as well Your Majesty.."

Saph:" I know..but many suitors of Hell was not Worthy..they're Beyond redemtion as well…Maybe I should go Up to the Mortal World..luckily..I live in the Nice Mansion but I need to blend in So that way the Humans Doesn't Know That I'm the Kitsune that has the Royal Mistical Blood.."

Eliza: "I agree..this is the Only way To Find Someone To marry you and I meant Someone Who is Worthy For your Hand Your Majesty."

Saphira Nodded and Use Her Spells to transport herself and Eliza To the Mortal World..inside of her Beautiful Luxurious Mansion..Eliza in human Form..She has White hair and Yellow Diamond eyes..and Saphira in human form is White hair and Blue Sapphire eyes as she dressed so Lovely and elegant clothes. In the Mortal World, Saphira is Super famous that she OutShine Verosika for a famous concerts, Musics, Modeling, especially Movie and Tv star itself as well…and also She owns her company called "Fire Fox co."…So Now..saphira smiles and said,

Saph:"It is good to be back on top, Sighs best things ever.."

She smiles but faded and said,

Saph:"I pray to inari if I ever find someone, I hope He'll treat me Like a queen..or a goddess more or less.."

Eliza: "Of course Dear, Don't worry There's alot of good man out there waiting for you..you'll see"

So Saphira Nodded knowing that Eliza's Reassuring her, Knowing that There's a Hope that someone who would love her…But..There's someone Who is a Scientist and He Always..and Mean Always was Obsessed with her so much that he will Do anything to win her heart, So he Decided to make a Potion which will make him More Hotter and Seductive as ever But Little Does he Knows That the potion will cause him to have a Split Personality Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde…Meanwhile Saphira was Riding a Limo With Eliza who is now To humans It's Her Assistant Manager as She head to the Company For Modeling…So During the modeling..She hears the knocking and said," OH! Come in, come in…Lets see who was it?" Then the Door Opens When she sees Her Old good nerdy friend and she said"OH! My good Darling friend! How have you been!?" She got up and Hugs him and then he said…

[frudoo]

Slasher 141 again, sorry to bug, I'm chomping at the bit. She meets the others? I humbly ask for more pleaseeee

Can y'all tell I'm horny for slasher Johnny

Warnings: Smut throughout, so MDNI. Fingering, strange men, reader is just getting a taste of what she signed up for. Fem!Reader obvs.

     Simon doesn’t talk much. Maybe it’s because Johnny’s got his hand down your pants and he doesn’t want to interrupt, but even so, he just gives off that kind of vibe. Johnny’s trailing kisses down your neck and you’re whimpering, just trying to get the two of them to make small talk.

“S-Simon, are you… do you also- um… you know. Kill people?” You wince at your poor choice of words, but the kisses from your date don’t let up, so maybe you’re alright.

     Simon’s beady eyes meet yours through the rear-view mirror. Fuck, if he’s not a serial killer, he should be. Those dark brown eyes are deeply unsettling, making you nauseous. He nods in affirmation before turning his eyes back to the road.

"We all are."

Well, shit. Is there such a thing as a murderer-radar? Because if so, yours is in mint condition. 

     Johnny bites down on your neck harshly at the same time his middle finger slips inside of your pussy, and you squeal. Is this what they do? Seduce a vulnerable woman with deadly curiosity such as yourself, just to take her away and dice her up? God, you really should have paid more attention to the warnings in all those true crime documentaries. Now you’re going to end up in one. 

     “Are… are you going to kill me?” You sigh—rule number one: don’t question what the big serial killers are going to do to you while you’re in their truck.

     Johnny grins against your neck, his hot tongue soothing the bite he’d just left on you. He inserts another finger, and, well… maybe getting the best finger-fuck of your life before you die isn’t the worst way to go out. You mewl when he curls them right up against your g-spot and almost miss Simon’s low voice answering your question.

     “If we wanted y’dead, y’already would be,” he shrugs, pulling onto a long dirt road that leads to a large farmhouse, past herds of cattle and fat pigs who look like they’ve never missed a meal. 

     Simon’s answer does nothing to settle your nerves, although the orgasm that Johnny coaxes out of you works well to distract. There’s a black cat waiting by the front door when they guide you inside, and your head starts pounding. If that’s not an omen, you don’t know what is. Damn Johnny and his beautiful, charming self, and damn you for not being bothered enough by his career choice when you should have been. Now you’re not even sure what you’ve gotten yourself into.

     It’s warm inside. Inviting, despite everything, with cozy furniture littered across the den and taxidermied animals decorating the walls. Extravagant chandeliers hang from the ceiling, lighting up the area with a dim yellow aura that helps remind you to breathe. The walls are painted a dark green and the fireplace is going, and on the largest couch sits two more men—one with blue eyes nearly as piercing as Johnny’s, and another with the prettiest lips you’ve ever seen.

     Now that you can see him better, you realize that even Simon is ridiculously handsome, with short blonde hair and a scar across his lip that must have been the result of repairing a nasty split. More white marks are littered across his face, but the honey of his brown eyes don’t seem nearly as cold under this warm light. It almost makes you forget what they do for a living.

     “I’m guessin’ this is her, since she’s not hog-tied,” the one with blue eyes speaks gruffly, standing from his seated position and slowly stalking closer.

     He’s taller than Johnny, but not quite at Simon’s height, and his hand is rough against your skin as he cups your cheek in his palm. His thumb runs along your bottom lip, eyes taking in every inch of your person. The man hums thoughtfully before removing his hands from you, looking between the men who stand by your side.

     “Pretty thing, ain’t she? Nice and soft, too,” he concludes, calling the other man over to check you out as well.

     Your breath hitches in your throat as the new man smiles down at you, those luscious lips spread across a perfectly straight set of white teeth. He doesn’t touch you, just gives you a once-over before nodding.

     “She’s perfect,” he confirms to the previous man before looking to you again. “M’Kyle. Tha’s John, and m’sure y’know those two already.”

     You nod, chewing on your bottom lip. You still have no idea what the hell is going on, or what they mean by perfect. Perfect for what, exactly? More taxidermy? Pig food?

     “Glad ye approve, Cap’n, Gaz,” Johnny beams, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Knew ye’d love her.”

     Your eyes widen slightly when Simon leans down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, followed by Kyle, then John. You’re frozen in place, but Johnny just chuckles and scoops you up into his arms, strong legs striding down the hallway into one of the bedrooms.

     “Dinnae be afraid, hen. They like ye. Ah told ye, ye’ll ge’ along jus’ fine,” he presses his lips against your temple, then lays you on his bed. 

     “We’ll ge’ yer room set up in the mornin’, but ah need tae taste tha’ sweet cunt reit fookin’ now. Dinnae be quiet, lass, let ‘em hear yer bonnie moans."

