#with that it’s like always having a hand to hold when I need help. it’s the game that teaches me to think inventively and that connects me

[pucksandpower]

The Ghosts We Carry

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more

Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.

“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.

“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”

You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”

You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.

He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.

You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”

It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.

You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”

“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”

You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen. 

Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”

You freeze. “What invitations?”

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”

Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”

“No.”

It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.

Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”

“I’m not going.”

“You haven’t even heard-”

“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”

“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.

You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.

Vincent notices. His expression hardens.

“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”

“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”

You flinch like he’s hit you.

He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”

You say nothing.

“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”

“Then go,” you say quietly.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.

Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”

Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.

“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.

Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”

The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.

You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.

You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.

Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”

You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”

You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.

So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”

His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.

Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.

Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.

You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.

You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.

***

The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.

Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.

“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.

You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”

The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.

You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.

Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.

By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.

***

Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.

A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.

Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”

You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.

The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.

Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.

You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.

You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.

“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.

You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.

Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.

***

The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.

You stare at the chandelier.

It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.

You can’t do this.

You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”

He glances up. “Now?”

“I’ll just be a second.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.

You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.

You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.

You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.

He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”

Your throat closes.

He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”

You nod slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”

You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”

He hands it to you without a word.

***

You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.

The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.

You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.

It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.

You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.

“You okay?”

You jump.

It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”

You force a smile. “Maybe.”

The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”

The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”

You nod. And then they’re gone.

***

By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.

He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted.”

“You didn’t.”

You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.

Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”

You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”

He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.

It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.

Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.

You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.

“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.

He pauses. “Who?”

“Just … someone from before.”

He looks confused. “From school?”

“No. From before that.”

A beat.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”

You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.

Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”

You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.

You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.

***

“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”

Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”

Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”

“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”

“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”

He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”

You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”

“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”

You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”

He doesn’t flinch.

You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.

Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”

The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.

“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”

But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”

He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.

***

The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.

Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.

The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.

“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”

You try. It doesn’t work.

Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.

Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.

You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.

You stop walking.

“I need a second,” you whisper.

Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”

“I just need-”

Too late.

There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.

You turn the other way.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.

You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.

It’s Charles.

The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

You don’t wait. You bolt.

Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.

You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.

You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.

In. Out. In.

It doesn’t work.

Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-

But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.

You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.

You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.

You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”

But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.

Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.

You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.

***

Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.

By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.

“Are you kidding me?”

You don’t respond.

He slams the door. “You ran.”

You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.

“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”

“I had a panic attack.”

That stops him cold.

You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”

Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”

“No. You didn’t.”

He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”

“You lied.”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”

You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”

He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”

You don’t answer.

When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.

Are you okay?

You stare.

No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.

Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.

Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.

But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.

***

The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.

You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.

But then Vincent speaks.

“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”

You stiffen. “Leave for where?”

He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”

Your stomach churns.

“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.

“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.

“I can’t.”

Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”

“I had a panic attack yesterday.”

“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”

You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.

***

The paddock club is worse than you expected.

Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.

You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.

“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”

You turn to him. “I am.”

He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.

The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.

And then- 

“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”

The suite erupts.

The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.

You stand. Too fast.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”

But no one hears you.

You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.

You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.

You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.

The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.

And that’s when you finally break.

You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.

You cry until you choke.

***

It’s hours before he finds you.

Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.

Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.

And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.

He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.

“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.

You flinch.

“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.

“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again.

“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”

Your head lifts.

And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.

Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.

“Puis-je? Can I?”

You nod.

His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”

A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.

He pulls you into him.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.

“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”

In. Out.

“Comme ça. Like that.”

You match his rhythm, barely.

His voice is a metronome.

“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”

You nod, weakly.

“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.

Charles strokes your back slowly.

“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”

Another breath. This one deeper.

“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”

Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.

And still, Charles doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”

You nod again, unable to speak.

He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.

***

The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.

He closes the door quietly behind you.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”

He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”

You sit.

He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.

“I won,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“What?”

“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”

A beat.

Your eyes widen.

“You — Charles.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.

“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”

He steps forward.

“No.”

You stop.

“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer.

“When I saw you again.”

You try to look away.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”

You look up at him — really look.

And the boy you knew is still there.

Not buried. Not broken.

Just older. Like you.

You nod, slowly.

“I’m breathing,” you whisper.

His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”

Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.

***

The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.

Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.

He glances at you at a red light.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”

The light turns green.

The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.

His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.

And dog.

Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.

“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”

Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.

You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”

Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”

“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”

“He’s a Leclerc.”

You snort. “Touché.”

Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.

Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.

“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”

***

The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.

You sip, then drain the whole glass.

“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”

“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”

“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”

He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”

The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.

You don’t speak at first.

The food is too good.

Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.

Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You won Monaco.”

“And I found you again.”

Your heart stumbles.

He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”

You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I ran.”

“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”

You blink.

He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”

You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.

“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.

“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”

“I know.”

You glance at him. “You do?”

He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”

You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.

“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He turns back to you.

“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”

Charles swallows. “I hate that.”

“Me too.”

His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”

You blink. “You do?”

“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”

You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”

He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.

“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”

“I threw a spoon at him.”

“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”

You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.

Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”

You glance up at him.

The look between you settles deep.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.

Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But you did.”

You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.

Not like glass.

Like thaw.

Like something cold finally learning warmth again.

You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.

“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.

You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.

Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”

You take it without question.

***

The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.

Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.

“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”

You nod. Then pause.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.

You look at him.

“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”

You nod.

He starts to leave, then turns back.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”

You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.

“You always mattered more.”

He smiles. Small. Real.

“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.

***

Back then, everything was simpler.

You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.

“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”

Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”

“Like … twenty-five.”

He snorts. “That’s not old.”

You grin. “Feels ancient.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”

“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”

You go quiet.

He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.

You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”

Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.

He looks at you then — really looks.

And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.

It’s a promise.

Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.

You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”

He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”

“Never.”

You meant it. So did he.

***

You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.

And then-

Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.

“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”

The door creaks open.

“You’re awake.”

Charles is holding a tray.

“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.

“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.

“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”

You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”

“I go every Monday.”

You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.

Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”

You look at him. Hard.

He holds your gaze.

“Because I missed you,” he adds.

You bite your lip.

“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”

You stare at the tray again.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”

You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.

Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“I can take it.”

You exhale, staring at your hands.

“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”

Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”

“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”

“Fuck that.”

You blink.

He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”

“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”

You look at him.

“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”

You nod, fast, eyes blurry.

“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”

He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”

You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.

“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”

“I know.”

Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.

Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.

And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like a bridge.

***

Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.

“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”

“And then you fell.”

“I leapt.”

“You cried.”

“I landed emotionally.”

You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.

Charles grins, slouched and easy.

“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.

He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”

“Yeah. Before everything.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”

You fall quiet.

You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.

You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”

“For what?” Charles asks.

“To feel this again.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”

You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”

He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”

The dachshund barks on cue.

You smile.

“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.

Your brows rise.

He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”

You hesitate.

Then nod. “Okay.”

A beat.

Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”

You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”

He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”

***

The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.

You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.

“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.

You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”

You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”

“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”

You bite your lip.

“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”

You nod, chest tight.

The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.

And then-

“Y/N?”

You stop cold.

You know that voice.

Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.

Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.

You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.

He blinks once. Then twice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”

The air shifts.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”

Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”

“Vincent-”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.

“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.

“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”

You flinch.

Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”

Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”

Silence.

The world tilts.

Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”

“I left because of you,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”

Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”

He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.

Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”

You glance at Charles.

“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”

That does something to you.

But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.

You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.

“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”

He swallows.

“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”

“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.

***

That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.

You don’t go back to the hotel either.

You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.

Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.

You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.

You whisper, “I’m so tired.”

And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.

You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.

And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.

He finds you there, curled in on yourself.

You don’t look up.

Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.

You exhale, broken and sharp.

“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”

He matches his breath to yours.

You inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Again.

Your body starts to slow.

You lean into him.

“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.

You nod into his chest.

He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.

When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”

He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”

You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”

He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”

He pauses.

“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”

You close your eyes.

“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”

You whisper, “But he was so good.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be like him.”

“You were.”

You finally meet his eyes.

Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”

Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”

***

You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.

But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.

The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.

It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.

But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”

So you’re here. And you’re trying.

You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.

You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.

Marion doesn’t push.

Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.

“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”

You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.

“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”

You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.

“I want to try,” you say.

And for the first time in years, you mean it.

***

Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.

It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.

He doesn’t ask too many questions.

He doesn’t hover.

He’s just there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.

You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”

He nods.

“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”

“I know.”

“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”

Charles exhales slowly.

You feel his breath against your hair.

“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”

He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.

“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”

You squeeze his hand.

That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.

***

The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Back and forth. Left and right.

You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.

It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.

But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.

You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.

“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.

“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile at the ceiling.

And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.

Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.

***

Vincent texts twice.

The first is vague.

We should talk.

The second is manipulative.

I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.

You don’t answer.

You don’t owe him that anymore.

Instead, you text Charles.

Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.

He sends back.

Come to Fiorano.

You blink at the screen.

Fiorano?

Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.

You stare at the message.

I’ll think about it.

But you already know you’re going.

***

It takes three trains to get to Maranello.

You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.

When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.

A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”

You nod.

You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.

When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.

Charles is out there.

Not Charles your childhood best friend.

Not Charles your heartbreak.

Not Charles your anchor.

Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.

The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.

You watch.

He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.

You’ve never seen anyone so alive.

Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.

You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.

And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.

He doesn’t wave.

He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.

You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.

And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like memory.

It feels like home.

***

The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.

You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.

The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.

You hover at the gate longer than you should.

And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-

“Ma chérie-”

You go.

You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.

Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.

There’s grief there.

And love.

And something like relief.

“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.

“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”

“Charles?”

You nod.

She smiles.

The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.

You don’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.

***

Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.

“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.

Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.

“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

“I train now,” he says, smug.

Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.

“You okay?”

“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”

He nods. That’s enough.

The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.

You laugh too much. You drink too fast.

Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

***

After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.

You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.

Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.

“Were you-”

“No,” Charles says, too fast.

“Yes,” you say, at the same time.

Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

***

Later, the house grows quiet.

Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”

Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.

And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.

“To your room?”

You nod.

He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”

You nod again.

***

Your bedroom is a time capsule.

The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.

Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.

He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”

“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”

“Are you?”

You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”

Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“But I also knew why.”

You stare at the floor between you.

“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”

He doesn’t move.

“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”

It hits like a second heartbeat.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”

He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“So am I,” he murmurs.

And then-

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.

You kiss him back.

There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.

Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.

You pull back first, eyes wide.

“I-”

But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.

“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

You do.

You stay.

***

It’s been a year.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.

Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.

Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.

A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.

“Is this real?” You ask.

Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.

“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”

You look up. Your throat tightens.

“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”

You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”

You blink fast. “Of Charles?”

“Of both of you.”

***

You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.

The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.

You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.

The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.

From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.

You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.

You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.

You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.

Now-

You watch him fly.

***

Lap after lap.

Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.

You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.

You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.

You see Charles.

You see yourself.

You see surviving.

***

He crosses the finish line first.

The garage explodes in noise.

People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.

Then a hand grabs yours.

It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”

***

The pit lane is chaos.

Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.

The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.

He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.

You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.

But then-

He turns.

And his eyes find you like they always do.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.

“You made it,” he says.

You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.

“So did you.”

He kisses you.

Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.

It’s not hesitant this time.

It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.

***

Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.

He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.

“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.

“Winning Monaco?”

You nod.

He glances at you. Smiles.

“Better with you here.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”

You grin. “So modest.”

He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.

Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really do.

[fluttrdoll]

bestfriend!caleb who you’ve known all your life, growing up together since diapers and doing basically everything you could together — you were inseparable as kids, the two of you usually not found without the other.

bestfriend!caleb who’s definitely grown way too protective and possessive over you, always criticising the men you date while pointing out why they’ll never be good enough for you with a distasteful expression on his face. and even when they seem perfect for you with zero red flags, there’s just always ‘something off about them’ as caleb puts it.

bestfriend!caleb who really just wants to keep you all to himself, with the thought alone of another man taking you away from him so unbearable for him. behind your back he’s sabotaging your relationships every chance he gets — he’ll block their numbers, intimidate them when you’re not around, and he always makes it known they’ll never be good enough.

bestfriend!caleb who’s always there to comfort you when you wonder why you can’t keep a relationship, why all these men keep leaving you out of the blue. he’s reassuring you with sweet words and praises while rubbing a soothing hand down your back despite the way he holds back a knowing smirk.

bestfriend!caleb who always knows how to make you feel better in these situations when you start doubting yourself, gently kissing your neck down to your shoulders until he’s got you completely bare for him, whispering sweet words in your ear, “i think you’re the most beautiful girl ever.. none of them ever deserved you..”

bestfriend!caleb who has your legs spread perfectly for him while lining up the mushroom tip of his cock against your entrance before slowly pushing himself through, grunting at the initial tightness of your walls sucking him in and squeezing him tight. he’s slowly fucking you with deep, gentle thrusts while entwining your hands with his.

bestfriend!caleb who loves to hear you moan out his name, smiling against your skin when he buries his head in between the nape of your neck to hide the flush of his cheeks. he can’t help himself, whispering under his breath, “keep talking to me, you sound so pretty like this.”

bestfriend!caleb who feels himself grow possessive over you and your pleasure as his pelvis collides with the curve of your ass, watching the way your back arches when you feel that familiar build up of pleasure from the deep thrusts of his throbbing cock and the gentle circles he makes over your clit with the rough pad of his thumb.

bestfriend!caleb who mutters out with a groan when he’s so close to his high while simultaneously chasing yours, his thrusts growing sloppier and more uncoordinated by the second with you being the only thing on his mind, “you’re mine.. all fuckin’ mine..”

bestfriend!caleb who doesn’t have the self control to pull out when your pussy is sucking him in so tight, so he cums inside and fills you up with a growing warmth that claims himself inside of you — he loves to mark his territory this way, the thought of playing baby roulette and trapping you with him forever being something that sends his cock rock hard.

bestfriend!caleb who insists that you don’t need a boyfriend when you have him, that he’s always going to be the one there for you and have your back while making you feel pleasure no other man could. he doesn’t think there’s anyone worthy of you besides him, but he’ll reveal those feelings for you another time, even if you’re already starting to suspect it.

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none

Riley is pouting.

She wriggles in her seat, hands on her hips, nose turned up in the air. “I don’t like carrots.”

“Okay well, that’s too bad because they’re part of your dinner.” You don’t have the finesse of a parent. You’re not a mother, there’s no natural instinct, and there’s certainly not a guidebook.

But you’re trying, even if it’s not enough. It’s all you can do, try for her, do it for her.

“I don’t want them.” You sigh.

“Riley, please. Come on, you have to eat vegetables.”

“Says who?” This girl is going to be the end of you.

“Says me, okay? I’m in charge.” You always thought ‘you’re not getting up from this table until you’re done x y or z’ was stupid, but now, it’s making a lot of sense. She scowls at the carrots, but spears one with a fork. “I cooked them in brown sugar, they can’t be that bad.” Even if they were good, she wouldn’t admit it now, but after the first few bites, she eventually finishes all but one straggler.

“Can we watch a movie before bed?” You shake your head and try to cut off the guilt that’s already building from having to deny her.

“You have time for a shower and maybe a few pages of your book.”

“Why?!” She stomps her feet and you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Riley, we went riding after school, and that takes up those extra two hours you have between dinner and bed. Right?” She huffs. Crosses her arms and then-

“You’re mean.” She doesn’t understand and you don’t hold it against her, but it still stings.

“I know,” you sigh, defeated. “Now up you go.”

You don’t wish your dead sister and her husband ill will, but sometimes, you do curse them for very good reasons.

One those reasons is the fact that they sunk Tess’s earnings into buying a horse farm with too much land, used all of their savings to help finance building a house from scratch and a new barn and now…

You’re paying a mortgage you can’t keep up with.

You stare at your phone, the open banking app. You wait to stress out over money after Riley goes to bed as a rule. She’s a kid, she’s been through enough, she doesn’t need more… anything. Stress, worry, fear. That’s for you to handle, and at the end of every month, when the payment is due, you feel like a ticking time bomb. Checking your accounts obsessively, adding up numbers again and again, going to sleep and waking up thinking about it.

It’s exhausting, but what are you supposed to do?

Sorry Riley, we have to sell the house you grew up in, all the horses, and your mom’s legacy. Let’s go live in a two bedroom apartment?

Yeah, no.

“Daisy?”

“What?” Ava is blinking at you from across the table and Olivia is frowning.

“We asked you what you thought? About the new job?”

“Oh. Sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Too busy doing math. “It’s fine. I’m getting used to it. It was a steep learning curve at first, you know? The babies are so little.” They exchange a look. “What?”

“Have you talked to Doctor Riley?”

“I mean, yeah? He’s basically in charge of the unit, so…”

“No. Have you talked to him.” Ava emphasizes, and you sigh.

“No. I haven’t figured out a way to bring it up, and he only recently stopped laying into me all the time. It’s not like I planned this I… I’m trying to figure it out.” Olivia nods thoughtfully, and points her fork at you.

“Maybe you should let it slip during pillow talk.”

“What?!” Ava’s eyes go as round as the moon, and Olivia snickers.

“Doctor Riley has a thing for Daisy.”

