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carbonfiction · 7 months ago

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Dark Desires

older, best friends dad!Logan x reader

summary: a week ago you found yourself drunk texting your best friends dad; something that should've been a mistake, but you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would know everything you'd kept from him all those years. You'd been thinking about it for longer than you'd care to admit; adding to the fantasy. so what happens when logan finally indulges you..

warnings: Swearing, dirty talk, F!Receiving oral, PIV smut, prone bone and missionary, Somnophilla (technically??), daddy kink, roleplay?? pussy sniffing?? Kind of voyeurism? But the person is very much asleep. Also tagging this for dubcon but it’s more pre established consent/free use and slight CNC vibes depending on how you view it? Tagged this the best i believe i can but ultimately you are responsible for your media consumption.

A/N: i don't know where this came from, other than i had a glass of wine and a naughty thought. i tried real hard on this and its a little darker than i usually write- not to mention longer- but i hope yall enjoy a filth filled piece of my intoxicated brain anyway. Et voilà.

Masterlist Words: little over 4k (oop- longest thing ive ever written.. i got carried away..)

Your heart is hammering away inside of your chest so insistently that it feels like your ribs are bruised and your breasts are trying to punch their way out of your dress.

You're still wearing the stupid thing and Laura is drinking another mimosa. Part of you is grateful for that. Yet while you want her drunk and snoring tonight, part of you can't help trying to stop her.

You make eye contact, give her the look. Tell her to slow down because you two have been down this road before. She gets wild, has fun for half an hour, and then spends the rest of the night dizzy in a bathroom asking deep philosophical questions like why do my eyes hurt? And why do guys suck? And do i still have puke in my hair?

But if she's drunk tonight, just enough to sleep like the dead, then what?

You set your own drink aside to check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time this hour and lift a shaky thumb to your texts.

You've read the thread again and again and again, and still you don't quite believe it. The party swirls around you. A hurricane of sound and the smell of cocktails is sour in your nose. You feel the heat of your friends, your fellow graduates. one day lawyers, doctors, professors, professionals in their field; and yet here you are reading over the texts again.

You feel like a little girl and yet simultaneously the most grown of women because you have a secret, a dirty little secret.

You were nearly as drunk as Laura is now when you sent the first text a week ago. You were celebrating the end of finals and you were curled up in bed after a long night out.

One of your other friends had flirted with the bartender. You'd told the girl to stop and Laura had reached from her stool and pinched your leg. Asking if you'd ever needed something so badly that you actually made a bad decision.

Everyone had laughed, all except you.

You know she was teasing and complimenting in the same breath. You're a good girl and everybody knows it. Reliable, honest and never involved with the wrong kind of guys.. Always a reason to why you were too busy to bother. You were studying, too busy hanging out with Laura. Too busy prepping for school, internships and the next two decades of your life.

You're no angel, although of course, no one was. You've had your share of regrettable hookups and disappointing boyfriends, but nothing that set your world alight. Nothing worth risking anything for.

But maybe what Laura had said thread under your skin more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you were just drunk enough to ignore the obvious risk.. Or was it that you'd been thinking about him for an indecently long amount of time?

So with finals over, diploma practically in hand. There was nothing preventing years of pent up lust from sending a jolt down between your legs, setting a crackling fire in your heart and making you sweat. Dripping down your neck, stomach, that spot on your lower back, they all tingled as you crouched on the corner of your bed and wrote a single text.

You: I need something.

You sent it. Had forced yourself to before you chickened out and immediately regretted it. You thought you'd worded it in such a way that you could play it off, pretend it didn't happen.

But you were sure in that drunken moment that Logan would read those three words and know everything you'd kept from him all those years. Every dirty thought, every horny fantasy, everything.

It was all right there in the text. 2am on a Thursday night and truly it could only mean one thing. You put the phone down, tried to make yourself go to sleep.

Logan was an older man with a life. A job, house and a child- your best friend- and you were sure he wouldn't even see the stupid thing until the morning when you could say you meant to message Laura. Not him, not her father. But then you picked up the phone again, half panicked and ready to change your mind, when you'd saw those little dots.

That meant he was writing something back, at 2am on a Thursday night, either in bed or his limo.

Logan: You need to go to sleep

Of course.. Responsible. That was the responsible thing to do. And you would do just that. But first you'd just write a quick text to apologize. Say it was the wrong number and sleep this off; pretend it didn't happen for the rest of your lives.

But.. what if, for once in your life, it could be easy? What if Logan did know everything? What if.. There was something else? Because that was how this all started, hadn't it?

You'd always felt something more, saw something different in his worn eyes, his gruff demeanor. Heard something he was saying when he really wasn't saying anything at all.

Or.. Was it all in your head? Was this only ever a one way infatuation? A young woman's crush, a dark fantasy that only grew darker with each new kink you discovered in yourself? Losing all confidence, you texted back.

You: sorry. Wrong number.

And that was that- or it should've been that- If it was only ever a one way street. You put the phone down, tried desperately to keep your eyes closed, but the moment you heard the phone buzz again you peek.

Logan: Is that true sweetheart?

Oh no, no. it wasn't true at all. You knew he knew exactly who'd texted and why; what you wanted him to do. You'd been thinking about it for years. Adding to the fantasy. Soaking your sheets in the middle of the night when you couldn't sleep, all that brought a temporary relief. If only for a little while; So, you text back.

You: No

Just that. A simple No.

Logan: You telling a lie?

You: Not exactly

Logan: So you wanted my attention then?

You: Wanted? No Logan.. Need.

And yes, you know need is a very strong word.

Logan: You feel very strongly about that huh? Strong feelings can be dangerous sweetheart.

You: what if i want something dangerous.

You answered back with the most honest thing you could say. And then there was a pause, a very long pause, in which you could see no dots, and even started to wonder if he'd abandoned you. Left you on read.

A thousand images erupted in your mind, different versions of him sitting and staring at your number- your words. Those cheap reading glasses perched on his nose as he wondered if this was some kind of game.

But if it was a game.. Logan was ready to play and after a few minutes your phone dings again.

Logan: you're being a real bad girl tonight, aren't you?

And then it wasn't your best friend's father you were texting. Well, it very much was- that was the crux of it, wasn't it? But now it was also the man. The man on the other side of the phone who was paying close attention.

You: Yes, daddy. very, very bad.

Now, In the darkness of his daughter's room, You imagine colors swirling on her ceiling. Your heart restless like a caged animal and there is a knot in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter by the second.

You don't know how long you've been lying here. 5 minutes or 5 hours. But you know you can't possibly wait another moment... But then you do, because you have to.

You haven't heard from Logan all day and that makes you afraid. Really genuinely afraid that He's forgotten or changed his mind.

Because, well, it's just you and Laura in here, isn't it? You're lying on the floor, a lumpy pillow under your head, and a spare, slightly musty blanket folded under your breasts.

Laura is snoring away in her bed, her limbs tangled with a stuffed animal almost the size of her- one you'd won her from a carnival. It was like old times, she slurred drunkenly. The three of you huddled together in her bed, giggling and watching some crappy reality show.

She'd tried to get you to join her and the animal in the bed, but you'd said no. Insisted that it was too hot tonight. That you'd rather be able to spread out on the floor. Fortunately, by the time you made it up to Laura's room, she was too far gone to argue.

Unfortunately, now though, there's a very drunk girl in her bed beside you, a possible witness to your depravity. And so you lie there, staring at the ceiling and forcing yourself not to text. Not to call. To just ignore the nagging doubt in your gut.

And yet again, you still find yourself opening the text thread. Reading through the things you told him, the things he'd told you. A formed plan and line after line of you promising things. All of the 'Yes, daddy I want this' the 'Please do that to me' The repetitive 'ill be a good girl, Promise' And then, at the very bottom, a safe word. It was when you'd agreed on the safe word that you knew this was for real. Not a fiction in a book or a fantasy playing out in a movie.

The word. Kitty. An inside joke from years ago. The word proof that all the little confidences and conversations held an attraction you were both willing to hide for the sake of decency

But.. you don't want to be decent anymore. You'd confided your fantasy, one that you had dreamt so many nights. Wished for it in the hot, comfortable haven of Laura's bed every time you'd stayed over. The thought of her older, attractively gruff father coming to you in the night and making you submit to his secret lust.

Of him pulling your panties to the side while Laura slept untroubled. Logan ravishing you while you whispered and mewled 'please, daddy, make me your filthy slut'

You've always been his filthy slut, haven't you? Deep In your heart. The thought is turning the wet spot between your legs into a soggen menace. You've been horny before, You've been needy before, but never like this- because you've never tried something like this.

Never wanted something badly enough to ask for it; or even beg for it. This was a dream, a dirty desire, a secret yearning never to be true.

Then you'd drunk texted. You told him and he'd responded, not with shock or disgust, but enthusiasm, cautious enthusiasm. But it was still only text messages. You haven't spoken to him yet, not properly at least. Even when you saw him walk in at the party, or in the limo on the way back to Laura's. You couldn't bring yourself to say a word. Your mouth was so dry, cheeks so hot. Laura had laughed and said you were flushed in the backseat- a lightweight to end all lightweights- when in fact you haven't had a drop to drink tonight.

You're going to throw your phone at the wall, you swear it. But No, that would probably wake her up. Instead, you conclude that you're going to find your pants, and you're going to leave this house and never come back. You love Laura but you can't bear it, can't believe you trusted him with this. You can't lie here and torment yourself about your decisions a minute longer about your need.

Then, your heart leaps into your throat. phone dropping onto your chest with a soft thud. Quickly you brush it off and turn onto your stomach. Your head hitting the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and pulse racing like you've run a marathon.

Through your closed eyelids, you see the glow of the hall light from the open door, only for it to vanish moments later. Either the door has closed or the light's been turned off, but you're not sure which because blood is racing so loudly in your ears. Breath escaping in overwhelming gasps.

Do you hear calculated heavy footsteps or is that your imagination? You struggle to listen for Laura. Is she awake or still sleeping? The tension so tight in your chest that you begin to feel dizzy, almost nauseous. Then comes the creak of the floor at the foot of your makeshift bed, the unmistakable presence of another person in the room, their eyes on you.

You can't stop your body from trembling slightly as the sheet is softly yanked away. Adrenaline courses through your veins, making your body buzz with anticipation.

Your legs are bare the cool air of Laura's bedroom. You're laying on your stomach. Face pushed into the pillow, eyes clenched shut as if you're locked into a deep, drunken sleep- like you should be.

Your legs are splayed out, dark lacey panties riding up the crevice of your ass. One of your ass cheek's indecently exposed... then a rough touch caresses over the swell of that exposed cheek, two big exploring hands, gliding over you.

You hear the grunt of a man, and you know it can only be Logan. He's the only other person home.

Your heart is beating so hard you're afraid you're going to pass out. Laura is on the bed, sleeping mere feet away, and her father is groping you in your supposed sleep.

So the question becomes: are you dreaming now? or are you praying this is as far as he'll go?

when Logan pull's the fabric of your panties to the side, you know he's willing to go much further. He's quiet in the darkness around you, but he's big and the house is old; the floor creaking and groaning as he readjust's his heavy weight.

Your panties are roughly hiked over one cheek of your ass, the sound of ripping lace filling your ears. Logan's hot breath roll's over your ass and the tremble in your limbs becomes a full shiver.

You can feel his scruffy face so close to your body, Feel his nose against the crevice of your ass as he roves lower. Dipping further until his mouth- his nose - is pressed into the folds of your bared cunt.

You hear how he inhales deeply, toes curling in response. Your fingers lay over Laura's spare pillow, the case tight in your grip. He's smelling you, nuzzling against your dampening skin not once, but many times. Lewdly breathing in your scent like a dog that's found something it likes.

His calloused hands spread you open so he can breathe deeper still and when hes as deep into your cunt as his face will allow, his wet tongue slides out to lick at you. You cannot stifle your moan at the feeling, immediately biting your lip to keep from growing any louder.

But with this the culmination of so many fevered late night fantasies, you dont know if you are dreaming.

His wide tongue laps at your swollen clit, swiping open the seam of your pussy and to the point just shy of your tighter hole. You hear logan growl into your wet slit like a monster unleashed from beneath the bed. Feeling how how his licks grow stronger, longer and twice as ravenous as he steadily turn your pussy into a drooling, dripping mess.

He laps at you in the quiet darkness of Laura's room, calculated and experienced as you fight to not to cry out. The pressure of an impending orgasm building so tight in your body that it feels time you woke up.

And so you take a deep breath, a rough gasped sound falling out too. Your fingers claw at the pillow as you flex your lower half.

"Hmm?"You grumble, pretending to bat away the cobwebs of sleep. "Wha-whats happening, What are you doing?" You ask, voice thick with mock confusion.

Within moments you feel Logan's tongue retreat from your pussy, a weight so much heavier than your own crawl over your half naked body. You feel him pressed tight against you, still clothed if the scratchy fabric tells you anything, but an unmistakable bulge is hidden inside. Hard and large against your ass you feel Logan's arm rub against your shoulder. A big hand sliding over your mouth.

"Quiet, sweetheart" he growls in your ear. "Daddy's had enough of your teasing"

Another large hand slides beneath your sleep shirt to cup your tender tits, The nipples diamond hard against Logan's palm. You cant help but moan into his hand as you plead.

"Please. Didn't mean to tease" its a wine, petulant in tone.

"Course you didnt.. Shame S' Too late now" he whispers against your ear, teeth biting into your earlobe. The hand on your breast trails down. Right the way down to his slacks.

"B-but Laura" You warn him in a whispered panic, hearing the sound of a zipper sliding down. you struggle teasingly, hips bucking back against him. Its not enough to cause a scene or enough to wake your sleeping friend- his sleeping daughter- but just enough to make him pin your body down. Enough for you to feel a fraction of his real strength.

Logan's muscles bulge from the effort of caging you against the floor and spreading your legs.

"Nuh uh, Stay still. Stay right where ive got you" he murmurs darkly in your ear, voice a low rumble. the words fire through you like liquid lightning as you bite into his palm, not to fight but to restrain a high pitched moan that you fear could wake the neighbors- not just Laura.

"nothing you can do now sweetheart, just gotta take it" Logan says and you hear the mocking smile in the words, feel the throb of his thick cock as it emerges from the confines of his pants. "Kept telling me you were a good girl, so show me"

With your stomach flat against the ground, legs spread wide beneath him, you can do nothing but tremble as his cock slips between your legs. The cock belonging to your best friend's father sliding deliciously across that little bundle of nerves that sparks a whimper of pleasure.

Your eyes roll back as Logans hips buck, cock brushing your clit again, running up and down your slit torturously slow. "fuuuck, you feel that? How hard you've got my cock?"

You're kicking your legs now, moving your hips. It could be viewed as a struggle but its not, not really, you're just so desperately excited you can't keep still.

"Don't need to fight me baby. Just let daddy in hm? let it happen sweetheart."

And then he's pushing inside your body in one heavy thrust; slow and impossibly deep. The weight of him inside your cunt making you mewl against his palm. All the years of secret yearning, wet fantasies and subtle flirtations have all led to this moment.

It doesn't take many thrusts before your tongue is rolling out of your mouth, licking wetly against his palm like a grateful dog- a bitch in heat. You try to use it to muffle the moan that follows, a pitiful sound mixed with pleasure, like you're ashamed to be in the situation.

Used and humiliated around logans cock.

Its push followed by retreat, a half thrust and then withdrawal over and over. "So fucking tight" Logan growls as you wiggle your ass, not certain if your trying to squirm further in to his grip or out.

He's stretching your walls apart, the burn of his size delicious with each heavy he offers. Each bringing a pulsing throb on your clit. "Yeaaaa, that's it, take it like a good girl.." he groans. "S' what you wanted isn't it."

Logans right, this is exactly what you wanted and more. His body trembles atop yours from the exertion, balls squeezed against your ass, his hand on and off clenching around your breast. His thrusts picking up in pace as you struggle and squirm to keep quiet even under his palm

"L-logan" you whimper as he pushes particularly deep, pussy squelching lewdly from your arousal, his hand barley muffling the word. He knows your close before you do, can feel your cunt clenching desperately.

"Getting fucked so good your gonna cum sweetheart?" he rasps in your ear, panting into it. "C'mon, tell daddy how good his cock feels."

"S-so good.. F-fuck yes daddy, please"

You whine and It is a struggle to pry his strong hand off your mouth to get the words out.

"Go on sweetheart. Cum, coat my fuckin cock. Show me this cute little pussy is mine"

and then his big hand clamps back over your lips as he begins to fuck you into the floor. Your orgasm crashes over you in burning waves. Every stroke becoming an ecstatic agony, overstimulation starting to buzz over your bones. Its a constant struggle to hold your moans and neither of you can move properly for the risk of waking Laura .

But Logans hips remain unrelenting, Fucking you prone on your friends floor. His balls swinging, swatting unbearably at your clit with every entry. The heat of him and being trapped against the floor is almost unbearable, but so is having to keep your whimpers quiet. sweat beads hot on your brow

you can hear his own desperate attempts at staying quiet. Broken only by muffled groans, grunts of exertion, and primal chesty growls as your cunt clenches wetly around him.

Yet the discomfort of overstimulation is no match for the absolute bliss of your submission. Your toes curling so hard you're on the verge of a cramp.

The friction between your clit, Logan's cock and the floor builds to an intolerable pressure. Something must give way. The temptation to lose all control and scream his name too great. Now that possibility of you blacking out is too dangerous to ignore. So you say it the word.

"Kitty!"

Not because you want to, but because in this moment you have to. Almost as soon as the word leaves your lips and sinks into the pillow, wet from saliva and tears, you feel his body shudder. muscles seizing while a heavy groan sounding out into the skin of your neck.

"you okay?" he pants softly worry creasing his brow. "Was it too much?"

Your wordless and it worries him. Making him pull back, cock slipping free with a hushed hiss as he helps you shift onto your back, so he can look at you properly.

Your hands rise, fingers caressing his scruffy cheeks. "M'okay" you pant, eyes on him. "wasn't too much. Promise."

No, in fact, It was just right- before it all overwhelmed you that is. Now? now you just want to hold him, make love to him. Hold onto something- someone that isn't really yours. Eye to eye, your mouth slides back over his, legs spread back open, ready to welcome his length back inside. Without a word you buck your hips down, beckoning him to fuck you again.

Things are much quieter this time. Pace slowed to deep grinds rather than shallow thrusts, pleasure once again coiling in your gut as you lean up to watch his cock disappear inside.

"Feel so good sweetheart, my good girl" he coos, lips against yours as his hand slips back to cup your breast. "My good girl with a fuckin perfect body"

You keep your eyes on logan, blissful smile across your face, and for this moment he's not your best friends father. Not with the way he's gazing down at you with a mixture of lust and long held affection. "always wanted you" he whispers, hand moving back from your breast to cup your cheek. "But I would have kept that secret forever.."

You squeeze him to your chest, heart stuttering at the admission as you lock your arms behind his neck, legs tight around logans waist. You whimper back his name, a plea on your tongue.

"Want you to cum logan.. Please, need to feel it"

You want it more than anything, to feel his cum pushed inside you; for it to drip out later as a downright filthy reminder. You kiss his neck, then cheek, and finally his lips. You want Logan to claim you right here on the floor, right under her nose and you know it makes you a bad friend. Your eyes roll back, hands clawing down his chest as you feel yourself giving up all thought to the rush that flows down the center of your body. The one that begins and ends in the wet, sticky place between your legs, Where the sensitive bud of your clit pulses like a dying star.

it's then he growls much too loud, and you respond back in a whimper, lips pressing tight as you cum together in panted kisses. Him pumping hot heady ropes of cum inside your cunt without reservation or regret as you clench in a vice grip around him.

Tomorrow you will be sore, you know it for a fact. But Tonight.. Tonight You can revel in a fantasy made flesh, your flesh and Logans wrapped around each tight. You drag weak fingers down through his damp hair, then his back, feeling the way his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

Logans panting has subsided by now, breaths no longer crackling besides your ear. He plants mouthy kisses at the juncture of your neck, ever so gently, like a sated wolf nuzzling at the muzzle of his mate. You giggle quietly as those kisses grow fiercer, teeth nipping at your neck.

"my good, great, naughty girl" he murmurs against your skin, voice soft. "you feeling okay sweetheart? sure it wasn't too much?"

You nod and he can feel the enthusiasm seep from the move as you grasp his face again. "Mhm, better than okay. Was perfect" you hum sleeplily, content in his hold, in the scent of him. Your eyes flutter, lashes tickling his cheeks as you kiss him long and deep, until the rub of his beard hurts your face and sleep begins to take you under.

You both know tonight was the culmination of so many fevered dreams. The breaking point of lust and its power that can't be fully expressed in words. So he holds you close- just as you do him in your rest- for a little while longer, until light begins to filter soft through the curtains and the reality of what you'd both done really begins to set in.

thats it!! lemme know what you thought anddddd yea! asks are always open to shoot the shit, drabbles and more! <333

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yannawayne · 11 months ago

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i. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Mild sexual jokes, Making out, Blood, Explosions, Mentions of Child Abuse, Good Aunt-Mom Selina Kyle AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

 NEXT ->

༻⊰───⋅

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 9:02 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

SELINA'S DEFT FINGERS SLID over the fabric of the dress, adjusting and smoothing it until it drapes perfectly over your figure. The elegant emerald gown shimmered softly under the dim apartment lights, the material flowing luxuriously against your skin.

"You didn’t steal this, did you?" you murmur, adjusting the necklace that rests delicately around your neck. "I’d rather not end up in jail tonight."

"The dress? No, it’s one of my old ones," Selina scoffed, turning away and handing you a pair of black heels. "But if anyone asks about the necklace, just say it’s a family heirloom. Which, technically, it is."

You shot her a pointed look. She rolled her eyes with a smirk.

"Oh, hush. I haven’t stolen anything in... at least a month," she drawled.

"A month, wow! That’s a new record," you teased, slipping into the heels.

Selina laughed and shook her head. "Don’t get too comfortable. Just because I’m on a hiatus doesn’t mean I’ve gone straight."

"Well, let’s hope your hiatus lasts at least through tonight," you winced.

She smirked, giving you a once-over. "Trust me, darling, tonight is all about you."

You were about to respond when Selina suddenly snapped her fingers.

“Before I forget...” she said, reaching into one of her drawers. She pulled out a thigh strap and wrapped the leather around your leg, fastening it securely.

Then, she slid one of her blades into the strap. You rolled your eyes but accepted the gesture with a resigned nod. It was Gotham, after all—being prepared was always a need.

“Damian’s got me covered tonight,” you say, trying to reassure her. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Selina paused, her hands still on the thigh strap, and gave you a skeptical look. “Sweetheart, I worry about you all the time. It’s not that I don’t trust Damian—he’s solid. But Gotham? That’s a different story. Where those Bats go, trouble’s sure to follow.”

You chuckled, adjusting the strap to make sure it was secure. “We’ll manage, mom.”

Selina Kyle might not have been your biological mother, but she became your mother the moment you were placed in her arms years ago. In that instant, the blood that bound you was inconsequential compared to the unspoken promise she made to protect you.

To Selina, you were her child. Not because of any legal ties or shared genetics, but because she chose to be your mother every single day.

And to you, Selina was more than just an aunt. She was the lifeline who stepped in when everything else had crumbled around you.

Selina and Maggie, your biological mother, had both grown up in a fractured family. Their father was a vicious drunkard. Their mother, Maria, was a ghost in their lives—emotionally absent and detached.

When Maria died, the world turned colder. The sisters were torn apart: Maggie was adopted by a warm, loving family, while Selina was abandoned to the unforgiving grip of Gotham’s orphanages. Those grim streets, steeped in shadows and danger, carved her into Catwoman.

But darkness has a way of creeping back into the light, no matter how hard you try to keep it at bay. Maggie, who had managed to build a life of stability and warmth, became a target for the shadows of Catwoman’s past.

Black Mask.

Kidnapped, tortured, and left to die, Maggie was nothing but a ghost by the time the attack was done. Her husband was slain in the carnage, and the only remnant of their family was you— barely a toddler, too young to grasp the gravity of your loss but old enough to feel its weight.

With no other family to turn to, she took you in, binding her fate to yours and vowing to protect you from a world that had already taken so much from both of you.

Her life wasn’t easy. She was young, barely in her twenties, struggling to make ends meet in one of Gotham’s most unforgiving neighborhoods. The meager jobs she managed to scrape together were barely enough to cover the rent, let alone the needs of a growing child.

Selina's decision to take up the mantle of Catwoman was never about the thrill of the heist or the allure of jewels; it was about survival—yours and hers. Gotham demanded a price, and she chose to pay it herself, risking her life each time she donned the suit to give you a chance at something better.

You grew up with a keen sense of the world, your intelligence uncovering bits and pieces of her double life. The mysterious disappearances, the luxurious items that mysteriously appeared—each clue painted a picture that you slowly began to understand.

When the time came for the truth to be revealed, it wasn’t easy

Selina’s hand glided across her vanity, fingers brushing over the cool surface before settling on a sleek black clutch. With a flick of her wrist, she turned and handed it to you.

You accepted it with a gleam in your eye, stepping back as you held it close. A playful twirl sent the emerald fabric of your gown swirling around you, catching the light in a way that made it shimmer.

“Well? What do you think?”

Selina’s stern look melted away like ice under a warming sun. Her gaze swept over your outfit, absorbing the delicate neckline, the tailored fit around your waist, and the gown’s fluid cascade to the floor.

In this small, quiet moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. For just a heartbeat, she allowed herself to pretend that the two of you were simply a normal mother and daughter, sharing a simple, beautiful moment together.

“You’ve always had a way of making everything around you look better,” she purred. “You’re going to knock the whole school off their feet. Damian’s going to need a crowbar to keep the other guys away.”

Selina reached out to adjust the straps on your dress, her touch precise and caring. Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, the movement as gentle as a whisper.

“Just remember, darling,” she spoke slowly, “it never hurts to stay safe.”

Ruby-red manicured nails tapped your cheek as she straightened up, a knowing look in her eyes.

Pause. Your eyes widened as you caught the hint of her meaning. “You’re not saying I—”

“I was at that age,” she interrupted with a mock-serious tone. “I’m just saying you should be prepared. Especially with the way that boy looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Make sure he wraps something else too.”

A flush of embarrassment rose to your cheeks. You sputtered and fumbled with the clutch in your hand. “Mom! What the hell?! I think that’s enough advice for one night!”

BEEP!

Just as Selina was about to respond, a car horn blared from outside, slicing through the evening’s quiet. Both of you turned towards the window, where a Porsche 911 emerged from the darkness. It looked painfully out of place against the backdrop of your neighborhood—cracked sidewalks strewn with trash, graffiti-streaked walls, and the occasional flickering streetlamp battling the encroaching shadows.

“Looks like your chariot awaits,” Selina said, her hands sliding up your shoulders as she gently nudged you toward the door. “Have a great time, but keep your wits about you. Gotham’s never as calm as it seems.”

With one final hug, you stepped out of the apartment and descended the narrow, dimly lit staircase. As you reached the bottom, you emerged into the cool night air, where Damian stood by his car parked right under a street lamp.