[its-avalon-08]

Where's the trophy? He just comes running over to me any driver but this vibe!

the alchemy (mv1)

✦ pairing - max verstappen x female!reader

✦ genre - just plain ol'fluff

The roar of the crowd at Yas Marina Circuit was deafening. Max Verstappen, helmet still on, emerged from his Red Bull, a champion for the first time. Relief, exhaustion, and pure, unadulterated joy warred on his face. He bypassed the waiting media scrum, his eyes scanning the jubilant throngs of orange. There, amidst the sea of ecstatic fans, stood Y/N, his rock, his sunshine.

where's the trophy?

"Max! Max! Max!" David Croft's voice boomed over the international broadcast. "He's forgoing the initial interview! Looks like the celebrations are starting a little early!"

he just comes running over to me

Max sprinted towards her, a wide grin splitting his face. He reached her, engulfed her in a bone-crushing hug, and spun her around like a jubilant ballerina. Y/N, tears welling in her eyes, clung to him, her laughter echoing in the cacophony.

He finally stopped, cupping her face, his blue eyes shimmering with emotion. "We did it, Y/N! We fucking did it!"

"We did, Max," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "You were incredible out there!"

Max pulled her in again, burying his face in her hair. The roar of the crowd seemed to fade into the background as he whispered, "I couldn't have done it without you. You believed in me when I doubted myself, pushed me when I wanted to quit, and loved me even when I was a grumpy mess after a bad race."

Y/N tilted her head up, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Hey, that's part of the package, Champion," she teased. "But seriously, Max, I'm so incredibly proud of you. You've worked so hard for this moment."

Max gazed at her, his eyes filled with adoration. "You mean everything to me, Y/N. You're my best friend, my confidante, my biggest supporter. This championship, it's ours."

Croft's voice cut back in, tinged with amusement. "And there you have it, folks! Max Verstappen with a very emotional message for his girlfriend, Y/N. It seems the celebrations are truly personal tonight!"

Max chuckled, brushing a stray tear from Y/N's cheek. "Come on," he said, taking her hand. "Let's celebrate with the team. They deserve this as much as we do."

He led her through the throngs of ecstatic Red Bull personnel, who whooped and cheered, showering them with confetti and champagne. Y/N, her arm linked with Max's, felt a surge of pure happiness. This championship wasn't just his; it was a testament to the unwavering support of a team, a family, and the love of a remarkable woman. As they joined the celebrations, Y/N knew this was just the beginning of their incredible journey together.

max's pov

The champagne shower was a glorious, stinging euphoria. Confetti rained down, a kaleidoscope of orange and white mirroring the elation that bubbled in my chest. The podium lights felt unnaturally bright, but the cheers of the crowd were a warm, intoxicating wave. I was a champion. Formula One World Champion.

But amidst the cacophony, my vision cut through the noise, drawn to the familiar splash of sunshine yellow in the crowd. Y/N. There she was, a beacon amidst the sea of orange. Her hair, usually pulled back in a practical braid, cascaded down her shoulders in the humid Abu Dhabi night, windblown and free. Her face, usually reserved and composed when I was in the car, was a mask of pure, unadulterated joy. Tears welled in her eyes, sparkling like tiny diamonds under the floodlights.

Time seemed to slow. The roar of the crowd faded, replaced by the frantic pounding of my heart. A wide grin stretched across my face, mirroring the one I knew was mirrored on hers. We locked eyes for a fleeting moment, an unspoken conversation passing between us. Her lips moved, forming the words that had echoed in my head all season, the fuel that had propelled me through every grueling race, every nerve-wracking qualifying session.

"I love you."

The sound didn't reach me, drowned out by the cheers, but I knew. I knew with a certainty that transcended words. It was in the glistening tears, the trembling smile, the way her entire being radiated pure, unadulterated pride. This wasn't just my victory. It was ours.

As Christian Horner sprayed me with champagne, the sting a welcome reminder of the moment, my gaze never left her. She was my rock, my anchor, the sunshine that chased away the storm clouds of doubt. This championship trophy, held aloft in my numb fingers, was as much hers as it was mine. It was a symbol of our journey, a testament to the unwavering support that had carried me across the finish line.

The podium celebrations blurred into a whirlwind of handshakes, interviews, and backslaps. But through it all, her image remained etched in my mind, a beacon of love and pride. And when I finally found myself back at the team motorhome, the echoes of the celebration fading, I knew exactly where I needed to be. With her.

[lodeddiperactivate]

A new kind of high (Barry x Reader)

Pairing: Barry x fem!reader

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: smut, drugs

Summary: You have never done drugs before but decided you wanted to try it just so you can finally understand what the hype is all about.

Author’s note: I'm obsessed with Barry pls I need him to split me in half. I have a lot of Barry fics coming soon so please reblog if you enjoy this so I would know, and that would fuel this hyperfixation.

You have never done drugs before but decided you wanted to try it just so you can finally understand what the hype is all about.

"Aight princess, so what you need to do is..." Barry started explaining the basics.

You've only met him a couple of times in passing when Rafe needed supply. And even though, everyone has warned you to stay away from him, the truth is that you were intrigued, which is another way of saying you had a crush on him. You couldn't really help it when he's so flirty with you but you do know that there is a dark side to him, which is why he was not your first or second choice when you finally decided to try drugs.

"Rafe, come on, you're really saying No to this? You?"

"I'm sorry but I have to go to the mainland today for business. Why don't you ask Topper to teach you?"

"I already did but then he freaked out so I think he might rat me out to my parents. I need someone I can trust!"

"I'm sorry but I have to go now. We'll do it when I come back!"

"Yeah, in two weeks!" You called out to him as he boarded the truck with his dad. You sighed and decided to walk back home. That was when you saw Barry talking to one of the kooks, probably selling them stuff.

You stood there for a while, deciding if you want to ask him to help you out. You decided against it and started walking away when you heard him call your name.

"Oh hey Barry."

"Hi princess, is country club at home right now?"

"He just left for the mainland, won't be back until the end of the month."

"Shit, I swear that kid's gonna take a beating when he comes back."

You haven't realized it but you were now looking at the small bag of white powder in his hands. He looked down at what you were looking at.

"Saw something you like?" He said as he lifted the bag.

"Oh no, I was..." you stuttered. "Yes, err maybe?"

Barry gave a light chuckle before admiring you in your cute yellow sundress. Your innocence intrigued him but he was mostly impressed with your insane level of curiosity.

He moved closer and placed a hand on your lower back guiding you closer to his side as he whispered, "Come on, let's go back to my place and I'll teach you how," he said as if reading your mind. You obliged.