“No he doesn’t, she’s full of shit, and lower your voice, Liv. Jesus.” Gossip spreads like wildfire in a hospital. She shrugs.

“He stares at her all the time-”

“He’s just intense-”

“And she saw him naked-”

“Just without a shirt on-”

“Oh my god.” Ava laughs. “You like him.”

“No, I do not.”

“Uh huh. Look at you. You’re getting flustered and you never get flustered.” She’s cackling now, head tipped back, and you have an urge to punch her in the throat. “I don’t blame you. The older man thing is hot.”

“Oh my god, it’s not an older man thing and I-”

“It would be okay, you know.” Olivia interrupts quietly, “if you did. What happened-”

“Well I don’t so it doesn’t matter.” Her focus shifts, attention turning towards something behind you, and the tension in your spine releases.

“Paul Revere.” She coughs into her hand, and as you freeze, Ava perks up.

“It’s just dad and Doctor MacTavish.” Ava has called John dad since he dressed her down in a hallway one time and punctuated his lecture with ‘I’m not mad at you Ava, I’m disappointed.’ She waves. “Hi dad!” He shakes his head from across the cafeteria, mirth shining in his blue eyes, and she sighs.

“I don’t care what you say. The older man thing is hot.”

“Excuse me?” The woman startles at the sound of your voice. “Can I help you?”

“Oh I’m Samantha.” Okay? And what the fuck are you doing at Ellie’s crib? And why is your hand in there?

“Is there something I can help you with Samantha? Take your hand out of the crib, please.” You edge closer. She’s right at the rail, looking down at Ellie, your patient, your baby for all intents and purposes, with a small, sad smile on her face. Panic flares in your blood.

“How is she doing?” She does remove her hand, thank god, because if she hadn’t you don’t know what you would have done. Twisted her fingers until they broke, maybe.

“Who are you?” She blinks, and you look her over, checking for a visitor pass or an ID badge of any kind. When you don’t see one, your hackles raise even higher. “This is a secure floor, how did you get in here? And where is your mask?”

“Oh I’m her aunt. Her dad let me in.” You look around for the father, Seth, to find he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no way for you to verify this woman is who she says she is, and this is your baby. You’re not taking any chances.

“Okay. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Her laugh is quiet and awkward as she gives you a weird look.

“I’m staying here until he gets back. He asked me to.” Your stomach ties itself into a knot. This woman could be anyone, she could be sick, she could be a baby-napper for all you know. She hasn’t been checked in, she doesn’t know any of the protocols. She could touch something. Pull something. Disconnect something. She had her god damn hand in the crib, and who knows if she washed it or what she was doing.

“That’s fine, but you’re not wearing any identification and you haven’t checked in so you’re not supposed to be in here.” It’s a struggle to keep your voice even keeled, and you have to press your nails into your palm to keep your hand from shaking.

“This is my niece,” she snaps, “I can be here if I want to be.”

“No actually,” you reach past her towards the wall and slam one of the buttons. “You cannot.” She goes from irritated to angry when security appears at the sliding glass doors but before your shoulders can drop from their position beneath your ears, you see him. Your ghost. Doctor Riley.

He’s a step behind Henry, a scowl already pulling at his lips. Great.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is I was trying to tell this woman I’m Ellie’s aunt, but she freaked out and got aggressive with me.” Anger licks up your spine.

“I’m not some woman, I’m her nurse. I’m responsible for her, and this woman is not supposed to be in here.” Your heart rate is climbing. You don’t know why this situation is digging under your skin, but it’s escalating, you’re escalating. “She hasn’t been checked in, she has no ID and says Ellie’s dad let her in. She doesn’t have a mask and she hasn’t been screened for upper respiratory or fever, and she had her hand in the crib. She could have been touching her without washing her hands, she could have been touching her lines or…” you trail off. Isa is watching from her patient’s crib across the room with a thumbs up, and Key is at her side, smiling. Proudly. You take a deep breath. “She needs to leave. Now.” Your pulse is pounding under your jaw like you’ve just run a marathon. You look to Henry for back up, and he’s swift with it.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but Daisy is right. You can’t be in here.” Her eyebrows shoot into her forehead.

“This is ridiculous. I’m family!” She’s still ranting as he ushers her out, yelling about getting you fired, but it feels inconsequential. Your responsibility is to Ellie, not some stranger who claims to be family. You don’t care.

But you are shaking.

“Daisy.” Doctor Riley’s voice is that gentle tone, the one that’s smoothed out around the edges and endlessly patient. “Take a breath.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Take a breath.” You suck in a short burst, but he shakes his head. “Slowly.” He takes stock of Ellie’s monitors before looking down at where she sleeps. “You have nothing to apologize for. Your patient is vulnerable and cannot advocate for or protect herself, so she needs you to do it for her. It’s your job to take care of her and that’s what you did.” You nod, horrified at the lump starting to grow in your throat. What is happening to you? Where is your control? Your chest rattles with an exhale, and his eyes find yours. “You kept her safe.” Riley flashes through your mind. Safe. Healthy. Happy. The lump in the back of your throat grows bigger, and you look away immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” You croak. One syllable, because you’re afraid your voice might break on two.

You take a breath. You hold it. The world disappears for a moment as your lungs start to burn and you refocus, repair these cracks, this loss of control, and when you reemerge, when you release your air, everything is fine again. Normal.

Except Doctor Riley is studying you, and after a deep breath of his own, he frowns and walks away.

[kissandtellus]

Nasty Dog: Hybrid Caleb

Synopsis: Black Cat/Himbo Dog Energy for Hybrid!Caleb and Hybrid!Reader! Her Heat kicks in early and Caleb is a big dumb dog who can’t take a hint:((

Warnings: Omegaverse, Oral, Grinding, Biggg stretch, Size Difference.

Hybrids of opposite species were usually complete opposites. But the world was changing, becoming more accustomed to the idea. Now when you walked on the streets you saw Hybrids of all shapes and sizes together, some even holding the hands of little mixed-species children who lapped happily at ice cream.

That was the world you lived in.

Who else were you fated to spend the rest of eternity with if not your beloved Caleb?

You were raised side by side, every good and bad moment from your childhood was shared with Caleb.

He was a canine Hybrids, a military grade to be exact. His chest was wide, shoulders broad and muscles for the hunt were always coiled like a spring.

You on the other hand, with your cute pouts and sass, was all Feline. Sharp eyes, independent attitude and all.

Learning to love each other was the easy part.

Your nearly glowing eyes looked at the clock on the wall with disinterest. But inside your anxiety made you want to hide under your bed and surround yourself with Caleb’s uniforms. He was supposed to have been home an hour ago.

The smell of your early on-set Heat was filling the apartment. You weren’t supposed to start for another week at the very least.

Caleb forbid Heat suppressants in this house.

“Fuck…” you mewled at the uncomfortable heat pooling between your legs. Every hair on your body was on edge. You were sprawled across the couch, your belly against the fabric as you fought the urge to please yourself. You found out a long time ago that trying to relieve that pressure only made it worse.

Finally. Finally the door opened, and the soft sound of humming came from the doorway. Oh, your big, goofy mate couldn’t take the hint of it hit him in the face. He pounces on you from behind (as if he could ever surprise you).

Caleb laughed and nuzzled the back of your neck. He was far too energetic and happy to notice that tell-tale signs of your Heat. “Did ya miss me Pips? Oh I missed you! Oh-“ he took the arching of your back as you trying to throw him off, not the arch of a Heat induced Omega who needed his knot. “Trying to buck me off? You’re so cute Pips. Well then-“

His jowls clamped the back of your neck, not in the claiming way you desired. More like a dog that was throwing around its favorite rope. His head twisted as he bit down around the flesh and you couldn’t keep playing the game anymore.

“Caleb~!” Oh, that tone. The way your eyes narrowed, mouth fell open and you grinded back against him. He took a sharp breath and you felt him throb through his uniform pants. He had to be sure. He snuck his head down to press his face into the side of your neck, right above your mating mark. “Stupid, big, dumb dog-“

He silenced your insults by sinking his teeth right into the healed over mark, pinning your face to the couch. Your response was a purr of pleasure, maybe even a squeak but you’d never admit it.

He lets go of your neck and laps at the trickle of blood. “Oh Pips, your Heat started early huh?”

Smug, Arrogant, Mean-

He turns you from under him so you are finally gazing up into his big beautiful purple eyes.

Handsome, Lovely, Strong-

“Help me…” you mewl out, arching your back into him. His ears twitch, his noise mimicking the motion. He moves back to his knees, stripping off his uniform too, medals and badges flying every which way.

“I know what you need Pips. Give me a sec.” His voice is doing little to soothe the ache. He peels open the buttons of his undershirt and you are on him in a second. Rubbing your face in his scent, tongue peeking out to taste his flesh. “Pretty girl, use your words ‘kay? Tell me what you need.”

Caleb was big on consent, even when he was throbbing in his tight pants. You whimper, still trying to drink in his taste. “Hey, no.” He grabs the hair on the nape of your neck, pulling you from him by mere inches. “Eyes up here.”

You try to focus your bleary eyes on his features, lips parting in a mewl. “Hurts…” you hiccup, ears flattening back on your head. Caleb coos yours cry, wiping his thumbs under your eyes to catch the stray tears. “Need you Caleb. Feel like I’m gonna die.”

Caleb gives a soft chuckle to your overdramatic display. “I’ve got ya Pips. What do you need from me?

Your hands rest on his shoulders as you pounce, straddling his lap as you grind forward against his bulging cock. “Need your Knot, need it splitting me open, need you to k-a-ahh!”

Before you could finish your pleading, he pushes his hand down the front of your pajama pants. “You’re soaked. My poor girl. Lean back, show me.” You are usually argumentative, baring your teeth and telling him not to tell you what to do. But you are tugging yours cry pants down to yous ankles, grasping the back of your thighs and presenting yourself like the most delectable prey.

Caleb can’t help the actual drool that dribbles down the side of his mouth as he stares at your glistening folds. “Don’t s-stare!” You whine, moving to close your legs again.

But Caleb shoots out his hands and grasps both of your ankles in one hand, pushing them back until your knees are in your chest. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You need this, need me.”

His gloves are still covering those long fingers you want inside of your throbbing cunt. They run down your swollen folds, his eyes flicking from your need to your eyes.

“Pretty Kitty, I’m sorry you had to deal with this today. Let me make it up to you?” And before you can answer, he’s taking off his hat, placing it on your head, and going to town between your legs. Your eyes are rolling back as he devours you. His tongue plunges into your leaking hole, gathering slick on his tongue just to push it back into you.

Your fingers extend to those cute little claws, digging into his scalp. His tail, poking out from his pants, is wagging so fast you fear he might hurt himself. But his eyes never leave your face. He craves your praise, even when the evidence of his good deeds is leaking down his chin.

“Caleb! Ca-ahhh fuck!” His gloved hand comes down sharp on your inner thigh. He pulls back to lick his chops, sharp fangs glistening with your wetness.

“Language, Pipsqueak.”

You mewl, arching your hips back up towards his face.

“Need you! Need your cock! Need your knot! Need-“ Caleb cuts you off with a lunge, pinning your knees to your chest. The motion knocks the air from your lungs. Your legs dangle over his shoulder and he rubs his aching tip between your folds.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

The noise could make any sinner blush. Your fluffy ears flatten to your skull as you try to find the proper words. Your blubbering out nonsense that would no doubt make you feel embarrassed afterwards.

“Here we go Kitty. Bigggg stretch! Hey no, claws away. Good fuckin’ girl~” His length is stretching your gooey sopping walls to the upmost extent. You are mindful of the claws in his shoulders even as you feel the air push from your lungs.

Yeah. This was going to be a brutal heat.

[itelya]

drabble for @nanamiweek ! im a little late, but whatever <3 (day 2) ⟢﹒ masterlist

Nanami will never admit it. He can't, because he's ashamed. Ashamed, because he loves seeing you filled with his seed.

He thinks about it often, far too often for his own good, but the mere thought of you holding your cum inside you all night makes him instantly hard; he can't help it.

What drives him crazy about all this is possessing you inside, filling you with him, with his hot, thick, sticky seed, until it overflows from your mouth, your pussy, your thighs, your hands.

It's dirty. It's almost indecent for a man like him, always serious, always cold on the outside, but every time he sees your stomach contract as he empties himself inside you, every time he feels your body tremble as he fills you, he feels his heart race.

He loves it when you hold what he gives you in your little mouth to swallow it, or when your walls squeeze him to hold back his sperm production inside you. But the worst part for him is when you can't.

When his sperm escapes you, slowly, lazily, a white liquid drips from your abused lips... it's as if he's marking his territory.

The worst part is, you know him. You've learned to recognize that look. The one that becomes darker, more fixed, more animal. You know when he wants you to stay full.

You're on your knees before him, panting, your lips reddened by the brutal thrusts of his hips. He's already emptied himself in your mouth once, abruptly, almost choking you on his cock. You spit a little, surprised by the heat and his strength.

Nanami stares at you with his darkened gaze. He watches what slowly trickles from your lips to your neck. The dirty white trickle that runs down your throbbing throat.

He's already hard again.

"Don't move," he growls, his voice raspy, damaged by desire.

You obey as always. You look at him with that smile you know is irresistible. You run your tongue over your lips to lick the rest of what he's given you. He kneels in front of you, his strong hand cupping your face, his thumb rubbing the semen he left behind.

He spreads it gently on your chin, your cheek, your lips, then kisses you passionately. He tastes his own taste. "You're going to kill me," he breathes. He grabs you and lifts you abruptly. You slide into his arms and he presses you against the cold wall.

Instinctively, you wrap your legs around his waist. You feel his hard cock pressing against yours, already hard and ready to fuck you like his girl deserves.

"You have no idea how I feel. I need you so much. I want to fuck you until you're full of me."

He thrusts into you suddenly, without warning. You let out a cry of surprise, your back lightly hitting the wall. You cling to his broad shoulders and claw at him. He doesn't speak anymore. Just grunts, gasps, the slapping of flesh against flesh.

The wet sound of his cock pushing deep into your vagina. It throbs inside you. It hammers your poor cervix. You feel so full, so satisfied, like you're going to explode at any moment.

"You're going to keep it all inside you this time, right?" he breathes against your ear. "You're going to keep my cum inside you and feel it flow inside you all night. You're going to do it like the good slut you are?"

You nod. You can't speak anymore. You just want to feel him. You just want him to mark you from the inside, to fill you until there's no part of your body that hasn't tasted him.

He takes you harder. Until he comes inside you. His hot, thick cum spurts inside you, filling you completely. He's so full it's ridiculously indecent. A moan rips through his throat. And that heat. That familiar heat flooding your stomach.

Nanami stays there for a moment, motionless against you. His sex is sticky with your mixed fluids. He pulls back slightly and looks at you. He smiles softly, that little smile that makes you wet. He watches you tremble. He pulls out slowly, and seeing a few drops of his cum dripping from you makes him even harder.

He carries you to your room and gently places you on the bed you share. His thick fingers run over your skin and slip between your wet lips, pushing his seed deep inside you so it doesn't spill.

"Lie down," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "I'm not done with you yet."

[kittyburger]

I 100% second this and it's helped me lots. My favorite sport is only accessible to me in the summer and I hate starting from ground 0 ever year-- so I started doing exactly this and suddenly it's so much easier to pick it up again every year! Also, when it comes to wellness, consistent daily (or near-daily) exercise is much more valuable for your health overall than extreme fitness challenges or sudden all-or-nothing fitness goals. I'd like to add some other options for anyone lacking ideas:

Run up and down some stairs a few times in a row. This one's great when you've been sitting for a few hours, get the restless nyoomies before bedtime (you know when you lay down exhausted to go to sleep and then suddenly feel like you can run a mile? Not if your legs are jelly!), or even just need to make a trip to a different floor of your home/school/work. Take multiple trips to do a task if you don't want to feel awkward about it.

A lighter version of this is just hopping in place.

OP already mentioned jogging in place but you can also do knee raises or butt kicks if you'd like to change it up a little bit!

Ankle/calf raises. I cannot stress enough how beautifully amazing this simple exercise is. You can do this one anywhere you need to stand up for a bit, not just at home but even waiting in line at a store or at a bus/train stop. Sure, you'll look a little restless but nobody's going to think twice about it or remember it for more than 30 seconds. Bonus points if you have a raised floor somewhere at home (like a stair or chess board or footstool) that lets you bring your ankle lower than your toes, but either way this one's gonna help you build killer ankles that are way less prone to injury AND strengthening these muscles will make days where you spend more time on your feet much, MUCH less exhausting.

Drop and hold a deep squat while you're doing something simple with your hands (like taping something together, sorting through mail, folding laundry, etc.)

Wall and/or bench pushups. There's walls everywhere. They're great as exercise equipment! There's also sturdy furniture and/or fixtures everywhere. They're also great as exercise equipment! And they're conveniently available nearby when you've got to stand around and wait for something (like toast to pop) or someone (like that one person you're waiting to finish getting ready so you can go out). And if you can do a full set of the regular kind of pushups no problem, I have some great news for you: there is floor. Everywhere. So much floor!! :D

Same wall accessibility applies to wall sits. Also if you have bad knees and regular squats hurt, wall squats are a lighter variation of those.