He was impeccably dressed in a deep black suit that seemed to swallow the surrounding light, giving him an almost smoky allure. An emerald button-up shirt peeked from beneath the jacket, its rich hue a perfect match for the striking color of your dress.

Damian’s smoldering gaze warmed as he saw you approaching, a small, approving smile curling at the corners of his lips. He lifted two fingers in a beckoning motion, and though you rolled your eyes, you stepped forward.

“Beloved,” he greeted, extending a hand to you. “You look stunning.”

“Hi, handsome,” you grinned, taking his hand and stepping closer to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Damian responded with a soft hum, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he tilted his head slightly. The kiss deepened just enough to make the moment linger, leaving a warmth that held between you.

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely, Selina’s voice sliced through the night air.

“You’re going to be late!”

Damian pulled away from you so abruptly that it looked as if he’d been yanked back by an invisible force. His face flushed a patchy red, a blend of embarrassment and irritation. He shot a sidelong glance at Selina, his eyes quickly shifting back to you.

Damian huffs, releasing a sharp exhale through his teeth. “Shall we go?”

The click of the car door echoed as Damian opened it for you, his lips twisting into a scowl. You settled into the plush passenger seat, the soft fabric of your gown rustling as Damian carefully lifted it to prevent any creases.

While you adjusted yourself in the seat, you glanced back and waved at Selina, her silhouette framed against the windows. A snort escaped you as you noticed the deadpan look Damian shot in her direction.

Damian was always somewhat awkward around Selina. As Robin, his view of Catwoman was clear-cut—she was a criminal to be dealt with. And yet, he still held a deep respect for her as your mother.

Once he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the car roared to life with a smooth, powerful purr. The sleek vehicle glided down the streets with impressive speed, Damian navigating through traffic with a confidence that bordered on recklessness.

As he shifted gears, the radio flicked on, filling the car with a soft, pulsing beat.

This may be the night that my dreams might let me know All the stars are closer All the stars are closer All the stars are closer This may be the night that my dreams might let me know

Tilting your head back into the seat, your hair bunching around your shoulders, your thoughts drifted to the first time Damian took you for a drive. Both of you had been sixteen then, and his aggressive maneuvering had left you gripping the seat, your heart racing as if you were in a high-speed chase. Now, though, the thrill was familiar, adrenaline thrumming steadily in your blood.

The ride was brief but exhilarating, and soon the car pulled into the school’s parking lot. Sleek cars and limousines lined the lot, each more extravagant than the last. Students and their dates, dressed in their finest formal wear, mingled and laughed, making their way toward the entrance.

Stepping out of the car, the crisp night air greeted you like a refreshing embrace, carrying the delicate scent of fresh flowers and the faint strains of classical music wafting from the entrance. The soft glow of string lights and lanterns illuminated the path ahead, casting a warm, golden hue over the scene. Damian drew you close, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked together.

The ballroom was stunningly elegant.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their shimmering prisms scattering colorful reflections across the polished marble floor. Tables draped in white linens, adorned with fresh roses and flickering candles, lined the room. The dance floor gleamed under the ambient light, already alive with couples swaying gracefully to the gentle strains of Franz Liszt.

The whole scene practically screamed old money.

You were going to die.

You’d never quite get used to events like these. Over the years, you’d been to your fair share of galas and charity balls, mostly because of your relationship with Damian and that brief, awkward phase when Selina was involved with Bruce.

Each time, you had a knack for stumbling through social minefields, unintentionally insulting high-profile guests or spilling wine on someone’s multimillion-dollar gown And, without fail, the next day’s press would seize the opportunity to spotlight you and your social faux pas.

Gotham Academy, with its glossy veneer and elite crowd, was just another arena

It was a breeding ground for rich fucks, each one more insufferable than the last. The halls echoed with the chatter of kids who had everything handed to them, their lives a far cry from yours. The only reason you’d managed to slip through those gilded gates was thanks to the Martha-Wayne scholarship. Without it, you’d still be stuck in the middle of nowhere with your mother, scraping by on whatever scraps you could find.

“Ya amar, are you going to keep staring at the floor? Or may I have the honor of requesting a dance?”

Damian’s voice cut through your self-deprecating spiral as he snapped his fingers in front of your eyes.

Blinking up at him, you pursed your lips. “I don’t know... this is a really interesting floor.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, really? Pray tell, what makes it so interesting that you’d rather stand here instead of dancing with me?”

“I don’t know. I could stare at it all night,” you hummed, crossing your arms. “Plus, we’ve got to keep our thing going, you know? I can't give in that easily.”

“Our thing? What thing?” Damian blinked.

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but still want each other carnally,” you said, throwing your head back as you laughed.

"Tt," Damian deadpanned, reaching out to grab you by the waist. He lifted you off the ground, your feet barely brushing the polished marble beneath. You wrapped an arm around his neck and giggled, holding on as he carried you toward the center of the ballroom.

“You never miss an opportunity to mortify me, do you?” Damian scolded, gently setting you back down on the floor. Both of you assumed a waltz stance, your hands finding their places on each other’s shoulders and waist.

“I think I just enjoy keeping you on your toes,” you replied with a grin, swaying gracefully with him as the music enveloped you.

Damian's lips curved into a wry smile, despite his grumbling. "You know how much I despise these games you play, Cat."

“Oh? Cat?” you laughed, the rich, velvety fabric of your dress brushing against Damian’s sleek suit as you danced. “Are we going for the classic Batman and Catwoman trope here? Because once Selina retires, I could always take up the mantle of the next Catwoman.”

Damian’s smile dropped, replaced by a look of exasperation. “Please do not. I fear what will become of you then."

“Why not?” you asked, batting your lashes coyly. “Does the idea of me as Catwoman not thrill you?”

Damian made a noncommittal sound, his ears tinged with red as he averted his gaze.

“Don’t get shy on me,” you said with a grin, your voice dropping to a teasing purr. Your hand glided up his jaw, your touch lingering just enough to be felt.

A shadow of something intense flickered in the depths of his jade-green eyes. Damian’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his gaze narrowing into a mock glare that barely concealed the warmth beneath.

“I guess I would not... be entirely opposed to that idea,” he muttered.

He led you into a slow dance, his movements fluid and graceful, reminiscent of those quiet, moonlit nights in his manor’s kitchen. You recalled late evenings when the room was bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. On those nights, the world outside felt far away, leaving just the two of you swaying gently to the soft strains of music playing from his phone’s speakers.

It was moments like these that peeled away his walls. In the soft glow of the ballroom lights, the tender, affectionate side of him emerged—like a rare flower blooming in the quiet of twilight. Each layer revealed a deeper, more intimate part of him, offering you a special kind of attention that made every shared glance and touch feel intimate.

“This crazy, almost maddening attraction I have for you makes me feel like I want to stab myself,” Damian murmured as he spun you around, the fabric of your dress flared out like a blooming flower at his feet.

“Wow, you really have a way with words,” you said with a smile. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Damian’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. He drew you back into his embrace as he guided you across the dance floor, your bodies moved in perfect harmony, like two pieces fitting together in a delicate puzzle.

The world around you seemed to blur into a gentle haze of soft music and swirling lights. Damian’s gaze, however, remained sharp and vigilant.

“I don’t like how they’re staring at you,” he murmured, his green eyes narrowing as they scanned the crowd. His voice carried the familiar edge of possessiveness. “Perhaps they need a reminder of whom you belong to.”

“Damian, no—”

Before you could protest, Damian leaned in, closing the distance between you with a smooth turn of his head. The kiss was tender yet heated, his teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip.

Anyone who glanced your way would see Damian Thomas Wayne with his lips pressed against yours, making it clear who he was with. It wasn’t the first time he’d been so overt—there was that incident when you both ended up in detention because he couldn’t keep his hands off you by your locker.

You whined softly, trying to pull away, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips in a delicate, glistening thread. “We’re in public—”

“Shut up,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, before diving back in. The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow, shuddering sigh, mingling with his as he drew you closer, his hands firmly cupping your hips.

Damian seemed to swallow every sweet sound you made, chuckling softly as you mumbled curses against his lips, your grip on his tie tightening. The world around you blurred into insignificance, leaving just the two of you enveloped in a bubble of intense sensation. Your breaths came in ragged bursts, eyes fluttering open and then closing again, lost in the heat of the moment. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless and flushed, the lingering electric buzz of the kiss still crackling in the air between you.

Damian and you locked eyes, his face blank until a shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face.

"I hate you so much," you scowled. “You’re impossible, Damian Wayne.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing whisper. He leaned in, using your own words against you. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Before you could respond, he tilted your chin up, his lips brushing lightly against yours as he whispered, “Let them see. They’ll just have to get used to the sight.”

The kiss was softer this time, more tender, as you swayed gently against him, savoring the moment of calm.

BOOM.

Without warning, the tranquility was shattered by a deafening explosion.

The sound of shattering glass and a violent burst of energy tore through the ballroom, turning the once elegant space into a scene of utter chaos. Crystal chandeliers swung erratically from the ceiling, their light flickering in disorienting patterns as debris rained down like confetti. The room erupted into a frenzy of screams and frantic movement as everyone scrambled for cover.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, your voice barely piercing through the screams and destruction.

CREAK.

A sudden, ominous groan echoed through the room, drawing your gaze upward. The chandelier, swaying precariously, seemed to shudder as its support gave way. Then, with a heart-stopping creak, the massive fixture began to fall.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Damian’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a firm grip.

“Move!”

You scrambled to keep up with his rapid pace, but your long gown snagged on the edge of a flipped table, sending you sprawling to the floor with a jarring thud. Your hand slipped from his grip, and Damian, realizing you were no longer beside him, turned back in a surge of panic.

With no time to guide you gently to safety, he yanked you up from the floor. He pulled you both behind the overturned table, using it as a makeshift barricade.

The chandelier crashed down with a thunderous roar, sending shards of glass, splintered wood, and shattered fragments spiraling through the air. As the debris rained down, you screamed and reached out desperately for Damian. Without hesitation, he rushed to your side, enveloping you in his arms. He pulled you close, pressing your face into his chest and shielding you from the rain of debris with his body.

Finally, the noise of destruction faded into a heavy silence. Damian lifted his head slightly, peering down at you.

“Are you okay?” he panted, voice edged with worry.

Shaken up, you heaved and shook your head vehemently, unable to find the words through your trembling fear.

“What the fuck was that?”

"I don't have a single clue," Damian shrugged, eyes still scanning the room as he peeked over the edge of the table.

From the smoke emerged a middle-aged man, suspended in the air by his mechanical arms—sleek, metallic, and bristling with a variety of intimidating gadgets. The arms whirred and slashed through the air with deadly force, carving through the walls and sending more chunks of debris down.

“You think you can just throw away everything I’ve built?” the man roared. “This school, this place, it’s all been a mockery of my work, my life! I’ve sacrificed everything for this and you’ve repaid me with nothing but scorn!”

Damian cursed under his breath. He settled back down, biting off the fingertip of his glove and pulling it off with a grunt. Pulling up his sleeve, he tapped an emergency button on his wrist, activating a silent alert to his family.

“We have to go,” Damian whispered. He shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped you in the fabric, pulling you close. He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as he sprinted through the chaos.

He carried you swiftly through the building’s hallways, the shrill sound of distant alarms and the echo of your hurried footsteps reverberating off the walls. When you finally reached a safer location, he paused briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any further threats.

“I’ll be okay,” you said, your voice trembling as he gently set you down. You gripped his hands tightly, trying to steady your breath. “Do—do you have your suit?”

“It’s in the car,” Damian grumbled, frustration evident in his voice as he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“I’ll stay here and start helping with evacuations,” you say, already moving to slip out of your heels, the shoes discarded onto the floor.

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, shaking your head firmly.

“No,” you said firmly, your scowl sharpening. “None of this again. I make my own decisions.”

Damian’s expression hardened. “You’re not a trained fighter. You’re not supposed to be in harm’s way.”

"It's just evacuations. I’m not going to be fighting," you met his gaze as you stood up straight again. “And I’m not going to stand by while others are in danger.”

“Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “but stay hidden and keep away from the villain.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. You met his gaze lovingly before turning to re-enter the chaos. The corridors were now a frenzy of frantic students and faculty, desperately trying to evacuate.

Damian shot you one last look before sprinting back toward the parking lot.

You slipped back into the ballroom, heart pounding in your chest. The smoke swirled around you, as decor and debris lay strewn across the floor. Amid the chaos, you spotted a girl trapped beneath a toppled table, her muffled cries barely reaching your ears. Clutching your dress in your hands to avoid tripping, you hurried over to her.

“Hey, we need to move!” you called out, shoving aside the debris and wrestling with the heavy wood. With a determined push, you finally freed her from the wreckage. She wobbled as she stood, but you swiftly caught her, your grip steady and reassuring. “You’re okay now. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Everyone’s heading for the exits. We need to move quickly,” you replied, guiding her toward the nearest emergency exit. The sounds of the villain’s rampage echoed through the room, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens.

Once the girl was able to get back on her feet and run on her own, you rushed to assist another group, directing them towards the exits and making sure they stayed calm.

SWISH.

There was a sudden, sharp slice, and you snapped your head back toward the ballroom. Damian had reappeared, now clad in his suit.

“Robin?!”

With a decisive, diagonal slash, his katana cleaved through one of the villain’s mechanical arms. The blade sliced through the metal with a sharp, resonant hiss, and the arm’s severed end burst into a cascade of dazzling sparks. Pieces of twisted metal flew through the air like shrapnel, their jagged edges catching the erratic light from the shattered chandeliers.

His cape, a deep, blood-red shroud, billowed behind him like a dark wave, trailing in his wake as he moved. The clash of his katana against the villain’s mechanical arms echoed through the room, each strike a precise blur of red and black.

Amidst the fight, your eyes were drawn to a figure huddled in the far corner. The student, paralyzed with fear, was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed on the destruction unfolding before them.

Without a second thought, you sprinted towards them, nimbly navigating through the scattered debris and overturned tables. As you reached the student, you crouched beside them and gently placed a reassuring hand on their shoulder.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Alright? We’re going to get through this, but you need to move—now!”

The student’s terrified eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope as they slowly began to rise with your help. Their breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, each exhale mingling with the smoky haze that filled the air. You grunted, your muscles straining as you slipped your arms beneath their shoulders, lifting them to their feet.

"Move!" you urged, guiding the student toward the doors. Their feet stumbled over the debris, but you kept a firm grip on their arm, pulling them along through the chaos. As you hurriedly navigated the wreckage-strewn floor, you felt a strange tingling sensation creeping up your leg.

It started as a subtle prickle, almost like static electricity, but quickly grew into an unsettling sensation that made your skin crawl. You glanced down, trying to pinpoint the source, but the shifting shadows and debris obscured your view.

The legs of a spider, sleek and shadowy, crawled up the fabric of your emerald dress. Its tiny, pulsating body was nearly camouflaged against the rich material, and its eight eyes glinted with an eerie green glow, peering out from the shadows of the gown.

Oblivious to its presence, you continued leading the student toward the safer part of the ballroom, focused on ensuring their escape.

The spider’s glow intensified, its eerie green light pulsating with an ominous rhythm as it crawled up your arm. Just as you pushed the student to safety, a sharp, burning sensation erupted where the spider sank its fangs deep into your skin. A piercing scream erupted from your lips. The searing pain surged through your body, radiating outwards from the bite like a fiery wave. In a frantic, instinctive reaction, you slapped at your bicep, your nails digging into the skin.

Panicked, Damian’s head snapped in your direction, eyes widening in alarm as he spotted you writhing in pain. In his moment of distraction, a metal arm swung violently towards him. The arm connected with a sickening thud against his side, the force of the impact sending him hurtling through the air.

Damian crashed into a wall with a bone-jarring slam and his body crumpled to the ground, the force of the impact visibly shaking him. He lay there, gasping for breath, spit and blood spilling from his chin.

Groaning, he raised his head, feeling the crack in his mask press against his face. Strands of dark hair fell over his single exposed eye, partially obscuring his vision. Squinting through the haze of pain, he cursed under his breath as he saw the villain advancing toward you.

The spider's venom surged through your veins, a wave of searing, unbearable pain radiating from the bite. You stumbled and collapsed to the floor, struggling to stay upright. Pain tore through you as you crawled toward a nearby pillar, your fingers clawing weakly at the surface

Through the haze of your deteriorating vision and the throbbing fog that clouded your mind, you could barely make out the figure of the villain advancing toward you. His mechanical arms whirred with a menacing hum, their sharp, glinting edges catching the dim light of the ruined ballroom.

The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed you was a blur of red.

With a snarl, Damian lunged, his katana slicing through the air with deadly intent. The blade crashed into the villain's mechanical arm, the impact resonating like a gunshot. Sparks exploded from the severed joint, showering the room in a cascade of crackling light as the villain staggered, his metal limbs convulsing with malfunction.

Sliding across the debris-strewn floor, Damian executed a perfect skid, coming to a stop on his knees. He positioned himself between you and the advancing threat, his katana held in a poised, defensive stance.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Damian seethes. “A pathetic tantrum because your grandiose plans fell apart? You’re nothing more than a washed-up has-been clinging to your failures.”

“You think you know what it’s like to sacrifice everything? To watch your life's work crumble? You have no idea what I’ve lost! My research was going to change the world!”

The villain’s mechanical arms flared up in response, their whirring growing louder as he prepared to strike again. Just as an arm was about to land, the piercing whir of a batarang sliced through the air. It struck the villain’s mechanical arm with precision, a bright explosion erupting from the impact. Damian grunted as he braced himself, holding firm against the shockwave, his muscles straining to keep steady. One hand instinctively dropped to your head, shielding you from the force.

The villain recoiled in surprise, momentarily disoriented by the sudden blast, his movements faltering as the shockwave threw him off balance.

Suddenly, the room was engulfed in darkness. The lights flickered and died, plunging the space into a pitch-black void. Shadows danced along the walls, punctuated by loud bangs and the crackling of debris.

Through the darkness, Batman emerged, his imposing figure cutting through the shadows. The sound of his cape rustling was almost like a herald of doom as he got into a fighting stance.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was a low, commanding growl, “take the girl. I’ll handle it from here.”

Damian wasted no time, swiftly scooping you into his arms. The icy chill of your skin against his own drove a spear of terror through him. The panic clawing at the edges of his mind was a monster he couldn’t afford to face, not now. He focused on keeping you as steady as possible, though your limp form felt like dead weight against him.

He tore out of the ballroom, his shoes skidding on the polished floor as he barreled into the hallway. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale burning in his lungs, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. The entrance was just ahead.

Bursting through the doors, Damian propelled himself into the open air. The scene outside was pure pandemonium. Parents screamed for their children, kids clung to each other in terror, and the harsh wail of sirens pierced the night. Ambulance lights flickered like distant stars in the dark, red and blue blurs.

Now outside, Damian spotted a group of paramedics and, without a second thought, sprinted toward them. His hands shook slightly as he laid you down on the gurney, the coldness of your skin searing itself into his memory.

“She’s unresponsive,” he rushed out in a pant. “Pale skin, cold to the touch. Vital signs are unknown. She needs immediate attention.”

As he spoke, Selina rushed over, her fur coat billowing with each urgent step. The strands of her short, dark hair whipped wildly around her face, framing eyes wide with fear.

She bent down to your level, her breath visible in the cool night air as she placed a trembling hand on your forehead. Her fingers, warm against the alarming chill of your skin, recoiled slightly at the clammy coldness that greeted them. Selina winced, her gaze hardening as she took in the stark contrast between your deathly pallor.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice taut with concern.

A paramedic, swiftly assessing your condition, replied, “We think she’s in shock. We’ll stabilize her and check for any other issues.”

Selina’s eyes, reflecting a storm of emotions, darted between you and Damian.

“Go,” she urged Damian, her voice carrying a firm edge despite the underlying tremor of her fear. “I’ve got this under control. Go take down that bastard and make him pay for what he did.”

Damian hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze lingering on you. Every muscle in his body screamed to stay, but there was still a threat that left no room for hesitation. He nodded and without another word, turned and sprinted back toward the building. His cape flared out behind him, a streak against the night sky.

Selina's eyes followed Damian's retreating figure momentarily before refocusing on the paramedics. She watched them with sharp eyes, taking in every action and every word. Her hand never left your forehead, each pass of her thumb trying to provide comfort that her heart couldn’t.

As the haze of unconsciousness began to lift, you slowly became aware of your surroundings. The dim, unfamiliar light filtered through your closed eyelids, and a dull, persistent ache from the bite lingered in your arm. You winced, raising a hand to your arm to find that the pain had subsided, leaving only a faint, dull throb. There was no scar, just a vague sense of discomfort.

Was that just a dream?

Before you could think about it anymore, your aunt's face was already in your peripheral.

Selina's voice caught in her throat as your eyes began to flutter open. Her grip on your hand tightened involuntarily, a mix of relief and worry playing across her features.

"Hey, there," she said softly. "You gave us quite a scare, sweetheart."

You stared at her in confusion, teeth chattering against the biting cold. Selina’s eyes softened and she shed her coat, the plush fur rustling softly as it slipped from her shoulders. With gentle hands, she draped the coat around you, the dense, velvety texture brushing against your skin. The rich, warm scent of her perfume mingled with the coat’s embrace. As the coat enveloped you, its heat began to seep into your shivering body, gradually easing the icy grip of the cold.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, the words more for her own reassurance than yours.

The night was supposed to be a celebration, a rite of passage, a milestone to cherish. Instead, it had turned into yet another brutal reminder of what Gotham’s streets truly were: a merciless battleground that chewed up hope and spat it out with a sneer.

God, this city was shit.

Selina sighed, pushing those thoughts aside for the moment. The priority now was clear: get you home and into dry clothes.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her fingers tracing a path along your cheek as if trying to reassure herself that you were truly okay.

“Dizzy,” you mumbled. A soft groan escaped your lips as you tried to shake off the haze clinging to your senses. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, only to snap open again with a jolt as a sudden realization struck you.

“Damian—where—” you gasped, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. In a frantic attempt to sit up, you tried to push yourself upright, but the paramedics and Selina were quick to intervene. Their hands gently, yet firmly, guided you back down onto the gurney.

“Whoa, easy there,” Selina murmured soothingly. “Don’t push yourself. The paramedics said you’re in shock. You need to stay still for now.”

You could feel the gentle pressure of her hands, steady and reassuring, as they anchored you in place. Her eyes, bright green, locked onto yours, conveying more than words ever could. She took a breath, her gaze flickering to the paramedics who were working swiftly around you.

“And Damian is... with his father,” she said, her voice trailing off as she gave you a look, the unspoken meaning in it clear.

Selina’s gaze shifted back to the paramedics with her usual air of confidence. She squared her shoulders, her tone now authoritative.

“Is there a chance I could take her home?” Selina asked, brushing her fingers through your hair with a gentle but firm touch. “It’s getting late, and I’d really rather have her safe in her room.”

The paramedic, a no-nonsense woman named Helen, gave Selina a critical once-over before shifting her gaze to you. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in your pale face and the faint tremors still running through your body.

“Well, she’s stable enough for transport, and we’ve done the basic stabilizing procedures,” Helen said, her tone pragmatic. “But she’s still in shock, and it could be risky to move her too quickly. Are you sure you can handle her?”

“She’s my kid. I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” she replied with a wry grin.

Helen’s gaze softened slightly, though her voice remained stern. “Alright, but she’ll need monitoring for the next 24-48 hours. Light meals, plenty of rest. And no strenuous activity. She should see a doctor as soon as possible.”

Selina’s fingers idly traced patterns on the back of your hand as she listened intently to Helen’s instructions.

“I’ll make sure all of that’s taken care of. Thank you,” Selina said, her voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. Helen nodded, seemingly satisfied with Selina’s response. She handed Selina a card with basic instructions and a phone number to call if any complications arose.

Despite your reluctance to leave while Damian was still knee-deep in the battle, your hazy mind and Selina's insistence eventually led to you being pushed into the back of your aunt's sleek convertible.

The drive was a blur of city lights and concerned glances from Selina. You leaned back, your head resting against the cool, smooth leather of the seat. The gentle hum of the engine beneath you was a steady, rhythmic comfort, a small solace amidst the turmoil.

"Don't worry," Selina murmured, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you. "Damian can handle himself. And the Bat will make sure he's safe. You rest. I'll tell you if anything happens to him."

Her words were a quiet promise amidst the rush of the city outside. You nodded weakly, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on your eyelids. As the city sped by, its neon glow and shifting shadows blending into a dreamlike haze, you closed your eyes. The fatigue finally overtook you, and you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

༻⊰───⋅

Sunday , 9:02 AM - Your room, Catwoman’s Apartment.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

There was a deep, throbbing ache in your arm, an insistent rhythm that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, dragging you reluctantly from the depths of sleep. Your eyelids fluttered open to the soft, golden light spilling through the curtains, bathing your bedroom in a warm, comforting glow.

Through the thin walls, the distant murmur of the waking metropolis began to seep in—honking horns, the rhythmic rumble of early morning traffic, and the intermittent chatter of pedestrians starting their day. Occasionally, a siren's wail pierced through the background noise, a sharp reminder of the city's ceaseless pulse.

Faintly, through the walls, the muffled sound of the living room TV drifted to you.

“Good morning, Gothamites! Looking for another beautiful day here in the city. Clouds to start off with, but a pleasant afternoon ahead. Temperature’s in the high 40s—”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

With a groan of frustration, you reached out to silence the blaring alarm clock. As you swung your arm toward it, the clock was crushed under the force. It slammed into the table, which splintered and buckled under the impact. Wood cracked and shattered, sending fragments skittering across the floor. The sudden and violent destruction jolted you fully awake. You stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, at the mess, your arm still extended in mid-air as if it was frozen.

“What the—?” you muttered, your voice trailing off as you inspected your hand. It looked like your hand, perfectly normal and familiar. Just a normal hand.

Carefully, you climbed out of bed, wincing as you surveyed the mess of splintered wood and scattered debris strewn across the floor.

You paused. A sudden, sharp tingle pulsed through your arm, like an electric jolt that raced beneath your skin. It was both invigorating and disorienting, sending a rush of awareness through your senses. Instinctively, you turned your head, your reflexes sharp as your hand darted out to catch a fly that had buzzed too close.

To your shock, your fingers closed around the tiny insect with a reflex you didn’t know you possessed. You stared at the fly, trapped gently between your fingers. Carefully, you opened your hand and let the fly go.

It darted away, disappearing into the room.

“Okay... That was new,” you muttered, shaking your head as if trying to clear away the confusion.

The tingling in your arm surged again, sharper and more insistent this time. You winced, the sensation both alien and unsettling, your mind struggling to grasp what was happening. Instinctively, you extended your hand, your gaze fixed on it in growing confusion.

Then, without warning, your fingers curled involuntarily, and something shot out from your wrist. A thin, silvery thread erupted into the air, glistening with a strange, iridescent sheen.

THWIP.

The web snaked through the room, swift and fluid, before anchoring itself with a solid thunk against the wall. The sight of it—a web, unmistakably organic, stretching taut and firm—left you gaping in shock.