~

"Aight princess, so what you need to do is bring your nose closer like this and snort the line," after Barry showed you how it's done, it was your turn. Surprisingly it was not as bad or difficult as you thought it was.

"Good girl," he whispered in your ear. You can feel your pussy pulsate at his words. You find yourself leaning closer to him as if in a trance, wanting to close the gap between the two of you. You snapped out of it when you heard him talk.

"You alright, princess?" He had his hands on your shoulder to steady you.

"Yeah sorry, I just didn't expect the effects to be that quick," you said as he did another line. He looked at you and grinned.

"What?"

"Nothing, I just thought you were one of the good ones."

"The good ones? What's the supposed to mean? I can be bad," you tried to defend yourself.

"That's not what I meant, dollface," Barry said as he rested his arm on the back of the couch, leaning closer so that your lips are mere inches away from one another. You haven't realized it but your hand was on his knees, supporting your weight as you leaned even closer.

"I know you can be bad," his other hand pushed the hair over your shoulders as it trails down to play with the strap of your sundress. "Why don't you show me how bad you are hmm?"

You half-breathed, half-moaned his name before allowing your lips to crash on his. You were quick to reposition yourself so that you were straddling him on the couch. His hands found its way to your ass, lifting your dress along the way so that there's little fabric between your pussy and his cock. You grinded on top of him and you feel him groaned and moaned your name into the kiss.

With one quick move, he unbuckled his belt and lowered his shorts to reveal his fully erect cock. You moaned at the sight, obviously feeling the full effects of the drugs now, you instinctively got off him and on your knees ready to taste him.

"Why don't you show me what that pretty mouth can do?" His voice was like honey and you mindlessly licked him from base to tip, before sucking him fully. Barry threw his head back and grabbed your head, guiding you.

"Oh baby, you're so bad," he said encouraging you. "I bet none of the guys on your side of the town can make you feel this kind of rush huh?"

You lifted your head up to him smirking, "you have no idea how boring that side of town is."

"Hmmm you get off on a little danger huh, a little fear?" Barry said as he pulled out a gun from the back of his shorts. You froze at the sight of the gun.

"Don't worry baby, not gonna hurt ya, come here."

You straddle him and he arranged a line of coke on the flat portion of the barrel, and he held it up to your face. "Go on baby, it's gonna feel so good," he encouraged. Your mind was hazy from the first but you can feel yourself get even more wet from this whole thing. You grind on top of him, trying to feel as much as you can of him as you snorted the line on his gun. He then proceeded to lift your dress and pull your panties to the side so he can tease you by rubbing his tip at the entrance of your pussy. The knot in your stomach becomes more evident as you cannot control your whimpers, you rested your head on Barry's shoulders as he positioned himself, ready to enter you.

"It's alright princess, I got you," he said as he slowly dipped the tip inside you. You moaned his name into his ear. He couldn't believe this was happening, he had always to some extent fantasized about you but never really did anything as he thought his lifestyle was too much for you. Seeing that you were more than interested in learning all of it, he took that opportunity and eased himself even more inside you. Your walls accepted him as you feel every inch of him inside you, hitting all the right spots.

"Barry, please.." that was all he needed to bottomed himself inside you. You yelped at the impact but slowly adjusted. He was big and thick and filled you in all the right ways. You started to slowly grind on him, your hands on his chest supporting yourself. He looked up at you with hooded eyes and your head was thrown back, moaning his name again and again.

"Never thought I'd hear you moan my name like that princess. Fuck!"

You looked at him and smirked, "told you I'm not some fragile spoiled kook," you leaned in to whisper in his ears seductively, "I can take it."

"Oh yeah?" Barry grinned as he burried his nails on your hips, holding you into place, and proceeded to rail you thrusting his hips upwards so you can take more of him. You were held in place by Barry's strong grip so all you could do was hold the back of the sofa for support and another hand on Barry's chest. Your mouth was wide open and your eyes rolling from pleasure. Barry has no intention of slowing down and you were almost at your limits. Barry kept pounding you, thrusting his hips upward as he brought yours down, matching the rhythm perfectly.

"Barry, please, I'm close!"

"That's right, such a needy little slut, tell me what you want baby."

"I wanna come! I wanna come! I'm gonna come!"

"Shit, me too baby. Where do you want me to come?"

"Inside me, please, I want it. I need it!"

"Fuck!" Barry moaned as he felt you cum all over him, followed by him blowing his cum all over your insides.

You collapsed on top of him, him still inside you. You rested your head on his chest as you tried to calm your breathing. Coming down from the high, Barry let out a low hum as he stroked your back and hair, pushing it away from your face. You grinded a few times before letting him slip out of you.

You were both still breathing heavily as you sat side by side, slouched on the sofa. When you looked up at him, he had his eyes closed. He can feel you watching him.

"So how much do I owe you for the coke?" You jokingly ask.

He opened his eyes and looked at you, he had a wild grin on his face. He leaned closer so you were looking directly into his deep rich brown eyes, "Maybe I can come up with a different kind of payment method for you," he said as he planted a soft kiss on your lips.

[1800titz]

POMEGRANATE | Hades!Harry

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Something pops. The world stretches apart into static. A bird croons overhead. You open your mouth wide as it wracks through you, but nothing comes out as your surroundings shatter like glass. Instead, the casing of your teeth can only echo what he murmurs into the gap. A word you can barely hear through the haze as bliss tears you apart. “Persephone.”

CONTENT: nipple play, pussy inspection, size kink(!!!!), slight humiliation, dom/sub undertones, p-in-v, anal play (if you squint), praise kink, slight degradation, spanking-ish (mostly just cheeky ass smacking)

preview

How do you come to terms with your own undoing? You always thought death would come quiet and sharp. Easy like a whip-crack. You wouldn’t have to wade the sticky deluge of awareness. 

It would happen in a split second.

But you know it. Get it. This nauseating instinct burgeoning in your guts isn’t paranoia. It’s not the whisper of a footstep in a shadow. The dark alcove you pass in the city, feet moving a little faster to fall back under the yellow sanctum of a streetlight. Something bad can happen here. 

This is the bad thing— the worst thing— this is justified fear. You feel it itching like nausea on the back of your tongue. Worming its way into your thunderous heart. 

You thought you knew what it was like to be scared. But this twists in your chest and snakes to your stomach, coiling up and sitting heavy like a rock— 

You are dying, and you are aware of it. 

Something strange kicks in along the moribund stretch between here and there— the cognizance that cobwebs in little cracks across the foundation. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

A sense of urgency. Late-onset hypervigilance (something you should have had on the road, with your hands on the wheel and your foot lingering in that safe-space between gas pedal and brake). You’ve never had to coach yourself into clambering off your deathbed before, but you’re distinctly aware that if you don’t start talking yourself out of it, you’ll fold yourself into the covers. 