Other floor (or couch, or bed) exercises you can do at the drop of a hat include (in order of easiest to hardest in my own experience but everyone's will be different) leg raises, mountain climbers, hip raises, bicycle crunches, crunches, starfish crunches, starfish planks (no idea if that's what they're actually called but it's pretty much a plank but only one side of your body at a time with your body turned so your other hand can point straight up in the air), sit ups, and burpees.

Go for a walk. It doesn't have to be a long walk; you don't even have to even leave your house. Just walk around for a little while. Smell the roses. Go check out the pretty sunset. Count how many steps it take you to get from one room to the next.

This one goes along with walking but doing many household chores involves moving around. Dust the surfaces. Vacuum. Sweep. Offer the dead window fly to your friendly bathroom spider. Water the plants. Teach the dog some tricks. If you need a movement break or a reason to stop doomscrolling for lack of something better to do, these are all great options!

At the end of the day, something is almost always better than nothing and you can adjust what exercises you do (and how often/for how long) to your own goals (such as mental wellness, decreasing joint pain, and injury prevention vs. building muscle). You can choose to do any of these until your muscles burn or just until the pot of pasta on the stove is done boiling. Just listen to your body (stop or do a lighter variation if it's too painful/gives the wrong kind of pain, keep going if it feels good), use common sense (i.e. the deep squat one is probably a bad idea for someone with low iron or POTS), and learn to enjoy moving just for the sake of moving again. <3 And if you're reading this and haven't stood up in the past two or more hours, this is your sign to get up, go get a drink of water, and pick one of these to do along the way.

a secret they dont tell you is that you dont need to have a set time and place for exercise. sure going to the gym is gonna give you a more dedicated workout but like if you're physically able to you can just jog on the spot while your food is cooking. brushing your teeth? do a couple of squats. sometimes i drop to the floor and plank until my arms hurt and then go on with my day. if you live a sedentary lifestyle its better than nothing.

[rainrot4me]

Okay, we got dad Jeff, but as a Toby girl, WE NEED DAD TOBY NOW, PLEASE.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

๑ Warning: Pregnancy, creampie, vaginal, dirty talk

── .✦

Daddy Toby oh my heavens.

He doesn’t look like a traditional “dad,” but don’t get it twisted—he’s got the dad bod. Not in the beer-gut sense, but in the thick arms, broader belly, heavy thighs, and soft places that come from comfort, not laziness. He’s still strong—solid from years of surviving hell—but now his body tells a story of slower mornings, shared meals, and quiet evenings with his family. And the longer he’s settled into fatherhood, the better he gets at it.

He loves seeing you with the kid—loves watching you walk around the house in those little sleep shorts, the subtle softness from pregnancy still lingering in your hips, the way you bend to pick the baby up. It drives him insane.

He’s always touching you now—resting his hand on your belly, your ass, your thighs. Having your kid resting on his shoulder while his other hand pulls your legs over his lap, rubbing your thighs so softly with rough hands. Coming up behind you to whisper filth through gritted teeth, like it’s physically hard to contain, “You lo-looked so fuckin’ go-good swollen with my kid. W-Wanna see it again…”

He says it so casually, like he’s thinking about what to get for dinner. But there’s hunger in it—need. The kind that boils over when you’re finally alone for the night and he crawls into bed behind you, all heavy limbs and slow-breathing lust. He palms your belly while he grinds up against your back, already rock hard, already panting, “L-Let’s try again… just one m-more. You can take it, ca-can’t you?”

He’s rougher than he used to be—not cruel, just desperate. Desperate to mark you, to breed you, to keep that part of your life alive. He pulls your panties aside, presses in with practiced ease, and once he’s seated deep inside, he groans like the pressure of you might break him, “S-Shit—shit, you still feel so good. Gonna fi-fill you up again.”

And it only gets worse the longer you go without another kid. Every time he pulls out and sees his cum dripping down your thighs, he gets pissed—like his body can’t understand why you’re not already pregnant again. He’ll push it back in with his fingers, fuck it deeper with a filthy smirk, “Gonna k-keep fuckin’ you ‘til I see th-that belly swell again.”

He’s obsessed with it. With the domesticity, the ownership, the comfort and filth all tangled together. And he doesn’t just want another baby—he wants you to want it. Wants to see your lips fall open and hear you beg for it. So when he’s really in the mood, he’ll press you down into the mattress and growl, “Tell me you w-wanna be full again. I’ll give it t-to you. I’ll give you as many as y-you want…”

And when you do—when you beg for him, when you gasp out “Please, Toby—” he loses it. He’ll fuck you through the mattress, hips snapping into yours, jaw clenched tight as he pants and moans, “That’s it. There y-you go. Gonna fuckin’ breed you ti-till you’re too full to walk…”

Toby as a dad isn’t just sweet and protective. He’s an animal in love. A man who never thought he’d be soft enough to hold a baby, and now he’s insatiable for the the person who gave him that life. And he’s not stopping at one. Not if he can help it.

And he’s never letting you go. Not when you still feel so good. Not when your body remembers him like that.

꩜ .ᐟ

[deansbeer]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐎 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆).

♡ ⋮ read at your own discretion.

pairing 𓏵 jason todd x fem!reader.

synopsis 𓏵 you refuse to let jason be buried after his second death, spending six days holding his cold hand while his ghost watches on helplessly.

warnings 𓏵 angst | major character death | no happy ending | hurt/no comfort | ghost!jason | batfamily mentioned | unhealthy coping mechanisms | descriptions of a deceased body | mentions of early decomposition | self neglect | hallucinations | dissociation | severe depression | suicidal ideation | reader collapses from dehydration/starvation | funeral/burial themes | parental loss (bruce deals with losing his son for the second time) | self-destructive grieving | references to past trauma (jason’s first death / resurrection).

sticky notes 𓏵 i’m genuinely soooo sorry for this, please forgive me 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 <3 the idea came to me during my shower and when i listened to piano man by billy joel & strangers by ethel cain afterwards. it also has a lot to do with bree sending me and oct a jaybin playlist and making us going through it lol.

the casket sits open in the drawing room of wayne manor, mahogany wood gleaming under the soft light filtering through heavy curtains. you’ve been here for three days now, refusing to move, refusing to let them close it. your fingers are intertwined with his, and you can’t stop staring at how wrong they look — too pale, too still, missing the warmth that used to make you feel safe. jason’s face is peaceful in a way it never was in life, all the tension and anger smoothed away by death’s cruel hand.

“honey, you need to eat something,” your mother’s voice drifts from the doorway, but you don't turn around. you can’t look at her pitying face, can’t bear to see the worry etched into her features. she’s been trying for hours, bringing plates of food that sit untouched on the side table. bruce offered to have alfred bring meals directly to you, but you’ve refused everything except water. even that tastes like ash in your mouth.

the room smells like lilies and formaldehyde, a sickening combination that makes your stomach turn. but underneath it, if you lean close enough, you can still catch the faintest hint of jason — leather and gunpowder and that cologne you bought him last christmas. you press your face against his chest, searching for a heartbeat that will never come again. his body doesn’t give beneath your weight like it used to when you’d curl up against him on lazy sunday mornings.

“please come back to me,” you whisper against the fabric of his suit. it’s the nicest one he owned, the one he wore to galas when bruce could actually convince him to attend. you remember helping him with his tie, how he’d grumble about formal wear while you smoothed down his lapels. now someone else has dressed him, arranged him like a doll in this wooden box. “you’ve done it before. you can do it again. please, jay.”

dick stops by every few hours, always with the same gentle concern in his voice. “hey,” he says softly, crouching beside your chair. “tim’s ordering pizza. your favorite kind. why don’t you come eat with us?” but you just shake your head, thumb stroking over jason’s knuckles in the same pattern you’ve traced a thousand times. dick sighs, resting a hand on your shoulder briefly before retreating. you know they’re all worried, talking in hushed voices in the hallway about what to do with you.

“they want me to leave you,” you tell jason, as if he can hear you. as if those green eyes might suddenly snap open with that familiar fire. “but ‘m not going anywhere. not until you wake up.” your voice cracks on the last word, and you have to swallow hard against the sob building in your throat. crying won’t bring him back. nothing will bring him back this time. no lazarus pit, no divine intervention, no last-minute miracle.

the worst part is how beautiful he still looks. death hasn’t stolen that from him yet, though you know it will soon. his dark hair falls across his forehead the same way it always did, and you reach up to brush it back with trembling fingers. the white streak is still there, a reminder of his first resurrection. you’d teased him about it, called him your old man while he tackled you onto the bed, tickling you until you took it back.

“remember when we went to that terrible diner at three am?” you murmur, needing to fill the silence with something other than your ragged breathing. “you said their coffee tasted like motor oil, but you drank three cups anyway. kept stealing my fries even though you had your own.” the memory feels like a lifetime ago, even though it was just last month. back when his hand was warm in yours, when his laugh could fill a room, when his presence meant safety instead of this crushing grief.

alfred appears with tea, setting it down beside the untouched plates. “my dear, master bruce is very concerned about your health,” he says gently, his usual composure cracking slightly. you’ve never seen alfred cry, but his eyes are red-rimmed now. jason was difficult, stubborn, angry — but alfred loved him like he did all the wayne boys. “perhaps you might consider taking a short break? just to rest?”

“i can’t,” you whisper, not looking away from jason’s face. “what if he wakes up and i’m not here? what if he thinks i abandoned him?” the words sound insane even to your own ears, but you can’t stop them. part of you knows he’s gone, really gone this time. but a larger part refuses to accept it, clinging to desperate hope like a lifeline.

bruce himself comes in as night falls, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion. he’s barely slept since it happened, you can tell. the weight of losing a son — again — sits on his shoulders like a physical thing. “we need to let him rest,” he says quietly, and you hear the barely controlled emotion in his voice. “he deserves peace.” but you shake your head violently, grip tightening on jason’s hand.

“he deserves to be alive,” you snap, anger flaring hot and sudden. “he deserves to grow old and complain about his knees hurting. he deserves sunday mornings and terrible coffee and—” your voice breaks completely, dissolving into sobs. bruce doesn’t say anything else, just stands there like a sentinel in the growing darkness. you know he blames himself. he always blames himself. but you can’t comfort him, can’g even comfort yourself.

“you’re still so beautiful,” you whisper to jason when you’re alone again, tracing the strong line of his jaw with one finger. “it’s not fair. not fucking fair at all. you shouldn’t look like you’re just sleeping.” his lips are slightly parted, like he might draw breath at any moment. but his chest remains still, no rise and fall, no sign of life. you’ve watched for hours, waiting for even the slightest movement.

sometimes, in your exhaustion, you swear you hear him respond. little mumbles like he used to make when you’d talk to him while he was half-asleep. that soft “mhm” he’d hum against your neck, or the way he’d murmur your name and pull you closer. but when you blink, when you focus, there’s only silence. your mind is playing cruel tricks, giving you what you desperately want to hear.

“i brought that book you were reading,” you say, pulling it from your bag with shaking hands. “the one you left on the nightstand. dog-eared on page 347, you heathen.” you try to laugh but it comes out as more of a sob. “want me to read it to you? i know you hate when i do voices for the characters, but tough luck, babe.” you open to the marked page, clearing your throat.

the words blur on the page as you read, tears making it impossible to see clearly. but you push through, needing to do this one normal thing. jason always said your reading voice put him to sleep — not because it was boring, he’d insist, but because it was soothing. safe. you read until your throat is raw, until the moon is high outside the windows, until your eyes can barely stay open. and still, he doesn’t wake up.

what you can’t see is jason standing right beside you, translucent and desperate. he’s been here the whole time, watching you fall apart, and it’s killing him in a way that actual death couldn’t. “baby, please,” he says, reaching for you with hands that pass right through. “you need to let go. you need to let them bury me.” but you don’t hear him, can’t hear him, and it’s the worst kind of torture.

he tries everything — yelling, pleading, attempting to knock things over like in those stupid ghost movies you used to watch together. nothing works. he’s stuck in this in-between space, tethered to his body but unable to interact with the world. unable to comfort you as you sob into his chest, unable to tell you it’s okay, that he’s okay, that you need to take care of yourself.

“fuck,” he curses, running incorporeal hands through his hair. the white streak is gone in this form, he notices absently. he looks like he did before the pit, younger and less scarred. but none of that matters when you’re destroying yourself over his corpse. he can see how pale you’ve gotten, the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands shake constantly now.

jason has died before, but this is different. last time, he didn’t have anyone to mourn him like this. sure, bruce grieved, but not like you are doing now. you’re holding onto him like if you just refuse hard enough, death will give him back. and jason loves you for it, even as it tears him apart to watch. “please eat something,” he begs, knowing you won’t hear. “please, baby. don’t do this to yourself.”

stephanie brings coffee on the fourth day, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your chair. “black, two sugars, just how you like it,” she says, pressing the warm cup into your free hand. “i know you probably don’t want it, but humor me a bit, yeah?” there’s a forced lightness to her voice, but you can hear the concern underneath. everyone’s walking on eggshells around you, afraid you’ll shatter completely.

“he always said i put too much sugar in mine,” you murmur, taking a small sip. it burns your throat, the first hot thing you’ve had in days. “…said i was gonna rot my teeth out. hypocrite drank energy drinks like they were water.” stephanie laughs softly, but it’s watery. she reaches out to squeeze your knee gently.

“yeah, he was one to talk. i caught him eating cereal straight from the box at three am last week. said it was too much effort to get a bowl.” she pauses, swallowing hard. “god, i’m gonna miss arguing with him about stupid shit.” you nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. you’ll miss everything — the arguments, the laughter, the quiet moments, the loud ones.

tim appears in the doorway, laptop tucked under his arm. “i’ve been looking into... options,” he says carefully. “there might be ways to... bring him back. constantine knows some people—” but bruce cuts him off with a sharp gesture. “no. no more resurrection. let him rest.” the words hang heavy in the air, final and devastating. you want to scream at them both, beg tim to try anything, everything. but deep down, you know bruce is right. jason deserves peace, even if it means leaving you behind.

“your hands are so cold, baby,” you whisper, rubbing jason’s fingers between both of yours like you might warm them up. “you always ran so hot. like a human furnace. used to complain when you’d stick your feet on me in bed.” the memories hurt, each one a fresh wound. his body temperature had been one of the side effects of the lazarus pit, just like the green eyes and the white streak. now he’s cold as marble, and no amount of holding on will change that.

barbara wheels in silently, maneuvering her chair close to yours. she doesn’t say anything at first, just sits with you in the oppressive quiet. finally, she speaks. “the first time he died, i wasn’t there. none of us were. he died alone, afraid, in pain.” her voice is steady but thick with emotion. “at least this time... this time he knew he was loved. he knew you loved him.”

“i never told him enough,” you confess, the words spilling out. “i mean, i said it, but not enough. not every morning like i should have. not every time he left for patrol. what if he didn’t know? what if—” barbara grabs your free hand, squeezing tight. “he knew. trust me, he knew. boy never shut up about you once.”, that breaks something in you, and you sob harder than you have yet.

cassandra appears like a ghost herself, pressing a granola bar into your hand with a pointed look. you know she won’t leave until you eat it, so you take small, mechanical bites. it tastes like cardboard, but you force it down. she nods approvingly, then stands guard by the door like she’s protecting you from the world. or maybe protecting the world from your grief.

“remember our first date?” you ask jason’s still form, needing to lose yourself in happier memories. “you were so nervous you knocked over your water glass. twice. kept apologizing like i was gonna run away.” you smile through your tears, remembering how his cheeks had flushed red. “but then you walked me home and kissed me goodnight, and i knew i was gone for you.”

jason’s ghost paces restlessly beside you, watching your face with an expression of pure agony. “that was the best night of my life,” he says, even though you can't hear him. “until every other night with you topped it.” he remembers being terrified you’s realize he wasn’t good enough, that you’d see past the charm to the broken thing underneath. but you never ran. you stayed through nightmares and panic attacks and all his sharp edges.

“aqnd that time we got caught in the rain,” you continue, lost in the past. “you gave me your jacket even though you were freezing. we were both soaked by the time we got home. made hot chocolate and watched movies under every blanket we owned.” your voice drops to barely a whisper. “i can’t do this without you, jay. i don’t know how.”

damian enters then, and for once the youngest wayne looks his age — just a child faced with death. he stands stiffly by the casket, jaw clenched. “jason was... good,” he says, which from damian is practically a declaration of love. “he once said i could have his bike. i’m holding him to that.” then, quieter: “i’m sorry for your loss.” he flees before you can respond, but you appreciate the effort.

duke brings sunlight with him when he visits, his presence somehow less heavy than the others. “hey,” he says softly, pulling up a chair beside you. “brought you some fresh clothes. figure you might want to change.” he sets the bag nearby, not pushing. “jason and i were gonna fix up that old camaro of his this weekend. he was excited about it. kept talking about teaching you to drive stick.”

“i already know how,” you murmur, almost smiling. “but—he insisted i was doing it wrong. said i was gonna burn out his clutch.”

duke chuckles softly. “sounds like him. never trusted anyone else with his vehicles.”

the two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while, and you’re grateful. duke doesn’t push, doesn’t plead. he just exists in the space with you, solid and warm and alive.