“What the actual fuck,” you freaked out. You took a hesitant step forward and tugged on it, half-expecting it to dissolve under your touch. But the webbing held firm.

You tried to pull it away, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Grunting, you pressed a foot against the wall for leverage and yanked harder. The webbing resisted with surprising strength, and a series of warning cracks echoed before a chunk of concrete broke away, crumbling under the strain.

The sudden release caught you off guard, sending you stumbling backward. You lost your balance and fell hard onto the floor, the impact knocking the breath out of you. For a moment, you just lay there, sprawled across the hardwood, your chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what just happened.

“What the fuck did I just get myself into?” you muttered to yourself, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your throat.

When you finally moved to stand, curiosity got the better of you. Experimenting, you aimed your hand at different parts of the room, determined to understand this strange new ability.

This time, when you extended your hand, the web shot out with precision, latching onto a nearby lamp. You gave it a pull, and the lamp skidded across the floor toward you.

There was another tingle, and you perked up. The sensation was almost electric, a ripple of anticipation that seemed to focus on your bedroom door. As you turned toward it, the door swung open and Selina stepped in, dressed in her pajamas.

"What's with the noise...?” she trailed off and froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as they took in the chaos of the room. Broken wood and scattered debris covered the floor, interspersed with strands of glistening webbing clinging to the walls and lamp.

“Oh,” Selina murmured in surprise. She stepped cautiously over a particularly large piece of broken wood, her eyes darting around the room. Her gaze lingered on the webs, her brow furrowing as she raised an eyebrow at you.

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

You stood there, face heating up as you tried to pull your hand back. “Y-Yeah, I think I need to work on my control.”

Selina shook her head, a frown on her lips. “Okay. First... Let’s get this mess cleaned up before the landlord starts asking questions. And maybe—just maybe—try not to redecorate the whole apartment with your... spider silk.”

༻⊰───⋅

A warm mug of coffee was placed in your hands as Selina settled beside you. You took a sip, but your knee continued to bounce in an anxious rhythm. She had called the school earlier to inform them that you would be taking it easy for the week, citing sickness as the reason.

You cast a glance at the puncture marks on your wrists with a mix of disgust and unease.

Oh, you felt sick alright.

"Alright," Selina said, taking a sip from her own coffee mug and setting it down with a clink. "We need to figure out what’s going on and how to handle it. The sooner we get a grasp on this, the better."

You nodded absentmindedly, flexing your fingers around your mug.

Selina sat with a laptop positioned between the two of you, its screen a chaotic mosaic of open newspaper articles and news websites. Humming softly to herself, she clicked through the pages, her eyes darting across headlines and images. The rhythmic clatter of her clicks was punctuated by occasional pauses as she focused on key details.

“Am I a meta?” you blurted out, staring at your reflection in the dark liquid of your coffee.

"Well," Selina began, her tone measured, "based on what we've seen so far, you're likely displaying meta-human traits. Though," she added with a wry smile, "I'm pretty sure I’m human despite the whole cat shtick. Same goes for your mother. Your father...well, that’s a different story."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"

"Secretive guy. Kind of insane," Selina murmured to herself. "He did genetics research—"

She paused.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice trailing off as she seemed to piece together something significant. "Your father was involved in genetics research..."

Selina licked her lips before grumbling and typing into the laptop. The screen flickered, and she pulled up a dense academic paper with your father's name prominently displayed. The title read: "Genetic Enhancement through Arachnid DNA Integration: Potential and Pitfalls."

She stared at the screen for a moment, a mix of disbelief and concern crossing her face. "Total nutjob," she muttered, shaking her head.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the technical jargon. "So... what’s it say?"

Selina’s fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling through the dense paragraphs. "It describes experiments involving spider DNA to enhance human traits—strength, agility, and reflexes. Medical use too."

RING!

The sharp ring of your phone shattered the silence, jolting you both. Startled, you fumbled with the mug in your hand, which slipped from your grip and tumbled toward the floor. Your reflexes kicked in, and your foot shot out, catching the mug mid-fall with a swift kick, sending it flying back up into your hand. You blinked.

Selina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, her gaze flicking from the mug in your foot to you. She grabbed a notepad from the desk, her pen already poised, and began scribbling furiously.

“Fast reflexes,” she muttered.

You scrambled to set the mug back on the table, your hands slick with sweat as you snatched your phone off the couch.

"Hello?" you answered, nervously wiping your damp hands on the fabric of your jeans. "W-Who’s this?"

"Beloved?" Damian’s voice crackled through your phone, sharp with an edge of worry. Arabic curses slipped through his words. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I didn’t mean to. I was knocked out after the confrontation.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You got knocked out? What happened?”

"Just a minor inconvenience for someone of my skillset," he said dismissively. "I’m fine now. But what of you? Father mentioned that Selina told him about your sudden absences from school.”

You hesitated, glancing at Selina, who shook her head vehemently. She pressed a finger to her lips, urging you to stay silent about the spider situation.

"Fine!" you squeaked. "Totally fine. Just... family matters."

Damian’s voice was laced with skepticism. "Family matters? Are you sure you’re alright?"

"Yep," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the strain. "Absolutely. Just... you know, the explosion rattled me a bit. The paramedics said I needed some rest for a few days.”

"I can head over to care for you—"

Selina rolled her eyes and extended her hand.

“Give me the phone,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. You hesitated for a moment, but the stern look on her face made it clear you had no choice. Reluctantly, you handed it over.

"Damian," she greeted him with a sickly sweet tone, "this is Selina. Everything is under control here. There’s no need for you to come breaking into my apartment."

There was a grunt before Damian responded, "Miss Kyle, I insist. It’s no trouble. I should be there to help. As any partner would."

Selina’s eyes flashed with irritation as she leaned against the couch, arms crossed. "I appreciate your concern, kid. But it’s really not necessary. She’s fine."

"Fine?" Damian’s voice took on a mocking tone. "After a confrontation like that? I highly doubt it. Recovery after such an incident can be complicated.”

Selina scowled. Her voice cut through the phone line with a sharp edge. "Damian, do you seriously doubt my abilities as a guardian?"

There was a pause.

"With all due respect—"

"I've got this!" Selina hissed. "She's safe, she's resting, and you're not needed here right now. Understood?"

There was another pause before Damian reluctantly agreed. "Understood. But if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first to know," Selina assured him "Now, go take care of yourself. I have got this handled."

"Fine," Damian said, still sounding begrudging. "Take care."

Selina handed the phone back to you, her expression exasperated. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“You couldn’t even imagine,” you snorted as you pressed the phone back to your ear. “Hi, baby.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the speakers, the faint static only adding to the gruffness of his tone.

"Tt. Hello," he grumbled, his tone falling flat. You couldn’t help but snicker, the sound escaping despite your best efforts to stifle it.

“Don’t be mad,” you whisper into the phone. “I’ll only be gone for a week. You’ll survive. Mom's right—I’m in good hands. You need to focus on recovering too.”

“Anything at all. Father and Alfred have confined me to my bed, but the window to my bedroom remains open. The sheer ignorance of their restraint measures astounds me—they failed to account for my skills in evading such confinement.”

"Please, don’t try to escape through your window on my behalf. I really don’t need Bruce lecturing us again,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead.

“Very well,” Damian said with a hint of a pout, “but do remember, I am at your disposal if you should require anything.”

“Uh huh,” you hummed. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself, Dami.”

“And you, my beloved,” he said, his voice softening. “Until then.”

There was a beep, and the call ended. You sighed, letting your hand drop.

Selina took a sip of her coffee, her lips curling into a wry grin. “He’s just like his father—equally obsessive and protective. Must run in the genes. That or we just have a knack for ensnaring emotionally constipated men.”

You laughed, a light, nervous sound that filled the room. As you tried to drop your phone back on the couch, you were met with unexpected resistance. The phone stubbornly adhered to your hand, as if it had decided to become a permanent accessory.

“Uh…”

You squinted at the phone, wriggling your fingers and trying to shake it off. No matter what you did, the phone remained firmly in place, glued to your palm.

"Sticky hands?" Selina suggested, glancing at the notepad in her hand now filled with scribbled notes and observations. She made a note with a touch of amusement, her pen moving quickly across the page.

Grumbling under your breath, you made a few more attempts to pry the phone off your hand. “Looks like it. Just another thing to add to the list of weird,” you huffed.

With furrowed brows, you used your other hand to grip the phone, attempting to twist it away. In your distracted state, you failed to account for your newfound strength. The device crumbled under your grip, shards of plastic and glass exploding across the couch.

You stared at the wreckage in disbelief, your heart sinking. Not missing a beat, Selina quickly scribbled down “Enhanced strength” on her notepad.

You grumbled as the remnants of your phone fell to the floor, a mix of frustration and embarrassment washing over you.

"Can't we—can't we call Batman for this?" you asked, your hand nervously tangling in your hair. "Why'd you stop me from telling Damian anyway?"

Selina’s expression turned severe. Her hands gripped your shoulders firmly, guiding you to face her.

"Listen to me. Batman, Damian, or anyone else cannot know about this right now."

"What—Mom—"

"Not a word," she cut in sharply. "This is meta-level stuff we're dealing with. The Bats don’t handle metas well. We need to keep this under wraps until we fully understand it. The last thing I need is Bruce doing something to hurt my daughter."

Your face fell as her words sank in.

Selina’s grip on your shoulders relaxed slightly, and her gaze softened. Her voice took on a gentler, more empathetic tone. "Power frightens people, especially when it’s something they don’t understand. When they encounter something extraordinary, their confusion often morphs into fear. And fear... well, fear can make people see threats where there are none."

She took a deep breath, her expression grim. "Batman, in particular, has contingency plans for every potential threat, even for his closest allies. We—I can't risk him viewing you as one." Her fingers tightened on your shoulders, a silent plea for understanding.

"Alright," you said quietly, trying to steady your voice. Lying to Bruce was one thing. But Damian... Damian was different. The thought of deceiving him felt like a weight pressing heavily on your chest.

Selina seemed to sense your hesitation. Her gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I know it’s not easy,” she said, her tone soothing. “Damian is—”

“Different,” you finished for her, the word catching in your throat. “He’s always been there for me, and now... I’m just lying to him.”

Selina nodded. “I understand. But you know, that boy looks up to his father. There’s no telling he won’t spill something. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

"I get it,” your lips pursed. “But... what do we do now?"

Selina’s expression shifted from intense to thoughtful as she took a step back, her grip loosening. She glanced at the scattered remnants of your phone, then at the notepad filled with her hastily scribbled notes.

"Well," she sighed, "we need to find another space. I think you've done enough damage in our apartment."

 ༻⊰───⋅

NEXT ->

#the suffering begins!#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #selina kyle #bruce wayne #batman

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puppetmaster13u · 1 year ago

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Prompt 257

Now Danny loves space. He loves everything about it, to the point his core quite literally is space. And he’s also a baby ghost, even if he could argue he’s not in human form. But see, being baby has an honestly great consequence once it’s noticed- despite the Observants’ best attempts at hiding it, the assholes.

Of course he would be far more worried- and even a bit pissed- if his caretaker wasn’t who it was. Look, he’d never met Clockwork’s siblings before, but apparently everyone was really against Clockwork himself adopting.

But Clockwork as his uncle is fine. Besides, his caretaker is Space! Space itself is holding him, cooing gentle words in the sounds of the very cosmos. And they’re huge, like parts of their body going through portals so they can fit outside Long-Now sized big- and apparently Clockwork can get just as big and they can get even bigger-

Okay, he needs to take a breath- even if he doesn’t need to breathe- to stop his squealing because holy Realms this is so cool.

Space is awesome! And he’s getting so much more rest than he did in Amity- and even if Space sort of shrugged at the idea of school at first, they did help him set up online schooling. So there’s that, and it’s just the start!

He gets to learn so much about space and it’s honestly kind of… nice? To be taken care of? And he can do whatever he needs for his Core and Obsession with only a few interruptions to take care of his living needs. Erm, sort of living needs?

But even that gets turned into a bit of play or even a lesson too! He’s honestly having such a good time right now! He’s learning so much about spaaace! And dimensions! And interdimensional portals and- oops! No one saw that.

Ahem- But he’s learning so much about space and getting to explore other dimensions with Cosmos! And sure he no longer looks as human as he once did and all that, but he’s seen so many people who also don’t look human that does it really matter?

Of course it doesn’t, and he matches his sort-of-dad! Even though the streaks of color in their hair are more of a brown-red like they’re literally bleeding out the cosmos around them instead of it fading to void and space like his own. But still! They match and it’s fun!

And they’re going to go on another trip from the in-between to one of the dimension realities! He’s going to start a game of tag this time he thinks! But no cheating with portals or bending space! Tag!

Look, the Justice League? Not paid enough for this. In fact, technically not paid at all due to being volunteers (not that it stopped them from finding money in their accounts) but still.

There is some sort of figure… being… thing… zooming around the asteroid belt, about the size of Earth itself. Let them repeat themselves. A planet-sized creature (are those hands or paws? Tail or simply its body stretching? Hair or the Abyss-) is currently darting around the asteroid belt like a child running through grass.

That is, without noticing or caring if something bug-sized might be crushed. And they are very much bug sized, as the governments are concerned about. Like really concerned about. Like talking about trying to nuke the entity if it wanders closer sort of concerned.

Which they are all very concerned and very much like, against. Because it isn’t seeming to notice the asteroids it’s knocking into their area. It’s like… not a space whale or eel or anything like that but also is something like that.

And they would also maybe like to see if they can attempt to talk it down first maybe and-

oh.

Oh.

That creature is the baby. And mama just arrived, stretching across the entire galaxy, from them to Pluto and beyond, like something took the cosmos and shaped it like clay into some sort of form. Like reality itself has wandered into their galaxy with what they are suddenly realizing must be a very young child.

Shit, they really have to make sure no one tries to piss either of these things off-

#Prompts #DCxDP #DPxDC #Danny is like Lil Baby Man compared to Cosmos #But he’s the same size as the world too lol #Space Core Danny #Clockwork is a triplet lol #Clockwork Chaos & Cosmos the children of Infinity & Reality #Let Primordials & Ancients be Eldritch #Are those stars or eyes? Hair or strands of time? Clothes or the fabric of reality? Wound or black hole?#Danny: I am doin good at hidin- the best at hide and seek #Cosmos veery slowly floating after: Oh nooo where has my ghostling hid where could they have goone to *knows exactly where he is*#Can they *technically* go smaller? Yeah but they’re used to where All of Space-Dimension-Portals meets #Danny is Not ghost king he’s bby Space Ancient #Why were people against Clockwork adopting? He never finished divorcing Pariah before he got thrown in the nap box

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eu-nicola · 6 months ago

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the fastest driver part 2

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: cheating (?), car accident

word counter: 9896

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress

The sound of the rain softly hitting the hotel windows muffled any noise from the outside world. Inside the room, the air was thick, charged with a tension that had taken months to reach its breaking point. You were there, tangled with Max in a kiss that burned like fire, as if both of you had been waiting for this moment for far too long. His hand rested on your waist, firm yet trembling, as his lips sought yours with a mix of urgency and doubt.

You knew it was a mistake. You both knew it. But in that moment, logic and consequences seemed irrelevant.

You pulled away just a few inches, breathing heavily, and looked into his eyes. His were dark, filled with something you hadn’t seen before, a mix of desire, regret, and something else you couldn’t identify.

“We shouldn’t be doing this” you whispered, though you made no move to pull away.

Max closed his eyes, as if trying to find strength in the darkness.

“I know” he replied, his voice hoarse. “But I can’t stop.”

It had all started that same night, after the press conference in Singapore. You’d had an intense day, with endless training sessions and meetings. When the day finally ended, the team had organized a small informal dinner at the hotel. It was something routine after the toughest workdays, a way to unwind and reconnect as a group.

During dinner, Max had been sitting next to you, as always. The conversation flowed naturally between the two of you, alternating between technical topics and light jokes. But beneath the surface, you felt that tension that hadn’t faded since that conversation on the terrace. Every time your gazes met, every time your arms accidentally brushed, it was like a reminder that you were playing with fire.

After dinner, everyone started to disperse. Some engineers stayed at the hotel bar, while others decided to retire early to their rooms. You were about to do the same when Max approached you.

“One more round?,” he asked, holding a couple of water bottles in his hands. “We could go over some ideas for tomorrow.”

It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to stay talking about strategies or techniques outside official hours, so you didn’t think anything was out of place. You nodded, following him to a common room in the hotel, where you sat on a couch to go over some data on his tablet.

At first, everything was strictly professional. Max showed you a replay of your fastest lap and pointed out small adjustments you could make. You listened attentively, asking questions and taking notes. But as the conversation progressed, something changed. His comments became more personal, and his eyes seemed to study you more than the screen.

“You’re amazing, you know?,” he suddenly said, breaking the rhythm of the conversation.

You looked at him, surprised.

“Why do you say that?.”

“Because you are. Everything you do, how you handle all of this… It’s impressive.”

His voice was soft, and there was something in his tone that made your heart race. You tried to respond, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, you just looked at him, and he returned your gaze with an intensity that made time seem to stop.

That was when you felt it: that moment when the line between you two was about to break.

You tried to break the tension by standing up from the couch, but he did the same, stepping in front of you.

“Max…” you began, but you couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

You didn’t. Instead, you stayed there, looking at him, knowing you didn’t want him to stop. It was he who took the first step, moving slowly, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. When his lips finally found yours, it was as if all doubts and barriers crumbled instantly.

After that first kiss, everything became a blur. You didn’t remember exactly how you had ended up in his room, only that the elevator had gone up too slowly, and every second had felt eternal. When you crossed the door, neither of you wasted time with words.

Now, standing in the middle of the room, with his hands on your waist and your fingers tangled in his hair, you felt like you were walking on the edge of an abyss. You knew there was no turning back, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

Max pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“This is wrong,” he said, but his hands didn’t move from your waist.

“I know,” you replied, not letting go. “But I can’t help it.”

You both stood in silence, trapped in that moment that seemed to hold everything you had been repressing for months. Finally, Max sighed and took a step back, as if he were struggling with himself.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound convinced.

“Then why are we here?,” you asked, your voice heavy with frustration.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at you as if searching for an answer in your face.

“Cause I can’t stay away from you,” he finally confessed.

Those words fell like a bomb, tearing down any walls that remained between you. Without thinking, you kissed him again, and this time, neither of you tried to stop.

As the night went on, you knew this would complicate everything, that you had crossed a line you could never undo. But in that moment, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was him, and what you felt when you were with him.

You knew that dawn would bring questions, doubts, and maybe regrets. But in that moment, you chose to stay in the room, in his embrace, letting the world wait a little longer.

Since that night in Singapore, something between you and Max had changed. Though you tried to keep things as they were, it wasn’t long before the bond you had formed became deeper and more complicated. Max, with his impulsive character and his unshakable philosophy that personal success came above all, began to influence you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

At first, you resisted admitting how much he had started to shape your way of being. But the truth was undeniable: his intensity, his ambition, and his lack of remorse started to seem attractive, even necessary. Being by his side made you feel invincible, as if the rules didn’t apply to you. And in the chaos of Formula 1, where every little mistake could cost you everything, that mentality was dangerous but intoxicating.

It was in Mexico that you first noticed how much Max was influencing you. During qualifying, your engineer suggested a conservative strategy to secure a decent grid position. But as you listened to his explanation over the radio, you felt Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage.

“Take risks,” he had told you the night before in a casual conversation while reviewing data. His voice echoed in your mind. “If you don’t, someone else will.”

So you ignored the team’s suggestion and attacked the lap aggressively, pushing the car to its limits. When you crossed the line, you had secured a better position than expected, but at the same time, you had worn the tires more than necessary. Your engineer was frustrated, but Max was pleased.

“That’s what I want to see,” he said to you afterward, with a crooked smile as the two of you reviewed your data in the paddock. “You can’t expect them to do it all for you. Sometimes you have to take control, even if that means breaking a few rules.”

You returned his smile, knowing those words were dangerous but also addictive.

As the season progressed and the end drew closer, the two of you spent more and more time together. The professional and personal aspects blended in a way you couldn’t stop. Max was your mentor, your friend, and now, your lover. It was a secret you both guarded carefully, aware of what it would mean if anyone else found out. But in private, you couldn’t stay away from each other.

After every race, no matter whether you had won or lost, he found a way to seek you out. Sometimes it was a conversation in a secluded room in the paddock, other times it was in the privacy of a hotel. There was something in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only person who mattered, that made everything else seem irrelevant.

It was in Brazil that things intensified even more. You had finished second behind Max in a tight race, and although you were proud of your result, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that you could have won if the team had adjusted the strategy. After the press conference, while everyone was celebrating, Max found you in a corner of the motorhome.

“Not bad for someone who’s still learning,” he joked, with that arrogant smile that always made you roll your eyes.

“Shut up,” you replied, laughing, though his words had alleviated some of your frustration.

He took one step closer, and his expression changed. The intensity in his gaze trapped you, and before you could think of the consequences, he took your hand and led you out of the motorhome, away from the noise of the party. You ended up in his room, and, as always, the tension between you two overflowed.

The line no longer existed.

That night, you realized there was no going back. Max was a whirlwind that had swept away your boundaries and doubts. In his company, you felt more powerful, more confident, but also more vulnerable. You had crossed the line between professional and personal, and it was becoming harder and harder to distinguish where your career ended and where your life with him began.

The next morning, while you watched him sleep beside you, you wondered how long you could keep this secret. You knew the truth would eventually come to light, but for now, you held on to the moment, to the feeling of being invincible by his side, even if the price was high.

Max was right about one thing: to win, sometimes you had to break the rules. And you had decided you were willing to do so, even if it meant losing yourself in the process.

On the other hand, the change in your driving style quickly caught the attention of the media. What had started as an evolution in your competitive style soon became a hot topic of debate. Your more aggressive approach, your willingness to take risks, and your refusal to give up ground on the track were interpreted as a radical transformation, and not everyone was willing to accept it.

The comments started subtly, during live broadcasts.

"Looks like she's adopting a bolder style," a journalist commented after a risky maneuver you made in Las Vegas to overtake Carlos Sainz. "Although some might say she's pushing the limits of what's acceptable."

But soon, the criticism turned more personal.

In the weeks that followed, headlines grew more aggressive. Sports newspapers and social media were filled with comments about your "masculine attitude" on the track. Some praised you, saying you had stopped being a driver who played defensively, while others criticized you for abandoning what they considered a "more elegant" and "appropriate style for a woman."

"Is this what we want to see in Formula 1?" asked a commentator on an analysis program. "I'm not saying she shouldn't be competitive, but it seems like she's trying to imitate the more aggressive drivers instead of finding her own way."

The words hit hard. You knew exactly who they were referring to with "more aggressive drivers." It was an implicit reference to Max, and the fact that your relationship with him remained a secret didn’t help divert the suspicions.

The pressure reached a boiling point during the Qatar Grand Prix weekend. In the pre-race press conference, a journalist threw a question that seemed designed to unsettle you.

"You've been accused of adopting an 'overly aggressive' driving style. Some even say you're trying to copy Max Verstappen. What do you have to say about that?"

You took a deep breath, maintaining the calm you had practiced so many times.

"My driving style is mine," you replied firmly. "Every driver has their own way of approaching races, and what I do on the track is the result of years of work and learning. If being aggressive means fighting to win, then yes, I am aggressive."

But the journalist didn’t stop there.

"Don't you think this aggression might be considered inappropriate for a woman in a traditionally male-dominated sport?"

There was a murmur in the room, and you could feel the rage beginning to bubble inside you. Max, sitting beside you, shot you a quick glance, as if reminding you not to lose control.

"I think that question says more about the person asking it than about me," you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. "We're in 2025. Are we really still questioning whether a woman can be competitive in Formula 1?"

The response earned a discreet applause from some journalists, but you knew the damage had already been done.

That night, while you were in your room going over your notes for the race, Max appeared at the door. He didn’t say anything at first, simply sank into a chair in front of you, watching you in silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked finally.

You shook your head, but he didn’t accept your answer.

"Look, I know what they’re saying about you," he continued, his tone more serious than usual. "And I understand how it feels. I went through the same thing when I came into Formula 1. They called me irresponsible, dangerous, immature..."

"And how did you handle it?" you asked, not hiding your frustration.

Max shrugged.

"I let them talk. In the end, the only thing that matters is what you do on the track. Winning shuts everyone up."

"And what if I don’t win?" you murmured, more to yourself than to him.

Max leaned forward, fixing his eyes on yours.

"You will win."

His words, though simple, carried a weight that managed to calm some of your anxiety.

On Sunday, with the criticism still fresh in your mind, you decided you couldn’t afford to doubt yourself. The race was one of the most intense of the season, with risky overtakes and moments where it seemed like everything was about to collapse. But in the end, you crossed the finish line in second place, just behind Max.

When you got out of the car, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Although the media still questioned your style, the fans seemed to be on your side. As you climbed onto the podium, trophy in hand, you understood what Max had meant.

The comments would continue. The criticism wouldn’t disappear. But as long as you kept performing on the track, as long as you kept fighting for your place, no one could take away what you had earned.

That night, as you celebrated with the team, Max approached you and whispered something in your ear.

"I told you you’d win."

The end of the season had arrived, and with it, the culmination of a year full of triumphs, tensions, and decisions that would change the course of your life. In the final race, in Abu Dhabi, Max had secured his fifth consecutive championship with an impeccable victory, while you finished second in the overall standings. You had fought until the end, and although you didn’t take the title, you were satisfied with what you had achieved.

When you stepped off the podium, the joy of your team was palpable. The atmosphere was filled with euphoria, hugs, and congratulations, but you felt something else: a deep exhaustion, a need to escape the noise and find some clarity. While Max raised his trophy under the fireworks, you looked at him and couldn’t help but wonder what would happen between you two now that the season was over.

Hours later, the Red Bull party was in full swing. Laughter and music filled the air, but you found yourself apart, in a quiet corner, holding a glass of champagne and watching your teammates. Max was surrounded by people, as always, his easy smile and magnetic energy lighting up the room.

Finally, your eyes met, and he walked over, leaving the group around him.

"What are you doing here alone?" he asked, leaning slightly so only you could hear.

"I'm just taking a moment for myself," you replied, forcing a smile. "It’s been a long year."

Max looked at you in silence for a moment, as if trying to read your thoughts. Then, he took your hand and led you away from the noise, to a private terrace.

The cool night air was a relief. You both leaned on the railing, gazing at the lights that still shone on the track.

"Congratulations, champ," you finally said, breaking the silence.

"Thanks," he replied, though his tone was softer than usual. "And congratulations to you, too. This was your strongest year."

"Not strong enough to beat you," you joked, but he didn’t laugh.

"You’re closer than you think."

The conversation turned to vacations, the break they both desperately needed. But as they spoke, you couldn’t ignore the unease that had settled in your chest. Vacations meant time away from the chaos of Formula 1, but they also meant time away from Max.

He, on the other hand, seemed carefree, talking about plans to travel, relax, and disconnect from everything. But in his gaze, there was something else, something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“What are you going to do during the holidays?,” he asked, finally.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe visit my family, spend some time at home. I need a little normalcy.”

Max nodded, but didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his tone was more serious.