When he speaks, the sound is wedged into the twinging paradox of familiar and distant, all at once. Archaic— some sense of knowing buzzes along your bones. It sounds like homecoming to a place you’ve never been. 

A place you don’t want to go.

The man leaning over your battered center console, your deformed gearshift— you, blinking up at him weakly—

Is an uncanny farrago. 

Past the blurry vignette of your eyeline, the fuzzy streak that ruptures along the center, he looks almost human. Miming the perfect pastiche, down to the mussed coiffing of his hair, the ridging, pink line of his mouth. The flat, indifferent shapes of his face; the slope of his nose, the score of his lips. All entirely bereft of… emergency. Dread. Anything reasonable to the discovery of a sedan with its hood crumpled against an oak trunk. You, sandwiched between your tilted driver’s seat and the mangled steering wheel. 

Instead, he stares down at you with the kind of undisturbed calm you’ve only found before a storm. The mirage of nirvana-like quiet along the cloudless sky, the tired, unmoving wind. 

He’s the most handsomely apathetic man you’ve ever seen. Sculpted from marble and soft, borrowed flesh. 

The kind that almost doesn’t belong. Too… simple. Just the mold of something familiar for you to grasp. The costume doesn’t bend itself enough to fit his shape, and so the imitation loses itself somewhere along the seams. 

It’s the perfect example of beauty sewing herself into peril.

The biggest giveaway are his eyes. They’re bleary star-shapes through your gaze. Over-saturated colors. And they’re unlike anything sublunary you’ve ever seen before. 

They make you feel like you’re drowning. Suffocating. A reminder that you’re too close to something much more than you. 

Too close to the ghosting kiss of death.

They’re the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. Preternaturally vibrant, almost glowing, framed in arsenic white. But it’s the charcoal black pools in them, like endless trenches, that make your lungs feel heavy. Their unfathomable depths. The way they refuse to echo the trepidation that lingers over your chest, bruising bones and stringing into the fibrils of your soft tissue.

You see a piece of yourself in them. Something waning. 

It’s your own reflection. You’ve never seen yourself like that. Scared like a caged animal. Eclipsed behind the fear like the sun hiding in the shape of the moon.

“Time’s up,” is what he says. Low, and quiet, and pragmatic, gaze deadpan. 

(Obsidian pits, unmerciful gemstones cut straight from the crust, gold-flecked like a reflection of the molten layer beneath.) 

So unmoved. Indelicate. Like he’s got a horologe of your lifespan in his palm. You want to tell him to check his invisible wrist watch— that he’s wrong, it’s not. 

Turn the hourglass, you think hysterically, almost feeling the granules you’re shedding as your time lapses. Crumbling around you. In on you, collapsing like a poorly-structured roof. Today, you’re built out of a flimsy house of cards.

You took three pages of notes on Hades in college. 

Somewhere in your childhood home, the Greek Mythology notebook is wedged into a box in the attic from when you brought it home with you for winter break. 

You watched animated renditions of the Grim Reaper dance across your TV in a hood, as a kid. Old cartoons off the floor with a bowl of cereal in your lap before school.

You learned about the devil in church. 

Metaphysical kinship feels overdue, like a half-assed afterthought. But you stare up at the obscure wreathe of midnight black smoke wisping around the shape of his head, the nearly imperceptible, swirling coat of charcoal smoldering off his shoulders, and try to remember the words to prayers that were left to collect dust on your tongue years ago.

“You an’ I,” the seat crinkles when it shifts under his weight, the lopsided center console clicks under his forearm, “have somewhere to be.” 

It’s not an open-ended invitation; come if you want, stay if you don’t. No. It’s an edict. You can’t chisel into the edges of dogma around it— the unspoken ones— but you know that this man is final. He is the law, the declaration, the order. 

You’re not ready to die. 

Too young, still wet behind the ears. You can’t wipe it off on the napkin your bucket list will be crumpled into— you’re still supposed to see Ayutthaya, and ride in a hot air balloon, and try that Thai place your friend recommended weeks ago; the one you’ve been putting off, because there was always more time. And that’s the thing, you think, it always feels like there’s more time. The bottle never runs out. You stare down into it and keep drinking like it’ll fill itself back up. The aspirations feel so nugatory now. The little army men maquettes your dad collected in the basement, speckling the peripheral ledges of this yawning, all-consuming demise. You sink into it. Flail. Sink deeper. Until— what?

The horrifying thought ripples the surface of the cesspool. These mountains stretch for miles. They arch, and roll, and recede; Gaia’s heavy-handed fingerpainting. 

No one is here. 

No one saw you.

And no one will know where to begin to look for you. 

For what’s left. 

And what is left of you? Inconclusive alphabet soup in the local newspaper? Headlines: missing; tragic accident; too young; thoughts and prayers. Eventually, a body to put into a box? A hole in the dirt, for tree roots to snake out like a cage and cradle your wilting, still heart?

You open your mouth. Close it. Mouth at the air, wordlessly, panting, like a guppy, with your tongue thick and numb and the words dangling precariously along the rim of your wobbling lower lip. You breathe them in shallowly, and they nearly die at the back of your throat. 

How do you barter with Death? Look it in the eyes— the eclipse of your own, waning soul— and bargain?

It starts like this:

“I’m not ready.” 

A time old tale. You intend for the words to be forceful— a kind of declaration. Rebellion is a trait that wouldn’t necessarily serve your case (but maybe he’d admire the dauntless passion). But they come out weak. Dizzy. Tired. 

The console clicks again. Then, the sound of fabric brushing on leather. He’s closer. Leaning into you more. Over you. These are the only sounds besides your trembling pants, the rabitting pace of your heartbeat. A sharp contrast to his leisurely disposition. You feel it throbbing in your neck like a vice, like it’s swelling and taking up too much room the harder it thrums, too much space for your airway. 

And you can’t look away from him. The supernovae whirling in the green beds of his eyes. Varicolored webs in motion, swirling like liquid, the way human eyes— so fixed, so temporary, so delicate— don’t. It’s the contrast of another world against your own— you stare into it like you’re watching two pools of another dimension unfold in his skull. 

They’re not sorry for you. They sit on you. Magmatic. Unwavering.

“Tha’s too bad.” 

The words shudder and bruise through you like a sucker punch. Cut into you like the edge of a blade. The gravity they’re saturated in sinks between your ribs. It’s not I’m sorry. 

You almost flinch. Despite how harsh the words are, how cruel, his tone is nothing but unembellished. Prosaic. Dull with unsentimental truth. That’s too bad; he says it like an observation, and nothing else. 