“he loved you, y’know,” duke says eventually. “like, stupid loved you. made us all sick with how much he talked about you.” fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “he was planning to propose,” you whisper, the secret you’ve been holding burning your throat. “found the little note he had in his jacket pocket.” duke sucks in a sharp breath, and you see him wipe at his eyes.

jason’s ghost stops pacing, staring at you in shock. “you knew?” he breathes. “shit, baby, you knew?” he drops to his knees beside your chair, ghostly hands hovering over yours. “i wanted it to be perfect. wanted to give you everything. a life, a future, babies with your eyes and my stubbornness.” he’s crying now, tears that don’t exist, grief that no one can see.

your friends have been texting nonstop, offering condolences and support. but you can’t bring yourself to respond, can’t form the words to explain that your world has ended. how do you tell them that the man who was supposed to be your forever is lying in a casket? that all your plans, all your dreams, died with him? your phone battery dies on the fifth day, and you don’t bother charging it.

“jason used to bring me flowers,” you tell the room, unsure if you’re talking to his body or his memory or just yourself. “not fancy ones. just wildflowers he’d pick on patrol, or grocery store bouquets he’d grab on his way home. said they reminded him of me.” your voice breaks. “who’s gonna bring me flowers now?”

alfred returns with more tea and a sandwich, setting them down with practiced grace. “master jason spoke highly of you often,” he says quietly. “when was planning to ask for your hand properly, he requested his mother’s ring from the family vault.” the words hit you like a physical blow, and you double over, keening. alfred’s hand rests gently on your shoulder. “he loved you very much, my dear. never doubt that.”

bruce hasn’t left the manor in days, you realize. no batman, no patrol. just a father grieving his son. again. you see him sometimes, standing in the doorway like he wants to come in but can’t. the guilt radiates off him in waves. he should have been there, should have saved him, should have done something. but all the should-haves in the world won’t bring jason back.

“i can’t let them close it,” you whisper to jason, your voice hoarse from days of talking to a dead man. “once they close it, you’re really gone. and i can’t... i can’t do that. not yet. please understand.” his skin is starting to change now, death finally claiming its due. but you still hold on, fingers interlaced with his like you’rr anchoring him to this world.

jason’s ghost is sitting beside you now, having given up on trying to make contact. “i understand,” he says, even though you can’t hear him. “but baby, this is killing you. and if there’s an afterlife, if i’m going somewhere after this, i can’t go knowing you’re doing this to yourself.” he watches as you sway slightly, exhaustion and dehydration taking their toll.

“you promised,” you continue, and jason’s heart breaks at the accusation in your voice. “you promised you’d always come back to me. you promised we’d have more time. you lied.” the anger feels good, better than the numbness. “you stupid, reckless man. why didn’t you wait for backup? why did you have to play hero?” you’re hitting his chest now, weak blows that barely disturb his suit.

“i’m sorry,” jason says, wishing desperately that you could hear him. “i’m so fucking sorry. i thought i had time. thought i was invincible. thought love was enough to keep me alive.” he tries to brush away your tears, his hand passing through your face. “it should have been. love like ours should be enough to conquer death.”

on the sixth day, your body finally gives out. you collapse beside the casket, still holding jason’s hand as darkness takes you. the family rushes in, alfred already calling for medical assistance. they move you to a bed, hook you up to ivs, try to undo the damage of a week without food or rest. but your hand reaches out even unconscious, searching for jason.

when you wake, the casket is closed. the burial happened while you were sedated, they tell you gently. he’s in the ground now, at peace. his mother’s ring is in your hand — alfred must have placed it there. it’s beautiful, vintage, perfect. everything jason was and everything you’ll never have. you slip it onto your finger anyway, a promise to a ghost.

jason’s spirit is gone now, moved on to wherever souls go when their bodies are laid to rest. but sometimes, when the manor is quiet and you’re alone with your grief, you swear you can feel him. a whisper of warmth, the faintest pressure of lips against your forehead. maybe it’s just your mind trying to cope. or maybe love like yours really is enough to transcend death, even if just for moments.

you visit his grave every day, bringing those wildflowers he loved. you tell him about your day, about the book you’re reading, about how tim’s coffee addiction is getting worse and damian actually smiled yesterday. you wear his ring and try to live, because that’s what he’d want. but you never stop looking for him in shadows, never stop hoping that somehow, someway, he’ll find his way back to you. because jason todd has conquered death before.

and maybe, love will be enough to bring him home again.

[e1e4n0r5]

Got a Lil Sugar: Chapter 1

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing: Sugar Mommies Cait & Vi x Sugar Baby Reader

Words: 3184

Synopsis: In dire financial straits, you ask your friend Mel for advice. Unfortunately you have a rocky start.

Warnings: Financial distress, mentions of illness, discussions of sex work, creeps on the internet, lesbian reader has to flirt with men

Notes: Sex work is a very complicated industry with a lot of nuance. There are positives, and there are negatives. This fic does not shy away from the negatives, and there will be times when Reader is uncomfortable. I know this fic is just a smutty piece of fiction, but I don't want to glamorise what can be, at times, a very difficult job. Please read, and enjoy, at your own discretion.

The cappuccino in front of you was the prettiest, most luxurious thing you’d seen all week, all perfect foam and dusted chocolate, served in a ceramic cup you couldn’t afford to break.

You could barely afford the bus ride home.

Across from you, Mel sat with her phone face-down on the polished wooden table, perfectly at ease in her designer coat, and heels that probably cost more than your rent. She smiled faintly, like she always did when she saw you looking at the little gold bracelet on her wrist or the new bag over her shoulder.

“Stop staring,” she teased, blowing across her own latte.

You blinked, snapping out of it. “I’m not. Not like that. I just…It’s nice. You look as nice as always. You look happier too?”

Mel quirked a brow, amused. “I’ve got a new Daddy, he’s so nice. Actually cute, too.”

You laughed at that, because she always said it so breezily, like it was just another line on her résumé.

Mel Medarda: Professional Sugar Baby of 5 years, references available on request, glowing reviews.

When the barista swung by with the cheque (because this place was fancy enough that you didn't have to pay up front) Mel waved you off when you reached inside your bag. “Oh no, sweetheart, this is on me,” she said. “New Daddy’s footing the bill. He’d be so upset I let you pay.”

You smiled and said ‘thank you’, but something in your chest twinged as she signed the receipt, even though you knew you couldn’t afford the drink anyway.

“Mel…” you started, watching her tuck the receipt away.

“Hmm?”

“How…How did you get into this?”

Her head tilted slightly. “Into…?”

“This,” you gestured at her designer coat, her perfect nails, the delicate gold decorating her wrist. “You know…Being a Baby. Or whatever you call it.”

That got you a full grin. She leant back in her chair, drumming her nails on her coffee cup in amusement. “Why so curious?”

You shifted uncomfortably. “I need money.”

Her face immediately sobered, sitting forward again.

“My rent’s due in three days and I'm more than half short. They're putting it up next month too, and I don’t have the new difference leftover each month. My account’s barely holding two figures as it is. Plus, my bills are almost overdue; the insurance company is gouging my pay for the medical bills, and the interest is constantly climbing…” You rubbed your temples, stressed tears starting to form in your eyes.

Her face softened. “Angel, I could help you-”

You shook your head firmly. “No. No, absolutely not. I’m not taking your money.”

“Well, how much do you need? I’m doing really well-”

You couldn’t help but scoff lightly. “Six figures, Mel. And I don’t just mean 100k.”

Her hands clenched around her mug. “Fuck cancer.”

“Well, I did,” you smiled. You toasted your cups together in celebration of the battle you fought for two years and ultimately won.

But it was time to finally swallow your pride.

“Things are just really bad right now and I don't know what else to do. Plus, I’ve always kind of wondered what it’s like. You make it look so…”

“Easy?” Mel supplied, laughing. “It is, most days. But it won’t be at the start,” she warned.

You sipped your cappuccino just to have something to do with your hands.

“Do you think,” you ventured, “Someone like me could even do it? I mean, I don’t have a designer wardrobe or whatever.”

Mel studied you for a moment, eyes a little sharper now. Then she shook her head with a low chuckle. “Oh, angel, being a Baby isn’t about already having all the pretty things. That’s what they’re for.”

She leant in across the table, her voice becoming warm and gentle as she held your hand. “I’ll help you. Show you the ropes, set up a profile for you, coach you through it.”

Your heart skipped a little. “I’m serious,” you said quietly. “I really need the money. I trust you.”

Mel grinned like the cat who caught the canary, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “You’re going to be just fine. Let’s finish our drinks and then go back to your place. We’ll get you started tonight.”

The door to your apartment stuck, like it always did, and you had to give it a little shove with your shoulder before it finally swung open.

“I always hated this place,” Mel groaned, stepping inside behind you and glancing around. “Why did we let you move in here?”

“Don’t,” you muttered, kicking your shoes off and placing them on the wobbly little shoe rack by the door. “It was all I could afford when I moved.”

She shook her head, looking at the cramped living room with its thrift store couch, second-hand rug with a hole in it, and one too-small window that barely let in any light. “We’re getting you out of here. Alright,” she said, setting her tote down on the coffee table, “Let's get to work.”

You sank into the couch and opened your laptop, as Mel sat elegantly beside you, already pulling out her phone and opening an app.

“Rule number one,” she started, holding it up like a teacher, “This isn’t a dating app. You are not here looking for a girlfriend, or a wife, or your soulmate. You are here to provide companionship and affection – and maybe more, if you’re comfortable – in exchange for being financially taken care of. Period. It’s okay to like the people, but do not get attached.”

You nodded, leaning in as she scrolled through an app.

On her screen was a slick, clean-looking interface with profiles. Every profile had photos, some with nothing but a name, others had a few teasing lines. You catch glimpses of headlines like “Looking to spoil someone special”, “Discreet arrangements only”, “Full sex services available”, and more than one bio that makes your ears burn.

Mel started showing you how it worked – how to set up your own bio, how much detail to give, what pictures are best to use, and how to keep your boundaries crystal clear from the start.

“So, to start off, you should include a close-up photo of your face; a full body shot; something a bit sexier but not too much; then – now, don’t freak out about this – your feet too.”

You gawked at her. “My feet?!”

She shrugged. “Feet is one of the most common kinks out there. I know Babies who only do feet content, and they’re loaded.”

“But I don’t want to do…Foot stuff,” you grimaced.

She raised an eyebrow. “What if someone offered you $100 just for a single photo?”

You paused, remembering the numbers on your debt spreadsheet. “Okay, feet too. Got it.”

Mel chuckled. “What’s your age limit? Realistically speaking. Not necessarily for full sugar, but what could you realistically be comfortable with chatting to, or going on dates with?”

“What’s yours?” you asked.

“I don’t have one. There are some lovely widowers out there who just want companionship. It might be worth leaving it quite high, but it’s up to you. Plus, you can also choose what you’re willing to provide based on age when you talk to people.”

You had to admit that was reasonable. Plus, you weren’t really in a position to be choosey. “Okay, no limit,” you adjusted the setting on your new profile.

“And – here’s the hard question – are you willing to include men?”

You couldn’t help but grimace.

“I know you’re a lesbian, sweetheart, but if you’ve got bills to pay and medical debt to work through, could you face sending some flirty messages to men if it earns you some spoils? Plus the majority of Sugars are men, you’d be cutting off a huge portion of potential benefactors.”

You pondered again, wringing your hands together. “Just messages?”

“Remember, you can always choose how you interact with each person individually,” Mel advised. “It’s your choice. But what if you come across a man wants to give you $50 a day for a sexy photo? You could always tell him that you won’t want to meet up in person.”

You weren’t happy about it, but you ticked all the boxes for sex and gender.

“Never say you’re ‘open to anything,’” she warned, clicking through a few examples. “Even the most confident, experienced Babies have limits; everyone has limits. Manage their expectations from the start. Next: be sweet, be charming, but also make sure they know that you know your worth. No desperation, no haggling, and always let them come to you. You’re doing them a favour by letting them take care of you. If you say a photo is $100, it’s $100; not 80, not 75. Do. Not. Haggle,” she said firmly, wagging her finger at you.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at that. “Got it. No hagglers.” You were quiet for a moment, watching her scroll and type as a message came through on her profile. Then, hesitantly, you asked, “How do you tell the real ones? You know, from the scammers and the creeps?”

Mel actually grinned at that, like she’d been waiting for you to ask.

“Good girl,” she said approvingly. “That’s rule number two. Trust your gut, and don’t believe anybody who promises big money right away. Someone offering 10k for your first date and another 10k every week after that? Not real. Real Mommies and Daddies don’t flash cash in the first message. They ask about you. They care about what you want. They respect your limits. Scammers, on the other hand?”

She snorted, flipping through her inbox and showing you a couple of examples: ridiculous promises of thousands a week just for texting, requests for bank info before even meeting, weird links they say you need to click in order to get paid.

“Block. Block. Block,” she said with a tap of her manicured finger. “Anybody who pressures you to move off the app too soon? Block. Anybody who can’t spell ‘allowance’? Block. Anyone who complains about the vetting process? Block. Remember: the good ones want to be vetted. It shows them you’re being safe.”

You couldn’t help but smile a little at her attitude: sharp and sure, like she’d done this a hundred times.

Mel noticed your look and smirked. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said softly. “You’re just really good at this.”

“Damn right I am.”

She pointed to your laptop and nodded at the empty profile. “Alright, sweetheart. Time to write your bio. Start with something sweet: one or two lines about you, what you’re looking for, and what you want in return. Be honest but keep it classy.”

Mel helped you write your bio and choose pics from your gallery – though you did have to take a fresh feet pic, cringing the whole time. By the time Mel finished tinkering with your profile, you were already emotionally exhausted.

“See?” she purred, nudging your shoulder with hers as you sat side by side on your sagging couch. “That’s a good start. Sweet, just a little flirty, and clear about your boundaries.”

You swallowed, rereading the words she helped you craft.

Looking for someone who knows how to take care of what’s theirs. I’m attentive, affectionate, and eager to please. Not looking for one-night stands. Photos/videos/voice notes available for tips. Open to discussing arrangement details once vetted.

Mel winked at you as you hit “Publish” on your profile and grinned at the little blue tick that came up next to your name once the system finished checking your details. She got up and poured the two of you a rum and cola – both ingredients the cheapest the store offered – to celebrate.

And then, not five minutes later, the first messages started coming in.

She stayed with you for another couple of hours, lounging with her legs curled up under her, one perfectly manicured finger flicking at your screen now and then to help you compose polite declines or playful replies.

hi bb u like cashapp? – Block.

Can I send you pics? – Block.

I wanna own u – Block and report.

But there were a few nicer ones – men and women who seemed polite enough, who asked how your day was going and didn’t jump straight to nudes or numbers. Mel made you save a few of them to look at later, and for a little while, sitting there next to her, you even felt a little excited.

When Mel’s phone buzzed with a sharp little chime, her expression shifted into something sly. “That’s my cue,” she said, gathering up her coat. “New Daddy’s taking me out tonight. Are you going to be okay? I’ll call you later when I get home.”

You nodded automatically, though the pit in your stomach was already forming as you watched her leave.

“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” she said at the door, hugging you tightly and kissing your forehead. “Just remember what I told you. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, and don’t you dare settle for less than you deserve.”

And then she was gone.

The quiet in your apartment felt loud after that.

You curled up on the couch with your phone and tried to keep up the same energy Mel had drilled into you – polite, charming, firm – but after the first few hours on your own, it all started to wear you down.

So many of the messages were gross. Or pushy. Or straight-up insulting.

You should be grateful for whatever I give you

girls like u don’t get to make demands

Send pics now or I’m blocking

Come over tonight and I’ll test drive you

You blocked. And blocked. And blocked again. But each one chipped away at you just a little more.

And before long, your eyes were stinging, your throat tight, your stomach rolling.

For the first time you let yourself wonder what your parents would say. Not that they’d spoken to you in years. You couldn’t think about them. You couldn’t let the guilt and shame settle in and fester. You didn’t deserve that.

You looked back to your laptop again. Messages kept pouring in.

A new one blinked at the top: Baby, you’ve gone quiet. Can I spoil you a little more?

You stared at the words for a long time, fingers hovering over the keys. Your cheeks burned, but your bank account was growing, and your rent was due.

So, you took a breath. And you typed back:

Yes please, Daddy

The next morning brought more messages.

You woke up to the little notification bubble glowing on your phone screen – 48 new messages overnight, some payments made to your new cash app account that Mel had told you was safe for Babies to use.

You read through all the messages, your mood already feeling conflicted.

Most of them were basically the same thing: Good morning, gorgeous. Did you sleep well? Hope you have a good day. I sent you $20, did you get it?

Which was nice. But then you got the others:

What would it cost to see that body without the dress?

How much for a quick video of you moaning my name?

Why don’t you show me those tits and I’ll send you something

Some of the spoils in your account were for small requests - $10 for a video of you brushing your teeth. $30 for your skincare and makeup routine. $10 for a little ‘outfit of the day moment’. All of those you fulfilled as you got ready for work.