“You know this... what we have... is complicated.”

Your heart tightened at his words, even though you knew it was true.

“I know,” you said, trying to maintain composure.

“I don’t want you to think that this doesn’t mean anything to me,” he continued, looking out at the horizon. “But in this world, it’s difficult...”

“Difficult...” you finished for him, feeling a lump in your throat.

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he turned toward you, placing a hand on your cheek.

“You’re amazing, you know that? Not just as a driver, but as a person. But...”

You didn’t need him to finish the sentence. You knew that what was everything to you, for him, was a way to escape the pressure, an adventure without attachments. And yet, there was something in his gaze, the way his hand trembled slightly as he touched you, that made you think maybe it wasn’t as simple for him as he wanted it to seem.

When you finally returned to the party, neither of you said anything more about the matter. Max went back to being the center of attention, and you joined the group, pretending everything was fine. But as you watched him laugh and joke with the others, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed.

The holidays would be a turning point, you knew. It was a time to reflect, to decide what your relationship with him really meant and whether you were willing to stay on that tightrope.

As the night came to a close, you said goodbye to everyone and headed back to your room. You sat on the bed, staring at the trophy you had won that day, but your mind was far from the track.

Max had been your first everything. But now, as you faced weeks of uncertainty, you wondered if it was also your first great lesson on what it meant to love someone who might never love you in the same way.

You knew you’d figure it out soon. But for now, all you could do was wait.

When the holidays began, you knew that, inevitably, your paths and Max’s would cross again. Even though both of you needed space, the geographical proximity in Monaco made it almost impossible to avoid each other. And, deep down, you didn’t want to. There was something unfinished between you two, something that needed to be said.

The first time you saw him was on his yacht, where he organized a discreet meeting with a few close friends. The atmosphere was relaxed, with laughter and wine glasses, but your eyes always found his. Max acted as usual: charming, relaxed, pretending like the weight of the world never touched him. But you knew better. You knew how he hid his emotions under that facade.

The second time was more intimate. He invited you to dinner at one of his apartments, a quiet evening that ended with a palpable tension.

It all started with a seemingly harmless conversation about his plans for the rest of the holidays.

“Are you planning to travel?,” you asked as you dined, trying to keep the tone light.

Max shrugged.

“I’ll probably spend a few days in the Netherlands with my family. Maybe make a quick trip to Spain.”

“And what about us?,” you asked, almost without realizing it. The question came out before you could stop it.

Max looked up, surprised by your tone.

“Us?.”

“Yes, Max. Us. This... whatever it is we’re doing. What does it mean to you?.”

He put his fork down and sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“You know I don’t like putting labels on things.”

“I’m not asking for a label,” you replied, feeling frustration bubbling inside. “I just want to know where I stand.”

Max frowned, as if trying to find the right words, but his tone was colder than you expected.

“Why do we need to define it? What we have works, right?.”

That response was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Works for who, Max?,” you spat, your voice rising slightly. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like this only works for you. I’m the one who has to hide, the one who has to accept that we’re nothing more than a distraction to you.”

He stood up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s not fair. I never promised you anything.”

“No, you didn’t!,” you admitted, standing up as well. “But you didn’t let me go either. Every time I try to put some distance, you do something that makes me stay. And I, like an idiot, keep falling for it.”

Max seemed to stagger at your words, but his pride didn’t allow him to back down.

“It’s not my fault if you expect something I can’t give you.”

“Then what am I to you, Max? A distraction? A pastime between races?,” you asked, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain.

“That’s not fair,” he repeated, but this time his tone was softer.

The room fell silent for a moment. Max looked away, unable to face you directly. You knew there were feelings behind his cold demeanor, but you also knew he wasn’t ready to admit them, not even to himself.

“Look, I don’t know what you expected,” he said finally, his tone tired. “This isn’t easy for me either. You know I have someone.”

“Oh, really?,” you said sarcastically. “Because from here it seems like you’ve got everything under control.”

“I don’t have everything under control!,” he exclaimed, raising his voice for the first time. “Do you think this doesn’t affect me? Do you think I don’t think about you more than I should?.”

You froze at his confession. For a moment, you thought he was going to say something more, something that would explain everything. But instead, Max shook his head, as if he were fighting with his own thoughts.

“But I can’t give you what you want. Not now.”

That was the statement that ended the argument. You didn’t know whether you felt more sadness or anger, but you understood that you couldn’t keep going like this.

“Then don’t ask me to stay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t ask me to keep being the one who adapts, the one who hides, the one who’s always available when you decide you need me.”

He didn’t respond. You waited, giving him one last chance to say something that would make you change your mind. But the silence was deafening.

Finally, you grabbed your things and left the apartment, leaving Max alone in his own storm.

As you walked through the quiet streets of Monaco, you felt a mix of liberation and sadness. You knew you had made the right decision, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Max had been an important part of your life, but now you understood that you couldn��t keep being a shadow in his world.

The vacation had just begun, but you already felt like you were in a new chapter. And while you didn’t know what the future held, you were determined to find your own path, even if that meant leaving Max behind.

The decision to spend your vacation in Italy wasn’t impulsive. After the emotional storm that marked the end of the season, you needed a place where you could find yourself, far from the hustle and bustle of Monaco and the ever-watchful eyes that seemed to follow you. Italy had always been a refuge for you: the peaceful hills of Tuscany, the small cafes in Rome, the calm of Lake Como. There, you felt like you could breathe.

However, what began as an attempt to find peace turned into something more. During long walks down cobblestone streets and endless nights of reflection, you began to question your place at Red Bull and in Formula 1 in general. Something didn’t fit, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to recognize it.

One afternoon, while sitting on a terrace overlooking Florence, you found yourself writing a list in a notebook. One column listed the things you liked about Red Bull: competitiveness, top-level engineering, the chance to fight for the title. The other column, however, was longer: constant pressure, the tense relationship with Max, the feeling that you were always fighting to be seen as something more than a “second driver.”

It was then that you knew. You couldn’t stay at Red Bull anymore. You had reached a point where your success didn’t fulfill you, because it always seemed to come at the cost of your happiness. You needed a change, and you knew exactly where you wanted to be.

A few days later, you found yourself on a video call with Zak Brown. The conversation started off cordial, with Zak asking how your vacation was going and casually mentioning that Piastri was considering options outside McLaren. Then, you dropped it:

—Zak, I want to talk about the possibility of joining McLaren.

There was a brief but intense silence on the other side of the screen. Then, a slow smile began to form on his face.

—Are you serious? —he asked, clearly intrigued.

—Completely. I feel like Red Bull is no longer the right place for me. I’m looking for a team where I can build something, not just adapt to what already exists. And I think McLaren can be that place.

Zak nodded, leaning back in his chair as he processed your words.

—I can’t deny it would be a big move for us. If you’re willing to take the leap, we are too.

In the following days, negotiations began. Everything was done in the strictest secrecy, far from the eyes of the media and the ears of Red Bull. You knew the news of your departure would be a bombshell, especially since Piastri was being considered as your replacement.

You didn’t tell anyone, not even Max. It wasn’t a conversation you were willing to have with him, not after how things had ended. This decision was yours alone, and you needed to keep it that way.

The news broke on the first day of the new year, as the holidays were coming to an end. While you were at the Milan airport, waiting for your flight back to Monaco, your phone started vibrating incessantly. Opening Twitter, you saw the headlines:

“Oscar Piastri joins Red Bull as Max Verstappen’s teammate” “Red Bull confirms the departure of its star driver after a successful season” “McLaren signs the star driver for 2025 in a surprising move”

You took a deep breath as you read the comments. Most fans were shocked; some criticized you for leaving such a competitive team, while others praised your decision to find a place where you could shine on your own.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out how Max would react. As soon as you landed in Monaco, you received a message from him.

Max: Is this a joke? You went to McLaren without telling me anything?

You sighed, knowing this conversation would be inevitable. After getting to your apartment, you called him.

“Hi, Max.”

“I can’t believe it,” was the first thing he said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You decided this without even mentioning it to me?.”

“Max, this decision has nothing to do with you,” you replied, trying to stay calm. “It’s something I needed to do for myself.”

“For yourself?,” he repeated, almost laughing. “You were in the best team, with the best car, fighting for titles. Why would you leave that?.”

“Because I don’t want to be just an extension of your success,” you said, feeling your voice fill with determination. “I want to build something of my own, and McLaren gives me that opportunity.”

Max fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was softer, but also colder.

“I hope you don’t regret it.”

“I won’t,” you answered, with more confidence than you felt in that moment.

Even now, with all the drama, you had flashbacks of you and Max during your early days at Red Bull, which had also been quite a whirlwind. He wasn’t just a driver: he was the driver. His confidence, almost arrogance, permeated every conversation, every strategy, every decision. But rather than intimidate you, that pushed you. You wanted to prove that you belonged at that level too.

Max respected you as a driver, but kept a clear distance. It was his way of protecting himself in an environment where emotional alliances often complicated things. You weren’t interested in anything else either. At least, not at first.

You remember everything started to change after the third race of the season. You had a difficult weekend: mechanical issues in practice, a crash in qualifying, and a minor contact in the race that left you out of the points. You were exhausted, frustrated, and harder on yourself than you should have been.

That night, while reviewing the data in the motorhome, Max walked in and sat down across from you, with a beer in hand.

“Why are you still here?,” he asked, leaning forward.

You looked up, confused.

“I’m reviewing the data. I need to understand what happened.”

Max shook his head, a slight smile on his lips.

“You already know what happened. You had bad luck. That happens to anyone. Don’t obsess over what you can’t change.”

His words surprised you. Max Verstappen, the driver known for his obsession with perfection, was telling you to let go of a bad day.

“Easy for you to say,” you replied, with a sharper tone than you intended. “You’re the World Champion.”

Max leaned back, taking a sip of his beer before answering.

“Do you think I haven’t had shitty days? What matters is how you come back. And you... you’ve got what it takes to come back.”

That small, unexpected gesture of support was the first step.

With each race, the relationship between you two grew stronger. Max started seeking you out to review strategies together or just to chat during flights. You, in turn, started seeing him as more than just a driver: someone passionate, fun on his good days, and deeply competitive.

One time, during a trip to Canada, the two of you ended up sitting next to each other on the team’s private plane. While everyone else slept, you started talking about everything and nothing: your childhoods, the races that had marked you, the sacrifices you’d made to get to Formula 1.

“Sometimes, I wonder if it’s all worth it,” you said, after a long silence.

Max looked at you with curiosity.

“Seriously?.”

You nodded.

“Of course I love this, but I also wonder what I’d be doing if I weren’t here. If I’d have a simpler life, with less pressure.”

Max thought for a moment before replying.

“I never ask myself that. Not because it’s not hard, but because I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

That comment made you see him in a new light. For Max, F1 wasn’t just his job, it was his life. And while you shared that passion, you also realized that he lived it in a way no one else could understand.

The tension between you began to become more evident in the little things. The way he would look for you with his gaze when you entered a room. The private jokes you shared during breaks. The way your hands would accidentally brush when checking data on the screen.

It was after a particularly difficult race in Austria when the tension reached its peak. You finished second behind Max, but only because the team had ordered you to hold position. You were furious, though you tried to hide it.

That night, Max came looking for you at your room. When you opened the door, you saw him with an expression you hadn't seen before: a mix of concern and something else you couldn't identify.

"Are you okay?,” he asked, though both of you knew that wasn't the case.

"Why do you care?,” you replied, tired of everything.

Instead of answering, Max took a step toward you, crossing the threshold of the door. The space between you was minimal, and you could feel the intensity in his gaze.

"I care because you're my teammate," he said at first, but then added in a lower tone. "And because... I can't help it."

That was the moment when everything changed. Nothing happened that night, but the line between you two had been erased. You both knew it, though neither of you wanted to admit it.

That tension, that undeniable connection, was what led you to cross the line later. But that was the beginning: a brush of hands, a gaze that lingered too long, a silence full of things neither of you dared to say.

After that, there was another night in Singapore where the story had started, your story.

Now that was behind you, and you were far from him and from the team.

A few weeks later, the new season had started, but not with Red Bull. Now you wore McLaren's iconic papaya orange, a decision that had taken the motorsport world by surprise. Despite Red Bull's initial resistance to letting you go, you broke the contract after unbearable tension. Now you shared a garage with Lando Norris, on a team that seemed ready to give you the spotlight you had longed for. However, leaving Red Bull behind didn’t mean leaving Max behind.

Max remained a constant, though now from the other side of the paddock. The first official encounter of the season in Bahrain was everything you had expected: tense and full of silent reproaches. Although both of you tried to maintain professionalism, the media quickly picked up on the coldness between you. And with each practice, that coldness transformed into a dangerous mix of rivalry, resentment, and something that never seemed to disappear: the history you both shared.

In the first race of the season, the problems between you transferred to the asphalt. During lap 32, you were fighting for the podium with Max behind you, pressuring you on every corner. His insistence was suffocating, and in an aggressive attempt to overtake you, he made contact with your car, forcing you off track.

"This is unacceptable," you shouted over the radio, your voice full of frustration.

Although the stewards didn’t impose any penalties, the incident made it clear that Max wasn’t willing to give you any mercy. But what hurt you the most was seeing him after the race when he completely ignored you in the paddock, as if you were a stranger.

After the race, you were in your Motorhome, reviewing the replays of the incident, when someone knocked on the door. You opened it, and there he was, with a frown and arms crossed.

"What the hell was that today?,” he asked, walking in without waiting for an invitation.

"What the hell was what?,” you replied, closing the door behind him. "You're the one who knocked me off track."

Max let out a sarcastic laugh.

"Please. If you hadn't closed so much on the corner, none of this would have happened."

Your blood began to boil.

"Are you really going to blame me for this? Because I didn’t let you pass like when we were at Red Bull? I hate to break your illusion, Max, but I'm not your teammate anymore."

He turned toward you, his eyes filled with anger, but also with something you couldn’t quite identify.

"You made that clear when you left. But you know this goes beyond that."

"What are you talking about?,” you asked, crossing your arms.

Max took a step toward you, closing the distance between you two.

"About you. About us. About how you can’t handle all of this without it becoming a personal problem."

You felt your heart beat faster, but you weren’t going to let it affect you.

"This has nothing to do with 'us.' This is about racing, Max. And if you can’t handle that I’m no longer part of your little world, that’s your problem, not mine."

For a moment, Max seemed like he wanted to respond, but instead, he shook his head and walked toward the door.

"You know, I thought you were different. But it seems like everyone in this sport is the same."

His words hit you like a bucket of cold water, but you refused to show it.

"And I thought you could be professional for once. Seems like we were both wrong."

Max left, slamming the door open behind him, and you collapsed on the couch, feeling exhausted.

The first days after the tension with Max passed quickly, but not for the reason you expected. You didn’t obsess over what had happened with him or the hurtful words that still echoed in your mind. What worried you most now was your integration into McLaren, especially your relationship with Lando Norris, your new teammate.

Lando was the complete opposite of Max: relaxed, fun, and with an attitude that, although professional, never lost its laid-back vibe. Instead of pressuring you or criticizing you constantly like Max did in his "mentor" version, Lando preferred to offer support without overwhelming you. He had a way of making everything seem easier, even when things on the track got complicated.

At first, you felt like a bit of an outsider. McLaren was a team with its own culture, and even though it wasn’t your first year in F1, you always carried that sense of nervousness at the start of a new chapter. Lando, however, did everything possible to make you feel welcome. At first, it was something as simple as joking about the team’s coffee, which according to him, always tasted like "hot water with a touch of desperation." After some laughs, the atmosphere started to relax, and little by little, you began to feel more comfortable with him and the rest of the team.

The first official team event, a press conference, was when things really began to change. During the interview, a journalist asked Lando how he felt about having a new teammate, and he, without losing his composure, gave a quick answer that made you smile.

"Well, the truth is it’s been an interesting experience. She brings a positive energy, and... she makes me feel like I'm still the 'young guy' on the team, even though technically I'm not. So, it’s fun having her on board!"

Everyone laughed, and, to your surprise, that broke the ice. The journalists quickly turned the focus to you, and Lando passed the ball with a mischievous smile.

"What I can say about my teammate is that, although she seems very serious, she has a good sense of humor. I can’t wait to see what happens this season."

From there on, things felt easier. It was as if, without even trying, Lando had smoothed the transition. The chemistry between you two flowed quickly, with no tension or unreachable expectations. You didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, just be yourself.

The ease with which you communicated impressed you. It wasn’t like with Max, where you always felt like you had to "prove yourself" or show something. With Lando, everything flowed naturally. If something didn’t work, you just adjusted it, with no drama or expectations. He was a teammate who truly believed in collaboration, not internal competition.

By the end of the first month at McLaren, you knew joining them had been the right decision.

Little by little, the start of the season at McLaren seemed to be going in the right direction: your relationship with Lando was strengthening, the team was improving, and, little by little, you felt like you were finding your rhythm in a car that, although not the fastest on the grid, gave you the sense of control you had lost the previous year. However, things with Max weren’t going well; in fact, they were getting even more complicated.

Although he was still racing for Red Bull, with his undeniable dominance on the track, the rivalry that had ignited the previous year seemed to intensify with every race. No matter how many times you told yourself it wasn’t worth focusing on what Max was doing or not doing, he was always there, whether in interviews, in media comments, or even on the track, challenging you to prove you were still more than his shadow.

In the first lap of Australia, a circuit you both knew inside and out. In practice, Red Bull had been clearly superior, but McLaren was more competitive than ever. The chance to snatch a win from Max wasn’t impossible, but it wouldn’t be easy. During the race, Max constantly pressured you. Although he wasn’t being as aggressive as he had been in the past, his presence behind you was suffocating, his car always right next to you in the fast corners.

You remember how, at one point in the race, during an overtaking move in turn 8, Max tried to pass you on the inside, clearly with the intention to intimidate you. It was a risky maneuver, and although logic told you to give way, you decided not to. You had enough space to hold your line, and although you didn’t manage to block him completely, the resistance you offered forced him to brake a little more than expected. That small detail allowed you to keep the position, something that seemed to irritate him.

When the race ended, Max finished in second place, right behind you. As you passed through the cooling area, you could see him in his car, staring at you with that defiant look he was so good at putting on. The crowd noticed it, the journalists noticed it, and, of course, you noticed it too.

At the end of the race, while you were getting ready to leave the paddock, one of McLaren’s engineers told you that Max had requested to speak with you. You didn’t understand why he wanted to do that, and honestly, you weren’t in the mood to face him after what had happened on track. But, as always, appearances mattered, and you couldn’t just ignore him. So, you agreed, even though you knew it would be an uncomfortable encounter.

Max was waiting for you near the Red Bull hospitality, arms crossed, a typical defensive posture. He didn’t say anything at first, but when you looked at him, his face was more serious than usual.

“What’s wrong with you?” he finally said, his tone as direct and blunt as ever. “You know that if you’d let me pass, we could’ve fought more cleanly. Why do you keep acting like it’s all personal?”

You were surprised that the conversation was going in that direction, as if you weren’t racing, as if it was a matter of pride. But, you knew this was Max. It always had to be him first.

“Personal?” you repeated, letting sarcasm fill your voice. “You’re the first one to make it personal. If you’d given me space, we wouldn’t have this problem, but no, you always have to be the one to set the pace, don’t you?”

Max took a step toward you, but not enough to invade your personal space. His gaze hardened.

“It’s not about setting the pace. It’s about being competitive. You still don’t understand how this sport works. You have to go for it, not care about what others think.”

Your breath quickened, not out of fear, but from the anger that had been building up for months.

“I think the problem here isn’t that I don’t understand the sport, Max. The problem is that you’ve never learned how to be a true teammate, and now you’re trying to dictate how I should race. I’m tired of you doing this.”

Max, as expected, didn’t say anything more. He just stared at you for a couple of seconds, as if waiting for you to change your mind or apologize. But you wouldn’t. Not anymore. Not when you knew that, for him, everything had always been about ego, about being the best, the fastest, the one who wouldn’t let anyone overtake him.

The rivalry between you and Max continued to grow. Every time you saw him on track, you knew that, at least for him, it had become personal. What once was a professional competition had become something much more visceral, and every time the two teams met on the track, the tension between you was palpable. But far from being a negative thing, it motivated you to improve. You no longer just wanted to beat Max for the sake of it; now, it was a personal necessity.

The revenge came for him in Monaco. On such a tight, technical circuit, any mistake could be fatal, and Max, although he initially seemed to have the advantage, began to falter in the final laps, losing traction in the trickiest parts of the circuit. It was then, on lap 68, that you seized your opportunity.

Max was charging full throttle, but as you exited the tunnel, his car began to slide slightly. That was enough for you to pass him on the inside at Sainte-Dévote. As you passed him, you felt a mix of adrenaline and satisfaction. Finally, the competition that had defined you for so long, you had surpassed.

At the end of the race, while celebrating your podium, Max’s gaze from the other side of the garage was clear. It was no longer just a rivalry; now, it had become a personal duel.

The victory in Monaco was a milestone in your career. Not only because it had been one of the best races of your life, but because at the end of the day, you didn’t just celebrate with the McLaren team, but also felt a kind of personal vindication. You had beaten Max, done what many thought was impossible. Not just as a driver, but as someone who had constantly been underestimated for a lack of “aggressiveness” or for once being seen as Red Bull’s “perfect teammate” or “pretty girl.” But now, at this moment, you were neither of those things. Now, you were his rival.

The sense of achievement was gratifying, but deep down you knew the victory had its price. Something in you had changed during that last overtake, in the way you had faced Max, in how, when you looked at him for the last time on track, something inside you had broken. That part of you that still wanted him, that still thought maybe things could have been different, was gone, or at least overshadowed by the fierce determination to win. The relationship you once shared was buried, replaced by pure competition, an unfiltered rivalry. But at the same time, you knew it wasn’t just the competition that drove you; it was something much more personal. Max had let you go. And now, you had left him behind, though not without a certain sadness.

On the other side, Max was in his motorhome, lights off, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the mirror. The race had ended, and although he had made an effort not to show his emotions to the journalists, something inside him was consuming him. He was used to winning, he had always been the leader, the reference. But this time, in Monaco, the result made him realize something he had been avoiding for a long time.

He had lost. And not just the race. He had lost the person who had mattered most in his life.

It was ironic because he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He had been the first to fuel the rivalry, the first to not know how to handle his own feelings, the first to ignore the boundaries between the personal and the professional. But now, when he saw your victory trophy on his phone screen, when he saw the images of you celebrating with Lando, he felt something he had never felt before: regret.

Over the years, Max had gotten used to seeing life as a series of challenges and battles he had to win. The world was black or white, no shades of gray. But with you, everything had been different. He had been your mentor, your teammate, your rival, and at some point, more than that. He had been someone who, in a way, had been the only person capable of pushing him out of his comfort zone. The relationship you shared, although never fully admitted, had been unique. Max knew that when he was with you, he felt more human, more vulnerable. But competition, the need to be the best, had led him to distance himself from what really mattered.

That night, Max couldn’t sleep. The feeling of being lost, of having destroyed something valuable, haunted him. He didn’t know how you had come to mean so much to him, or when the rivalry had stopped being just that and turned into something more complicated. But he knew it clearly: he had lost you. And the worst part was that, in his head, there were still unanswered questions. Could he have done things differently? Should he have spoken up earlier, when there was still time to explain? The answers to those questions tormented him, but what really hurt was what he didn’t know: if you felt the same way.

Weeks later, it was the Canadian Grand Prix. The combination of fast corners, technical sections, and the closeness of the walls, all contributed to the magic of that weekend. But this time, for some reason, it felt different. The tension in the air was palpable, and although Max and you hadn’t spoken for days, hadn’t exchanged more than a fleeting glance, something felt off. But you ignored it, focusing on the track, on what you did best.

The qualifying had been tough, but you had stayed in the top positions. The McLaren car had responded well, and you knew you could be fighting for a podium. Lando had qualified just behind you, both with the same motivation, knowing this race would be key for the team. However, in your mind, there was always that little thought that crept in: Max. The rivalry, that constant pressure to prove you could be better, the feeling that he was watching from a distance, waiting for you to make a mistake. And that haunted you.

The race began under the overcast sky of Montreal, with the excitement of the crowd contagious to the drivers. At first, everything seemed to be going well, although the temperatures were higher than expected, making tire control difficult. The first laps passed quickly, and you found yourself fighting wheel to wheel with Lando, in a clean and constant battle, looking for the best line to overtake some rivals. But on lap 32, everything changed.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. You reached turn 6 at a dizzying speed, trying to maintain your position, with the brakes slightly overheated. The car became unstable, and before you could react, the rear wheels lost traction. You tried to correct, but the car violently slid, and in an instant, you were crashing into the safety barriers. The sound of the crash was deafening, an explosion of metal, rubber, and carbon fiber. It was as if the world stopped for a moment, as if the air became heavy and dense.

The radio was filled with static, and the McLaren pit wall erupted into chaos. Engineers shouted orders, but everything was a distant echo. Your car had been destroyed in turn 6, one of the toughest corners of the circuit, and the impact left you unconscious for a moment. The medical staff and FIA officials arrived quickly at the scene, but in those seconds that felt like an eternity, the world felt distant and alien.

When you finally woke up, the sunlight blinded you, and the sound of fans, the buzzing of the medical teams, and the murmurs of people filtered into your head like a storm. The pain was unbearable, but the worst part was the confusion. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move your legs?

The voice of one of the doctors reached your ears, low and worried.

“Stay calm, don’t move, we’re here to help. You have a head injury, and probably a concussion. We need you to stay still until we evaluate you.”

Outside the circuit, the chaos was even greater. Journalists were already surrounding the area, television cameras focused on every detail of the accident, and the paddock was filled with people who could do nothing but watch in silence. The faces of your teammates reflected anguish. Lando, on the other side of the pit wall, had stopped focusing on his own race, and his fixed gaze on the screen showing your wrecked car said it all. He was desperate.

Max, who had seen everything from his car on the following lap, braked abruptly when the yellow flag appeared on his screen. It was as if the world had stopped for him too. Max’s face turned serious, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he seemed to forget that, on track, he had to continue with the race. Somehow, he was searching for you on the screen, wanting to know if you were okay, if you had survived the crash. But the truth was that, in that moment, neither he nor anyone else knew what had happened.

The medical team worked quickly to stabilize you, and the doctors’ shouts became more urgent. There was worry on their faces, in the way they spoke to each other, but you could barely understand what they were saying. The noise in your head was deafening. What had happened? Why couldn’t you move? Was your body okay?

News of the crash spread quickly on social media. The media flooded the internet with photos of the wrecked car, images of the chaos at the circuit, and the medical staff surrounding you while they tried to keep you conscious. The race continued, but the world of Formula 1 had stopped for a moment. In the hospital, the first reports were arriving through television screens.

Journalists crowded around, asking everyone involved in the accident for the smallest bit of information. Cameras focused on your teammates, who were being approached by the press.

“How is she?,” they asked your mother, whose face was pale, marked by worry.

“She’s being evaluated,” she replied, her voice trembling, unable to hide the anxiety consuming her. “They’ve told us she has a concussion, but they’re doing more tests.”