And you shouldn’t expect different— can’t— from …whatever he is. An impassive numen: Death; The Reaper. 

A deity doesn’t grieve temporal flesh. 

You can’t expect him to. You wouldn’t feel sorry, either you think— you’d be desensitized. But it feels so much sharper from the other end.

It doesn’t matter what you should do. What you shouldn’t. It’s what you can’t. 

You can’t accept it, give in. Not like this. It’s human instinct— to fight. The drive worms under your skin and mangles whatever is left, twisting it into something noxious. Full of bite. 

You wear it on your teeth when you bear them to spit, “I won’t go.” 

It’s full of anger. Vicious. Anger at him. The clumsy doe. The circumstances. Yourself. And it’s stubborn. This pluck against a… God, against whatever he is, surely won’t do you any favors. 

But he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of the fight. Your tone, the shuddery breath you take as you sit up a little, square your shoulders, doesn’t chip the veneer on his clean, unemotional demeanor. The haze around the borders of your vision is a bleary smear that pans in, and you blink it away, lashes fluttering to bat it off. It has a tear trickling down your cheek. 

When he stretches his hand up, it makes you falter. A reflexive tick, chin tipping. Flinching away. But the knuckle in his curled forefinger grazes your skin. Slow. Featherlight, like coaxing a frightened animal out of the corner it’s backed itself into. And the heat you find there makes you gasp. It’s hot against the crest of your cheekbone, so hot you think you’re feeling the fumes of that molten core, the crushed flinders of magma that swim along his irises. So hot you’re sure, now, that he’s pooling boiling ichor, veins running like lavascapes under the pastiche of a man he wears.

It knocks your resolve. Throws you off. It’s so… against your expectations. The notion of death. 

Death is supposed to be cold. It’s supposed to kiss you with gloam, and unspool shadows across your heavy lashes, and chill you like the Vinson Massif snowcap with its tongue. 

But he burns. Running so hot, it’s almost a human touch. Too much. Too close. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” he coos, curled knuckle bumping the side of your jaw. Your chin. 

You can’t move. Can’t break. Won’t give, lost in his tar-black pupils, like two mirrored, bottomless polynyas. The marbled, snaking tendrils of sunflower-yellow and green framing them.

For the first time, he looks at you with something besides nonchalant indifference. It’s still cold over the surface. A cosmetic veneer that makes him solid and inexpressive— but it fractures like a chisel sawing an ice hole. You can’t decipher what you find. It’s a misslip. A kind of parapraxis— the way his eyes rove you, dipping like scoping the valley in the mountains. A Freudian slip. They linger on your eyes, then— fall. To your mouth. Your neck. The soft lines of your chest. His fingers skid from your jawline to the hair that’s fallen over your shoulder. He twists a piece of your hair around his forefinger. 

It has something peculiar pulling apart in your head. With the crash, the circumstances, the way you’re slowly slipping into this territory you don’t know, the finality of death with its boots on your doorstep, you’ve grown so numb. 

But this hits you like a freight train, pulls you out. 

Awe. There is something undeniable in what’s oozing from behind the dispassionate shell— this is the way a man looks when he wants. 

With instinctive drive— basal need. It’s too close to human longing. The way a man looks at a bar. The slow rolling eyes, in sultry descent, from the other side of the couch. Knuckles on your thigh, bare skin, come closer unspoken.

His eyes are on the coil around his finger. Your lips again. When you swallow, there’s cotton in your throat. Nestled in it is the last ditch effort.

“What if— I give you… something.” It’s silly. The words shake and spill before you can throw them back and chase them with acceptance. You’re not asking. Not begging. Offering.

Something flickers. It’s different. His eyes flash. And then, a slow-seeping smile trickles across his lips. Something like it. Amused, then, you realize. He’s amused. 

His forearm splays back over the center console. Your hair falls back into its place, over your shoulder. He cocks his head. Hums. He is the picture of languid ease and you cup your fright between your hands like a firefly and pretend. 

“Trying to bargain?” 

His eyes are a little easier, then, not so unblinking. Eyelids drooping half-mast. You wonder if you’ve thrown a wrench into the script— added a splash of color into the monotonous bleak spreadsheet of a routine he’s been cycling through for aeons. His fingers drum against the tilted center console (your eyes oscillate to them. Back. To them. Back. Onto the other hand, sliding down his thick thigh as he sits up). 

“Isn’t that just…” thump, thump, thump. His fingertip on the broken plastic. Your heart in your ears. “…the sweetest thing.”

You swallow. Your throat clicks. His mouth is a malleable, broken moon. Quicksilver. Crescent sharpening, falling dull. Sharp again. He leans in a little closer. Up close like this, you can smell him. Taste him on the back of your throat. A cold cave, the wet, dark layers of the earth when you dig into the dirt too deep, a fallen cypress, leaves you can crumble between your fingers. White lillies. Bereavement flowers in careful, somber clusters around a casket.

“And what do you,” his eyes oscillate from your gaze to your slightly parted mouth, “have to give me?”

Your heart is rabbiting. Head dizzy. Every joint aches and creaks like a rusty hinge. The rattlesnake of it all slithers around your lungs. 

“Sex,” you bluster. Your eyes are wide. Brows notched. It sounds a little shrill, a little incredulous. Far too callow for the offer you intend it to be. 

Silly little human. And this is where he laughs. Tilts his head, nostrils flaring as he huffs through them. White lily-teeth in neat rows at your gall. But he doesn’t laugh— not outright, anyways. Your pulse throbs thick in your throat but you cling to it, because it means you’re still alive. His eyes are embers. Live coal in the pit of a campfire, and you feel the heat of it through your skin. 

“That right?” he muses instead of outright chuffing, oiled in mirth.

You close your mouth. Open it. Close it again. All retorts die ugly at the back of your mouth— you fluster beside him because you’re finally feeling the heat, razing you, and the taunt slicking his tone is like kerosene to the flame. 

Three ruckles crease across his forehead when he raises his brows. You count them; one, two, three. They look so out of place— crinkles in the perfect, porcelain-smooth amalgam that is an almost-human face carved from marble.  

“In exchange for…?” he probes, chin ducked. Staring at you from over the bridge of his nose. 

“My life.”

He hums again. Musing. Mocking. It’s the slow roll of the summer into autumn. The dying breath of an orbit collapsing to stutter anew.

“Awful brave,” he gibes, white teeth— white like cold skin, like snowfall under glowing apricity— flashing for a second from behind the lopsided curve of his smiling lips, “negotiating with a God.”

So he is. Your eyes inch in increments like you’re taking in every particle of this being, soaking up the dust-dark wisping off his shoulders. All around him. Dumb, little girl. He says it like he means it that way— stupid, plucky little human. 