On the bus to work you scrolled through the rest of them, trying to keep your face neutral despite the stranger sitting beside you who definitely glimpsed over at your inbox.

You started typing out polite no’s, or simply blocking the ones that made your stomach twist.

By your lunch break, you already felt frayed.

One man had offered $100 if you filmed yourself ‘doing something fun’ with a pillow between your thighs.

You didn’t want to reply to that one. But you had bills to pay, so you messaged back with some clarifying questions – how long did he want the video? What did he want in it? What exactly was he looking for?

Your coworkers chatted around you at lunch while you anxiously picked at your crappy sandwich of cheap bread and even cheaper jam, trying to shake the hot embarrassment off your skin.

When you finally got home that evening, the weight of the day hit you all at once. You dropped your purse on the couch, sat down at your little kitchen table, and buried your face in your hands.

The screen of your phone lit up again and again as you left it face-down on the table, little dings marking incoming requests, compliments, and demands.

You felt dirty. And tired. And angry with yourself for feeling dirty, when you knew this was exactly what you’d signed up for.

Your phone buzzed again, and you forced yourself to flip it over. Another message:

Princess, you there? Don’t leave me hanging. I already sent you the money. You owe me.

Your chest tightened at that word. Owe.

You shoved the phone away and leaned back in your chair.

You were glad Mel couldn’t see you now, sitting in her your apartment, blinking back tears, feeling smaller than ever.

You whispered to yourself, “You need the money. You can do it.”

But even then, you weren’t sure you believed it.

You stood under the spray of hot water far longer than you needed to.

The steam clung to the cracked mirror, the air thick and wet, and still you lingered, scrubbing your arms, your neck, your chest like you could somehow wash off everyone else’s words.

You felt gross. Not so much for what you’d actually done – a few tame photos of your neck and feet; a breathy little voice note moaning someone’s name; one leg shot that you’d agonized over before finally snapping it and sending it. That wasn’t so bad, you told yourself. It was more how fast people demanded, and how entitled they sounded, and how you found yourself agreeing just to get the money.

Because you needed the money.

Halfway through rinsing your hair, your phone buzzed on the sink. Again.

You leant out of the shower to glance at the screen, water dripping from your elbows. Three more payments had come through. You sighed.

When you finally stepped out and wrapped yourself in a towel, your inbox was a mess again, dozens of new messages blinking at you.

Did you get my last request??

Don’t make me wait, girl

Show me something real this time, not just a tease.

I’ll double it if you send me something dirtier.

The words made your stomach tighten, and you put the phone down again to finish getting dressed into your softest, cosiest pyjamas.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, hair still damp against your shoulders, trying not to cry. Your fingers hesitated over the screen for a long time before you finally opened your inbox again.

Taglist: @sevikas-whore, @djstinkyfartz, @jinririz, @abbyandcaitlover, @ayuxiru, @bebeluvvv, @youdoyou-andiwilldome, @kittymrtnezz69, @wyprettylilone, @jlb20416, @autisticratbagtm, @theoreticalfreak, @riotstemple29, @zaunite-516, @zmbieeee, @godhatesgoodgirls, @yoyo-w, @milanyas, @unknownomgg, @bella-but-not-hadid444, @marvelwomenarehot0, @nenoino, @opalundercover, @beggingonmykneesforher, @qlelwow, @loneliestafterparty, @flowersareup, @niceminipotato, @fruitfulfashion, @dut1fuldyk3, @youngtastemakerfart, @trinityobsessesovatings, @barmaideneeveewrites, @c1sne, @geminideathrose, @nuianced-tck-enby, @all-things-lilac, @m0ss-gremlin

[paddedlittleparadise]

Mr. Hansom's Little Competition: Episode 1

Sarah had always been a sucker for free stuff. Grabbing free candy at the bank as a kid, sure – that had been almost normal. As years ticked by, she'd gone further: filling out surveys for free Amazon gift cards. Scrolling FB Marketplace for unwanted "treasures." Signing up for giveaway after sweepstakes after drawing, her heart pounding all the while over the gloriously thrilling idea that maybe, just maybe, she'd get lucky.

Oh, had she ever.

It had been a modest ad online, nothing much. Something about a wealthy gentleman holding a little competition for fun. Every person would be a winner, really! Though there was a grand prize listed – a prize of such eye-popping proportions that she'd not hesitated a moment longer. Of course she clicked through and gave her contact info.

And as gleeful as Sarah was when the email came, she hardly thought twice about locking up her little apartment and leaving it all behind. She had more important things to do.

Oh, it had been amazing – that first sight of the giant manor! The maids had welcomed her in and regaled her with drinks, all the while assuring her that she was destined to be a wonderful contestant. All she really needed to do was go to her assigned room and follow every tiniest instruction she was given. Down to the letter, they warned, or you just might be disqualified before you even start!

Again – had she ever.

Sure, the instructions had made her eyebrows furrow a bit at first. As had the room, decorated as it was like some giant baby's room. But she'd already come this far, hadn't she? Backing out now was not only difficult – it was for losers. And Sarah was most certainly not a loser.

Though having her evening meal of spaghetti and applesauce – while perched in a giant high chair – was kinda freaky. Not to mention the bib around her neck, and the fact that she'd been given literally not a single utensil to eat with.

Ehh, it was fine. If you thought about it, even the giant baby diaper they gave her was a freebie. As were the locking plastic pants and locking sleeper, into which the maids wordlessly helped her that first night.

"Surely you- I mean, you don't really expect me to- you know… use it-" she faltered, as the maids herded her into the massive crib. "I- I know it's a contest and all. But like, I- I'm not a baby-"

The click of the bars as they locked into place spoke far louder than anything the nurses could have said. And so, she'd laughed incredulously to herself. Bounced in place on the crackling mattress. Thumped awkwardly at the bars with her mittened hands. And slowly, reluctantly, forced herself to accept the truth. She was well and truly locked into this contest. So the best thing she could do was… well, to accept it.

Which is why, when the nurses slipped in some six hours later to check on her, they found a truly charming scene. Sarah, splayed out on her tummy like a toddler. Padded rear bulking out her pajamas. And hands flung up sleepily, clenching gently in their mittens, as if already trying to grasp the prize she so desperately wanted…

Oh, yes. Sarah was in far, far deeper than she even knew.

Image Credit: ABDreams.com

[strawberriesncigars]

fucked my way up to the top | h.s

pairing: ceo!harry styles x bratty!reader summary: harry is a businessman stuck in a marriage of convenience, and the girlfriend he’s fucking behind closed doors isn’t exactly making things easier for him. word count: 4k+

warnings: nsfw, smut, oral (m rec), unprotected sex, marriage of convenience, cheating-adjacent, morally grey dynamics, power play, creampie, semi-public tension, possessiveness.

author's note: hi, this is the first thing i’ve written in years and also my first fic in english. it was inspired by a bot i created on c.ai a few months ago. as someone whose first language isn’t english, i was really careful with my writing, but i’m sorry in advance for any mistakes. i don’t have a big following here so i’m not expecting much but if it reaches anyone and gets some love, i might continue the story instead of leaving it as a one shot, since the plot in my head isn’t finished yet. if you enjoyed it reblogs and comments would make me so happy. thank you for giving it a chance. xx

“Red.”

Harry leaned in with his half-finished champagne glass in hand, confused. “What?”

Y/N’s lips, which looked especially pink tonight, curled slightly with a knowing smile. In a voice as smooth as honey, she whispered into his ear, “The color of the underwear peeking from under my dress," Her warm breath brushed against his neck, "Red."

Harry recoiled like he’d been electrocuted, leaning back in his chair. They were at a goddamn dinner party — surrounded by work colleagues and, of course, his lovely wife.

He’d known from the start he shouldn’t have sat next to her, but clearly, she’d somehow managed to push Jules to the opposite side of the table and sit him right beside herself. And as if that wasn’t enough, now she was whispering lingerie details into his ear... in full view of his wife.

Harry took another sip of his drink. He had no intention of getting drunk tonight as the host, but the small amount of alcohol in his system might help him push away the disturbing thoughts about how that red lace would look against Y/N’s flawless skin.

As he glanced toward his wife, who sat across from him chatting with Emma about the brand’s new collection, she leaned in once again. And Harry, not wanting to draw attention by shifting in his chair, had no choice but to give in.

“When are we going to get away from your lovely wife’s revolting glares?” she asked, her lips grazing his ear. “I’m dying to sit on your lap and discuss the details of that European getaway I mentioned.”

Harry swallowed audibly. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“You won’t,” she teased, her voice laced with wicked amusement. “You’ll moan.”

This was it.

When you were a millionaire CEO stuck in a marriage of convenience with one of high society’s most sought-after heiresses, and the girl you were fucking behind closed doors decided to sit this close during a dinner party like it meant nothing, you ended the night nursing a painfully persistent hard-on and pretending your entire world wasn’t crumbling from the inside out.

*

Harry seized the first opportunity to escape the crowd and slipped into his study. Leaning against his desk, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Y/N had always been more reckless than him in situations like this. But she was also sensitive. Harry remembered times he had made her come without even laying a finger on her — just with his words. But lately, something had shifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the damn Italian getaway she kept bringing up or the fact that he hadn’t spent the last four nights with her. He’d never seen her quite like this before, especially the way she made those nasty comments about his wife.

He walked behind his desk, sank into his chair, and reluctantly reached for the bottle, pouring himself a bit of cognac. He leaned back and undid the top two buttons of his shirt with one hand, rubbing at his neck like he needed more air. He had barely taken a few sips when the door creaked open without a knock, and Y/N slipped inside.

Harry straightened slightly in his chair as she quietly shut the door behind her. The black satin dress she wore hugged her curves in all the right places. A delicate necklace hung down her chest, adorning her exposed skin like artwork. Of course he recognized the necklace, it was a Valentine’s Day gift from Paris that had cost him a fortune.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Her heels echoed softly against the hardwood as she made her way toward him with confident but gentle steps. “The happy Styles couple’s charming little dinner party. So adorable.”

“I didn’t realize we looked that happy.” Harry twirled the cognac in his glass before downing the last of it and setting the glass back on the desk.

Y/N approached him with a mocking smile on her lips, slid between the chair and the desk, and leaned her hips against the wooden surface right in front of Harry. Crossing her arms, she tilted her head slightly. “Everyone was talking about you two,” she said. He had to fight hard not to let his eyes drift to the thin strap of her dress sliding down one shoulder. “Didn’t you hear?”

Harry smiled faintly. “No, I didn’t.” He inhaled her body like it was unfamiliar, even though he knew every curve by heart. The urge to touch her bare thighs, flaunted just inches from him with inviting warmth, made his fingertips tingle. He leaned back against the headrest and locked eyes with hers. “Some entitled little brat was too busy whispering dirty thoughts into my ear. At a table with my wife and colleagues.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes with childish defiance. “Since when do you care about what your wife thinks?”

Harry shook his head, his expression growing serious. “We talked about this when we got into it, Y/N. I thought we had an agreement.” His brow furrowed. “Just because this is a marriage of convenience doesn’t mean we get to shove it in her face.”

She uncrossed her legs and pushed off from the desk, leaning over him and placing her hands on either side of his chair. Her sharp gaze pierced into Harry’s now darkened green eyes as she closed the distance between them. “I do whatever I want,” she whispered with a heavy tone. Harry swallowed. “You know why?”

When Harry looked at her in question, Y/N slowly lowered herself to her knees and brought her elegant fingers to his belt.

Something was definitely going on with her tonight. Harry had seen her wild before, but never this bold, this reckless. Never this nasty about his wife. He watched with narrowed eyes as she unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers down to his ankles with unbothered ease.

Her grin turned into a smug smirk as Harry cupped her face with both hands. “Baby,” he tried to summon whatever self-control he had left, “the door’s not locked. Get up. At least wait until everyone leaves—”

But her hand pressed against his clothed erection in a slow, teasing rub, and his words broke off, breath growing uneven. As if spending the whole evening painfully hard hadn’t been enough, now they were practically playing exhibitionist in a room anyone could walk into. He wondered how much more colorful his night could get.

And like none of it meant a thing, Y/N reached for his hips and pulled down his boxers. She gave his cock a long stroke, savoring the groan she drew from him, before placing her lips on the tip.

Harry was losing his mind. He shouldn’t be letting her. He should be yanking up his pants and heading back downstairs before anyone noticed. But when she pressed her tongue flat against the head and let out a wet sound, Harry instinctively tossed his head back and lost the last shred of rational thought.

Unlike Harry, Y/N seemed intent on enjoying every bit of it. She slid his now throbbing cock deeper into her mouth with practiced ease. Fuck, she was good at this. Harry watched the way she took him inch by inch, fingers clenching the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white. A strangled groan slipped from his throat.

His head was spinning from lust and liquor. He slid one hand down to her hair, twining his cold fingers through her soft strands. she moaned sweetly at the touch, and Harry could feel the vibrations echo through her mouth around his hardness.

“Harry?”

The moment he heard the voice outside the door, he cursed under his breath and straightened up. Somehow, without even thinking, he managed to nudge Y/N under the desk just in time — and her lips slipped off him milliseconds before the door creaked open. As he scooted his chair closer to the desk to close the gap, Jules stepped into the room.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry thought, my life is a soap opera.

He leaned casually over the desk, trying his best to look like he hadn’t just been getting a blowjob from his girlfriend under the table. “Jules? Something wrong?”

She took a few hesitant steps into the room, finally turning to face him fully. “Uh, no, it’s just… you never came back down. I was starting to get worried. The others are heading out to the garden —”

Jules continued talking, probably updating him on what was happening downstairs, but Harry couldn’t hear a single word. Y/N, apparently incapable of staying still for even two minutes, had slowly pressed her lips back to his cock and was starting to suck again. Her tongue moved in a heavy rhythm, coating him in wet heat while her hands reached down to fondle his balls. Stars exploded behind Harry’s eyes. He was trying so hard not to push her away or groan out loud and call her a fucking menace.

When Jules’ gaze drifted to his hand, Harry suddenly realized he was crumpling one of the scattered papers on the desk in a tight fist.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, concerned.

Harry swallowed hard. “Yeah. Just… fucking nausea,” he muttered. “Must’ve mixed the cocktails wrong.” He was running out of breath from keeping so tense. Even managing a full sentence felt like a goddamn miracle.

“Where’s Y/N? She disappeared right after you did.”

Harry barely managed to inhale. “Definitely not in here,” he said with a dry laugh, trying to mask the panic in his voice.

As her name was spoken aloud, she chose that exact moment to take his cock deep into her throat and press her tongue exactly where Harry needed it most.

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop a primal growl from escaping.

“Harry, are you sure you’re alright?” Jules let go of the door handle, which only made the panic surge higher in Harry’s chest. “You don’t think you’ve been poisoned or something?”

“I’m fine, Jules. Just need a little alone time,” he said quickly. “You know — like you can see — paperwork.” He gestured vaguely at the desk to justify the mess in front of him. “Won’t be long.”

As Jules backed up a step, Harry discreetly took a deeper breath of relief.

“Alright. Want me to tell them you’ll be out soon?”

Harry nodded. “That’d be great. I won’t be more than thirty minutes.”

She gave a small nod and turned to leave.

And right then —because of course— Y/N let out a low moan around his cock, deep in her throat.

Harry’s eyes widened as Jules turned back toward him, suspicious. “What was that?”

He coughed, thumping his chest with one hand. “This fucking drink,” he said between coughs. “Wrecked my throat too, apparently.”

Jules narrowed her eyes at him like he’d lost his damn mind, then slowly nodded and left the room.

Harry finally exhaled deeply. “Jesus fuck, Y/N,” he groaned. He could feel her smug smile without even seeing it.

As she took him all the way to the back of her throat again, Harry slumped back and pulled her a little closer under the desk. The moan she earned from him was hoarse and full of grit. She pulled away with a wet sound and licked her lips. “Don’t come yet,” she murmured, climbing to her feet and grabbing Harry’s arm to pull him up with her. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He let himself be guided, still dazed from the whirlwind of it all. Y/N’s breathing was heavy and uneven as she dragged him toward the leather couch in the corner of the room. “Sit.”

Harry sat down. He felt like every ounce of willpower had drained from his body, like he was now wrapped around her little finger. Even Y/N herself seemed slightly surprised at how quickly he’d given her control. For a fleeting second, he caught something in her expression— a look that almost said I expected you to push me over the desk, whisper something filthy in my ear, and fuck me like you meant it. Instead, he had surrendered the reins. But she didn’t seem disappointed. Quite the opposite.

After sitting him down, she walked toward the door. Harry drank in the sway of her hips and the rhythm of her legs like it was a work of art. At the door, she turned the lock with an easy flick and then pushed the handle down to show him it wouldn’t open. “Look, we’re taking all the fun out of it just so you don’t have to whine.”

Her smile was taunting.

Walking back to him, she grabbed the hem of her dress with both hands and hiked it up, tossing it onto the couch beside him within seconds.

When the red lace lingerie was revealed, Harry swallowed so hard it made his throat bob.

The soft click of her heels echoed as she approached, stepping between his legs and settling herself on his lap. The thin lace separating them from each other — and Harry’s boxers, already damp with pre-cum — did nothing to ease the friction.