At that moment, your name became a trending topic on Twitter, and reporters couldn’t stop talking about you, but all you wanted was for everything to stop, for the pain to go away, for the voices in your head to quiet.

Max didn’t know how to react. As he prepared for his last lap, he felt the weight of what had happened, the weight of having been so distant, so focused only on the victory, that he had forgotten what truly mattered. Throughout the entire race, he couldn’t stop thinking about you, about what might be happening at that very moment. The crash had been severe, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

In the following hours, the news became clear: the crash had left consequences. The concussion was just the beginning. The impact had been so strong that doctors couldn’t yet say whether the physical and psychological effects would be temporary or if you would be left with permanent damage. The fear was palpable, and as exams and tests progressed, it was clear that everything had changed. The accident, the pain, and the uncertainty were now an inevitable part of the story. Your career, your life, everything you had built up until now, was at stake.

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ginnsbaker · 3 months ago

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All Of Your Pieces (18 - The Civil War)

Chapter Summary: “She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat," you said. Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Hell yeah I'm finally done with midterm week! So, as promised, here's an update for Sunday that I was supposed to post last Wednesday. Thank you all for waiting! // More author's notes here. GIF credits to the owner. Let me know is this is yours!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The debate over the Sokovia Accords had always seemed like a bureaucratic exercise to you—a lot of grandstanding and red tape, destined to drag on without anything concrete coming of it. But when it ended in literal casualties, moments after the UN summit in Vienna, you realized how naive that assumption had been.

The explosion dominated every news channel, every forum, for weeks. Footage of the carnage played on a relentless loop, like a ruthless reminder that refused to let the world move on. It stoked their anger and fear of the superpowered intensifying—further solidifying the need for a regulation of some sorts.

And then there was Steve—Captain America—standing between the law and a man the world had already convicted in its collective mind. Protecting a criminal—or so it seemed at first glance. But if you squinted, if you dug beneath the hysteria, you could see the loopholes in the story.

You were taught to never take things at face value. To investigate, to question, to confirm. The video evidence of James Barnes near the scene of the bombing was damning, but not airtight. The timing was too perfect and the evidence too clean—as if it was designed to be found. And then there was the sheer improbability—someone like Barnes being sloppy enough to leave a clue, to incriminate himself by carrying out such large-scale destruction carelessly.

If it really was him, you figured, no one would know. The world wouldn’t have a name to blame or a face to crucify.

Steve believed it too. He didn’t just think Barnes was innocent—he knew it. Or at least he believed in him enough to stake his own reputation on it.

The manhunt for Barnes split the Avengers right down the middle. Tony and Natasha were working with the UN and the German authorities, pushing for Barnes’ immediate capture, while Steve enlisted Sam’s help to find him first and uncover the truth once and for all.

Which left you stuck at the compound with Wanda and Vision—because, of course, that’s just how your luck worked.

—

You’d been keeping to yourself, burying your head in books and doing whatever busywork you could find to keep from dwelling on it all. It wasn’t a peaceful kind of quiet, though—not even close. It was rife with tension, and you hated that your main orders were to stay put.

You’d seen Vision and Wanda together more lately. They were spending time in the kitchen, of all places. Vision seemed to have developed a fascination with cooking, and Wanda, for reasons you didn’t entirely understand, had decided to humor him.

That’s how you ended up at the world’s most uncomfortable dinner.

The table stretched long, built to fit the entire team, and you settled a few spots away from them. Vision had made something intricate, his approach to food as overly analytical as you’d expect. Wanda had contributed in small ways—chopping vegetables, stirring sauces—but it was clear who had taken the lead.

You sat across from them, awkwardly poking at the meal on your plate. It was good, technically. Perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked. But the scene around the table made it hard to enjoy. Vision sat still, weirdly choosing this time not to participate in this human activity. He looked perfectly content watching his two eaters, wanting to see if he had earned their approval. Wanda wasn’t eating much. She was pushing her food around, her eyes darting toward him, then to you, then back to her plate.

“Is it to your liking?” Vision asked.

“It’s fine,” you said, knowing full well it was much better than that but not feeling generous enough to say so.

“Wanda assisted with the preparation,” he added, almost as if he thought that might tip the scales.

You glanced at her. She gave a small, half-hearted smile and shrugged. “Just chopping and stuff,” she said.

After that, the conversation died again.

It had felt like a good time to disassociate, and you let your mind drift off somewhere else. More specifically, to the growing rift between Tony and Steve. The misunderstandings were no longer petty disagreements but fundamental divides. If push came to shove, you still hadn’t decided where you stood.

You used to joke about Tony and Steve acting like divorced husbands, bickering over every little thing. Now, the irony wasn’t so funny. They were barreling toward something that resembled a real divorce, and you could almost see them dividing the team like children—figuring out who got custody of whom.

But you? You were always the lone wolf. It seemed more likely you’d walk away from them both, let them fight their battles while you disappeared into the shadows. You’d done it before, and the thought of doing it again didn’t terrify you. And maybe that was the problem.

A sharp noise from outside yanked you out of your thoughts. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was enough to put everyone on edge. Vision’s head cocked slightly, as if concentrating to learn more about what they all just heard.

“Stay here,” he ordered calmly.

“Wait—” you started, but before you or Wanda could get another word out, he disappeared, phasing cleanly through the nearest wall and leaving you both sitting in uneasy silence.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You glanced at Wanda, her fork frozen midair, her eyes trained on the spot where Vision had disappeared. Finally, you exhaled and nudged your plate aside. “This is the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” you murmured.

Wanda’s head snapped up. Then, to your surprise, a laugh slipped out of her—short, almost involuntary, like it had been startled into existence. “I could tell,” she said, her lips curving into something that might’ve been a smile.

It was angelic and utterly contagious. You smiled back, soft and unplanned, like your body decided for you. It’s the most interaction you’d had with her for a while after bringing her to the orphanage weeks ago.

God, you’d missed her.

Out of the corner of your eye, something shifted. Without thinking, you were on your feet, moving to Wanda’s side, positioning yourself as a human shield. It was a ridiculous gesture—pathetic, even—considering what she could do versus what you could offer. But instinct doesn’t care about logic. The drive to protect her overrode everything else, propelling you forward before your brain could catch up.

Clint Barton strolled toward you, bow slung over his shoulder, every inch of him looking like he was prepped for a mission. And judging by the timing, it didn’t take a genius to figure out—you, Wanda, and Vision were the mission.

“Clint?” you uttered in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Disappointing my kids,” he replied dryly, stepping fully into view with that familiar half-grin you hadn’t seen in ages. “Cap needs our help. Come on.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not disappointed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint muttered, his eyes scanning the room, barely giving you a glance. “We need to move. Both of you. Now.”

You were on your feet before he could say anything else, your hand closing around Wanda’s wrist without a second thought. It wasn’t until you felt her skin warm under your grip that you realized what you were doing. You let go just as quickly, glancing back at her with a quiet apology in your eyes.

But Wanda wasn’t paying attention to you. She was giving Clint a hard look, her feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wanda said, surprising you both.

“Wanda, you can’t stay here,” Clint said. “After Lagos—”

“I’ve caused enough problems,” she whispered. “Maybe it’s better if I stay out of sight. Out of everyone’s way.”

“You gotta help me, Wanda. Look, you wanna mope, you can go to high school. You wanna make amends, you get off your ass. Y/N, help me out here.”

You glanced at Wanda, trying to decipher what she’s thinking but you came up empty-handed. You turned back to Clint. “You let her decide, Clint. You don’t drag her onto your side—or anyone’s. She chooses.”

Clint chuckled, eyeing you like he already expected your answer before you did. “And what about you? Which side are you on?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer—you did. You just weren’t ready to say it out loud.

Because the truth was simple: whichever side Wanda chose, that’s where you’d be.

You’d told yourself you could walk away from this. From the Avengers, from the divide, from the mess of it all. And maybe you could. Maybe you would have.

But Wanda—

You wanted to look after her.

You were saved from answering altogether when Vision reappeared, phased through the far wall.

“Aw, hell,” Clint muttered, his hand twitching toward his bow.

“Clint Barton,” Vision said. “You are not authorized to be here. Step away from Wanda.”

“Yeah, see, the thing is,” he said, casually shifting his stance as he engaged an arrow, “I don’t really care about authorization.”

Clint didn’t wait for Vision’s retort. He released his arrows and triggered the traps he’d set—an electrified net sprung from the ceiling, enveloping Vision in crackling energy. For a split second, you thought it might actually work.

It didn’t.

Vision freed himself out of the net like it was tissue paper, the electricity harmlessly dissipating around him.

“Yeah, well, worth a shot,” Clint muttered, already nocking an arrow. He let it fly, but Vision caught it midair with a speed that was almost unfair.

Clint moved fast, dodging Vision’s strikes with a skill that came from years of experience. He didn’t try to overpower him—he wasn’t stupid—but he kept Vision moving, trying to distract him, to buy time.

Vision held back, almost smug—you'd think he was waiting for Clint to tire himself out, running circles that led nowhere.

“Y/N, a little help?” Clint called, ducking under a swipe from Vision that could’ve caved his skull. Before you could even think to move, Vision had Clint in a chokehold, his vibranium arm coiling around Clint’s throat. Clint's attempts to break free looked almost pathetic, his fists thumping uselessly against Vision's arm.

You froze for a split second, looking at Wanda. Was this what she wanted? Her face gave you nothing, and in that moment of indecision, Clint’s choking gasps snapped you into action.

You rushed forward, grabbing onto Vision’s arm and hauling yourself up, trying to throw him off balance. He barely budged. Desperation took over as you reached behind your back, pulling a small blade from your pocket.

Vision caught the motion instantly. His free arm shot out, grabbing your wrist and twisting it sharply. Pain shot through your arm as the knife clattered to the floor.

You gritted your teeth, trying to fight through the pain. “Let him go, Vision!”

Clint’s face was red now, his struggles weakening. You kicked at Vision’s side, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

“Vision, that’s enough!”

Vision's grip loosened for just a moment, enough for you to catch your breath, before it cinched tighter. You bit back a whimper, already feeling the marks that would bloom across your skin.

"I said, that’s enough," Wanda commanded as red energy crackled menacingly at her fingertips.

Vision moved to finish the job and the energy surged from Wanda’s hands, slamming into Vision and lifting him clean off the ground. The moment his hold broke, you and Clint crumpled like discarded ragdolls.

“If you do this, they will never stop being afraid of you,” Vision said. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell Vision he was wrong, but Wanda spoke first.

“I can’t control their fear,” Wanda murmured. Her shoulders sagged as she sighed wearily, looking like she already regretted what she was about to do, knowing it would hurt Vision. “Only my own.”

The ground opened up like a wound, swallowing Vision whole. Wanda’s power didn’t just push him down—it buried him. The compound’s reinforced flooring crumbled like dry leaves, and the sound of his descent—steel on steel, concrete splitting apart—made your stomach churn.

You sat up, head pounding, ribs screaming. Clint was coughing beside you, dragging himself upright with a hand braced against the wall. Neither of you spoke. What could you say?

Wanda stood over the crater she’d made, her hands slack at her sides, red sparks still licking at her fingertips. Her face was blank, but you knew her well enough by now to see through it. Her breathing was too shallow, her shoulders too stiff. She wasn’t fine at all.

It was a little jarring to think that just a few hours ago, they were cooking together in the kitchen.

“Wanda,” you started, still trying to catch your breath. “Is he—”

“He’ll survive,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Clint gave a weak chuckle, thoroughly impressed and a little horrified. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

—

Things happened dizzyingly fast after that.

You’d only meant to get Wanda to Clint, to make sure she was safe, but everything spiraled at the airport. You hadn’t thought past that, hadn’t considered the bigger picture or the consequences of leaving the compound with her.

The fight was brutal—friends turning on friends—and you barely kept up, trying to shield Wanda when you could. You’d been hurt, subdued like a criminal, strapped into restraints that bit into your skin. But none of it mattered. Your entire focus was on Wanda—if she was okay, if she was hurt, if she blamed you for any of it.

When they threw you in The Raft, the humiliation of it barely registered. All you could see was Wanda, restrained in that awful straitjacket, her face pale and blank, her hands trembling. It must have been harder on her than anyone else—treated like a criminal with the weight of Lagos hanging over her head. In that moment, you made your choice—Steve had your loyalty now, no matter what came next. But even that didn’t compare to how fiercely you had Wanda’s back. That was something else entirely.

Now, two weeks later, Valencia felt like limbo. A place to breathe—

—with a target on your backs, well, not really.

—

Valencia might’ve been halfway around the globe, but you treated it like hostile territory all the same. Your face—along with the rest of those who backed Steve in his fierce objection to the Sokovia Accords—had hit every newsfeed, and you couldn’t afford to relax here or anywhere else, for that matter. You dressed down, stuck to side streets, and kept your head low. It was Spain, but it might as well have been home—just another place where you were never really safe.

“Have you heard from Clint?”

Natasha nodded before turning the page of the newspaper she’d been reading since this morning. “Yeah. He’s working out a deal with the government.”

You frowned. “What kind of deal?”

“Something about a plea bargain,” she said. “House arrest, probably. It’s the only way he gets to be with his family.”

Clint had fought for all of you, risked everything to stand with Steve, to break Wanda out. It hadn’t fully sunk in just how much he’d sacrificed until now—how much he put on the line for what he believed in.

“That’s messed up,” you muttered, mindlessly stirring the honey you’ve put in your tea a few minutes ago. You’d yet to take a sip. “If Clint’s willing to sacrifice being with his family, how can Tony not see what we’re standing for?”

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tony sees it. He just sees something else too.”

“Like what?”

Natasha didn’t respond right away. She just looked at you, her gaze steady, like she was weighing her next words. “You weren’t there.”

For a moment, you were confused. “Where?”

“In the Battle of New York. When the sky opened up, and Earth faced the greatest threat it had ever seen—and wasn’t ready for.”

Natasha sighed and took her sunglasses off—a risky move as the cafe was in the middle of a crowded street—but she needed you to more than just hear the words out of her mouth, you needed to see how this wasn’t some trivial disagreement between two people who cared about the same thing. “Tony was at the front lines, throwing everything he had into the fight. There were so many casualties. We couldn’t save everyone, no matter how hard we tried. And the guilt of that... it doesn’t wash off, no matter how many victories come after.”

You frowned, gripping your mug a little tighter. “So his solution is what? Autocracy?”

Natasha laughed and put her glasses back on. “I wasn’t aware you knew what autocracy was,” she teased. “Though, if you really did, you’d know what Tony wants is far from it. This is an entirely different situation.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint smirk tugging at your own lips. “If you understand Tony so well, why are you here with us?”

“I’m not here because I switched sides,” she said simply. “I’m here because you need me more than Tony does.”

And she was right. You did. It was bad enough that Clint wasn’t here. You hadn’t realized how much they’d become your safety net until you were on your way and it hit you—you were on your own now. No longer celebrated as a hero but a renowned fugitive. Natasha’s grounding presence was the only thing keeping your nerves from unraveling completely.

“Are you going to drink that?” Natasha asked after a while.

You glanced down at your tea, still stirring the spoon aimlessly. It was cold by now. You shrugged. She waved to the waiter and asked for the bill.

“I tried to convince Wanda to go out today,” Natasha said casually, like she wasn’t sure how you’d take it. “Thought a walk might do her some good.”

You looked up from your tea, surprised. “And?”

“She passed.”

You sighed loudly. “It’s been two weeks.”

“It’s not enough time for some people.”

You didn’t say anything right away, not wanting to push or show how much that affected you. Two weeks felt like forever when you were going over everything in your head when you first got out of the country. For Wanda, it must’ve felt like a lifetime—and not in the way that healed anything.

“Did she say why?” you asked quietly.

Natasha’s lips twitched, like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or sigh. “She didn’t have to. She thinks stepping outside is dangerous. For her, for everyone. And maybe she’s not wrong.”

“She shouldn’t feel like she’s a threat,” you said.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, considering you. “She doesn’t just feel it, Y/N. She’s been told it. Over and over. The Accords, Vision, everything. It’s going to take more than two weeks to undo all that.”

—

The hotel you’d been staying at for the past three nights was tucked away from the town center, far enough that the food you’d picked up for Wanda had gone cold by the time you got back. The isolation had its perks, though. This part of town had a quiet charm, with streets adorned in LED lights strung like Christmas was a permanent state of mind here.

The team had split up to stay under the radar. Steve accompanied Bucky to Wakanda, bartering a deal with T’Challa. Sam was stationed in a modest inn on the opposite side of the city, while you, Natasha, and Wanda ended up here, in a small, charming hotel surrounded by cobblestone streets and 15th-century architecture. With no mission except to stay hidden, it should’ve been the perfect chance to soak in the city like a tourist, to appreciate the timeless beauty around you.

But instead, you found yourself standing outside Wanda’s hotel room, the takeout bag dangling from your hand. You took a shaky breath, then another, willing your heartbeat to slow. It wasn’t working. Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of the bag, the cheap paper threatening to give out at any second.

Why were you so nervous? It wasn’t like this was the first time you’d seen Wanda since… everything. But things were different now. She felt different, like she was retreating into herself more and more each day.

Another deep breath. You adjusted your grip on the bag, smoothed down the front of your jacket, and gave yourself a silent pep talk. She needed you, just like you needed Natasha. Like you needed Clint.

Finally, you raised your hand, but before your knuckles met the wood, the door creaked open.

Wanda stood there, barefoot, her frame almost swallowed by an oversized shirt that hung loosely off one shoulder. It was frayed at the hem, the fabric softened by too many washes. Her pajama pants—faded plaid—looked like they’d seen better days, one cuff slightly torn where it dragged against the ground. She looked as worn as her clothes, her hair in a messy bun with stray strands framing her face.

For a moment, she just blinked at you.

“You knew it was me?” you asked, your voice coming out thinner than you'd intended.

“I had a feeling,” Wanda said with a small, knowing smile. “You breathe a little too loud.”

An embarrassed chuckle escaped you, awkward and unsteady, and you suddenly remembered the takeout bag clutched in your hand. Her gaze followed yours, and she tilted her head slightly.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, right,” you said, your face heating up as you held it up like a peace offering. “It’s for you. Some kind of beef stew—I, uh, forgot the actual name. It’s probably cold now, though. You should—”

Before you could ramble any further, Wanda reached out and took the bag from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours briefly, and the simple touch sent you into a headspin. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking into the bag.

You swallowed hard and gave a quick nod. “You’re welcome, Maximoff.” It felt like the right moment to leave, like you’d done your part, but your feet refused to move. You stood there like a fool, heart hammering, until Wanda—thankfully—broke the silence.

“Would you like to come in, Y/N?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure of herself either.

Too nervous to speak, you merely nodded.

—

The room was a bit of a mess—not filthy, but definitely in disarray. Books and papers were scattered across the coffee table, a pair of shoes lay haphazardly near the door, and a jacket was draped over the back of a chair. Wanda must have noticed your gaze drifting across the space because she quickly began tidying up. She grabbed a bundle of clothes from various corners—sweatshirts, a scarf, what looked like a pair of mismatched socks—and folded them into a neat pile. With an almost embarrassed smile, she placed them on the small sofa tucked beneath the room’s single window.

“Sorry,” Wanda murmured, “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your eyes darted back to the room despite yourself. There was something endearing about the lived-in clutter, a reminder that Wanda, for all her power and grace, for all that had happened in recent weeks—was still human in moments like these.

She gestured awkwardly toward the sofa. “You can sit, if you want. Sorry again for the mess.”

“You really don’t have to apologize. My place is worse,” you said. It wasn’t.

Wanda offered you a half-smile as she moved to the kitchenette, pulling open a drawer to grab some utensils. “I find that hard to believe,” she teased lightly.

Busted. Your room at the compound had been practically bare. Your hotel room now was even emptier. You missed your own apartment, but could only assume it had already been raided by the feds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you shot back, and she laughed softly, the sound settling something nervous and fluttering in your chest.

Wanda set the bowl on the counter and turned on the stove. You watched as she poured the stew into a small saucepan and stirred it absently.

“You should eat some too,” she said over her shoulder. “It’ll taste better warm.”

“I already had dinner, actually.”

Wanda glanced back at you, her brow lifting in question. “With Nat?”

You nodded, feeling oddly exposed under her gaze. “Yeah.”

Her lips quirked, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How’s she doing?”

It wasn’t the kind of question that invited much of an answer—it felt more like something to say, just to fill the space. You gave a half-shrug, unsure what else to do with it. “She’s fine.”

Wanda didn’t push for more. She settled onto the sofa beside you, tucking her legs beneath her and taking a small bite of the stew.

You wanted to ask how she was. How she was holding up after everything. But you couldn’t get any word out. You didn’t know how to ask without making it sound like pity, and you didn’t want to do that to her. Still, the question burned at the edge of your thoughts.

It had to be hard, being in the middle of all this again, being wanted—hunted—just like she was when she aligned with Hydra. You couldn’t stop thinking about how Vision was on the other side now, the person who should’ve stood with her through it all, standing with the people determined to stop her. That kind of fracture would break anyone.

You glanced at her out of the corner of your eye. She was focused on her food, but the energy radiating off her couldn’t talk you out of asking her if she was okay.

“Wanda?” you started, “Are you—”

“I’m okay,” she said, cutting you off gently, as though she knew what you were going to ask. For a moment you considered if she was reading your mind at the moment.

She set the bowl down and offered you a faint smile. “Really.”

You nodded, though you didn’t really believe her. The room fell quiet again, and you looked away, legs starting to bounce a little as you thought of what to say next.

“Has Steve come up with the next plan yet?” Wanda asked.

Her question confused you for a moment, making you feel like you’ve missed something. “Plan? Plan for what?”

She shrugged, chewing her food thoughtfully. “To come back. To clear our names. To return to…” She trailed off. To return to our normal lives.

Oh. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. Being an Avenger never felt anything close to normal, so you weren’t sure you ever really knew what normal was.

You wanted to assure her that Steve’s working on it, but you couldn’t lie to her either. From what you heard from Nat, Steve was preoccupied with helping Bucky’s asylum in Wakanda. And that could take a while. “I don’t think that’s possible anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“Steve and Tony…” You exhaled slowly, trying to find the right way to explain. “Their misunderstanding—it’s serious this time. It’s not something that’s going to blow over.”

“Right,” Wanda said curtly, then fell silent, turning her attention back to her food.

Without thinking, you blurted, “Do you miss Vision?”

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide like she hadn’t been expecting you to mention Vision at any point in this conversation.

“I…” Wanda deliberated. “I do.”

You forced your jealousy down your dry throat. Of course she did. What were you thinking, even asking? Vision was her lover. They were clearly going through something, and here you were, dredging it up. You should’ve left right after giving her the food—that would’ve been the perfect time to go.

“I regret what I did to him,” Wanda said suddenly, breaking through your thoughts. “Burying him w-with…with my powers.” Her hand tightened around the spoon, the metal scraping against the edge of the bowl. “I didn’t think—I just reacted. And it wasn’t just him. I hurt the others too. At the airport.”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t what you expected. “Wanda—”

She shook her head quickly, cutting you off. “I didn’t mean to lose control. I thought I was doing the right thing. Fighting for the right side. But after everything… I don’t know if there is a right side anymore.”

Her honesty floored you. You’d spent so much time blaming Tony for losing control, for going after Bucky, that you never stopped to turn the lens on yourself. You’d had your careless moments, caused your share of injuries to civilians on missions. You were just as responsible for how things unraveled—just like Steve, Tony, and the rest of the team.

“I want to believe we’re all still on the same side,” you muttered, resting your elbows on your knees as you searched for the right words. “That we’re still fighting for the same things—for justice, to protect people, to make things better. We’ve just… messed up how we’re going about it. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. We just need to figure out how to sort it all out.”

You swallowed hard, gathering the courage to speak. “I’m sure Vision forgives you for what happened. He… he loves you. And you two? You’re going to be okay.”

Her head snapped up at that. “What do you mean, ‘we’re going to be okay?’”

You winced, awkwardly scratching the back of your neck as you tried to clarify. “I just mean, yeah, sure, it might be a deal breaker for some people—getting buried alive and all—but Vision… he’s not like that. I don’t think he’d break up with you for—”

“We already broke up.”

You froze, staring at her. “What?” was all you managed to say.

Wanda sighed, setting the bowl on the coffee table with a soft clink. “We broke up. Before Clint came to get me from the compound.”

“Why?” you found yourself asking. You thought you'd feel happy, or at least relieved, but the truth left a bad taste in your mouth. Two people you cared about—yes, you’d finally admitted to yourself that you cared more than you wanted to—had ended their relationship, and somehow, that didn’t sit right with you. “I thought… I thought you two…”

“It wasn’t working,” Wanda explained. “We wanted it to, but things between us were always… complicated. And after the Accords, after everything that happened in Lagos…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It became clear that we were too different. He wanted peace. I wanted… freedom. And I guess we couldn’t find a way to have both.”

Wanting different things has a way of pulling two people off the same path. You wanted freedom too—but until you stopped chasing it, how could you want anything else? How could you want what Wanda wanted? But then, you’ve never aligned your interests with someone just to stay by their side, so why start now?

“I’m sorry,” you said finally, the words feeling small but all you had to give.

She gave you a small, tired smile. “Don’t be. It was mutual, even if it still hurts.”

You wanted to say something—to comfort her, to remind her she wasn’t alone—but it didn’t feel like the right time. Maybe this was a moment to sit with it, to let everything settle. So instead, you reached out, your hand finding hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. A quiet way of saying, I’m here.

It was the first time in weeks you’d touched her.

Wanda looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Your heart slowed, like it wanted to stretch this moment out, to hold onto the feeling of her hand beneath yours forever.

You gave her a small nod. “Always.”

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moe-broey · 5 months ago

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LIKE thinking about it nitpicking my own wording, here. Shedinja isn't really "the former self" -- Nincada would be. Shedinja is just some Thing that spawned in, when Ninjask did. Some kind of haunted husk that got left behind when Nincada hatched into Ninjask, becoming something New. Which is EXACTLY what Mani is, how Mani works.

ALSO @eriisaam eating up these tags on the Shedinja post actually,

LIKE. SO MUCH OF THIS TRIVIA CAN BE APPLIED TO MANI IT'S INSANE. AND HILARIOUS

Like "PMD if you evolve into Ninjask, you also get Shedinja in your roster now. No notice. It just silently appeared there." Exactly what happened with Mani.

THE NAME RATER ONE. ALSO. EXTREMELY MANI-CORE???? Like. Mani doesn't really have a name until Alfonse ends up in Moe's specific dreamscape. When the issue of differentiating the two comes up, Mani names itself. Which absolutely feels like having to go out of your way to apply a nickname to a nameless Pokemon. But ALSO the BDSP example works too...? I'm iffy about it, but there is at least one canon scene where "Moe" is used for Mani.