“Thinks it’s that easy, mm?” he says, “You… spread your pretty legs and what—? Turn back time?”

“That’s what the offer sounded like, yeah,” you tell him from between your gritted teeth, tone flat.

There is still a pulsating in your head, thrumming in your temple. But the sound of fabric brushing in the front seat of your cramped sedan, the way he huffs, is unmistakable. 

“Cheeky, cheeky,” he drawls, but it’s all ease. Saturated in mirth— perhaps you’ve caught Death in good spirits. “Got a mouth on you.”

It’s his next words that have you faltering. Both because you’re, maybe, biting off more than you can chew, and because of the unanticipated heat that melts apart inside of you at the tone. The vulgarity.

“Maybe that’s what you need for a mouth like that,” he tells you, all low, eyes as white-hot as his touch, “do you some good. A nice, hard shag.”

[mysunshinetemptress]

For England

Alexia Putellas x lioness!reader x ocdaughter!reader

Warnings: Fluff

Even before Melia arrived, Alexia and you had joked about the future. Would we have a mini-me in a Spanish jersey, mimicking her mama's stepovers, or a fearless lioness with your crunching tackles? As it turned out, Melia was a curious mix. From her first kick of a ball, she'd proudly rock a jersey split down the middle, the Spanish crest battling for dominance with the Three Lions As Melia toddled around, she'd proudly rock a mishmash of kits. Or sometimes it would be an oversized Spain shirt drowning her tiny frame, the next a miniature Lionesses jersey that barely covered her knees. You both knew, deep down, that she'd eventually choose a side.

 She was very proudly called "Amorcito," she was your love in a smaller version, a mix of the cultures you both so desperately loved and just like the love that brought you both together.

However, by the age of three, Melia's allegiance became undeniable. The turning point came during the Euros. She was mesmerised by the Lionesses' attacking prowess. Sat alongside your wife as she watched excitedly her passion only seemed to build with every goal an elicited joyous shrieks, every tackle a passionate fist pump. When the final whistle blew, crowning England champions, Melia danced with unbridled glee, waving a miniature Lionesses flag like a warrior queen. 

 I expected a flicker of disappointment, maybe even a playful jab. After all, she was a Barcelona legend, a "Culer" through and through. But instead, a wide smile stretched across her face. Later that night, as Melia slept soundly in her England-themed pyjamas, Alexia surprised me again. With a mischievous grin, she pulled out a brand new Lionesses jersey, emblazoned with "Melia 10" on the back.

"She is a Culer mi vida," she said, her voice soft, "that is my legacy, that is my career, not La Roja. But family? Our family supports each other, no matter the colours we wear on the pitch But supporting England, the lionesses, your team, cheering for your country, her country? That's a love that runs deeper than football."

Her words struck a chord. Melia's choice wasn't a rejection of Alexia's heritage, but a blossoming of her own. It was a beautiful testament to the power of sports to unite families, even if they cheered for different teams.

The World Cup final, with its clash of loyalties, only solidified that realisation. Melia, both yours and Alexias Amorcito, defied expectations throughout the tournament with her continued wear of England jerseys as well as the St George crest painted along her cheeks and her red and white ribbon tied into her ponytail.

Your heart lurched as you saw Melia freeze in the tunnel, her small hand gripping Alexia's Spanish jersey like a vice. The roar of the crowd was a distant echo in the tense silence. Alexia’s warm smile, usually contagious, faltered at the edges. Melia's eyes, brimming with tears, locked with yours.

Alexia, ever the teammate, knelt beside her, a gentle smile on her face. "Hey, Amoricito," she said, "It's okay, you look beautiful. Just a few steps, and then you can change after the walkout, alright?"

Melia, however, remained rooted to the spot, her tiny chin jutting out. Tears spilled down her cheeks, blurring the red and yellow stripes of the Spanish jersey. "I'm English, Mami!" she cried, her voice cracking with frustration. "I can't walk out with you! I'll let them down!" Alexia looked down at Melia confused "Who down Amoricito" "I'm English, Mami, not Spanish! I'll be letting the lionesses down, I'll be letting Mama down" she cried, her voice cracking.

Alexia sighed her voice a soothing balm. "Amoricito," she began, "we all love you, no matter what jersey you wear. You just need to walk out with us, then you can change, okay?"

Melia shook her head, adamant. "But I want everyone to see I'm cheering for England!" Her lower lip quivered, threatening to spill over.

Alexia exchanged a helpless glance with you. it had been planned to perfection this little moment between you all a cute family moment, a symbol of international unity on the biggest stage. Now, it was unravelling before the world's eyes. Your gaze darted towards the tunnel entrance, where the announcer's voice boomed, signalling the imminent walkout. Time was ticking and Melia wasn't letting up or calming down.

Taking a deep breath, You rushed over and knelt beside them your daughter might have been born in England and loved the country with every ounce of her heart but she was so much like Alexia in looks and personality. "Hey, Amoricito," you said softly, your voice laced with calm. "It's okay, sweetheart. We know you love England, the girls know you love England. But remember, Mami is Spanish and she wanted to include her favourite girl during this moment, but this walkout is for both teams, for both of us, for our family and, for everyone who loves football."

Melia sniffled, her lower lip trembling. "But the badge," she hiccupped, pointing at the Spanish crest emblazoned on the jersey. "It's not right."

A warmth bloomed in your chest. Her fierce loyalty, even at this tender age, filled me with pride.

A quick decision had to be made. Glancing at Alexia, I saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She squeezed Melia's hand gently. "How about this," Alexia offered, "You walk out with me, but when we get to the national anthems, you can stand with Mama and the lionesses, okay? English and Spanish."

A flicker of hope sparked in Melia's eyes. She looked down at the Spanish jersey, then back at you. "Can I?"

"Absolutely," You confirmed, relief flooding through you as you looked back at your teammates and your own mascot you had abandoned trying to calm your daughter down.

As the announcer's voice reached a crescendo, the tunnel doors swung open. Alexia took Melia's tiny hand gripping it tightly, as you placed a kiss on her head and squeezed Alexia's hand before grabbing the hand of your mascot.

The pre-game formalities flew by in a blur. As the teams lined up for the national anthems,  Alexia crouched down and winked at Melia. "Ready to change sides, Amoricito?" she asked playfully Melia smiled grabbing Alexia's hand before pulling her towards you and grabbing your hand with hers as she stood proudly in between you both, her tiny voice joining the chorus of "God Save the King," Your heart swelled with pride, a mixture of maternal love and admiration for her courage.

Melia, her smile now radiant, let go of Alexia and raised her hands to be lifted up by you laughing as you kissed her cheeks. "Just hold on for the win, Mama," she whispered, her eyes sparkling. "For England!"