She laced her fingers behind his neck and leaned in to press a wet kiss on his lips. Harry, limp-armed for a second, finally brought his hands up and rested them on her waist right over the waistband of her lace panties while letting her insistent tongue explore his mouth.

Y/N clung to the back of his hair and pulled away with a breathy sound. “I’ve been waiting for this all night.”

Harry really wanted to focus. What she’d just done was reckless, even for her. She had kept sucking him under the damn table, with his wife only a few feet away. That wasn’t something you just brushed off.

But his cock was so painfully hard he could barely think.

Every little grind of her hips had him touching her through that lace, his cock grazing her slick heat with maddening pressure. If she didn’t give him more soon, he was going to lose it.

He tightened his grip on her waist and pulled her closer. Her smile widened. She leaned in and kissed his temple, then let her lips brush down to his ear. “Would she do this for you, H?” she whispered. “Would she even look up from those dumb tabloid magazines to touch you?”

Harry let out a low sound as she pressed herself against his erection deliberately.

She moved her lips to his neck and sucked hard enough to pull blood to the surface. She didn’t stop until she was sure there would be a mark.

“Now...” she sighed dramatically, like she had a long list of things to do, “Why don’t you put those fingers to good use while I figure out which city we should pick for our little getaway?”

Harry grabbed her by the hips and yanked her down hard against him. “That getaway will only happen in your dreams, you spoiled brat,” he muttered, not-so-gently tugging the lace aside.

Y/N laughed, cocky and breathless, as she bit her bottom lip, her soaked heat exposed. “What happened to the sweet princess?”

Harry slid a finger between her folds, letting it glide up and down, soaking it in her wetness. When he pressed the tip just slightly at her entrance, she tensed and rocked her hips forward with a needy whimper. “The princess died under that table,” he growled.

When Y/N felt Harry’s finger fully slide inside her, she bit down on her lower lip again.

“Don’t bite,” Harry growled, his voice rough, and added a second finger beside the first. She let out a shaky moan. The small figure-eights she traced with her hips told Harry she was close to surrendering that earlier bratty attitude.

“You know,” she said with a gulp, “I do like being a princess.”

Harry looked up at her with furrowed brows. “Yeah?”

As his fingers moved faster, Y/N’s cautious whimpers turned into soft, kittenish mewls. She nodded, burying her face into his neck. “Yeah,” she whispered, nipping him gently, “because you like it when I act like a princess, don’t you?”

“I’ve always liked the princess,” Harry muttered, “but I’m not sure I feel the same about this new brat.”

He felt her grin against his neck, her elegant hands planting firmly on his chest through his shirt. “You’ll grow to love her too,” she said, continuing to pepper his skin with wet kisses.

Harry tried to pull away from her mouth. “Can you not?” he muttered, exasperated.

She lifted her head and licked her lips. “Why? Afraid your wife might see?” She slowly sat back on her knees and reached down to align herself. Harry’s hands gripped her hips as she guided him into position, holding his erection at the base and lowering herself onto him.

The moment his cock entered her, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He felt her breath on his neck, her lips, her heat and the delicious, maddening tightness of her pussy as they closed around him inch by inch.

They’d done this countless times before. This was probably Y/N’s favorite position. It gave her control, let her use him exactly how she wanted and feel him in all the right places.

She started to ride him with a rhythm that sent them both over the edge. Harry’s grip on her lower back tightened as he buried his face in the soft skin above her bra. He pressed scattered, wet kisses across her chest, her collarbones, the swell of her breasts.

Y/N rolled her hips harder, using her thighs to bounce with just enough force to pull a deep, guttural moan from Harry’s mouth.

He caught her chin with two fingers and kissed her hard, lips crashing together. She cupped his face in return and opened her mouth for him, tasting like strawberries and champagne. As his hand slid around to her back, he unhooked her bra with practiced ease, letting her breasts fall free.

One hand stayed at her waist to keep her steady; the other cupped her bare chest, kneading it gently. When he pinched her nipple between two fingers, she gasped uncontrollably into the kiss. Her movements stuttered. Her legs began to tremble.

When their lips parted with a wet sound, Harry dragged his hands down to her thighs. He smoothed his palms over her skin, starting from the backs of her knees and working his way up, easing her motion as she rode him with slowing rhythm. “Let me take over, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

Y/N slowed to a stop like she’d been waiting for him to ask. Her arms looped around his neck and she gave him full control. Harry gently pushed her back onto the couch, laying her flat on her back. He slid his cock out of her wet heat, earning a soft whine of protest, and reached down to yank the lace panties off her ankles.

Tossing the soaked fabric aside, he looked at her spread out beneath him — eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising with each breath.

Gripping her thighs, he pushed them farther apart and thrust back inside her in one smooth, deep motion. She gasped, arching slightly, as Harry hooked her legs over his shoulders and leaned forward to press a kiss to her inner thigh.

He didn’t have the patience to go slow anymore. His cock ached, and her dripping cunt was far too inviting.

He drove into her, fast and hard, balls slapping against her ass with each thrust. She moaned loudly, her heels — still clad in sharp stilettos — scraping across the back of his shirt. “Mm, fuck… Harry, that feels so good- harder… Oh!”

Harry silenced her with his mouth, swallowing her moans as he kept pounding into her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter.

When Harry felt his cock start to twitch inside her, he slid a hand between them and found her clit without hesitation. The second his fingers grazed the sensitive bundle of nerves, she tensed, her moans turning high and desperate.

He kept rubbing, circling the spot with steady pressure, and Y/N shattered beneath him — trembling, legs shaking, voice breathy as she whimpered his name like it was the only thing she knew.

As her body convulsed through the orgasm, Harry leaned down and kissed her breasts, trying to ground her as she rode out the wave. When her cunt tightened around him with every pulse of pleasure, Harry knew he was right there with her.

He grunted, hips jerking erratically. “Do you want me to pull out?” He asked, barely coherent, pushing back the inevitable.

She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and pulled him down to her. “No,” she whispered, her fingertips toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want you to come inside.”

He was used to this by now. Y/N hated condoms. She’d even managed to convince Harry — who used to be vehemently against unprotected sex — to change his mind over time. There was no real sex life with his wife, and he trusted her. Since she came into his life, she’d made it her mission to shatter every single one of his boundaries. And Harry had let her. Every time.

With a final deep thrust, Harry buried himself fully inside her and came, spilling everything into her with a low moan as his forehead dropped to her shoulder. His entire body collapsed against hers, chest heaving.

While trying to catch his breath, he inhaled the familiar scent of her skin and murmured against her shoulder, “So... what city are we thinking for this so-called vacation?”

Y/N’s soft giggle filled the air and warmed something inside him. “Are we back to princess mode already?”

“You’re always the princess, baby,” Harry said, lifting himself slightly to look at her flushed face. He brushed her cheekbone with two fingers while the other hand rested at her waist, drawing lazy circles against her skin. “Even when you act like the villain.”

Y/N leaned in and pressed her forehead to his, placing a soft, wet kiss on his lips. “Didn’t seem like you were scared of the villain.”

“Do you want that trip or not?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N kissed the crease between his brows and, despite her exhausted body, gently pushed him off so she could stand. Reaching for her discarded clothes in the corner, she mumbled, “You should probably head back downstairs.”

Harry watched her dress with dazed eyes before finally standing up to pull his pants back on. “You’re not coming?”

She adjusted her hair and tugged her dress back down. “No. Think I’ll head home.” Then added hesitantly, “Are you coming over later?”

Harry nodded in response. She gave a faint smile and walked toward the door.

“Y/N, wait,” Harry said, catching up to her and grabbing her arm gently. She had already reached the door by the time he touched her elbow. When she looked at him questioningly, he asked, “You know Jules isn���t what I want, right?”

Her smile grew, but he felt something bittersweet behind it. It wasn’t in her lips — it was in her eyes. Like there was something she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Harry knew her well enough not to push. There was something about her mood tonight, about the week-long tension, the way she kept dodging the topic of the trip, it all gnawed at him.

But if there was one thing he’d learned in their seven-month relationship, it was that when Y/N put up walls, the only way in was to let her be the one to lower them. Maybe she just needed a little time. And he was willing to give her that space.

Y/N leaned in and kissed him one last time, soft and slow. “Don’t be too late,” she whispered, giving no answer to his question.

Before he could say anything else, she unlocked the door and slipped out.

Harry stood there for a moment, smiling faintly. For the first time that night, he felt a strange sense of calm.

Of course, that would vanish the moment he joined his wife downstairs and slipped his hand into his pocket — only to feel the scrap of red lace, unknowingly placed there.

[superbpiratesandwich]

Walker is a cuddler after doing the nasty. Nothing can convince me otherwise

No because he’d totally be obsessed with holding you while youre both sweat and covered in questionable fluids (who said that?? [twas me, i need help]) 

tags: john walker x fem!reader, smut, body worship, body description, AFAB reader, a whisper of angst (because im me and apparently i hate happiness i guess), talk of body insecurity. 

a/n: so like halfway through this i had a thought of him being more rough but i just did it with the soft side of him because I NEED SOFT LOVE ALRIGHT??? Plus with the prompt, idk if you want me to redo this/upload another one of him being rough I definitely can! this is my first time writing smut CLAP FOR ME, pretty please, anyways all criticism is welcome! ENJOY YOU CUTIES! 

1k words 

Before the two of you started officially dating. Using the term ‘officially’ loosely. He was always a touchy person, but not in an obvious way. Not in a ‘let me hold your hand while we walk’ way more so in a ‘I'm going to hover my hand RIGHT next to yours and let my pinky graze your pinky but if you try to hold my hand, I'm going to kill you’. The man has issues, okay? Being in the military, watching your best friend die, getting your title stripped from you, AND getting divorced will do that to you. 

When you two started dating, boy oh boy did he let the flood gates open. When he realized he could just touch you (with your consent of course) and he felt that first skin to skin, the man was hooked. Holding your hand like you are his lifeline, a hand on your waist as he passes by you in the kitchen, when he's driving, even on a stake out, he has a hand on your thigh. That has been a topic of many mission briefings: Walker’s pda issue with you. Bucky claims it’s ‘distracting’ Walker when the two of you hold hands as you stand side by side in the elevator. 

He’s a touchy guy, he needs that textile feeling of your skin, hair, clothing, even just feeling your soft breaths on his shoulder as you hug, it all grounds him. He needs to know you're there; you're not just another dream that's going to slip away from him.  

When the two of you have sex, especially when he’s in a needy mood, he is the epitome of a devoted worshipper. 

His care-worn palms slowly moving over your arms as he kisses you, nose slotting next to yours, lips moving in tandem against your mouth. Slowly undressing you like a present he’s been dying to unwrap, and dammit if it doesn’t feel like a gift every time you let him see you naked.  

He never knows where to look, he’ll just sit between your legs, back on his haunches, staring down at your body. Of course, his hands are right on your stomach, but he could care less about the pudge there, or the way your breasts sit when they're not in a bra. The man just wants to devote himself to you.  

He takes his time, his lips moving over every inch of you he can get to, not letting a single inch left un-worshipped. His eyes look up into yours as he moves his mouth over your breasts, making sure you see how much he loves every patch of skin he sees on you.  

“Love you so much honey, y’have no idea,” His voice carries that slight southern accent you love so much.  

When you first had sex, you didn't want to look down at him, your eyes on the ceiling as you tried to not seem too insecure, but when his hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him? Now you couldn't look away.  

John is a caring guy, so of course he’s between your thighs before you can even ask properly, his tongue moving in slow circles. He loves to mumble praise, even when his mouth is busy on you, “So pretty, honey, you’re my pretty girl, so so pretty,” and only after you’ve came on his tongue is he moving back up your frame. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, making sure to press his tongue into your open lips, your release mixing with his spit and your own on your tongue. All of it makes him feel like he’s on top of the world, getting to have you like this, all pretty and pliant.  

And when he gets inside of you? The man has his arms wrapped around you, bear hugging you to his chest, like he can’t even stand the idea of letting you go. His hips move slow and deep, pressing closer to you with every thrust. His cheek presses against yours; the sweat-damp skin of your chest doesn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, it makes him more aware of how close you are to him.  

His grunts and mumbled praise get louder in your ear and more intelligible as he gets closer, he loves cumming at the same time as you. It adds to the feeling of being close to you. So, he’s constantly checking in as he gets closer to the edge, “Honey, please- fuck- please tell me you're close, fuck- feel so good around me,” When you both cum, he could break you with how tight he holds on to you, breathing heavily in your ear as his entire being tenses. 

You’re both sticky, his and your release sliding down your thighs, ruining his sheets. You hold him close, your legs wrapped around his waist, hand in his hair, running through the sweaty strands. He just breathes into your shoulder, trying to not let his full weight crush you, his hands splaying on your hips.  

“Baby...” you mutter the pet name softly into his ear, nose running along the shell of it.  

He just grunts in response, not taking his head off your shoulder.  

“John, baby, we should shower and change the sheets.” 

It's like you just asked him to throw himself off the balcony of the tower. He almost whines into your shoulder, shaking his head.  

“The sheets are gonna stain baby,” you laugh softly, your lips pressing against his ear. 

You feel him drag himself out of you, but he doesn't get up for a moment. Instead, he wraps his arms back around you, moving so he's on his side, his head pressed in your neck. 

“Just let me hold you, please” 

John Walker doesn't say please, unless it's for you to hold him. 

You nod, despite being sticky, despite being sweaty, you hold the super soldier for as long as he wants. Because he needs you, not even in a sexual way, he just needs to know youre there and that you won't leave him.  

[thatonegrimm]

Love the adhd story!! I was wondering if you could do the saja boys reacting to a reader who is blind

Aww thank you!! I’m so glad you liked the ADHD story 🥹💖 And yes absolutely here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Blind Reader 

Being blind didn’t mean you needed saving. It meant your world moved differently. Sound, touch, smell, memory—these were your guides. And the boys? The boys learned to move with you, step by step.

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

🧿 Jinu 

Jinu was all gentle footsteps and fidgeting fingers the first time he walked with you. Not because he pitied you—but because he cared deeply about doing it right.

“Step here,” he murmured, offering his arm. “There’s a dip in the sidewalk.”

You already knew—it was familiar terrain—but you reached for him anyway, more for the comfort than the help.

He flinched at first. Not from you—from his own nerves. Then he let out a breath and adjusted his pace to yours.

“I practiced what to say,” he confessed as you strolled. “I read like... three guides on mobility etiquette.”

You grinned. “You gonna quiz me next?”

Jinu laughed, nervous. “Only if I get to fail too.”

Later, you found little sticky tabs in braille on your tea canisters and headphones—his idea.

“You didn’t have to—” you started.

“I wanted to,” he said quietly. “I want you to move through this space like it’s already yours.”

And somehow, it already was.

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

💪 Abby

Abby never hesitated.

The first time you reached out in a crowd—half-lost, half-frustrated—his hand was already there.

“Right here, angel,” he said, guiding your fingers to his arm, his shoulder, the small familiar places that meant safe.

He didn’t ask if you were okay a hundred times. He just made sure you were.

“Watch your head,” he’d say softly when ducking into cars.

“Two steps down,” he’d murmur before you even asked.

And when you trailed your hand up the side of his face one day, curious and smiling, Abby leaned in with a soft exhale and said, “You wanna know what I look like?”

You nodded.

He gently guided your fingers over his cheekbones, his square jaw, the dimple he said only showed up when he laughed hard.

“Now you’ve got my face in your hands,” he said, voice teasing. “Dangerous.”

But he didn’t move. Not even a little.

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

📚 Mystery 

Mystery never explained himself.

He just did things. Quietly. Thoughtfully.

When he handed you a book, he didn’t say “I thought you might want something tactile.” He just gave you a beautiful leather-bound braille edition and nodded like it was nothing.

When you bumped into a chair one morning, muttering to yourself, the next day he’d rearranged the furniture back to how it was before. Said nothing.

When you reached for him one day—lost in unfamiliar noise, overwhelmed—he simply stilled, offering his wrist without a word.

You clung to him, trembling. He let you.

Later that night, he tapped your hand and placed something small into your palm.

A smooth, glass marble. Cool to the touch.

“Pocket charm,” he murmured. “If you ever need something real to hold.”

You did.

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

💋 Romance

Romance had no chill at first.

“Wait, can I describe everything to you? Like, everything. Your outfit today? Flawless. There’s this one bird outside? Stunning. You should know.”

You laughed—a lot—but you loved the way he adapted. Fast, eager, clumsy, sincere.

He always announced when he walked into a room.

He never just took your hand—he’d say, “Left hand incoming, love,” like it was a magical spell.

And he described everything like a poem.

“There’s steam curling up from your coffee like a lazy cat,” he once said.

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Visually descriptive and ridiculous,” he corrected. “You’re welcome.”

But on quieter nights, when your fingers found his, when you touched his face and heard his breath catch—he didn’t talk.

He just rested his forehead to yours and whispered, “I wish you could see how you look at me. It’s the most beautiful thing.”

And you knew—he meant every word.

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

🔥 Baby 

Baby never treated you like glass.

When someone tried to baby you, he cut them off with a glare.

“She’s blind. Not breakable.”

You loved him for that.

He didn’t over-explain. Didn’t hover. But he watched—closely.