... Would this make "Moe" its deadname....??????? AN EXTREMELY FUNNY THOUGHT. But I also just don't think Mani has that relationship to Moe as a name, as someone might a deadname. (In fact, it may feel the opposite way. It loves that name. It's... cute.) WHICH is where I get iffy, like... do I want it to be more like a Lif situation, in naming conventions alone...? Where, you see him accept being called Alfonse by Thrasir/Veronica (and he does the same, towards her). But Mani really does feel like its own entity, separate from Moe itself... it's not a case of hidden identity or throwing away an identity you no longer feel deserving of. Literally a whole other guy spawned in. Shedinja style. From the same being, tied to that being. That became its OWN being. And it is important, to both Moe and Mani, that there is a distinction made.

GOD. THE RIBBONS/TITLES TRIVIA TOO??? GOES INSANE. Feels EXTREMELY applicable to Mani. How it's a reflection, more than anything else. And absolutely adjacently feels directly comparable to the beans/poffins lore. That there are very specific ways that Shedinja cannot change. (... except for candy, apparently.) This is maybe more metaphorical, but fits, too.

IDK IDK I JUST. I've always had suuuuch a hard time capturing/expressing what Mani Is, like, logistically speaking. It's literally just a Shedinja. Also bonus points for being genderless when Nincada/Ninjask have/retain their gender. WHICH....... also feels akin to how Moe has a really distinct gender identity/Feelings about it, and Mani just kind of is... null and void. Empty. Hollow, even.

Congratulations on the brain Nincada -> Shedinja/Ninjask, Moe. No idea how it works in an AU setting, but. Works GREAT as a metaphor/example for Mani came into being.

Don't ask how. It just Works 👍

#moe tag #mani tag #like i can imagine pokemon au moe making sense of what's going on in its head using nincada/shedinja/ninjask as a metaphor #and bc that's how it makes sense of it mani just Has those pokemon by proxy.#but if mani doesn't 'exist'... technically any pokemon it has wouldn't exist either. not without some shenanigans going on #which. i mean pokemon world. you could make just about ANYTHING work. just look at all the insane shit that is canon LMFAO #i really don't think it would make sense for moe to have one and mani to have the other though.#since the nincada each came from would need to exist in two realms at once.#if i get back into team building as characterization i'll never stop. or i'll stop really abruptly and forget about it #pokemon #moe lore #technically! more mani lore than moe tbh!

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anakinstwinklebunny · 14 days ago

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PAIRING: sam monroe x f!reader

FLUFF .°˖`

"Okay. Stand still man.”

SAM MONROE had been crouched down on the living room rug for over ten minutes. His legs started to feel the effect of it after first seconds; sn uncomfortable, shooting pain going right to his knees. Yet, he kept himself be still like some stupid statue. He bit down at the corner of his mouth in concentration,.adjusting the little clip that secured the micro cam beneath Vinnie’s sunhat. It was a cheap lil spy cam from eBay that barely worked, but Sam had rigged it with duct tape, wire and a hot glue gun he borrowed from his mom's drawer. Anything for this moment. Sam watched too many short videos of little shits running around with the lil camera filming their faces from this weird yet funny angle.

“Alright,” Sam mumbled, giving the cap a tug to center the lens. “It’s all set up. You ready to film the most amazing documentary of the decade?”

“Yeth.” he mumbled between the bite from his rice puff

Vincent had no idea what he agreed to.

“Perfect,” Sam muttered and gently twisted him around by his shoulders. “Go! Go live your little life!” Vincent didn’t need more than that. He took off wobbling towards the backyard, an absolute cutesy expression of his little face appearing on the screen of the camera.

“HIII!!” Vincent screamed into the wind at absolutely nothing. Then camera tilted. There was a quick shot of his own nostrils. He stumbled. Regained balance. Spun in a circle and clapped. It looked like found footage from Baby Cloverfield.

All day long, that camera captured every stupidly adorable thing he did. A 2-minute stretch of him chasing a butterfly with all the gasping of a little kid. There was also a 45 seconds of him staring deeply at a patch of moss. A sudden intermission where he peed his pants, screaming «da pickle» with «thammy» going in between. Sam kind of destroyed the next five minutes. And the last solid 10 minutes were of vinnie talking to a rock..

Hours later, when Vinnie was already sleeping deep in his bed, when Sam's family household was all quiet and dark, he took you to watch the at least eight hour video of your son just..living. You were snuggly sitting next to him in your shared bed, all curled up in his hoodie, under the thin material of the summer's blanket.

Sam was extremely invested in watching. There was nothing that could tear him away from the bright blue screen. Time to time your eyes moved to his side profile, and each time, you'd see his lips twitch upwards in what you swore was the softest smile of Sam Monroe.

But god forbid you unlock your phone when it buzzed. He immediately shot you a disapproved expression.

“...Are you serious right now?”

“Babe I’m listening I just—”

“Wow. No, that’s crazy. That’s actually insane.” he paused the video like you just insulted his firstborn child to his face. Which. Technically. You kinda did. In his mind.

“I understand its a baby POV video but he was looking at ants for six minutes straight!”

“Yeah. That’s the point. It’s called observation, babe. Look it up. Maybe then you'd understand the beauty of what's before your eyes”

You tried to hold back a laugh, but as soon as Sam saw how your lips twitched, he already turned the laptop slightly away from you in the most passive-aggressive dramatic move ever “Fine. You don’t deserve to see what he does next. You don’t get to witness the strawberry part. The ant carries it away and it’s symbolic. But go ahead. Check TikTok or whatever.”

“Samuel.”

“No. Go ahead, go look at your little phone. While your son gets to be an actor."

"C'mon, please..I was just joking" you put your phone away "look, I no longer have it. All my attention is on the amazing video that was made thanks to you"

"Save it."

Although it took only five seconds for him to cave in because he simply couldn't help himself to lean in and whisper-

“...Okay but look how he claps. Like actually watch this part. Look.”

BUNNY'S TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyles @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden @cherriies-snake @skywalkerssgirl @fredswrite @mvst4far @alealuvshayden @kandralice @prettiestmini @loliskywalker @amiratheangel

#hayden christensen #haydenchristensen #sam monroe imagine #sam monroe fic #sam monroe fanfiction #sam monroe x reader #sam monroe #sam monroe x y/n #sam monroe x you #sam monroe fanfic #sam monroe fluff #life as a house

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scarluna · 2 months ago

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KNOCKOUT (002)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 2/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas, emotional eating

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ GUYS PLEASE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO MAKE A TAG LIST, SOMEONE EDUCATE ME T____T Hence why I am unable to add yall there. :C Also, lemme know what you think of this chap. Wink Wink.

Time doesn’t feel real anymore.

I couldn’t tell you if it’s Monday or Thursday. If it rained yesterday or the day before that. I keep the blinds half-shut, the room dim enough that the daylight doesn’t mock me but bright enough that I don’t lose all sense of time.

I haven’t gone back to the park.

I haven’t gone anywhere, really.

Just rotting in my apartment, wrapped in the same blanket, wearing the same hoodie, scrolling through the same three apps on my phone like they’ll eventually give me a reason to feel alive.

They don’t.

Every day starts the same.

Wake up too late. Answer emails too slowly. Fake interest during work calls, mute myself and nod like I’m present. Lie when my mom texts asking if I’ve been “getting out more.”

"Yeah, totally. Been trying to take walks!"

She replies with a heart emoji. Like that’s enough to count as connection.

My dad called once. Drunk, probably. I didn’t answer. Let it ring out and told myself I’d call back later.

I won’t.

Even Vicky’s texts have started slowing down. She knows me well enough to give space when I go quiet like this, but part of me wishes she’d just barge in again. Force me out of my own head.

But I won’t ask.

I never ask.

I just sit here. Work. Eat. Scroll. Sleep.

Repeat.

The only real interactions I have are with food delivery drivers. Strangers I see for five seconds at a time but who, lately, feel like they’re starting to see me too much.

Like they know.

Like they can tell.

That I’ve ordered from the same chicken place four nights in a row. That I haven’t brushed my hair in two days. That my voice is hoarse from not being used. That I look like I haven’t been touched or held or smiled for real in longer than anyone should.

The last one gave me a weird look. Not mean—just… curious. Pitying.

Like he didn’t expect me to be the one behind the door. Like maybe he thought the name on the receipt belonged to someone different. Someone who didn’t open the door in a hoodie with food stains and bare feet and eyes that screamed don’t look at me.

I said “thanks” too quickly and slammed the door before he could say anything back.

And then I stood there.

Back against the door.

Heart pounding like I’d just run a mile.

Why does it feel like every moment lately is some slow-burning humiliation?

Why does existing like this feel so loud?

Even when no one says a word.

I eat half the food, then leave the rest on the counter like some kind of offering to the version of me who should be doing better by now.

I wish I could stop spiraling.

I wish the guilt wasn’t its own kind of meal—chewed on between bites, swallowed down with shame and soda.

But I can’t stop.

I can’t make myself care enough to break the cycle.

And deep down, I know what’s happening.

The same thing that always happens.

I’m fading again.

Not in a dramatic, cry-for-help way.

Just… fading.

Quietly. Slowly.

I didn’t sleep much.

Again.

The apartment smells like old fries and leftover stress. My laptop screen glows too bright in the dim room, and the clock on the bottom corner blinks 9:59 a.m.—one minute before the weekly team meeting.

I throw on a different hoodie. Kind of. Technically it’s the same as yesterday, just a slightly less-wrinkled sibling. Hair’s in a messy bun. Face untouched. My camera’s always off, and I plan to keep it that way.

I log into Zoom and brace myself.

The team meeting starts the same way it always does—bad small talk, muted laughter, awkward pauses while someone forgets they’re on mute.

And then Katherine’s voice cuts through like glitter and caffeine.

“So…” she says, practically bouncing in her chair. Her camera is on, obviously. Background blurred, face glowing. “Can we tell them now?”

Our manager, Greg, chuckles like he’s part of some secret joke. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

My stomach knots.

Greg leans forward. “Okay, team. We’ve got something fun coming up—real fun, not fake-corporate-fun.”

Katherine’s smile stretches even wider.

“We’ve booked out a section of Riot Club downtown this Friday night. Fully paid. Open bar. Food, music, everything.”

Someone lets out a “woo!” like we’re in a movie.

Riot Club.

Of course it’s Riot Club. I’ve heard of it—one of those trendy places where the lighting’s low, the music’s loud, and the people are confident. Beautiful. The kind of place where I’d normally rather light myself on fire than be perceived.

Greg keeps talking. “It’s a team-building thing. You know, for morale. We’ll have a reserved section upstairs, so it’s private, but feel free to bring your dancing shoes.”

Katherine claps. “This is going to be so fun. I’ve already got a dress picked out.”

Everyone’s reacting. Laughing. Making jokes about shots and karaoke and someone inevitably dancing on a table. People are already forming plans in the chat.

I just sit there, stiff.

Invisible.

Until Greg squints at the list of muted names and lands on me.

“Y/N—you in?”

My body freezes.

What?

No. No no no no no. This wasn’t part of the script. I was supposed to just sit through the meeting, nod silently, and then disappear like always.

But everyone is watching now. Katherine leans toward her screen with a curious smile. A few others are glancing sideways like they didn’t even know I existed before this moment.

And my mouth opens.

Before my brain catches up.

“Yeah,” I blurt.

It’s small. Quiet. But clear enough.

“Awesome,” Greg says, giving a thumbs-up. “Glad you’re coming.”

The moment passes.

The conversation moves on.

And I sit there, stunned.

What the fuck did I just do?

I didn’t mean to say yes.

I didn’t want to go.

I didn’t even want to be asked.

My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking slightly under the desk. The rest of the meeting blurs into static. I stare at the little camera icon on my screen, grateful it’s still red and crossed out.

They didn’t see the panic on my face.

Didn’t see the way I just agreed to willingly walk into a nightmare.

A club.

Downtown.

With people.

With Katherine.

With me, in the middle of it.

I log off the second the meeting ends and slam my laptop shut like I can shut reality with it.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes and exhale hard.

What the hell am I going to do?

An hour passes.

I haven’t moved from the couch.

My laptop’s still shut, my hands tucked under my thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweatpants. I’ve just been sitting here, replaying that moment over and over again in my head like a horror film on loop.

“Y/N—you in?”

“Yeah.”

God, why did I say that?

My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me.

I flinch, already bracing for it.

Katherine (1:19 PM):

Omg I’m SO glad you said yes!!! 🖤 This is going to be so fun. Honestly didn’t think you were the club type but I love a wild card 👀

I swallow hard. The nausea in my stomach doubles.

I stare at the screen for a full minute before typing.

me:

I didn’t really mean to say yes. I panicked.

It sends before I can change my mind. I instantly regret it—but not enough to delete it. I just stare, waiting.

Three dots appear.

Then disappear.

Then return again.

My chest tightens.

Katherine (1:22 PM):

LOL honestly same thing happened to me when I went to my first team party But hey—if you panic-committed, then now you’ve got a reason to go And if it helps… I’ll come pick you up No pressure. No stress. Just a ride with a semi-decent playlist 😎

My throat clenches. That’s... really nice of her. Too nice. Too much.

Why is she being so nice?

me:

You really don’t have to do that

Katherine (1:25 PM):

I know But I want to You’re part of the team. You deserve to be part of the fun too Besides, it’ll be easier walking in with someone than alone, right?

That part hits harder than I expect.

Because she’s not wrong.

Walking in alone would’ve destroyed me. I would’ve hovered by the entrance pretending to check nonexistent texts for twenty minutes, trying to disappear through the floor.

But now the panic shifts.

Because if Katherine picks me up… if I go…

They’ll see me.

Not blurry camera me. Not muted Zoom square me. Not vague voice-on-a-call me.

Me.

My body. My face. My everything I try so hard to keep tucked behind oversized hoodies and safe little rectangles on a screen.

And I won’t have Vicky.

She’s too far away. Hours away. No teleport button. No last-minute rescue.

I glance at the corner of my room where the dress Vicky once made me buy is still hanging—tags on, dusty from months of pretending one day I’d wear it.

My fingers hover over the keyboard again.

me:

They’re all going to see me for real

I don’t even know if I meant to send that. But I do.

And she replies instantly.

Katherine (1:29 PM):

Yeah And that’s a good thing You’re more than just a voice on Slack. You’re cool. People will love you. And if they don’t? Screw them. I’ve got your back.

I stare at the message until the letters blur a little.

I don’t know what I expected. A brush-off? A vague “you’ll be fine”?

Not this.

Not kindness.

Not support.

And instead of feeling reassured, all I can think is: I’m going to let her down. She doesn’t know how weird I look. How awkward I am in real life. How I fold in on myself when people make eye contact.

My hands shake as I put my phone down.

I feel like a burden.

A walking, talking inconvenience.

But Katherine didn’t make it feel that way. She didn’t hesitate.

And now the clock is ticking.

Two days until the event.

Two days until I have to be seen.

Two days until there’s no hiding.

The next evening

The sky is already dark when my phone buzzes again.

Vicky’s calling.

I almost let it go to voicemail—I’m too wrapped in the knot of dread sitting in my stomach—but then I remember her last text:

"You better answer or I’ll assume you’ve turned into a blanket goblin."

Fair.

I accept the video call and flip the camera. My hoodie’s still on. Hair’s up. Bare face. Blanket wrapped around me like a depressed burrito.

Vicky’s face lights up the screen the second the call connects. She’s got a clay face mask on and a mug the size of a soup bowl in her hands.

“Yooo,” she says, squinting at me. “There’s my favorite gremlin. Look at you. So glowy. So... suspiciously bundled.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Hi.”

She narrows her eyes. “You look like someone who accidentally agreed to something horrifying. Tell me everything.”

I exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the couch. “I said yes to going to a company team-building party.”

Her brows shoot up. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Like… willingly?”

“No. I panicked. They asked me in the Zoom meeting. Out loud. In front of everyone.”

Vicky winces. “Oof.”

“I said yes because my brain short-circuited and I didn’t know how to say no. And now Katherine’s all excited and she’s picking me up and everyone’s going to see me.”

I drop my face into my hands.

There’s a pause.

Then Vicky gently says, “Okay. Breathe. Just… pause the spiral for a second.”

I peek at her through my fingers. “I don’t want to go, Vick.”

“I know, babe. But maybe… hear me out… it’s not the worst thing ever?”

I roll my eyes.

She continues, sitting up straighter. “Look, I get it. Being around people is exhausting. Especially people who’ve only ever seen you from the neck up through a laptop screen with soft lighting and pixel blur. But maybe it’s also—kind of—a big deal that you said yes?”

“I didn’t mean to say yes.”

“But you did. And maybe that’s your soul doing some sneaky internal growth while your anxiety wasn’t looking.”

I snort, despite myself.

She grins. “I’m serious. You’ve been hiding for so long. What if this is your brain’s way of going: hey, what if we just tried for one night? Just one.”

“I don’t think I’d look good in anything…” I mumble. “Everyone’s going to look amazing and I’ll look like someone’s exhausted older cousin who wandered in by accident.”

“You are so dramatic,” Vicky says, sipping her tea. “You’re beautiful, Y/N. And if you want, we can raid your closet together. I can help you pick something. Virtual wardrobe montage, 2000s romcom style. Or maybe you still keep that pretty dress I gifted ya?”

I let out a quiet laugh. “Of course I do..” I took a glance at the dress hanging in my wardrobe whose doors were wide open and sighed quietly. Maybe I should just wear it?... “God, remember when we used to actually do that?”

“Yup. And you always looked better than me, so shut up.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“And you’re literally going to be fine. Put that dress I gave ya and some sexy smoky make up and you’ll get yourself a man immediately once they see how pretty you are.” She joked. Or did she?

I exhaled slowly, chewing on the edge of my blanket.

Vicky’s voice softens. “I know it feels terrifying. But it’s just one night. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be the life of the party. Just show up. Have a drink. Exist.”

I pause. “That’s already a lot.”

“I know,” she says. “But I also know you. And I think… deep down… some part of you wants this. Wants to be seen. Wants to be out there, even just a little.”

My chest tightens at that. She’s not wrong. That part does exist.

I just don’t know if I can handle it.

She raises an eyebrow. “Also, let’s not forget… there’s always a chance Jungkook shows up.”

I groan. “Oh my God. Vick—”

“I’m just saying! Downtown club? Underground fighter with rich-kid rebellion vibes? Sounds like his kind of scene.”

I bury my face again. “He doesn’t even know my name. I was literally wearing a blanket and panic-wheezing the last time he saw me.”

“Which is iconic,” she says with a smirk. “A mystery girl with a nicotine aura and oversized hoodie chic? He’s probably haunted by you.”

I laugh, this time louder. It feels weird to laugh this much.

It feels good.

I sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” she says simply. “And if it sucks? You leave. You can lie, say you feel sick. Blame a mysterious food allergy. I’ll back your story from four towns away.”

I smile at her through the screen, heart aching in that familiar way. “I wish you were going with me.”

“Me too,” she says. “But you’ve got this. And if nothing else, you’ll get free drinks and something to text me about at 2 a.m.”

My chest still feels tight, but a little less so.

Maybe, just maybe, I can survive this.

Maybe.

Friday. 7:45 p.m.

Any minute now.

Katherine said she'd be here at 7:50 sharp, and her texts have been consistently enthusiastic in that exact “I-will-drag-you-out-with-love-if-I-have-to” tone.

The clock on my phone reads 7:45.

I’m standing in front of the mirror.

And I can barely look at myself.

But I do.

Because I have to.

The dress Vicky gifted me hugs my body in places I usually try to erase. It’s soft black fabric—slightly structured but flowy enough to move in. Not tight. Not shapeless. Somewhere in between. It cinches a little under my chest and floats down from there, and yeah—it technically hides the parts I always try to shrink… but it doesn’t make them disappear.

Nothing could.

My arms. My thighs. My belly.

Still there. Still mine.

I shift my weight. My shoulders are hunched, posture defensive like I’ve spent a lifetime trying to take up less space. I force myself to stand straighter, but it feels foreign—like wearing someone else’s confidence.

My hair’s curled, but not polished. Messy on purpose. Loose and imperfect. I let a few strands fall over my face to soften everything, hide a little behind the veil of effort.

My makeup… I surprised myself.

A soft wing of eyeliner that actually looks even. Mascara that didn’t smudge. Clip-on earrings—little silver hoops—because I’ve always hated needles. And the lipstick.

God.

Red.

Bold. Loud. The exact kind of color that draws attention, and I don’t know what possessed me to wear it but here it is. On my mouth. Like a statement I’m too scared to say out loud.

I bite my bottom lip, testing it.

Still there.

Still vibrant.

And then the boots. Chunky, black, reliable. My little leather jacket. A crossbody bag just big enough for my phone, my ID, and my emergency excuses if I decide to flee.

The whole look… it’s not perfect.

But it’s mine.

And it’s been so long since I looked like this. Since I tried.

Since I showered, styled my hair, painted my face with intention instead of hiding behind foundation and prayer.

It’s strange.

I look almost like a version of myself I used to imagine. Not the girl on Zoom. Not the girl curled under blankets avoiding the world. Not the ghost who scrolls through Instagram and feels like she lives on the outside of her own life.

No—this version?

She exists.

And she's going out tonight.

I take one more look.

And then another.

I wish I could say I love what I see. That I feel powerful. Beautiful.

But really—I just feel… real.

And maybe that’s enough.

My phone buzzes.

Katherine (7:47 PM):

Outside! 🚗✨ You ready, queen?

My stomach flips.

This is it.

No turning back now.

I swipe on a final layer of confidence, inhale slow through my nose, and grab my bag.

One shaky step toward the door.

And I whisper to my reflection—so quiet I barely hear it myself:

“Let’s just try.”

The door clicks shut behind me.

The night air hits my skin like a soft warning—cool and sharp against the warmth trapped under my leather jacket. The street glows in soft orange hues from the overhead lamps, casting my shadow long across the pavement.

My boots clink softly with every step.

Each one feels louder than it should. Like they’re announcing me to the world.

I spot it almost immediately.

A red Chevrolet Camaro, sleek and shining like something out of a movie, parked right in front of my building.

Of course it’s Katherine’s.

It fits her—bold, polished, unapologetically attention-grabbing.

She’s already in the driver’s seat, one perfectly manicured hand on the wheel, the other holding her phone, probably cueing up a playlist. The interior lights glow faintly, outlining her profile like she stepped out of a commercial for glam and success.

I pause at the curb, take a breath, and circle around the car.

The closer I get, the more aware I am of everything—how my dress moves, how my hair feels, how exposed my legs are above the boots. I hope the lipstick hasn’t smudged. I hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.

I open the passenger door and slide in, the leather seat cold against my thighs.

“Hey!” Katherine beams, bright as ever. “Oh my God, look at you! You look gorgeous!”

I blink. “Me?”

She nods so fast her ponytail bounces. “Yes, you! I mean, I always suspected you were hiding a baddie under those hoodies, but damn.”

I laugh, quietly. “Thanks… you look amazing too.”

And she does.

Her platinum hair is curled and glossy, her skin glowing like a dewy Instagram filter. She’s in this glittery blush-toned mini dress that hugs her like it was tailored just for her. Her lips are glossy pink, heels sparkling like something ripped from a Barbie runway.

She looks like she belongs in a club.

I… look like someone playing dress-up in her big sister’s closet.

The confidence I built in my room wavers just a little. Just enough to notice.

But I breathe past it.

I try.

Katherine pulls away from the curb, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the air drift in.

We make small talk. Work stuff. Light jokes. I let myself laugh, even if it sounds a bit too high-pitched.

“You nervous?” she asks, glancing over at a red light.

I nod. “A little.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You already did the hardest part—you showed up. Everything else is cake.”

I nod again, forcing a small smile. “Cake.”

We were supposed to arrive at 8:20.

But traffic hits just outside downtown. One of those long, inching slogs where brake lights stretch out in front of us like a never-ending warning.

Katherine doesn’t seem fazed. She just leans back, taps her fingers on the wheel to the beat of the song playing, and throws occasional commentary about the guy in the next car who keeps checking her out.

I, on the other hand, sit perfectly still—my fingers clenched tight in my lap, counting down the seconds, watching the time slip away like it’s water running through my hands.

8:30.

8:40.

8:50.

Finally—finally—we pull up in front of Riot Club.

The street is already buzzing. Neon lights pulse against the sidewalk. There’s music thumping through the walls like a second heartbeat, and the line to get in snakes down the block.

Even with our name on the list, even with a reserved section upstairs—just seeing the crowd makes my breath hitch.

People everywhere.

Laughing, talking, dressed like they’re made for the spotlight.

My smile falters.

Every instinct in my body screams go home. I could walk back to the car. I could make an excuse. Say I got sick. Say I forgot something. Say anything.

But Katherine’s already opening her door.

She climbs out in one graceful move, standing tall in her heels, dress glittering like it’s alive.

She walks around to my side and opens the door before I can stop her.

Her hand extends toward me like a challenge.

“You ready?” she grins.

I glance at the club entrance. The crowd. The bouncer. The stairs.

My throat tightens.

But I reach out and take her hand anyway.

Because it’s too late to turn back now.

And maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to.

The bass hits first.

Even before we step fully inside.

It pulses under my skin, loud and relentless, like someone’s holding a speaker up to my chest and daring my heartbeat to sync with it.

The bouncer checks our names—Katherine flashes him a smile that probably gets her through most doors in life—and just like that, we’re in.

Riot Club lives up to the name.

The air is thick with heat and sweat and perfume that doesn’t quite mask the alcohol. The lights are low—deep reds and pulsing blues, flickering like a heartbeat in strobe—and the music...

“Dime por qué lloras / De felicidad…”

“El Teléfono” is blasting through the speakers like it’s 2008 again and we’re dancing in someone’s garage after drinking vodka from a water bottle. The beat pounds so hard the floor itself vibrates. People crowd the dance floor, hips moving, arms lifted, heads thrown back in laughter.

Everyone looks like they belong here.

I feel like I just walked into someone else’s dream.

We push our way through the crowd, Katherine’s hand hooked around my wrist, guiding us like she’s done this a thousand times. And maybe she has.

I stumble once. Apologize to someone who doesn’t even hear me.

And all the while, my brain spirals.

I’m twenty-six years old.

I have a full-time job. I pay my rent on time. I buy my own groceries. I have a plant that hasn’t died yet. I’m technically a grown woman.

But walking through this crowd?

Hearing this music?

Heading up the stairs to the VIP section of a club like I’m someone who does this regularly?

It feels wrong.

Like I stole this night from someone else’s life and I’m going to get caught at any moment.

Because no matter how much time has passed—no matter how many birthdays have stacked up—I still feel sixteen sometimes.

Sixteen and anxious and deeply unsure of myself.

Sixteen and pretending to be cool when I never knew how to dance.

Sixteen and quietly guilt-ridden about staying out past ten, even when no one cared.

My parents never checked in. Never enforced curfews. I could’ve stayed out till dawn and no one would’ve blinked.

But I still tiptoed home.

Still felt like I was doing something wrong.

Still played the part of the good girl.

The quiet one. The one who didn’t drink too much. The one who didn’t get into trouble. The one who didn’t let anyone too close.

And now here I am.

In a club. Wearing red lipstick. Walking past strangers with glitter on their cheeks and drinks in their hands. Climbing the stairs to a private section like I belong here.

And I don’t.

I don’t.

I grip the railing tighter.

Katherine glances back at me once, beaming, shouting something I can’t hear over the music. I nod, smile faintly, keep walking.