"Maybe next time, we'll walk out with you wearing an England jersey, leading the English fans in cheers."

Melia's eyes sparkled. "Really?"

"Absolutely," you promised.

[lordprettyflackotara]

blue || masky

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. tw: this is really depressing angsty smut / this is the au/theorywhere masky isn’t a split personality but instead an alter ego tim created to cope with his new homicidal tendencies as a proxy

Masky stared at the outside of your house, the yellow illumination from your bedroom window signaling to him you were awake. As usual, you were always a night owl.

It had been four months since he had mysteriously disappeared. Tim Wright along with Brian Thomas both vanished into thin air exactly four months ago. Neither of the two had been seen since, the trail detectives followed leading to a dead end. Since then Masky couldn’t bring himself to recall the horrors he had been through. His brain had been fried to practical mush, his humanity and grasp of reality slipping away more and more each day. But even through it all, he couldn’t forget you. You were his first love, his one true love in this lifetime. Despite The Operator’s attempts to make him forget you and protest to him seeing you, Masky still made it to your back door.

He had been stalking you from a far in his spare time, reading your diary and making sure you were taken care of. He knew you kept a spare key in the plant by your back door, hoping he’d come to you. He dug in the shallow dirt, locating the key. He’d come back for you, one last time.

Masky had tried to live his life in black and white since becoming a proxy, but it still had the faintest tint of blue everytime he thought of you. He was only human after all. He unlocked your back door, slipping inside of your quiet house with ease. Your cat, Bee, rubbed against his leg, purring in delight. The white cat adored him, her satisfaction ensuing from his mere presence. Masky petted her gently, before chuckling as she brushed her long tail against his gloved hand. “Where’s my princess Bee? Take me to her,” He whispered. Sure, Masky could’ve made an educated guess, your television upstairs still playing whatever show you were binge watching. You usually did that, fall asleep while staying up late. Masky usually would tuck you in afterwards, making sure the ac was lowered and the tv was turned off. He wondered if he’d be able to do the same now, Bee’s collar jingling as she climbed upstairs.

Masky followed behind her, taking a deep breath as she pranced into your room. “Hi Bebe, come here,” You greeted. Masky took this as his cue to round the corner, taking off his mask. Your eyes widened, your body unable to move fast enough to scramble to get out of bed. You ran to your lover, throwing your arms around him in pure bliss. You soaked in his forest like scent, holding him close to you. “Tim, you’re back,” You cried, tears of joy forming in your eyes. Masky reluctantly hugged you back, patting your hair with one hand while the other held you close. “Hey there princess,” Masky greeted, the sweet nostalgic nick name sounding like pure honey. You nuzzled your face into his chest, afraid to loosen your grip. “I knew you’d come back to me,” You say. You weren’t able to hide the smile that danced across your lips. You looked up, your eyes brighter than Masky had seen them in months. “I’m not here to stay, i’m here to say goodbye,” He informed you. Your smile fell, as did your face. Your eyebrows furrowed, causing you to take a step back. “Goodbye? What happened to you? Are you out of your mind?” You asked, your voice cracking.

Masky took your hand guiding you over to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and began spilling his guts. He told you everything he could remember, most of his memory unreliable and spotty. He told you about Brian becoming Hoodie, The Operator, what his life been like the past four months. He watched your face shift from disbelief to pure horror. Tears had pricked in the corners of your eyes, your big eyes welling up uncontrollably. You tried to keep the hysterics inside, keeping a straight face as Masky told you everything. At first you hoped he was joking, that this was some sort of sick joke he was playing on you. The sorrow that laced each word told you that he was far from joking. His face had hardened drastically upon closer inspection, faint scars revealed through the illumination of your television on his neck. As he finished you both sat in silence, Bee rubbing against his leg. "Oh Tim...." You whispered. You threw your arms around him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. Masky returned your hug, flashes of the gruesome murders he had committed flashing though his mind. "Tim died a long time ago princess, i'm what remains. My name is Masky," He whispered back. Unlike Hoodie who had developed a split personality, Tim created an alter homicidal ego to deflect the things he had done onto.

Timothy Wright died on the basement floor somewhere in the mansion, the ancient concrete bricks the last thing he had saw. The last thought he had though? Was of you. Your sweet smile, your laughter. He held you for a moment, listening to you softly cry into his jacket. He wondered if he should have even came. Maybe you would've been better off wondering what happened to him for the rest of your life. The ignorance would have been bliss. You pulled away slowly, your glassy eyes meeting his. "And there's no way out?" You asked softly. Masky shook his head, cupping your face with his hand. "I love you princess. I always have," He confessed. Your eyes flickered back and forth, searching for the Tim you once knew. The life had drained from Masky's face, all that remained being a moving body lacking a soul. You brought your lips to his, the salty tears trailing down your cheeks. "This is the last time i'm seeing you right?" You breathed, your lips not wanting to stray from his. Masky glanced down at your plump lips, before gazing into your doe eyes. "That's right," He murmured. You tilted your head to the side, licking your lips' "Give me something to remember you, something that I can miss the rest of my life," You pleaded.

The dark emotions placed a weight on your chest, the kind that one only feels when starting the grieving process. You weren't ready to grieve with the fact your lover was gone, even if he sat before you. Masky brought his lips back to yours, roughly kissing you. He guided you to lay back onto the mattress, his touch familiar but different. He was a bit rougher and more assertive. And more.... desperate? He shrugged his jacket off, tossing it aside. You wrapped your legs around his waist to bring him closer, before sliding your tongue on his bottom lip. He granted you access, the two of you quickly becoming intertwined underneath the comforter. The netflix show was forgotten, Masky shoving off his gloves. He wiped away your tears with his thumbs, before pulling at the hem of your oversized night shirt. He looked down, noticing it was an old Green Day shirt of his. A pang of hurt shot at his heart, the proxy shaking his head as he tossed it on your bedroom floor. He placed kisses on your neck, trailing down to your breast. You bucked your hips upwards, desperate to feel him closer. He kissed your breast, your nipples hardening from the cool night air.

You tried to focus on how good Masky made you feel, attempting to ward off the thoughts of sadness. He brought one of your nipples to his mouth, sucking harshly at the bud. You gasped at the sensation, his warm tongue swirling around the nipple. You grabbed a handful of his hair, groaning. "I fucking missed you," You groaned, his eager hands pulling down your pajama pants and panties in one swoop. He used his index and middle finger to toy with your other nipple, causing your back to arch off of the bed. He ran two fingers up your drenched slick, relishing in the feeling of your wet folds. The ones he had dreamt of feeling one more time. "I missed you too princess," He panted, releasing your nipple with a bop. You whimpered as he brought his fingers to your entrance, your walls clenching around him. "You've been a good girl, saving yourself for me?" Masky asked, his voice hoarse. You nodded frantically, asking to move your hips to make him go deeper. "I knew you'd come back for me. I haven't even touched myself," You confessed, your face flushing red. He shoved his fingers in deeper, curling them upwards. "That's my girl, so loyal and good for me," Masky huffed. Your gummy walls clung to his digits, his fingers curling upwards and going faster and faster.