One day, you tripped over a rug and caught yourself before falling.

Baby didn’t panic. Just walked over, said “That rug’s dead to me,” and kicked it out of the room.

“You okay?” he asked after the murder.

You nodded. “Just startled.”

He handed you a drink. “You want a snack, or vengeance?”

“Vengeance,” you replied.

He grinned. “Knew I liked you.”

Later, when you were lying on his chest, tracing shapes into the fabric of his shirt, he muttered, “You always touch things like you’re learning them.”

“I am.”

He was quiet, then added, “If you wanna learn me, I’ll let you.”

You already were.

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

M-List

[buckysdingus]

mr. abbott

professor!rhett abbott x student!reader

word count: 3.8k

summary: you get a bad grade and go see your professor about… but are you really upset about the grade or do you just want… him.

warnings: smut! MDNI 18+ p in v, fingers in mouth, boot 😵‍💫, obvious professor x student, pet names (darlin, baby, sir), a lil bit of plot. not proof read, lower case writing. age gap but its not mentioned- takes place at university! consent is SEXY

a/n: still on a LP roll. i saw this post and brain went crazy. @moondustfairies and i aren’t mutuals but i still really wanted to write this so here ya go, hope someone likes it! that post put worms in my brain that i can’t get out. got the middle pic from the same post! still new to writing smut so pls be kind- lmk what you think!

requests still very much open!!

masterlist

you’re top of your class. you didn’t need extra credit, you were the reason there wasn’t a curve. it wasn’t your fault you were smarter than all the other students.

professor abbott hadn’t met anyone like you in his entire life. his small town in wyoming didn’t have women like you in it. women who weren’t afraid of anything, women who could get under his skin easily.

it started with a mistake he made in the middle of a lecture. he got a calculation wrong and you were the one to point it out. he misplaced a number and the whole class chuckled quietly as your hand rose and you pointed out the mistake. he merely smiled and said thanks, changing the calculation.

you didn’t miss the way his eyes rolled when he was turning back to the board. you smiled at that moment, knowing you’d have him in the palm of your hand soon.

professor abbott was, to say the least, hot. some girls at the university took the class purely to be in the same room as him. at first, you were actually there to learn from him. he was the smartest professor at your university. you didn’t realize just how much you had to learn from him.

one day, you walked in, being the first to arrive and saw him with his outstretched on his desk, his long sleeve button down rolled to his elbows and hands splayed on the desk to hold himself up.

you took your usual seat, not taking your eyes off of him. the swell of his veins through his hands and forearms made you bite the inside of your cheek. you sat back in your crossing your legs along with your arms in front of your chest.

one small move created friction between your thighs, so you sat impossibly still. your eyes not leaving him.

he knew you starring. he knew it was you who walked in, you were always first, five minutes early- every. time.

he had a small smirk on his face as he watched you cross your legs when you sat down out of his peripherals. the reading glasses that sat on the tip of his nose didn’t really do anything, he wasn’t reading the essay in front of him, he was too busy concentrating on the girl sitting only a few feet from him.

your thighs pressed together as he looked up at you.

“good morning,” his thick, country drawl scratching at his raspy voice. you thank the universe that he still had the accent. it definitely helped you late at night in your dorm when your hand journeyed down your body.

“morning,” your voice just above a whisper. you sit up a little straighter, your hands now folded in your lap. your sun dress barely reaching mid thigh, you pulled it down ever so slightly. not because you felt as though your professor was creep but because you didn’t want his disappointment.

“your essay is good,” he said picking up the paper he was reading before you came in, “it was an… interesting read,”

“so you didn’t like it?” you questioned him.

his eyes narrowed at you, “did i say that?”

he went quiet as he waited for your answer. when you realized he actually wanted you to answer, you could feel your eyes glimmer with excitement.

he walked in front of his desk and leaned back on to it, his hands griped the desk as he holds himself up on it.

“no,” you answered louder than your ‘morning’ answer.

“what did i say?” he asked, now moving his arms to cross in front of him.

your eyes don’t stray from his, the shy smile on your lips grew, “my essay is good. it was an interesting read,”

“why do you think that?” he asked, his eyes slightly squinted at you, his head tilted to the side by half an inch.

you shrugged, “i don’t know,”

“i need a better answer than that,” he said gruffly.

your thighs clenched together again. his eyes darted down to your legs then back to your eyes.

“you do that a lot?” he asked.

“what?” you challenged. you made your voice lighter and softer as you said it, feigning innocence. you batted your lashes at him a couple times.

he chuckled deep in his chest and looked away from you. his eyes trained on the window, he pushes himself off his desk and walked close to you, stopping at your desk.

the desk you sat at stretched long both ways. there was a top but underneath was open.

you’ve daydreamed a lot about your professor under the table, under your sundress.

he splayed his hands on the desk, his arms stretched out.

boldness took over you. you reached out, tracing the veins on the back of his hands and up through his wrist to his forearm.

“i like these,”

“i didn’t ask,” he threw back at you but he didn’t move away. he allowed you to trace the veins once more.

you didn’t pay much attention to his harshness, you could see it in his eyes he didn’t want to be mean.

he just wanted to see what you’d do. he liked the boldness of you. he enjoyed that you didn’t back down from his firmness. you went along with his lewd language and was able to keep up.

you reached down to hand and lifts it. you traced the callouses on his palm and dragged two of your fingers down his thumb. you looked up to him bringing his thumb close to your lips.

you opened your mouth as the door at the back of the room opened.

your professor didn’t move his hand immediately, he waited for a second to see what you’d do. when you didn’t pull away or drop his hand, he stepped away.

he cleared his throat walking back or his desk, picking up your essay and placing it in a drawer at his desk.

you keep your eyes on him as he leans his hands on his own desk again, waiting for everyone to come in and sit down. he looked around the room before looking back at you. he had the ghost of a smirk before addressing the class and getting started.

this cat and mouse game, the back and forth went on for a few weeks.

it all changed today though. he gave you a B on the best essay you’d ever written. the read ink was scarce through your pages but it was still there.

you put on the dress you knew he liked, a short, white sundress with the thinnest material possible. you were going to torture him for this.

you showed up on times today. not five minutes before, not ten, right on time.

every time the door opened rhett’s eyes went to it, silently hoping you’d walk through the door. every time it wasn’t you his mouth formed a straight line and his jaw clenched.

where were you?

then you finally walk through the door.

rhett thought his teeth was going to shatter then way he barred down on them. his jaw might get locked from how hard he clenches it.

your white dress, the white dress, seemed shorter today, the material thinner. the black shoes you wear have a gold buckle on the top and your white socks had ruffles at the top of them.

your eyes didn’t move from his from the moment you walked in to the moment you sit down. your essay was already in your hand and set it down on the desk in front of you.

his eyes look down to it then back to you. a smile crossing his face, he nods slowly.

you knew exactly what he was doing and he knew exactly what he was doing.

even being in the room for thirty seconds you couldn’t stand his stare. his knowing stare.

you’re upset about that grade, huh? his eyes ask, what are you going to do about it?

his lips swipes his tongue across his bottom lip knowingly. his grin only grows when you stand, gripping your paper and walking to his desk.

rhett leans back in his chair crossing his arms, “yes ma’am?” he asks, the grin staying wide.

“a B?” you question, “this is the best essay i’ve ever written and you gave me a B?”

“is this really about the grade?” he asks lowly, leaning forward on the desk.

you pop out a hip, hand on his desk and lean down, “what’s that supposed to mean professor abbott?”

his eyes drift down to your chest then back up. he stands, towering over you, “take your seat,” he demands in the same low tone.

“you don’t get to order me around,”

his brows raise at your defiance. his grin turning in a slow smirk, “sit down,” the demand was raspier, more firm. it sent a shiver down your spine.

you huff and turned walking back or your desk, he calls you by your last name with a miss in front of it, “see me after class,”

you roll your eyes sitting down in your seat. you don’t take notes the whole class, you just sit there seething.

an hour later and a half later the room clears out.

rhett wipes the board, not turning around until he hears the door click shut. even then, he only spares a glance around the room. his eyes landing on you and smile gracing his handsome, but stupid face.

“your attitude gone now?”

“no,” the short, curt answer didn’t make him happy.

he turns from the board to face you, “you don’t care about that grade,” he nods to the paper in front of you, “if you did, you wouldn’t have showed up in that little dress i like. you wouldn’t have leaned down like that an hour and half ago. you wouldn’t be sitting there with your legs crossed,”

you look down and see your legs crossed, your thigh aching from how they clenched through out the class.

“you piss me off,” you tell him, but you don’t move your legs.

“uncross your legs,” he challenges you.

“no,” you challenge back, “i’m not a child. you don’t get to tell me what i can and can’t do.”

“i think you want me to,” he accuses walking up to your desk, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forward on them.

“you think i’m here in this dress,” you begin tracing the veins of his handsome again, “to beg you to fuck me in your classroom so you’ll give me a better grade?”

“is that what you want?” he asks you.

you stare at him through your lashes, “do you?”

“i asked you a question,” he says putting his knee forward, bumping yours.

“so did i,”

“you need to learn some manners,” he says taking his hand away from yours as you lift it.

you frown as he takes away his hand. the tow of you have a starring contest. he lifts his boot pushing your legs apart and settling it centimeters away from you.

“you can have my hand back, say please,”

you wanted to be weirded out. you wanted to hate this. you wanted yourself to want to stand up, tell this guy to fuck off and leave but you just couldn’t.

“please,” you say in the softest voice you could manage that wasn’t a whisper.

rhett smiles, pushing his boot into you. the friction causing your thighs to squeeze his boot.

he lays his hands back in front of you, your finger tracing the veins again. you lift his hand bringing it closer to your mouth. his thumb sticks out and lays itself on your tongues. your mouth closes around it. your tongue swirls the finger and suck at it slightly.

your eyes never move from his. his float to your mouth every now and then but mainly stay on your eyes.

you shift your lower half forward rubbing against his boot. you moan against his finger. there’s a low groan the comes from his throat.

his other fingers softly grip your jaw, tilting your head up. he takes his thumb out your mouth putting it into his own, then pulls it back out.

you frown and stand, already missing the connect his boot had with you. you walk around the desk and stand inc front of him.

“now what?” you ask, inches from his face.

his hands places themselves on your cheeks, but most of his hand is on your jaw. he pulls you forward, connecting his lips to yours. your hands grip his button down, fistfuls of the shirt being pulled towards you.

you moan against his lips and he smiles at the sound. his kisses move from your lips to your jaw and down your neck. he finds your pressure point, that one specific vein and licks it. he kisses it again and sucks the area.

“fuck,” you breathe out, your head falling back and to the side to give him more room. his hands roam down to your thighs, he squeeze them and pats one. you get the hit and hop up, he pulls you and settles you on the desk.

his hands float back up to your waist, under your dress, kneading at your skin. you were so soft against his calloused hands. you assumed he was a country man of sorts. his boots and stetson hat gave away a lot. you thought it was hot.

his lips find yours again. it was easy for them too. his tongue swipes across your bottom lip and your mouth opens quick. he tasted good, the marlboro was an easy taste to identify. you thought of the smoke leaving his mouth just to invade your own.

you were growing impatient. your hands journeyed down and started to unbutton his shirt, he pulls away to give you some air.

“this fucking shirt,” you murmur looking down at the buttons.

“you got a mouth on you,” he tells you, replacing your hands with his own and unbuttoning the shirt and taking it off way quicker than you ever could.

“do something about it,” you tell him in a sultry voice with a smile he couldn’t refuse.

he matches your smile and grabs your hips, pulling you towards him and off the table. you land on your feet and he spins the two of you around, knowing he’ll need something to lean back on.

“knees. now,”

you follow his instructions quickly, falling to your knees. you stare at his belt buckle, its huge, you lift your hands and undo his belt, then his button and zip to his blue jeans. you pull his jeans and boxers down at the same time.

his cock springs free and damn it if it’s not the biggest one you’ve ever seen. you haven’t had much experience but fuck, it was big.

you look u pat him with doe eyes and open your mouth, you stick your tongue out and lick his cock from the base all the way to the tip. leaving the tip with a kiss.

“come on pretty girl, don’t keep me waiting. put that pretty mouth to good use,” he says, his hands going to the back of your head and gripping your hair.

“yes sir,” it was the first time you didn’t respond with an attitude or a quick comeback- you couldn’t even think with his cock so close to you.

“you do like being ordered around,” he tells you.

you sink it into your mouth, your tongue under it. you feel his tip touch the back of your throat and you haven’t even made it to his base yet.

“oh fuck,” he breathes, watching you take his cock deep into your mouth.

you pull back, taking your hand and stroking it first. rhett brings his hand up that was gripping the desk and spits in his hand, he lowers it down to you, “spit,” you spit into his hand and he strokes himself with you.

you drag your tongue across his slit where pre cum has formed and sink your mouth on him again. his hand grips your hair tighter as he begins to guided you.

“look at me,” he demands, your eyes dart up to his.

his hips buck once and tears form at the corners of your eyes. he pushes your head a few times careful not to hurt you.

his other hand comes to your cheek and his thumb wipes at the tear coming down your face, “you’re doing good,” he praises, “ain’t never had someone this good,” he tells you, “you’re good, pretty too,”

the wetness between your thighs grows. you’d have a spot on your underwear if you had any.

he pulls you back, “good girl,” he murmurs pulling up up to him again. he turns the two of you again so you’re back is to the table, he lowers himself. he lifts you dress up and chuckles.

“yeah you didn’t just come here upset about a grade, did you?” he asks dragging his thumb through you.

you shudder at the feeling, shaking your head, “mmm mmm,”

“words,” he says, continuing to drag his thumb through you.

“no. no i didn’t. mr. abbott- please,”

“call me rhett darlin,” he tells him.

“r-rhett… please,”

“please what?” he asks, quickening his pace, then focusing on your clit.

“fuck me, please,” you whine.

“that’s better,” he takes his hand from, earning another whine from you, licks his thumb like it’s nothing and and grabs you under your thighs. he lifts you and you’re fast to wrap your legs around him.

he turns and walks a little laying you on his desk.

he pulls you closer to him, lining himself up with your entrance.

he pushes into you slowly, his hands griping your hips. you’ll definitely have bruises when it’s all said and done but the painful let good. so so good.

you’d let this man ruin your life and you think you’re already letting him do it right now.

he pushes in further, you let out a slightly pained whine, “too big,”

“you’re doing so good,” he says as he begins moving back and forth.

it hurts but you like it. a lot. the stretch, the grip his hands have on you, his words. you hang onto his words.

“taking me so well,” he tells you in a cooing voice. he reaches up moving some hair out of your face, “look at me baby,”

you open your eyes to se whim looking at you. his eyes full of amazement and bliss.

“you okay?” he asks, you nod, “words darlin,”

“i feel… really good sir, thank you,” you squeeze your eyes shut as he bottoms out. he stays there for a moment, closing his own eyes and cursing under his breath.

“there’s those manners, good girl,” he says. he starts rubbing your hips, knowing his grip was firm.

you wanted to roll your eyes, to be a brat but you just couldn’t. you didn’t want to stop the pure bliss running through your veins.

rhett picks up the pace, back and forth, finding a rhythm with your hips that are moving but only barely.

your hands find his wrists, you wanted to feel all of him. he pulls you up by grabbing your worst and holding you close to his chest. one hand holding himself up on the desk and the other on your lower back keeping you up.

your nails claw at his back, he loans from the feeling. the feeling of your nails, your chest on his, you.

you were warm and he liked it, fuck did he like it. if he could stop and just stay like this forever he’d gladly take the offer.

“rhett, will you… please,” he knew what you were saying, he reaches down between you two and rubs circles on your clit. slow and sensual at first, your moans and whines and huff telling him to move back.

“come on baby,” he tells you in a deep voice, right near you ear.

you can feel it building up inside you, higher and higher begging to be let out.

“faster,”

“me or my finger?” he asks.

“you,” you breathe out.

his hips pick up pace immediately, back and forth, the sloppy sounds of you slick between the two of you, skin on skin. it was loud in the big room.

“shit, darlin,” he says keeping his pace.

“r-rhett-”

“go ahead,”

the permission sent you over the edge. your hands tangle in his hair, lightly pulling- you needed something to hold on to. your mouth coming down on his shoulder, biting to keep the moans from being to loud.

“fuck,” you moan against his shoulder.

“can i come inside you darlin?” he asks, the question of consent made you go even more crazy. you nod against his shoulder.

the bite sent him over the edge. a few more pumps and he was gone. his knees shake slightly, his hand moving to you middle back, keeping you close as you both twitch. he leans forward, moving his other to keep him up on the desk, not letting you down on it.

he shudders against you, you matching the same shudder. thank god you always remember your birth control.

after a few moments, you move your teeth from his skin. you kiss the bite a few times, apologizing.

“sorry about that,” you tell him.

“you can do that to me whenever you like darlin,” he tells you, his thumb making small circles on your back, “you’re heaven,”

you latch onto him, keeping yourself up right. you pull your head back to look at him. his gaze is dazed and euphoric.

he pulls out, slipping his boxers and jeans back on along with his shirt, once he’s dressed, he helps you off the desk: your thighs ached in a delicious way and your hips were sore. you loved it.

his hands ghost your hips, “you okay?”