Even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t know how to say it. Not without sounding ungrateful. Not without disappointing her. Not without confirming what I already believe:

That I can’t do this.

That I don’t fit.

The VIP section is a little quieter. Not by much. Just enough that the bass doesn’t feel like it’s rattling my teeth. There’s a sleek couch setup, a long glass table filled with small plates, fancy drinks, and coworkers already laughing, already loose.

They see Katherine.

They see her.

And then they see me.

Eyes flick over me in passing—some smiles, a few nods, one girl I recognize from Zoom gives me a friendly wave—but no one says anything just yet.

Still, I feel it.

Seen.

And not in the romantic, movie kind of way.

In the raw, terrifying, naked kind of way.

The kind where the hoodie doesn’t save you anymore.

I sit at the edge of the couch, trying to make myself small. The leather squeaks under me. I smooth my dress out, sip water from a sweating glass, and try to remember how to act like I belong in my own life.

Maybe if I fake it long enough, I’ll start to believe it.

The lights up here are softer.

Warmer.

Still dim, still flickering from the music below, but not as harsh. The kind of glow that makes people look a little better, a little more relaxed, a little less intimidating.

I sit with my drink—water, for now—gripping the glass too tight and trying to remember how to function.

A few coworkers drift over. People I recognize from work chat and project check-ins and endless Slack threads.

Samantha from accounting compliments my earrings.

Miguel from marketing asks if I like reggaeton.

Liam—who’s always joking in meetings—offers me a plate of mini empanadas and says, “You clean up nice.”

They’re all friendly. Genuinely.

There’s no cruel undertone. No judgment. No whispered looks.

Just warmth.

But I’m still quiet.

Smiling politely, saying thank you, answering questions with short but safe replies. My hands never quite stop fidgeting in my lap or tapping the rim of the glass. My eyes scan the room too often, like I’m waiting for someone to tell me I’m not supposed to be here.

Because I don’t feel like the girl they’re talking to.

I’m still wearing that invisible hoodie. Still hunched, still hiding behind practiced small talk and careful laughter.

But if Vicky were here?

I’d be different.

She’s seen me sobbing in the dark, surrounded by snacks and shame and silence. She’s seen my worst spirals, my messy breakdowns, the parts of me I try to keep hidden from the rest of the world.

And she stayed.

That’s the difference.

That’s why I can be silly with her. Loud. Soft. Raw.

With other people? I’m just this version. Polished edges and apology eyes.

Until—

“Alright, alright, look at this crew!”

Greg walks in like he owns the room—because technically, he does. Our manager. Balding but confident, shirt half-tucked, wearing some kind of printed button-up that says cool boss energy more than business formal.

People cheer, a few stand to greet him.

He raises a glass of something amber and laughs. “Glad you all made it out of your caves. I was starting to think half of you were AI.”

More laughter. Even I smile.

Then his eyes sweep the room.

They stop on me.

And something shifts in his expression. Not unkind—just… surprised.

“Y/N?” He squints, then chuckles. “Wow. I didn’t recognize you without the hoodie and messy bun.”

The comment makes me freeze for a split second—but he says it casually, without malice. Just surprise.

I laugh.

A real one, kind of. The kind that’s a little unsure, but still genuine.

“Yeah,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “I almost didn’t recognize me either.”

People chuckle softly. Katherine beams.

Greg walks over and clinks his glass gently against mine. “Well, you look great. Glad you’re here.”

He takes the empty seat beside me and starts chatting with everyone—asking Miguel about his dog, teasing Samantha about her Spotify Wrapped, telling Katherine he still doesn’t understand TikTok.

And slowly—so slowly—I start to relax.

I take a deeper breath.

My shoulders loosen.

I set my empty water glass down on the table, flag down the server, and when she leans in, I hear my voice say:

“Can I get a cherry vodka and Red Bull?”

She nods.

My heart hammers.

Bold.

Stupid?

Maybe.

But I want to feel something. I want to taste something sweet and fizzy and wrong. I want to be a little more than this shell. Just for one night.

Just for a few hours.

The music shifts to something smoother, more danceable. People start standing up, moving closer to the balcony railing that overlooks the dance floor.

I lift the drink when it comes. It’s pink and fizzy and tastes like rebellion.

And for the first time tonight—

I let myself smile.

Not the polite one.

The real one.

The vodka’s hitting.

Not in a dizzying, blackout kind of way—but warm and weightless. Like I’ve floated half an inch above all the anxiety pressing on me for years. My limbs feel light. My smile keeps slipping out easier.

I’m laughing with coworkers. Actually laughing.

Samantha and I bond over our mutual hatred for Slack emojis. Miguel and Katherine are fake-arguing about who danced worse in high school. Liam keeps sliding plates of snacks toward me like I’m going to vanish if I don’t keep eating.

I let myself exist here.

Music hums through my bones. Bass in my ribs. My third vodka tastes like childhood candy and bad decisions. I sip it anyway.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Maybe an hour. Maybe five minutes. Time doesn’t work properly in clubs.

I lean back into the plush couch, my knees tucked close, boots dangling off the edge. I’m warm, surrounded, not invisible for once—and weirdly okay with it.

Until it happens.

Voices at the stairs.

Low, laughing.

Footsteps on metal.

I glance toward the staircase, not really focused, eyes soft from the buzz. Just another group coming up to the VIP—nothing unusual.

But the shift in energy is immediate.

A few people at our table—Katherine, Miguel, even Greg—perk up, smiling, waving.

“Yo! You made it!” someone calls out.

I blink.

Samantha lifts a hand, grinning. “That’s my cousin—he actually showed up!”

I follow their line of sight without thinking.

A small group of guys is climbing the stairs. Most of them dressed in that effortless, too-cool-to-try way: dark shirts, silver chains, tattoos peeking under sleeves. Confident. Comfortable.

And at the back—

No.

No way.

Everything stills.

The vodka buzz disappears like it was never there.

Because he’s there.

Jungkook.

Climbing the stairs, slow and deliberate, head slightly tilted as he surveys the space. Black button-up open just enough to show the tattoos crawling down his chest. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy, damp at the ends. Silver hoops in both ears, a glint of light catching the ring on his lip.

He looks like a storm barely leashed.

Like he’s too real to exist in the same night I’m pretending belongs to me.

My heart lurches, tight and hot.

I don’t move.

Katherine shifts beside me—and I can feel her stiffen.

She knows.

She remembers.

“Oh my God,” she mutters under her breath, wide-eyed. “That’s Jungkook.”

I already know.

Of course I know.

He reaches the top of the stairs just as a few people from our group go over to greet them. There are hugs, loud voices, handshakes.

And then—

He looks up.

And sees me.

Our eyes lock.

Just for a second.

But it stretches.

His expression doesn’t change—no dramatic reaction, no double take. But I see something flicker in his gaze.

Recognition.

Memory.

Stillness.

Like maybe he’s just as surprised as I am.

Maybe.

I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

Because in all the daydreams, in all the hypothetical versions of this night where something wild and cinematic happens—I never once imagined he’d walk through the same door.

And I never imagined I’d be seen like this.

Not by him.

Not without the hoodie.

Not without the shield.

Just… me.

In red lipstick and messy curls and boots that suddenly feel too loud.

The moment breaks when someone claps Jungkook on the back and laughs too loud.

Just like that, the energy shifts again—back to motion, to noise, to people moving around her like the ground isn’t still tilting beneath her feet.

The guys from the stairs reach our group, folding in with the kind of ease that only people born into comfort can pull off. One of them—tall, handsome, full of charisma—grins and raises his drink like a toast.

“This the famous marketing team?”

Laughter.

Greg stands, already pulling chairs closer, greeting them like old friends.

“Glad you made it, man. We were just talking about how you never show.”

Someone’s cousin. Someone’s friend. A small flood of introductions happens as people shift to make room.

They’re laughing, shaking hands, slapping backs, sliding into the booth with practiced ease. And then one of them—black curly hair, a cheeky grin—gestures around the group.

“I know Katherine, and Sam, and this loud dude—” (he points at Miguel, who mock-scowls) “—but I don’t think we’ve met everyone. Introductions?”

Katherine, ever the social butterfly, takes the lead.

She starts going around the table with names and small “she’s the one who handles client crises at lightning speed” or “this guy eats peanut butter straight from the jar at work” types of comments. Everyone laughs along.

But they’re getting closer.

And then Katherine’s hand gestures toward me.

“And this,” she says with a soft smile, “is Y/N.”

My stomach drops.

All eyes shift to me.

I feel the weight of it instantly.

His eyes, especially.

I can feel them on me like heat through glass.

I stiffen. My cheeks flush—instant, impossible to stop. My fingers tighten around my glass, and for a second, I debate saying I forgot how to speak.

But I don’t get that choice.

Everyone’s watching. Expecting.

So I force it out.

“I—uh—hi. I’m Y/N.” My voice is small. Nervous. But it doesn’t shake.

One of the guys smiles, nodding. “Nice to meet you.”

Another throws out a “cool name.”

I nod, offering a tiny, polite smile.

But I can feel how red my face is. I can feel the way I’ve curled into myself again—shoulders hunching, legs crossed, one boot tapping lightly against the floor.

And when I glance—just a flicker, just for a second—

Jungkook is watching me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not amused. Just… there.

Still.

Present.

I look away fast, heart rattling in my chest like it's trying to crawl up my throat.

Greg says something to the group that makes them all laugh, and the attention shifts again.

Relief and embarrassment swirl together in my stomach like oil and water.

No one said anything weird. No one laughed at me. No one even stared too long.

But still—I feel like I just stood under a spotlight with a sign around my neck that said this is what anxiety looks like.

I take a slow sip of my drink, the cherry vodka suddenly too sweet, too sharp.

And all I can think is:

He knows my name now.

The music thumps through the walls like a second heartbeat.

It’s late now. Maybe close to midnight—maybe later. Time has gone slippery.

Most of the group has thinned out. Some are on the dance floor, bodies weaving under flashing lights. Laughter spills from the stairs every few minutes. Katherine’s nowhere in sight—last I saw, she left giggling with one of the guys, disappearing into the haze of music and bodies.

The couch is quiet now.

Except for me.

And him.

I’m sitting at the far end, drink mostly watered down from melted ice, cradled between both hands like it’ll anchor me to the moment.

Jungkook sits at the other end, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, thumbs moving lazily over his phone screen.

The silence between us is loud.

But not awkward.

Just heavy. Like static before a storm.

I glance at him once—just a peek—and catch the slope of his nose in profile, the soft curve of his bottom lip, the way his dark lashes shadow his cheekbones in the low lighting.

He’s real.

And somehow still unreal.

I look away.

Focus on the condensation dripping down the side of my glass.

And then, after what feels like an entire hour compressed into ten seconds, he puts his phone face-down on the table.

I feel it before I see it.

His eyes on me.

I look up.

And he’s looking directly at me.

Expression unreadable. Not intense. Not soft. Just... real.

And then he speaks.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The question hits harder than I expect.

My breath catches.

“I’m not—” I start, then stop.

He raises a brow, like he’s giving me a second chance to be honest.

“You are,” he says calmly. “At the store. At the park. That night at the fight. You keep running.”

His voice is quiet. Low enough that it doesn’t rise above the music, but it slices straight through it anyway.

He leans back slightly, his gaze still locked on mine.

“I try to talk to you,” he says. “Be friendly. Say hey. But every time, you act like I’m about to bite you.”

I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I…” I swallow. My cheeks are burning. “I’m just… not good at—”

He waits.

I try again. “At talking. To people. I’m not used to... this. Attention. Or—whatever this is.”

His head tilts slightly, the edge of his lip quirking. “But you’re here now.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re here,” he says, motioning around with a small gesture. “At a loud-ass club. In makeup. In a dress. Sitting across from me. Talking.”

I fidget with the straw in my glass, fingers slippery with nerves.

“I didn’t really mean to come,” I admit, voice barely above the music. “They asked in front of everyone, and I panicked and said yes. Then Katherine guilt-tripped me into following through.”

Jungkook chuckles. It’s soft. A little amused. “And the park?”

I bite my lip.

He continues, voice low, not teasing. Just… curious. “You sit there like you want to disappear. But you keep showing up.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Because he’s right.

I do keep showing up.

Even when I don’t know why.

Even when I’m terrified.

“I just…” I try to find the words, voice catching halfway through. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

That gets him.

His brows draw together, like he’s actually confused by that.

“Waste my time?” he repeats, slowly. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug. “Because... I’m not like the people you’re usually around.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m not interesting,” I murmur. “Not fun. I’m awkward. Quiet. I don’t look like…” I gesture vaguely toward the dance floor, where people are laughing, effortless, magnetic.

His expression doesn’t change.

He just watches me.

And then he says, simply, like it’s obvious:

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t want to be.”

That silence comes back—thick and humming between us.

I can’t look at him.

But I feel it.

The shift.

The undeniable fact that I’ve been seen.

And not just noticed.

Seen.

The moment between us teeters—suspended in some strange, weightless pause where I almost feel like maybe, maybe, I belong in it.

But then, the universe does what it always does.

It reminds me.

A voice cuts through the moment. “Yo, Jungkook, what’s up, man?”

I blink, and a coworker��Jake, I think, from another department—plops down on the other side of Jungkook, grinning, already pulling him into some conversation about mutual friends and “remember that night at Noir?”

Jungkook gives me one last glance, like he’s trying to hold the thread of whatever just passed between us.

But the moment breaks.

I stand quietly, smoothing my dress out of habit.

“I’ll be back,” I murmur, not sure if anyone hears me.

I slip away from the couch and head toward the exit—out of the music, out of the lights, out of that sudden, overwhelming visibility.

Outside, the air is cooler.

Crisp, biting.

I dig into my jacket pocket for my cigarettes and lighter. My fingers are clumsy, the adrenaline from earlier still lingering in my veins. My boots click lightly against the pavement as I make my way a little off to the side of the club entrance.

But I’m not alone.

A group of guys—maybe four or five—are huddled nearby, already smoking. Laughing in that careless, half-drunk way that makes everything sound louder, meaner.

I light up and keep my distance. Hug the wall. Eyes down.

I just need a minute.

A breath.

But then I hear it.

At first, it’s just fragments.

“Did you see that chick inside—” “—the one with the big boots and the red lipstick?” “Dude, she was huge.” “Right? I didn’t know they let heavyweights into VIP.”

My heart sinks.

My hands freeze.

They don’t say my name. But they don’t have to.

I know.

My throat closes.

My eyes burn.

I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just keep smoking like maybe the nicotine will hold me together. Like maybe if I stay perfectly still, they’ll forget I exist.

But the words keep echoing.

Fat.

Huge.

Laughter.

It doesn’t even matter if they meant it to be cruel.

It still hurts.

And I hate how used to this I am.

I hate how practiced I’ve become at not reacting.

My eyes sting harder, and I blink fast, trying to will the tears back. My lips tremble, but I take another drag like that’s going to help.

Then I hear footsteps.

Heavy ones.

And before I can look up, I hear a low, familiar voice—tight with something dangerous.

“Is there a problem?”

I glance to my side.

Jungkook.

Standing there.

Still. Cold. A different kind of presence entirely.

The group falls silent immediately.

One of them—a guy in a bomber jacket, who was laughing the loudest—straightens up, eyes wide.

“Oh shit—Jungkook, bro—nah, man. No problem here.”

The others murmur quickly in agreement.

Jungkook doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

He just stares at them.

The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

The guy in the bomber jacket laughs nervously. “Didn’t know you were out here. We’re just chilling, man. All good.”

Jungkook’s voice is calm. Steady. But it cuts.

“You sure?” he asks, head tilted slightly. “Because I heard something different.”

More stammering. More backpedaling.

They recognize him.

Not just as a guy—they recognize who he is. What he’s capable of.

“There’s no problem,” one says again, voice lower now.

Jungkook looks at them a beat longer. Then turns, stepping between them and me, placing himself just enough that it feels like a shield without saying it out loud.

He doesn’t look at me yet.

Not until they’re gone.

And when they finally scatter, awkward and mumbling and fast-walking down the block, he finally turns back.

His voice is soft now. So different from before.

“You okay?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

But my eyes give me away. They always do.

He looks at me, really looks at me, and says, “You don’t have to act like it didn’t hurt.”

And something inside me almost breaks open.

Because no one’s ever said that to me before.

Not like that. “Would you like me to drive you home? I am with my car and I haven’t drank any alcohol..”

I shake my head again, trying to keep my voice even though everything inside me is fraying. " I—I’m okay. I’ll just get home on my own."

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.

Instead, Jungkook crouches a little so his eyes are level with mine. His expression is careful—not pitying, not forced. Just… present.

“Okay,” he says softly, like he actually means it. “Cab then?”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag.

“I know we barely know each other,” he continues, like he’s reading the swirl of panic in my chest. “So I won’t offer to drive you. But I can call a cab. One of the companies I trust. They’re discreet. Safer than calling some random app.”

My throat tightens.

This shouldn’t be this hard—saying yes to help. But my brain is spinning. My skin still feels too thin from earlier. From everything. And yet, the way he says it, like he’s handing me a choice instead of cornering me into one… it makes something in me ease. Just a little.

I nod. Barely.

He stands back up and pulls out his phone.

The silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just there.

He doesn’t fill it with words.

And I’m grateful for that.

I swipe at my cheeks again, trying to fix the damage, but I can feel the dried salt along my skin. I probably look like a wreck. Red-rimmed eyes, broken voice. Meanwhile, he’s standing here looking like a painting with bruises—too vivid, too unreal.

I shift awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “For… being like this.”

His brow furrows.

“Don’t do that.”

I blink, startled.

“Don’t apologize for feeling something.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Whatever it is you’re carrying,” he says, eyes never leaving mine, “you don’t owe anyone an explanation for it. Least of all me.”

And goddamn it—

That does it.

The tears threaten again, fast and hot, and I hate that he’s seeing it, hate that I’m breaking apart in front of someone I barely know, but also… some traitorous part of me is grateful he stayed. That he didn’t walk away the second things got messy.

His phone vibrates, and he glances down at it.

“Cab’s three minutes out,” he says. “Black Toyota. Plate ends in 52.”

I nod again, trying to gather the pieces of myself, trying not to fall apart in this alley outside a warehouse full of noise.

He doesn’t speak again.

But he doesn’t leave either.

We stand there in quiet, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. Close enough to feel his presence—warm, grounded, steady.

I don’t look at him.

But I feel his gaze on me, not heavy or invasive. Just aware. Like he’s keeping watch. Like I’m not alone for the first time in a long time.

And for some reason… that’s what almost breaks me.

Not the noise. Not the night.

But the kindness.

The softness in a place built for hard things.

I don’t know what this is. Or what it means.

But I know this much:

I won’t forget it.

Not tonight.

Not him.

Not the way he didn’t try to fix me.

Just stood close enough to make the silence feel safe.

The cab pulls up, headlights cutting through the haze of the alley. I turn to thank him one more time, my voice small, frayed at the edges.

“Thanks again. For… everything.”

Jungkook nods once, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his bruised jaw catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. He doesn’t smile—not really—but there’s a softness in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before.

As I reach for the car door, he speaks—low and steady.

“Next time you see me…” His voice pauses like he’s picking his words carefully. “…don’t avoid me.”

It’s not a request. Not a demand either. Just… something in-between.

A truth offered.

I swallow hard and look at him, really look at him, the air thick between us.

I nod once.

And I get in the cab.

The ride home is quiet. My phone stays in my lap, untouched. The driver makes a couple polite comments, but I’m too far gone to answer. I keep replaying his words in my head.

Don’t avoid me.

He noticed. Somehow, he noticed I was trying to disappear.

By the time I reach my apartment, the exhaustion hits like a freight train. My body feels heavy. My mind is foggy.

I strip off the dress, drop it carefully onto the chair like it’s made of glass. Wipe off the makeup with shaking hands. My face feels raw without it, but also… clean.

I throw on a giant sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, the familiar cotton hugging all my softest parts. The mirror reflects someone who looks like she almost let the world see her—and didn’t die.

I fall into bed like gravity doubled, pulling me straight into the mattress. The last thought in my head is him.

And then nothing.

The next morning

It’s still early when I wake.

Too early.

But the light filtering through the blinds is soft and peach-colored, like the sky is still deciding what kind of day to be. I don’t usually do this—wake up before the world—but something feels different today.

Lighter.

Not good. Not fixed.

But less heavy.

I pad into the kitchen, make my usual coffee. Black, no sugar. The bitterness feels like a small punishment I’ve earned.

I open the balcony door and step outside into the cool morning air, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands. One cigarette, one lighter, one breath.

I sit down in the old rusted chair I thrifted years ago and take the first drag, then sip the coffee while the smoke curls up and disappears.

My phone buzzes.

Vicky 💜 Morning weirdo. You awake or still emotionally hungover?

I smirk, thumb tapping quickly.

me: Awake. Balcony. Smoking. Watching the world not fall apart. You?

Vicky: Laptop. Lecture in 30. Hair in a bun. No bra. We thrive.

She calls me seconds later.

I answer, camera off.

“Morning, professor.”

She groans. “Don’t. I already spilled soy milk on my notes and the Wi-Fi’s acting like it’s allergic to responsibility.”

I laugh, and she immediately softens.

“You sound better,” she says.

I stare out over the rooftops, watching the sun ease its way up over the buildings.

“I feel… less awful.”

“Want to talk about it?”

So I do.

All of it. From the moment I ducked into that bathroom and overheard those girls, to the way my brain spiraled out of control so fast it almost derailed the whole night.

“I know it was stupid,” I say quietly, flicking ash off the edge of the balcony. “Like… why did I let it get to me that bad?”

“Stop.” Her voice cuts in, firm but warm. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“I just—I felt like I was nothing again. Like I was thirteen, hiding in the locker room, praying no one noticed how much space I took up.”

Vicky sighs softly, the sound of her fingers clicking on keys in the background. “Y/N… you reacted like a person who’s lived through real pain. That’s not something you just… outgrow. It lingers. Triggers happen. Doesn’t make it less real just because it looks small from the outside.”

I blink hard, pressing my lips together.

“And,” she adds, voice sly now, “you didn’t let it ruin everything. You still showed up. You let someone help you.”

I hesitate.

“He called me a cab,” I admit, softer now. “After I told him I didn’t feel safe getting in a car with someone I barely knew. He just… listened. Said he’d order it for me if that’s what I wanted.”

There’s a pause.

Then a delighted gasp.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“That’s so hot. Are you kidding me? Gentleman behavior and emotional intelligence? Marry him immediately.”

I snort. “He’s just… I don’t know. He’s kind of terrifying. But also not? Like, he looks like he could ruin your life but also fold your laundry.”

Vicky cackles. “Danger with a heart. A classic. We love to see it.”

I smile, blowing out a stream of smoke and watching it fade into the sky. My chest still feels bruised, but not broken.

“He told me not to avoid him next time.”

“And are you going to?”

I pause.

Let the silence stretch.

Then quietly: “I don’t want to.”

Vicky hums. “That’s my girl.”

She sighs. “Okay. Gotta go pretend I’m an expert in child development now. But I love you. And I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me.

“Love you too.”

She hangs up.

And I sit there for a while, cigarette gone, coffee cold, but heart just a little warmer than yesterday.

Maybe next time… I won’t run.

Maybe next time… I’ll let him see me.

Really see me.

Even the parts I’m still learning to look at myself.

I’m still on the balcony, staring at the last swirl of smoke disappearing into the sky when my phone buzzes again.

Katherine 🖤 Hey girl. You okay? You left kinda abruptly last night.

My heart skips a beat.

I pull my hoodie tighter around my arms and unlock my phone with a thumbprint I wish could delete anxiety.

me: Yeah. I just wasn’t feeling great. Needed some air.

She replies almost immediately, like she’s been waiting.

Katherine 🖤: That’s what Jungkook said. He told everyone you weren’t feeling well and called you a cab. Total protector mode 🥺

My stomach flips.

He told them?

I can’t decide if that makes me want to curl up and die or… smile.

me: Wait—he told you that?

Katherine 🖤: Girl. The second someone asked where you went, he just said “She wasn’t feeling well. I got her home safe.” Dead serious. And then he dipped.

me: He left?

Katherine 🖤: Yup. Like 10 minutes after you. Wouldn’t even take a drink. Just left. Honestly? Kind of hot.

My blush hits hard and fast, warming my cheeks like I just stepped into a furnace. I pull my knees up on the chair, hiding behind the ceramic coffee mug like it might cool me down.

Katherine 🖤: Also… I got laid 😇

I blink. Hard.

me: WHAT???

Katherine 🖤: Yeahhhh. One of Jungkook’s friends. Tall, dimpled, criminally good at neck kisses. Literally the best sex of my life. Like I think I astral projected at one point??

me: Oh my god, Katherine.

Katherine 🖤: Don’t “oh my god” me. You’re the one who got rescued by a bruised, tattooed underground prince and rode home in a cab he summoned like a damn knight.

me: I rode home. You rode a man.

Katherine 🖤: LMAOOOOOO okay point for you. But still. How are we in the same city and you get the brooding fighter who leaves parties early for you?

I bite my lip, trying to smother the growing smile, but it’s useless.

Jungkook.

The way he stood there in that alley.

The way he didn’t push, didn’t question, just… saw me. Called a cab. Stayed until I was safe. Told them I wasn’t feeling well so I wouldn’t have to explain myself later.

And then left.

For me?

Katherine 🖤: Just saying… if you don’t text him, I might.

I roll my eyes, thumbs already moving.

me: Back off. He’s terrifying and possibly capable of reading minds.

Katherine 🖤: Perfect. He can hear me thinking you better text her, you emotionally unavailable legend.

I laugh, clutching the mug to my chest as the city wakes up around me.

Something about today feels different.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But maybe… like the beginning of something.

Like maybe I'm allowed to be seen.

Bruised, messy, soft, and still worthy.

And maybe the boy who left early to make sure I got home safe... maybe he saw that too.

212 notes · View notes

justbelievinginmagic · 2 months ago

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when worlds collide - part 2: aniteez on duty!

pairing(s): ATEEZ OT8 x Fem!Reader

series summary: What if Aniteez appeared on Ateez's ship, Twilight, after being sent through a Cromer wormhole? How would the two crews work and live in harmony when worlds collide?

warnings/tags: slice of life pirate au! silly times. this is the closest to a crack fic ive ever written but its also done in earnest lol. this is pure fluff for the most part. technically theyre in ateez lore timeline but make it more fantasy au!. chaotic aniteez, polyateez x reader, m x m, m x f, play fighting, slapstick humor, mentions of food/eating/possible food insecurity, cursing, sandeoki is a cutie but a girlboss who gaslights and gatekeeps lol, sandeoki is canonically a girl idc shes a princess, let me know if there is anything else that needs tagging.

word count: ~5.2k

first chapter <- -> next chapter

series masterlist

During the first week aboard, Ateez learned a lot about the creatures now a part of their crew.

Firstly, they were loud.

They bickered. Constantly.