You couldn't process the man fingering you wasn't the man you once knew. That the one with his fingers buried in your pussy wasn't the same one who used to play with your hair until you fell asleep. Your brain couldn't accept that he was gone and replaced with a homicidal carbon copy. You tried to focus on the pleasure, forcing yourself to pretend this was just another night. That Tim, the man you knew, was coming back and this wouldn't be the last time you saw what was left of him. You whined as his fingers abused your g spot, curses falling off of your lips involuntarily. Masky enjoyed the sight of ruining you, your face scrunched up in pleasure that only he could provide you. Maybe he was incredibly selfish, allowing his possessiveness result in you only able to love him and no one else. He felt your walls squeeze him tighter, your first orgasm on the rise. "Taking my fingers so well princess, why dont you go ahead and cum for me?" Masky asked. You wanted to moan Tim's name, tears flooding your waterline once you realized you couldn't. Masky couldn't fall off of your tongue, that couldn't be the way you remembered the man you were in love with. You swallowed as you cried out, your vision temporarily white as you released on his fingers.

Masky slowly pulled them out of you, sucking your juices off of his fingers. "I've missed the way you taste," He breathed, fiddling with his jeans. Through the dim lighting of the television you could make out scars all over his body, from his shoulders, hands, to chest. His undershirt covered most of his chest, but you could still see the scars peeking out over the material. He tapped the head of his cock against your folds, causing you to squirm. "So cute and desperate," Masky mumbled, pushing himself inside of you. The stretch was sudden and intense, having not touched yourself since he left. Masky grabbed your legs, bringing them over his shoulders as he bottomed out inside of you. He was so impossibly deep, pressing his forehead against yours as his cock brushed against your g spot. "This is how I wanna remember you," You whispered. Masky's chocolate eyes met yours, a chuckle escaping his throat. "With my cock buried inside of you?" He asked. You nodded, meeting his assertive gaze. "The way you make love to me makes me feel infinite and I want to remember that for the rest of my time on this Earth," You said breathlessly. Masky didn't take your confession lightly, his heart aching at the notion of leaving you. He grabbed your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours as he began to move his hips. You tilted your head back, moaning as he fucked you.

There was something so desperate about his movements, as if they were made so deliberately. As if he were trying to make them as pleasurable as possible to give you something to remember him by. As if your entire relationship wasn't enough. It suddenly felt like a blur of the past, the savory memories you had not enough. Masky began to pick up the pace, fucking you with as much passion as he could muster. “You feel so fuckin tight, shit,” Masky groaned, abusing your cunt as he pleased. You dug your nails into his back, trying to hang on as he fucked you mercilessly. It felt like it wasn’t enough, your body hooked on the feeling he was providing you. All thoughts of grief had been pushed aside, your legs trembling as he fucked you into the mattress. “Fucking shit, Tim-” You cried out. The proxy wanted to correct you, to remind you that version of him was long gone. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it, instead placing his hand over your mouth to silence you. The breathing restriction only made you milk his cock harder, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you came. Masky wasn’t far behind you, his hips stuttering as he came inside of you.

You were both intertwined panting messes, Masky slowly pulling himself off of you. He began to redress himself, your small hand grabbing his arm. “Dont leave, not yet,” You whined. Masky looked down at you, cum dripping out of your cunt and face flushed. Yet your eyes were still centered on him, as if he were the center of your universe. “You know I can’t stay,” Masky whispered. You tried to ignore the pain in your chest, swallowing. “I know that. Just pretend to stay, just until I fall asleep,” You pleaded. Masky finished pulling up his pants, crawling back into bed beside you. You nuzzled up against his chest, soaking in his warmth. He began to stroke your hair, trying to do it the way he used to. You appreciated the effort, but you felt the difference. His touch was much rougher now, unintentionally. A single tear slid down your face as he wrapped you in his arms.

“It’s easier this way, pretending you’ll be here when I wake up.”

“I know.”

“I love you, I always will.”

“I love you too princess, I’ll never forget you.”

[eveninglakehomeworld]

so, in case you were wondering, that Nevarran Hazelnut Torte from DA: Veilguard is in fact very yummy! this is Emmrich's mother's recipe, which Lucanis makes for Rook, taken straight from the game!

recipe is transcribed as-is from the game below, with any additions/changes we made [in brackets].

CAKE: One and a half cups of sugar Two cups of finely ground toasted hazelnuts Three quarters of a cup of sifted flour Two teaspoons of baking powder (sift into flour) Eight eggs, whites & yolks separated One and a quarter cups of apricot preserves Apricot liqueur for brushing ICING: Eight ounces of chopped up dark chocolate One cup of heavy cream Pinch of salt Two tablespoons of orange liqueur or rum or strong coffee (if wanted)

INSTRUCTIONS: Beat egg yolks with sugar until thick and light yellow. Beat egg whites in fresh bowl. Mix ground hazelnuts into the egg yolk and sugar. [my partner also added a teaspoon of vanilla extract here.] Slowly add flour, then GENTLY!!! fold in egg whites. Butter and flour two eight-and-a-half-inch pans [we used 8 in.] Bake around an hour, 325 degrees. Take cans from pans, cool, split in half. Brush with apricot liqueur. Warm apricot preserves, strain out skins. [partner put skins back in a pan with the apricot liqueur before brushing it on and let it warm up a bit to cook off some of the alcohol taste bc he didn't like it lol, then he strained the skins back out again and brushed that on.] Spread preserves across cakes, then some icing, as you stack. decorate with icing and whole hazelnuts! ICING: Gently boil cream, then pour over chopped up chocolate. Add pinch of salt for taste. Stir, then let rest for 15-20 minutes to make sure it's all melted. Cool completely, then whip it up and decorate the cake. Can add in coffee or liqueur (or both) to taste. Can also add in ground hazelnuts when whipping up the icing, to add texture.

other notes:

my partner made chocolate bark for the outside of the cake. tutorial for that here! we didn't add toppings of course, just the plain chocolate.

we kind of just freestyled the decorating in general... we put some shucked hazelnuts in a plastic baggie and smashed them with a meat tenderizer to get the little pieces we sprinkled/dusted on most of the top, lmao. saw someone else make this cake and draw the mourn watch symbol on the top with icing which was v cute!! wish we'd had the time for that!!