“never been better,” you smile up at him, helping him button up his shirt.

he matches it, leaning down and kissing you. the kissing was soft and sweet… at first. then the both of you became hungry for more, but when your eyes caught the clock behind him you pull back.

“you have a class in five minutes,” you say biting your lower lip.

“you think i care when you’re here in front of me?” he asks.

“it’s your job,” you tell him, “we can do this again. right?” you look at him, making your eyes wide and glossy. a pleading stare.

“whenever you’d like darlin,”

you give him a kiss on the cheek, “bye mr. abbott,”

he gives you a bye back adding your lat name with a miss in front of it.

and then starts your weekly affair.

[veryfruitywriting]

Imagine After everyone becomes human and its just you and mac living together (I was so happy that it was hinted at that Mac lives with us when their human)

You find a kitten one day on your way home and the kitten just LOVES mac like sitting on them always near them because u know cats on laptops n keyboard

(I do think it be funny if the kitten and mouse hate each other so its just them running around mac all the time)

this is SOOOO cute. ohmygod.

i’m sorry, this definitely could’ve been in a headcanon format but i LOVE setting the scene. this also just gave me an excuse to write about Mac and the reader’s lives after the realization of Mac.

A NEW ADDITION TO THE FAMILY

a mac ( date everything! ) x reader oneshot

word count: 3k (3,043!!!!)

Life has been so sweet to you and Mac after you had realized them.

Everyone had left, finding their own paths and discovering who they were on a much deeper level. Mac, however, stayed with you which made sense as you both were a couple now. You had completely forgotten how nice it was to share a routine with a loved one.

The house didn’t feel empty like it did before.

It felt lived in. This healed a part of you.

Visiting the outside world with Mac has been a blast. You were there to witness every ‘first’ they were experiencing. Especially in the food category; fast food, sweet treats, iced drinks, all of that fun human-made stuff. “Wow, these cookies taste completely different than the ones websites constantly request.” Mac grinned, wiping their bottom lip with their thumb. They soon extended the second half of the cookie towards you, “Have a bite.” That was a new trait you both had discovered about Mac; That they LOVED to share. Whatever they ordered, you had to take a sip or a bite. It didn’t matter if you were hungry or not, they wanted to share this with you and you couldn’t say no to that beaming face.

The after process of realizing them was a bit tricky, you helped them get used to their fully developed-human body. They couldn’t rely on the internet anymore nor switch into their old form to take care of themself. They learned basic human needs such as hunger, physical and mental wellness, and of course—the best of it all—genuine sleep. It was a slow process as you had to remind them to sleep and be there when they got overwhelmed with these new senses, but other than that, it wasn’t hard. In Mac’s opinion, it was all worth it.

After you realized Mac, you both learned that even the mouse transformed too! They were quick to jump off of Mac’s shoulder and land on yours, eagerly rubbing their small face against your jawline. Expressing their small act of gratitude towards you. Mac had informed you that their name was Roni months ago, and you couldn’t believe how cute it was. You took care of Roni as well. You knew a handful of useful facts and information about small animals and had the money to get a mouse’s necessities, so it was clear as day that they were being well taken care of. You had even created small handmade ‘beds’ in every room for Roni. They love hanging out on both you and Mac’s shoulders but there are moments where they got tired of holding on, so the little beds were a little resting area for them. They would simply lay in their bed and watch the two of you from afar. Roni loved being in the same room as you, no matter what you two were doing, they just wanted to be in the same proximity. You three were a cute little family.

Because of this transformation and the love you both had for each other, it was nice to spend every morning and every night together. Mac tended to be more affectionate towards you in the morning and it hasn’t changed one bit. Waking up next to you every morning was a blessing. They would plant kisses on your forehead and cheeks like a sacred routine, cupping your face with their gentle hands to admire your sleepy expression. It was hard to not explode with the amount of serotonin that tingeled their entire body. Even when you hand them their morning coffee, they can’t help but express their thanks with a quick smooch. Everything you do for them will be received with a kiss. Your actions will never go unnoticed.

During the first few weeks, days felt very slow especially as you two were in the honeymoon phase of your relationship. You were offered a new job after working remotely for some time, it paid much better and was more enjoyable than the work you were dealing with before. Even the co-workers you were paired up with were slowly becoming your friends! Life was worth living!! But you couldn’t lie to yourself and say you weren’t eager to go home early during this era. You yearned to be with Mac. To lay in their arms (with Roni sleeping on one of the pillows) and nap the day away in the comfort of your own home.

Mac, however, stayed at home. They were working remotely at the time being, trying to understand more of their bodily self and to also build their resume. It wasn’t long until they worked for a bigger company but for the meantime, they worked in the comfort of their home. Don’t think it’s not torture for them too. They miss you dearly and count down the hours until you returned from work to pamper you in affection and admiration.

Of course, there were the nightly routines. It wasn’t anything too complicated; eat dinner at the kitchen table to debrief about each other's day, wash the dishes, and wind down in the living room. You both began to binge watch a show together, one that you had picked out. No worries, you haven’t watched it before but it has been collecting dust in your ‘to-watch’ list for a while now so what better way to finally watch it than doing so with your significant other? It was nice to lounge around on the couch together and just basket in each other’s presence. It made the long work hours worth it.

These little moments you were reliving with Mac made you appreciate the world a little bit more. Everything felt brighter and alive because of Mac. They changed your life for the better and they don’t even know it.

You were walking down the parking lot with a bright smile on your face. There was a cafe around the corner from where you lived, so you thought it would be nice to surprise Mac with a couple of pastries to kick off the weekend with a good start. The day felt right. The clouds helped weaken the sun’s rays and the breeze felt cool against your exposed skin. Work wasn’t horrible either, it went by smoothly and you were scheduled with your best co-workers. So you all were getting stuff DONE. Today was just amazing, everything went according to the plan. It couldn’t get better than this.

Your train of thought was disrupted as a soft meow cut through them. Stopping in your tracks, you began to look around to find any source of where it could’ve come from. After a few seconds, you slowly began to walk once more as the only sounds you could decipher were the cars driving from afar and faint laughter of shoppers nearby. Your hand was hovering above your eyes, shielding them from the brightening sun while you made your way across the parking lot and to your car. Though you swore you heard the bushes on the sideway rustling along with you but decided you were hearing things. As you dug through your bag to find your car keys, that sound was back. It was a small meow.

“Hello?’ You lowered your bags and squinted at the nearby bush. Soon, the leaves rustled slightly before finally revealing a cute little calico cat. Your confused expression was replaced with a joyful one, you had immediately began to fawn over this cute animal. You dropped your pastry bag and squatted down, extending your shaking hand out to reel the cat over. “Pspspspspsps…” The cat was surprisingly friendly to you. It meowed a bit more before it began to rub its body against your legs and torso, it quickly sniffed the plastic bag before returning its attention back at you.

The cat was a bit dirty, a couple of dirt and mud on its leg but nothing too bad. You began to question where it had come from. It was too calm to be a stray, did someone give them up? As you continued to observe them, you couldn’t help but feel an odd familiarity with them. Though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. There weren't any major injuries on them either as they walked and rolled around fine. You extended both of your arms and carefully began to grab the cat. It wasn’t responding, it was simply allowing you to pick it up. You finally stood up and cradled the cat in your arms, examining any other possible injuries. As you ran your fingers across their fur, a small purr was heard. There was a moment of silence. You had many thoughts running through your head, a lot of questions but it really focused on whether you wanted to take this cat home or drop them off at a shelter. The smartest thing you could do for it is to visit the vet. There was a slim chance that the cat had a microchip. Maybe they lost their way home.

As you held the cat firmly with one arm, your free hand quickly grabbed your phone. Ring… ring.. ring… “Hi babe, works running a bit late but i’ll grab dinner when I head home so don’t stress about what to make.” You looked down at the cat, before continuing to speak, “Mhm… miss you too… okay… yup… okay love you… bye!” You shoved the phone in your pocket and quickly unlocked your car. Mac had no idea what you were planning to do and truthfully, you didn’t either.

No microchip. No injuries. The cat was completely fine. The doctor has told you that he was a male 2 year old cat. All that he needed was a couple of shots. You were already at the vet… might as well and get those shots. As you waited, a worker was kind enough to mention about a pet salon that was just around the corner. Well.. since you’re in the area... The next thing you knew, you were a cat owner now. You drove home with a newly bought cat carrier and its necessities in the trunk of your car. You couldn’t help but feel so excited about this unexpected chapter in your life.

You unlocked the door and peered your head in, examining the quiet house. It didn’t take long for Roni to scatter in the room and crawl up your leg. They quickly found themselves on your left shoulder, “Hi Roni…” You cooed, scratching their little head with your finger before walking into the kitchen with your sortment of food. “You’re finally home!” Peering over your shoulder, you watched Mac make their way in the kitchen and quickly towards you. You had no time to respond as they wasted no time and immediately stood up from their chair. They cupped your face and began to pamper you with endlessly kisses before sitting back down. “You were out for a long time. I was beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost.” They joked, removing their glasses and placing them down, “Which would never happen. I had our address ready to be sent to you if you didn’t come back in the next hour.”

“Sorry, traffic got crazy and our dinner spot was a bit busier than usual.” You removed the food from the given bags and began to prop them on the counter. It was hard to know when it was the right time to admit you had gotten them a cat. It took a bit to muster that courage as you mindlessly set the table. “So… I have some news.” “Oh? Did you finally get that promotion?” Your shoulder slumped and before you could ramble about that, you shook your head. “Well, no. But before I reveal it… I got some of your favorites!”

You grabbed the bag that was on top of a nearby chair and handed it to them. You watched as their eyes brightened the second they saw the familiar logo. Mac opened and peered in the brown bag, seeing their favorite sweets mixed in with yours. “Oh, sweet! Thank you!” They placed the bag on the table, “We can snack on this during our show.” Mac grinned, which immediately was a sign that they wanted to kiss you again. But before they could do anything, you held your hands out to stop them from moving. “WAIT!!” They froze with their hands on their armrests. “I’m waiting?” They responded, tilting their head in confusion. You smiled nervously. Your hand gently cupped Roni and transported them from your shoulder to Mac’s. “I have a surprise for us, so don’t move!”

“NO PEEKING!” You called out while jogging out the front door. It didn’t take long for you to retrieve the cat. You stood outside for a moment, calming your nerves before raising the carrier up to your face, “Keep quiet, okay?”

As you arrived back in the kitchen, you noticed that Mac and Roni stayed exactly where you had left them. You were impressed that they hadn’t moved an inch, but slightly worried… they were breathing… right? Whatever. You cleared your throat and held the carrier against your chest, “Okay. This was out of my control, so it was basically going to happen one way or another… this is the part where you turn around…” Mac slowly turned around and found themselves staring at the carrier before closing the distance between you two. “I got us a new addition to the amily!” You smiled happily as you watched Mac and Roni lean in and squint to see the animal inside. “A cat? Since when did you— we get a cat?” “Since this evening, I found him at a parking lot.” You squat down and place the carrier on the floor before slowly opening the gate. It took a second for him to leave the carrier but once he did, he began to run against Mac’s legs and wheels. “I decided to take him to the vet to see if there was anything life threatening to him. He’s too friendly to be a stray and the doctor came to the conclusion that someone just left him there.” The possible scenario made you feel sad and you noticed Mac’s eyes furrowing at the given information. “He is cute…” Mac muttered, their hand grazing the cat’s fur.

Mac’s eyes found your gaze. “But what about Roni? Cats are known to attack mice. What if they don’t get along?” You had thought about it, but oddly enough you didn’t think this cat was going to be a threat to Roni. Before you could plead your case, the cat unexpectedly jumped on top of Mac’s lap. It began to stand up slightly, pressing his paws against Mac’s shoulder blade as he stared at Roni. Roni didn’t move. They just stood there and stared back. It almost seemed like they were challenging them to do something. After a few long seconds, the cat sniffed Roni and pressed its head against their body.

Holding your breaths, you and Mac didn’t dare move at all. Worried that one wrong move was going to set things aflame. Roni climbed up the cat’s face and slid down their back, quickly grabbing his newly bought collar to keep them from falling off completely. The cat jumped off of Mac and pranced around the room with Roni sitting comfortably on its back. You both looked at each other with mixed expressions of relief and fear.

It didn’t take long for the cat to join in the routines you all shared.

TV night was much more enjoyable now that you had another snuggle partner in the mix. It made being lazy so much easier. As much as it loved you, it ADORED Mac. When you were at work, you would receive photos during your lunch break of the cat being up in Mac’s personal space. Especially while they were trying to work. All of them ranged from sleeping on top of the keyboard to plopping themselves on Mac’s arms while they typed. That cat loved Mac. You began to wonder if the cat knew what Mac once was.

After the rare moment of Roni and the cat bonding, they weren’t exactly on good terms. The cat was growing to be needy with Mac and since Roni has been with Mac since day one, it rubbed them the wrong way. You’d receive a message from Mac, complaining that the two were chasing each other again. There were times where you couldn’t move because they were running in circles around you. But mostly, Mac had to deal with them. Luckily, they never have harmed each other. Chasing and fighting for Mac’s attention was more than enough for them.

Though there are times where they have come to small agreements. Roni slowly gave up on the handmade beds during nap time and depended on the cat to be their fluffy pillow instead. The cat would depend on Roni to steal some food off of your plates and eat it with them in another room. Their dynamic kept the house on its toes which was a nice change but they knew when to tone it down.

As you laid on the couch, palm resting against your jaw and your arm propped up on the couch cushions, you watched Mac mess with the cat. They held the cat underneath their armpit and began to wave their front paws around with the theme music. Then it hits you. The cat reminded you of a video Mac had shown you the first time you started dating. It was a calico cat playing the piano. Mac loved that video so much that they shared it with all of the other objects in the house.

You smile at yourself, hiding it away with the palm of your hand while you watch the love of your life play with the newly adopted animal. The fabric of your hoodie was being tugged on slightly. You peer down and notice Roni crawling up your upper body and nudging themselves into the crook of your neck. They used the bundled up fabric as a pillow before drifting off to sleep. You felt your heart grow with so much love and joy.

You had a little family and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

[yeonayearns]

Even though your husband Gojo was not on this world anymore, he was still there, just not visible anymore.

Content: short fic, angst, death, Gojo died while reader was still pregnant, Gojo lost to Sukuna, Gojo just watching over, fluff, reader and Gojo has a daughter

a/n: THE ANGST IS REALLLLL YEEH-OUCH!

When you heard the news that your husband, Gojo, had lost and passed away during the fight with Ryomen Sukuna, you were hit with the instant pain of despair and misery.

Why, why, why did he have to go so soon? When he hasn’t even met his daughter to begin with?

Life is not fair, it never is, and it just got more unfair when he passed. What were you gonna do now? Who was gonna support you during your rough times in pregnancy?

Thankfully, your husband’s friends and students have been supporting and helping you. Knocking on your door to give you some company when you’re feeling lonely, or donating baby supplies and your own needs.

You couldn’t have done it without them, if they weren’t there, you’d be drowning in tears already.

—————

7 months have passed, you were now currently being rushed to the hospital after your water broke. It was all messy, you were so scared, your husband couldn’t be there to hold your hand and whisper you some comforting words.

It hurt.

You almost didn’t wanna do it, you wanted to give up, to end the pain, but just when you were about to give up on pushing, you saw him. You saw the ghost of your husband at the corner of your eye, oh how you forgot how lovely he looked, he was holding your hand, yet you couldn’t feel his warmth.

In a blink of an eye, he was gone, but before his ghost disappeared from your sight, you heard him saying:

“Keep going, love. Even though I’m not with you physically, I will always be with you spiritually.”

You gasped as you snapped back to your senses, what he said inspired you and got the energy back in, so with all your might..you pushed, pushed..until..

WAHH—WAHH!

You looked up to see the doctors cleaning your baby and wrapping her in a blanket to keep her warm. Oh my, how she looked like Gojo so much, the only difference was she inherited your hair color.

The doctors handed you your daughter after running a few tests saying: “Congratulations, you gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby girl.”

But their voices were muffled, as you were more focused on your little girl. You tried so hard to not be emotional, but oh was it so hard. She really just looked like her daddy, her sweet and caring daddy that she will never get to meet.

————

3 years later, a lot has changed. Your daughter grew up, and now she is 3 years old! The void in your heart is slowly healing bit by bit as you focused on being more happy.

Today, you took your little girl to her daddy’s grave. She was still very much confused on why you always take her to this place every now and then.

As you were replacing the old wilted flowers with new fresh ones, your daughter tugged at your dress.

“Mama, why do you give that stone some flowers?”

You chuckled, patting her head. “Well, sweetheart, that stone is your papa. I’m replacing the flowers just for him.”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Stone…papa? That stone is not my papa! I only have my mama!”

You smiled softly, placing your hand on her cheek. “Listen, sweetie, do you know why your mummy’s eye color is different from yours?”

Your daughter nodded. “Mhm! Why mama? I always wanted to know!”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, showing her a picture of her papa.

“Because you got the eyes of the person I fell in love with.”

All rights reserved to YeonaYearns, do not steal or repost.