Jjongbear and Hetmongi yelled up to each other no matter where they were, babbling instructions or teasings. Meanwhile, the little kitties loved to chit-chat to one another, babbling and giggling and leaning on another playfully during any instruction. (Occasionally, it led to cat-fights – little spats of playfulness turned sour before turning sweet again when one of them remembered how much they loved one another. It’d either by Wooyonyang who would snuggle up to Sandeoki with a pout, their tails intertwining sweetly, or Sandeoki who would plop beside the black cat with a poutful expression. How could someone stay angry at someone so cute, Sandeoki thought?)

It was frequent that Ddeongbyeoli, who seemed to be the second-in-command of the little creature crew, separated them, standing in between the two. But, that just led to them yapping and tickling and teasing the bunny! He too often fell to their mischievous ways and would begin to talk, too! More than once, YN had seen Jjoongrami huff out at them in frustration (as if he was any better with not talk, talk, talking.)

In fact, Jjoongrami was the worst culprit for being a talkative crew member. They learned that the first night.

On the first night with their new crew members, Hongjoong remained awake for as long as he could while YN grew sleepier and sleepier. Their day-and-night shift routine had effectively been ruined the moment YN awoke to the chaos on deck. The helmswoman typically took the wheel in the evenings – when the sun set and the stars were hung in the sky – and slept most of the morning away ‘til she was kissed awake by her loves for lunch. But today, she remained awake the rest of the day, sleepily blinking her eyes as the entire crew acquainted their fuzzy companions with the ship’s systems and decks.

The tour was long; they explained each deck and its purpose. Main deck was where they mostly stayed but the middle deck housed the sleeping quarters and common areas. The creatures claimed their makeshift bunks – stringing up hammocks in the common area and squeaking out that this one was theirs! YN passed by her own cabin longingly.

The galley was a quick visit; Wooyoung spoke briefly about their set up, the chef ever thoughtful about his space. Mingi piped up and pointed to his corner, a healer’s apothecary cabinet carefully organized.

As they went further into the Twilight, YN helped one of the creatures – Jjongbear – waddle down the stairs. The belly of the ship held storage, crates and barrels, and extra cannons. It was quick overview; Seonghwa mentioned that he maintained order down here before they began to trek back upstairs. Hongjoong eyed her carefully, watching as she helped Bbyongming up some stairs. The chick creature warbled out a thankful chirp.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sleepy,” she replied.

“Take a rest in my quarters.” He insisted.

It was often she’d nap in his Captain’s Quarters. She’d be nearby, in case he needed her to take over – only a shout away, he always said. YN shook her head defiantly.

But even as they prepared for dinner, setting out their table and utensils under the purpling sunset skies, she couldn’t help nearly falling asleep. First, as she held a door open for Wooyoung to carry out the steaming hot pot of stew-soup. And later, during dinner, her face dipped close to her soup bowl as she fell asleep upright (thankfully, Jongho who was ever aware, grabbed her before she could fall completely.)

“Jagi,” he hummed out, concernedly. Calculating eyes meeting hers, a gentle hand brushing a strand of hair aside.

“Sorry.”

Her apology was almost inaudible by the way the creatures were devouring their meals – a bit animalistic. There was a splatter of stew across the wooden table; half-eaten Star-Apples rolled to other furry companions. Loud chewing could be heard from too many of them to figure out who was the loudest. Yeosang laughed at the sight.

“At least, you like our food,” Wooyoung crowed out.

The chef of the group was always pleased his recipes were appreciated. And the creatures ate every last morsel; most even raised the bowls to their mouths or beaks to slurp up any extra.

“Aniteez…” Yunho teased, giving the creatures a nickname. “Animal-Ateez.”

The crews burst into giggles until there was a clattering of utensils. YN had fallen asleep again; her head slouched onto Jongho’s shoulder.

“I’ll take her to the Captain’s Quarters – she’ll hate knowing she wasn’t nearby if the Captain needs her,” Yeosang commented, arms opening for Jongho to help shift their only lady (well, only human lady) into his arms. His lithe muscles flexed as he lifted her into his arms with little trouble. Soft snores tumbled from her mouth.

“Thanks, Sangie,” Hongjoong thanked from nearby – his bowl of soup sitting on the nearby banister (someone had to man the helm even at dinner time.)

Dinner time was followed by the lovingly nicknamed Aniteez helping clean up the deck. The table was returned to its corner; the pots and pans and whatnot were carried downstairs (Seonghwa wiped up any mess the Aniteez spilled along the way begrudgingly.) The bowls and cutlery were washed and returned to their cabinets decks below – with only minimal tomfoolery by Hetmongi and Jjongbear. Bubbles were in Yunho’s hair when he passed by the Captain at the helm, but he didn’t look too angry so Hongjoong assumed it was just the chaos that the creatures brought with them.

As night crept in, their brave bold sky pirate captain began yawning too, shaking his head to try to keep himself awake. Balancing on the nearby banister, the littlest squirrel captain warbled, saying something that none of the humans could quite decipher. Over and over. He poked at his own chest, pointing to the wheel.

“Huh?”

He repeated the action, becoming more and more intense. As if that would help the language barrier.

“Captain,” San said, glancing from his spot perched on a crate. “I think he wants to take watch.”

“YAH!” It was a boisterous agreement sound that tumbled from the squirrel. His paws went out excitedly, tail wiggling.

San smiled fondly; he was easily won over by cute things.

Memories of the squirrel’s steering earlier only made Hongjoong worry about the state of his beloved ship. Dipping and weaving through the clouds so haphazardly – Hongjoong would never put the ship through that like Jjoongrami. He’d just have to stay awake and man the wheel.

“Uh—” Hongjoong paused, glancing at Jjoongrami doubtfully. “I’m not sure, Sannie.”

Immediately, there was a gasp from the squirrel. Of betrayal. Of disgust. Of offense. He crossed his little arms. Hongjoong offered the creature a crooked smile, a smidge bashful and a lot tired.

Hongjoong didn’t want to even think of the next few hours, awaiting YN’s waking. His eyes already felt heavy as stone and dry as the desert. Swaggering up the steps, Seonghwa took in the dark circles forming under Hongjoong’s magnetic eyes. There was a pause before he spoke up.

“I’ll watch him, Hongjoongie,” Seonghwa commented.

The first-mate had finished his own chores – making sure all the sails were rigged securely for the night sailing. Sleep was tempting, but Seonghwa cared for his crew carefully. He wasn’t all that tired, and, besides, he loved star-gazing. He could survive a night awake.

“Hwa—” Hongjoong began, sighfully. There were rules and roles for a reason. He was the Captain; he should take this burden on.

Seonghwa tutted, shaking his head. “Nope, I won’t hear it. You’re tired; I’m not – I’ll manage. If not, I’ll wake Sangie.”

“I don’t want anyone being woken up unless it’s me,” Hongjoong scolded, leveling Seonghwa with a serious look. His brow cocked challengingly at his elder.

But, the taller preened, because that wasn’t a ‘no’. In fact, it was very opposite to a ‘no.’ Seonghwa threw him a smirk, a curl of his lip. Fond as it was slightly begrudging.

“Aye, Captain. Go sleep and, if I’m exhausted by early morn, I’ll wake you.”

The careful seriousness melted in Hongjoong’s eyes and instead was replaced with a gleaming appreciation, fondness, and, most of all, love. As he passed, Seonghwa swooped in to press a kiss to his cheek, quick and fond.

“Good night. Sleep well.”

It was a rare moment when YN and Hongjoong could share a bunk; after all, the helmswoman and the captain often shifted off with one another to man the wheel – but, with the littlest furry captain available and Seonghwa’s watchful gaze, the pair stole the moment gleefully. Other members often snuck into each other’s cabins and snuggled close. So, when he crept into the Captain’s Quarters and saw the helmswoman asleep in his bunk, clinging to his pillow, he was quick to replace the fluffy thing with himself.

The Captain shed articles of clothing – his long coat, his jeweled rings, his shirt – to the floor

“Joongie?” she mumbled dazed, head raising from the pillow to look around.

“Hi baby-babe,” he cooed, adjusting his hair back and sliding his pirate hat back on after slipping his bandana off. He climbed into bed, sweeping her into his embrace easily. “Let’s sleep.”

Sleepy-minded, YN accepted his cuddles and fell back into the blissful in-between of awake and asleep. In their warm embrace, they thought sleep would find them quick. But there was little solace (despite their heads sharing the same fluffy Aurora-imported pillow) because the Aniteez were loud.

HA-HA-HA-HA!

Tonight, they woke to the giggling of Jjoongrami during his night shift; his babbling to Seonghwa was nonstop. YN groaned into Hongjoong’s chest.

“You wanted them to stay,” Hongjoong mumbled, the pirate-esque hat shading his eyes from the low glow of the caught fallen starlight that Seonghwa had captured from a recent star-shower.

His warm arm didn’t shift from form as YN tossed and turned in his embrace, nuzzling her ear into the crook of his neck. She’d much rather hear his thrumming heart than the babbling of a squirrel.

“I know,” she replied drowsily as she sighed. “I just thought they’d be quieter.”

Hongjoong rumbled a low laugh as his hand rose to draw figures of clouds and waves over her arm.

“Mhm, they seemed like such docile creatures, no chaos at all.” He joked.

Without opening her sleepy eyes, she slapped his bare chest playfully, and he let out a crow of a laugh. Peering down, his free hand rose to tilt his hat up to look at his helmswoman, defiant as she was sleepy. He smiled fondly.

A tentative knock came to the intricate stain-glassed Captain’s Quarters doors (the handy work of Wooyoung – he was good with fire after all.) YN groaned into Hongjoong’s skin at another interruption. Would sleep ever grace them?

“What is it?” Hongjoong called out, not moving from his bunk. He flung an arm behind his head, tugging YN closer to his chest ‘til she was half on top of him.

“Captain?” The voice was a familiar one, deep and masculine and tentative.

“Mingi,” he greeted.

“I-uh,” Mingi doesn’t open the door, but Hongjoong could see his tall form pressed against the windows’ glass closer. “Is there-“

There were the loud babbles of JJoongrami and the deeper tone of Tyudeongi’s laughs. Neither YN or Hongjoong could hear Mingi.

“Just come in,” he instructed, sighing. He doubted they were gonna get much rest.

Opening the door, Jjoongrami’s giggles tumbled through the open door. Mingi slid inside quick before relatching the door, lightning fast. YN opened a singular eye to peer over at her other lover. In soft linens, one of the tallest of the crew looked gentle, especially with his freshly washed hair dripping and curling faintly at the ends. His cheeks were still warm-rosy from his bath.

“What’s up?” Hongjoong said, his hand going to remove the hat from his head lazily. Tossing it aside, it landed on the nearby desk full of maps, treasures, and leather-bound notebooks.

“Can I join you?” Mingi managed to get out. His lips pouted, cutely. Trying to appeal to his hyung.

Hongjoong’s smile grew, curled and playful. Even if their bunks were small, he’d do anything for his crew – including sleeping on the edge of the bed. Still, if only to tease the princess of the Ateez crew, Hongjoong queried. “I don’t know it’s cramped, baby.”

Mingi’s brows upturned innocently and sweet.

“Please, hyung,” he pleaded. “The Aniteez keep waking me up; they’re shouting from their hammocks to each other. You know their set up is right next to my cabin.”

“You won’t find peace here, babe.” YN laughed. “We can hear the squirrel babbling on, too.”

As if on cue, there was a screeching from the squirrel that made the fine muscles in Hongjoong freeze up, as if waiting to hear an alarm be raised, before there were once again giggles pouring from Jjoongrami. Mingi flinched a bit at the sound before his shoulders sagged, realizing there truly was no escape. He dragged his feet forward towards the bunk regardless.

“Hyung,” he whined.

Hongjoong let out a chuckle again before shifting YN to rest upon his chest fully. “C’mon,” he encouraged Mingi to join. “You all wanted them to stay, now look.” It was a jest, soft and soothing rather than harsh and biting.

Mingi was quick to sling his long limbs over the duo and wiggle closer to the wall. YN settled in between the pair, unaware of Hongjoong’s hip dipping close to the edge of the mattress. Mingi hummed, pleased, slinging an arm to rest around both of them. He squeezed Hongjoong’s hip.

“Thank you, babes,” he murmured into YN’s shoulder, nuzzling into her.

“It’s still loud,” she giggled lowly. “We aren’t promising he’ll stop.”

“But I’m with you two now,” Mingi argued softly. “We’ll suffer together.”

Hongjoong muffled his guffaw. “Great.” Sarcasm dripped from his lips.

Jjoongrami made a ‘woah!’ sound loudly and, when the trio peered over at the door, they could see the silhouette of the squirrel spinning on the wheel until Seonghwa stopped it with a strong hand.

“They are cute,” Mingi mumbled.

“Debatable,” Hongjoong commented, pushing closer into YN, pressing the throuple closer into an embrace. He adjusted their sheets and duvets. “Let’s try to sleep.”

They didn’t get much as Jjoongrami was soon joined by Wooyonyang.

The next thing they had noticed of their guests was that they were eager to help. Only a handful of the creatures were lazy. And in most cases, it wasn’t quite laziness but a greed for food! If food was there, their attention was on it.

They all were quite food-motivated. Every breakfast they gobbled up everything quickly and if there were any scraps left, they’d look up with their biggest puppy dog eyes for them. At first, Yeosang even questioned if they were food-insecure in their world. But no… they were just passionate for food. They thought it was delicious.

The moment food was involved Tyudeongi and Bbyongming became one track minded. On kitchen duty, they often snuck rations from Wooyonyang instead of cooking the rations. Wooyoung had to quickly shift things to higher shelves to make sure that they wouldn’t get into it without supervision!

But, the Aniteez were clever. More than once, Wooyoung had found a crate empty of Star Apples or Mini-Melons in the kitchen.

“We aren’t making stops any time soon!” he argued to them, insistently. “There is a schedule to follow for food. You have to follow it.”

He slapped a hand on the paper list pinned on the galley’s wood wall (probably a bit too high for the Aniteez now that he thought of it); each row on the grid listed the rations by type by days by months by years – probably the handiwork of Mingi or maybe Seonghwa.

Wooyonyang and Wooyoung had decidedly not gotten along since the beginning of the voyage. After fighting, they always butted heads. The black cat’s tail whipped side to side, bratty, as Wooyoung continued to scold and yap at him. Wooyonyang even rolled his grey eyes at him.

“Yah! Did you just roll your eyes?”

Wooyoung’s hands went to his hips defiantly, a very serious look on his unserious face. With the language barrier, they often communicated through body language and YN had spotted these two stuck in a sass-off often.

Meanwhile, the others had become more acquainted with the creatures as the Aniteez followed them about, wanting to be helpful.

Hongjoong and JJoongrami were seen together often, overlooking their individual crews while YN manned the helm. Every now and then the orange squirrel would wobble and walk along the nearby banister, his tail flicking this way and that to maintain his balance. His strangely powerful gaze would flicker over to the helm, longingly. But, after the first night watch where he babbled on and on, it was a fact that he was too short to properly control the helm if a strong wind hit them. He was just too itty bitty. YN offered him a soft smile in apology.

Instead of steering the ship, he became glued to Hongjoong’s side, babbling about this and that. He was actually quite knowledgeable about ships; Jjoongrami was quick to climb up the sails’ ropework to tighten a loose knot. It was something that Hongjoong occasionally did and it made a zing of foreign pride climb up his back. Which was quickly dampened later on when Jjoongrami stole his maps from a nearby table, scattering gold coins and dark masks onto the ground. (He was after all a pirate.)

Jjoongrami ran to a nearby table, giggling manically and calling out to Tyudeongi who was sitting with Yunho. Yunho spoke softly to the other; efficiently taking him under his wing and sharing knowledge of their past adventures.

“Tyu!! Tyu!” the squirrel cried.

Tyudeongi was quick to jump into action, tugging at his own rolled maps. Together, the creatures spread out the maps side by side. Hongjoong and Yunho swaggered up to the opposite side of the table. Watching carefully. (After all, Hongjoong had just been pickpocketed essentially.) He raised a brow at the two Aniteez.

The dog creature was cute, cuter than the squirrel Hongjoong thought. He looked between the two maps with care. His little brow furrowed, but his little tail wagged as he pointed between the maps.

“Are they similar?” Yunho asked, hand going to his hip as he leaned onto the nearby table. The large map that Jjoongrami had ‘stolen’ curled at the edges. The squirrel fiddled with it, over and over, trying to press it flat before Yunho’s large palm pressed into it for them.

Tyudeongi nodded, pointing this isle and that island. There was a squee before the puppy called out.

“Hetmongi!”

A small noise came from high above. The long-eared puppy looked over the crow’s nest, his ears dangled over the wooden structure. Yeosang was quick to turn and call down as well. The man shaded his eyes from the sunshine, peering down at the crew below.

Yeosang and Hetmongi became friends quickly, but that was probably due to their close quarters. Hetmongi loved maintaining watch (but maybe he just liked being tall) and he took to the highest crow’s nest like a fish in water. The first time Yeosang stumbled upon him there it was frightening because how did a little puppy-dog manage to climb all the way here he thought? But together, they maintained watch, searching for land, searching for enemies, and enjoying the ever-tantalizing horizon.

Tyudeongi babbled loudly up to the other. It seemed intense, quick paced.

Hongjoong watched the interaction carefully. Was there some island they should be aware of?

There was a laugh that tumbled out of Hetmongi high above them, happily. His ears flopped in the wind as he turned away to continue maintaining watch.

“What’s so funny?” Yeosang asked.

All Hetmongi did was babble in reply… Yeosang wished he was fluent in this Aniteez language; itd be much easier. Yunho did too and crouched down to Tyudeongi’s itty bitty height (after all the puppy dog was the smallest of the Aniteez) and whispered. “Can you show me what you’re saying?”

Tyudeongi nodded and began to scribble doodles down, trying his best to translate with symbols and drawings.

Jjongbear scared Jongho on many occasions. And while he was the youngest of the crew, Jongho was certainly no scaredy-cat. He was their gunner, their strength (next to San who had only recently focused on his muscles; there had been a whole crew-wide conversation about the amount of protein they needed to buy at port to sustain not one but two muscular men a few months ago). He was used to moving heavy crates, shifting large loads, and breaking his fair share of Star-Apples by hand for the crew to munch upon. He was used to having his partners rush up to him for aid – he liked it. He liked helping, being seen, and protecting.

“Hey, can you shift that cannon?” Seonghwa asked in passing to Jongho and Jjongbear who sat on said cannon casually.

Jongho was already nodding, turning to begin the task when he spotted Jjongbear, itty bitty fuzzy wuzzy soft baby bear Jjongbear with a fairy-tale leaf sprout on his head stand beside the cannon. The sweet bear HEAVED the cannon over his head. Jongho’s mouth fell open and he (alongside Seonghwa) rushed towards the Aniteez creature. Both humans choking out an exclamation in worry.

“Hm?” Jjongbear hummed as he held the cannon high above him, his little arms flexing with barely visible struggle. He tilted his head, cutely, confused, as if to say ‘what’s wrong?’

“Are—you got that?” Jongho questioned. His hand rose to grasp the knotted rope atop the cannon – just in case.

The squeal of agreement that tumbled from the bear was light hearted. A smile came to his little face as he nodded and began to shuffle along, toting this gigantic cannon in the air. A soft melody was whistle out casually.

Seonghwa and Jongho glanced at one another, surprise written over their face.

“Strong bear,” Seonghwa said before walking off with a raised brow.

“I’m stronger though, right?”

San was quick to take care of Sandeoki. He’d give her extra rations which she wasn’t silly enough to deny and if she needed help he was there. His eye was always on her, making sure she was alright. Once upon a time, he did the same for all of his members, carefully caring for them ata distance and sweeping in to help when he could.

The kitty whined out from her spot atop a barrel, her head thrown back in woe.

“Oh, Sandeoki, Sandeoki! Do you need help?” San called out, rushing towards her.

The muscular man scooped up the princess kitty in one swoop – Sandeoki squealing happily as she was saved from Wooyonyang’s stink eye. (After all, she was avoiding doing some cleaning as directed by Ddeongbyoli. Sandeoki even was the one to climb up to the barrel she supposedly was stuck on.)

“You can’t fight her battles for her!” Wooyoung argued nearby, siding with Ddeongbyeoli who scolded the lavender cat from the floor.

Cowering, she pointed to the mop nearby, recently modified to be Aniteez-sized thanks to Seonghwa’s fabrication skills (who knew making building-block figures would pay off!). San cooed sweetly, holding her closer to him soothingly.

“Or do her chores!” YN laughed from across the deck, watching as she manned the wheel; she leaned to peer down at the collection of Aniteez scolding Sandeoki – Ddeongbyeoli, Wooyonyang, and even Tyudeongi were crossing their arms at their favorite purple kitty.

“She’s – why can’t I?” San exclaimed, brows jumping up his forehead in a purse.

“She needs to figure out things on her own, you big baby.” Wooyoung teased.

“I’m—I’m a gentleman,” San spluttered, cradling the cat against his chest. She rested her head there daintily, little ears tickling his bare skin. “It’s only right to help a lady.”

“You never do my chores,” YN teased.

“You’re different,” Wooyoung called back, winking. “You’re not his baby.”

“YN, you are my baby,” San exclaimed, glancing over his shoulder at her. Sandeoki purred for attention and attention she got as San immediately focused on her. “Just she’s an itty bitty baby.”

It made everyone chuckle.

Wooyonyang jumped with an audible huff, trying to tug on Sandeoki’s tail. If only these humans knew! He thought. Sandeoki may look cute but she was just as capable as any of the Aniteez. She got San wrapped around her finger---paw?

At the tug of her tail, she let out a yowl before glaring at her kitty friend. She hissed. Ohhh, a kitty does have some claws.

But all San saw was a baby in need of saving.

When the dark-blue velvet of night fell over the skies, Seonghwa and Ddeongbyeoli had discovered something they both loved – catching stars! The little pink bunny and Seonghwa looked like utter opposites. Their first-mate was a brooding character; his long dark hair framed his angular face sharply. His typical sneer was one of protective charm. Serious as he was caring, he was no-nonsense. His dramatic flair revealed itself in his clothing – from corsets to flowy top to heeled boots that could stomp a face in easily; he was intimidating.

Ddeongbyeoli was anything but that. Floppy sweet ears and a pretty pink fur, one could compare him to a marshmallow.

Yet perhaps Ddeongbyeoli and Seonghwa shared the same soul, YN couldn’t help but ponder as she watched Seonghwa, dressed for bedtime in his softest pajamas and his hair tugged back into a half pony tail, and Ddeongbyeol sit on the banister of the ship with their fishing nets. Clouds tickled their feet as they enjoyed the quiet together.

A random falling star would eventually catch – whoever snatched it fast enough would giggle and cheer softly. A container full of fallen-stars glowed intermittently nearby, like a jar of lightning bugs would. Baby blues and soft yellows gleamed in the darkness as the two bonded in gentle nightfall.

“Be careful with the bubbles!” Hongjoong warned as he walked past the very soap-scented bathroom.

Bath day was an ordeal. While the big clawfoot bathtub that San had found and refurbished was lovely for the humans, it was a bit too big and deep for the Aniteez. Jongho had gotten bath duty, watching over the little furry creatures swim about and blow bubbles at one another in the large tub. Water sloshed onto the floor; bubbles overflowed.

“We will, hyung!” Jongho called back, smirking mischievously at the Aniteez who added more and more soap.

He was okay with the trouble he’d get into later; right now, it was funny to see the creatures shape stars and shapes and giggle as they got all clean.

Bbyongming looked like a wet rat. His little flip-flops of his feet were soggy as he walked along the main deck. A trail of bubbles followed after him as he shook and trembled. Tugging the oversized towel around himself, he continued to waddle about. Shivering.

“Oh, honey,” YN spotted the chick shuffling past. “Do you need help?”

A warble of what sounded like ‘help’ escaped him. His arms rose up for her. Chuckling softly, YN scooped the chickling up into her arms. Wiping away the water, she squeezed him tightly with the towel, fluffing his fur dry. When she moved the towel aside, his fur was fuzzy, standing up on his arms and head in spikes.

A warble of a cluck escaped him; his big baby eyes met her in despair. He glanced over himself with a squawk.

YN laughed before flattening the hair to lie smoother and fluffing the little hairstyle he liked to have his hair in. “There,” she chimed. “All better and all clean!”

Bbyongming smiled wide at her before hugging the human. “Aw, no biggie, bud.”

“WAH?” It was a familiar loud-mouthed tone; YN turned her head to see Jjoongrami was there now. A white towel over his head and a dripping wet soggy tail behindhim. His eyes widened dramatically sweet towards her as if to ask ‘me too?’ as he crept forward with pleas.

YN huffed a bit before reaching out a hand to the squirrel who ‘Yippee’ed!’ It was always a pain to style his tail into the perfect curl after getting it wet, but YN had perfected Bbyongming’s curls so his tail would be easy peasy.

It took 30 minutes to tame the squirrel’s fluffy tail post-bath and three hairbrushes.

Mingi and Bbyongming bonded over mixing up healing antidotes. Bbyongming was obedient, wobbling to and fro. He’d grab all the ingredients needed for sleeping potions or healing ointments. The chick was often vocal – shaking his head when it came to adding certain ingredients. With such a language barrier, Mingi was left confused.

“He’s refusing to add this, hyung,” Mingi complained to Yunho, frowning as this furry creature placed his hands on his hips. Shaking his head and warbling out.

Yunho eyed the pair, glancing to his own mini-shadow, Tyudeongi, who stood beside him. Yunho in a short amount of time had gotten good at deciphering the doggy’s words. Perhaps because Tyudeongi was quick to scribble symbols on the corners of their shared maps – and Yunho has always been good at picture games.

The doggy nodded and babbled to Bbyongming who warbled back his concerns. A sort of pout came over his plump beak. Tyudeongi nodded ferociously and scribbled at his notebook before shoving it towards Mingi and Yunho.

“It makes Jjoongrami sick?” Mingi deciphered. A poorly drawn Jjoongrami with his tongue sticking out was what he had to go off of.

Bbyongming nodded.

“Is it poisonous to Aniteez?” the plump-lipped healer pondered, glancing at Yunho doubtfully.

“Maybe?” Yunho shrugged. “He was trying to help after all.”

Bbyongming chirped in pleased tones at the praise, blushing a cute pink before he went back to dumping this and that into the healer’s cauldron – purposely avoiding the Hala-berries that Mingi had wanted to add.

The Aniteez had fallen into their ship roles quite nicely, Hongjoong had to admit. The extra hands were helpful. The extra mouths and their unlimited appetite was a bit of a strain. But, when he gazed out over the clouds, his signature grin curled at his lips.

“Land-ho! Land spotted, Captain!” Yeosang cried from the crow’s nest, a tiny bark of a call following suit from Hetmongi.

Rolling mountain peaks of lush green pushed through the cotton-candy clouds; Hongjoong easily navigated through the obstacles with a careful sway of the ship. The hint of purple sparkling sand glimmered in the sunlight far below. The waters lapped at the shoreline and revealed a bustling make-shift town on the edge of the ocean, gleaming in a porcelain soft light like it was a half-moon glowing. While the Twilight wasn’t unsuspicious (after all their reputation followed them anywhere they went), the small port of Crescent Cove was always a reliable stop for them – and they needed to restock.

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